Abel Tasman

The finale of my New Zealand trekking adventures was meant to be a meandering coastal walk through Abel Tasman National Park, situated on the northern tip of the South Island. Meandering would insinuate “easy.”

Not so.

Combining a couple 30km days with far more climbs than one would expect from a trail that runs along the beach turned out to possibly be the most challenging hike of the whole trip. Wet feet make for blistery (and stinky) feet, and warm temperatures make for a significantly more draining experience than the previous hikes.

Moaning aside, the 3-day hike was a distinct contrast to the Alpine crossings I’d grown accustomed to. Dense forests, hidden beaches, waves crashing, tidal crossings, and star-filled skies added yet another element to New Zealand’s repertoire. The trek took some significant planning as well, due to the tidal changes of over 15 feet. Entire bays, bone dry at low tide, become impassible later on in the day, filled with water. It was really quite striking to cross nearly a kilometer across shell-filled terrain in the afternoon, only to see your path completely covered the next day, save for trail markers floating in the water across the bay. On one afternoon, a quick swim and clothes washing was in order as we waited for the tide to roll-out, like a giant drain plug was pulled somewhere off the coast.

We passed kayakers making their way from bay to bay, sunbathers soaking up the sun, and new golden sands around every (steep) hill. I think my body somehow got a hold of my brain and found out that my New Zealand hiking time was just about over, because it began to ache, bark, and give out the closer I got to the end. The final kilometer from the end of the trail to our car had to have been the hardest of my entire month on the trails!

And so, it is finished. After nearly 200 miles’ worth of trails, 5 Great Walks, countless bags of tuna and trail mix, and significantly looser pants, my New Zealand trekking is complete.

Easy as.

The Milford Sound

Simply put, cruising the Milford Sound in pristine weather must be the most stunning vista one can achieve in New Zealand. Mitre Peak rises from the water, so steep it’s impossible to fathom that what you’re looking at is a mile above your head. Cliff-side waterfalls 3 times the height of Niagara Falls are made to look like achievable cliff jumps as they’re dwarfed by the sheer size of the surrounding fjord walls carved long ago by massive glaciers. The (incorrectly named) “sound” opens up at the Tasman Sea, and as the boat turned around to head back in through the mighty mountain gates, we were greeted with the view as seen by early explorers meandering their way along the coast. Oh, to happen upon such a jaw-dropping scene on their journey. What a rush it must have been, finding yourself in a place never meant to be found.

The entire cruise heightened my desire to explore. Perhaps when I’m an astronaut someday, I’ll find something similar on Mars, or one of Saturn’s moons. Until then, I must settle for imagining I’m the first to ever lay eyes on these beautiful veins of still water amidst monstrous rock.

My day will come...

The Kepler Track

Since two treks weren’t quite enough, it was time to tackle my 3rd Great Walk in the Fiordland region. This time, a fellow hiker/co-worker/friend from California was along for the ride. The Kepler Track is relatively new compared to the Milford and Routeburn, but no less impressive. Unlike the others, much of the trek is spent high above the tree line, making for some incredible panoramas for the better part of a long day of hiking. Thankfully the weather was decent enough, as getting stuck exposed to the elements for 7 or 8 miles would not have been fun. It was adventure enough surviving the 50 mph gusts throughout the day! And the sleet. And the rain. A side track to a deep network of caves added to the smattering of mint green mosses, lake views, peak summits, and half a dozen rainbows.

At this point, I think I’ve reached the point of being sufficiently overwhelmed. The scenery just continues to impress incessantly. Trekking along the ridges, with the trail in sight a mile ahead of me, snaking along the next ridge ahead, I was almost giddy. Never mind the sore feet and 10th straight lunch of tuna and pita I’d just eaten, I would not have chosen to be anywhere else in the world at that moment. An excellent reminder that at this point in time I am right where I need to be.

More peaks. More views. More valleys. More forests. More waterfalls. More crazy Alpine Parrots. Throw in some friends to share it all with, and you’re left with nothing but smiles and smelly clothes.

What more could you ask for?

The Milford Track

Touted as “The Finest Walk in the World,” the Milford Track in another of New Zealand’s Great Walks, the most famous of all. I booked my reservation 6 months ago, just as this trip became a remote possibility in my head. Perhaps famous for famous’ sake, the Milford Track requires very advanced booking, as people from all over the world have the walk on their individual bucket lists. Going in, I did my best to leave my measuring stick in the hostel, as comparisons and superlatives typically provide nothing but unrealized expectations and unsolicited opinions.

Getting to the track is an adventure in itself. A one-hour boat ride from a remote dock on the edge of Lake Te Anau brings you to the trailhead, as a backdrop of mountainside layers is silhouetted by the morning rainclouds. The first day is a short one, just over 3 miles across some precarious swing bridges through forest similar to that of the Routeburn Track. The 2nd day, as per usual, was a wet one. The rain came incessantly from morning until evening. This time, however, I embraced it. The waterfall faucets I’d watched turn on along the Routeburn Track paled in comparison to what I would witness on the Milford. Making my way through the steep valley, I was surrounded my cascading waterfalls. With every few hundred feet, more came into view, one cluster more dramatic than the next. From every nook and cranny of the mountainside came the water, crashing down into either a lake below or what seemed like newly formed streams. I pushed on through the deluge, stopping only when I couldn’t help but be in awe that every sound I heard was a product of the water falling down on me.

The spattering of the rain on my pack.

The splash of my foot into a puddle.

The crashing of the waterfalls from the cliffs.

The rush of the ever-rising creeks.

Wet days gave way to warm nights surrounded by 40 other fortunate adventures, all from different walks of life, all with different stories as to how and why they got to the Milford Track. Staying in the huts was obligatory on the Track, and while I was initially disappointed I wouldn’t be able to camp, eating dinner under some shelter while my clothes dried next to the fire wasn’t something I was willing to complain about.

As if I was being rewarded for being somewhat of a good sport during my not-so-nice weather experience on the Routeburn, day 3 brought with it the most beautiful weather a hiker could ask for, and with it, the highlight of the track. Climbing Mackinnon pass in the morning hours, it was as though I was walking out to presents on Christmas morning. I had no idea what I was about to receive, but I knew it was going to be good. As I reached the pass, with the sun beginning to come up through two peaks, I stood transfixed by the setting in which I had somehow found myself. Flanked by two glacier carved valleys, draped in peaks both near and far, the morning dew glistening in the morning sun, I was standing in a novel. The type of scene you see on those famous Instagram accounts I’m trying to one day have, or a movie that you know must be CGI’d. I was on top of the world, and yet again, I felt so small. I relished the moment while I could before the rest of the hikers made it to the top. Making my way down the pass, I was nothing short of elated, singing to myself with the birds and the breeze. The day ended with a side trip to supposedly the 5th highest waterfall in the world, and a freezing cold dip in the river, just as I’d drawn it up.

The final day of the trek was once again through deep forests, with panoramas scattered along the way upon arrival at a clearing or previous rock slide. It was a relaxing denouement to the action from the day before, and bittersweet upon arrival at the signpost signaling I’d just completed the famed Milford Track.

A boat ride to the start of Milford Sound, with more towering peaks, this time emerging straight from the water, was a startling conclusion to what had already been an incredible trip, as if the country was reminding me that I shouldn’t dare relax and think I’d seen it all yet. That’s New Zealand for you I guess, with the end of one adventure comes another beautiful sight to behold.   

The Finest Walk in the World? Maybe, but does it really matter?

The Routeburn Track

With tent and sleeping bag in hand, I packed my bags full of tuna fish, pita bread, and chocolate, my diet for the next few days out on the trail. The Routeburn Track is one of New Zealand’s Great Walks, multi-day trails serviced with both sleeping huts and campsites, allowing access to even more of this beautiful country, where the famous roads can’t quite take an adventurer.

I started the track in the middle of a nice rainstorm, which thankfully didn’t pose as much of a discomfort as expected due to the 1st hour and a half of walking through thick beech forest. Expecting more alpine trees, I felt as though I was in some sort of rainforest, with ferns lining the trail, mountain parrots barking at me in the distance, and deep shades of green on top, below, and around the trees. The rain slowed just long enough for me to set up my tent in some flatlands below a jagged peak that seemed to rise from the nothingness surrounding it like a piece of Toblerone on a Christmas cookie. The rain continued through the afternoon, though when the low-hanging clouds would clear, I’d catch a glimpse of the source of the constant thundering in the distance. In the Fiordland area, with rain comes waterfalls, and a lot of them. Gushing down the sides of the mountain, as if a faucet is turned on and off with each passing cloud.

Day 2 provided clearing skies in the morning, as I made my way up and over the pass to Harris Saddle. Climbing around then over a beautiful Alpine lake encircled in peaks, looking down on my campsite from the night before, I felt as though a new part of my adventure had begun. Rather than viewing New Zealand from the side of the road, I was deep into the heart of the backcountry. The lure of meeting people from around the world, the joys of sharing travel experiences, all this disappeared. The mountains were my companions, the trail my lone source of wanderlust. Upon crossing the saddle, the weather turned, not nasty, but downright cruel. There wasn’t much rain to speak of, but the fog blanketed the mountainside, and with it, the valley below and ranges in the distance. For 2.5 hours, I saw nothing but the trail a couple dozen meters in front of me and the sharp cliffs to my right. There was an air of mystery to the whole experience, as I’d distanced myself from the other hikers. If I were to fall, I doubted there’d be anyone to hear, let along see me as I tumbled down. The rain came, and, for the first time on this trip, I admittedly became discouraged. I don’t mind the rain, but when it’s served with blinding fog, one begins to question the timing of the whole operation.

Should I have maybe checked the weather?

What all was I missing out on?

Thankfully, just after reaching my low point mentally in the demanding 16-mile day, the sun began to come out. Blue skies were never more beautiful as I trekked past 500ft tall waterfalls and peaceful lakes that I could actually see across. The long and wearing day made for a good night’s sleep, and I awoke to more beautiful weather as I finished the track with a backdrop of snow covered peaks.

As I reflect on the trek, I could have used some more cooperative weather, but an afternoon of fog and rain couldn’t remotely offset the exhilaration of crossing over and under the jagged peaks, dense forests, and thundering waterfalls that aptly characterize the Routeburn Track.

A Great Walk indeed.

Queenstown

Queenstown is New Zealand’s adrenaline capital, famous for not only it’s great setting between multiple mountain ranges, but for the gamut of activities it affords, from jet-boat rides through narrow canyons, to the highest bungy and swings you can find on this side of the world. As soon as we arrived, I knew I was going to really enjoy this place. The combination of great outdoors as well as restaurants and activities makes it a place I could see myself returning to for extended periods of time. A second home? A winter home? A summer home? Yes, yes, and yes, but more on that later, there’s adventures to be had first.

Having already sky-dived and bungy-jumped before, we chose our poison to be the canyon jet-boats and the swing, which involved jumping (or being pushed off) a ledge, free-falling for a while, then swinging out over the river below. A rush, no doubt. The jet-boat felt like those old arcade games where you sat on a jet ski (Hydro Thunder?) and raced through twisting turns, hitting the boost button whenever it was available to shoot you along faster and faster. While there were no 100 foot drops or flips involved, the 360° spins and brushes with the canyon walls provided all the rush and g-forces I needed for a thrill.

A gondola ride later, the Queenstown panorama was on full display as we soaked in the views from the top of the town. Not to come down from the adrenaline high, we raced street luges from the top down a windy course that was just distracting enough with its views for me to run into a few walls on the way down.

The final act of our adventure was the Shotover Canyon Swing. As described above, not much stands between you and the river below, and the crew members do a great job of reminding you just how much your lives rest in their hands. As you can see, we braved the leap, though one of us was slightly more excited about the situation than the other. Fear overcome, the option to do a second swing was clearly a no-brainer, with slightly more theatrics involved this time.

A farewell to Queenstown and to Tiffany, the call of New Zealand’s Great Walks fills the air…

Chasing Peaks

After completing the West Coast Highway, we turned inland, through Wanaka, and back north, this time on the eastern face of the Southern Alps range. As I’ve now come to expect, the scene changed dramatically. The hills became arid as we carved through valleys surprisingly devoid of sheep. Greens turned to yellows, as drastic peaks began emerging from the flatlands.

Back in the states, I’d watched a show on Netflix titled, Departures, that followed two young travelers on their trips around the world. I vividly remember the episode on New Zealand, and a scene that involved some air guitar in an arid valley with the backdrop of a massive peak. In my search to re-create this scene, minus the air guitar and plus a shirt, I constantly veered off to the side of the road, thinking this must be the place. As it turns out, that scene was actually filmed on the North Island. Go figure.

Not to be bothered, my roadside detours continued as the backdrop was just too good to pass up. Upon arrival at Lake Pukaki, a bluer than blue lake at the foot of Mt. Cook, we detoured into the mountains to set up our room with a view for the evening, before embarking on a short day hike up to the foot of fog-laden Mt. Cook the following day. No matter, it seems as though when the panoramas are hidden by the weather, it’s easier to notice the simple beauty right in front of your face, like mountain parrots and low-rise rainbows.

As the weather cleared and the afternoon sun lingered, we made south for Queenstown, where adventure and adrenaline await. Another road trip in the books, this one filled with everything from glowworms to glaciers, lakes more brilliant than the clear sky in Montana, and an unanticipated addition: Good Company.

West Coastin'

The rocky cliffs of the West Coast are draped in dense forests, interrupted by the Southern Alps containing New Zealand’s biggest peaks, namely, Mt. Cook. It seems as though every hour or so, the scenery changes, with something new and spectacular to see. The Pancake Rock formations added a little mystery to the setting, while the Franz Josef and Fox glaciers were a stern reminder of the power and scale of our alpine surroundings. Throw in some beach sunsets and lake reflections, and it becomes difficult for the senses to keep up.

In my attempt to process the scene unfolding before me, what strikes me most isn’t necessarily one sight in particular. I’ve yet to think to myself that what I’m seeing is surely better than anything I’ve witnessed or experienced before. The mountains of Patagonia are more striking. The Whitsunday beaches more heavenly. The Swiss landscape a deeper green. The Amalfi Coast roads more precarious. What’s most baffling is that all of these almost-as-good landscapes were a part of a 3 hour drive down the coast. Not only that, there’s nothing particularly special about this given 3-hour stretch. Close your eyes and point to a place on the New Zealand map and odds are you’re going to find the same diversity of scenery within a 100 kilometer radius. Travelling New Zealand by car is truly the epitome of sensory overload. I can’t stop taking photos. It’s almost as though at this point I’m more irked that it’s even possible for one tiny country to contain this much geographic diversity and photo ops. Just stop it, already.

At some point, I’m hoping I find a long stretch of road, like I-5 carving its way up through central California, with nothing in particular to see but open space, where I can relax the senses for just long enough to exhale and mentally recover before arriving at the next panorama.

As it stands now, though, I’m not holding my breath…

The Road Beckons

After ditching the car for a few days while swimming with the dolphins in Kaikoura, I quickly corrected my mistake once I made it down to Christchurch. After picking up a hometown friend from the airport, off we went into the countryside, up and over Arthur’s Pass and down towards the West Coast, where mountains, glaciers, and pancakes await.

By virtue of a late start and dumb luck, we found camp on the first evening just below the pass, where there happened to be a short trail that led to a riverbank inhabited by glowworms. Unlike my previous experience in the cave, this time the glowworms spread out all around, just a finger’s length away. As our eyes adjusted, the glowworms multiplied, as though clouds in the night sky were drifting away to reveal the Milky Way. Constellations appeared almost directly over our heads, adding a bit to the confusion as to whether we were still outside along the river or perhaps somehow inside some sort of cave. As the headlamps came on, the glow dimmed and the riverbank came back into focus, the glowworm sky once again hidden to the un-adjusted eye.

Back on the road again in the morning, the mountains gave way to rocky coastline, dense green forest, sunshine, and anticipation for what the road held in store for us next.

Swimming with Dolphins

After my whirlwind trip around the North Island, I made the crossing from Wellington through the Marlborough sounds, arriving in my home for the next month: The South Island. As I’ve mentioned, the South Island is meant to be the more beautiful of the two. We’ll see about that…

I arrived in sleepy Kaikoura in the afternoon, struck by the massive mountains that loom over the rocky coast. Tucked in the shadow of the mountains lies a town known for both its sea life and seafood. Dolphins, Whales, Seals, and Crayfish are the main draws of the area, and, walking into my hostel, I’d given in to the reality that my lack of planning ahead was going to cost me my chance to do something that’d been on many previous versions of my bucket list: Swim with wild dolphins. While all the tours were booked for the foreseeable future, I was given a glimmer of hope as the hostel receptionist called in to put me on the wait-list. Fingers crossed for good weather and cancellations.

As I walked the coastline out to the seal colony the following morning, I received the call I’d been hoping for. A spot had opened up in the next tour, an hour from now. Naturally, I was 45 minutes out of town, so a brisk (and sweaty) walk was required to make it back in time to hop on the boat and head out to sea.

I’ve been having a difficult time putting words to the euphoria I felt being dropped into a pod of well over 100 dolphins swimming, jumping, and back-flipping all around me. Nearly the entire time in the water, I was border-line hyperventilating trying to keep up with each passing cluster of the happiest animals in the world. At one point, I began spinning in circles, only to have one of my new-found friends follow my twirls for a couple rounds before deciding it was time to leap a few feet out of the water and move on to the next party. The raucous was never-ending, as each time I assumed the dolphins had moved on, I’d pop my head out of the water to see an onslaught of fins headed my way. Pure elation is really the only way I can describe my state of mind.

After being called back to the boat, we watched the pod from a new vantage point, a front row seat to the endless spectacle of flips, spins, and jumps that seem to be the only items on these creatures’ daily agendas.

And I thought I had it good...

Traveler or Transient?

Self-identifying as a backpacker has a certain nostalgia associated with it. There’s an aura of freedom, maybe even a little adventure. Some may think you’re brave, or exciting, or just plain lucky. Driving the New Zealand countryside over the last week, as my rear-view mirror was, most likely illegally, obstructed with bags, clothes, and sleeping pads strewn about in the back of the car, I had to chuckle a bit. Three days removed from my last shower, having just contorted my way from my sleeping bag in the not-quite-long-enough backseat of my hatchback Corolla into the driver’s side, I had a bit of an inner dialogue trying to make the determination whether I was simply a typical backpacker to be slightly envious of, or if I was actually just a glorified homeless person. The jury is still out, but as it stands now, I have no job and no home address of my own. The time and location of my next shower is a mystery. I would imagine in some states, depending on how you look at it, this might qualify me as being legally homeless.

Speaking of which, perspective can be a funny thing. Before I crawled into my bed/backseat one evening, I looked around the campsite and, as I’d done each night before, looked up. As it had the previous night, and the night before that, and the night before that, the Milky Way dominated the night sky. I’d be hard-pressed to remember the last time I’d seen the Milky Way for a week straight. As I gazed, I had a bit of a realization that, while I am not always present to see it, this spectacular light show happens every single night. The stars are always there. The beauty is always there. Wonder and awe is waiting to be experienced by someone, somewhere, with every passing night. More often than not, though, they’re hidden. City lights. Cloudy skies. Bitter cold. The comfort of the roof over our head. These obstructions, both real and notional, keep us from experiencing what is ever-presently waiting to be enjoyed.

Coming back down to Earth, I’d like to think the same goes for the experiences of travel. Or really, whatever you may find beauty in, but never seem to grasp. It’s there, waiting. Every day and every night. Perhaps you have an obstacle in the way, like the clouds so often block the Milky Way, but I believe it imperative to realize that your adventure, your experience, your treasure, is there for the taking. It just might take a little change in scenery. And maybe some stinky shirts.

If a few missed showers and a backseat that doubles as both a bed and a closet is all it takes to grab hold of my own adventure, then a transient I shall be…

Glowworm Caves

As time goes on, I’m starting to not buy the whole narrative of the North Island not being nearly as beautiful as the south. In less than a week, I’ve managed to island hop, explore the Kauri forests, pass by giant sand dunes, dig a hole on the beach and have it fill with piping hot water, cross over volcanoes, and drive through more majestically green sheep-filled hills than I imagined existed. Perhaps I will stand corrected when I make it to the south, but the north is most definitely nothing to shake a stick at.

The final adventure on the north was not something that could be seen from the highway. This adventure involved abseiling 100 feet down into the caves of Waitamo. Upon descending into the cave, zip-lining over, then jumping into the river below, I was transported into a world of what looked like stars dotting the sky, and peculiarly, the walls surrounding me. Only, we weren’t outside. We were deep in the ground, devoid of light. And these weren’t stars, but glowworms. Hundreds of glowworms illuminating the caves like constellations for Captain Cook. Looking up from my floaty, I could make out the contours of the cave all around me. Not from actually being able to see them, but from the glowworms stuck in every nook and cranny. It was captivating staring up into the glowing sky in complete silence, save the quiet murmur of the river upstream. Once again, I’d been transported into a world foreign to any other I’d experienced before.

Following the glowworm spectacle, the adventure was back on, as we spent a couple hours exploring through the cave, scaling waterfalls, spotting eels, squeezing into far-too-tight spaces, and just generally enjoying navigating a maze 100 ft. below the ground in the pitch dark. Finally, we emerged out of the ground through a nondescript stream that so non-nonchalantly disguised what it had hidden in its depths.

Back up to the surface, I was on the road again…

Tongariro Crossing

Touted as New Zealand’s best 1-day walk, the Tongariro Crossing is a one-way journey up and over 3, most definitely active, volcanoes. Completing the crossing can be tricky, as gales often prevent trekkers from making it across. Thankfully, I could not have had better weather, as the skies were crystal clear from sunrise through to late afternoon.

I began the trek just before sunrise, with the dawn light silhouetting the ominous peak that lay in front of me. As day broke and I climbed higher, the views of the valley below, spotted with distant peaks, were soon to be hidden as I crossed a saddle into what looked like the surface of the moon. Barren flatland, maybe a dozen football fields wide and long, was dotted with strange boulders that had one time been blown from the surrounding volcanoes. The colorless landscape would have been especially creepy in the fog, but thankfully I had nothing but blue skies ahead.

After crossing the wasteland, one more climb lay ahead before I reached the high point of the trek. After a bit of a scramble, I stood at the top of the crossing, an ominous volcano to my right, a deep red crater just below, and a series of brightly colored lakes, flanked in steam from the vents down to my left. It was striking. I felt tiny, yet at the same time powerful, as though I was feeding off the energy of the peak. For Lord of the Rings fans, yes, that is Mount Doom. And I may or may not have tried to throw a ring inside…

After an extended lunch at the top, I made my way down the mountain, around the lakes that contained more colors than an artist’s pallet, and over to the other side, with Lake Taupo off in the distance serving as a constant backdrop to my descent. The last few kilometers of the trek passed through dense forest, yet another landscape contained within the trek.

After finishing the crossing, I rode the shuttle bus back to my car, and took off for my next adventure.

A shower can wait, there’s no rest for a traveler on a mission.

The Shire

Being that I am in Middle Earth and all, I thought it necessary to pay a visit to the Hobbits down at the Shire. Truly in the middle of nowhere, a small farm was transformed into the Shire for the famous Lord of the Rings trilogy that was released in the early 2000’s. Hordes of fans, nerds, and tourists flock to Hobbiton to check out the preserved set.

Expecting to be underwhelmed, I was mistaken. Dozens of Hobbit holes dot the hillside, all intricately designed and maintained. It’s quite big as well, as the tour took well over an hour to walk through it all, finishing off with a drink on the lake looking out over the cozy village. Though there was no sign of Frodo or Bilbo, I must say the Hobbits chose a great setting for the Shire, as I wouldn’t mind living there one bit, enjoying the view of the rolling pastures and lakeside.

If only I could fit through the doors…

Welcome to New Zealand

Just like that, a month has already passed in my retirement, and with it, my time in Australia. Without fail, no matter how much time I plan in a given country, it’s never enough. There’s always more to see, more to experience, more to add to the list. Thankfully, I can always return, and perhaps I will sooner rather than later.

As for now, though, it’s on to greener pastures (literally). Upon arrival in New Zealand, I was immediately struck by how green most everything on the North Island was. Greens I hadn’t seen since my time in Switzerland and Austria however many years ago. Rolling hills running into dense forests, up to scraggly peaks, back down into rolling hills, the sheer amount of open space on such a small land mass is truly refreshing.

The best way to experience the heart of what New Zealand has to offer is to drive its roads. So, I rented a car/home for a week, and off I went, zig-zagging my way from Auckland down to Wellington, the major hubs and the tips of the north island. My first stop was at the Bay of Islands, a string of islands out along the coast, with bright green hills and dolphin-filled turquoise waters. Cruising straight under the “Hole in the Rock” and scaling islands for some impressive panoramas made for a great introduction to New Zealand. Apparently, it only gets more beautiful as you head south.

I have a feeling I’m going to like it here…