May 5, 2025

[Milford Sound]

Dear reader, today’s story is a real good one. It involves wild landscapes, invasive predators, breakfast eggs, a vehicle extraction, and—most critically—a husband with the confidence of a stunt driver.

But before we get to that, I need to unleash a few fun facts you didn’t ask for but will now be forced to carry forever.

Let’s talk about Milford Sound—that moody, majestic chunk of the Fiordland coast that’s often called the Eighth Wonder of the World, and not in a casual “nice view” way, but in a “you will cry at a mountain” way.

But here’s the thing: Milford Sound is not a sound. Not even close. It’s actually a fjord.

Here’s your cheat sheet:

Lake = calm, landlocked, brooding
River = always moving, probably late for something
Sound = ocean flooding an old river valley, salty and dramatic
Fjord = a glacier went full wrecking ball on a mountain, melted, and let the sea in to fill the gap. Add mist. Cue awe.

So yes—Milford Sound is a fjord in a trench coat. A case of mistaken identity, but make it geologically iconic.

Now that you’re fully briefed on landforms, let’s get to the part where John sinks our car in a mud pit and accidentally becomes a local legend. Stay with me. It’s worth it.

Morning:

We woke up at the Fiordland Motel in Te Anau to what sounded like a full-scale WWII air raid siren. Not a bird, not a weather event—a proper, screaming old timey outdoor siren that made it feel like we were about to be conscripted.

Like every alarming noise on this trip, we responded with our standard emergency protocol:

1. Stay horizontal.

2. Google it.

3. Assume it’s not about us.

This is the same energy we brought to the hotel fire alarm in Wellington, which yelled “EVACUATE NOW” for ten full minutes, while John calmly declared, “I’m just gonna take a shower.”

Anyway, turns out the siren wasn’t a civil defence alert or the beginning of a fragile new dystopia. It’s just how the town rallies the volunteer firefighters. That’s right—someone’s house might be on fire and New Zealand is summoning help like it’s WWII. Just absolute chaos in the most kiwi way possible.

So we did what anyone would do after almost maybe thinking about panicking:

We went to breakfast.

We started the day at Sandfly Café—which, thankfully, offers fewer sandflies than its name suggests—and devoured a proper big breakfast (vanilla latte for me, green tea and poached eggs/Hollandaise for John, because he’s a breakfast purist with upper-crust leanings). Then we hit the road. And what a road.

Milford Road: Highway to Heaven

This is not just a drive. This is a cinematic flex. A two-hour(ish) journey where you’ll pull over approximately every 11 minutes, yell “are you kidding me?!” at a mountain, and start wondering if your life decisions adequately reflect the majesty of Earth.

We hit every scenic stop with the enthusiasm of overcaffeinated hobbits:

Lake Mistletoe: as charming as it sounds.
Te Anau Downs Lookout: sweeping lake views, slight chance of being stared at by sheep.
Boat Harbour: where boats live when they retire.
Eglinton Valley: which looks exactly like the Misty Mountains, and was actually used as their cinematic double. Massive scale. Zero subtlety.
Lake Gunn, Lake Fergus, and the Hollyford Valley: like nature’s version of a triple threat.
Falls Creek & Gertrude Valley: waterfalls, snow-capped drama, and the kind of azure blue pool of water that makes you want to jump in (if you didn’t realize how cold it would be).
Homer Tunnel: a pitch-black tube through solid granite where you will definitely re-evaluate your relationship with mortality. Absolutely terrifying.

And then… Milford Sound: Valinor, But more tour buses.

[TL;DR: Milford Sound = not a sound. A dramatic fjord with ocean DNA and main character energy.]

As we arrived, the scale of the place swallowed us whole. Mitre Peak towered above the fjord like it was auditioning for a Marvel origin story. Boultbee Island, Deepwater Basin, and the distant Tasman Sea all shimmered with that “no filter needed” kind of light.

We spotted a cute Weka bird and the brilliant green troublemaker that is the Kea parrot, and we learned more than we ever needed to know about invasive species and the Mustelid problem—because apparently, in New Zealand history, the Brits introduced rabbits for fun, then ferrets to hunt the rabbits, and those ferrets decided, “Actually, let’s just eat all the kiwis instead.” Cool cool cool.

Here’s what I’ve learned (and am forcing onto you, beloved reader):

Milford Sound isn’t just beautiful—it’s absurdly, aggressively, unapologetically beautiful. It’s the kind of place that makes you wish this were heaven. Like nature is performing a slow, mist-covered illusion and you’re just lucky to be here.

The cliffs rise 1,200 meters (nearly 4,000 feet) straight out of the water like they’re trying to punch the sky. Mitre Peak, the iconic show-off, is one of the tallest mountains in the world to rise directly from the sea. Waterfalls pour down from every possible surface, including ones that weren’t even there five minutes ago—rainfall here averages 6 to 9 meters a year, so Milford Sound doesn’t do “dry” unless it’s a wine. In recent weeks, there were 100s of mms of rain… explaining the later “plot twist” in this post.

But for now… back to learning:

Freshwater Basin: The Secret Second Layer

Here’s where it gets even weirder: Milford Sound has two layers of water. Yes, layers. Because New Zealand cannot do anything halfway.

The Freshwater Basin is exactly what it sounds like—a thin layer of fresh water that floats on top of the salt water from the Tasman Sea. Got that. We saw it. Nice.
This freshwater comes from constant rainfall and runoff from waterfalls, and it can be anywhere from a few inches to several meters deep.
It’s dark, tannin-stained, and full of organic material from the forest, kind of like the tea your great-aunt drinks but less emotionally complicated.

This “lens” of freshwater dims the sunlight, which means deep-sea creatures that usually live 100 meters down are chillin’ at about 10 meters here. Black coral, for example, lives here in totally unnatural shallowness, just thriving like a celebrity in soft lighting.

Where Fresh Meets Salt: The Collision Zone

This brackish layer cake exists in a kind of delicate equilibrium—the freshwater from the mountains pours in on top, while the denser salt water from the Tasman Sea sits below. They meet, mix, and swirl in ways that make marine biologists weak in the knees.

The sound opens directly to the Tasman Sea, which slams in with force, especially on stormy days. But that freshwater layer softens things, creating a bizarrely calm surface even when the ocean is throwing a tantrum just beyond the fjord’s mouth.

Easy enough? Get it?

So yeah—Milford Sound is basically a two-layer smoothie of nature, with mountains that shouldn’t be real, waterfalls that won’t quit, and an ecosystem that’s quietly breaking all the rules while looking like a hot fantasy novel cover.

I know—it’s a lot.

Once I had enough “nature” learning, we decided to check into the Milford Sound Lodge. (Reader, note that this is the only accommodation offered in Milford Sound—and it’s a tiny operation. Also note that the road in/out of Milford Sound closes at 6pm every night and doesn’t reopen until the morning so you are stuck here, emotionally and physically.)

And, beloved reader, now we arrive at the daily plot twist…

Andrea’s Nap, John’s Side Quest: A Tragedy in One Muddy Act

Back at Milford Sound Lodge, I took a much-earned pre-dinner nap while John went out in search of the Milford Sound Observation Deck, because he cannot resist a viewpoint.

He was supposed to be back to pick me up for our dinner reservation at 6pm.

Tragically, that did not occur.

Instead, I woke up in the dark at 6:21pm to a missed message that just said:

“I need your help.”

—sent 30 minutes ago.

No follow-up. No context.

I text. I call. Nothing.

I check the John Tracking Beacon™️ and see he’s down in the sound about 1km of winding, dark roads away

I start planning the search party. My immediate questions are—is he alive? Did he get lost in the dark? Did he fall into a waterfall? How dead is he.

I call again. He silences my call. He finally texts:

“Gimme a min.”

Okay, so at least I know he’s alive.

He returns 15 minutes later, breathless and muddy, looking like someone who’s just been inducted into a wilderness cult.

I get the confession after some enhanced interrogation.

Here’s what happened:

He pulled over “just a little” to check out the view. All four tires in what he thought was dirt.

Spoiler: it was mud. Sinking mud.

The car was fully stuck, the tunnel had closed for the night, and we were trapped in the fjord with only staff, wildlife, and John’s increasingly dramatic inner monologue.

He called the lodge. Enter: Callum (hot), young, heroic staff member and van operator.

Then: two young women (also hot) - staff members we’d met earlier at the cruise desk walked by.

Then: maintenance guys (less hot) were called.

Then: a full-blown rescue team of 10 (mostly hot) people pushing and pulling and eventually winching the car out …while John made them swear a blood oath not to tell me.

However, I’m not sure how he was planning on concealing it because the entire frontside of the rental is now caked mud.

By the time we sat down for dinner at Pio Pio Restaurant, John was a local legend. Staff stopped by to shake his hand and lovingly roast his mud-crime.

Everyone was talking about this epic rescue. When asked as to my whereabouts I informed them that I was napping. Heroically napping

John and I agreed it was much better I was not there as roadside divorce may have occurred.

Dinner, Wine, and Stars

Anyway, fast forwarding, John had to admit that dinner was absolutely worth surviving for:

Beef tartare
Lamb ribs
Tempura butternut
Sourdough, salmon, duck, and a salad that somehow tasted like a fairy farm grew it.

The wine lineup?

Surveyor Thomson 2022 Pinot Noir (earthy, elegant)
Dicey Rosé (light chaos)
A moody little Gamay (perfect for mud-related trauma)

Absolutely would recommend.

After dinner, we headed back down to the Milford Sound lookout, where the sky is pitch black, the stars go full IMAX, and the air smells like river, moss, and quiet awe.

Stargazing in the southern hemisphere … it’s pretty darn special.