First off, before I start rambling, check out some of our most recent shots. Just when I think this country can’t possibly top the scenery it’s already presented, we move further south and the water gets cleaner, the mountains snow-capped and taller, the air clearer. The land is rich with powerful beauty.
We’ve covered some ground. A mere five nights and we’ve scampered from Takaka down the South Island’s wet west coast. Again reconnected with Max and the now infamous Ghostmobile, we’ve got a tent and some basic supplies and we’ve been roughin’ it through the south island. It’s time to learn to be poor. The most basic of comforts is all we have- and it’s really given us an appreciation of even the simplest of luxuries. We did, however, remember to bring on integral thing- on account we had been warned of probably the worst hazard of the south island. What was that item? Bug spray.
Queue the onslaught of the Sand Flies: Chapter 1.
Basically, sand flies are the devil. A mosquito? Hah, we laugh in the face of mosquitoes. Sandflies make me run in terror. They’re about the size of a fruit fly but fly much quicker and their flight pattern is so strange, such that they are very hard to kill. They also leave a bite mark about twice the size of a mosquito.
The first night of our camping on lake Rotoroa in the central part of the north island, we stayed at a free campground. Free for a reason. The sandflies practically infested the place. Near the end of the night, while playing cards in the hot tent, we heard a constant pattering on the outside of the tent: “Is it raining?
I looked up. It was not raining. The thousands of sandflies were constantly landing and taking off on the outside of our tent. We could see their silhouettes through the thin tent membrane- the black spots flicking on and off like the crackling of a vintage film. When someone had to leave, it was a three person job, and required a five minute routine. But still, dozens of bugs managed to infiltrate our shelter. The roof of our tent is still riddled with bug guts (it’s a massacre).
So we got the hell out of there and continued down the west coast. After a wrong turn or two, and the endlessly meandering roads, we found ourselves in Greymouth and the heart of the west coast in no time. Like was foretold, it was grey and wet.
The days of pale overcast were quite a change from Golden Bay’s constant sunshine. The whole coastline seemed sleepy- perhaps a little forgotten about in the grand scheme of New Zealand’s beauty. But it wasn’t without its charm. The vegetation was fierce, competitive, lush and grand, a cool-climate rain forest of sorts. Hardwood trees slathered with thick moss, interspersed with countless silver ferns sprouting out of the underbrush like curved spearheads. Though we didn’t have a clear day during the trek and maybe the scenery lacked the grandeur of the Southern alps, there was a quiet humility to the whole scene. It actually reminded me of Canada’s Vancouver island. Laid back (as are 99.9 % of Kiwis) and funky.
We managed to see some of the big highlights though, namely Franz Josef glacier, which we found tucked away at the back of this rocky, angular gorge. The river flowed fast, a pale grey colour from the glacial flour, and the walls of the gorge were traced with waterfall deltas more often than not.
Queue the onslaught of the Sand Flies: Chapter 1.
Basically, sand flies are the devil. A mosquito? Hah, we laugh in the face of mosquitoes. Sandflies make me run in terror. They’re about the size of a fruit fly but fly much quicker and their flight pattern is so strange, such that they are very hard to kill. They also leave a bite mark about twice the size of a mosquito.
The first night of our camping on lake Rotoroa in the central part of the north island, we stayed at a free campground. Free for a reason. The sandflies practically infested the place. Near the end of the night, while playing cards in the hot tent, we heard a constant pattering on the outside of the tent: “Is it raining?
I looked up. It was not raining. The thousands of sandflies were constantly landing and taking off on the outside of our tent. We could see their silhouettes through the thin tent membrane- the black spots flicking on and off like the crackling of a vintage film. When someone had to leave, it was a three person job, and required a five minute routine. But still, dozens of bugs managed to infiltrate our shelter. The roof of our tent is still riddled with bug guts (it’s a massacre).
So we got the hell out of there and continued down the west coast. After a wrong turn or two, and the endlessly meandering roads, we found ourselves in Greymouth and the heart of the west coast in no time. Like was foretold, it was grey and wet.
The days of pale overcast were quite a change from Golden Bay’s constant sunshine. The whole coastline seemed sleepy- perhaps a little forgotten about in the grand scheme of New Zealand’s beauty. But it wasn’t without its charm. The vegetation was fierce, competitive, lush and grand, a cool-climate rain forest of sorts. Hardwood trees slathered with thick moss, interspersed with countless silver ferns sprouting out of the underbrush like curved spearheads. Though we didn’t have a clear day during the trek and maybe the scenery lacked the grandeur of the Southern alps, there was a quiet humility to the whole scene. It actually reminded me of Canada’s Vancouver island. Laid back (as are 99.9 % of Kiwis) and funky.
We managed to see some of the big highlights though, namely Franz Josef glacier, which we found tucked away at the back of this rocky, angular gorge. The river flowed fast, a pale grey colour from the glacial flour, and the walls of the gorge were traced with waterfall deltas more often than not.
Continuing south at a furious pace, we worked our way inland, to the beautiful, crystal clear lakes of New Zealand’s southern region. Our first stop was lake Wanaka. Slowly the lush vegetation disappeared, exchanged for the dryness of the valleys, and our winding road was crested with beautiful snow-capped mountains. We arrived on the lake, set up camp, and just played frisbee until the sun set. A beautiful and peaceful afternoon.
The wind picked up through the night, but we slept well, nothing but our thin sleeping bags keeping our tired backs from the rough ground; our full compression sacks posing as pillows.
Seeing mountains again brought us back to Alberta, remembering the powerful poise of the rough Canadian Rockies. Naturally, we figured it was high time we climbed another mountain.
You’re never far from a good tramp (or to north americans, a hike) in NZ. We looked up the nearby nature spots and surprise: Roy’s peak, a difficult 5-6 hour return tramp up the mountain promised to offer awesome views of lake Wanaka, the town, and the surrounding mountain ridges (Max and I swear that Mordor is always just over the next rocky peak).
It was a severely challenging jaunt. Possibly the hardest of our travels. In preparation for a future 4 day “great walk” Ovie and I loaded up with our heavy packs. About two hours into our ascent and our legs began to burn, our dehydrated lips starting to scab, our hips tired of swinging our feet up the winding, dusty path, forever careful not to step in the reeking sheep shit that permeated the hillside.
There can be no sense of accomplishment without hard work. This is just a fact. Climbing a mountain is a difficult task in its own right- so much so that it has become a metaphor for challenges in general. “Just climb that mountain!”
Several times I wanted to turn back. “This is good enough” I would say. But, as I’ve learned, it is always worth it. Reaching the top will never fail to reward you. It is always, without question, worth your while.
The wind picked up through the night, but we slept well, nothing but our thin sleeping bags keeping our tired backs from the rough ground; our full compression sacks posing as pillows.
Seeing mountains again brought us back to Alberta, remembering the powerful poise of the rough Canadian Rockies. Naturally, we figured it was high time we climbed another mountain.
You’re never far from a good tramp (or to north americans, a hike) in NZ. We looked up the nearby nature spots and surprise: Roy’s peak, a difficult 5-6 hour return tramp up the mountain promised to offer awesome views of lake Wanaka, the town, and the surrounding mountain ridges (Max and I swear that Mordor is always just over the next rocky peak).
It was a severely challenging jaunt. Possibly the hardest of our travels. In preparation for a future 4 day “great walk” Ovie and I loaded up with our heavy packs. About two hours into our ascent and our legs began to burn, our dehydrated lips starting to scab, our hips tired of swinging our feet up the winding, dusty path, forever careful not to step in the reeking sheep shit that permeated the hillside.
There can be no sense of accomplishment without hard work. This is just a fact. Climbing a mountain is a difficult task in its own right- so much so that it has become a metaphor for challenges in general. “Just climb that mountain!”
Several times I wanted to turn back. “This is good enough” I would say. But, as I’ve learned, it is always worth it. Reaching the top will never fail to reward you. It is always, without question, worth your while.
We were dead tired afterwards. Dirty, dusty, our foreheads covered with dry salt and dust, we headed to the next campsite to wash and relax. We drank Radler, a combination of beer and lemonade that germans drink when they go for long cycles. After dinner and a few rounds of cards it wasn’t long until we were nestled back on the ground, our bodies too tired to realize they were uncomfortable.
In the morning we awoke to a fatigued Max returning from his morning fish in the lake. “I am sorry guys, I did not catch a trout. It would have been nice, or?”
A couple cups of coffee and we hit the road again. After a few more curves through NZ’s mountains and flats, we approached the vast Cardrona valley, an insanely wide pit in the peaks of the south. We stopped for a look, rolling hills and bushes, a strong wind that could knock you over. And off in the distance, across the wide, cavernous expanse, the bustling Queenstown situated on a sliver of the shimmering lake Wakatipu. Home for a few days, some celebrations, and as always, some more adventure, some more unknown to be discovered. Another challenge to meet, greet, and overcome.
Veni, vidi, vici. Queenstown, here we come.
-K
In the morning we awoke to a fatigued Max returning from his morning fish in the lake. “I am sorry guys, I did not catch a trout. It would have been nice, or?”
A couple cups of coffee and we hit the road again. After a few more curves through NZ’s mountains and flats, we approached the vast Cardrona valley, an insanely wide pit in the peaks of the south. We stopped for a look, rolling hills and bushes, a strong wind that could knock you over. And off in the distance, across the wide, cavernous expanse, the bustling Queenstown situated on a sliver of the shimmering lake Wakatipu. Home for a few days, some celebrations, and as always, some more adventure, some more unknown to be discovered. Another challenge to meet, greet, and overcome.
Veni, vidi, vici. Queenstown, here we come.
-K