What was Stewart Island to me? Hell, a bizarre adventure, or the most fun I’ve ever had? The conflict runs so deep that even now, long after the hardships of the trek have ended, my mind remains divided.
When I was preparing for the hike, I was full of enthusiasm. I pictured myself battling through mud, rain, and dense bush, moving from hut to hut or bivouac site. However, my excitement took a serious hit during the ferry crossing from Bluff to Oban (the only town on Stewart Island). Though the sea was calm, I felt increasingly nauseous. Only by falling asleep did I manage to avoid the worst.
When I woke up, I felt miserable. But one look out the window changed everything—I saw this wild, stunning island, and nothing could hold me back.
I was relieved when I finally set foot on solid ground, knowing that only one night in Oban stood between me and my adventure.
Struggles with Accommodation
Finding a place to stay proved difficult, as my money was nearly gone.
I had actually started the day with enough funds, but unexpected expenses left me in a position where I had to be extremely careful with my finances.
So, what happened?
My trip to the island coincided with Easter, which disrupted my travel plans from Invercargill to Stewart Island. No ferries were available on my preferred date. I rescheduled and was assured multiple times that getting from Invercargill to Bluff (where the ferry departs) would be no problem.
That morning, I sat at the bus stop in Invercargill, waiting for my ride. The empty streets seemed strange, but I didn’t think much of it—until the scheduled departure time passed and no bus showed up. I waited patiently, but nothing changed. The only vehicles I saw were the occasional taxis passing by. Eventually, I flagged one down and asked to be taken to Bluff.
The driver explained that today was a public holiday and no buses were running. He also informed me that I’d have to pay an extra holiday surcharge. Reluctantly, I handed over most of my remaining cash, leaving me with just enough for the return ferry ticket—and a mere 10 euros to cover everything else.
Shortly after arriving, a local woman approached me and struck up a conversation. I told her about my situation, and she immediately decided to help. She invited me into her home and started making calls, trying to find me affordable accommodation. Each time she found an option, she dismissed it as too expensive for me. Finally, she located a place that cost only five euros.
She warned me, however, that this accommodation didn’t include any food. Without hesitation, she opened her fridge and generously offered me whatever I needed. I was so surprised that I declined, assuring her that I had enough supplies.
As I was leaving her property to head to my lodging, she suddenly called out to me. I stopped, and she disappeared inside, returning moments later with two enormous apples, which she placed in my hands.
With the apples in my grasp and a warm feeling from this display of Kiwi hospitality, I finally made my way to my night’s shelter.
A Fisherman’s Home
That night, I stayed at a fisherman’s house. The accommodations were very basic, but I felt comfortable. There was another guest, and we spent the evening chatting, making the time fly by.
Despite being a chronic late sleeper, I awoke at the first rays of sunlight. That may sound impressive, but it was already 8 AM since it was late in the year.
My preparations for the day’s hike didn’t take long, and I set off with enthusiasm.
The first five kilometers followed a paved road. Though the constant steep inclines and declines were challenging, my biggest struggle was carrying my 35 kg backpack.
About half an hour in, I realized—much to my delight—that I had been a little too hasty in packing that morning and had forgotten my water bottle. There was no way I could continue without it. So, I stashed my gear in the bushes and ran back to retrieve it.
Forty-five minutes later, I was back. I shouldered my backpack again, relieved to have my water bottle.
Into the Wild
Eventually, I reached the actual start of the trail. I watched as the path disappeared into the dense bush, imagining what lay ahead. But I didn’t linger long—I stepped forward and was immediately engulfed in the island’s exotic, untamed wilderness.
Even though the sun shone from a nearly cloudless sky, the thick ferns above blocked out most of the light. If I wanted to take pictures, I had no choice but to use the flash.
At first, the trail was well-maintained—a wooden boardwalk reinforced with wire mesh. Thanks to this, I made excellent progress.
After just twenty minutes, I got my first glimpse of what made this trail so special. The path left the bush and led to a small but stunning beach. The sight was so breathtaking that I stood there for several minutes, simply soaking it in.
I encountered several such incredible views that day, each time relishing the moment when the bush opened up to reveal the sea or let me walk along a beach.
Just when I thought my excitement had peaked, a new challenge presented itself.
It was a suspension bridge—not particularly high, but also not the shortest. My experience with such bridges was minimal, so I moved forward cautiously. Step by step, I got used to the swaying and gradually gained confidence, eventually crossing at a quick pace. When I reached the other side, I looked back with regret, wishing it had been just a little longer.
Despite thoroughly enjoying the hike, I was happy when my day’s destination, the Port William Hut, finally came into view.
A Crowded Night
Upon reaching the hut, my excitement faded somewhat—not because of the hut itself or its location, but because it was packed. I managed to claim one of the last sleeping spots, but as more hikers arrived throughout the day, every bed filled up, and tents started appearing around the hut.
I spent the afternoon relaxing in the sun. However, this was not entirely pleasant, as hordes of sandflies—tiny but merciless—swarmed me. The insect repellent I had bought for the trip provided only temporary relief.
That night turned into a nightmare. Every single person in my shared room snored—loudly. Eventually, I had enough. Grabbing my sleeping bag, I moved outside.
While I was now free from the snorers, I had traded them for another torment: mosquitoes. Sleep was nearly impossible. I was immensely relieved when morning finally arrived, signaling that it was time to start moving again.
The Mud Begins
On my third day of hiking, I had my first true encounter with the infamous Stewart Island mud.
At first, the trail was so well-maintained that I believed I could avoid the worst of it for another day. I was very wrong. Without warning, the solid path ended, and suddenly, I was hopping from one side of the trail to the other. The middle was an instant trap—step there, and I was ankle-deep in muck.
To make matters worse, the terrain was constantly rising and falling, and thick networks of tree roots crisscrossed the path, making progress even trickier. Sometimes, the slope was so steep that I was actually grateful for the roots, as they provided excellent footholds and handholds.
After what felt like an eternity of slogging through the mud, I arrived at Bungaree Beach. The moment my feet touched the sand, I nearly let out a triumphant shout. The beach was absolutely stunning—soft, white sand stretched before me, and at the far end, I spotted the hut where I would spend the night.
When I reached the hut, the first thing I did was free myself from my clothes, which were so full of dirt and mud that I thought they could stand on their own.
From the hut’s logbook, where hikers not only wrote down their names but also various other details, I learned that the toilet supposedly had a wonderful view of the beach. Slightly skeptical and amused by such an entry, I went to see for myself. Through a hole in the toilet door, I had to admit—without hesitation—that the view of the beach was truly breathtaking.
Unlike the last hut, this time there were only two of us staying overnight, allowing me to have a peaceful and well-deserved sleep.
In the past few days, I had been incredibly lucky with the weather, but that seemed to be changing today. As I set out in the morning, the sky was covered with thick clouds that looked like they were about to bring rain.
The trail wasn’t any kinder today either—it was even muddier than the day before. But once I was properly covered in filth, I no longer cared and simply trudged straight through the muck.
Today, the path surprised me with extremely steep ascents and descents. Most of the time, I had no choice but to tackle the downward slopes on my backside and climb up on my hands and knees.
After about an hour and a half, I reached Murray Beach. The descent to the beach was tough, but it was absolutely worth it—when I stepped onto the sand, I saw how stunning it was. It seemed almost endless, stretching so far that I could barely make out its end. A small tidal stream ran through the middle of the beach, adding to its unique beauty.
I loved walking in the sand, though my heavy backpack often pushed me deep into it, making the trek even more exhausting.
Eventually, the trail disappeared back into the bush. This section was relatively flat, yet it was still a struggle to move forward.
Strangely enough, these difficulties weren’t caused by nature but by human intervention. To make hiking easier, a wooden boardwalk had been built—but the planks weren’t flat; they were rounded. On top of that, most of them were missing the usual wire mesh for grip. As a result, I walked as if on eggshells, slipping multiple times.
When it finally started to rain, the boardwalk became as slippery as if it had been smeared with soap, and I regularly found myself lying on the ground.
Towards the end of this treacherous stretch, some joker had written on a piece of wood: „Watch out for oncoming trains!“ Only then did I realize how much this boardwalk actually resembled a railway embankment!
I was relieved when the trail returned to good old mud. The remainder of the hike to the hut was surprisingly easy, but I was still more than happy to reach my accommodation for the night, as the rain had begun to intensify.
The hut I arrived at was by far the newest and best one I had stayed in so far, and it even had a charming name—Christmas Village Hut.
That night, I shared the hut with several other people, which brought a lot of fun and variety to the evening. The only problem was my rather poor English skills, which made it difficult for me to fully follow all the conversations.
I had planned to stay in this hut for two nights, and I didn’t want to spend my extra day idly. Instead, I set my sights on climbing Mount Anglem, the highest mountain on the island at 980 meters.
I wasn’t tackling this climb alone—I was joined by a Danish boy.
It had rained nonstop throughout the night, and even as we made our way up the mountain, it didn’t let up. Because of the rain, our path more closely resembled a stream with about ten centimeters of water flowing down it.
At first, we tried to keep our feet dry by hopping from one side of the stream to the other. But soon, we gave up and just waded straight through the water, which—surprisingly—was quite fun in its own way.
Despite all the water, we made good progress and eventually reached the tree line. At first, we didn’t feel much of the strong wind, as there were still tall shrubs providing some shelter. But as the vegetation became shorter, we started to experience the full force of the wind pushing us around.
As if the rain, the stream-like trail, and our own sweat weren’t enough water to deal with, we got an extra dose—out of nowhere, our path turned from a flowing stream into an actual lake.
We considered whether we could go around it, but the dense bush made that impossible.
Without overthinking it, I took the first step into the water—and immediately sank up to my waist. We bravely waded through, though we were more than relieved when we finally climbed back onto solid ground.
The higher we climbed, the stronger the wind became. Eventually, it became nearly impossible to continue. At some point, we had to admit that the elements were against us, and retreating was the smartest option—especially since we had no way of knowing just how extreme the conditions would be at the summit.
On our way back down, the rain turned into thick hailstones. Driven by the stormy wind, they pelted us like bullets, and despite my thick rain jacket, I felt every single one painfully.
Completely soaked, frozen, and a little disappointed that we hadn’t reached the summit, we finally arrived back at the hut and warmed ourselves by a cozy fire.
As the flames slowly thawed out my limbs and I looked out the window—seeing that the weather was only getting worse—I made my decision. Rather than pushing further into what would likely be even muddier and more difficult terrain, I would turn back.
There was a bit of sadness in this choice, as I had truly come to enjoy the wildness of hiking on Stewart Island. But my mind was made up—I would begin my return journey the next day.
That day would turn out to be a real „lucky day“—though at the time, I had no idea what was in store for me.
It had rained all night, and accordingly, the trail was now even more soaked and slippery than before.
A particular challenge for me was that the creeks had turned into small, raging rivers due to the rain, and many new streams had also formed.
Often, I had no choice but to wade through them waist-deep. The mud hadn’t lessened either. More than once, I sank up to my knees in it and had to struggle to move forward.
After the usual ups and downs, I finally reached the „hated“ wooden boardwalk that was supposed to lead me to Murray Beach.
With my very first step onto the boardwalk, I slipped and fell hard onto my trekking pole. It responded with a clear 90-degree bend. With that, the pole, which had been a great help in this muddy hell, was now useless. This made walking on the boardwalk even more difficult.
When I finally reached Murray Beach, it started hailing. I had already experienced countless weather changes by this point, but such an extreme shift as today was entirely new to me.
As I said, it was hailing when I stepped onto the beach; yet no more than two minutes later, almost no clouds were left in sight, and the sun shone so beautifully warm that it felt like being in the South Pacific.
I took advantage of this gorgeous weather to take a short break. During this time, the Danish guy, who had set off about half an hour after me, caught up. We chatted briefly and agreed to continue the journey together, even though he believed I was way too slow. He was probably right.
As we set off, the weather had already taken another turn for the worse, but it was reassuring to know that we only had about an hour and a half left to our destination for the day.
Even though the path had worsened due to all the water, we made good progress. Unfortunately, this led to us becoming a bit inattentive, and at some junction, we took a wrong turn. However, we quickly realized our mistake and were able to get back on the right path without any major time loss or harm.
After trudging through plenty of mud, water, rain, hail, and wind, we finally reached the hut. Looking down at myself somewhat grimly, I realized that I had reached a level of filth that overshadowed everything before. Even I wouldn’t have wanted to hug myself. The New Zealander who had arrived from the opposite direction looked at us somewhat strangely, and at that moment, it was clear—we were a pitiful sight.
That afternoon, the New Zealander tried to introduce me to the art of fishing. However, luck was not on our side, and we were denied a delicious fish dinner. Instead, we had to make do with our dry food, which was sufficient to fill our stomachs but far from a culinary delight.
In the evening, I reflected on the day and all the things I had lost or destroyed along the way. The result, I thought, was quite shocking.
I had lost my watch and lighter. On top of that, I had ruined my trekking pole, and the straps on my gaiters had also broken. This was truly an above-average level of destruction of essential equipment.
When I woke up in the morning and looked out the window at Bungaree Beach, I was truly amazed, even though it was storming wildly outside. The wind was pushing the water far up the beach, and from time to time, it was whipped into the air. It was a truly impressive spectacle. Watching the clouds race across the sky was just as remarkable. The view of the beach changed almost by the second, and I thoroughly enjoyed looking out and observing this natural drama unfold.
That day, I set off very late. Together with the New Zealander, I faced the day’s challenges.
Today’s stage was pleasantly short, and we hiked at a leisurely pace. This gave us plenty of time to take a closer look at the bush and watch the birds. It was an entertaining pleasure.
Despite the distractions, I still tried to stay cleaner than in the previous days and avoided the mud as much as possible. Yet, somehow, it had a magical pull on me, and before I knew it, I was once again covered in dirt from head to toe, as if I had crawled across the wet ground.
Later in the day, I wanted to take at least one photo of a creek crossing. Although I could have crossed this stream dry-footed using tree trunks, I waded into the cold water for the sake of the photo. I ended up completely soaked, but at least my clothes were clean again.
When we reached our destination for the day, we were met with an unpleasant surprise—we soon realized that almost all the firewood was gone, and the little that remained was really damp. Luckily, the New Zealander knew the art of getting even wet wood to burn. It took a long time, but eventually, we could warm ourselves by the flickering flames.
When it was time to prepare dinner, I indulged in a cherished tradition—the grand feast of leftovers. I was amazed at how much food I managed to prepare. It turned into an evening where I was truly, completely full and felt wonderfully satisfied.
When I woke up in the morning, it was still dark, and the rain was pouring down. I would have preferred to stay in bed, but I had to reach my boat on time, which would take me back to the mainland. So, like it or not, I had to get up.
Eventually, I was on my way to Oban. I tried to cheer myself up as I walked through the rain. But when the hiking trail turned into a creek once again, all attempts at optimism failed.
Despite the difficult conditions, I reached Maori Beach surprisingly quickly. As I approached its end, I was shocked—a 10 to 15-meter-wide river had formed due to the rain. The current was strong enough that I was worried about crossing it safely. A few days ago, when I had passed this spot, the river had existed but was far less powerful and wide. However, reminiscing about the past didn’t help me now, so I grabbed a stick and waded in.
The water’s surface gave the illusion of a steady flow, but this was deceptive. As I waded through, different sections of my legs were pushed in all sorts of directions. The surface water wanted to flow toward the sea, while deeper layers seemed to push inland. It was truly difficult to keep my footing and make it across unharmed. I was immensely relieved when I finally reached solid ground again and could look back at the obstacle I had just conquered.
From then on, I had no further issues, and after an easy walk along the access road to the trail, I arrived in Oban.
The first thing I did was buy a ticket for the boat—there was no way I wanted to risk staying another night here just because the boat was full. Once I had the ticket in hand, I could relax and focus on other things. First, I decided to part ways with my completely soaked and filthy clothes. I admit, I felt significantly better once I had done so.
I spent the remaining time near the harbor and the local supermarket, where I stocked up on a few things I had missed over the past few days. After all, hiking food isn’t exactly a culinary delight.
As the boat’s departure time neared, more and more people emerged from the bush and joined me in waiting. From them, I gathered more information about the trail, which reassured me that I had made the right decision in cutting my trip short—many of them seemed to have been even deeper in water and mud than I was.
One couple’s story particularly impressed me—they had spent several hours that day wading through knee-deep water and felt more like fish than hikers.
The crossing back to the mainland was much rougher than the way over, and it took even less time for an intense sense of seasickness to set in. Just like before, I saved myself by falling asleep, making the crossing somewhat bearable.
And so, my hike on Stewart Island came to an end. It had turned out much shorter than planned, and I learned what it meant to put on wet, stinky clothes every morning. But even if that doesn’t sound appealing, I had a great time on this adventure, and it will remain a particularly beautiful and exciting memory.
One thing is for sure—if I ever visit New Zealand again, Stewart Island will be at the top of my list, and I will dedicate much more time to this gem.