Some roads end with a metal gate. Approaching where the road ends is isolating. The hum of the engine drifts away. The sun falls below the tree line. No lights hide eyes from the night sky.
The road to Milford Sound cuts deep through the Southern Alps, eventually ending in one of the most popular destinations in the country. In summer, tourists infect the area. They take cruises, rent kayaks and fill the lodge.
But now it’s winter. Blizzards can close the road, making it impossible to get in or out for days. Not too many travelers are willing to park their rental cars in a snowdrift for the night. But we got Phyllis. She is too hard to worry about white outs and road closures.
So, we were one of a few in Milford for the weekend. We saw mile high peaks rise straight from the ocean, disproving any notion I ever had that mountains and oceans should remain separate but equal. We cheered as some very unmangy dolphins chased our boat. We hiked up to an alpine lake and spent the night burning wood in a lonely hut at the top of the mountain.
As the fire died and I closed my eyes, I felt as if I were at the end of the road. Just beyond the gate, where everything is worth seeing.
