For the second week running we make a tired, hurried departure from work for destination west and upwards. Thankfully the one hour of queues through road works at Queenstown are a thing of the past, and we make reasonable time - soon finding ourselves cruising easily beside the lake, high peaks coming ever closer.

The Scott Creek track is signposted 2 km up the road towards the Routeburn. A sign, a style, no carpark. I stroll across scrubby farmland on the south side of Scott Creek under a cloudless sky. Rivulets of sweat already trickling between pack and back. Hot. Humid. A couple of poles half-heartedly indicate the route up the terraces on the southern

riverbank before giving up and leaving us to follow sheep trails. The route climbs the steep spur south if the creek for around 200 vertical meters, vast river flats of the Dart dropping quickly away behind us, watercourses scribblings of twisted serpents amid vast whitestone flats. A single orange topped wooden post marks nothing useful, but 80m beyond it a vague ground trail cuts right off the spur across an old slip, regenerating scrub - sidling to the bush edge beyond.

Dark, shaded, mossy beech - but not a hint of a wind to dry sweat-soaked clothes. The track, a rough unmarked route on my last visit - now well -marked, well-cut, well-trodden. Climbs steeply, steadily, sideling above the creek as it ascends. The tight river gorge opens to flats of tall dry grass, unmoving, still in sticky heat. They look like wonderful camp spots beside the cool stream but we push on, climb again at their head. The track now in the creek bed, scrambles up small rocky falls towards Scott Basin, later sidles to beach beneath high mossy cliffs on the southern bank. Emerges into dim dusk-tinted sunlight in the lower Scott Basin. The map shows the flats as covered in thick scrub, but we find them open and grassy, scrub restricted to the faces above. We find a lovely flat spot north of the creek to camp, soak long in pools of cool fresh water watching peaks turn from orange to grey as evening fades to night.

I wake early, pack tent, climb the creek south towards the Kay saddle. A good ground trail has appeared since my last visit occasionally with cairns climbing easily beside the creek. Tarns balance improbably on small flats above the valley as it climbs. Reaching Kay saddle we swing west still climbing towards the saddle with Death Valley. A fault line cuts a ruled line north-south across the landscape, passing through Scott Basin headed for Sleepy Hollow away to the south. Patches of red ultramafic rock dot its path.

A large tarn lies below the Death Valley saddle, scree faces climbing beyond the summit. I cut south of the tarn, ascend more stable grassy slopes to peer down into the barren rocky expanse of Death Valley beyond. Loose rock scree makes for a slow descent into the head basin. From there we sidle grassy slopes into the northern branch of the valley. A tall moraine wall blocks the valley - I climb onto it. Find beyond not a glacier but a thin ribbon of white ice amidst a vastness of grey rubble. Scramble down perhaps 30 m into the basin that once held the Death Valley glacier. The ice now barely 10 m wide maybe 4 metres thick. We walk up the glacial remains anyway - easier than the loose rock besides it. Halfway up meltwater has carved a large cave beneath the ice. I contemplate scuttling across the resulting ice bridge above the void, opt instead cut east onto loose rock to bypass it.

A final steep scree scramble sees us looking down on to the green basin of Double Barrel Creek. More steep loose scree takes us down into its head. The creek cuts deep into the rock, descending to the valley below via a series of falls. We bypass them on terraces to the west finding easy, gentle scree slopes leading back to the valley floor. The floor of Double Barrel is as scrubby as the map shows, and would be slow going if it weren't for the fact that the creek runs dry. So instead of bashing through thick scrubby flats we walk easily down white stone river bed.

The valley draining the Double Barrel - Fraser pass is invisible behind peaks until you reach it, making it impossible to assess whether the undocumented crossing will be possible or not. I intend to follow Double Barrel creek down to the forks, climb back up the creek to the pass. But grassy terraces in-between the main valley and the pass tempt me. The map hints at an easy sidle from these terraces to the pass. I succumb to temptation, climb the western valleyside 1km south of the forks, passing waterfalls to the accessible lower terrace. Seek out a route through bluffs to the broader flat above. That final climb proves difficult, tricky, exposed. We spend too much time scrambling steep snowgrass above tall bluffs. Only to find ourselves 100 m above our destination, only to find that the terraces do not connect to the pass at all, and that we must descend into the basin below the pass after all. Lesson learnt - next time follow the creek.

I sit on the edge of the terrace eating a snack, studying the pass to the Fraser opposite. High cliffs drop from it into the head basin below; scree chutes climb from the valley floor, connect with narrow, high ledges amid bluffs to the west of the pass, which in turn lead to the pass itself, maybe. But something is wrong those bluffs: too high, too steep compared to what I recall from the map. So out it comes - bringing relief as we find the true pass lies south of that steep bluffed route which we can see - hidden behind spurs to our left.

We drop into the rocky basin below us, look SW up the broad scree chute to the southern pass. A steep, loose climb but entirely achievable. The last 50m prove the hardest, loose rocky scree surrounded by hardpack with little purchase. The ice axe proves invaluable yet again an anchor on the steep backsliding climb.

From the summit we look back down the Western branch of Double Barrel Creek: broad grassy flats at the forks, green beech forest beyond, dropping in falls to Routeburn Flats, the road end.

Ahead of us two parallel basins descend steeply into the Fraser, separated by a tall grey wall of lateral moraine. The western of the two contains the dying remains of another glacier: patches of white ice swamped beneath grey rubble tumbled from the destabilised ice-free faces above. Five chamois sense our presence: dart out of the basin heading for the valley below. Another three atop the moraine wall watch them depart: puzzled. I sit in the warm, sharp sunshine of altitude, enjoy the cool air; eat some lunch before descending into the still heat of the Fraser.

Valley flats below are broad and scrubby, but I need not descend that far. Instead we cut beneath the flanks of unnamed peaks to find the steep, narrow gut ascending west of Emily Peak. This is the fifth pass of the day, already a pass too many for legs, knees, tired body. But at least the ground is stable, good scree, a steady ascent - shaded by peaks all around.

Route guides spoke of a high sidle from Fraser Col to Emily Pass but we find it necessary to descend a good 100m into the basin north of the pass before sidling west below steep exposed bluffy faces. Climbing again up the creek draining Emily Pass. The contours on the map are close, tight, indicate a steep, tough ascent: reflect accurately the climb to Emily pass. The route climbs steeply up the tight streambed until waterfalls impede progress. A brief scramble up a small bluff on the true left og the creek takes us on to steep, exposed snowgrass faces above. Ice axe again anchors every step as we ascend. A hundred meters of exposed snowgrass scramble follows: all the way to the pass. A slip at any point leading back to the base of falls below. Not a nice route, tired at the end of a ling day.

The same route guide spoke of good camping near the pass - but at the summit we find boulderscree and a stoat trap - but no flat space for a tent nor any water. The stoat trappers have, however, worn an easy trail into the Mackenzie Valley below and we follow the line of trap boxes down into the valley The head basin contains grassy flats littered with huge boulders. Small streams cascade from the faces above only to disappear as they hit the valley floor. Dry rocky channels fading to vague grassy beds as they venture out from the valleyside.

A small cairn sits prominent atop a boulder: we investigate, find a cool shaded rock bivouac in the space behind. It's barely 4 p.m. but after crossing six passes, seven catchments, it's time to rest. The day still hot, too hot to pitch a tent, so instead I crawl into the cool dry space beneath the rock and snooze until dusk. Dusk itself heralded not just by the dimming sky, the orange on the peaks above, but by the arrival of a cloud of vicious sandflies. I hurriedly pitch the tent crawl inside to safety.

Day 3

Our final day consists of an easy walk down to Lake McKenzie: visible mirror-like in the valley below; an easy stroll along the well-maintained Routeburn Track to the road at the Milford Summit. The flats above Lake Ma

cKenzie are scrubby, but the creek bed is dry so we have a quick, easy walk down to the lakeshore. Following the eastern shore we pick up a track at the back of the bay beyond. A chatter of voices comes from the bush nearby, where we discover the sheltered, sympathetic MacKenzie Campsite. Each site sheltered in the shade of tall beech trees, separated from it's neighbour by vegetation - private and cool. A modest roofed structure in the centre hosts benches, sinks everything you need for a comfortable night's camping.

Beyond the campsite the track sidles above the south-eastern lakeshore, sometimes suspended above the water on wooden cantilevered walkways, more often in beech forest. We smell Lake Mackenzie Hut before we see it, sewage system clearly struggling to deal with the demand. I attempt conversation with people on the hut deck, am ignored, continue. Not far beyond lies Lake MacKenzie Lodge: the private guided walkers' hut. Set well back off the track, discouraging nosy non-guests from prying. A vast apex of glass looks down over flats to the lake. Lights blaze inside even at this sunlit hour. Glint off polished wood of dining tables. Lounge chairs empty beside the vast window. Air conditioning whirring softly.

The Routeburn Track climbs from Lake MacKenzie Lodge, sidles onto high faces above the Hollyford. Clear shoulders give views down the broad flat valley to the Tasman Ocean beyond. I pass maybe a dozen walking parties, offer greetings, sometimes returned. Two chubby Maori lads grin cheekily - comment on my rushed pace. An older man accompanies them, their grandfather perhaps. Face stern, weathered - telling its own story. Breaks into a smile of greeting.

The track climbs high on the face, passes beneath tall waterfalls - ribbons of water cascading onto the terrace upon which we walk. People pose for photos, selfies. We start to meet the day's crowds headed east, pass maybe 50 more walkers before we arrive at Lake Howden Hut.

The Maori family have been thus far the only Kiwi voices we have heard. But the group at Lake Howden Hut make up for that. A combined group of perhaps three families: eight tired,complaining children who just want to go home, three tired, swearing adults at wits end. One professional, polite hut warden who probably would like nothing more than for them to leave. I sit as far from the argument as I can get - on a bench overlooking Lake Howden. The lake's surface still, mirrored. Beauty. tranquility. One out of two.

The numbers on the track increase beyond Lake Howden, most day walkers sporting just daypacks or water bottles in hand. A young woman passes in the opposite direction, running. She has the right idea: The Routeburn with its broad hard surface the gentle climbs, makes an unexciting surface on which to walk, but would be a great run.

Not having known if I would make it over the pass from Double Barrel Creek I have no transport booked from the Milford Road. I make a point of greeting, chatting with each group I overtake as I descend.

The track zigzags down towards the road, the noise of road-traffic for the first time in two days. We emerge into a vast car park filled with cars, campers, busses. On the roadside six people are already lined up under the hot midday sun, thumbs out, hitchhiking. I squat beside the last of them, quiz him on how much progress people have made. It seems just two people have managed it hitch out this morning. I can't say I am surprised, the morning traffic - people returning from overnight stays in Milford - do not strike me as likely lifts. Much more promising to me are those finishing the Routeburn Track behind us: fellow walkers, hopefully sympathetic to their brethren from the trail. Those very people I have been cheerfully (synically) greeting, chatting with for the last half hour. Applogising to the hitchhiker for what I'm about to do, I retreat to the end of the trail, sit in shade, chat again to each group finishing their walk.

The third to pass is the runner. - returning. I comment that I thought she was headed for Glenorchy. She explains that this was the plan but that her friend injured themselves the day before and so she has just been out for a shorter there and back run. I ask if she has a spare seat going towards Te Anau. She responds that she is 70% blind and cannot drive. Pauses. Adds that she has a driver, will happily take me when he returns.

He soon does, and within 10 minutes we are cruising out of the carpark, past the line of hitchikers and down the Milford Road. The woman tells me her story - hospitalised with traumatic brain injury by a workplace accident some three years ago, spending two years in hospital - left with just a partial field of good vision in one eye. Years spent in German hospitals with few words of German, convincing a beaurocratic system to allow her to return home for care and rehabilitation in a language that is her own. Succeeding finally. Scaling those virtual mountains that must be crossed on the path towards rehabilitation, relearning, recovery. Going on to scale more physical peaks, challenging herself - proving that she can still compete, still achieve, still appreciate those things precious to her.

Irony. I set out to walk the Not The Routeburn to avoid the people on the more popular trail. But the highlight of the trip has been the people I met The inspiration they bring.


But better that you read her story in her own words:

http://mountainsofmymind.com