It was 1988.
The Department of Conservation was just one year old, New Zealand was mired in the stock market crash and Fiordland had a brand new track. Not just a track, but a great one. With tops, forest, rivers, lakes, wetlands, views – the whole gamut. And three large, purpose-built huts.
Fiordland’s other two premier tracks, the Milford and Routeburn, both had a pedigree dating back more than a century. Unlike those through-tracks with their complicated access, the bespoke Kepler Track formed a neat loop, beginning and ending near Te Anau. From the shores of Lake Te Anau, it rose onto the tops, east of the Kepler Mountains, then cut a surgical line past Mt Luxmore, with views over South Fiord towards the Murchison Mountains of takahē fame. Then the route descended into the Iris Burn, which it followed to Lake Manapouri – saved by a huge conservation campaign back in the 1970s, and reputed to be the country’s most beautiful. Finally, the track followed the Waiau River back to Lake Te Anau, ending a logical, 60km circuit.
DOC opened the track in February 1988, as part of that year’s National Parks Centennial.
The following summer, two university mates sent me pictures of the track, showing them sun-tanned and shirtless, standing next to blue tarns, posing with sunglasses on and stomachs sucked in. I got the message. This track is cool and you aren’t here.
The next summer I walked the track with two other friends. The weather was bad, the tarns were grey, not blue, and I felt no inclination to take my shirt off. Murk obscured the South Fiord. Despite being February, the wind blew glacially cold. We wore full storm gear. Three Japanese hikers – wearing cotton business shirts and with handkerchiefs wrapped around their blue ears – carried their food in plastic shopping bags. The wind tore at their shirts like a demon. We worried they would die.
The track itself, still raw from where miniature diggers had cut into the hillsides, looked a little industrial. The Iris Burn waterfall was scenic enough, but it was nothing on the Sutherland Falls.
Overall, I found the Kepler underwhelming.
It was 30 years before I returned. This time in winter. The passage of decades had softened the track, which was now nicely bedded down in the landscape, its hard edges softened by moss and ferns. We climbed above cloud, which lay in the South Fiord like a glacier, to find snow lying thickly over the tops. Fiordland’s uniform-height mountains stretched to infinity; ranks of peaks aligned like a great white army.
From Luxmore Hut, we snow-shoed over the tops, and despite the aid of these clever devices, sank to our knees. We gloried in the sparkling, windless day. After a brew and lunch at the Hanging Valley Shelter, it was down the stairs into the shadowy, frigid Iris Burn, which hadn’t seen sun for weeks. Hoar-frost covered everything, lacing the ferns in delicate white filigree; coating the hut with ice needles. The thermometer inside read -12℃. It felt colder.
The next day, we strolled down the Iris Burn, out of the snow, past the colossal landslide of 1984, to reach Lake Manapouri. On this day, it was the country’s most beautiful lake. Mound-like islands protruded like beehives from the glassy water. Winter reflection perfection.
One last day, past the Forest Burn wetlands. Burn – Scottish for stream, pronounced with a rolling Southland ‘rrrr’. Then a cheater’s exit to Rainbow Reach – missing the last few beechy kilometres because we had planes to catch.
Winter and time had restored the Kepler’s reputation. The track had gone from raw rookie to seasoned veteran. Found its balance in the landscape, and earned its own place in Fiordland’s canon of Great Walks.
– Shaun Barnett is the former editor of Wilderness and the magazine’s current editor-at-large.

