Untamed - Hiking in the Subantarctic

As I sit on the inflatable pontoon of our zodiac, layered in thermal protective clothing underneath my lifejacket, I squint my eyes to tiny slits to best avoid the freezing wind and driving snow. I look at my companions doing the same, and we all bounce in silence as our driver manoeuvres across the bay from the ship, doing her best not to let us get wet as our little boat negotiates the waves. Smiling, I think to myself, “Not many hikes start this way.”

Not many indeed. In fact, there are few places you can really escape the world and seek out remote wilderness experiences like this. For starters, you need a boat or a ship. Then you must head to the cold and angry Southern Ocean, down to the Roaring Forties and the Furious Fifties, down to the islands in the sub-Antarctic region below Australia and New Zealand, islands with rich histories of adventure and misadventure, islands that have seen countless shipwrecks and failed settlements, seen almost superhuman feats of endurance and survival, and seen no shortage of people who met their untimely ends due to the extreme conditions.

These are windswept and freezing landscapes inimical to humanity. They are, however, perfect habitat for a wide range of plants and animals. And although these islands were heavily exploited for commercial interests in the 1800s and 1900s—for whaling, seal skins, and animal oils—it is lucky for modern visitors that the animals here don’t remember those days. As a result, they have absolutely no fear of humans (nor of any other mammalian land predators; they simply haven’t evolved with them). This is in direct contrast to the Arctic, where almost everything is still hunted, and so getting close to wildlife is tough.

I’m not going to lie: These are not simple islands to get to. You can either visit as part of an expedition with the Australian or New Zealand Governments, or you can secure a berth on a tourist ship. On this occasion, for me, it is the latter, and I am aboard the tourist vessel Heritage Adventurer on their ‘Galapagos of the Southern Ocean’ voyage. Departing from New Zealand’s southern tip, we will spend ten days visiting four distinct island groups to the south and southwest and, on two islands, we’ll go hiking. The island groups have seemingly more differences than similarities. Each has its own distinct geology, each has its own plant and animal species. Many of these are endemic, hence the region being compared to the Galapagos. All the islands are uninhabited, save one: Australia’s Macquarie Island, which has a permanent scientific base manned by no more than forty people, and usually less.

I’ve been fortunate enough to have been one of the scientists based here. Between 2008 and 2010—in my first real immersion into sub-Antarctic life—I spent twelve months on Macquarie studying a fur seal population. It was a world foreign to me in every way: the wildlife, the terrain and the weather.

To get anywhere on Macquarie, as I learned, you have to hike, and it’s not the nice, fair-weather hiking many of us look for on our weekend escapes. Instead, it’s usually miserable—fiercely windy, wet and bone-chillingly cold. Nonetheless, I fell in love with the weather, the landscapes, and the unique assemblages of life—approximately four million penguins, seals and seabirds call Macquarie Island home over the summer months, when they come to breed. I developed an itch for the polar regions, and over the last decade, I have spent over two years exploring both the Antarctic and Arctic regions in search of adventure.

On many of those trips, I secured—after my Macquarie stint—spots on tourist ships as part of the crew, as a naturalist, guide, and zodiac driver. But on this occasion on the Heritage Adventurer, I am aboard as a paid passenger.

We first visit a small group of granite-cliffed islands jutting out of the ocean called the Snares. Hard to spot from a distance and usually mist shrouded, the islands were named for their ability to capture unsuspecting sailing ships. We set off in zodiacs and cruise the islands’ margins, spotting thousands of seabirds, penguins and seals. The bounty of life here is incredible.

From here we sail to the Auckland Islands, the largest, highest and most biologically rich of the places we will visit. Formed by two extinct volcanic calderas, these are dramatic islands: their sea cliffs, mountains and valleys were carved out by glaciers in the last ice age. Auckland Island—the largest of the seven in the group—is nearly 40km long, with peaks rising in excess of 600m, and is marbled with narrow inlets and harbours that slice in from the east.

Enderby Island, in contrast, is flatter and far smaller, just two kilometres wide and ten long. Nonetheless, the island will be our first dedicated ‘landing’ site, and the first location for a full-day hike, so we start prepping. Clothing is a hard one to get right down here, especially for people who have never been, and today it is just five degrees. But it’s not the temps that make it tricky here; it’s the wind and the rain, and there is usually plenty of both.

And then there’s biosecurity. Biosecurity is serious business here; every item taken ashore must be thoroughly cleaned, scrubbed, and sprayed with disinfectant to kill unwanted micro-pests and to ensure we don’t introduce seeds or other potential hazards that would threaten any of the plants and animals. And everything, and I mean everything, has to be brought back with you, even an unplanned poo!

From the ship, it’s into the zodiac, an adventure in itself. With our lifejackets and backpacks on, down the rollicking gangway we go, down to the water level, which depending on the swell can rise and fall several metres; good timing and a solid sailor’s grip with crew is essential. We make our way to shore, wrestling with high winds and waves, 8-10 of us plus a driver squished onboard. At the shore, though, the fun isn’t over just yet. The crew, wearing waders, secure the boat; we jump out, land in the water, and scramble to the beach before the next wave. Now, and only now, does the real challenge begin: negotiating the first of the island’s wildlife.

“New Zealand sea lions can be the things of nightmares. Giant heads. Blunt snouts. Black eyes. Dagger-like canines that can only be seen through a foaming mouth. The deepest death growls you have ever heard.”

New Zealand sea lions, particularly the males, can be the things of nightmares, striking fear into even the stoutest of hearts. Shaggy, matted black fur. Giant heads. Blunt snouts. Black eyes. Dagger-like canines that can only be seen through a foaming mouth. The deepest death growls you have ever heard. The bulls—up to 500kg—are big, fast and aggressive, and they seem to love nothing better than jousting each other for the best mating location on the beaches. Unfortunately, they seem to think humans enjoy this game too, and they often charge you at high speed. More unfortunately still, they maintain one of their biggest breeding sites on Enderby Island’s only sandy beach. Of course, this same beach is our best landing site.

If a bull charges you, every part of your DNA screams: “Run like hell!” But your job is to stand your ground. It’s terrifying. But mostly these rushes are bluffs, and result in nothing more than being sniffed. And the crew have played this game many times, so they happily act as decoys while we scuttle behind them.

“Not many hikes,” I say to myself again, “start this way.”

We swap gumboots for hiking boots, and set off. It’s a huge group, 32 in all. Experienced guides lead and tail us, ensuring we stay on track. We’re planning to hike ten kays, eight hours, starting by hugging the island’s eastern coastline, then heading across the cliffs and the beaches of the north, before returning down through the interior along a boardwalk across the plateau and through rata forest back to the landing beach. Much of the hike will be an undulating, uneven scramble, with no real defined track. But no matter; in essence, we’ll experience a bit of everything the island has to offer in one day.

The vegetation—ancient looking and Lord of the Rings-esque—is nothing like that in Australia or New Zealand, and even as we traverse the island, it continually changes. There is one constant, though: Nothing grows over five metres; wind, rain, and snow batter everything down. Tussock is common, as is southern rata tree, otherwise known as iron wood—it gained its name when shipwreck survivors found out they could barely cut it. The rata are gnarled and twisted, and they form an impenetrable labyrinth that provides canopy cover for megaherbs and ferns to thrive underneath.

In the air are giant petrels, pipits, red-crowned parakeets, New Zealand falcons, and Auckland Island shags.

There are also yellow-eyed penguins, the rarest of all penguins. Hard to see, and extremely shy, you mustn’t hinder their path to or from the shore as they may simply get spooked and go back from where they came. They live a mostly solitary life at sea and on land. Along one section of the coast I managed to get a pic of both a yellow-eyed penguin and a juvenile male New Zealand sea lion together on the rocks, both representatives of the rarest of their animal types in the world.

Above all, though, there is one bird here that demands your attention: the albatross. Two species are here—the light-mantled sooty, and the southern royal, one of the largest flying birds on Earth. Both are majestic, and almost surreal.

Albatrosses often nest or manoeuvre close to the boardwalk—yes, there’s some on Enderby Island to protect it from hikers’ impacts—so getting within a few metres of these birds is common. On the ground, they’re much bigger than you expect, standing 70-80cm tall. But it’s in the air, however, that they capture your imagination. With wingspans of three metres, they almost look like pterodactyls. Watching these birds soar on the winds, with dramatic landscapes as the backdrop, is one of the greatest wildlife experiences I’ve ever had. In fact, albatrosses seem almost mystical; they have the most incredible calming presence, and you feel absolutely no fear, nor can you sense any form of aggression. It’s pure bliss. Sit and watch them for as long as you can stand the biting winds: You will, I guarantee, be forever a different person.

ONCE BACK AT SEA, WE HEAD WEST to Macquarie Island, where I was stationed for twelve months. ‘Home’. The conditions are unseasonably good, good enough for us to go ashore. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean we can explore. There is no good anchorage here, and while you might get a good enough weather window to disembark on the island, if the weather deteriorates rapidly—which it often does—you might not be able to get back off the island for days. Weeks even.

And so our visit onshore is brief. Still, we see hundreds of elephant seals and sea birds, and hundreds of thousands of penguins. We are even lucky enough to spot the same orca pod on three occasions.

Back on the ship, it’s northeast for 36 hours to Campbell Island. Lying 660km offshore, Campbell is New Zealand’s southernmost island, and its land mass is an extinct shield volcano about 6-11 million years old. Campbell has a good harbour, so landings are almost guaranteed. In the seven times I’ve been here, I’ve never been restricted by conditions.

The surefire landings mean we can set off on the second of our hikes, this one—around 14km and up to about 250m in elevation—more impressive and difficult than Enderby’s. And the weather is far colder; heavy winds tear across the island. Snow is in the air. As we will be exposed to the weather all day, I have one rule down here: Don’t let yourself get cold; it’s just so hard to warm up again. And that can be dangerous.

Once dropped off by the zodiacs, it’s straight into it. We climb towards Northwest Bay, up a once-glaciated valley to a ridgeline. It is a long slow slog. The ground is soggy, and soft with cushion plants, and we grapple with brawling winds. Every thirty minutes it snows. Lower down, we push through rata forest, and up higher we wade through tussocks. There is no defined track. As we near 100m elevation, it dries out underfoot. But the winds up here are screaming, and the cold is intense; at least we are generating heat from the climb.

From the ridgeline, we get a spectacular view down the valley to Perseverance Harbour where the ship lays in wait. And the megaherbs up here seem so out of place that they look like they’ve been dreamt up in a fairytale. Their leaves are huge; their flowers splash colour across an otherwise drab landscape of yellows and browns. And once again, we see the southern royal albatross. They wheel on the wind in large groups, and are scattered along the hills and cliffs, sitting on nests and courting. There are about 8,000 breeding pairs here, and over the day, we see at least 100 individuals.

Descending the ridgeline’s other side, we tiptoe for an hour above stunning coastal cliffs that are exposed to the full might of the Southern Ocean. The views are breathtaking. And looking out far to sea, the feeling of sheer remoteness is exhilarating. This isolation, however, is a two-edged sword, as we’re reminded when one person in our group rolls their ankle and has to endure a painful walk out. The options for extraction here are limited, and while it might be possible—in the case of serious injury—for a crew to come from the ship with a stretcher, it would be a long and brutal experience for all involved. In short, you’re on your own. Get injured, and you’ve just got to suck it up and get yourself back to the ship.

We then drop into Northwest Bay, on a haphazard track through near-impenetrable rata forest interspersed with fern gardens. On the beach, we eat lunch and watch the wildlife: yellow-eyed penguins quietly come and go; New Zealand sea lions fight; and flightless Campbell Island teals look for food in the kelp that lines the shore.

We get back on the trail before we get cold, shimmying past two elephant seals on the way. Elephant seals are by far the largest of all seals; bull males look like humongous caterpillars, and weigh up to four tonnes. The two we dodge are sub-adults, though, mere 200-300kg pups, and they seem unperturbed by our passing.

Up again we go, through the rata forest so dense we often lose the person in front despite them being just metres ahead. We are forced to snake up in single file, all the while calling out to each other to provide vocal positioning.

After nearly eight hours, and roughly 14km, of walking for the day, we are back where we started. It has been a day where we have negotiated large obstacles. Scrambled on our hands and knees. Slipped in the mud. Braved the wind and cold. Taken many wrong turns in the heavy rata. But all these trials have been worth it, because we have been granted unprecedented access to one of the most remote and wild places on the planet. We have spent quality time with some of the rarest species, in their natural habitat, and been only metres away from them. We have felt, touched, and breathed in an utterly untamed place.

The wind is blasting. Salt spray and sea foam whip through the air. And as I clamber aboard the zodiac, ready to return to the ship, I know more than ever that if I have one message to share after today, it is this: If you ever have the chance to visit these islands, take it. I urge you. It will make your body and soul complete

CONTRIBUTOR: Dean Miller is marine scientist, adventurer and conservationist based in Far North Queensland. He is restless beyond belief and simply won’t sit still, much to the dismay of everyone he knows.