The Last Go 'Round In Queenstown

Jaclyn had been all suited up and ready to go, her nerves being tested with every passing second as she waited, watching the group before her enter the plane to either have the best experience of their lives or to meet their maker. It had been a brisk morning but by the time we’d gotten through the formalities (like all that safety nonsense) the sun was shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky; a beautiful day to fall at 60 meters per second from 12,000 feet in the air. We all watched the bright red plane take off and go back and forth, increasing in altitude as it went, but then it did something we didn’t expect. It came back. The winds had apparently gone past the threshold required for safe jumping and so everyone had to come back to Earth for a while and wait it out. At first I felt bad for Jaclyn who would have to go through the process of getting herself psyched up all over again, but in her wisdom she pointed out that those unlucky enough to be in the plane and on the precipice of the most monumental leap of their lives were the biggest victims and I concurred. We waited for half an hour while all the instructors played soccer in the hangar only to find out that the entire day was a no-jump day. The day, sadly, was a wash but we drank our troubles away with one of the many bottles of vino we had left over from our Marlborough expedition. To our immense satisfaction the next day was as clear as could be and first thing in the morning Jaclyn was being strapped up all over again. This time we got the pleasure of following the big red plane up through the sky and watching the little specks of white as they turned into human beings in flamboyant jumpsuits floating through the sky like petals in the wind. It’s at that moment when that little spot of color in the sky can be distinguished as be a person that all those waiting to go let out one synchronized ‘holy shit’. Finally, it was Jaclyn’s turn. She, along with 3 others, marched boldly to the plane while I sat on the relative comfort of a picnic table top. I watched the plane as it followed the same path as before and just as it reached the critical height something funny happened. I knew that Jaclyn had drawn the short straw and would be the first out of the plane and I did indeed see one white speck leave the plane and I let out a sigh that was a mixture of relief and pride. The strange thing was that no one else could be seen leaving the plane. Even after she had done her 45 second free fall at terminal velocity and her parachute had been deployed, no other person could be seen to have exited the plane. I could only think of two possible explanations; one is that the next person in line had decided that throwing themselves from a perfectly good plane wasn’t exactly for them, thus ruining it for the next people in line, or two, that the wind had picked up again and they needed to return which would’ve seen Jaclyn in a bit of a pickle. As soon as my little pocket camera could detect her I was filming her descent; for over a minute I captured her floating gently down and finally landing before walking over to me filming and repeating the pre-jump mantra of ‘holy shit’ only this time with a huge smile smeared across her face as opposed to a look of utter terror. Jaclyn got changed out of her jumpsuit and we were strolling back to the van having forgotten about the other jumpers when all three simultaneously swooped in over our heads and landed comfortably in the drop zone. Whatever the reason for the delay, they arrived safe and sound. Thus is the tale of how we started our morning that day before heading off to our final destination. I suppose the one regret I have concerning this massive trip is not saving the best for last. Queenstown would’ve been the place to do it too but the marathon of insanity I partook in last time I passed through kinda left the bar a little high. Still, with but 3 days left of my grand adventure (if you don’t include the 30th and 31st which will be spent globetrotting to various airports without a moment’s peace) Jac and I tried to soak in the experience as much as we could. The last night in Wanaka was the last we’d spend in our faithful little campervan Avatar. She’s been a real gem this whole time, making many a-traveller jelly and being kind to us on the fuel front. We decided to upgrade to a hostel for this last stretch for two reasons; firstly because we wanted the privacy to fully relax and enjoy our time here and secondly because we desperately needed the extra space to store and eventually organize all the shit we’ve bought and need to cart home. Personally, I will be donating the better part of my wardrobe to the good people at the Salvation Army and I have to say I won’t be sad to see a lot of it go having worn most of it far too often over the last 4 and a half months. I’ve even managed to fit all my belongings into my blue backpack despite having brought along an empty guitar case to act as my 2nd checked bag. One thing I insisted on having Jaclyn try was the phenomenon that is Fergburger. We walked by it on our tour of the town and found it just as it was when I was here before; packed. Only this time, there was something new for me to experience! Just next door they had opened a new shop cleverly titled Fergbaker where they’re distributing some of those amazing pies I mentioned before only infused with that same illicit, addictive drug (I’m assuming cocaine) Ferg puts into his burgers that makes them so damn tasty. Naturally we each had a pie for lunch saving the burger for dinner. Speaking of dinner at Fergburger, when was the last time you had been told there would be a 30 minute wait at what is essentially a fast food joint? Only at Fergburger would they dare have the nerve to say that with a straight face and only at Fergburger would you squeeze yourself inside like a pack of sardines and wait like an expecting father for your number to be called. Last time I was here I had gone in with the expectation that I would order the largest burger they had, and I thought that I did, but I was wrong. Mr. Big Stuff, despite the name implying the contrary, is not the largest burger on the menu. Not by a longshot. I rectified my error this time through by purchasing the $17 Big Al, a monstrous creation, presumably forged in the fires of Mount Doom by Sauron himself. It contains every item that your previously favorite burger has except in larger amounts and higher quality. It was a monumental occasion not only because it was easily the best burger I’d ever eaten but also because it holds the distinction of being the only burger that has ever made me full enough to not even want to look at the accompanying side dish. I’d love to tell you that we did something more exciting and productive than eat a burger on our first night in Queenstown but I’d be lying. We had made plans to head to a waterfront pub to watch the final rugby test match between the All Blacks and the Aussies but the burger sent us both into a meat coma which we wouldn’t awaken from until the next morning. On the second day Jaclyn took a 12 hour tour by bus to Milford Sound and I used that time to clean out the van, pack my bags and then just relax. I went down to a café right on the beach with one of the most spectacular views in the world (and I don’t throw that phrase around lightly), sipped a flat white and, inspired, wrote some ideas down into a notebook. I was so comfortable I didn’t notice until the last minute when some crazy person floated over my head in a paragliding apparatus. He had clearly jumped from a mountain top about 10 minutes previously and he executed a perfect landing on the beach not 10m from my table and proceeded to casually stroll into town (I’m assuming to Fergburger). Only in Queenstown would that be an accepted sight. I can’t wait to see what the reckless people here conjure up next in terms of adrenaline activities. I’m sure I’ll come back in a few years to find some company that’s offering to fire you out of a cannon into the sun for $50. Monday, our last day and we’ll be taking a cruise down Lake Wakatipu, playing some Frisbee golf in Queenstown Gardens, maybe even go skating on their ice rink. Jaclyn has been gracious enough to treat me to a classy last meal (that sounds ominous) for being the driver of this extensive road trip. Tomorrow morning we drop old Avatar off at the airport and begin the long journey home. The end has come.

August 23rd to 26th - The Fudge Principle

It was the best kind of déjà vu to be back on the wine trail in Marlborough though I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a tad worried that those manning their posts at the various cellar doors would remember the tall, pasty Canadian who was there only a few months before demanding all the free wine entitled to him. My worries were for nothing as even those I distinctly remembered didn’t remember me so I was free to sample to my heart’s content and sample I did. I had warned Jaclyn that the close proximity of the wineries means that pacing is very much a real issue. Had it not been for a number of closures for the final days of winter we may not have made it around the first corner as the distributors were being most generous on this lovely afternoon. Since leaving the blizzard-like conditions of Wellington we have been blessed with nothing but pure sunshine and a distinct lack of clouds. This last bit of holiday has been wonderful for the simple reason that choice has flown out the window; I mean this in a positive light so allow me to give you an example. We had just finished a giant lunch under the shade of an overhang and were consulting the map as to our next destination when a sign promoting a fudge factory caught my eye. It has come to pass that we no longer hold debate in our minds and weigh the pros and cons of a yes or a no decision, before our brains can process these things we have been in and out of said fudge factory with multiple flavors each. It didn’t matter that we were both immensely full after our big lunch, it was a matter of principle; if you are on a holiday and you see fudge you buy it, even if just to take a small piece and throw the rest away. We could’ve justified it by taking into account the ungodly amount of biking we did that afternoon but I’m talking about all the other times we were faced with similar decisions. At the beginning of a holiday you must withhold the thought process and go through with the something amazing yet essentially unnecessary like sky diving, at the end of a holiday the same applies to candy and baked goods. Anyway, just like last time we were unable to drink that sweet nectar without purchasing a bottle or two, or 8, which did require a small bit of justification which was found in the form of the souvenir. Ah yes, the souvenir, the delight of everyone else but the bane of my existence. Jaclyn has put me to such shame picking up everything from tea towels to possum fur nipple warmers for people ranging from grandparents to piano teachers. Not as if they needed her custom; the New Zealand knick knack industry is thriving as tourists congregate by the busload and pay through the roof for little stuffed kiwis bearing t-shirts that say ‘sweet as!’ or some other kiwi catchphrase. That being said, if this had been an off year for this particular industry then Ms. Fedorus would singlehandedly be putting these shop owners children through college with her many contributions. The upside to this for you the reader, which I now assume is limited to family and very close friends, is that it has prompted me to follow suit though with a noticeably larger amount of selectivity. Sorry neighbour’s children and 3rd cousins, you shall not be receiving a shirt with a sheep in sunglasses with the slogan ‘baaah’d to the bone’, not from me leastways. Despite our wishes to provide all of you with your own bottle of classy wine we realized that we wouldn’t be able to bring them all back into Canada with us. We therefore are faced with the arduous yet delicious chore of polishing off 4 bottles over 4 days so that our purchases were not in vain. With Christchurch still being under the weather and recipient of the world’s lumpiest roads award we spent a fine evening along the beach and away from most of the destruction watching The Two Towers over one of said bottles. Rather than linger we pushed off aimlessly southwards and into Central Otago’s Lake District. We put many miles under our treads that day, powered by sushi and chocolate milk, and made it all the way to Wanaka. We took the scenic route and stopped for photos and videos at all sorts of glacial lakes including a lunch break overlooking Mount Aoraki/Cook, the tallest mountain in New Zealand and the one that kiwi icon Sir Edmund Hillary cut his teeth on before becoming the first man to climb Mount Everest. I had wished to get some video of me playing ukulele in the presence of the mountain but to our horror we discovered that we had left the little guy on a log on the beaches of Christchurch. I proposed that there was a bright side; there would now be more room in our luggage for wine, but it was a small consolation. We will now have to pick up a better ukulele in Queenstown to replace our fallen brethren. That is of course if Jaclyn survives today! By which, of course, I mean her first ever (and probably only) skydiving experience! Since you have to take a mortgage out on your home to afford even the most basic jump package I will be jumping vicariously through Jaclyn and I’ll get to fix the mistake I made last time; not filming the experience! Hopefully, if all goes according to plan, the good folks who delight in hurling people 12,000 feet from airplanes will be kind enough to allow me near the drop zone so I can get all Spielberg with my angles and create a compelling documentary. This video and picture montage I will be putting together upon my return will be nothing if not random but it will feature bungee jumps, skydives and me juggling pinecones while singing in front of the tallest mountain in New Zealand. I expect to sweep the Oscars.

August 16th to 22nd - Swanky Suites > Savage Seas

They called it a ‘once in a lifetime’ event; we call it routine. Yes, there was snow falling in Wellington (and even a little in Auckland), yes these cities are at sea level and yes it was all more than a bit out of the ordinary but while we Canadians got over it in a matter of seconds, it clearly was a bigger deal to New Zealanders. My old housemate Elspeth would always laugh at how the kiwi news programs love to dwell on the most inconsequential happenings around the country and then proceed to repeat them ad nauseum as if doing so will increase their worthiness to air. Two fine examples being the penguin that washed up on the Kapiti Coast which was needlessly named ‘Happy Feet’ and the scandalous scandal concerning the price of the All Blacks jersey on the local market (which saw some die-hards burning Adidas flags in the streets). This just goes to confirm that life moves a bit slower down here and that even people as nuts for rugby as kiwis can only stomach so many reports on the upcoming World Cup. Anyway, back to my tale of whimsy and wonder. The last you heard from our intrepid hero he was stuck in Wellington by a certain weather phenomenon that had the country in an uproar. Streets were barricaded and shops closed for business meaning we were essentially stuck indoors while we waited for the seas to calm. Jaclyn knitted and I wrote joke tunes on the guitar and before we knew it two whole days had passed and we were still no closer to the South Island than before. We decided to make a push on the Wednesday morning even though we called the ferry company who could only offer us something vaguely resembling an answer in response to our inquiries about the safety of a Cook Strait crossing. We left our van waiting in the queue to stock up on supplies for the journey and my umbrella blew itself inside out. A little side note here; for those of you that don’t know, kiwis love their pies. I’m not talking about apple or blueberry or the kind you find cooling on the windowsill of Grandma’s house but those of the mini, on-the-go and filled with savoury filling variety. It would be sacrilegious for a corner store (or ‘dairy’ as they’re known colloquially) to not have a hot box of heated shelves full of little meat pies. I mention this because I, along with Jaclyn, have fallen in love with this particular convenience, especially the butter chicken ones. If ever you get a chance to experience some kiwiana, you’ll be directed to either the standard meat pies or the bacon and egg, but trust me, in this every changing multi-cultural society of ours, butter chicken pies are the wave of the future. So we have our pies and we have our ferry tickets and we’re sitting in the van waiting for the go ahead. The strange thing is…it doesn’t come. We get requested to wait inside the terminal before a judgement call can be made because on what one dock worker reports as ‘8 meter swells’. Now I’m no sea salt but even I know that an 8m wave must be bloody dangerous so, speaking as someone who gets seasick on a waterbed, I’m thrilled at the prospect of postponing the crossing for another day. After an hour delay we are herded onto the boat where we are made to wait another 4 hours. Luckily (or, as some, myself included, would say, unluckily) for us they were kind enough to screen free Disney movies so we passed the time watching such Lindsay Lohan gems as Herbie Fully Loaded. Don’t watch it, Herbie wins, Lohan kisses the love interest, it’s appalling. I think the bigwigs at Bluebridge Ferries eventually realize that it’s mostly freight workers on board so they decide to say ‘best of luck’ to the general public and we go and attempt the crossing. The next 4 hours can be summarized as me lying on a bench much too small for my large frame, sweating and cursing Poseidon and all other sea deities I can remember, passing in and out of some nauseated existence some might call consciousness. All the while the ship (and a mighty large one at that) is getting tossed around like a rag doll by waves the size of apartment buildings. The greatest achievement of the evening wasn’t that we made it across but that I don’t vomit all over the poop deck. After recuperating in the port town of Picton we set off on the Queen Charlotte track. Even if I hadn’t been subjected to the nightmare that was the Lake Waikeramoana Great Walk I still would’ve looked favorably enough on this walk to include it in the top 5 highlights of my trip. For many miles after passing the Cook Strait before reaching Picton, one finds themselves in the Marlborough Sounds. A sound being identical to a fjord except that it is not glacial in origin. These fingers of land extend out from the mainland in all directions, some breaking off into sizeable islands but all sharing in one awesome commonality; private, secluded and picturesque bays. There are so many individual bays in the sounds that people who have built holiday homes on their shores have been able to apply their family names to them. We were taken by water taxi to the start of the walk at a particular bay in what is known as Ship Cove and the driver pointed out ‘Smith Bay’ and ‘Johnson Bay’, named solely for the family smart enough to have built a house there first. The best part is, being as there are so many, there is no overcrowding and so there exists this fascinating little community interspersed around the Sounds that get their goods and mail by boat and can enjoy solitude while still having a keen sense of camaraderie with the like-minded fellows about the waterways. It only cost us an extra $10 or so per night to stay at proper lodges as opposed to Department of Conservation huts but we had no idea what to expect since we knew they were only accessible by water. Let’s just use the metaphor of my head exploding to describe the accommodation. I mean this in the best way possible. Our first stop was the anti-Shining; a 120 person remote lodge where we were the only guests and as such, were upgraded to a luxury suite. Whereas our first night on the Great Walk we came perilously close to hypothermia, this go round we came perilously close to relaxing ourselves to death. The suite had two couches, a semi stocked fridge, one of the fanciest beds I’ve ever slept in (complete with electric blankets) and a shower the size of my house back in Edmonton. We felt like such rich playboys that we indulged on a dinner of Blue Cod and pumpkin with an apple and rhubarb crumble for dessert which cost as much as the room itself! The common room even had a piano and since there was no one else there to be annoyed by our musical indulgences we indulged away until we could indulge no more. This trend of excellent accommodation continued; we were always the only ones there and we always had million dollar views. The walk had its share of beautiful views as well and I would go so far as giving it 10 out of 10 were it not for one incident. It was the last evening of the walk and we were relaxing on the couch, watching TV and eating dinner at the same time. I had just finished my main course and fancied a bit of the dessert I’d packed myself; a lovely tin of rice pudding. Seeing as we were the only ones there and being that I am a filthy male I saw no reason why I shouldn’t lick the excess sauce off the lid of the tin. In my state of uber-relaxation I somehow managed to slice a significant piece of my tongue off on the razor sharp lid. I ran to the bathroom and immediately applied pressure while pinching off the wound with many layers of toilet paper. As this was the end of my tongue I still had the ability to communicate somewhat and I tried to explain the situation to Jaclyn. Now they say that laughter is the best medicine but I’m inclined to disagree because when Jaclyn sat there laughing at me it wasn’t as if I suddenly got a spring in my step. She did inform me that the tongue heals the fastest out of all body parts so in saying so she put my mind at ease and did her part (I suppose). Within an hour it had stopped bleeding and I was back to eating my supremely average rice pudding. Those 4 days of walking flew by and we have now moved on to Blenheim aka wine country. As this is getting a bit on the long side I shall end it here for now and fill you in on our wine adventures another time. 1 week to go; that’s both liberating and terrifying.

August 10th to 15th - Stranded!

It was the dawn of our first full day in Wellington and, trying ever so hard to be good, we went for a run and ate a decently healthy breakfast and enjoyed a late start to a full day. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect; each day we had a short activity or two to keep us busy during the day and every evening some form of entertainment was already booked and paid for, creating a stress-free, planned and precise sequence of events that went off without a hitch. I showed Jaclyn the giant squid at Te Papa, we had flat whites and chai lattes at countless trendy cafes on Cuba Street and Courtenay Place and we went souvenir shopping for friends and family. We hit all the Wellington hotspots like the botanical gardens, the cable car and the Mount Victoria lookout. All these things we enjoyable but all paled in comparison to our car journey around the outer bays that led us to the Weta Cave. If you know anything about Jaclyn and I at all then you’ll know we are huge Lord of the Rings nerds, capable of holding our own in any quotation battle or marathon viewing session. With Wellington being the site of much of the filming of the trilogy and the home of Peter Jackson’s props and post-production studio, we were naturally inclined to poke our heads into as much of these areas as we could. Weta is the company that made all the props and costumes for the trilogy as well as did all the special effects so we went down to their mini-museum for an insider’s peek. While browsing their collectables we overheard an employee telling some friends about his work on the upcoming Hobbit films; it wasn’t anything particularly juicy but it was interesting to hear him divulge that he’d been ‘designing orcs for almost 3 years already’ for the films. Such vast amounts of time and detail will surely result in a quality film I should think; the task is in good hands. We each purchased a book signed by famous members of the LOTR film project and left more than satisfied. Our evenings were an eclectic mix of theatre, sport and film. We saw a Canadian man perform Shakespeare’s Macbeth in Simpson’s voices; his Homer was a little weak but the fact that he did about 50 others, rapidly switching between them at a whim made it a thoroughly enjoyable experience. The rugby we watched at WestPac stadium was excellent simply because the home team demolished the opposition (that and because we got mini donuts). One afternoon we went to a chocolate festival where we did so many tastings I was sure I would enter a diabetic coma. I bought so much chocolate that I had to bring some to my flatmate at work just so I wouldn’t be tempted to eat it later. Though all these things I’ve mentioned were great, I think I enjoyed myself most at the International Film Festival. We saw two comedies, The Trip and The Guard, and one drama called ‘Drive’. We were lucky because all three screened at the Embassy theatre. I guess Mr. Jackson pumped a whole whack of money into a grand refurbishment of the place and now it stands as this super-classy one screen gem at the end of Courtney Place where you can get anything from popcorn to wine before settling into a wide seat in the most beautiful seating area in a movie theatre that I’ve ever seen. I must say, it’s an experience. All three movies were special; the first two were able to make me laugh in that particular way that is both painful and enjoyable at the same time whereas the final one had me as tense as humanly possible with its mix of beauty and graphic violence. I highly recommend them all and will be seeing them again at the first opportunity. As a final farewell to my mates we went out for a solid night of drinking at a bar that featured $4 pints all night (about $3 Canadian aka dangerously cheap). Normally I’m a lightweight but I put back a whole lot of beer while maintaining my composure all night. We switched to the only Welsh pub in the Southern Hemisphere around 1am to watch the rugby test match between Wales and England. There was a hearty uproar when Wales won and we stayed out celebrating until 4am. I learned two life lessons that night; that there are worse things in life than being the only guy in a crew of 7 and that Subway is even more delicious when enjoyed at 3 in the morning. We awoke this morning with the intention of getting on the ferry to the South Island, we even had bookings for a boat transfer onto the Queen Charlotte Track but as luck would have it we are in the middle of ‘the worst weather to hit Wellington in 40 years’. In Canadian terms, this is a mild snowfall, but over here its pandemonium. The ships won’t sail across the Cook Strait and we were forced to get refunds on our crossing as well as our walk accommodations. I guess there are worse places in the world to be stranded than in Wellington but I can’t say I was looking forward to being caught in a blizzard anywhere in this country, I get enough of that at home. We’re going to wait out the snow here which has been forecasted to last 2-3 more days and make cuts to our itinerary accordingly. There is lightning flashing outside the window now so I better end this and post it soon before we lose power!

August 5th to 9th - Coming Home Before Going Home

As much fun as it was to squeeze myself through exceptionally tight spaces 30m below the Swiss cheese hills of the Waitomo area I wasn’t keen to dish out another $150 to relive the experience. It was, however, something I couldn’t let Jaclyn miss out on so we made the slight detour northwest and while she was being frightened to death on a caving expedition I stayed back at the farmhouse hostel and did absolutely nothing. It was heavenly. My body was screaming at me after that full day of skiing and my face was threatening to fall off from the vast sunburn so I soaked up every last second of nap time I had afforded myself. There’s nothing like a double bed with an electric blanket to one’s self after weeks in a cramped van. I had considered doing a nature hike to kill some time before Jaclyn returned but then I discovered that the television had more than the standard four channels and so I glued myself to the recliner with a mug of tea, shut the blinds and had a fantastic time watching Letterman reruns. Just as Simon had stayed back and cooked us a gourmet feast upon our return from the caves, I whipped together a massive dinner of ribs, bruschetta and salad for Jaclyn and I. It was also my first foray into the use of dukkah, the heavenly concoction of spices I bought from the winery in the Bay of Plenty. Jaclyn thought I was joking when I said I liked it so much that I intended to use it on everything; I wasn’t. From sandwiches to zucchini to pasta, I slather my food in dukkah because everything tastes better with it. Naturally I will be ordering an industrial sized box of the stuff upon my return to Canada. A solid 11 hour sleep later and we were off on the road to New Plymouth. The particular highway we took was my old nemesis; the ill-fated site of my flat tire. This time through I drove like a grandma, avoided all the rocks and managed to cut my travel time in half (not stopping at the brewery along the way also helped). Having healed my weary bones I was excited to get back out to nature and enjoy some hikes up and around Mt. Taranaki though, as luck would have it, the entire mountain was obscured by cloud and rain the entire time we were in the area. We had to improvise something else to do but that’s surprisingly easy in New Plymouth. The city of 70,000 does remarkably well for itself and has the luxury of many amenities you wouldn’t expect for a city of its size. Since we’d been apart from a proper city for a little while we opted to head into the city center for a little night life. We found a classy tapas bar and found the All Blacks test match against the Wallabies playing on the big screen. We arrived just in time to see New Zealand do the haka, a pre-game dance ritual that is both a welcome and a challenge to the opposing team (though I can’t imagine anyone feeling very welcomed after a haka). Even watching it on TV gave me the shivers; if I were an Aussie at that time I would’ve been soiling my undergarments. The slow motion panning of the camera across the players’ faces reveals such intensity that it’s hard not to be moved. The kiwis dominated the first half and after 80 minutes they ended up with a solid 20 point victory over their rivals from across the ditch. The following day we laughed off the rain and did what was advertised as a 3 hour walk by the Department of Conservation at the foot of the mountain. I think we are seasoned vets by now because we breezed through it in an hour and a half. With so much time left in the day we went to the city gardens and played guitar in the sun. By some strange twist of fate, the 3 hour parking pass we bought managed to flip itself upside down on our dashboard and so we found a $40 parking violation between our wipers upon our return. I asked for advice on how to handle the situation at the visitor information center and they recommended that since we were leaving the next morning that we just not pay it (which was fine by us). I’m going to take the sensible route and write a letter along with our pass and violation as evidence to clear our good names. That last evening in New Plymouth we realized that we had arrived in the middle of their International Arts Festival so we booked front row seats for the local production of ‘C’mon Blacks!’, a one man act about a rural kiwi going on his first trip abroad to the Rugby World Cup in South Africa where the Springboks famously beat the kiwis in overtime. It amounted to nearly two hours of watching an overweight kiwi sweat, swear and drink beer while throwing around rugby terminology that made our heads spin but sweet merciful crap was it ever entertaining. The natural cheek and charisma of New Zealand was masterfully displayed and I thoroughly enjoyed myself despite not understanding half of what was said. The plan for the following day was to freedom camp somewhere around Palmerston North, the location of the New Zealand’s rugby museum. Upon arrival in the city we found out it was closed for renovations; we also found out that Palmerston North is frightfully lacking in things to do. Upon my recommendation we pushed forward to Wellington and it turned out to be an excellent decision. Little did we know but the arty side of Wellington was in full swing for this period we find ourselves here. The International Film Festival is in town; we have already seen The Trip and have tickets for two more films including the one on closing night. There is a food festival going on and we bought tickets for the exhibition devoted exclusively to chocolate. We have tickets to ITM cup rugby tonight with Wellington taking on Northland and we’ll have the opportunity to catch a couple former All Blacks in action. Tomorrow night we have tickets for MacHomer, a one man act from a Canadian guy who loosely does Shakespeare’s Macbeth in the voices of the Simpson’s characters. It really summed up Wellington nicely for Jaclyn and reaffirmed that maybe at some point in the future I could ditch the Edmon for the Welling, keep the ‘ton’ and still fit in nicely. It has been an especially nice homecoming after going out with all the flatmates last night and getting 2nd place (out of 13) at a big pub quiz. Admittedly Brendan did use his Iphone for 2 questions but I still say we earned our $30 bar tab prize.

August 3rd and 4th - Fresh Powder on Mount Doom

Continuing my plan to hit as many places I missed on my first go round as possible we headed northwest from Napier towards Lake Taupo. The lake is picturesque by itself but when combined with Mt. Ruapehu at its southern tip it makes for quite a sight. It was a little windy that afternoon so we decided to forego something on the water in favour of indulging our inner tourist at some specialty shops. One notable stop was a massive store dedicated to honey and honey related accessories where we got more than our daily dose of sugar at their free tastings and capped off the experience with some ‘fig honey’ ice cream. I had a hankering for some rock climbing 45 minutes south in Turangi to wear off my sugar high but to maximize our time on the slopes of Mount Doom the next day we decided to push back to my old haunt of Ohakune, the base for my river journey back in June. The Jasper-esque town is more happening now that ski season is in full swing so we actually got to go out and watch some rugby that evening rather than be confined to the cramped quarters of our Spaceship. We’d gotten conflicting reports from locals as to which of the two ski hills to choose but it was ultimately decided by the emphatic persuasion of the adrenaline junkies working at the rental shop that we go to Whakapapa over Turoa to catch the most rays. I got laughed at a little bit by these gentlemen as, being used to skiing in bitterly cold Canada, I was bundled up in an unsanitary number of layers to the point where my boots wouldn’t do up. Suffice it to say that the guys at the rental shop were right about Whakapapa getting more sun; my face got burnt to a crisp. It took only one run for me to remove all but two of my layers but after that I was in alpine heaven. New Zealand skiing is drastically different than say Marmot Basin. Firstly, there are no trees, secondly there are lots more rocks and ice and lastly, you get to ski up in the clouds. The day was a lovely slice of nostalgia, the only downfall being me not heeding the warnings for sunscreen and the overpriced muffin I purchased during a break. The Aussie woman working the concession told me I had a southern accent (think Texas, not Invercargill) which came out of left field. Despite the differences the core components of alpine skiing here are the same as in Canada; the lifties all have those catchphrases that only people really relaxed in a job they love have (‘sweet as’ and ‘cheers bro’ come to mind), you see kids who couldn’t be a day older than 4 that are carving down the hill at breakneck speed but amazingly in perfect control, and you even have the forced, awkward conversation with strangers on the chairlifts (though with kiwis it’s really easy to have a laugh). All the chairlifts had jokes written on their safety bars whose punch lines were all snow and ice puns, it made it easy to…break the ice…with any strangers you rode with (see what I did there?). We got a solid 7 hours in and no one could argue we didn’t get our money’s worth. We celebrated with an Ohakune après-ski staple; the Mountain Kebab. We’d gotten them after our river journey too, basically a well prepared flatbread full of beef, veggies, cheese, and any combination of sauces you could dream of. We were so ravenous from that full day of skiing that we weren’t satisfied with just the kebab; we did a late night supermarket run and got a random assortment of items to make the day complete. I had the strangest cravings at that time which saw my 2nd dinner consist of Cluster Crisp cereal, coleslaw, and pretzels but whatever, it was glorious and I felt more satisfied than I had in quite some time. Today I drove us north to the Waitomo Caves and am having myself a much deserved day of rest in a hostel I have all to myself while Jaclyn goes exploring in the caves amidst the glow worms. I’m surprising her with a dinner of bruschetta, salad, and ribs with a vanilla custard dessert because I am just that awesome. After all this rest, a gourmet meal in my belly and a solid 10 hours in the rack I think my face will have healed sufficiently that I won’t have to amputate it for a new one and we can tackle a couple epic walks up Mount Taranaki. One last thought…that day of skiing Mount Doom was my 100th day in New Zealand and it feels like only a blink. The saying that time flies when you are having fun has never been more apt. Regardless, I’ll see you all in 3 and a half weeks and the fun times shall continue.

August 1st and 2nd - Art Deco Awesomeness

The burger with which we celebrated our survival of the Great Walk was appropriately titled the ‘Bastard’. It had everything; beef, bacon, avocado, beetroot, mango, relish, you name it. It was so big that the restaurant had to invent a foldable piece of cardboard that you used to grip it properly. It was a sweet affirmation of life after our trials and tribulations in the wild and rejuvenated me enough that I felt I could get back out and do it all over again (if only for another gloriously oversized meal I would undoubtedly consume at the finish). I hadn’t been to the Hawke’s Bay region on my first tour through the country and it really is a shame; Kelsey would’ve loved Napier for its art deco vibe and quirky clothing stores. After being destroyed by the country’s largest earthquake in the 1930’s Napier rebuilt itself in the above mentioned style and clearly put lots of thought and effort (and money) into making their city a beautiful place for the public to enjoy. The beachfront stretches for miles and instead of being burdened with tacky souvenir shops or the like it is separated from the main drag by row after row of gardens and courtyards where people lounge by fountains and sculptures and enjoy the region’s large amount of annual sunshine. We decided to indulge ourselves with a bit of shopping and specialty coffee before finding a vacant stretch of beach to have a little acoustic jam. While searching for parking we noticed a rental car that belonged to the only other people we met on the Great Walk, Matt and Paula from Michigan. We left a note on their windshield about potentially meeting up which I worried they would mistake for a parking ticket as they were in a 30 minute zone. We managed to find one another shortly thereafter and then spent a good half hour searching for someplace that would serve us pints at 11:45am on a Monday. After giving the Americans a crash course in kiwi brew I condensed all my knowledge of New Zealand into note form for Matt to try and give them some ideas for their holiday. I had lots of respect for that couple as they did the Great Walk in one less day than we did and camped outside rather than stay in the huts. They were definitely made of sturdier stuff than Jaclyn or I (and it helped that they came prepared with the proper knowledge and equipment). We walked back to our respective vehicles where we found that the Americans did indeed get a parking ticket, though over here they only cost you $10 so it’s almost worth it as it gets you the prime real estate. They headed south for Wellington as we found a holiday park and camped for the night. The next morning we headed to Napier’s twin city called Hastings to rent bikes and check out some of the areas famous wineries. We ended up in a small village called Havelock North where we cut a deal with the local information site to rent their bikes for about $6/hour and headed out into the country. It was a lovely sunny day and it was nice to casually ride out amidst the fields with Mount Doom looming off on the horizon. In our relaxed state of mind an hour went by before we reached the first winery. Just like in the Marlborough region the wine was too good not to purchase a bottle and Jaclyn and I each got a Riesling for our celebrations in Wellington. We were cutting it close timing wise but opted to try one last winery before heading back. The fellow manning the cellar door at this final place was a young chap named Simon who we ended up talking to for about half an hour on how he got into the business. He told us he had dropped out of school at 16 only to later discover a passion for wine and instead of becoming a wino in the derogatory sense of the term he pulled up his socks and went back to school to get a degree pertaining to the chemistry of the wine making process. In addition to some spot on reds, his winery produced olive oils, spices and sauces, all of which were bloody brilliant. We ended up buying more than we could carry so Simon offered to bring all our purchases into town with him when he got off work (a true kiwi gentleman). We hustled back to make the deadline for the bike drop off and killed the rest of the afternoon playing music in the village square. Simon came on time, as promised, and with our new items we cooked one massive feast of lamb shanks, sausage, kumara, sauerkraut, onions, mushrooms, salad, and pinot noir. I haven’t the foggiest idea where I am right now, some small hamlet on the east coast that happened to have a handy campground. We will be making for Lake Taupo in a couple of hours and then after that, skiing on Mount Doom!