The Copland Track in Winter: 36km, Torrential Rain & Hot Pools Beneath the Milky Way

There are some places that make you wonder how the hell they actually exist.

Welcome Flat is one of them.

Natural hot pools, tucked beneath enormous mountains on the wild West Coast of New Zealand, accessible only by walking 18 kilometres into the backcountry.

Or, if you're fancy, a quick helicopter trip to the Welcome Flat helipad.

We prefer pain mountain. I guess it's part of the experience.

I mean… come on.

The Copland Track has been sitting on my bucket list for years. Despite having walked and explored a fair chunk of New Zealand, a lot of our adventures have been dictated by where we can take the dogs. The Copland isn't one of those places, so it had remained firmly on the one day list.

Then my friend Amanda decided she wanted to walk it for her birthday.

Opportunity presented. We jumped.

And after years of imagining this place, it somehow managed to be even more spectacular than I thought it would be.

First things first: who decided the Copland Track was easy?

Before we went, I'd heard the Copland described several times as a relatively easy, mostly flat walk.

There's some pretty conflicting information out there about this. Some descriptions note that parts of the Copland are expert-level terrain, yet almost every time I mentioned I was going to walk it, someone would respond with:

"Oh, that track's mostly flat, aye?"

I would like a word with whoever started this rumour.

Maybe my opinion will change in a few years when I've got a few more big missions under my belt, but I would not describe the Copland Track as easy.

At all.

It's around 18 kilometres each way, and while there aren't the enormous alpine climbs of some New Zealand tracks, it's constantly undulating and changing underfoot.

Boulder hopping. Massive rocks. Roots. River crossings. Slippery sections. Swing bridges. Forest. Waterfalls.

And, in our case, a healthy amount of West Coast rain.

The beginning is almost deceiving. You cruise along thinking, yeah, okay, I see what everyone means.

Then the track gradually begins to climb.

And climb.

And by the final section toward Welcome Flat Hut, when your legs have already done a substantial day's work and decided to descend into defeat, it ramps up again.

Hard.

By the time you eventually reach the softer ground of Welcome Flat, the name feels incredibly appropriate.

Moss and soil beneath your feet instead of rocks and relentless inclines?

Welcome indeed.

Historically, people crossed these mountains via Copland Pass between the West Coast and the Mt Cook region, which feels slightly unfathomable when you're standing there looking at the terrain.

You see photographs of early explorers in canvas and woollen gear and wonder how the hell they did it.

It is definitely not for the faint of heart.

We probably didn't do ourselves any favours starting around 10am, either.

But we had a bloody good crew.

Nobody was racing. Everyone looked out for each other. We stopped when we needed to, ate food, laughed, took in the scenery, and I pulled my camera out whenever my increasingly tired body could be bothered.

Because the country you walk through is ridiculously awe-inspiring.

The walk into Welcome Flat

The Copland River has this almost unbelievable teal-turquoise colour running through it — that signature glacial blue that looks almost unnatural against the deep green hues of the forest.

Then above it you've got these huge, dramatic mountains that somehow reminded me of the Remarkables, encapsulated by some of the most beautiful forest I've walked through in New Zealand.

It's one of those tracks where the landscape keeps changing around you, and you can't help but stop every so often to catch your breath and admire the wonder you've become immersed in.

Somewhere along the way, you become part of the landscape too as you are navigating the terrain and making your way through it.

And then the rain comes.

By the second half of the walk we were fairly wet, fairly tired and increasingly aware that we still had quite a way to go.

Four of us had different tracking devices going, and all four seemed to have a different opinion about exactly how much unknown territory remained ahead of us.

Eventually we reached Architect Creek Hut, which we'd loosely considered our halfway-ish lunch stop.

Pierre seemed convinced we only had about four kilometres to go from there.

In hindsight, this was probably an excellent thing for him to believe.

Because if any of us had confirmed that we still had another substantial chunk of 8–9 kilometres ahead of us — much of it heading further up into the mountains — I'm about 90% sure we would have considered camping right there.

We were already pretty exhausted and worn.

And looking at the topo map, all I could see was up.

Which, personally, I was not thrilled about.

This was around the point where I began questioning some life choices.

But onward we went.

Eventually, after about nine and a half hours on the track, we arrived at Welcome Flat Hut at around 7:20pm.

Crossing that final swing bridge in the dark still gives me goosebumps.

It's long. It's high. And I distinctly remember reaching the middle and feeling the massive sway of the bridge beneath me, hearing the roar of the rapids somewhere below, but not being able to see what was beneath me or what lay ahead.

Naturally, I didn't have a torch because I'd packed mine so well that I couldn't find the bloody thing.

So it was deep breaths.

Keep moving.

One foot in front of the other. Hands latched onto the wires on either side, sliding forward in the wet with each swaying step.

We made it, of course.

Pain mountain conquered.

Or maybe it conquered us.

Either way, we got there.

In the dark.

Absolutely cooked.

And very, very grateful to be there.

Hot pools beneath the Milky Way

Most sensible people ate dinner and went to bed.

I desperately needed to soak my poor legs, so Pierre begrudgingly agreed to come to the hot pools with me.

I was fucked.

My legs felt like two massive weights attached at the hips, with approximately zero remaining function beyond barely hobbling me from one point to another.

But I am so dang grateful we went.

I didn't take my camera.

I didn't take photos.

At that point I genuinely couldn't be bothered documenting anything.

And perhaps that's why this is one of the moments I'll remember most.

We climbed into the hot water with aching bodies and looked up. Cheeky shot of rum in our camping mugs. A quick cheers to each other.

Crystal-clear sky.

The Milky Way arching directly overhead.

Mountains surrounding us in the darkness, their gleaming, snow-capped peaks reflecting the light of the celestial wonderland above us.

And way out toward the coast, behind the clouds, flashes of lightning intermittently illuminated the sky.

Hot water.

Glorious geothermal goodness soothing our bones and nourishing the soul.

Cold mountain air.

Stars.

Lightning.

No roads. No towns. No easy way in or out.

It felt completely otherworldly.

There are moments when travelling and exploring where you suddenly realise you're experiencing something you'll probably remember for the rest of your life.

That was one of them.

Book two nights. Seriously.

Possibly the smartest decision we made was booking two nights at Welcome Flat Hut.

It meant we had an entire day where we didn't have to go anywhere.

And when you arrive at the hut, you're pretty stoked to discover it's heated.

Geothermal radiators throughout.

Toasty as.

Everything is fairly basic, but done incredibly well. I've stayed in a lot of huts around Aotearoa, and this is easily one of the best I've experienced.

Well done DOC — and everyone who makes it possible for people to experience this spectacular place.

After the physical effort of getting there, waking up knowing we weren't putting our packs back on was a massive relief.

We soaked.

We ate.

We wandered.

We soaked again.

We explored a little further beyond the hut and out into Welcome Flat itself.

I was very adamant about staying on the flat.

Just saying.

And mostly, we let our bodies recover while sitting in geothermal water beneath the Southern Alps.

There aren't many places in the world where you can do that. In fact, this might be the only one with amenities quite like this.

Pretty spesh.

The hot pools themselves aren't some manicured resort experience. They're earthy, wild and imperfect which is exactly as they should be.

You're sitting in 40°C water surrounded by one of the most dramatic landscapes in Aotearoa, knowing that almost everyone beside you had to walk 18 kilometres to get there.

That effort is part of what makes the place so special.

It almost feels as though nature puts it on as a nod to those who make the pilgrimage.

And then we had to walk back out…

Ah yes.

The small matter of another 18 kilometres.

In considerably more rain.

The hut warden had told us conditions were still fine for walking out. Apparently the sort of rain that really starts changing that conversation can be in the realm of 200–300mm.

Our forecast?

A mere 53mm over 24 hours.

To any normal person, that still sounds like a shitload of rain, right?

But that's the West Coast rainforest.

It's built for the downpour. Constantly cleansing.

At the beginning of the walk out, we were still attempting to remain somewhat waterproof by carefully navigating streams, rock hopping and trying to keep our feet dry.

Cute.

That lasted an hour or two.

Then I ended up in the drink at least once, and eventually we all just started smashing straight through the creeks and waterfalls.

Jets of water pushing up between our toes.

The joy of trench foot for the next several hours.

Everything was soaked to the bone.

Waterfalls appeared everywhere. Water poured down sections of the track. The track literally became streams.

At times it felt less like hiking beside waterfalls and more like hiking through them.

Did I love this?

Questionable.

But at some point you just fall into autopilot.

I knew I couldn't stop for long because I'd get too cold. I was soaked to the bone, but I also couldn't be bothered digging out dry clothes because everything takes forever when you're wet, it's pissing down and you know you've still got hours ahead of you.

Might as well keep plodding.

There's something about being properly out in the elements where eventually you stop trying not to get wet.

You're wet.

Your boots are wet.

Your pack is wet.

The forest is dripping.

So you just keep walking.

And the West Coast rainforest in heavy rain is something else entirely.

Wild, moody and ridiculously alive.

I'd still stop every so often for a breath and a moment of appreciation for what my eyes were witnessing.

Nature here really is impressive.

A few things I learned walking the Copland Track

Firstly, my seven-year-old Lowa boots deserve an honourable mention as well as a retirement.

They've travelled a lot of kilometres with me and somehow got me through this one too, but they're officially done.

New boots are happening before the next big mission.

Secondly:

A dry bag is not a backpack.

Was my camera gear beautifully protected from the West Coast rain?

Yes.

Did carrying a bag for 36 kilometres with no proper hip belt turn out to be one of my more questionable life choices?

Also yes.

A proper hiking pack is now firmly on the shopping list.

I'd also absolutely choose two nights again.

Although I'd prefer at least four, let's be honest.

If you've made the effort to walk all the way into Welcome Flat, give yourself the extra day at minimum.

And if you're like me and want to immerse yourself in it, wander around and capture the whole thing on camera?

Give yourself a week.

Fuck it.

Let your legs recover. Explore. Sit in the pools until you're wrinkly. Watch the weather move through the mountains. Get up in the middle of the night and look at the stars.

Don't rush this place.

And winter?

I'd do it again.

There are fewer people, fewer sandflies and something particularly magical about sinking into a steaming hot pool when the air around you is crisp.

Of course, winter on the West Coast also means being prepared for rain, rapidly changing conditions and a very different track from the one you might encounter on a dry summer day.

But if you're lucky enough for everything to align, you might just experience one of the most beautiful things you've ever seen.

That's the absolute wonder of the West Coast.

Would I walk the Copland Track again?

Apparently we've already decided this is becoming an annual trip.

So yes.

Absolutely.

It was probably one of the most physically demanding adventures I've done so far.

There were points where my body was hurting, the kilometres felt very long and I wondered why humans voluntarily carry heavy objects into the mountains for recreation.

And then I remember lying in hot water beneath the Milky Way while lightning flashed over the distant coast.

I remember the connection that happens between a group of friends who have pushed their limits together.

The giddiness. The silliness. The deep conversations and completely ridiculous moments.

I remember looking across at Pierre and Dan while we sat in one of the pools, testing the different clays on our skin and discussing their various properties as though we were suddenly some sort of geothermal clay experts.

The laughter.

There's a level of connection that happens when you've adventured like this together. When you've been exhausted together, soaked together, encouraged each other, laughed at each other, pushed through the hard bits and then finally sat back and gone…

Holy shit. Look where we are.

There's just something about it I tell ya.

Maybe that's part of why we willingly do hard things in beautiful places.

They remind us what it feels like to be completely alive.

To use our bodies. To test ourselves. To find the edges of what we're capable of. To laugh until our stomachs hurt. To stand beneath mountains and remember how small we are.

To experience moments that require something from us first.

Effort. Discomfort. A little bit of suffering. A willingness to go further.

And then, sometimes, life gives you a hot pool beneath the Milky Way, lightning flashing on the horizon and some of your favourite humans sitting beside you.

Oh.

That's why.

Core memories etched into my being.

The Copland isn't somewhere you simply arrive.

You earn your way in.

And maybe that's exactly what makes Welcome Flat feel so extraordinary when you finally get there.

Some places really are worth walking 18 kilometres through the rain for.

This is one of them.

A little P.S. on safety

This is our experience of the Copland, not a guide to walking it. The terrain, rivers and weather out here can change quickly, so do your homework, check the conditions and plan your trip properly before you head in.

We carried satellite communication devices within our group, kept an eye on each other throughout the walk and naturally buddied up along the way. Nobody was getting left behind. We stopped when someone needed to stop, kept eating and snacking to stay fuelled, checked in with each other and made decisions as a group.

Having a good crew makes a massive difference when you’re navigating pain mountain.

Know your limits, too — which is a fine line when you're literally out there testing them.

There's a difference between pushing through discomfort and putting yourself in a situation you're not equipped or experienced enough to handle.

Push yourself, absolutely.

But keep your wits about you.

Carry the right gear. Take emergency communication. Tell someone where you're going. Pay attention to the weather. Keep yourself fuelled and hydrated. Look after your people. Stay warm. And be willing to change the plan if the conditions are telling you something different.

The mountains aren't going anywhere.

For current track conditions, alerts, hut information and safety advice, check the Department of Conservation's Copland Track information before you go. Plan My Walk is another handy resource for planning your route, checking conditions and making sure you've thought through your gear and preparation.

Over and out x