Where white things are

The noise of the gathered herons suggest they're catching up on a year's gossip.

Strange really, to find yourself scrambling over the scree at the foot of the Southern Alps, busting with the rest of the tourist pack to get around the next corner, hurrying as if it's going to disappear.

But of course glaciers aren't like ice cream in the boot of your car after a trip to the supermarket. They aren't going to melt right away.

They're a funny pair, the Fox and Franz Josef. They're the two most powerful attractions on State Highway 6, the road that runs up the West Coast of the South Island.

But the closer you get to them, the less immense they seem. The valleys they've gouged on their advance and then left with their decline are a more telling reminder of their force.

In some ways the best way to appreciate the power of the glaciers is to take a step back first, at somewhere like Lake Matheson, about 6km out of Fox township, heading towards the Tasman.

On a clear day the Southern Alps will be perfectly reflected on the lake's waters. Even on a choppy day it's still a great 45-minute walk through the forest and around the lake's shore. About halfway the track becomes a boardwalk over the water, winding through great thickets of rushes.

But the most significant thing about Lake Matheson, from a glacial point of view, is that this is where the Fox used to extend to before the world warmed up, around 14,000 years ago.

You wouldn't want to be around if it came back. But not to worry. If you're quick there'll be time to make a getaway to Gillespies Beach, which is separated from Lake Matheson by 14km of winding road through native forest.

This is a stunning place, which you'll have to yourself if you're half-lucky. The only other signs of life are likely to be from within one of the few baches there, which are a curiosity in their own right.

But the beach is the thing. You'd swear the path of stones inset in sand, which stretches north and south, was laid by hand. The beach is strewn with bleached driftwood of all sizes and the force of the waves and wind tears through your head and hair.

Nearby Okarito seems haunted. You drive there through a mist and the lagoon is silent and still. A family fish from the derelict wharf. They barely murmur, the stillness broken only by the occasional plop of a recast line.

The real inhabitants are the ghosts of Okarito's lively past. During the goldmining era 150 years ago this was a place awash with money and people.

Then the lagoon was the lifeline as a port for a couple of gold towns further down the coast at Three Mile and Five Mile. You can walk to the site of these old shantyvilles, although nothing much remains, or try something shorter, like the trig walk that semi-circles up behind the town and perches you high above the beach.

The Bone People author Keri Hulme makes her home there, but she doesn't see herself as a tourist attraction. The house is shrouded in overgrowth and defended by a scrawled warning that unknown cats and dogs will be shot on sight and curious humans treated with contempt, if not lead shot.

The lagoon is still the lifeline to some extent. There's guided kayaking and boat tours with Okarito Nature Tours.

But the lagoon's most famous attractions, the white heron or kotuku, can be seen only with White Heron Sanctuary Tours at Whataroa, which runs tours between November and February, with the Department of Conservation.

Its three-hour expedition takes you to the Waitangiroto Nature Reserve, the only New Zealand nesting site of the kotuku, kotuku ngutu papa (royal spoonbill) and kawapaka (little black shag).

It's a fascinating experience. The humans may mostly have gone from Okarito and the glaciers may be retreating, but no matter where they disperse to the rest of the year, the herons always come back to nest.

Perhaps that's why the birds make all the noise - they're catching up on a year's gossip. The humans are mostly speechless.

* Andy Hay was a guest of Westwood Lodge in Franz Josef.