To Go or Not to Go?

The "generation" photo - pretending that we're there in Yellowstone two years ago (2009)

An agonizing decision has been simmering on the back burner for the last eight months. Ever since he was little, Pat’s maternal family and all extensions thereof reunited every other year on a summer vacation. Pat has wonderful childhood memories of dude ranches, Alaskan cruises, and fun under the summer sun. In 2009, for the first time ever, Pat had to settle for a vicarious experience of Yellowstone-with-the-family by perusing facebook postings every night. Ever since then, reunion 2011 has been on our minds.

We attended weddings all summer 2010 and then answered the “what’s next” question by taking a hard look at our goals and dreams. We intensively researched a Pacific crossing by sailboat and discovered we’d have to wait around the States all fall, winter, and half of spring. Having given up our “professional” jobs — the cornerstone of house, kids, career — and with several people reminding us that our window of opportunity for starting a family is “rapidly shrinking,” we were anxious to get going on goals and dreams that require joblessness.

New Zealand - North and South Island

After spending the summer… spending, we decided to combine goal #1 and 3 — start seeing the world and take advantage of the before-age-30-working-holiday visa in either Australia or New Zealand. We love being in the mountains. New Zealand is covered in peaks. It was an easy choice. We received work visas in our inboxes within three days of applying, then shopped for the cheapest tickets. The timing worked out to visit lots of family and friends before leaving, and the “Are you coming back for the reunion?” question came up several times. We couldn’t predict where our adventure would take us, but we assured everyone we had every intention of trying.

Fast-forward to three months before said reunion. The allure of a return trip to the States had grown and grown. Not only would we get to see family, but we’d missed Christmas, AND both of my sisters and their families were now visiting my parents in the weeks before the reunion. It was an opportunity for the proverbial two birds with one stone, with an extra two birds factored in. However, the price tag on a ticket across the Pacific is in excess of $1,000. If you’re reading this blog, you probably think that’s a lot of money. When jobless and trying to live on about $4,000 a year, I think I need more than one four-letter-expletive to accurately depict the meaning of $1,000 in my current life.

Countless friends and family members lent their ears as I wrestled with “to go or not to go?” I felt pretty grim as I finally and reluctantly decided with the “don’t go” contingent. “Your family will understand,” they said. “You’re worked hard for this once in a lifetime opportunity, and they know that it’s just not practical for you to come,” they said. “You’ll lose time you can never get back on a visa you’ll never be eligible for again,” they said.

What I don't have much of - NZ scrilla (any scrilla, really. Scrilla = money for all you non-gangstas out there)

With a heavy heart, I dialed my parents to let them know the trip we’d been hoping for for months wasn’t going to come to fruition. They offered condolences along the lines of “That must have been a hard choice,” and then we talked about the weather, shared stories about recent happenings in our lives, and discussed plans for the future. As we were saying goodbye, my father dropped a bomb. “What if we paid for half the trip?” My jaw dropped, and I would later learn my mother/keeper-of-the-almighty budget almost dropped the phone as her eyes went wide. Speechless for a few moments, I finally managed, “Um… what do you mean?” Well, my dad’s work involves living alone for weeks at a time in hotels near mineral mines where he trains employees to use a mining efficiency program. He was offering to use his compensation travel bonus to help our hopes of seeing our families become a reality. I was so shell-shocked, my parents actually had to ask if I wanted to take them up on the offer.

The only condition was, everything had to be a surprise. Neither of my sisters could know. I proposed to Pat that we surprise his family too, and the plan of action was in motion! The gift of homecoming and family is one of the best in the world. I’d gone from glum to gleeful within an hour, and hung up the phone on cloud nine!

Hippie Logistics Part II

how to live in a van without becoming a hippie

I know how to  live in a van… does that make me a hippie. Do hippies wear contacts?

If you don’t know me, then I should preface this post by telling you that I am not a bum hippie. Although I’ve tried hippie van living, I do not  consider myself one of them. Bum hippies are societal leeches whose use “peace-and-love-stick-it-to-the-man” ideologies to gain benefits of living near “the man” (handouts) without the burden of actually contributing to society. I’ve met plenty of bum hippies who will loudly and proudly tell me about life in a tree house or squatting in an ”˜uninhabited’ building while blowing their monthly food-stamps allotment in a gourmet steak food orgy followed by purchasing lots of drugs and hanging out in the woods. I propose that we change the nomenclature for this behavior from “hippie” to “jerk.”

living in a van shows you the beauty of nature

Living in a van makes it easy to see places like this.

My friends say since I’m living in a hippie van, I’m probably a hippie,  But I think they really mean passionate unconventionalist. While I’ve proven myself capable of a range of employment, from a professional nine-to-five schtick to a shift-working-heavy-equipment-operating-blue-collar gig, none are quite where my appetite lies. Right now my ”˜appetite’ is  living in a van in New Zealand where a mountain hike, coastal rainforest, or dazzling beach are never more than a two-hour car trip in any direction. Many “normal” people who consider me a “normal” person are shocked and amazed that you don’t have to be a complete psycho to be  living in a hippie van. I posted  our answers  to frequently asked questions on how to live in a van when we first started on this adventure. However, van life changed notably when our daily activities stopped including trading our time for money (jobs!). So, here’s the revised edition:

How to Live in a Van FAQ’s

Where do you shower?

Well, living in a van”¦we don’t. Okay”¦ not true. But, living in a van is much like RV living or living on a sailboat crossing the high seas (a dream I hope to pursue within the next year or so). I don’t ever feel “yucky” until day three. At this point there are several options:

a) putting baby powder or  dry shampooin my hair is magic!
b) if at a hut, heat up some water for a ”˜hobo shower”˜
c) pay the admission fee to an aquatic center
d) stay the night at an RV park/campground
e) check into a  hostel

hobo shower during my hippie van living days

Hobo/bucket shower on the porch of the Ahuriri base hut during my hippie van living days.

Where do you go to the bathroom?

Throughout the day, there are rest areas if we’re driving and bathrooms at the places of business/tourism we patronize. Before we go to bed at night, we make sure we know the location of the bathroom we’ll visit for morning ablutions.

Where do you get your food? (posed to me by a New York lawyer)

This one hasn’t changed much. You’d never know the person next to you in the pasta aisle is a hippie living in a van!  Our meal-making has decreased now that precious daylight hours — great for hiking, seeing the sights, and enjoying the country — are so hard to come by. We still make meals, especially when we’re backpacking. If it’s too cold/dark/late to do stir fry/lentil stew/tacos/etc. on our two cookstoves, we stick with no-cook standbys — meat and crackers, beans and corn chips, tuna and crackers, etc.

An organized kitchen/food storage area is a must when living in a van

How to live in a van this small? Simple, be organized as possible!


How do you wash your clothes?

We don’t. No… kidding, again! As before, laundromats are our go-to-source. Once we ended up between trailheads in desperate need of clean hiking duds. The only sign of civilization was a one-horse-town. I approached the local inn/restaurant/bar owner, who let me use the business’ washer/dryer. It turned into an awesome night!

Where do you sleep?

Lots of places! I am mother-nature’s child and love backpacking. We are on a trip about 30% of the time, and nearly every trail in New Zealand has a hut complete with bunks. We also try to break up our backpacking and sightseeing with wwoofing. It’s a great way to really experience the culture, and it’s an awesome change of pace. When wwoofing, we sleep in the bed the ‘farm’ provides. Less than 10% of the time, we’re staying in an RV campground or at a hostel. Otherwise, we find a quiet spot to park in residential areas (we’ve discovered sketchy things happen at night in industrial places). We arrive after dark, spend a few minutes observing the comings and goings of the neighborhood, sleep until just before sunrise (6:45-ish), and clear out. Out of respect for residents, we never stay in the same place twice. If we’re on the road, we’ll park near a rest area or at a trailhead.

Van life exposes you to harsh weather conditions like this freezing weather.

Van life can expose you to harsh conditions. In one of our most recent overnight spots (trailhead), the INSIDE of the windows froze over that night!

  • Where do you “live?”

    This isn’t an FAQ anymore, as we are traveling almost every day. Van life involves living on the road! Perhaps it might seem like constant change would get old. Really, though, we are just switching between three different modes — hiking, sightseeing, wwoofing. When one mode gets tiresome, we switch to another!

Night view while living in a hippie van

Typical view from my pillow at night while living in a hippie van

So, what’s different now? The major change with hippie van living is probably that we don’t bother with tidiness. I used to keep everything on top of the bed neatly organized and harass Pat to do the same. Now I just have general areas for most things. When we crawl under the covers at night, we’re usually also wiggling our way under a pile of stuff. It challenges my standards of appropriate adult behavior, but it takes an extra twenty steps out of our day!

Layering clothes is required when living in a van

1: Skin tight tank top, 2: Long-sleeve poly pro, 3: Patagonia fleece, 4: Water-resistant shell. Layering is a must when living in a van.

It’s also much colder now. Because waiting hours for my body to warm up enough to sleep at bedtime is torture, I’ve learned that the best van life protocol involves getting dressed in excessive layers every day. And, we continue to try to tread lightly — recognizing that if everyone was living like we are now, resources like parking and bathrooms would be maxed out. I am thankful for all the lessons and opportunities living in a van brings!  â™£

Did you miss Hippie Logistics Part I?  

Wangapeka and Willy

morning frost on the gorse

The best part of our Wangapeka Track adventure came at the very end. The start bears mentioning, though. For the first time in our experience of New Zealand winter, we awoke to a hard frost and memories of struggling to share a single sleeping bag as a second blanket throughout the night. Note to self: time saved packing sleeping bag the night before is not worth a cold night.

Our Wangapeka (WONG-uh-peck-uh) planning is a text book example of how authorities would advise you NOT to plan a trip. Basically, we glanced at but did not buy the trail descriptions and maps in the DOC brochures a few days before and called it good.   Fast-forward to the trailhead a few days later… A hard frost on the ground had us scratching our heads to remember where all the different shelters were along the trail.   We recalled the first hut was only “a few hours” walking, so we set our sights on the next option down the trail — the Wangapeka Bivy. It was never very clear, in any of the literature, if the bivy had a stove or not. Thankfully, a hunter at the trailhead cleared up this issue for us, saving us from a miserable mistake. (Our stop at the tiny 7′ x 5′ bivy during a day hike would find it not only stove-less, but leaking terribly and smelling horribly of mildew and mold.)

the recently installed safety-chain ensuring a safe slip and slide across the muddy cliff edge

We arrived at the Belltown Hut exactly three hours, five mudslips, and one painful bum-thrashing from the trailhead. Highlights included the frost-covered meadows, mudslides so treacherous a chain-bolted to the wall was little relief, and the aforementioned meeting of my right “sit bone” and a pointed boulder. Yow. It was wonderful to arrive in time to relax, read, eat, and chop wood in the DAYLIGHT! By dark, we managed to warm up the hut sufficiently (and probably inhale more wood smoke and candle fumes than a cancer-risk manager would approve of).

The following day the rain beat us to our attempted view from the pass, causing us to turn back at the horrifying bivy. We contemplated hiking out, but decided not to risk the swamp crossings in the dark. Instead, we packed and were down the front steps of the hut at daybreak. Except for sinking thigh-deep in quicksand (me), our hike out went smoothly! The coup-de-grace of the whole trip was the Irish Willy Nelson in the carpark. This character has been living in the New Zealand bush at the end of the road for 20 years. 60’s, skinny-as, braids, bandana, sharp nose, and the most cantankerous fellow you could find. He swore up a storm as he cussed his neighbor’s chickens, DOC’s management of the local area, and the careless folk who tear up “his

falls on the hike out

front yard.” I was crushed when Pat declined his invitation to come inside for “a cuppa.” (Pat was on the brink of starvation, having hiked four hours since breakfast, and having nothing but oatmeal for fourteen).

After a long “yarn,” Mr. Nelson excused himself and we eeked out our last quarter tank of gas all the way back to Westport. Little did we know, this would be our last multi-day wilderness adventure in New Zealand for a very, very long time.

See a few more Wangapeka photos and several of our other west coast adventures by clicking here.

New Zealand’s Northwest

Franz Josef glacier - during the last ice age, it terminated out in the sea!

After months of a travel speed that can only be described as terribly casual, we flew up the west coast. Early to rise at our possum hunter’s camp, we bid Josh adieu and made to Fox Glacier at sun up. We beat all the tourists and had the half-hour stroll up the moraine to ourselves! Although we couldn’t get terribly close, the glacier impressed us! Then we were on to Franz Glacier where it was more of the same plus a few bus loads of Asian tourists. Personally, I prefer to see glaciers in the majestic solitude of the silent mountains, versus the Disney-fied setting, but still gorgeous!

Hokitika was our lunchtime stop where we strolled the streets, admired their historic buildings, puzzled over the machines at the sock making museum, and got info about shower opportunities. They pointed us up the road to Greymouth, where the aquatic center offered locker room use for $5.50. When you haven’t showered for days (a week?!), it’s hard to complain even about showers that operate in 90 second bursts after pressing a button. Ahhhh!!

Arthur's Pass falls

Most of our evening was spent attending to laundry at a strange facility in a parking lot cum RV park behind a gas station. The residents kept coming into the tiny room to use the toilet — weird! Then we scouted wi-fi, and followed up our finds in the morning for my weekly chat with my lovely CASA girl. We spent the best hours of the day climbing the very steep Arthur’s Pass, rubbernecking a brutal accident from the day before, passing under a waterfall that had been re-routed OVER the highway, and stopping for the view from DEATH’S CORNER! (Seriously? This is a highway, you official naming people. What are you thinking?).

Once in the town of Arthur’s Pass, we found the DOC (Department of Conservation) Visitor’s Center staff to be lovely and not at all condescending as we so often experience. (I read in a university publication that “it seems DOC tries to discourage anyone with a North American accent from tramping.” Pat and I have definitely, to our supreme annoyance, experienced this). Having settled upon an attempt to summit Avalanche Peak the following day, we spent the rest of our daylight hiking to an enormous waterfall and running the info routes among limestone formations at a cave site and at Castle Hill. It was incredible to be among surreal, hulking rock forms as the sun set. COOL!

dinner time at the shelter

Our evening at the shelter making dinner, drinking wine, and packing was perfect preparation for our sunrise departure up Avalanche Peak. We made it to the bushline just as light was filling the valley and got peephole views across to the waterfall and up to higher peaks. As we climbed higher and higher, the trail became more gnarly and intense. I often felt like I was back in the Andes, carefully picking my way along the razorback of a ridgeline, glancing an the thousand foot drops six inches on either side. Woooo!!! The views were EPIC. At the very top, we reluctantly sacrificed the last 100 yards to ice covered climbing surfaces (you’re welcome, Mom). The Kea, the world’s only alpine parrot, made frequent appearances throughout the day, including a showstopping display during our almost-summit lunch. So curious and fun to watch!

lunchtime kea!

We didn’t expect to be down the mountain until after dark, but we made record time AND had a moment of brilliance at the bottom: we can make the 6p.m. beer tour at Monteith’s! The tour, as far as knowledge expansion goes, was an utter fail. Paul (?) was a retired butcher who was NOT INTERESTED in doing anything but repeating verbatim his usual tour. It was just us and a couple from the east coast (U.S.). Each time the poor woman asked a question, Paul would respond, “We’ll get to that later.” He officially earned the “Worst Tour Ever” award when we found the beer tastings to be measly little squirts of their entirely mediocre line of beer. The saving grace was Paul’s clarification on meat cuts and the tip to make pumpkin wine by adding water and champagne yeast to a hollowed out jack-o-lantern! Wedding novelty?

 After one last night sleeping on the streets of Greymouth (in the van), we got up with the sun to see the Pancake Rocks and Blowhole up north at Punakaiki (Poo-nuh-k-eye-kee). Somehow layers of marine creatures had become compressed between layers of hard rock. Layer A errodes faster than layer B, leaving an awesome every-other pattern in the towers of exposed formations. After a half-hearted wander at an almost-cave, we took the stroll down to Tasman Bay and enjoyed a cool secluded little beach.

Pancake rocks at poo-nuh-kai-kee

Westport — the last major town on the northwest coast — was our lunchtime break. We strolled around the town and happened upon a brewery (fate?!.   After tasting, they pointed us in the direction of the “best fish and chips” — and they were! We had to partake in this national dish at least once. Not for those without a strong stomach, but delicious! Then we wound our way up through the rainforest and down the other side to reach Karamea — the last stand on the northern west coast. We bumped down a gravel road for an hour and hiked along a trail for 20 minutes before happening upon the Oparara Arch — the longest, biggest, best… blah, blah, blah. It was impressive, but so were the caves up the road! We hunkered under a picnic shelter to pack our bags for our Wangapeka track journey the following day and make dinner, and the wekas kept us company all night! Another successful thread on an ongoing journey. Woot!

See hilarious NZ road warning signs, ancient cave formations, a sock making machine, and a gnarly spider nest by clicking here.

West Coast Wonder

rainforest and gorgeous waters of the west coast

I’m still adjusting to seeing so many men wearing so little clothing. Even with a hard frost on the ground, there are several Kiwi men who put on, not only in shorts, but STUBBIES! Shorts so short most American men (and many women as well!) wouldn’t be caught dead in them. Bizzare.

The most shocking stubbies-wearer we encountered on our first West Coast backcountry exploration went by Allen. He’s as grisly as they come, a leathery older man whose work at the nation’s mega-corporate dairy processing plant in Timaru slows down in the winter. (They have yet to figure out a way to artificially force year-round milk from cows as we’ve done eggs from chickens. So when the cows are enduring the necessary cold-season pregnancy the cogs at the factory stop turning.) Allen is an archetype of a befuddling sort found here in Kiwi land. He’s as blue-collar as can be from his daily grind to his outlook on life. When the hut warden scolded him for putting his plastic trash in the wood stove (plastic produces toxic smoke and the particulate lingers on the roof where it’s washed into the hut’s rain-catchment water supply), Allen just grunted. A man of few words, we did manage to get out of him that he spends most of his free time backpacking. He even volunteered that the longest he’s been “in the bush” without seeing another person is eight days. For me, stumbling downstairs bleary-eyed for breakfast and encountering the tall, long-legged Allen in tiny shorts eliminated any need for a caffeine wake-up.

more than halfway and more than a minute across the longest swingbridge

We shared the Welcome Flat hut with Allen, a group of four city-slickers out for the weekend, and a gregarious in-late-out-early hunter. This particular hike is famous for the hot springs awaiting the tired, trail-worn feet that cover the seven-hour journey up the valley. While we didn’t have to ford any rivers, we did encounter the highest, sketchiest swing bridges yet. A glance at a “swing bridge” inspires little confidence. All told, six tiny wire cables (the diameter of an M&M comes to mind) are all that stand between you and the icy river gorge far below. Four cables form the walking surface, spread apart by a cross bar every foot or so. The other two wires are strung at “handrail” level, and chain-link fencing runs from one hand wire down across the four walking wires, and up the other side. All together, it’s like a trench of metal swiss-cheese so narrow that Pat, with his size 13’s, has a tough time getting one foot in front of the other. We took turns bouncing across, adhering to the one-person limit signs and stopping to admire the views and the breathtaking drops.

palm tree or giant fern?

It was fantastic to be back in the rainforest! I read the other day at a DOC (Department of Conservation) display that something like 85-90% of the south island is covered in beech forest. While the west coast does have beech, it also grows an impressive array of other flora, including the delightful tree fern. It looks enough like a palm tree to make the whole place feel like Costa Rica (minus 40 blessed degrees). Much of the trail snaked through chest-high banks of mud-sand. Combined with the usual required scrambling, we had ourselves a genuine seven-hour adventure!

After slipping, sliding, climbing, and crashing through all types of terrain, the steaming hot pools were a welcome sight. We dropped our packs and didn’t leave the relaxing waters until dinner time! We couldn’t resist another soak after the sun had gone down, and we got up before the crack of dawn for a moonlight dip. Delightful! The night sky in New Zealand is amazing, rivaled only by my experience of starry evenings high in the Rockies. Viewing the whole spectacular display from the hot springs: enchanting!

chillin in the hot pools

The following morning I finally sighted my first non-winged wildlife, immediately rocketing the Welcome Flat trail into the top three on my NZ hikes list. The first was a chamois (said “Sham-whah”, but usually shortened to “Shammy”) whose hind end I saw disappearing down the trail in front of me just shortly after leaving the hut. This alone was unbelievable and thrilling, given our previous experience of nothingness in the NZ wild. Which is why I could barely contain myself when, upon stopping halfway across a swing bridge to look around, I spotted a tahr (“tar”) on the

tahr

riverbank below. A silent drama played out as I furiously tried to mime to Pat that there was a tahr *right underneath him* and frantically vacillated between trying to take a picture without dropping our hiking poles into the river below and running the rest of the way across the sketchy-one-person-bridge so Pat could come out and see it. I finally dashed the distance to the other side landing in time to see the tahr* nonchalantly slip into the woods as Pat climbed onto the wires. Dang!

Pat examines possum fur

There were plenty of consolation prizes for Pat, though. We saw our first wekas (forest chickens — said “Weck-uh”), we arrived back at the carpark to an intense double rainbow, AND we met a friendly possum hunter

who kept a bonfire roaring all evening! We fixed up a delicious Thai curry and swapped stories with Josh, a thirty-something kiwi bloke, well into the darkness. He owns an “eco” rafting company that helicopters customers and their gear deep into the wilderness. They pump up the rafts, paddle down river, stop at hot springs, go hunting and fishing — whatever the guests want — all for about $400 a person. Um, wow. In the off-season, he supplements his income by trapping and killing one of the most-hated, introduced kiwi pests — the possum — for its fur.

He described the ins and outs of finding a good spot to run a trap line, explained how he removes the fur, and even let us feel some of the goods he’d collected so far. Possum fur is coveted because it’s super-soft and has a hollow core like a polar bear’s, making it a superb

possum

insulator. Apparently they’re attracted to big trees, so Josh stakes out a trap line when he finds a forest giant with possum runs near it. Once their legs are caught in the traps, the possums usually go to sleep but “freak out” the next day when they hear him coming. He clubs them on the head (yes, this makes them dead), and then plucks the fur with a “peeling” motion that clears out three inch patches per peel. The fur sells for $200 cash per kg ($100 a pound) and rising. It takes a couple of possums to make a pound, and a couple more to make a kg.

Before the night was up, our possum-hunting-friend solved lots of kiwi mysteries and de-mystified the kiwi psyche for me. A perfect end to our West Coast beginning!

See rainbows and breathtaking vistas by clicking here.

*Tahr and chammy have split reputations among Kiwi’s.   Hunters love them for the reason they were introduced – the thrill of the kill!   (I just said that because it rhymes.)   Other non-hunters want them completely eradicated because they destroy the fragile balance of the local ecosystem that evolved without the presence of ANY mammals (we’re not counting the bat).   Ironically, this creates a conundrum in which the originalists are all for the hunters doing their thing, but the hunting industry is all for keeping the goats on the slopes.   Rumor has it some guiding companies are raising and re-releasing the animals to keep the sport alive.

Welcome to the West Coast!

Rumored to harbor biting “sandflies” so thick they sound like rain pinging against your tent walls, my feelings about our West Coast exploration were mixed. Also in store, however, were narrow glacier-filled valleys stretching almost to the sea, hot springs deep in the wilderness, and endless seaside vistas!

Princess Evie - adorable!

Our first stop was our second New Zealand home — Makarora. Emily, Chris, Evie and Hunter are a super fun family, and we’ve lucked into attending a community event almost every time we visit. We enjoyed a few relaxing days of familiar faces, and then we finally crossed the threshold to the West Coast! Having spent about six of our twelve months covering only 25% of New Zealand, I was anxious for new territory. However, every time I lamented this fact aloud, both travelers and Kiwi’s alike repeated the same refrain: “It’s the best part anyway!”

Climbing up over Haast Pass, we were treated to waterfalls swelling with recent rainfall and peephole views through cloud cover up to the peaks. The “Gates of Haast”, a bridge over a gnarly gorge-in-the-making, and the winding road slowly being washed into the river were awesome in that thrilling, ‘fear-of-mother-nature’s-raw-power’ sort of way.

At the Haast Visitor’s center we’d learned about whitebait — a West Coast icon. I’d assumed it was a type of fish. You know… trout, salmon, cod, whitebait. Not so. A few miles down the road, we followed handpainted signs past piles of rusting farm yard junk to a modern

whitebait pattie on the grill

manufactured home. A banner above the garage welcomed us and the smiling proprietor had a whitebait pattie on the grill straightaway. This mystery food consists of small aquatic creatures bound together with beaten eggs. When schools of whitebait are scooped into nets at the river mouth, they resemble 2.5 inch guppy jellyfish (no such thing, but imagine a translucent guppy sans legs). The writhing mass of clear worms would make an awesome stand-in for “monster brains” at a haunted house. Freeze them to death, thaw them out, beat some eggs, pour them into the whitebait, ladle onto grill, flip, eat! When cooked, the whitebait turn… well, white. The patty looks like a bunch of white worms (eyes, spines and all) twisted together and tastes like fish. I’ wouldn’t buy it at a restaurant or bother making it for myself, but I’d eat it again!

Afterward, we headed for the Copeland Valley trailhead where we braved sandflies and got ourselves sorted for the next day’s hike. To make ourselves feel better about our losing battle (2 humans versus 25 million sandflies) we came up with a list of reasons that sandflies aren’t as bad as mosquitoes.

1. Sandflies stop biting after dark.

2. Sandflies don’t make an annoying buzzing sound that keeps you awake all night

3. Sandflies can’t bite through your clothes, so being covered in them isn’t that bad.

4. Sandflies are heavier and can usually be felt when they land, unlike sneaky mosquitoes.

5. Sandfly bites don’t swell up into monstrous welts (although they itch just as badly).

6. If a sandfly is biting you, you can guarantee yourself the sweet satisfaction of revenge (SANDFLY DEATH!). Blow on it and it will cling to your skin as you slowly and accurately squash it.

Shortly after the sandflies went to bed, we crawled in and began dreaming of the next day’s hot springs!

See sandfly swarms, local Speights action, and Pat and Hunter’s motorcycle madness by clicking here.

Pat’s Bar Brawl

There weren’t any bloody noses or broken bones, but there were plenty of wide-eyed spectators when Pat found himself and a friend the target of a wicked bar room attack.

The life all the poor, snowless Wanaka ski bums are dreaming of

Item one in this recipe for disaster was our return to our New Zealand “home” – Wanaka – where we’d worked for four summer months. We’d left a sleepy, all-ages tourist town and returned to find hardly a face over thirty. The town was teeming with grungy, young ski bums. Our fun Tuesday poker night was overrun by this new group, leaving me speechless all the way to the final table (woot woot!).

Item two is a weekly karaoke session the following evening at one of the happening bars. We’d been invited to quiz night at the pub where I’d worked, so we started there. After some mean trivia, our team lost in the tie-breaker for not knowing how many floors were in the Empire State building (do you?). Damn! Then we were off to belt out various 80’s hits and dance the night away.

Item three is a short, stocky, blonde Welshman. Allegedly, he was in the royal marines and is a door man at another bar in town. He definitely got told off by our bar manager friend Ryan at closing time. Most of the riff-raff had shuffled out the door when I saw Ryan’s arm flying through the air. His hand landed with a resounding crack about half an inch from the beer on the countertop in front of Blondie and he yelled, “I told you to QUIT DRINKING!” Blondie had done enough imbibing to be relatively unphased by this new development. A few minutes later he followed us out the door to the last social venue open in town.

Martin - the sweet, unassuming Cambrian (Cambridge-ian?)

Item four is a mystery ingredient that is still unknown to me. Apparently, on the walk over, someone brought up Pat’s military background, perhaps in the face of Blondie’s antagonism. Blondie accused the group of lying, whereupon our friend Martin interjected in his formal British, “Well, actually, he was [in the military].” Now, for anyone who doesn’t know Patrick, allow me to profile this gentle giant. At six foot seven inches tall with medium build and a fierce brow ridge, the poor man is a magnet for aggressors looking to prove something. He is also a master of diffusing tension and anger (probably the reason our relationship contains minimum drama despite my often fiery personality). While he is trained as a boxer and in hand-to-hand combat, his preference is to never use these skills.

The face that invites a fight.

One can only guess what tripped Blondie’s ‘freak-out’ wire, but it happened like this. A group of six of us were at one end of the bar. Blondie was kickin’ it solo at the other end. Presumably, Martin’s insistence about Pat’s military service made him Blondie’s bullseye. Suddenly, Blondie came charging across the room and shoved Martin so hard that his body took out three chairs, a table, and two drinks in the fall. Pat became Martin’s instant body guard and tried to end it quickly by ‘placing’ Blondie on the floor. Oops. Blondie came up swinging, so Pat ‘isolated the threat’ by getting Blondie in a headlock. At this point everyone is yelling, two other beefy young dudes have joined in the fray, a young woman is shouting at Pat to let Blondie go, and Blondie is using his body to drag Pat around in a circle knocking over plenty of furniture in the process. Somewhere in the midst of the full-volume roar, Pat agreed to relinquish his hold on Blondie if the two men would get him outside without anyone else getting hurt. Oh what a night!

Other fantastic Wanaka moments: seeing all our friends! In addition to the latter, friend-filled antics, we had a fun night chatting with the crew at Pat’s old job. We got to spend quality time with our awesome friends Peter and Donna who are moving from Wanaka in ten days. And now we’re off to visit Emily, Chris & co.!

Goodbye, Wanaka. It’s been splendid!

Our Private (Public) Little Cabin

While there are 900 public huts in New Zealand, only a small handful are accessible without putting a few miles on your hiking boots. So imagine my delight when we drove up the moonlit, snow-covered lane to Ahuriri Base Hut and found it empty!

super sharp sheep shears save split-ends

We’d begun the day with a long “work” session at the Twizel library. Then we made our way back through Omarama where we’d spent the evening prior with a bunch of rough-and-ready types. We desperately needed to launder our outdoor garb before heading back out into the woods. All towns between outdoor haven A and B were devoid of facilities, so I attempted to charm the bar tender/bar owner pouring behind the “horniest” bar in New Zealand. (The bar is filled with taxidermy, but also posters of a woman’s backside clothed only in chaps.)

He was a lean version of Sly Stallone and talked in rapid-fire half-sentences. He also owned the entire and only hospitality complex in town — bar, hotel, restaurant, etc. After being snubbed by the Mobil attendant across the road, I wasn’t confident in our prospects. However, not only did he personally escort me to the cinder-block room with the hotel’s blessed washer and dryer, he and his buddies in the barroom spent the entire evening regaling us with sheep shearing tales. I even got to try out his “sharp as” hand shears on a few split ends, AND he offered to let us park up instead of having to drive to a campground. Sweet!

just out of the bushline above camp

Once through Omarama (oh-MAR-uh-ma), it was a short highway stretch, a long snow-covered gravel road, and finally an hour of grueling 4WD to arrive at the hut. Although we were in a race against the setting sun, the snow-capped peaks glowing pink at the head of the valley demanded several photo stops. (Which I would later, in an ongoing failure to understand the ‘protect’ feature of my camera, delete entirely).

We were exhausted and freezing. Prepared wood was scarce, so we declared the following day a “stay-in-bed-Saturday.” We filled the cast-iron stove with anything we could find that wasn’t wet or snow-covered and managed to get the hut to a comfortable temperature for dinner making and

I wanna get me some possums!

bed time. Stay-in-bed-Saturday dawned clear and beautiful. After a few hours of reading, we spent the remainder of the day dragging huge logs to the hut, chopping them up, and exploring the woods in and around the area. That night a pair of headlights wandered up the lonely valley and turned up the drive. It was Jakob and Ivan from Denmark, in NZ on a hunting trip and keen to share lots of stories, beer, wine, and whiskey. In true red-neck style, we even went on a possum hunting mission after dinner!

We stayed at the hut for two more nights, and spent our days hiking in the area. The first was a mission up to the Dingle Burn ridge line with an absolutely STUNNING summit. It’s impossible to capture, with words, how stunning, exciting, joyous, and maybe even terrifying it feels to stand among hard, black peaks rocketing skyward and covered in fierce, blowing snow. WOOOOOOO!!! We also got to witness nature in action as a hawk ruthlessly hunted a hare in the gusty breeze. First they were above us, and then the hare blasted out of the tussocks RIGHT in front of me in its escape attempt!

taken from half way up the ridgeline!

Our second excursion was up Canyon Creek. New Zealand mountains are SO young compared to the Rockies. As a result, they are (comparatively) un-eroded massive wedges driven straight up out of the earth’s crust. And so hiking in the country is always straight up, straight down, or deep at the bottom of a river valley. We started the day with straight up, and were rewarded grandly for our efforts. Then it was along the river to it’s headwaters in a gorgeous alpine basin crossing glacial till the whole way. The hanging glaciers are one of my favorite parts of New Zealand hiking, and the lack of giardia a second. It’s so nice to be able to drink straight from streams!

Our final night in paradise found us restless with the onset of cabin fever. Too much R&R does exist, apparently. In the morning, in preparation for the Wanaka social scene, we boiled a giant bucket of water on the fire and took hobo-showers on the hut’s front porch. Finally we were off for “home!”

See the Sly Stallone look alike, front porch antics, the Danes, etc. by clicking here.

Sea to Shining Peaks

cute sea lion hanging out at Aramoana

Just tuning in?   After one of the warmest NZ autumns on record, winter is finally here — complete with few precious hours of daylight in which to do our adventuring.   We’re seven months down on our one year visas, and two months into a schedule of backpacking, work trade in NZ homes, and sightseeing.   Rinse and repeat!

We left Dunedin following the side of the harbor we’d yet to explore.   The advice of many encouraged us to visit Aramoana where the harbor meets the sea.   We weren’t disappointed!   The surfing action was fun to watch, the shells were amazing, and we even happened upon a sea lion!

atop a boulder still in situ above the beach

From there we ascended to amazing, sweeping coastal vistas as we made our way along the scenic route.     We stretched our legs in the highly recommended tiny oceanside village of Karitane, before driving up to see the infamous Moeraki Boulders.   These oddities form much like pearls.   Eons ago, some mineral started collecting around organic fragments deep inside mudstone deposits and grew impressive orbs.   Erosion slowly sets the boulders free to roll down onto the beach where the ocean eventually breaks them along their fracture lines into puzzle pieces.   Their symmetry makes them beautiful!

The highlight of the coast was our sunset trip out to Katiki Point (thanks Rachel!).   Endangered Yellow-Eyed Penguins are shy birds who spend the day hunting at sea and bring home food for their young in the evening.   It’s said

first penguin returning from the sea for the evening

that if a predator is spotted between the penguin and its nest, the penguin will not return to land — threatening its own life and potentially starving the chicks.   As a result, most places frequented by penguins have “hides” built so that the voracious tourism doesn’t further threaten the declining populations.   It was from one of these tiny shacks that I got to see several of the adorable, awkward birds struggle ashore as the sun set.   Very cool!

In the morning, Omaru was quiet and their visitor’s center closed.   So it was off across the plains toward the glacier-clad peaks in Mt. Cook National Park. It was our first day since beelining it from Christchurch to Wanaka six months ago of true road-tripping.   Because New Zealand is so small, none of

hiking at sunrise

our drives so far have been longer than an hour or two.   We plugged in the iPod and made Mt. Cook before sundown!   The campground was swank, with a kitchen shelter to make meals and meet other tourists.   We packed gear for the next morning and were on the trail amongst the first fingers of daylight.

Our prize for the day was the Mueller hut poised at the base of Mt. Oliver overlooking the Mueller glacier.   Our total elevation change for the day was over 6,000 feet, so the views got more impressive with every step.   Clouds

Mueller hut with a clouded Mt. Cook watching over

slowly ambled through the valley, renewing my appreciation each time they concealed and revealed soaring, snow covered peaks.   The blue, gleaming glaciers and icefalls provided the soundtrack for the day, creating thunder and an impressive show as enormous chunks broke and tumbled down the slopes.

The milky turquoise terminal lakes disappeared as we clambered up onto the rock and snow leading up to the Mueller Hut.   After lunch, we headed up Mt.

surrounded by glaciers and icefalls

Oliver behind the hut — the first peak climbed by Sir Edmund Hillary, a nationally loved New Zealander famous for being the first person ever to stand atop Mt. Everest.   It was glorious!

Pink evening skies foreshadowed a fantastic day to come.   We were up with the sun again to explore the Hooker valley.   Despite the winter inversion pressing clouds close to the ground, we were still thrilled by peep hole views up to peaks glistening in the morning sun.   After crossing dubious bridges spanning raging murky rivers of ice water, we were finally rewarded with icebergs close enough to touch (and we did)!   Our next conquest involved testing out our van’s 4WD

ice bergs!

capabilities for the first time.   The beast successfully tugged all   3,000 pounds of itself, us, and our stuff over the glacial moraine of the Tasman Valley.   When the road got truly gnarly, we parked and set off on foot.

We slowly scrambled up a heap of glacial till to a breathtaking view high above vast expanse of melting ice.   The Tasman Glacier seemed to go on and on — over a mile across and over 15 miles up the valley.   A true outdoor junkie, I left Pat at our lunch spot to scramble down a scree slope and follow an old trail.   My ten minutes were up too quickly, as I promised myself I’d turn back after just one more view.     Just five or six more views later, I spied the Ball hut up on the flanks of a ridge and had to keep going.   I returned to Pat with my tail between my legs, so to speak, but still jazzed on the impressive scenes!

Mt. Tasman and the massive tasman glacier

We were back in the Mt. Cook village in time to catch the last few planetarium shows.   The visitor center desk man tipped us off to “quiz night” at the local pub where we did exceptionally well for not having grown up in New Zealand.   The morning brought glorious showers (bathing is a life highlight when it only happens six times a month), more planetarium viewing, and an interesting visit to the Sir Edmund Hillary Alpine Center.   We rounded out our day taking in the visitor’s center displays and said goodbye to one of New Zealand’s most beautiful places at sunset!

Penguins, boulders, and hip bus stops here.

See our trail antics, sunrises, and glaciers by clicking here.

San Fransisco of the Southern Hemisphere

Tower at the historic Railway Station

Dunedin is almost a fairytale city. Set in the steep, rolling hills of the coast with stunning architecture, gorgeous harbor views, chic cafes overlooking seaside surfing action, an enormous botanic garden, dozens of affordable international restaurants, and factories producing delights including chocolates, gourmet ice cream, and microbrews. It was like San Francisco, minus a few million people. Heaven!

After our WOF debacle was over, we managed to visit the impressive public art gallery, the iconic railway station, the university campus, and the unbelievable array of exhibits at the Otago Museum. Before leaving the city we also managed to visit Emerson’s Brewery and got a tour from Emerson himself! He taught us about different timing for hops, the use of glycol jackets on bright

The awesome "Your Face Here" exhibit at the Otago Museum

tanks, what goes on at the maltsters in making the various malts, and that a brewery can never have too much capital. I think we’re almost ready to open our own!

The highlight of our return to Dunedin was our return to Rachel & Scott’s. We made it to their place in time to catch a show at Carey’s Bay Hotel down toward the harbor mouth in idyllic Port Chalmers. The music was amazing. How good? So good that our hosts — attending several live shows a month for the past five months — haven’t seen one better. Hana Fahy’s lead vocals are worth googling for a listen.

Carey's Bay Hotel listening to the amazing Hana Fahy and crew

We one-upped ourselves the next night and made history attending the last Highlander’s Rugby game at the “House of Pain.” Carisbrook Stadium is being replaced by a newer, shiner edifice for the rapidly approaching, New-Zealand-hosted 2011 Rugby World Cup. We tagged along with Scott and his co-worker Oliver who has season tickets. Rugby is far more action-packed than American football (called ‘grid-iron’ here). The clock stops only at half-time, and the ball is almost always moving. Much of the time it’s buried in a pile of bodies, but special pile-up techniques usually have it out and moving back down the field within a few seconds. Game notables: (1) for some bizarre reason, the marketing manager of the Highlanders decided they needed new colors/jerseys and debuted the change from maroon, gold, and blue to green and white at the game. Obviously fans weren’t pleased. A man in front of us spent half the game shouting, “Roger Clark’s a wanker.” (2)

History in the making!

Disturbing half-time entertainment. Two teams of young university women pile onto the field to engage in a tug-of-war battle while the announcer makes degrading comments to the tune of them being hopeless, idiotic, silly, pathetic wenches. I was unimpressed. (3) Terrace section — nearly half the game’s patrons crowd into a block of concrete terraces where the seats have been removed. It’s a cheap ($10) way to see the game! (4) Massive Speight’s consumption. I think every single attendee had a can in their hand. The afterparty was at the world’s smallest bar, followed by a trip to the cask-pouring Albar where we conversed for a good hour with a (recently) former Seattlite.

The next morning, we lucked into an unexpected second Saturday at the Farmer’s Market before dropping off Rachel and Scott at their Queenstown departure point. Dunedin was a perfectly timed* and thoroughly enjoyable piece of our New Zealand adventure!

More game photos, Dunedin architecture, and one horrible bar photo by clicking here.

* upon arrival in the city, our vehicle registration was due for renewal, our WOF inspection was about to expire, Pat’s pinky infection had escalated to ‘definitely-need-antibiotics’ level, our telecom USB modem needed reloaded, we were out of basic groceries most affordable (ironically) in cities, and the quest to find a pair of jeans for a 6’7” frame had reached critical status (current/only jeans in actual tatters).