Hello travellers —

I'm Petrina Darrah. You, in theory, subscribed to this newsletter. If you don't want to hear from me, you can always unsubscribe here, I won't mind.

Today I am coming to you with a conflicted ramble on a glacier you can walk up to and touch.

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I’m a travel writer. It makes sense. I love traveling, and writing. But as frivolous a career as it may seem, I struggle with the seriousness of it. As a conduit between places and people, I feel some kind of responsibility in what I talk about and where I talk about it.

There are places I don’t want to talk about because they are straining under the weight of too many visitors. Like Aoraki/Mount Cook National Park; last summer the trail to Mueller Hut was closed for a few days because the toilet was full to overflowing from the number of day visitors making use of the facilities. I’m happy they were doing their business in a toilet - not doing so is a whole other issue for another day - but it’s some indication of the strain this fragile alpine eco system is under.

But at the same time, the park is beautiful. Walking under glaciers is a wonder. I want people to know that.

Then there are places that are just as, maybe even more, magical. And I don’t want to talk about them either, for fear they end up buckling under the weight of many thousands of eager feet.

But in the end I do want to talk about these places, because there aren’t many places left in the world where you can walk up to a glacier. And touch it. Camp underneath it, and swim in the pools of ice cold water sluiced from its sides.

I decided I will share this place here, with you – I won’t share this place in any publication, for any amount of money because I don’t want to play (too much of) a part in its slow motion mushroom cloud of popularity.

So. This place I do/don’t want to talk about.

There's no marked trail to this place, just grooves in the ground where feet have gone before. The track, such as it is, veers around the edge of high, high mountainsides.

Already, there have been helicopter rescues of people trying to find their way and getting into trouble. (The night I stayed, two helicopters circled the glacier higher up, relentlessly, until they hoisted someone or something up. I can only guess at a rescue, but they were most likely climbers.)

On my way around the mountainside, I saw the people ahead of me slip and nearly fall, sending rocks crashing down the impossibly steep hillside. They gripped other, sturdier, rocks and didn't fall. But the possibility was there.

If you've come with me this far, all the way through that very meandering introduction, then I can tell you about this place. I'm talking about the Brewster Glacier.

There are many glaciers in New Zealand. The surface of Aoraki/Mount Cook National park is one-third glaciers. But Brewster might be the last one that you can walk up to and touch, without the help of a helicopter.

The river of ice flows from the peak of Mt Brewster, in Mount Aspiring National Park. Getting there is relatively easy. The trail starts from the Haast Pass road between Wanaka and the West Coast. It’s only about six hours hiking from the trailhead to the glacier, first to Brewster Hut and then onwards into the backcountry peaks. It's not an official hike, but already enough people are making their way up there that the track is easy to follow.

The glacier has carved out a little valley for itself within the mountains. There are glacial pools in the floor of the valley which have pebbly little beaches, and that’s where we set up our tents for the night.

From there, it’s a literal hop and skip across rivulets and rocks, to the face of the glacier.

I talked to one hiker who told me he had climbed inside the ice caves, deep enough he could hear the slow, crunching, movement of the glacier.

I did not do this, for what I hope are obvious reasons.

But I did walk inside the largest cave. It’s several people high, and wide. You can walk right in and looking back see the exquisite crenellations and patterns in the ice. It glows a rich blue, bluer than the sky.

You can touch the glacier, break off pieces and put them in your mouth. It's surreal.

We weren't the only ones there, but it was quiet around the ice. It has a might that stills you. Calms you. Even while you feel a little wired from the thrill of it.

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Along with a couple of friends, I spent a chilly night by the glacier, and loved every second. So much so I wanted to share it, and now I have.

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Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts on what it's right to share. Do you want to know where to avoid, because of over touristing? Or do you want to get in on the hype?

Who's to blame for places becoming too popular? The people who advertise such places, or the ones who visit because it has subjectively been named as the best [something]?

Here is a read I loved this week, on this topic: Is overtourism killing Florence’s dining scene?

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Feel free to reply to me with thoughts and questions. I'd love to hear from you, and I'd love to write more about this and all of the conflicting feelings I have around being part of the travel media.

Okay, that was probably too many words, and too many scattered thoughts, for what is supposed to be a short newsletter. Thanks for coming with me, until next time.

Petrina

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