I have always loved fantasy stories. When I was younger you could often find me with my nose stuck in a book, desperately hoping I could go on some kind of epic adventure. At points, I genuinely thought magic would happen in my reality.
At Milford Sound, I was transported back to my childlike way of thinking, fully under the impression the ordinary could become extraordinary in a single moment.
“I feel like a wizard is going to come out of that mist and put me on a quest,” I said to my friend; fondly remembering my little self and how her imagination would go completely wild here. She’d be pretty proud, too. Here I was, on my very own, real life, adventure.
The world was painted in black and white. Startlingly white waterfalls poured down coal black mountains. The mist stroked along the landscape, leaving fingertip trails across the rippling grey water.
The boat sailed past a waterfall, a white rapid tumbling against the boat and making us all rock from side to side.
There was a magnificence to the place that you couldn’t ignore, even in the pouring rain. Although seeing it in the sun would surely be spectacular, the stuff New Zealand travel brochures are made of, seeing it like this was something else. What’s the word I’m looking for?
Magical. It was utterly magical.