It’s the river, gorge, mountain, and waterfall all competing for a starring role in a postcard,
The crunch of the crayfish shell as you carve up today’s catch,
The tenseness in your shoulders as you enter your first left-lane roundabout,

   It’s looking out the bluff peninsula with nothing but cold open ocean to Antarctica,
  The soil that’s been trapped under your fingernails for the last week,
 The pump of adrenaline and the feeling of complete weightlessness before the bungy cord goes taut

It's  the subtle curve of the silver fern in the forest's  endless silence,

The albatross that glides on  gale-force winds like they were made of glass,
The tenseness in your shoulders as you drive into a left-lane roundabout,
It's using 'sweet as' no less than six times a day, 
Or forging a makeshift insole out of a foam mattress

It's treating every stranger like they're your newest friend, 
It's taking a wrong turn, but continuing on anyway, 
It's not "what's next?" but rather "what now?"

It's caring less about appearance, and more about substance, 
It's forgetting your phone has been dead for three days, 
Or sacrificing eating meat because you want to sleep in a bed for once,

It's watching the sun slowly dip behind the Tasman sea and feeling the world slowly turning in space,
It's walking on Mars by the red craters in Tongariro, 
Or staring out the bluff peninsula with nothing till Antarctica but cold open ocean

It's sheep, sheep everywhere...
It's never running out of things to climb, 
It's the blood-boiling and spine-tingling sensation as the Maori perform the haka
It’s illegal campfires on the beach; mussel foraging; shucking an oyster and gulping it down while sitting on the rock it was plucked from,
It's German tourists, German Tourists everywhere...

It's where gravity is a toy, 

It’s the seemingly endless array of beautiful, life-thirsty, passionate, intelligent, soulful, creative, and energetic people you meet from all over this incredible world,

It's a hiking trail waiting to be traversed;
A people who value simplicity and humility over all,
Or the grandmother who addresses people as "bro"

It is a place of peaceful calm,
Of reckless abandon and adrenaline, 

It's a place of epic scenery,
Of hobbit holes and run-down garages, 
It's discovery, serenity, beauty, opportunity
What is New Zealand?
It is adventure. 

           The driving force of our trip has definitely been impulse; proceeding with the best possible decision the moment it’s presented; not thinking about the future or spending unnecessary energy on the ‘what if’ but focusing on the ‘what now?’. In keeping with that theme, we bought our return tickets to Toronto on a whim, simply because it felt like it was time. Four and a half months has flown by, yet that time is deceptively full with innumerable memories. 

          
           Looking back, we can agree that both of us knew very very little setting out. Our eager feet took us overseas but our psyche’s were definitely on the not-well-traveled sides. As april rolled around, Ovie and I have noticed significant changes at the very foundation of our respective characters. 

           Our basic philosophies about life, and learning, and growing, have been changed forever.  And that was the ultimate goal of this adventure when we conjured up the idea in summer 2014. 

         Because why do we visit the unknown? Why do people naturally stray from what’s visible, apparent, and familiar in favour of that vast nebula of the unknown? 
         Easy. To see what’s there. And when Ovie or I reflect on our trip, when we revisit moments on the road that we have already forgotten, and bring up small jokes or episodes, they are already treated with a surprised “oh, ya!.” 

         The journey was far from finished, though. The journey is always far from finished. 

        The moment we booked our flights out of Auckland, from then it was an epic journey of busses, hitching rides, ticket, boats, sleeping in busses, sleeping in airports, sleeping in planes, not sleeping at all. We’ve had more ‘ticket confirmations’ in the last week than we care to ever have again. 

        But as I said to Ovie “this is the grunt work of travel. When you get tired of this, just think about Fiordland or Mount Maunganui, and disappear in that memory.” 

        Because memory is like the currency of life. And we’re always investing. 

        During our final hours in Auckland, we managed to meet our good friend Louis Cassels, the only Kiwi we’d known before our travels there. How poetically suiting, we thought, that the last Kiwi we say goodbye to is the first Kiwi we ever met. Like all Kiwis, Louis was a fantastic host for the brief time we were with him. And just like all Kiwis, he managed to make his hospitality genuine and good-natured; not a bit forced or obligatory. It was a prefect way to say goodbye to a great nation of great people. 

         Because we bought cheap flights home, we’re looking at multiple 10-hour-plus layovers. One ten hour in Australia and a 60 hour in Honolulu. At least there in countries with decent weather. 
         We endure our ten hour layover in the sydney airport. Of course we pick a day where the city is cast over in clouds and rain threatens at any moment. No bother, we’re on to Honolulu in no time. 

        After we do the droning airplane routine of check in and security, we decide to taste some potent Australian wine. Three glasses in and we’ve already forgotten which gate we depart from. So I head up to the tv screen to check our flight details. 

        I spot us. Flight JQ3 Sydney to Honolulu. Departing out of gate cancelled. 
        “Hm?” 

        Cancelled. 
        “Hey Ove. Our flight’s cancelled.” He furrows his eyebrows and approaches from the bar, glances at the screen and does a very casual palms-up shrug. He’s perfectly nonchalant: “well, that’s too bad.”  You’ve never seen a cancelled flight passenger more zen than him. 

         The rest of the passengers, though, not so much. 

        One overweight middle aged dude with slicked back greasy black hair a la Dracula and complete with a robin’s egg blue polo leads the charge of irate families who now stand one day short a vacation, “this is a joke!” he screams as he scampers off (from then on he was known as “big blue” to Ovie and I). 
        “Ya, this is a joke!” another muscle-toting yuppie screams. 
        “This is a joke” says some third guy, a little more timid. We swear he was threatened by his girlfriend to say something so he just did the old echo technique. Smart play: safety in numbers. 
          So we're herded like any number of New Zealand’s livestock back through customs and it’s another few hours of waiting. Bryan and I are riding a wine buzz and are pretty much more occupied with the airport’s free unlimited wifi rather than the cancelled flight. 

           Long story short, we were put up in Sydney for another two nights, all accommodation payed and breakfast included. Bonus. Since we had nothing booked in Hawaii whatsoever, we ended up gaining. 
           With only one full day in Sydney, we did what all tourists might doe- the harbour bridge, the opera house, koalas, kangaroos, wallabys, snakes, spiders(such a polarity in wildlife from the bird-and-only-bird wildlife of NZ) and of course more potent Australian vino. 

             New Zealand was getting cold when we left. And here in Sydney we’re sweating at 9 am from walking. And this is autumn. 
             It was a strange moment when we realized we weren’t in New Zealand anymore. The size of Sydney, indeed one of the world’s great cities, really came out of nowhere and put us in our place. Part of me already missed NZ’s humble, relaxed hospitality. 

            What did we net from Australia? Spending so little time there, especially considered with our in-depth look at NZ, it seems like a fleeting dream. I will say one thing, though. 

           Australia: Your women are beautiful, and your 2 dollar coin is stupid. 

           Oh, and I’d rather swim in a tank of sharks than catch myself in a room with a Funnel Web spider. 

           People often ask us: “Why New Zealand? Are you going to do Australia too?” 

           And while we can’t honestly say we’ve done a proper tour of Aussie, we can say we’ve really immersed ourselves in New Zealand. Why we chose it, well, it just seemed more ‘us’. We couldn’t really explain why we chose it. It just seemed, for a such a little country, to offer so many diverse experiences. And we didn’t know what exactly we were looking for. We were just looking for something. Did we find it? I’m not sure. It might be too early to tell. I think that deep down, we as a race are always searching. Always pondering, wondering, imagining what the future holds, and how the present will manifest. We’re always questioning, always seeking answers. And sometimes those questions can bring us places we never imagined. Has ‘the travel bug’ bitten us? Probably. But even if we continue searching and wandering this earth, we can still, in this present moment, say we’ve made at least one discovery for ourselves. 

           Tucked away in the south pacific, far removed from everything else, with a very small, very friendly population, and tremendous natural landscapes, formidable mountains, rugged beaches, gorges and crystal clear lakes and glaciers and geysers, silly birds, hectolitres of fresh and fruity wine, rich nutritious soil and heaps of beautiful produce, a ton of adrenaline,  a wonderful and proud indigenous culture, a proud tradition of sport, and a great place not only to visit, but to live, is Aoteoroa: “ The land of the long white cloud.”
 New Zealand. 


So what did we learn? 
The best answer, I think, is the most utterly simple one:

We discovered New Zealand. 

And it was absolutely epic. 
-K&B

- Ovie

          One of the most important things we’ve learned during our travels is that 24 hours is an extraordinary amount of time, and so much can change in an instant. For example, just a day ago, we never imagined we would be here right now: 

But perhaps we’ve gotten ahead of ourselves. An update:

The last two weeks we’ve been back on the WWOOF, staying at a vineyard in a region called Upper Moutere, which is essentially the front door to the gorgeous Abel Tasman national park, a postcard-perfect cropping of golden beaches, crusted with beautiful stones that slips into a  gentle sheet of sapphire blue water. 

We continued to work with the vines, trimming fruit, fixing nets, and making use of the family’s beautiful hunting dog, Tui, who was instrumental in our hunt for net-trapped birds every morning Often she’d disappear, coming back with a mouth full of feathers. 
We'd usually let her do the dirty work, while we spent the majority of our time gorging ourselves on nice ripe grapes. 
Then of course crushing a cup of wine while looking over the vineyard that produced it.

           We had originally planned to stay in Upper Moutere for six weeks, then just four weeks, but in a split decision, we’ve vacated. On account of one man. A man who really loves Avacadoes, who really hates gravel roads. He wants to kill every bug in New Zealand. He’s Max Böckler. 

           And the fabled ghost mobile is still ticking! Max drove by and it only took us fifteen minutes to realize that due to a lack of, shall we say, compatibility between us and the Family, we decided on a whim to hit to road again with Max. And we’ve never felt better.

 To quote Ove: “I love how I don’t know where I’m sleeping tonight.” 

           It was a tough choice to leave. It probably would have been easier to just be complacent and endure our time there.  Sometimes saying yes and changing things is the harder to do. Staying still is, by comparison, pretty easy. But the reward to saying yes and changing a situation, to realize that if a situation is unfavourable, all it takes is a couple steps down the road and before long at all  something stimulating, something completely new and exciting presents itself. 

         If your page is full, and cluttered, and miserable, just turn the page.  And keep turning.  The book is never ever full. 

         So the next chapter, just like that, has begun. We’re still winging it, there’s no plans. Plans, we’ve learned, lock you in place, keep you closed off from the miracle of unexpected possibilities. 

          Things never go to plan anyways.

        Oh right, the sunset. Well, let's just say it was an absurd, unfortunate stroke of luck. But that's a story for another time. 

    So much can change in twenty four hours. We never go to sleep the same person. We make plans, hit roadblocks, and stumble over obstacles. But that's human nature. It's the life we lead. 

So skip the plan, and just go. Just be. Live. Play. Jump. Run. Fall down. Get up. Fall down again. Keep trying. Adapt. Keep walking. Laugh. Trip. Dance. Drink. Eat. Move. Move again. And keep moving. Keep on moving. Keep on smiling.  Keep on laughing. 

Keep on living. 

-K&B

Kia Ora, readers!

            We knew the day would come. We spoke about it back in Canada, during our semi-frequent meetings, while purchasing our equipment or designing the blog or simply dreaming up whatever New Zealand would have in store for us: 

            Eventually, we’ll have to work. We don’t know where, or when, or doing what, but we’ll have to work. It is a working holiday, after all. 

               And so the funds have reached a record low to the point where we no longer feel comfortable hurling ourselves off bridges or stepping foot on a volcano. We’re here in Blenheim, in the heart of Marlborough (a region that produces about three quarters of New Zealand’s wine, despite being only one of ten regions!) and we’re toiling away in the vineyards. The work, while mindless, is repetitive, with long hours; work usually starting promptly at seven and often continuing past five o’clock in the evening. 

           We pluck out diseased fruit, string up nets to keep pests and birds away, or (our personal favourite, NOT) removing the ‘second set’ of grapes from the Pinot Noir vines. 

Second set sucks. They’re the second round of grapes that won’t ripen in time for harvest, and so we have to pluck them from the vines so that the plant then focuses all it’s energy and nutrients into ripening the remaining grapes into producing a fleshier, more flavourful and softer wine. 

It’s great to know that we’re contributing to a successful batch of wine in 2015, but damn are the vineyards massive here. Marlborough is this big, dry, almost desert-like valley surrounded by rolling mountain ranges, jagged and interspersed. The way they play with the sunsets and sunrises sports a very understated beauty (at least by New Zealand standards.)

We’ve pumped in about ten solid days of labour with Kula Contracting, which is a company employed by Montana Wines, which is a company owned by the beverage company Pernod-Ricard, which is a company owned by the company Louis-Vuitton Moet-Hennessey, or LVMH, which is a company that apparently owns every fancy luxury product in the world, ever, for the rest of time. 

So naturally, it’s hard not to feel like a drone or worker be as we plod along the rows of vines, some 330+ plants long, scouring and studying the foliage for small little green buds of grapes that are just oh-so good at hiding from us. 

Of course, when in wine country, one has to drink wine. The Marlborough food and wine festival, NZ’s biggest wine event, took place on Feb 14th, with over a hundred wineries and food venders in one beautiful location at Brancott Estates.  All told, I tasted about fifteen different wines that day. Each one *hiccup* more tasty than the last. There was great live music, excellent food (particularly the local seafood: paua, oysters, chili lime and macadamia scallops, the list goes on). Between cooking demonstrations and wine seminars and dancing, it was hard to notice that everyone there, of all ages, shapes and sizes, was steadily getting on the piss. Good thing there were water packs strapped to the backs of several people, who would walk around with hose in one hand and the pump in the other. 

       
           As hard as the work is, though, there is, I think, deep down, a part of us that is happy we are working in NZ. If we had just drained out money and taken off back to Canada, then really what we’ve done here is just a prolonged, budget-conscious vacation. But now that we’ve settled, sought out a job and put in some solid hours of work, I really think we’ve reached that level that changes ‘vacation’ into ‘travel.’ We’ve also befriended our co-workers, and in Blenheim we have managed to find our highest concentration of Canucks thus far in New Zealand. At a table of ten, all but one were canadian. There was so many toques and plaid flannel at the table, you’d half expect to see Bob and Doug McKenzie and their “strange brew.”
          Two weeks is all we have, though. In a few days we head off to the Nelson/Tasman region, thus completing our full loop of the south island. There we will be back at WWOOFING, this time on an organic vineyard where we will help with harvest, winemaking, taking care of horses, and several other learning experiences to be had, we’re sure. This adventure keeps rolling on. We meet more and more people, seeing new places, it’s getting to the point that we’re glad we have to blog just to keep track of it for our own sakes. 

          As always, we appreciate the readers who take the time to gander at this site. Know that we often think of all of you back home and all the people we’ve met along the way! Thanks for sharing this adventure with us. Considering that we're making it up as we go along, without a single plan,  it’s been such a blast so far. 
But now, as always, onwards! Forever onwards. 

Cheers!

-K&B

          It’s July first, 2014. Canada day. Canada’s one hundred and forty-seventh birthday. Bryan and I are sitting at a small wooden table, jammed up against the wooden railing of Emma’s Back Porch, sipping double Caesars and grazing on poutine while we look out over the hazy golden twilight of lake Ontario. 
          The Caesars go down smoothly. Our conversation hops around; from the typical sports and film talk, to deeper talks of women, relationships, careers, happiness. 
          It occurs to me that despite our close group of friends, Ovie and I have hardly had one-on-one time before. We talk about our good friend James, fresh departed for the rocky mountains, and I begin to think of the inevitable diaspora of people; how we, as a species, crave movement, exploration, adventure. How we always crave leaving home. 
           As if on cue he says “I’ve always wanted to travel. I think I’ve reached a stage in my life where the conditions are perfect. There’s nothing holding me back, no responsibility here weighing me down.” 
           I’m unconsciously nodding. I myself having thought the exact same thing several times over a matter of years, but always lacking the proverbial kick-in-the-pants to take action. 
           “Wouldn’t it be awesome to, I don’t know, go over to Europe? Do like a month or so of travel, Amsterdam, Germany, Barcelona?” 
           “I think I’m just craving some pure, uninhibited experience. It’s finally time.”
            The sun continues to dip low and we know the fireworks are on their way. Our timid server mouses her way to our backwater table, she says “you guys alright?” 
           “Just the bill whenever you get a moment.” 
           “Seriously though man, let’s give this some actual thought. This could be really cool.” 
           
           We pay the lady and leave. After smoking something relaxing, we head through Spencer Smith Park, watching the young girls in their white dresses and headbands, glow sticks in hand, dancing and frolicking in the grass like summer sprites. We find a comfortable patch of grass near the orchestra. The fireworks dazzle as promised, an explosion of light and sound, all in the honour of our great home country. But our minds are secretly thinking about all the countries out there we can visit. 
          We didn’t speak about travel any more that night. And part of me thought that we wouldn’t again. Four days later I get a text message from Ovie. 

                               <Milne bud, lets get together tonight and talk travel plans!>

          To my surprise, I’m relieved. This, finally, might be the time that I stop thinking about travel and actually take action and go on an adventure. 

                       <OK. I’ll grill some steaks. Come over for dinner and we’ll hash it out>

          I run some errands, grab some groceries, a few steaks, and a bottle of wine. I know it should be red with steak, but it's hot a balmy July night.  A refreshing white was necessary.

           Later, after dinner, we finally reach the subject that was the night’s purpose. “So where we going?” I ask, leaning back in my chair. Ovie leans forward. 
          “Ok, so I was thinking, ya we could go on a Eurotrip. Spend a month bombing around, dropping tons of cash, having the time of our lives, right? But then after a month we come back, and then what? We’ve had fun, but have we changed? How about we go to New Zealand. They have a working holiday there, we spend up to a year there, and come back changed. Come back different people!” 

             New Zealand. 

             I looked at the bottle of wine we were drinking. Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc. From Marlborough, New Zealand.
             Bingo. 
             Was it coincidence? Or was something larger at work? I keep milling it over in my head, never approaching an answer. All I know is, it was a sign. 
            “Yep. We’re going.” 

            That was the night we decided to go to New Zealand. Our change of mood was instantaneous. We talked faster, louder (the wine may have helped) we were instilled with a thirst for life that I don’t think neither of us had quite experienced until that moment. We immediately began hashing out the feasibility of our project. At that point we hadn't even dream of starting the blog.

            “So, are we actually talking about this, or are we talking about talking about this?” Ove asks.
             I looked at the bottle of wine, the label a pale off-white, the ridged curves of the Richmond Range mountains slowly fading into the distant expanse of white. I picked it up, pointed at the lable. 
             “We’re going to go there. Right. There.”
             “Alright then.”

            Months passed fast, then slow, then fast, then slow. We approached each day with a new energy- our efforts at work and home were now geared to a purpose, a direct and measurable goal. Daily, texts would come through randomly, without any purpose or direction. Just:
  
                                                                  <New Zealand, man!>
            
                                                                                     or
   
                                                                   <Can’t freakin wait!>

             It was like two adventures. One leading up to the flight, and one after. So much time has passed since that night. 
             And just the other day, we arrived in Marlborough: the heart of New Zealand’s wine industry. For those who don’t need work, or those who don’t care for wine, it’s a fairly uninteresting area of NZ. But for us, it carries a very important significance. 

            Sometimes, a split decision can provide you with more than a well-debated choice ever can.  That we are all much more capable and extraordinary than we believe. We can, with a little determination, take that first step towards achieving anything we set down for ourselves. Your body moves before your brain has a chance to warn it. Taking first step is always the hardest. 
            We didn’t even go into Cloudy Bay. But to see the sign outside the vineyard, thinking about all we have done, all we have learned, all we have seen, and all we have changed in the time leading up to that moment, that was one of the best moments during our time in New Zealand. 

            It was a moment rich with a single, powerful thought. A thought that took our spirits and lifted them up higher than they’ve ever been. 
            The thought that after all this distance and all this dedication in the 230 days since we took that first step, we’d made it.  

        But we still know we have so many more dreams to ensure, so many more dragons to slay. We remember where we've come from, and we know where we've been. 
All that's left is to keep chasing the horizon. 
To keep taking first steps. 
To keep on making it. 
-K & B

        The south island’s east coast is very dry. The westerly winds come through the Tasman sea, dump all the moisture on the west coast, float over the southern alps and glide across the eastern plains as dry chinooks. 
         Or so we’re told. 
         From Dunedin we travel along the east coast and inward to the Canterbury plains. From there, we spend a warm but windy day at the secluded lake Ohau, tossing the disk and fishing for trout. The next day we head to the fabled Mount Cook campground. 
         Mount Cook is the highest elevated mountain in New Zealand. About 3,700 metres above sea level. We camped right at it’s base. And it was so rainy, we couldn’t even see it. Setting up the tent in the pouring rain; the sandflies somehow enduring the wet to get their evening meal, we raced to the shelter as soon as we could and did everything possible to stay dry. 
         It was a tough night. 
         But, hey, this is New Zealand, and all you have to do to get a dose of better weather is drive a couple hours, and it’s as though you’ve traveled to another world entirely. Further up the plains, we found the promised dry and windy climate we’d read about. 
         The beautifully blue alpine lakes kept outshining each other. From Lake Ohau to Lake Pukaki and onto Lake Tekapo, the scenery was stunning: snow-capped mountains, golden yellow shrubs and grasses, then shimmering robin-egg blue lakes rippling in between. 

           Tramping has certainly grown on us. We’re finding we need less breaks. Less water. Reaching the top comes faster, but still never ceases to disappoint. 
          Once again we pile in the charmingly rickety ghost mobile and we move onto Christchurch, which has been our destination for the better part of a month. Max is scheduled to meet some of his friends from Germany on the 3rd of February. We spend a couple of semi-restful days in Christchurch- which is a bevy of activity. The damage caused by the earthquakes of 2011 and 2012 still permeates the town- but not idly so. There is work being done- from destruction cometh creation. It was pretty inspiring, if not a little humbling. 
       Max’s friends' flights were delayed. It’s a shame to say we had to say goodbye to him much sooner than expected. Our mutual friend Julia was headed further up the coast to Kaikura, a town famous for it’s fishing and aquatic life. We hitched a ride with Julia and drove through the Waipara valley into Kaikura, which in Maori roughly translates into “eat crayfish.” 
      Crayfish is also known as rock lobster. And in Kaikura it is wicked expensive (we’re talking about 50 dollars for half a cray, upwards of 100 for the whole thing). We decided to cut out the middle man and take a trip out on a boat to catch them ourselves on a fishing charter. 
      The charter, run by an incredibly hospitable man named Gerard, brought us out to get the fish, explain how to identify males and females, and how to measure them in accordance with fishing laws. Not to mention that we got to see very active, very playful dolphins on our way to the crayfish pot. Those creatures can really leap into the air. Tim, an English fellow on our boat, described it perfectly, “you can’t write this!” he exclaimed. So I won’t try. 
      Luckily, Julia had her Nikon at the ready, whereas Bryan was busy recording one of those videos where you forget to press the record button.

           After we collected the cray, we headed back to Gerard’s house where we cooked up the beasts. Rose, one of Gerard’s WOOFER’s, showed us how to steam them, and carve them up. After that it was all do-it-yourself. All the groups from the day were there- we spent the evening drinking several glasses of wine, courtesy of Gerry, plus smoked Grouper wings, cheeses, and of course, crayfish. All told, Bryan and I ate about two crayfish each, total. Not a bad deal. 
          We rounded out the evening with a dancing competition to the likes of Elvis and Johnny Cash. Several couples participated. I asked Julia to dance, and we came second. But coming in at first place was a dutch lady named Serena, and non else than Bryan. It was deserved. 
          Later, one of the fisherman, who was from Israel, caught me doing a couple lazy haka moves. He calls me out: 
“Hey Canada- if you do a haka for everybody here, I will give you Paua” 
 ...I didn’t know what Paua even was. But hey, I’ll rise to the challenge, I thought. 
I haka’d to the best of my ability. Later I found out from the Maori skipper that I pronounced a ton of the words wrong. “But don’t worry bro, it’s all about your kawa, aye bro, your strength. You nailed that, bro.” (The skipper was a capable diver who, I kid you not, had a fake leg up to his hip, and several half-fingers. We learned it was a shark attack. A mako shark. Crazy stuff.) 
Having finished, Israel gave me a Paua, which I discovered is a mollusk whose shell is used to make unique and beautiful jewellery, and whose flesh sells in china for over two hundred fifty dollars a pound. They prepared the animal for me- removed the guts, the beak, the teeth, and the next day I hammered it out, dredged it in flour, and fried it in butter. Easily the most delicious seafood we’ve ever tasted. Kaikoura was special. An amazing authentic experience that rivals our best in NZ. 
        This country just keeps getting better and better. Keeps demolishing our expectations wherever we turn. So we’ll keep turning, filling the memory banks, meeting new people and tasting new foods, expanding our horizons and discovering all that we can. 
     It’s easy to get overwhelmed by the world and all that’s in it. “I want to see it all” we’ll say. Sometimes, though, it’s the smallest of instances, the most intimate of scenarios that reveal the big truths of this world; the profound spirit behind a people, and the place they come from. The smallest window points the way to the most focussed image. 
     In the courtyard of a small house in a small fishing town, in a small island in the south pacific, we saw an authentic and true portrait of humanity. 

     And it was beautiful. 


     -K&B

Out in the sticks, as the Kiwis say, it’s a dewey, foggy morning at our campsite. Just as I glance back at what might be our last glimpse of New Zealand’s southland, we hit a small bump in the gravel road and I hear Max curse. He furiously tugs and pushes on the gear shift. First Gear, Second, First. Then he pulls the parking break.
         “That’s it guys. I knew it. The car is finally gone. Kaputt.”  Max glances across toward Ovie, a forlorn look spread across his face. 
         “It’s over. She’s dead. We are fucked” 
          We push the beloved ghost mobile up the next bend in the gravel road, and let gravity do the work as Max does anything and everything to get the car in gear. But it’s no use- the clutch does nothing- the motor’s typical nervous rattles and shakes exchanged for loud, neutral whirring. We’ve completely lost drive. It could be the clutch, which may be fixable, or it could be the transmission, which would condemn ol’ Ghosty to death. 
         It’s a solid half hour drive through windy, bumpy gravel roads to the nearest signs of civilization, and our phones are completely out of service. Nothing but the chortling songs of the Tui Birds break the morning silence. 
         Max rolls himself a cigarette. Bryan studies maps. I pace along the road, staring unproductively at the nearby ferns, their leaves splashing outwards from the ground like fountains in freeze frame. 
We heard stories upon stories of car breakdowns. I guess it was just a matter of time before it was our turn. 
         Luckily, a ranger from the Department of Conservation happened to drive by our road. We explained our situation, and after a few passes by, he managed to radio the nearby township and arrange a tow. A half hour passed and we were approached by a ticketing truck- an empty bottle of Speights Beer sitting in the open-faced wooden bed. A lady Kiwi steps out. “Need a tow?”
        “Yes, please” 
        She hooks up something that I can only describe as a strong cloth strap “just don’t forget to use your breaks” she says, and we’re off- welcome to the Catlin Ghostmobile gravel road tow-coaster extreme. The lady kiwi drove like crazy- so much we feared that the tow would cause more damage than the initial problem. 
       Anyhow, we made it to Owaka and saw the mechanic. “Ok, what’s the matter with this piece of shit?” he says. 
       We explained. He gets in the seat, grinds the clutch, jiggles the key.  “Maybe I can fix it. Go over there have a coffee and I’ll take a look.” 
        It was a long, nervous cup of coffee, full of slightly short tempers and panicked plan-adjusting. 
        Yet ,when we got back, the car had already been fixed, and road tested, and after a lump sum we were off on our way again, shaken but not broken. 

         The Catlins were beautiful, though. Countless inlets and bays gouging through the rugged coastline, the kelp swaying and curling in the ocean surf like the hair of some gigantic, prehistoric sea monster. One of the southern tips of civilization- nothing but Antarctica to the south of the vast expanse of ocean. 
         After a solid couple hours’ drive, we made our way straight to Dunedin for a much-needed beer and sought out a bed, shower, and hot meal. The simple pleasures always prove to be the most effective in stress relief. 
         Dunedin, despite the misty rain and insanely steep roads (our nerves extra pressed from the clearly fragile car) was a breath of fresh air. A university town without the students (still on summer vacation) it was a perfect size- a bustling town centre that didn’t prove intimidating to navigate nor explore. We stayed at our most impressive hostel to date- a spot wittily called “Hogwartz” (yes, it did have a room 9 and 3/4) which was relaxed, but active, friendly yet not overly loud- complete with a tuned guitar and piano. Not to mention, the Speight’s Brewery was just down the road. Missing a brewery tour was out of the question.
        We also took a day trip down the Otago Peninsula- famous for it’s wildlife. Though we didn’t manage to spot any penguins, we got a good dose of sea lions snoring on the rocks- or playing, or even engaging in some scuffles. 
      We were also fortunate to sea an Albatross. Max, Ovie and I just arrived to the viewpoint- with no one around, we were there for maybe thirty seconds before this gigantic bird grew out of the misty cliffs and headed straight towards us. It’s huge wingspan unshaken by the strong coastal wind, it effortlessly banked against the wind, hovered in the air not 20 feet from us, and dipped back down towards the surf. It was like it posed for us, showing nature’s beauty all in a moment’s breath. 
  
      And no one saw it but us. 

    Later, we learned from people at our hostel that some had paid twice for a guided albatross tour, and never laid eyes on the magnificent birds on the ground, yet alone in flight. And here we were, a private showing of nature’s strongest soarer. 
    The Royal Albatross, a wing span of 3+ metres, soars literally around the world on wind currents, high up, never flapping. Soaring for miles and miles. Maybe, I think,  they just stand still, and the world turns beneath them. Or like in Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," the Albatross doesn't soar on the wind, but rather creates it- the breezes pouring out from it's powerful wings like a powerful wave or waterfall.

 We’ve forsaken the wet south lands for the dry plains of Canterbury on the South Island’s east coast. As Max always exclaims: “I want to see mountains again, Gandalf, mountains!”
       It’s time to go see some alpine lakes and some pointed snow-caps. It's time to keep moving. They'll be time to rest later. For now, we can only learn from the Albatross; follow its wind,  and keep on soaring. 


-K & B

“So, do you have any medical conditions?” asks Dan as he draws the bright yellow cowl over my head. 
       “No” I hastily reply, the whole gravity of the situation catching up with me. Normally I wouldn’t mind being blinded for a brief spell, but when you’re about to free fall for 60 metres and then swing for 200 metres over a canyon full of jagged rock and river, not knowing where you’re going can induce a little panic, to say the least. 
       While Doug and Dan, my jump masters, are clearly professionals, they’re not afraid to take cruel liberties in their position as they lead me down the ramp. They grab my shoulders: “Whoa, don’t fall over! Don’t go yet!” 
       “Awww, I messed up, if it goes wrong, blame me!” 
        I’m doing the “birthday gimp.” A special jump where I’m suspended head first over the canyon, the cowl over my head, disorienting me and making breathing a tad difficult; it’s just a pale yellow haze and the slightly muffled sound of Dan’s instructions. After a bit of suspense, I think I’m about to tumble, but I feel a quick tug- the cowl comes off, and I’m staring at an upside down Dan on the ledge. 
   “Hello.” hey says. 
     “Hi?” Clink.
       And down I go, 60 metres head first, my arms flailing like I’m Micheal Phelps in the 100m freestyle, my body unable to utter any sound short of an escalating “Whoooaaaa” until the river pulls up in front of me, curving like a pendulum, up to the top of the swing where laughter can never be resisted. The laughter of survival. 
       
       This was my second jump. The first, the “pin drop”, was a simple folding of the arms and a jump off the ledge. Not as easy as it sounds. Getting suspended off the harness and released is one thing; but to take action and be the mover yourself, to initiate what your body judges to be fatal, that is the true test of strength. 

It was a birthday to remember. 

         Queenstown is home of the bunny, the jet boat, the adventure sport. Tucked beside the crystal clear Lake Wakatipu and shadowed by the often snow-capped Remarkable Mountains. The town is a bevy of activity- para-sailors and parachutes can be seen floating down in the sky at any time- tumbling like confetti. The shuttles and busses whizz by, plastered with decals of windswept young people in the height of their own adrenaline rush. The town centre is constantly ripe with the aroma of grilled beef- the money machine that is Fergburger churning out sinful burgers 22 hours a day, and a 30 minute queue always chomping at the bit to get their fix. 
         Bars jam packed with rowdy backpackers, hoping around to pseudo-country bars or underground music clubs (complete with uber-awesome heavy metal) are open till four am. 
         Queenstown was supposed to be a respite from camping. It was anything but. But damn was it a fun town! We had to get out before we went broke in a week. 
         Luckily, New Zealand’s scenery, it’s powerful, natural beauty, finds its heart just southwest of Queenstown. The Fiordland National Park, with it’s dozen or so Fiords providing incredibly humbling landscapes- and us so very lucky to have a few clear, sunny days to witness the park in all it’s glory. 

          The Fiords are formed by glaciers. The combination of deep water, immensely high peaks and the countless rainbow-streaked waterfalls, the small tuffs of cloud clinging to the fiords like a withered beard- the land was alive. We learned that the final part of Milford sound was formed by glaciers about 15 to 75 thousand years ago, or in geological terms, just yesterday. The land is so young and so unbelievably complex, and every curve in the road there and back produced awe-inspiring views. 

          After trekking through the Fiordlands, our two German friends Max and Julia accompanied us on one of New Zealand’s “Great Walks” - the Kepler track. It’s a 3-4 day, 60km hike through rainforest, alpine forest, and mountains, and was one of our greatest challenges to date. We had to lug our tents, clothing, food all with us- rationing food and keeping our packs light being our biggest challenge. We did the trek in 3 days- one day quicker than planned. We weren’t keen on camping after the first night- we learned later that temperatures dropped to about 2 or 3 degrees C at night- and we almost froze. After night two in the alpine hut, we were keen on getting back to a bed. 
          Day 2, though the most difficult, was incredible- we spent the entire day above the treelike. The mountains in the distance were snow-capped, a sapphire-blue lake lingering deep down the mountainside. 
          The mountains were tufted with plush yellow grasses and shrubs, working ever upwards to rock-splattered peaks. In the distance, I could see the kepler track carved through the dense bush of the mountain- a clean cut, samurai-like, as though the gentlest of nudge would have the top of the mountain slide off like a severed head. 
          The views, were panoramic. Overwhelming. You never knew which way to look. And even when you rested, you had to make sure the mischievous Kea Parrots didn’t steal your sneakers.

          It was a good long week through one of New Zealand’s most treasured and unique landscapes. We’ve been blessed with a clear and warm tour of the Fiordland. But now it’s time to round the southland and continue around back north up the east coast. We don’t know where we’re sleeping tonight. But that’s the beauty of it. We’ve come to explore everything this country can offer and lose ourselves in it, and take each challenge as it comes our way. Make sure you check out the full Fiordland and Kepler Track albums- they're our favourites thus far. 
Kia Ora!
-K&B

        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. 

          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. 

          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