Southbound

Excitement had been building throughout the month of July. My trip had been organized for some time. The South Island – my destination. I had been planning the itinerary for weeks. I was packed days in advance. I spent the weekend preparing my car, and so, when my flatmate came home Sunday night completely drunk, it wasn’t a moment too soon for me to fly the coop. I left Monday morning with my first stop a few hours away in Hawkes Bay. I spent Monday wandering the streets of Napier. Napier is a delightful town on the bay which boasts art deco architecture. Destroyed by earthquake in 1931, the city rebounded when rebuilt in the angular style. There are few other cities where such a display of art deco can be encountered. One is New York City, but as can be assumed, Napier has a much quainter feel than the Big Apple.

My reason for passing through Hawkes Bay, however, was to attend an apple growers’ seminar the following day in Hastings. After visiting the HortResearch station in Hawkes Bay back in May, they expressed an interest in having me speak on my Master’s research at their winter extension forums for growers. I gladly accepted the invitation, as it is excellent experience for me. In fact, I spoke not at just one seminar but two. After the day in Hastings, I drove down to Wellington, put myself and my car on the Inter Islander Ferry, traversed a bumpy ride across Cook Strait, entered the town of Picton through the Marlborough Sounds, and drove west to Nelson where I gave my presentation again. I was really satisfied with how things went in both locations. The growers were responsive and even forgave my “funny” accent. The Nelson area was beautiful. The venue selected for the seminar was Seigfried Winery, and the snow-capped mountains, with the bare vines in the forefront, was picturesque. After the seminar, however, I didn’t linger in the area. Instead, I was on a northwest path to Marahua, on the cusp of Abel Tasman National Park – a “must-see” as designated by several co-workers.

***

I arrived in Marahua just after dusk. At only about 6:00pm, the isolated community was desolate, and there was an eerie loneliness lurking about. Likely, the community is alive and bustling at that hour during the summer months when the days are long and tourists flock to the national park, but on that cold day in July, Marahua seemed like a ghost town.

Supposedly, there was a backpackers’ lodge. I found it empty at the quiet campsite. I walked about trying to find someone to check in but found no one. Not long after, however, a noisy van pulled in, and three people started moving belongings into the lodge. They were two girls and a guy from France, who upon introduction seemed nice enough. They took a room with four beds, which meant that the large dormitory was my private residence for the night.

The next morning, I booked myself a seat on a water taxi, which took me to see some of the sites of Abel Tasman National Park. Abel Tasman was the Dutch explorer who discovered New Zealand – at this locale in fact – in 1642. Scared away by a hostile Maori tribe, Tasman never actually set foot on land, but he is still credited with the discovery. (Sometimes discovery is falsely attributed to British Captain James Cook, who traveled the perimeter and mapped the islands.) Abel Tasman National Park was created in 1942 as a means of preserving the natural coastline and the sites that the water taxi took me to see. Split Apple Rock is a large granite boulder sitting off the coast. The porous nature of the granite in the area, a crack which filled with water, and the freezing and thawing of an Ice Age caused the boulder to divide in two. The taxi also took us into various bays where the water was vivid blues and greens, and it took us to the Tonga Island seal colony. The species of seal present was once nearly hunted to extinction for its fur but is rebounding now. The pups were adorable and quite inquisitive, flapping their fins at us as we departed, like a farewell wave.

The water taxi dropped me off at the beach of Tonga Bay, and from this point I traversed back to Marahua. When I made my water taxi reservation, the woman told me that hiking back from Tonga would probably take a good eight hours, and they generally didn’t recommend the trip during the shorter winter days. But, when I told her I planned to run parts of it, she said I would be fine. The trek was probably about 26 km (maybe more), and what was supposed to take eight hours only took me about 4 hours and 45 minutes. The trail was a well-traveled one with good footing, so I was able to keep my gaze on the gorgeous coastline as I trotted along, golden beaches and vibrant waters in the foreground, the Marlborough Sounds in the back drop, and sea birds serenading all the way. It was the perfect day for a coastal hike/run. In the end, I was tired but exhilarated by this scenic national park.

***

Staying in hostels is like living a comedy of errors. Hostels are certainly not places for faint sleepers; in fact, they are not suitable for anyone wishing for a good night’s sleep. They tend to be popular among the teens and young twenty-somethings, but generally one can find all sorts in hostels. Without a doubt, hostels serve an important role for budget travelers; they are an inexpensive place to lay one’s head, or perhaps more appropriately, stash one’s stuff. All in all, a common idiom resounds in my head: “You get what you pay for.”

I arrived at the Paradiso Hostel in Nelson worn and wearied from my all day adventure in Abel Tasman. The Paradiso was recommended to me as the best in Nelson. Indeed, at first glance, it seemed like a decent place – an old refurbished Victorian home typical of Nelson, with ample indoor and outdoor space and a large, clean kitchen. I was added to a room with two other girls, and I was grateful that it was an option without an extra charge. (Don’t get me started on my soapbox about charging extra for an all-female room. Some hostels do, and I find this frustrating and unfair. For safety reasons, I think that a same-sex room should not incur a fee, and I will provide an example shortly.) I was told that a nightly vegetable soup was served free of charge and also breakfast in the morning. There was a spa out back, and given my sore muscles, I thought that would provide perfect therapy before soup, hot shower, and an early bedtime.

Well, the spa was only tepid, and given the air temperature was approaching freezing, I decided not to get wet. Luckily, the soup was good, and the shower was hot. Then, I settled into bed with my book until my eyes felt droopy. Feeling quite exhausted, I soon shut off the lights and lay down.

About 10 minutes later, one of the other girls entered and flicked on the lights, not realizing I was there, tucked away on the top bunk. (By the way, that is another thing I don’t like about hostels – bunk beds. I hate being on the top bunk – forced to be an acrobat climbing up and down a vertical ladder, and I hate being on the bottom bunk, subject to someone else being the acrobat usually in the wee hours of the morning after a few too many drinks. Having laundry surround you like a canopy curtain is also a drawback to the bottom bunk.) After realizing I was there, she politely turned on a smaller light next to her bed and started settling in. After some text messaging and coughing, she was out like a light, snoring. Of course, being the light sleeper that I am, that was enough to keep me from sleeping, despite my exhaustion.

Finally, I was able to relax and started to doze off, but this was eventually interrupted by the squeaky door, the light from the hall, and two whispering voices. “I just really like talking with you.” “You need to go. They’re trying to sleep.” “But can’t we keep talking?” “Go, you’re drunk.” At that, I sat up, and with a drowsy, raspy voice, this upper-twenty-something said, “Can you please leave?” Perhaps in his drunken stooper he thought my voice from the top bunk was a message from the heavens. Perhaps my impatience was apparent in my voice; I surely didn’t want to hear any more, considering where that conversation was heading. Whatever it was, the guy shot out of the room, and the girl quickly closed and locked the door. I apologized to the girl for interfering, but she thanked me for doing it.

Yet, the girl didn’t stay in the safe haven behind the locked door for long. She soon left, leaving her cell phone behind. (I think it is obvious where this is going.) Now, it is not my business why the girl left again when there was drunkard out there annoying her, but what was my business was the annoying cell phone ring that sounded not once, twice, three, not even four, but five times!!! By the fifth ring, realizing the girl was not returning to collect what is to many young people as vital as an organ and practically glued to either their hand or ear, and also realizing that the phone seemed to be sounding consistently at intervals, I fumbled my way down the ladder, picked up the glowing phone, drew the curtains, and threw the phone out the window! Ok, I didn’t really throw it out the window, but that would have been funny – well worth the lack of sleep! Instead, I turned off the alarm, not understanding why an alarm was set for such an hour. So, finally some piece and quiet? Well no because the noise of the alarm awoke and kept awake the other girl whose cough came back with a vengeance.

The morning was a similar story of coughing, alarms, and packing up. Oh how important plastic grocery bags are to the traveler, but oh how loud is their crunching! I suppose, however, that all the racket helped me to jump start my day. I spent the day discovering Nelson – walking through the gardens and along historic streets. I walked to the Anglican Cathedral, which people seem to either love or hate. It is a sort of neo-Gothic architecture, was the third built at this site, and was finished in 1965. Its dark cement walls and stark bell tower led me not to side with those who love it. Then, I went to the farmers’ market and craft fair, (Nelson is renowned for its art community), and walked through the commercial district. In the afternoon, I went running up the hills that overlook the city, which is where the geographic center of New Zealand is located and marked.

When I returned to the hostel, two young Dutch girls had moved into the room and had more luggage each for their 30 days in New Zealand than I have for my year abroad! But, they were nice, and basically quiet. And so ended the comedy of errors… at least in Nelson.

***

I set out from Nelson heading southwest. When I began, the weather was decent, but unfortunately, it did not last long. Soon, the clouds were upon me. Showers were followed by deluge. New Zealand is a very green country after all. I weaved my way over to the west coast and made a stop at Pancake Rocks in Paparoa National Park. Several people had recommended that I stop there, so torrential rain and wind did not deter me. A short walk takes one out to the massive limestone protruding from the ocean. What makes these rocks particularly remarkable, however, are their striations – crushed fossils fused – and their arrangement which causes the sea to dance and sing in its ebb and flow.

Back in the car, it was slow driving. I made my way down to Franz Josef Village, which receives 4000mm of rain annually – more than New York, Auckland, and Wellington combined. I passed the night there, and the next morning, I set out to see the Franz Josef Glacier, named for the Austrian emperor in the 1860’s when it was discovered by German explorer Julius von Haast. Retreated into a beautiful valley, the glacier was at its greatest mass in 1600. It cascades from the Southern Alps, and it is still a massive chunk of ice, despite its retreat. I hiked out to a lookout point, a ferocious wind at my back. I met a couple of French people – a lively woman and her son – and just as we snapped some pictures, the grey clouds which had been encroaching dumped a torrential rain. We took refuge in some bushes until it lightened a little, and then we made our way back. I learned that the woman runs marathons and will run the New York City marathon in November. They learned that I had spent time in Chile, and the woman, not comfortable speaking English, started speaking to me in Spanish, having formally been a Spanish teacher in France. When we got ready to depart, I wished her good luck on her race, and with the customary kiss to each cheek and a banana (yes, random, but I gladly took it), we were on our separate ways.

My next stop was to see the Fox Glacier. It was equally impressive though the valley not quite as beautiful. The valley trail was closed due to flooding, so I could only see it from a distance, but given the rain that still fell, I was happy enough just to get back in my car and press on. I saw a bit of the sun as I approached Haast, the next major town down the coast and the point of junction for me to turn inland. As I made my way inland toward the towering, snow-capped Alps, the rain bucketed once again, and unfortunately, my view of the mountains was impaired. Water was everywhere – snow up high, river down below, and waterfalls gushing through every crack and crevice of the surrounding cliffs. Once I reached the summit of Haast pass, however, the clouds parted, and the vegetation went from lush forest to scrubby brush. I had reached the region of Otago, and like any land in the rain shadow of a mountain range (i.e. Nevada behind the Sierra Nevadas, Argentinian Patagonia behind the Andes), Otago is one of the driest areas of New Zealand. Visibility improved, and I witnessed the beautiful Lake Harawea and surrounding scenery on my way to Queenstown.

***

I spent one full day in Queenstown, and though I found it picturesque, I didn’t quite understand all the hype that prefaces a visit. I suppose if one skies or partakes in any of the various adventure attractions – bungee jumping, jet boating, parasailing, etc. – then Queenstown would be the “happenin’ spot,” but I’ve never had an interest in skiing or any of the other “sports,” and frankly, they were far too expensive for this budget traveler. Plus, I figured if I ever do anything adventurous, being the clumsy person that I am, I best do it in my own country in case, Heaven forbid, something happens. So, I spent my day walking the streets of Queenstown, wandering in and out of shops, hiking up hills for the best view of the humbling mountains and frigid Lake Wakatipu, and then I went for a long run through the Queenstown gardens and neighboring trails.

My reason for traveling to Queenstown, nevertheless, was not Queenstown itself but instead for a tour to Milford Sound. So, despite my lack-luster impression of the southern city, the trip was not a bust. In fact, Milford Sound was spectacular – well-worth the 600km ride from Queenstown. Milford Sound is actually only about 60km from Queenstown if one could travel from point to point, but only a circuitous route is possible, so a full-day journey it was. We traveled through the once mining communities of Kingston and Athol, now farming communities resembling ghost towns. A stop in Te Anau, then more sheep country, and then we entered the 7750 square mile Fjordland National Park. Massive in area, its physical features are also massive. Though the highest peak in the park is only just over 7000 feet in elevation, it is not necessarily the height of the peaks that is striking; instead, it is how they rise near-vertically from flat valleys or sea level, carved this way by glaciers. That said, Milford Sound was improperly named in the past; it is not a sound but a fjord. A sound is a valley carved out by a river and then back-filled by the ocean; whereas, a fjord was carved by a glacier and then filled. But, the name stuck from the past, and “Milford Sound” it has remained.

The road through the park to Milford Sound – passing through the Eglinton and Hollyfield Valleys – is as remarkable as the sound, excuse me “fjord,” itself. Snow-packed mountains tower over the road, and avalanches are common. The Homer tunnel goes through the mountains, and having no structural supports, travelers see the jagged edges of the granite as they pass through.

And then, there is the amazing boat cruise through the fjord, witnessing the most photographed mountain in New Zealand – Mitre Peak. Hues of green indicate copper imbued in the rock, and slivers of gold can also been spied. Thankfully, mining is prohibited in the park. A fault line runs up the west coast of New Zealand, and it is compellingly evident from the water, as there is a crack in the rock which runs directly up the mountain. The mixture of fresh feeding into salt water makes for a black sea, and the all-too-common clouds give the park an eerie feel. It did not rain while I was there, but it rains approximately 200 days of the year in Fjordland – reaching nearly 8000mm annually. (And I thought it rained a lot at Franz Josef!) But, despite the dark rock, water, and sky, Milford Sound is bright with life. Much of it cannot be seen below the water surface, but we were lucky during our boat journey to see a rare, crested penguin and also fur seals. The numerous waterfalls also feel alive, roaring over the shear rock edges. And, despite a lack of soil, beech trees cling to life, insinuating their roots into rock cracks. All of this made my tour of Milford Sound a highlight of my south island journeys.

***

From Queenstown, I ventured to historic Arrowtown – a restored miners’ village. Much of the region of Otago was settled for the same reason people flocked westward to California – gold. Arrowtown has retained and restored its old buildings and houses. There is also a historic Chinese settlement commemorating the immigrants from China who played a vital role in the community’s development. From Arrowtown, I drove through Cromwell – the fruit growing region of Otago – and then to Wanaka. The town of Wanaka, sitting on the shores of Lake Wanaka, is another skiers’ paradise, but there is also some beautiful scenery for which I came to see. Again, I stayed in a hostel, and a fairly nice one it was, but unfortunately, the only space available was in a mixed dorm with a bunch of boys having horrible body odor. Not even the smell of my nasty running shoes could compete with their stench. So, I quickly soaked up the scenery of Wanaka, stayed just one night, and then continued north.

The road north through Lindis Pass was gorgeous. Stark hillsides of thirsty vegetation were contrasted to snow-capped peaks satiated with moisture. I soon arrived at Lake Pukaki where the view of the Southern Alps, including New Zealand’s highest mountain – Mount Cook at 12349 feet – was superb. This area of New Zealand with its year-long, snow-laden mountains and expansive lakes is a center for hydroelectricity production. And, beyond the picture-perfect scenery, sheep roam the countryside, making this also a center for merino wool production.

The end of the journey for the day was Christchurch – New Zealand’s third largest city and the largest city on the south island. Upon arriving, I had a bit of a scare with my car when it started idling really low. I suppose what worried me most was knowing that I had a lot more driving to do in the next few days but not wanting to shell out a lot of money to fix my car. Luckily, it turned out to be a quick, inexpensive fix. So, aside for good mechanics, Christchurch is renowned for its arts and cultural scene. While there, the city was hosting an international film festival, so I previewed a hilarious French comedy. I visited the Arts Center, where there were demonstrations and a craft fair. I ran through the botanical garden, visited the Anglican Cathedral, strolled along the Avon River, and took a scenic drive through the hills overlooking the city. Paragliders with vibrant parachutes were enjoying the exquisite day. I also visited the city’s art gallery – which has a nice collection of 19th and 20th century and contemporary New Zealand art. And I learned something too. It dealt with the mysterious though seemingly simple solid color paintings. Probably more people than not have gazed at such paintings and thought, “I could do that!” But, I never knew nor even stopped to consider that there could be a purpose to such simplicity, and yet there is. “Monochrome” is in fact a movement to “purge” art of any distractions, and on exhibit was a New Zealand artist who has taken monochrome to a different level. Julia Morrison of Christchurch looks at monochrome as a pixilation of art. She uses small monochromes to create images on a grander scale. With each new exhibit, she moves her small paintings to create a new, larger piece. It is art that metamorphoses.

But, I think the highlight of the gallery was this… In the contemporary showroom was an abstract sculpture. With no face and stone grey, it resembled a gaunt woman with a long, flowing robe – her arms extended with the robe flowing behind her. Or, perhaps it was an angel, wings expanded and chin angled so that its face gazed toward Heaven. But then, “It looks like a taradactyl.” Ah yes, kids say the darndest things, don’t they? I turned to see two kids staring at the sculpture, and I had to turn away so they wouldn’t see me laugh, not because I thought their imagination ridiculous. No in fact – Renaissance woman, heavenly creature, or flying dinosaur – I agree it could have been any of the above.

***

Driving north from Christchurch to Blenheim was quite gloomy. It rained the entire way. I stopped in Kaikoura – a town known for whale watching expeditions, but given the conditions, I didn’t stay long. I arrived in Blenheim just after dark and settled into a hostel. When I woke the next morning, it was August 7th, my birthday. Despite the continued rain, I went running. Rain on my birthday – I once thought that could never happen, then that it could only happen in Ithaca, but I suppose I never imagined celebrating my birthday in the middle winter! The next three days, I attended a conference with some colleagues, who arrived in town just in time to treat me to a birthday dinner.

I attended the New Zealand Plant Protection Society annual conference. It was a good conference covering a broad range of pests and plagues in a myriad of horticultural, cereal, and even timber crops. I met many interesting people and shared in some excellent food and wine. The last day of the conference included a tour of the Montana Brancott Winery just outside of Blenheim. It was a beautiful, modern estate, and their land holdings go beyond the Marlborough District to include land on the north island. Because of the cool climate, the typical grape varieties in Marlborough are Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, but most importantly, Sauvignon Blanc. In fact, New Zealand is world renowned, perhaps the world leader in quality Sauvignon Blanc. The environmental conditions result in superior production of this crisp, fruity variety.

When the conference was over, I made my way back up to Picton, and left the south island as I had arrived – via the Inter Islander Ferry. Coincidentally, one of the French girls that I met in Marahau was also on the ferry, so we caught up on each other’s travels. When we docked in Wellington, I got in my car, and trekked back to Te Puke. After three weeks of travel and several thousand kilometers added to my car, I was glad to be back, but I arrived back with a new appreciation for the diversity of New Zealand.

Pictures at my Shutterfly account.