Fiordland: A deserted paradise (Lake Gunn)

I feel rather like the kaka flying overhead - something of an endangered species. Misha, who is Russian, is not actually speaking at the moment - he is standing knee deep in the lake, fishing. Sporadically he leans down and slaps a sandfly into oblivion.

A Dutch couple is sitting on fold-up chairs at the lake edge. The man tells me he can't believe that there are so few people here. He sweeps an arm across the view to emphasise his point.

Lake Gunn is a long narrow, forest-fringed lake at the head of the Eglinton Valley. To the south there is an amphitheatre of tawny mountains, their scree slopes, although devoid of snow, glistening with mica.

The only sounds are a heavy splash as a German backpacker flops into the water, and what might be a sharp intake of breath from the angler.

We drive on, the road winding up to the Homer tunnel. The paths of avalanches from previous winters scar the mountainsides.

The traffic light at the tunnel entrance is on red so while we wait for the traffic coming back from Milford Sound we watch three kea who are entertaining the visitors in the car park.

Someone has recklessly left his driver's door open and one of the kea hops in with a flash of bright orange underwing feathers. Finding nothing of interest in the foot well he jumps out again, and bounds away nonchalantly

Two kea are strolling over the roof of a rental car belonging to an Indian family - a young couple from Auckland and their parents from Mumbai. One of the kea leans over the driver's window and peers in. A barrage of cameras click. Kea are intelligent birds and I am convinced that these three know they are avian rock stars.

The light turns to green and it's our turn to disappear into the mountain. The tunnel is lit, but only dimly, deep shadows lie on the rough-hewn walls and intermittently a splatter of water leaking from the roof splashes on the windscreen.

We emerge in a rocky cirque above a series of hairpin bends. Below these we are back in the rainforest again and in a few minutes leave the car to walk the short bush track into The Chasm where a small river thunders through a rock cleft worn into sensuous curves and caves by the combined forces of rolling rocks and moving water.

The forest is still dripping last night's rain and there's a rich, earthy smell rising from the leaf litter.

From the primeval forest to the gleaming chrome and polished granite of the Milford Sound ferry terminal is quite a leap. There are six vessels tied up at the jetty and all are filling up with passengers. They're not packed to the gunwales, evidence perhaps that there is a drop in overseas visitors, but at least each of the boats is still sailing.

The early morning cloud is clearing as we set off. Mitre Peak is still wreathed in a band of cloud at shoulder height, but its summit makes a brief appearance as sunlight floods down through the clearing sky.

I talk to a lady from Minnesota who says she is so glad she didn't cancel her trip. With her investments shrinking it was an option, she said and she'd only have lost US$500.

"But I decided I should do it while I still can, you never know what's around the corner."

Maybe that's an idea for Tourism New Zealand's next marketing campaign to combat all those worries about finances. "Do it now."

The boat seems to list slightly as almost everyone rushes to the port side to take photos of the fur seals basking on a rock. At the entrance to the sound the wind is strong, the waves white-capped and the rain clouds are lowering.

But it's spray not rain that wets us a few minutes later as the captain nudges his craft right under the Stirling Falls.

Veils of water shower down from the hanging valley directly overhead, shattering into a million prisms of light on the tumble of rocks below.

Back on dry land we walk out to the end of the breakwater that stretches into the sound.

There's just us and a man painting watercolours.

Misha produces two bottles of Monteith's summer ale. He's something of a Monteith's aficionado, having visited their Greymouth brewery three years ago.

We sip the beer, slap the sandflies and eat Central Otago cherries.

"You live in paradise," Misha says.

Lake Gunn photos by Jill Worrall