THE MOUNTAIN KING
There aren’t many times I’d get excited about moss – yes, the seemingly pointless micro plant – but I have such a newfound appreciation for it that I’m treading with extreme caution to avoid stepping on the wondrous stuff. Out here in New Zealand’s Fiordland National Park, along the banks of the Hollyford River, in the dense, ancient forest, moss is important: critically so.
It’s day one of a three-day walk along the Hollyford Track, in the south-west of New Zealand’s South Island, from the shadows of Fiordland’s highest peaks to the Tasman Sea. We’ve driven deep into the park from the lakeside town of Te Anau and wasted no time, eager to start the journey. Our guide Graham, a sturdy, ruddy-faced man insistent on wearing very brief running shorts in the chilly mountain air, is exuberant about the fact we have a sunny, clear day. He’s happy because this is one of the wettest places on Earth; nearby Queenstown gets one metre of rainfall a year, while just two hours’ drive away, Fiordland receives up to nine.
Plants here work together so that their precious soil isn’t washed away by this
