There are places in the world where the road ends, unable to go farther, often due to physical barriers. I was once at such a place, deep in the heart of the South Island of New Zealand. On August 24 of 1992, I rode a bus to the village of Haast on the west coast and disembarked. For a change, it wasn’t raining (that’s significant, because it did so on 29 of the 31 days I spent in New Zealand that winter). My goal – the fishing village of Jackson Bay, 48 KM down the road to the southwest, which is truly the end of the road. The road cannot go beyond Jackson Bay because the coast is incised with deep fiords beyond that point.

Fiordland National Park is the country’s largest, at almost 5,000 square miles. It sits on the southwest corner of the South Island in an area that can only be described as spectacular. Perhaps the earliest European visitor to this place was Captain Cook in 1769. Rudyard Kipling called it the Eighth Wonder of the World, and today it forms part of a World Heritage Site. Two hundred years ago, a Maori tribe lived in the area, but it wasn’t until 1863 that the first settlers of European descent made their way to the area of Jackson Bay. Upon their arrival, the Maori told them that they had seen as many as ten ships in the bay, probably whalers. Various gold-seekers made their way to the bay in the next years, but it wasn’t until around 1875 that a serious proposal was made to bring families to the area and begin real settlement. It was decided early on that for the community to prosper, a really solid wharf needed to be built. That way, supplies could safely be brought in to supply these remote settlers, and their goods could be more easily shipped out to waiting markets.

I knew none of that history the day I arrived. Since no bus ran from Haast the 50 KM to Jackson Bay, there was no choice but to stand at the side of the road and stick out my thumb. But first, I stopped at the Department of Conservation – their offices seem to be ubiquitous, found in the most unlikely locations. They told me what I might expect to find at the end of the road, and gave me a few clues as to where I might seek a special bird that was on my list.

After only a few minutes, a woman and her son pulled over and offered me a ride. In her kindness, she decided to take me the full 30 miles to Jackson Bay and not just the 2 miles to the turnoff to her place. This was typical of the Kiwi kindness I met everywhere in this amazing land. The road was paved all the way to its end, where she dropped me off at a building along the large pier. There, I met a woman named Liz, whose job it was to receive the catch of local fishermen who brought in their crayfish. She referred to them as lobsters. I learned that their catch was packed in ice and flown out to foreign markets on a daily basis, mostly to Japan.

I had come here to see an obscure species of penguin, the Fiordland crested. It is only found in this remote corner of New Zealand, and is so rare that I felt it was worth the effort to try to see one. Liz locked up my pack for me so I wouldn’t have to worry about it while I went out hunting for penguin. I donned my rain-suit, top and bottom, and set out on foot from the wharf, heading south along the beach. The rocks were very slippery and I had to really watch my footing.

Jackson Bay

After 45 minutes of walking, I stopped and had a good look around. The beach had narrowed, and forest came down close to the waves. Under the tree roots were several hollows, looking almost like caves. I had read that these birds live in colonies, so was hopeful to see more than one of them.

It didn’t take long, and as my eyes became used to the gloom in the dirt hollows beneath the trees, I spotted one of the penguins. It was sitting there quietly, but was very visible. As I sat there, another one scrambled out of the water over the slippery rocks and into its burrow – it had approached within 5 feet of me, in broad daylight. I had a good look at them both, but the photos I took were of poor quality and I won’t insult you with them here. The above link gives a good idea of their appearance.

I didn’t linger, as I didn’t want to stress out the birds, so after a short while I headed  along the beach back to the village. When I arrived at the pier, Liz gave me back my pack, but only on the condition that I join her and her husband at their home for dinner. How could I refuse? We walked the short distance to their place and settled in. They plied me with delicious home-made beer and a lovely supper, and the evening kind of got away on us. The rain poured down. We all went down to the pier to meet a fisherman who was bringing in his catch, and unloaded and sorted his crayfish.

Since he was heading back towards Haast, it seemed logical that I catch a ride with him. I still remember that black night, wipers unable to keep up with the torrents of rain on the windscreen, Frank Zappa blasting from the cassette player. I told him I needed a place to camp, so he dropped me off along the beach near Haast. I had a tent, but setting it up in the middle of a deluge of biblical proportions was a miserable challenge. By the time I had the tent erected and my gear inside it, everything was soaked, including myself. I could hear lots of little sandhoppers beneath the tent floor. As the nearby surf pounded in, I prayed that I was camped above the high-tide mark.

It had been a successful day, having met my goal of seeing the rare penguin, but even more important was the genuine warmth and hospitality shown to me by the fine people of New Zealand. It would not be the last time their kindness would find me when least expected.