As I cautiously edged my way down the Dragon's Tail, the heat intensified, volcanic steam and poisonous gases escaping wherever they could from the surrounding rubble.  Reaching the valley floor, sunlight beat down mercilessly and not satisfied, it then bounced back up from the glaringly white sand.

Assuming it was compressed, I tugged harder on my hydration tube which remained stubbornly dry. Running out of water in the midst of a desert on a hot summer’s day was clearly not my intention but it was my reality.

As the boat started to plane I settled comfortably onto the seat to take in my surroundings while the dog, with his superior balance and having completed the journey dozens of times perched casually on the boat’s stern alongside the powerful 200HP Yamaha engine.

Cloudy skies with but the tiniest glimpses of blue dulled the summer’s day and added mystery to the deep indigo waters below. A huge bluff towered menacingly above us, foreshadowing the effort that lay ahead. 

Having just crested the Tongariro Alpine Crossing alongside the impressive Red Crater I gazed down the precipitous volcanic scree slope which sidled past the breathtaking Emerald Lakes. We’d planned to stop alongside the lakes and the only thing between me and my sandwich was this hair raising descent. 

I weighed up the options and was attracted most by the plan to skid down on my butt so that I’d not tumble head over heels off the narrow spur. At this height, this felt a very real possibility! 

I could hear the waterfall’s roar long before I could see it, hardly surprising given the weather conditions. The heavy rain had soaked me to the skin and waterfalls, too many to count, leapt impatiently off the mountain face. I’d made my way safely past many but ahead was the highest and largest, the formidable Earland Falls.

I braced myself for the next gust, feet wide, knees bent, crouching over my hiking poles. I could see the track snaking along the ridge line with steep drop-offs on either side. We were well and truly above the tree line, if I went over, it was going to be a long way before I stopped falling.

There’d already been two hikers knocked off their feet by the wind, fortunately they’d not gone over the edge. Someone else’s pack cover took flight, a bright red sail disappearing into the grey fog.

Milford Track has been thrilling hikers for over 150 years with its indescribably beautiful scenery, verdant rainforests, countless waterfalls, pristine rivers, the McKinnon Alpine Pass and sheer valleys carved out by ancient glaciers.

It is the most famous of New Zealand’s ten Great Walks and understandably on many hikers bucket lists.

He took not the slightest notice of me as he continued on briskly down the path, completely intent on his own exploration of our surrounds. I noticed his big feet and short legs, seemingly out of proportion to his body, his whiskers and his small dark eyes peering shortsightedly into the ferns on either side of the trail. He was obviously looking for something and kept tap tap tapping from side to side.

He stood barefoot, one hand holding a divine spear, the other resting gently at his waist. Dressed in ceremonial Hindu clothing with ornamental jewellery and a crown upon his head, his far reaching gaze swept beyond the crowds to the huge cosmopolitan city in the distance. The colossal golden statue of Lord Murugan towered forty three metres above us and even from the roadside, was clearly magnificent.

Hundreds of dove grey pigeons fluttered up, stirred into action by a uniformed man waving his arms and shooing at them only to settle the moment his back was turned. The pigeons resumed eating the grain being tossed to them by a tourist, these were the true city dwellers, capable of adaptation wherever they went. Cooing softly amongst themselves, they ignored the pilgrims prostrating themselves before the enormous white domed Boudhanath Stupa.

On the far riverbank several fires burned sending dirty smoke lazily up to mingle with the haze of Kathmandu. The river flowed languidly past, a dark, murky olive, certainly not the kind of river you’d choose to swim in. A faint smell of spices and something else, sour milk perhaps, reached us as we sat on the large concrete steps, captivated by the scene before us.

The atmosphere was hushed, “no photos, no photos, turn it off, please turn off your phone” politely repeated the curator to a tourist who appeared oblivious to the privileged position we found ourselves in.

Since stepping through the foyer, the hustle and bustle of the busy square quietened behind us. The small courtyard we were now in was surrounded on all four sides, the three storey, red brick walls decorated with intricate wooden carvings and the windows latticed.

He was lounging on the step about halfway up, distracted by an empty water bottle and took no notice of us as we stopped to catch our breath, one hundred and fifty steps completed, still more than two hundred to go.

We’d timed our early morning visit to follow the hundreds of Buddhist and Hindu pilgrims who tour the site as the sun rises each morning.