postcards from doubtful sound / patea

a love letter to a place that changed me

These are the things I want to remember: how the wind and rain made their home in my bones. How it was impossible to resist standing on the foredeck, legs braced against the weather, feeling the full power of being in the elements. How I discovered a new heart of me, beating outside of myself.

Doubtful Sound / Patea, Fiordland is a place of magic, where the collision of senses at the meeting of mountains and water is unparalleled.

But first, me, Nic and our friends Carol and Don had to get there.

the beginning

We began our journey at Manapouri, where we got our first taste of just how much rain we were in for. There'd been a slip and the river was swollen, extending beyond its banks to swallow a good few metres of the riverside picnic area where we boarded the ferry.

Forty-five minutes across the lake to the Manapouri power station, then another forty-five minutes by bus up and over Wilmot pass—one of the lowest points that straddles the backbone of the Southern Alps.

We were rewarded with a rare sight: the sounds below us, visible in a gap between one cloud bank and another. Everyone piled off the bus to document the moment with whatever camera they'd brought, capturing something tangible to hold onto. The smiles on their faces...I want to remember those too.

I want to remember the excitement of boarding the Milford Wanderer, our home for the next two days and nights. I want to remember how surprised I was by the substance of our tiny cabin, by the generous proportions of the shower and toilet in this seemingly small vessel. By the spacious saloon that would become our refuge from the wild outdoors when we wanted shelter.

But I didn't want shelter.

Not yet.

I wanted to listen to the song of the sea, coloured in by the wind, emanating from the mountains. I wanted to witness the mist wafting gently upwards from between the folds of the ranges. I wanted to stare at the layers of mountains, tucking themselves behind each other, the last few invisible. Curtains of rain showcasing this part of New Zealand in all her glory. Moody. Overbearing. Waterfalls that would transform from smallish trickles into thundering torrents after a day of rain.

This was a journey that consumed me.
Lifted me up.
Held me in awe and wonder...

a wild immersion

I stood, eyes closed, on the foredeck in Hall Arm as the crew turned the engines and the generators off, leaving us with the sound of silence (or in our case, the wind and rain).

I went kayaking in the gentle rain and quiet waters tucked into the end of Bradshaw Sound, then threw my body into the near-freezing waters, gasping for breath at how cold it was. The chill made my skin tingle. I wanted to immerse myself in the cold water again, so I jumped right back in.

Waterfalls became ephemeral art, transforming hour by hour, shape-shifting with each curtain of rain.

The wild scenery nourished me in ways I could never imagine or anticipate.

I tried to photograph the majesty as a newly-discovered love language. My body, the camera, the boat, the landscape—all of it, in relationship. But the photographs I'd wanted to make became impossible in the stormy weather we encountered, so I embraced the perfect imperfection of things as they were. I made other photos instead, ones that look like these.

refuge

I want to remember when the wind was howling around the boat, throwing buckets of water from the sea over the railings, when the sheets of rain felt like too much, there was respite. Inside: comfy beds and hot showers. Lovingly-prepared meals and red wine that supports our wild places. Hot cheese scones. Creamy lemon posset. A fiord board that celebrated the sea.

The saloon became our haven—generous in its proportions, warm, alive with conversation.

I want to remember how amazing the wandy team were. They shared stories about the history of this place, and their love for it was visceral, evident in their every word and action. You could hear it in how they spoke about the weather, about the mountains, about the way the sounds change with each passing hour. It felt like they didn't just work here—they belonged to this place, and it belongs to them.

Doubtful Sound Patea spans a staggering 40 kilometres (25 miles) from the head of the fiord to the Tasman Sea. It is the deepest of New Zealand’s 14 fiords and its immense size leaves all who visit feeling humbled yet uplifted by its powerful physical presence.
source: fiordland.org.nz

These are the things I want to remember: not just what I saw, but what I felt. How the scenery demanded I pay attention, like a symphony demands silence before the first note.

I want to remember that the wind and rain made their home in my bones, and to remember that I let them. That I stood in the elements and felt fully, astonishingly, completely alive. That our journey took us near to the mouth of the ocean, but the wind was too fierce for us to go any further than Bauzer Island.

I want to remember seeing Tawaki and Miromiro. And wishing for dolphins and whales (and not seeing any).

This is what I want to remember most: discovering a new heart of me, beating outside of myself. Finding that some places don't just move through me—they move and transform me, leave me changed.

Doubtful Sound / Patea, Fiordland, did that.
I want to remember. And I want to go back.

I nui te māharo o tatou.