If there’s one trail that made me question my life choices, my cardio, and my relationship with gravity, it’s the Gertrude Saddle Track. From the first steep rock scramble to the last breathtaking view of Milford Sound, this track is equal parts gorgeous and completely unhinged. And yeah, this isn’t your classic walk-in-the-park kinda hike. It’s more like your park grew claws, threw in some waterfall crossings, and dared you to survive. Let’s get into the chaos, shall we?
Getting There is Half the WTF
First things first: finding the trailhead for the Gertrude Saddle Track is its own little adventure. It’s tucked inside Fiordland National Park, about 20 minutes from Milford Sound, and the road there—holy heck—is the most jaw-dropping drive ever. Waterfalls are just… falling out of cliffs like it’s no big deal. I lowkey almost drove off the road staring at one.
When I finally rolled up to the parking lot, I had this weird mix of excitement and dread. A sign casually mentioned “alpine skills recommended,” which I obviously ignored (spoiler: mistake). Bring a GPS, snacky snacks, and maybe rethink your choices if it’s raining. ‘Cause rain here? Turns the track into a greasy death slide.
Scramble Mode: Activated
Let me tell you, the Gertrude Saddle Track does not mess around. Within, like, 20 minutes, you’re scrambling over slick boulders and clutching at tufts of grass like you’re in a drama series about survival. No switchbacks here—just straight up. I remember slipping and landing butt-first in a puddle while trying to chase down my runaway peanut butter sandwich. Glamorous.
The landscape though? Unreal. It feels like Mordor decided to chill out and get pretty. Towering rock faces, mist swirling around peaks, the sound of icy streams that are just begging to swallow your boot. My tip? Gloves. Bring freakin’ gloves. Those chains bolted into the rock are cold as your ex’s heart.
The Waterfall Crossing (aka Nature’s Slip’n Slide)
Midway through the Gertrude Saddle Track, you hit this wide, sloping rock face with water running across it. Locals call it “just a little stream,” but I call it the Hydroplaning Death Trap. Cross it wrong and you’re halfway to Te Anau.
A local dude named Kev (yep, met him mid-scramble, wearing Crocs of all things) told me to “walk like a possum—low and sticky.” No idea what that means, but hey, I made it across. Wear shoes with grip like your life depends on it. ‘Cause it kinda does.
Saddle Views = Insta-Bait Level 9000
Finally—after hours of lung-busting, leg-jelly, and cussing at rocks—you hit the actual Gertrude Saddle. And let me just say, that first look at Milford Sound from up there? Worth every sketchy step.
It’s like the world just splits open: turquoise water waaaay down below, jagged peaks everywhere, and this kind of unreal hush that makes you forget how badly your socks smell. I legit cried a little. Could’ve been the view or the altitude headache. Probably both.
Don’t be fooled though—the way down is even gnarlier. You think going up was rough? Try descending those rock slabs with trembling legs and a head full of regret.
Why This Hike Shouldn’t Exist (But Thank God It Does)
No joke, the Gertrude Saddle Track feels like it shouldn’t be allowed. Like, who lets people just hike up a waterfall without a waiver? But that’s the charm. It’s raw, wild, completely untamed. No fences, no filters. Just you, some chains, and nature trying to humble the crap out of you.
This hike will chew you up and spit you out with a camera roll full of magic and bruised shins. Locals call it “Type 2 fun,” which is Kiwi slang for “you’ll hate it at the time but talk about it for years.”
My “Oh Sh*t” Moment
So about ¾ of the way up the Gertrude Saddle Track, I legit thought I’d lost the trail. Fog rolled in like a horror movie, and every rock looked like the last one. My GPS was doing this spinny loading thing (useless), and I started whispering to myself like some kind of anxious mountain gremlin.
Then—boom! A kea (that’s a local alpine parrot, total menace) swooped past me, and I swear it was laughing. Like, mocking me. I followed it out of desperation, and miraculously found the next trail marker. Tip: those little orange poles? Lifesavers. Like, worship them.
What to Pack (And What I Regret Not Packing)
Let’s get real—packing for the Gertrude Saddle Track is like prepping for a mild apocalypse. Bring:
- Layers. The weather has trust issues.
- Trail shoes with Michelin-tire grip.
- A real rain jacket, not that flimsy poncho crap.
- Snacks that won’t get squished (RIP granola bar #3).
- Gloves. Seriously. Don’t argue.
What I didn’t bring? A proper headlamp. Don’t be like me. Just… don’t.
Locals Know Best
If you wanna survive the Gertrude Saddle Track and have a killer time, chat up the locals in Te Anau. They’ll give you weather updates, hiking hacks, and probably try to convince you to do another “easy little hike” after this one (it won’t be easy, don’t fall for it).
One old-timer at the café told me: “If the clouds touch the peaks, turn your butt around.” Words to live by. Don’t test Fiordland weather—it’s got more mood swings than a soap opera.
Final Thoughts (aka Would I Do It Again?)
Yes. A million times yes. The Gertrude Saddle Track broke me down, built me back up, and gifted me a newfound respect for the chaos of New Zealand’s wilderness. It’s not for beginners. It’s not even for people who think they’re ready. But if you want that story—the kind where you high-five strangers at the summit and collapse in the car with trail grit in your teeth—this one’s it.
The Gertrude Saddle Track isn’t just a hike. It’s a whole damn saga.
So go. Get muddy, get lost (just a little), and earn that view. Just maybe don’t wear Crocs. Sorry, Kev.