I had learned the hard way to get gas in Te Anau. There are no services in the final 120 km leg of my journey to Milford Sound. On my last trip in New Zealand’s Southland, I learned that only the pubs are open after 6 pm . I filled up my little rent-a-dent in Christchurch and headed south. Twice I stopped for a quick photo, when the views were too spectacular to resist.  

The road forked towards Queenstown, a major tourist center. But my destination was the end of the world, not the center of the action. The long summer day was deceiving and my goal was drawing closer, so I skipped Queenstown and headed to Te Anau.  I was in driving heaven; the empty road curved sharply as it chased the coast of Lake Wakatipu. “Te Anau 80 km” shattered my blissful reverie as the gauge crept dangerously toward "E." Would I make it to Te Anau? Last Chance Gas in Kingston was closed.  

The pit in my stomach grew for 30 km of barren terrain, desolate, save a few lonely sheep. Garston, two pumps and a pub, was my savior. The pumps were closed, but there were three trucks at the pub. Fortunately, people in small towns all know each other, and were happy to make a call and share a laugh with a passing traveler in desperate need of some petrol. We even managed to bill the Automobile Association for the $10 call-out fee. A quick phone call to NZ AA activated a reciprocal membership through AAA. With a full tank and a pint I set out on the last stretch to Milford. I passed the gas station in Te Anau, with a wry smile, my previous salvation was closed. Onward to Milford.  

The two and half-hour drive from Te Anau to Milford is a full day excursion, if you only explore the primary walks and lookouts. But for the next two weeks, I would be a local. I had arranged a  WOOFers spot at the lodge--three hours work for room and board. Since, I had two weeks to explore Milford Sound, I didn’t mind skipping all the stopovers and scenic vistas. I was on a mission.  

By 7 pm all the tourists and the locals were likely in the pubs; the road was mine and mine alone. Soaring through the flat river valleys, I was making up time before the sun light faded. Out of the flats and into the forest, the road wound up through the foothills and through the Southern Alps. Literally, through the Southern Alps.  

Climbing up 945 meters above sea level, the Homer tunnel beckons, surrounded by massive 2000 meter peaks of unyielding rock. The Homer tunnel is not some tiled well-lit two lane through fare, but a glorious 1.2 km hole blasted through solid rock on a sharp enough gradient to barely meet the road on the other side. The headlights bounce off the blast marks still etched in the rough walls. A few reflectors and blind faith lead inwards.  

On the other side, four 25 km/hr hairpin curves start a series of twists and turns descending from the tunnel to Milford Sound. At this hour, there are no busses and camper vans and I am free to pick my way slowly through the now dark hairpins.  

It’s late. I’m a few days later than my projected arrival. My friend is off on a three day holiday for her birthday. Where would she be at this hour? In a town at the end of the world, there are no home addresses or phone numbers, just PO boxes and local designators.

Fortunately, there is always a pub at the end of the road. Many of my friends can be found at pubs in the far corners of the world. The lights are on and taps flowing. Locals croon to old favorites on the jukebox, pool and pints. My friend is in the center of it all.

“Happy Birthday, Laura!”

“Anna!”  

The unexpected joy of old friends meeting and a warm embrace, mark my arrival. There’s nothing like a stout pint at the end of the road with old sailors to swap bad jokes and sea stories.  

Author's Biography

Anna Meade is a writer, photographer and environmental scientist. 

Currently living in upstate New York, she has traveled the world in search of stories and adventures.

E-mail Anna at polewriter@hotmail.com

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