We were in New Zealand!
And the scenery was spectacular. Distances are short here: You can go from a wet tropical rain forest with gigantic tree ferns to snow-covered mountain peaks in under two hours. We keep comparing the emerald green fields, snowy peaks, and windswept coasts to Big Sur, the Colorado Rockies, Scotland, the Pacific Northwest, and the Chilean Lake District.
And we’re here in the dead of New Zealand’s winter. It’s funny how the body can adapt to instant winter. We purchased boots (our feet had not been out of Teva sandals for eight months), gloves, woolen tights, and fleece pullovers. We feasted on Beef Wellington and pot roasts and warmed ourselves by the fire with New Zealand pinot noirs and cabernet sauvignons while we watched our tans crack before our eyes. We put on our winter weight effortlessly.
Molly and I hung out in cafes over cappuccinos discussing our re-entry to the states. She says she’s anxious that none of her friends will like her any more, but she does want to get home because she feels she “needs a proper education.” I’m just curious how I’m going to be able to sleep in the same bed for more than two nights in a row or endure rush hour traffic again.
While New Zealand is undeniably a great place to kick back and relax, we have found a different pace as we have been adventure-sporting around New Zealand’s South Island. I’m not sure if we feel that time is running out for us on this trip, but the last week has seemed like some sort of Wide World of Sports Eco-challenge.
Our week started with a helicopter ride skirting halfway up the Franz Joseph glacier, a twelve-kilometer river of ice that descends from Mt. Tasman. After landing on the ice, we strapped on boots with crampons and toted ice axes for a three-hour hike through blue ice caves, over crevasses, and scaled mini ice walls. My eyes always focused downward, looking for any large gaps in the ice, except when thunderous explosions signaled huge boulders of ice tumbling off the glacier, making everyone freeze and look up instantly.
Next, we drove through glacial valleys of rushing milky turquoise rivers to Queenstown, the hub of New Zealand’s adventure sports. After all, this is where bungee jumping was invented. Opting out of flinging ourselves off a bridge, we decided on luging. We rode a gondola up to a staging platform on a mountain where we were issued crash helmets. We then took a chair lift up to the top. We selected our machines and squatted in our luges (plastic carts with handles). With only one way to go, we screamed–literally and figuratively–down the mountain on a steep, curvy, concrete track. We returned several more times feeling we had perfected our luging technique with each run.
Our most recent sports adventure was dubbed “fun yakking” in the brochure. Under crystal clear skies, we drove up to Glenorchy, a small town on the shores of Lake Wakatipu. We were herded into a corrugated shed to outfit ourselves for this sport, which took almost an hour. Stripped down to our bathing suits we applied layers, lots of layers. First a full length wet suit, booties, three fleece pullovers, a windbreaker, lifejacket, hat, and mittens. Our arms stuck out from our bodies like Pillsbury doughboys.
We bumbled our way into a “jet boat,” a speedboat that draws only four inches of water and is powered by a Chevy V-8 engine. The boat whizzed 40 kilometers up the Dart River through braided gravel streams, spinning around like a top while we held on to our hats and tried to stay dry. We landed on the riverbank to transfer to our “fun yaks.” Invented by the French Foreign Legion, these puffy inflatable canoes carried us downstream until we had to walk them upstream to get into secluded chasms. Now I knew why we had the wet suits on. The mountain peaks surrounding us sparkled white, as if someone with a giant flour sifter had dusted them with powdered sugar.
Our guide, Lee, a native New Zealander, entertained us with stories of bungy jumping from helicopters and explained how some local New Zealanders are trying to develop a fur trade of opossum skins. Apparently opossum fur is the only fur (besides the polar bear) that doesn’t freeze. We ended our day at a local pub to thaw our hands and feet and sample the local Speight brew. A fur shop next to the pub, we noted as we were leaving, sold opossum fur bras and g-strings.
We still haven’t done justice to the South Island of New Zealand, so we have extended our stay for another week, which will give us plenty of time to check out the coastal fjords as well as the latest in opossum fashions.
