Queenstown (Feb 28th-Mar 4th)

Franca and I left Te Anau for Queenstown, but not before stopping for a mouth-watering breakfast at The Fat Duck. As I ate my savoury pancakes, I called my mom and heard the terrifying news that, on the previous day, my sister had saved the life of the man standing beside her as they witnessed a convenience store robbery. I got through to Stacey and selfishly began crying with relief at her safety and pride in her strength and courage. Franca calmed me down after the call, and we got back on the road.

The trip only took two hours during which we stopped to inspect a burning smell emanating from the car, which we'd first noticed in Milford Sound the previous week. It dissipated before we could determine the source, so I crossed my fingers and hoped I wasn't traversing mountains with faulty brakes. While we were stopped, we took a quick pic of a particularly NZ's most ubiquitous creatures.


I remember thinking, when still on the North Island, that I didn't know why people said there were so many sheep in NZ. Seemed like more cows to me. Oh, how very very wrong I was.

Anyway, we rolled up to Queenstown in time for Franca to help me get my stuff into my hostel, grab a bite to eat, and hop onto her bus to Christchurch, from where she'd be flying out the next morning. We hugged each other so long and hard, not to mention tearfully, that passersby stopped and giggled. Our twenty-six days together had flown by. We'd barely spent more than an hour out of each other's company, and both of us wished we could stay together longer. I repeat: someone spent 26 days with me, 24/7 and was not running for the hills. I should have married the girl. Damn my lack of sapphic interest!

Upon returning to the hostel, I quickly realized I hadn't seen its equal in New Zealand. Cushy beds, swanky bathrooms, balconies everywhere, a plush lounge area with a huge flat screen TV, and-- best of all-- a kitchen personal chefs would envy.


I settled in and then, after a quick supermarket run, I wandered around town, stopping by the lake to take in the view.


The weather turned on a dime, and it started to pour. My throat had started to feel rather sore anyway, so I took the bad weather as reason enough to return to the hostel and climb into bed early.

I spent the next two days pretty much feeling like crap. I sounded like Carol Channing and felt older. I managed to run a few errands, Skype Franca, and arrange for a pair of extreme sport excursions for Friday, but otherwise, I pretty much slept and worked my way through the second season of Downton Abbey.

I felt better long enough to attend the hostel's weekly Wednesday night dinner. Thank goodness I did because Brendan, the owner of the hostel, cooked up one hell of a meal: braised beef, grilled squash, steamed broccoli and carrots, and yorkshire pudding. I spent the evening chatting about wine, music, history, and linguistics with him and my viniculturist roomies over a couple of bottles I had bought. I'd rarely eaten so well or had such enjoyably lofty conversation over the whole of my trip. And to make the evening truly sublime, we ended the night watching Dave Chappelle's classic stand-up "Killing Them Softly," which holds up remarkably well 11 years on, may I say.

Thursday I felt awful again, but Friday, I rallied my spirits in time to make my early A.M. rafting trip. I enjoyed myself, but I recognized early on that I had overpaid for what mostly amounted to a floating down a lovely but disappointingly gentle river. Honestly, other than one or two tricky passes, I'd gotten more of an adrenalin rush from the bus ride along the perilously steep road into Shotover canyon, where we started the journey. Besides which, the water ran so cold that I couldn't feel my feet and I already felt poorly


The afternoon's excursion, on the other hand, more than met my expectations. I had decided to do the Shotover Canyon Swing, a 60 meter dead drop into the 109 meter canyon, which I had rafted down earlier that day. Unable to do a traditional bungee because of the herniated disc in my back, I had chosen the swing because at the bottom of the drop, you are seamlessly caught up into a 200-meter arc over the canyon, which allows for all the excitement with none of the impact of the snap of the bungee.


I had heard stories of how the Shotover Canyon Swing crew tries to psych out their clientele, and they didn't disappoint. The video shown on the way to the canyon showed people nearly pissing themselves in fear, screaming like idiots, and begging not to be dropped. Once we'd arrived, I volunteered to go first and let my handlers choose how I would fall from the 70-some possible positions. They picked "The Chair," and a few minutes later I sat, all harnessed-up, in a plastic lawn chair with the back two legs teetering on the edge of the platform. As they instructed me on how to tip myself backward and over the edge, they teased me mercilessly, claiming to have forgotten to secure something or other and discussing their lack of experience, but I refused to believe them. I felt duly nervous and excited at the prospect of tumbling into the abyss, of course, but I laughed heartily as they yanked me back up each time I got up the courage to push myself over. Finally, when I least expected it, they let go, and over I went.

(This isn't me, but a couple who went shortly after me.)


I absolutely loved every second of it. I woo-hooed my head off as I flipped over and over before swinging out over the canyon, back and forth. After they pulley me back up to the platform, they pouted about their inability to freak me out: "You're supposed to be scared, crazy girl!" My response: "I want to go again." Luckily, free tandem swings came with each single swing that month, and I convinced a guy from my van to do the "Gimp Boy Goes to Hollywood." Basically, you're harnessed so that you're strapped in beside the other person with one hand behind their back, both of you hanging from a rope at your stomachs; then they cantilever you out over the canyon, you invert yourself so that your legs wrap around the cable above and you face down, looking into the canyon. Then they cut the cord. Or release it anyway. You fall straight down, face-first the whole way, and then you can right yourself as you swing. Loved it.

I would have gone again since additional swings only cost $40, but I really wanted the video and I couldn't afford both, so I went with the latter. My handlers offered me the option of going for free if I went naked, as is company policy, and showed me footage of others doing it. But the existence of said footage concerned me and one of the guys skeeved me out, seeming a bit too interested in finding out if I was a natural redhead. Besides, it was cold, and I'd been sick. Still, I rather regret not going for it.

So looking back longingly at the platform, I went to the booth, bought the video, which turned out to be worth the sacrifice, and caught my ride back to town. Sadly, as soon as the adrenalin left me, I felt horrible again, and I returned immediately to bed, where I stayed for the next 36 hours.

On Saturday, the weather and my health had both finally improved, so I decided to test my stamina by hiking up the first section of the Lomond track to check out the view over the town. I took my time, stopping now and then to watch mountain bikers barrel down the adjoining paths and zip-liners flying through the trees above. I felt winded but invigorated when I reached the top, where a ski lift and a luge track testified further to the truth behind Queenstown's adrenalin-junkie reputation.


After a turn around the top, I took the Gondola down, managing to walk right on without a ticket. Bungee jumpers launched off a nearby crane as I made my descent.


I had packed my bags before setting out that morning, so I picked up the car from it's parking space, grabbed my things from the hostel, and drove away.

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Location:Queenstown, New Zealand

Fjiordland; Kepler Track and One More Night in Te Anau (Feb 25-27th)

Our first alarm went off at 8am, but unbeknownst to me, Franca had stayed up all night talking and hadn't even slept yet. I reset the alarm for 10am, insisted that Franca get at least an hour of shut eye, and returned to bed myself. When we finally roused ourselves, the rest of the house was stirring as well. As we poked through the party debris, we reviewed the highlights of the night, like Joseph splitting his pants with break-dancing.

The boys invited us to stay another night upon our return from our trek and offered to keep our things for us in the meantime. Daniel volunteered to drive us to the start of the trail, walk the first leg with us, and pick us up on Monday. Finally, having loitered at the house far longer than we should have, we got on the track at 1pm, exhausted and not a little hungover.


We tramped through a beech forest along the lake and river. Quite beautiful. Not take-a-photo-around-every-corner beautiful, but the forest burst with lush foliage in which every shade of green abounded. And the smells! I can't possibly convey the potency, the virility, the heady aroma of verdant life run rampant.


I had a surprising amount of energy despite the small amount of sleep I'd gotten, but poor Franca felt fairly miserable. Daniel offered repeatedly to carry her pack while he remained with us, but she insisted that she wanted to get through it herself.


We had started the trek in the opposite direction from the standard route and so reached what would usually be the last camp site within an hour and a half. We had a snack with Daniel, and he left to retrace his steps back to the car. He and I pleaded for Franca to let him take a few less important items out of her pack to make it lighter, but she dug in her heels adorably, certain that she could do it.

The path held at a fairly steady incline, rising only 500 meters over the course of the 22.3 kilometers we covered the first day. Not difficult, to be sure, but the difference of my five hours of sleep and Franca's one seemed more and more drastic as her headache set in and her shoulders began to cramp up. I insisted, despite her many protests, that she transfer some of her weight into my pack. I argued that it would be a lot easier for me to take on a few extra kilos than to have to carry her, which looked like it might happen if she didn't get some relief. Eventually we got Franca's pack down to about 12 kilos and mine up to about 17. I leapt into the air with my pack on my back and kicked up my heels to show that I felt fine, which at least made her laugh.

Toward the end of the day, we emerged from the forest into a meadow valley. At this point, I started to feel the strain of the previous night's debauchery and the present day's exertion. Franca still felt rotten so I kept my mouth shut, lest she try to take back some of the weight I'd taken off her.


As we started up the mountainside, we estimated that another two hours of walking remained before we would reach the lodge. We were certain to be trekking after sunset. I began to feel sick. But only half an hour later, we saw something decidedly manmade up ahead.

Me: Do you see that?
Franca: Is that the cabin?
Me: It can't be.
Franca: No. You're right.
Me: They're pissing me off putting up random buildings and getting our hopes up.
(Two minutes later.)
Me: I'm almost afraid to say it, but I think that might be it.
Franca: No. I can't think it and have it not be true.
Me: Wait. Wait. Oh my god, it is!
Franca: Oh thank god!

We stumbled into the main room, greeted by raised eyebrows from our fellow hikers. Probably both because of our very late arrival and how wrecked we looked. I prevailed upon Franca to let me prepare our dinner. I massaged her shoulders as the pasta cooked in the billy pot, garnering quite a bit of attention and inquiries as to whether I wanted other customers.

As we ate, the ranger gave a brief orientation, in which he told crazy stories of the unpredictable weather on the Kepler track and how often hikers were forced to crawl across the top ridge on their hands and knees because of the wind. He even told one tale of a father who had to tie a rope around his own waist and that of his 11 year-old son, who kept being picked up by the wind and blown backward. I found myself wishing even more for a clear, temperate morrow.

By 8pm, Franca was fed and asleep. The lights went off at ten. I lingered until 11pm reading in the main room, warm from the fire, before climbing into my freezing bunk and burrowing into my sleeping bag.

It rained in the morning, just as the weather forecast had predicted, so we slept in until 9am and got back on the trail at 10am. Our packs were a little light for having eaten a third of our food stuffs the previous day, but the hardest day of trekking lay before us. Ten minutes after leaving the cabin, we began a 1000 meter incline composed of three hundred zig-zags. I trudged ahead, still feeling a bit better than Franca, and we talked little, all of our concentration dedicated to our efforts. After an hour and a half, we cleared the bush line.


Just above, we emerged onto the ridge of the mountaintops to a crystalline sky and a stunning view of the peaks and the lake below.


Giddy and dripping with sweat, I tore off my fleece and shirt and ran up the closest summit in my sports bra, as Franca shook her head in amusement.


We took our time eating lunch and laying in the sun for an hour, enjoying the scenery. Eventually, we set off for the emergency hut, which we could see in the distance, perched atop the highest section of the ridge. The track was so treacherous that stairs had been constructed along the way.


We paused at the hut to chat with other hikers, all of whom were headed in the opposite direction. One German entertained us with painfully cheesy jokes and an Israeli couple gave us two of their waters, having more than they needed for the remainder of their day. And on we went. The rest of the day's trail ran across the mountain ridges


...including one section that I am 90% sure Aragorn and Legolas ran across in the beginning of "The Two Towers".


We couldn't have asked for better weather. The sun shone powerfully, the wind blew minimally, and we made ambled along smoothly, no ropes necessary!


Four hours into our day, we made the second emergency shelter and hung out with an Alaskan park ranger and his Texan buddy, swapping stories and looking out over the water below.


Then we made the optional climb to the rocky peak of Mount Luxmore to take in the panorama.


An hour later, after a 14.6km day, we reached Luxmore Hut, the only mountaintop cabin on any of the New Zealand Great Walks. We watched the sunset, made some dinner, and listened to the ranger's orientation, which this time involved the display of a 1000 year-old stalactite that a hiker had ripped out of a nearby cave in an attempt to take it home as a souvenir. God, I hope they fined that guy.

We called it an early night, climbing into our group bunks, where 10 people lay on two levels of mattresses right beside each other. The woman beside me snored and kicked, but at least her restlessness ensured that I was awake when 5am rolled around, at which point I bounded outside, still wrapped tight in my sleeping bag to watch the sunset.


At first, I sat alone below more stars than I had ever seen. The night sky was a spangled tapestry that left me breathless. As the dawn approached, I called Franca out to join me and the clouds began rolling in over the lake. I worried that this would obscure the sunrise until I realized that they weren't moving above the horizon. They ebbed and flowed between the tree line and the foot of the cabin, like waves crashing against the shore, as the sun rose beyond.


I do not have the words to describe the splendor of this phenomenon. I can only say, that if ever you have the opportunity to awake above the clouds, take it.


Tearing ourselves away from the view was a challenge, but after a quick breakfast and a brief sojourn to the site of the infamous stalactite theft, we descended into the mist.


The 8km hike back to the car park was estimated at five hours, but we made it in three, gaining cell reception just in time to call Daniel to pick us up. We returned our rented gear, picked up some food, and spent the afternoon laying in the sun in the boys' backyard with 3 other couch surfers who had arrived as well. Franca bragged about my massages, and somehow I ended up working on Mauro, Irina, Nataliya, and Andrew before I had even repacked my bags. Franca settled in for a nap, and Andrew and I went for a swim in Lake Te Anau. The water was refreshingly cold and so clean that we drank it as we swam.

That night, we had a few drinks at the bar where Joseph worked, then headed back for another night of singing and guitar-playing before heading over to Andrew's house to sleep. The boys had taken on so many couch surfers that they had to outsource us! We said goodbye with many hugs and many thanks for some of the best times either of us had had on our trips.

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Location:Te Anau, New Zealand

Fijordland: Te Anau and Milford Sound (Feb 22-24th)

Ready to leave the cold weather behind, Franca and I set off from Franz Josef for Te Anau, the town with the closest access to Milford Sound. The drive took most of the day but the scenery would have made it worthwhile even without having had an endpoint in mind.


We didn't reach Te Anau until late that evening and somehow we managed to magically turn into the right driveway, despite not being able to see the house numbers. Our contact from CS, Santiago, wasn't home that evening, but we stayed up hanging out with his roomies Mauro, Daniel, and Joseph, as well as their friend Andrew. (This is all five of them.)


The temperature dropped so low that night that I climbed into my sleeping bag while we talked and, still wrapped up tightly, hopped to the bathroom whenever necessary, much to everyone's amusement. When Franca and I looked ready to drop, the boys insisted that we take the double-bed in Mauro and Joseph's room, and they slept on the futon in the living room. Such gentlemen.

(Brief aside: the story goes that Mauro and Santi, friends from back home in Argentina, first lived in the apartment alone. Then Daniel, from Uruguay, moved in, and he and Santi each took one of the twin beds in the first bedroom while Mauro kept the double in the other. Then Joseph, Santi's former travel buddy came into town, and he moved in as well. They figured it was worth saving money to share the double. When Santi warned Mauro that Joseph tended to snuggle up to whoever he slept next to, Mauro simply turned around to Joseph and said, "You touch me, I fuck you." Ha! Upon hearing this story, I said, "I think you forgot the 'up' in that sentence," to which Mauro replied, "No. I like him fearful and not knowing what I mean." Ha!)

Franca and I awoke early the next day to the pitter patter of a steady rain. We went to the DOC to ask their advice about our plans for Milford and hiking the Kepler Track, but the absolutely CHARMING, oh-so-helpful woman behind the counter just couldn't provide any more guidance than pointing to the wall and saying, "There's the weather report." Another tourist noticed our plight and made the suggestion that we consult the owner of the motel where he was staying. It seemed odd, but, having nothing to lose, we made our way to the Alpenhorn. The owner, Tony, a sometime hunter and fisherman who therefore made it his business to keep abreast of Fjordland weather developments, actually pulled up doppler radars and gave us exactly the concise sort of advice we'd been looking for at the DOC: chill out today, do Milford tomorrow, start the Kepler Track the next day. Done!

We spent the day gathering supplies for the track and making use of the boys' washing machine. At one point, Mauro lost his wallet, and I worried that this would cast some doubt on our trustworthiness as house-guests, but fortunately, he found it a few hours later. Santi arrived that evening and greeted us with hugs. You could tell the boys hadn't had a home-cooked meal in a while, especially not one up to Franca's standards, the way they wolfed down most of her gigantic dish of baked ziti and competed over who got to take the left-overs for lunch the next day. We ended the evening drinking wine and chatting as Santi played Beatles songs on his guitar and I sang along.

The next morning Franca and I made the extraordinarily scenic drive to Milford Sound.


We stopped time and again for pictures, including my Sound of Music moment.


(I know. Wrong continent. But the hills were alive, I tell you!)


Of course, the best view awaited us at the end.


In fact, we had stopped so often and stood gaping at the beauty of Mitre Peak so long that we nearly missed our ferry. We arrived just in time to board, and we had our lunch at the bow as we pulled away from the dock. (We had absconded with some of the leftover ziti for ourselves. Don't tell!)


Over the course of the next two hours, we sailed to the start of the sea and back, taking in the rugged majesty of the fjord and its many waterfalls.


On the way back, we stopped at the Mirror Lakes, having passed them by earlier because of a rain cloud we wanted to outrun. (Badasses, that we are, it never caught up with us.) The reflection would have been perfect indeed, had it not been for one stubborn duck who refused to stop riling the water despite my ridiculous calls of, "Shoo, duck, shoo!"


As we approached Te Anau, we were treated to another of New Zealand's epic sunsets....


... complete with rainbow.


We started prepping dinner as soon as we walked into the house, but we still didn't finish before people began to arrive for Daniel's birthday party, so we rather comically had a sit-down dinner with a whole group of guests sitting only five feet away, teasing us heartily. At least there was enough cake for everyone!


For only having lived in Te Anau for a few months, the boys had a large number of friends, both locals and fellow expats.


Franca and I had solemnly sworn to leave at midnight to ensure that we got the rest we needed for our trek the next day, but soon we'd gotten completely caught up in the fun.


Each glass of wine was to be our last, but once the salsa came on, we admitted defeat. The boys couldn't believe we knew how to dance to Latin beats, and they each twirled us around, from one partner to the next.


The birthday boy even showed me how to Lambada.


By 5am, Franca had gone to bed, most of the guests had left, and only Joseph, Santi and I remained.


We marveled at the mess we'd all made, lamented my 8am wake-up time, and finally fell asleep ourselves to the sound of Jim Morrison sining "The End" over the speaker system.

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Location:Te Anau, New Zealand

Franz Josef Glacier (Feb 20th-21st)

Franca and I arrived in the town of Franz Josef early on the evening of the 20th and quickly realized that the town consisted of only two streets, one of which was merely a 500-meter section of the main highway and both of which were lined entirely by shops, restaurants, and accommodations catering to glacier tourists. Finding our hostel didn't take long.
We had made a reservation at Montrose Backpackers by phone earlier that day, but the girl behind the counter, new to her post, had put us in for the wrong day. No more dorm beds were available. This worked to our benefit, however, as the manager offered us a double at the dorm rate, not only for the night in question but for both nights of our stay. Walking in and plopping down on a big comfy bed, our own bathroom situated mere feet away, we counted ourselves very lucky.
That evening, Franca went out for wine, leaving me to cook on my own for the first time. My fish curry didn't quite measure up to hers, but it was passable, and I felt quite proud.




After chatting with some recent Dartmouth grads and running into yet another traveler I had previously met in Sucre, Bolivia, of all places, we called it a night.
The next morning, we walked over to Franz Josef Glacier Guides for our tour. Much debate had ensued the previous day as to whether or not we should merely walk to the lookout point over the glacier, do a half-day tour, or splurge and spend a whole day out on the ice. We chose the latter. (At least I had a coupon.)
Per the instructions, we had each worn three top layers, two bottom layers, heavy socks, and hats. In addition, they outfitted us in waterproof pants and jackets, gigantic wool socks, hiking boots, and wool mittens. Feeling like the bundled-up little brother from "A Christmas Story, we climbed onto the bus for the 10-minute ride to the foot of the glacier.




Due to an optical illusion, the glacier seemed only a few hundred feet away, despite the fact that we would have to walk two miles to reach it from the car park. I realized almost immediately that my camera would be of limited use, as the rain had started to come down in earnest. This hardly shocked anyone, seeing as how we were in the wettest part of New Zealand, where it rained 5 days out of 7. In fact, our guide Niki informed us that the extremely high rate of precipitation in the area was responsible glacier's continued existence, but by the end of the tour, she admitted that we had chanced upon a particularly harsh day.
Our ascent began with climbing on ice covered with rock, dirt, and silt. After half an hour's walk, the uncovered ice began, and Nicki instructed us to put on our crampons-- essentially, metal spikes that attached to the bottom of our hiking boots. She showed us how to slam our feet down, toes pointed, on each step, digging the spikes into the ice and providing (somewhat) secure footing. The cramp-ons weighed a ton and before we'd gone another 200 meters up, my thighs were burning, to say nothing of the damage I inflicted on my knees.




Then it began to really pour, making the morning's rainfall seem like a trickle. Up until today, Franca had served as my good-weather good luck charm. But we figured that if we had to encounter bad weather, at least it was on a glacier and we would have been wrapped up in cold-and-rain gear regardless. True, but tramping on ice isn't exactly easier with rain coming down furiously all around you.
Besides which, I am generally a clumsy bugger.* I had recently crashed a bike and fallen three times on a perfectly dry trail in summery weather. So imagine my nervousness in crossing gorges who knows how many meters deep, moving from a pick-axe-carved tread on one side to one on the other, both made of ice.
Two hours in, we stopped for lunch, eating while standing, our backs turned to the rain, arching our bodies around our food in a futile attempt to keep it dry before shoving it into our mouths. Several members of our group, including Franca, didn't even bother. Even fewer chose to heed nature's call, as none of us wanted to expose our backsides to the cold. Particularly not when our hands had already gone numb as we tried to eat.
The glacier possessed a cruel beauty, with its frozen white waves streaked with black, green, and blue. Unfortunately, the storm raged so severely and brought on such fog that visibility was extremely limited. We couldn't even see the top.
As we finished lunch, Nicki offered us the option to return to the bottom or to continue up another 200 meters to the next plateau. Much to the dismay of the group at large, one man insisted that he had paid for the full tour and he was going to get it. We made it up, looked at the view which, again, because of the visibility, was no more spectacular than the last. As soon as we had arrived, the insistent man slipped, fell, and broke his camera. At that, we turned back around.




The return journey proved even more treacherous. Hiking a glacier is not like hiking a mountain, which has been largely unchanged for centuries. A glacier is an active, moving thing, which morphs daily, and Franz Josef is the fastest morphing glacier in the world. The guides must cut new paths each day. It changed even as we were on it. The landscape appeared radically different as we made our way back down, two guides padding ahead to carve out our trail as we went.
Climbing in such conditions presented enough of a challenge already, on top of which, by this point, I could barely feel my feet. And what I could feel was pain. Pain in parts of my foot that I did not know could hurt. Like the top of my heel.
Franca fell three times; another girl sprained her ankle, and the man with the broken camera fell half a dozen times, silently threatening on each occasion to bring us all down like dominoes. Somehow I stayed entirely upright except in one instance where, twisting backward to avoid the flailing arms of the falling person ahead of me, I didn't so much fall as sit down in slow motion, my crampons stuck in the ice and my thighs unable to fight the momentum of my backswing.




Of course, the rain ceased just as we reached the bottom. Waterfalls, which had not existed when we started the trek, now ran in torrents down the mountainsides and the glacier itself, yet I could barely lift my head to observe their magnificence. I felt about 80 years old. In a single day, I thought, I may have undone six months of physical therapy for my knees. I had spent the day feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and misery. The ice-walk had amounted to one of the most terrifying, taxing challenges I had ever faced, and I had paid $170 for the experience. Reboarding the bus, I felt rather dubious about this. But by the time we had gotten back to town, stripped off and returned our gear, and imbibed some very tasty hot chocolate, I felt glad that I had done it.




That evening, we took advantage of our complimentary soak in the local hot springs, made a quick and easy dinner while an idiotic family film featuring the Rock played in the background, and fell into bed before 8pm, completely knackered.*
*Forgive my occasional use of English jargon, but I have spent so much of my trip in the company of British travelers or Europeans travelers who have learnt English from the British, that the lingo has crept in. Besides, their slang is often so much more evocative than ours. Come on. Don't you kinda wish that we said bullocks and wanker?
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Location:Franz Josef, New Zealand

The West Coast (Feb 19-20th)

The weather forecast for the 19th had been dismal, but the sun shone as Franca and I loaded up the car, so we remained hopeful. We gave a ride to two 19 year-old Dutch gap-year travelers whom we'd met the previous night. They made us feel old, but they were utterly adorable, so we forgave them their youth. We dropped them at a roadside store in Richmond, from where they intended to hitch a ride to their next destination along an alternate route from ours. We wished them well and used the stop as an excuse to visit the nearby berry farm we'd found earlier in the week for another homemade ice cream cone.

Franca slept most of the two-hour inland journey while I attempted to rock out to NZ radio. I say attempted because the reception was intermittent at best and even when a song came on, it was usually the Cranberries, Roxette, that horrendous 90's novelty hit "How Bizarre," or something equally crappy. (Not to say that the Cranberries are crappy, but I hadn't heard them in about 10 years, and I found myself puzzled by their ubiquity on the Kiwi airwaves.) So instead, I mostly amused myself by admiring the scenery.





Franca awoke shortly before we arrived in Wesport, essentially the northernmost town of the West Coast. The town itself hardly merited a stop, but nearby, we found a gorgeous lookout at the egregiously misnamed Cape Foulwind.


We stopped and had lunch, watching the local surfers make their way out into the blue.


We returned the car and had a brief delay while Franca located the maps. This happened frequently throughout our trip. Franca constantly misplaced whichever map we needed at the time, and I was always losing the plastic cover for my memory card reader. Understand, this was not a big car. And yet, there you have it.

Anyway, we got back on the road, and never in my life have I found a drive so rewarding. We made dismally slow time because we felt compelled to pull over ever 20 kilometers or so to take in the view of the ruggedly beautiful coastline.


Every turn seemed to reveal yet another magnificent swathe of shore. Each bluff cried out to be photographed. Renting a car had proven worth every penny.


Toward the end of the day, we came to the Pancake Rocks, a group of stony towers resembling uneven stacks of crepes, piled high. Sadly, we had missed high tide, when the incoming waves spurt up through the spaces between the columns in an apparently spectacular display, but our timing made for many fewer tourists and a picturesque view in any case. Our stay was brief, however, as the sandflies-- who showed a particular affinity for Franca-- soon sent us packing


As the sun began to set, we headed for the home of our CouchSurfing host, just south of Greymouth, halfway down the coast. We nearly lost our way, due to my lack of trust in the directions, but as we turned onto the right road, our new trip maxim proved true once again: when it comes to directions, Franca's always right.

Once we had made it through Cheryl's jungle-like driveway, she greeted us warmly and welcomed us into her charming house-cum-artist's studio. Her limited water and power came only from a well and solar panels, and she didn't have a fridge, so we kept our perishables in the car where they would stay cold over night, washed the dishes in a vat filled with boiled water, and after watching the sunset, chatted into the evening by candlelight.


The next morning, we got our fruit and yoghurt out of the car, made breakfast, and got back on the road, but not before I had made a complete spectacle of myself, chasing Cheryl's adorable pet ducks all over her yard.


We stopped an hour and a half down the road at Hokitika, the center of NZ's famous jade trade. Franca and I each found something for ourselves, and she bought several pieces for friends back home. I also found a beautiful necklace featuring a Maori carving signifying strength and perseverance; I bought it as a birthday present for my sister Stacey.

We spent nearly three hours in Hokitika, most of it admittedly buying groceries, getting gas, and using the internet, but we also stopped by the jade factory, where I found myself more interested in the local artwork on display than by the carving process.


I can't imagine what I found so fascinating.


The road to our next stop eventually took us inland, and for a short while, through more monotonous terrain. Fortunately, we had the ridiculously detailed Kiwi road signs to amuse us. We found this one particularly apt in my case.


Soon enough, however, we once again needed little other than the view outside our windows to hold our attention.


Less than half an hour had passed, and an entirely different landscape was laid out before us. New Zealand certainly was living up to its reputation of featuring stunning examples of every possible sort of terrain. We took it all in and moved on to the next: Franz Josef Glacier.

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Location:The West Coast, New Zealand