Travel Photography, Writing and Photoblog from Matt Feldman

The site of the fifth highest annual rainfall anywhere on the planet, Milford Sound sees some 9 m (30 feet) of rain pour from the sky each year. And most of it seems to be coming down tonight.

After driving through places like "Devil's Staircase Bluff," so many rivers that they're numbered rather than named (we just passed "Creek #160"), insanely perched little towns along the Crown Range Pass, I'm used to seeing highways barely holding their own against nature. Continual "slumps," where the road has crumbled and fallen a few hundred meters down the hillside, are evidence of a changing terrain where fault lines push up some mountains at the geological equivalent of warp speed — over 1 cm per year.Milford Sound sees some 9 m (30 feet) of rain pour from the sky each year. And most of it seems to be coming down tonight.

But the drive into Milford Sound is unlike any other, and not even because of the town names ("Thank You for Visiting Athol!"). Low hills of the Queensland area turn to grassy plains bathed in glorious sun, and fields of coloured lupen beside shallow, wide rivers. We pass 45 degrees latitude — the middle of Middle (and regular) Earth. And in the distance, dark clouds crowd high peaks. The temperature drops. The wind comes in brief gusts. Small drops of rain gather on the windshield. Once again, the road plunges into the hills.

Surrounded on all sides by vertical cliff faces of black rock, reaching thousands of feet straight up with huge waterfalls pouring out, photographing sights on the road to Milford Sound is like trying to take pictures in the shower. But during rainfall is the only time the waterfalls are active and visible, and I mentally check off another yin and yang of the trip. Every few minutes, we climb out of the car for more pictures and give up using our rain gear. We're soaked and cold but can't stop laughing at the incredible beauty of it all. It's impossible to imagine surroundings so remarkable. Over 10 cm of rain comes down overnight.

So much water falls here that Milford Sound has both fresh and salt water — the top 7 m of the sound's water is the lighter fresh water, with the heavier, saline ocean water below. Even the roiling waves don't disturb the chemocline and the result is an extraordinary variety of marine species inhabiting one location. Winter, says someone on the boat, is the only time the Sound sees blue skies.

We pause to dock at a floating observatory and nature center. The outpost is like an inverted fish tank — a glass building submerged in Milford Sound that allows visitors to descend several stories below the surface and see the sound's wildlife in their natural, undisturbed habitat. Displays and photos and a tour guide point out the creatures on the other side of the glass.

Back on the cold and windy deck of the tour boat, the sideways rain leaves me pining for Waiheke Island, my tropical xanadu north of Auckland. As I wring out my shoes back at the hostel, I vow to return to Waiheke before heading home, if only to reacquaint myself with the sun.

The road from the Purple Cow Hostel in Wanaka to the glaciers of the west coast takes us past Puzzle Town and it's massive 3-D maze (open on Christmas day!). We push on through amazing mountain vistas toward Haast and through Mount Aspiring National Park and the Blue Pools. Weird mailboxes. Abandoned and dilapidated shacks. Roadside fences covered in underwear and shirts and ski boots.

Out of the park, past waterfalls and runaway vehicle ramps and cattle stops, I pull over and walk back a few hundred feet for a photo of yet another amazing river valley/winding road/misty mountain scene. Walking to the vantage point, I pass a sign that appropriately designates this spot the Halfway Bluff. After driving about 1700 km, that is exactly what this location is.

A little red car comes to a stop beside me, evidently with similar photos in mind. I take my shots, return to the car and turn the key. Nothing. Again. A few half-hearted whirrs that fade to silence. Christmas day in the middle of nowhere and I have a dead car. I try again. And again. Nothing.

I open the hood, as if an ominous gaze from a layman is going to fix whatever is wrong. With nothing appearing to be on fire or conspicuously absent, my investigation work appears complete.Christmas day in the middle of nowhere and I have a dead car. I try again. And again. Nothing.

The little red car comes around the corner, notices our open hood and pulls over. I ask if they have a mobile phone (thankfully, my rental contract includes 24-hour service). No, but they get out to have a look. The consensus between the four of us is that fault lies with the battery. Fabulous.

Halfway through my driving adventure, halfway through my entire trip to New Zealand, exactly in the middle of my route around the South Island on Christmas day when people are home and everything is closed, I have a car that won't start. I conjure ominous visions of the end of my smooth sailing, putting in jeopardy much of my meticulous planning for the rest of the trip. Halfway Bluff indeed.

We talk for a while and they give us a ride to the next town. I note that the driving seems a bit aggressive for a car only marginally better than my baby Nissan. Eyes focused ahead, they hit corners hard. The passenger has the map out and calls out the details of the route ahead in sparing but precise words of direction. They dive into turns with the pedal down and take short lines through corners. The driver has a solid grip on the wheel and the other on the stick. Like being in a video game, we rocket through the 15 km to the next town and I am fully impressed, and more than grateful for their help. They drop us off and we talk some more.

They're US Marines. Based in Japan. On leave. They fly F-18s.

Aha.

The driver, William, is the pilot. The passenger, Derek, is his navigator and weapons guy. With our tow truck arranged and ride back to the car secured, they continue on.

It's been some time since there's been internet access and an equally long while since things like paved roads, gas stations and towns with populations in the triple digits. We reach the relative metropolis of Fox Glacier by midnight, despite our little car fiasco. The two backpacker lodges in town are busy, but after today's debacle, we pick the one with the bar. With the gear unloaded, we head for drinks. The bartender announces last call and motions us towards free space at the end of the room.

And there are the two Marines.

Planning for an early start, we don't stay long. But we leave Derek and William saying we'll probably see them again.

About 1900 km of road is in the rear-view mirror now and it's all felt like driving through a video game. Well, with the exception of a 1.25 L Japanese engine under the hood, of course. And the fact that the car takes corners with a radius slightly larger than a Boeing 747. But other than the whole concept of "performance," it's precisely like video game driving. I only hope that by the time the trip is over, I'll be able to use the turn signal without activating the windshield wipers first — the side of the road you drive on isn't the only thing reversed over here. But the car is working and we're moving forward. Because I've got some cornering skills to practice.

The miserable cold and rainy weather of last night is still in full force this morning. It doesn't look good for heli-hiking. I figured that I would destroy my budget and take the rare opportunity to go on an absolutely extravagant excursion (as if this trip wasn't already). Besides, how often does the chance come to fly atop a glacier? But when we arrive at Franz Joseph Glacier, the plan is officially abandoned: all choppers are parked. We drive to the glacier trailhead and set out on foot, happy to be using the cold weather gear I lugged all this way.

Two hours from the car, across multiple roped-off boundaries and beyond ominously worded signs and pictures of falling boulders, we reach the glacier's terminal face. Well-outfitted (and skilled) climbers practically tease us in the distance, scrambling across the ice and snow with their guides. We've hiked farther than we should have without a guide, but we're aren't about to go further than the map.