Holidays in the Heat

As I promised at the end of my last post, another month has brought with it plenty of activity. The season has definitively shifted from spring into summer, and the accompanying staff turnover at work has been even more dramatic. More coworkers means I have to stay late less often, and more sunny days means I can jump into the Bealey River after finishing on time. It may be summer, but I can still see the snow that melts into the water I swim in.

The beginning of summer has brought plenty of new people to live in Arthur's Pass, which certainly livens the place up. But the number of local events has also begun to climb, especially as Christmas approaches: there have been two gatherings celebrating anniversaries of arrivals in the village, one for 2 years and one for 30 (the second was much larger than the first). The end of the quiz night series left a gap on Wednesdays that we filled with a single curry night, with vague intentions to create a weekly event. The Christmas season has picked up that slack lately; even in this village of less than 100, there were two Christmas parties for me to attend, and that's not including the celebrations we will have on Christmas Day and over New Year's.

Last year I mentioned that Christmas doesn't feel the same here. It makes it easier to avoid homesickness, but it is bizarre to listen to Christmas music - much of it about snow, winter, sleigh rides, etc. - when it's hot enough to wear shorts and sandals. After over a year in this country, the seasons still make me forget what month it is. Christmas has not made a difference, although luckily this year I have people with whom to celebrate it; the celebrations are primarily barbecues.

It's easy to lose track of time here as well. I recently made a quick visit to Wellington, where I spent my first four months in New Zealand. Once the plans were in place, I realized that since returning to Arthur's Pass in June, I had spent a grand total of one night out of the village. Even locals give me looks of amazement at that statistic. Needless to say, Wellington was refreshing. The weather was perfect, the company was generous and friendly (thanks for putting me up, Chris and Donna), and my small pub quiz team of three won first prize. I also caught a matinee of The Hobbit on the day it opened for public audiences in Peter Jackson's favorite cinema.

I hope everyone is doing well this holiday season. I'm not sure where I'll spend the next one, but you'll probably be able to read about it here.

P.S. Though staying one place makes my numerous new experiences seem routine, here's one that I didn't see coming when I headed for New Zealand: one of my coworkers is away over the holidays, and I have been entrusted with the care of her three chickens. And I get to keep the eggs.

A recent hitchhiking journey saw me by the side of the road, next to a sheep paddock, drinking L&P. I felt like I was in Goodbye Pork Pie.

The Embassy's new facade.

From Dr. Grordbort's Exceptional Exhibition in Wellington. More than worth the free admission.

 

 

Practice Makes Photos

My situation in Arthur's Pass is, I dare say, pretty unique. Having begun my time here as a temporary worker, it's always been simpler for me to socialize with other working holidaymakers. However, I've now been here 10 months. When the locals started to realize that I wasn't running off just yet - and most of them began by asking "how long are you here for?" - social opportunities began to open up on that front as well. 10 months is the longest I've spent in any one place since I left university, and by January, I will have stayed here longer than any one place since I finished high school. Naturally, I'm a bit rusty at settling in and becoming part of a community, even if it's only for a little over a year. But I've been practicing, and everything seems to lead to something else.

Back when I first moved here, I mentioned that despite my love for the outdoors, I do not consider myself much of an outdoorsman. Apart from day hikes, most outdoor activities require expensive equipment, transportation, or training that I don't have. The good news is that I'm now surrounded by people who DO have those things. For instance, I think I am now better friends with hunters than I have ever been. I haven't yet taken up any offers to go out and fire a gun myself, but I have always had a fondness for eating wild meat, even before this year's Wild Foods Festival. So I recently came into possession of a goat's forequarter and turned it into stew, curry, and stock. Despite no butchering skills and a few ingredient hiccups, I had good reviews. (Thanks for the goat, Dave)

 

I've also been making more of an effort to get myself out walking the tracks around the village and further afield when I can. My work schedule had been hectic for much of September and October (by my own choice), and needing to take a 1.5-hour bus ride to buy groceries means weekends are not just free time. So opportunities to wander and discover are limited to one full day per week and the time before and after work. I recently managed to take my first swim of the season. As I dried off, I looked up to see the snow-capped mountain that fed the river I'd just been in. Not too shabby for an after-work dip. 

I also recently had the opportunity to learn how to use an ice axe for the first time in my life. Having grown up near the comparatively gentle Appalachian mountains, ice axes and crampons have always been for more ambitious hikers than myself. Up here, they're useful to have for almost any hike longer than a day. So last week, my flatmate Emily and I walked up to the local ski field with someone who knew what he was doing - thanks Geoff - and spent a day learning to self-arrest in the snow. We also spent some time bouldering and just generally used the ski area as our playground. There are videos of this, but here's a few of Emily's photos to tide you over.

Bouldering - the scenery here lends itself to dramatic photos.

Somehow, the first thing I saw in this photo was my neck beard.

Laying in the sun to dry off after ice axe practice...and getting sunburnt in the process.

This week's adventure was to the top of Avalanche Peak, which I climbed once before in January. This time there was snow on the track, but the view was still worth it. And this time, I was able to get photos with me in them (thanks Emily). 

Me looking at Mt. Rolleston, the peak I call "the postcard."

Look who showed up in time for lunch!

And as if all this wasn't enough, I have also been putting my brain to use writing quizzes for one of the two local pubs. Participation has grown every week and I'm enjoying the challenge of writing questions that are interesting but not impossible for a largely Kiwi audience. (From what I've heard, I may be guilty of keeping them a bit more interesting than possible)

So if it's another month before my next blog post, rest assured that it will have been a busy one.

 

     

How I Spent my 25th Birthday (and more)

It's been a while since my last blog post, so here's a few recent highlights:

October 2 was my birthday, and the first time I've spent two consecutive birthdays in the same country since I turned 18. My coworkers and I had a pot luck dinner before heading on to one of the two bars in Arthur's Pass. I've spent several birthdays around people I'd only just met, so it was nice to have a group of people who actually know me. I accidentally scorched a surprise cake by preheating the oven for someone else, but the cake was still delicious. And they even bought me a present - a fern carved out of greenstone from the West Coast, which is around my neck right now. I don't usually wear accessories, but I like this one (although I still forget to put it on in the morning).

The weekend after my birthday was Canadian Thanksgiving. I briefly mentioned it to a few of my coworkers, and before long the entire village was involved. We had dinner on Saturday night, and most of the people I've met here attended. I managed to make a pumpkin pie from scratch for the first time, something I will definitely do again. And after dinner, I played "Alice's Restaurant" through the speakers. That might have been mixing American and Canadian traditions, but my Thanksgiving traditions have always been confusing.

This past week has seen two snowstorms that have closed the highway, turning this village into a bit of a ghost town. Despite it being October, which is well into spring here, a few friends and I had a long walk through what might be the last big snowfall for a while. We made snowmen and snow angels, threw snowballs, went snowboarding, ate snow candy, and invented the snowjito (a mojito with snow instead of soda water). It hasn't been a very normal winter here, but we certainly made of the most of a very wintry day.

On my birthday - look at me, accessorizing. (Thanks to my flatmate Emily for this one).

Snowjitos.

The day after the big dump.

Several days after the snowfall, it's still hanging on in the distance.

The Otira viaduct, just over the mountains from the village.

Do You Wanna Dance?

If you've been reading this blog, you already know a fair bit about the All Blacks, New Zealand's national rugby team. If you've heard of the All Blacks, you've probably heard of the haka (I mentioned it here). The haka, in a word, is awesome.

The haka is a traditional dance of the Māori and other Polynesian peoples. After the national anthems are played at international rugby games, teams are given the chance to perform haka as if preparing for war. It's been argued that this gives Polynesian teams an unfair advantage, which may be true. There really isn't an equivalent with which non-Polynesian nations can respond. But I love it. It creates an atmosphere unlike any other. The All Blacks yell, stomp, and glare at their opponents, and then the TV broadcast shows replays, giving every extended tongue its due. The pregame leadup keeps your mind buzzing; the national anthems might stir your heart or even your tear glands; but the haka makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck and forcefully tells you IT IS ON.

But here's what really gets me. Like any "new world" country, New Zealand has a history marked with conflict between European colonists and native peoples. The Treaty of Waitangi, an agreement between the Māori and settlers that was signed over 150 years ago, remains a hotly-debated topic. The same issues of apology, reconciliation, and restitution that are debated in Canada, the US (less often), and Australia (even less often, from what I've heard), are hot topics in New Zealand. But in spite of that familiar divide, every time the All Blacks play a match, pasty white farmer's sons stand up next to dreadlocked Polynesians and scream a challenge to their opponents in Māori.

There is no equivalent to this in North America. The traditions of native peoples are much less visible to us for a variety of reasons, and our emphasis on sportsmanship and broad participation would discourage war dances. But more broadly, the haka of the All Blacks is a symbol that unites multiple pieces of New Zealand's identity and makes something altogether unique. And awesome.

The video below is of the haka that the All Blacks performed before playing Australia in last year's world cup semifinal. Watch it through, then look back at 0:06 to 0:10. On the left of the screen is Ali Williams, a long-tenured All Black of English and Scottish descent. He's warming up by sticking out his tongue and rolling his eyes back, the facial expression that is key to the haka itself. At the same time, by being the big white guy that he is, he's neatly summarizing my point about how this dance is uniquely New Zealand. Thanks, Ali.

   

Kiwis and Coffee

Imagine a land of immense natural beauty and wide-open spaces, where farming is still a common occupation and gumboots are common attire in restaurants. As the work day comes to a close, men and women with strong, calloused hands, dust in their hair, and dirt-stained clothes meet up to unwind over a hot drink.

Now imagine that hot drink is a cappuccino.

Does that make sense?

Not to me.

New Zealand has a robust coffee culture and of course, plenty of Kiwis aren't farmers. But this country has an odd cross-section of coffee drinkers that is one of the weirdest things about it. North Americans are well-known for their disregard for "real" coffee - we like it watery and drink it by the gallon as we walk, or more likely drive, to work. Coffee is fuel. In Europe, it's almost the opposite - they drink it sitting down or not at all, and always in reasonable quantities. Coffee is an event.

Kiwis fall in between the two. Espresso-style coffee is the norm here, and most people know the difference between the various drinks, the most common being a flat white (known as café au lait outside the Antipodes). Most coffee companies offer barista training, and that can be a highly skilled position. In Wellington particularly, getting a job as a barista is difficult without a year's experience.

Outside of New Zealand's few large population centers, the espresso machine still dominates coffee. In the farming region of Central Otago, a local café owner made me a coffee as tasty as any I had in Wellington (but I'd go back for the pancakes). The café that I work in at the moment is beside a state highway, and plenty of truckers order large takeaway espresso coffees, usually with a couple sugars. In New Zealand that makes sense, but in North America that sounds like a bizarre joke.

But the people who really intrigue me are the older Kiwis, many of whom probably remember a time before espresso coffee took over. Most of them have learned to navigate through all the Italian words on the menu and figure out what they actually want, but the ones who don't stand out. Like the man who ordered a "flat white cappuccino," a drink that doesn't exist, and said, "I only wanted one," when I brought him a flat white and a cappuccino. Or the woman who asked for "a coffee," and when I asked her to clarify, she talked about how she used to get it out of a packet. And, just today, the woman who asked for a latté, and when I asked if she wanted sugar, replied, "Yes, sugar and milk too, please."

It seems to me that most of our customers just want espresso and hot milk in a cup. Perhaps that's why being a barista is, in practice, not as abhorrent as I thought it would be - there are very few coffee snobs in Arthur's Pass. But with my North American perspective, it's frustrating to watch people who would be perfectly happy with "a cup of joe" feel obligated to order something more complex. Especially since, for most drinks, after grinding the beans, running the shot, and steaming and pouring the milk, all you've added is air. 

A flat white with a fern drawn into the milk. Bonus points for presentation.

Basic intro to espresso coffees - we don't make espresso con panna or café breve.

Politics, Kiwi Style (Part 2)

This blog was originally meant as a replacement to mass e-mails that I sent to family and friends about my travels. For that reason, I have tried to write primarily descriptive pieces about the places I'm visiting at the moment, and kept touchy subjects to the side. But now that I'm staying in one place for a while, there aren't so many new places to write about. New ideas and opinions are always easy to find, however, and some of them might stir up debate - but that's not why I'm writing about them. It's because they're interesting. Here's one:

People frequently ask me about the differences I notice between New Zealand and North America, which is a difficult question to answer. It can be hard to remember what things are like at home, especially less tangible things, like political attitudes. But the recent Chik-Fil-A kerfuffle in the US reminded me. Chik-Fil-A is an American fast food chain that places a major emphasis on its Christian beliefs. The CEO recently made a statement expressing his opposition to same-sex marriage, and it caused an uproar. Several mayors issued declarations that the company was not welcome in their cities. Same-sex couples protested the statement by kissing outside Chik-Fil-A locations, while supporters demonstrated their agreement by eating there more often.

On this side of the Pacific, New Zealand's government is currently processing legislation to allow same-sex marriage. Civil unions are already legal, and common-law relationships are also much more common here than they are back home. There is some opposition to the bill being considered at the moment, but it seems as though it will pass fairly easily. However, Damien O'Connor, one of the opposed members of Parliament, recently faced a unique conflict – his own daughter publicly disagreed with him. In a posting on his Facebook page, she asked – politely – that he change his opinion. Was Dad angry? Apparently not. He praised his daughter's sense of social justice and replied: “Sometimes we disagree. And so it will be throughout New Zealand. We must respect one another's opinions but ignore the extremes from both sides of the debate.”

Maybe it's not a perfect parallel. But being in the news around the same time as each other, these two events reminded me of a major difference in the political cultures of the US and New Zealand - and, I'm slowly learning, between the US and almost everywhere else.

Here's the article about MP Damien O'Connor: http://www.stuff.co.nz/national/politics/7450294/MPs-family-split-over-gay-marriage-bill.

Misty Mountain Hike

After my adventures in Arizona, I returned to New Zealand and quickly made my way back to Arthur's Pass. After about 5 weeks on the move, I was ready to put down my three bags. In the two months since I returned to work, I have seen Flight of the Conchords perform live; cooked a crayfish (lobster) tail for the first time; and now, explored another part of Arthur's Pass National Park.

One of my co-workers knows this area like the back of his hand, having been a regular visitor and fervent hiker since his teenage years. Today, the weather was perfect, and we made our way to the Bealey Spur Path. Although it doesn't lead to a peak, it provides an excellent view in all directions.

The walk took us through mud and snow, the first real test of my new hiking boots (they passed). It's been a poor ski season, but it seems the snow has been falling, just not in the right places.

 This walk also saw my introduction to backcountry huts. New Zealand's National Parks are dotted with these little cabins, which provide varying degrees of protection from the elements. This one is pretty basic. It's an old mustering shed for the sheep station that used to operate in the area. An informational sign inside referred to an author who said its beds were the most uncomfortable he'd ever slept on. The sign casually continued with a boast that little had changed since it was first built.

Standin' On A Corner after being Under the Bridge

Soon after returning to Phoenix with my parents, they headed back east and I hit the road with my new hosts, my brother and new sister-in-law. Debbie had a meeting to attend in Winslow, AZ, and we decided to make a trip of it. As if to remind of the varied and unusual beauty of Arizona's geography, our first stop was the natural bridge in Tonto State Park. Once again, our hike began with a steep descent. After getting an eyeful of the bridge itself, we headed underneath it. As our voices began to echo, a man sitting on one of the smoothly worn rocks beneath the bridge asked us where we were going. His manner suggested knowledge and wisdom, and the echoes added a certain gravity to his voice. It was only after a quick look at the tiny logo on his polo shirt that I realized he was a park employee. I suppose in such a small and popular part of the park, he could let the visitors come to him. He offered some directions and explanations before sending us on our way. As we went, we followed his advice and slid down the rock in front of us. Years of water dripping from the exposed plant roots above had made the surface surprisingly slippery, and those same roots soaked me in the closest thing to rain I had experienced in Arizona.

After camping near Blue Ridge Reservoir, we made the drive in to Winslow for the meeting. Jesse and I dropped Debbie off and then attempted to occupy ourselves for a day in Winslow. It was not easy. Both of us were titillated by being in the same town mentioned by The Eagles in "Take It Easy." Before leaving, we learned that Winslow has a park dedicated to the line "standin' on a corner in Winslow, Arizona." Once there, we found that park to be the highlight of our visit. It seems that the construction of I-40 bypassed Winslow and made it redundant. While it is still a hub for freight train traffic, its main street is a place where shop doors slam in the wind and logos of previous owners remain emblazoned on empty storefronts.

There is one ray of hope, however: new owners are renovating La Posada, an old hotel from the town's heyday as a passenger rail stop. Not much of an architecture connoisseur, I was expecting to lose interest quickly, but they have done a good job of making it comfortable, even for non-paying guests. Especially intriguing was the common room, an amenity forgotten in modern hotels. Rather than encourage guests to use the hotel only as a place to sleep and eat, La Posada attempts to make its guests feel at home. While this effort is at least partly motivated by the original plans of the hotel, it is clear that there is very little to do in Winslow, and encouraging guests to stay in may be the hotel's only hope of succeeding.

We returned to Phoenix via Flagstaff, where we stopped for a brief hike to get one last feel of the cooler weather before returning to the desert. Before long we were back in the triple digits (Fahrenheit) and heading to bed after a busy couple of days.

Prickly pear cactus.

Jesse staring at the crayfish.

"Rain" from the plant roots.

Standin' on a corner is all well and good...

...but make sure you stand at the right one. This is the next block.

Outside La Posada.

Describing the Indescribable

There are several places around the world that defy description. The Grand Canyon is one such place. To describe its sheer awesomeness – that's “awesome” in the literal sense of creating awe – is impossible with mere words. In fact, it is one of those destinations that so many people rave about, it's possible to take it for granted and lose interest in actually seeing the place. I have to confess, I had reached that point when I went to Arizona. The Grand Canyon was, to me, an amazing place that other people had told me about. While I would not have said no to a free trip there, I wasn't dying to see it either. In retrospect, I should have made it my top priority. Fortunately, my parents made it theirs.

After spending the night in Williams, on Route 66, we reached the entrance of Grand Canyon National Park at around 9 the following morning. Once inside, we parked and took our first look at one of the most unique and impressive sights I have ever seen. The Grand Canyon ranges from 4 to 18 miles wide (6-29 kilometers), carved out of sandstone by the Colorado River. But the basics of its geography only give a rough impression of its grandeur. From the South Rim, where the majority of visitors go, it is rarely possible to see the Colorado River itself. Not only is it miles away as the crow flies, it is also one mile down. In between the rim and the river, and continuing beyond to the North Rim is a series of colors and shapes for which the word “magnificent” is insufficient.

The Grand Canyon is big enough to keep even the most avid outdoorsperson entertained for weeks. We only had a day. It is very easy to get overly ambitious when hiking around the Grand Canyon, because it is deceptively vast and visually stunning. Furthermore, hiking into a canyon means the return journey is uphill, so the early stages will seem easy while the most difficult stages are at the end. And with the extreme weather common in the area – the Grand Canyon is at a high elevation and a long way from the mediating influence of the ocean – horror stories abound of hikers with more ambition than supplies who wound up as buzzard food. But I must give credit to the National Parks Service, who do a fantastic job of explaining the facts and reminding visitors not to be stupid (but in slightly nicer words). Keen not to become horror stories ourselves, we limited our walk to the first rest stop, where we could refill our water bottles and listen to other hikers talk about their journeys. While we sweated buckets in the 85°F heat, people passed us on their way out from Phantom Ranch, which is at the river. It had been 125°F down there.

Once we had gotten a taste of the canyon, we spent the rest of the day walking along the rim. No matter how tired we became or how crammed the free shuttle buses were, annoyance and frustration dissipated at the fantastic sight that dominated the landscape. As evening set in, we made our way back to Williams via Flagstaff. Although we passed through some strange and unique territory – we weren't far from the Painted Desert and Hopi country – nothing could shake my mind from the Grand Canyon. It was a staggering sight. 

Note the people on the left.

Impromptu hiking outfit - Lawrence of Arabia handkerchief and a gallon of water.

One example of the NPS's warnings.

Wedding and Wanderings

Although I was returning to the country of my birth, once I boarded the plane at Auckland airport, every place I saw in the next three weeks was new to me. My flights went through Sydney and Los Angeles on the way to Phoenix, where my brother was getting married. Although flying does not give a person a great sense of a place – part of the reason I prefer to avoid it whenever possible – I was surrounded by new opportunities for exploration despite the fact that I was “going home.” As far as the flights are concerned, I'll avoid the details and say it was a long but smooth journey, largely thanks to the fantastic in-flight entertainment offered by Qantas airlines. It also didn't hurt that I had an empty seat next to me for the 15-hour odyssey between Sydney and Los Angeles.

My individual travels have taken me around Western Europe, Scandinavia, and now New Zealand. As a child, my family travelled by car around large parts of North America, but the southwestern United States have always eluded me. As I flew into Phoenix, enjoying a brief flight after surviving the long haul from Sydney, I looked out the window to see a mountainous desert. The desert I had expected – the mountains were a surprise. Just as I might have on a family trip in days gone by, I asked my dad about Arizona's bumpy landscape. He replied that there are mountains everywhere in the West, and that it's almost unfair how much scenic beauty there is in this part of the country as compared to the East. (Dad's from Ohio, where bends in the road are a shock.)

I obviously wanted to spend time with my family while in Arizona, and fortunately they shared my interest in exploring this unique part of the country. After a successful wedding without major breakdowns and with plenty of happiness, my parents and I made the trip out of the sauna-hot Sonoran Desert up to the Grand Canyon. Along the way, the elevation increased by almost 6000 feet (1800 meters), taking me higher than the top of Avalanche Peak in Arthur's Pass. Needless to say, the landscape changed dramatically as we climbed.

Leaving Phoenix seemed to take longer than it should. My family is from the more densely settled eastern part of North America. From what I've heard about Los Angeles, Phoenix is not the most extreme example of urban sprawl – but from what I saw there, it can't be far off. We are also accustomed to cold winters, and only hear of Arizona as a place where people go to avoid them. So watching miles of hot, scrubby, saguaro-covered desert pass by the car windows was a tiring process. We had begun to wonder about the merits of scenic routes when the climb began in earnest. Route 89 climbs 2500 feet in four miles up Yarnell Hill. In my home state of Massachusetts, that's two-thirds of the elevation of the state's highest mountain. In Arizona, it's a bump. Our doubts about scenic routes had evaporated.

Once safely out of the heat, we took a lunch break in Prescott. While still very dry and dusty, Prescott has more trees and thus, more shade. We had already done more than half of the climb up to the elevation of the Grand Canyon, and although shorts and t-shirts were still comfortable in the sun, the wind could make things very chilly.

When we left Prescott, we climbed through the mountains to Jerome, a small mining town built onto a cliffside. In many ways, it reminded me of Cazorla,Spain – the streets were steep and always ended in hairpin turns. Indeed, the sign announcing Jerome Town Limits was on a hairpin itself, making it appear as though the town was somewhere in midair. We could only stay for long enough to take a few photos, as we had a dinner date with my aunt and uncle, who had gone up to Sedona after the wedding.

Almost every one of my family members who came to Arizona for the wedding took advantage of being there to do some extra travelling, which made for a lot of talk about places to visit. Even though we had talked about Sedona, I somehow failed to realize that it was home to Red Rock State Park. The drive into Sedona was one of the biggest surprises of the trip for me – I had been falling asleep in the front seat when I started noticing giant sandstone formations, which held my attention for as long as we were there. Although the town itself has built its economy on tourism, I can't blame them. I like going “off the beaten track” when it comes to travelling, but the Red Rocks are one very good reason why the beaten track goes where it does.

The variety of the natural landscape and climate had already impressed me more than I had imagined it would, and we hadn't even reached the Grand Canyon yet. 

Looking back on Phoenix from Piestawa Peak.

Piestawa Peak, looking away from Phoenix.

Jerome, AZ.

Red Rocks in Sedona.

Bringin' it Back Home (for a bit)

It was about the time of this post, as I was passing through Christchurch for the first time, that I received one of the most important phone calls I will ever hear: my brother had asked his girlfriend to marry him, and she had said yes. Aside from the obvious excitement, this meant planning a return to North America sooner rather than later. In early May, I wrapped up work in Arthur's Pass with plans to return, and headed off to Auckland to fly back across the Pacific.

But Auckland is a long way from Arthur's Pass, and I was not tempted to add one more flight to an already arduous itinerary. So when I came down from the mountains, the wedding was still two weeks off and I was on my way to Hanmer Springs, Kaikoura, and Wellington.

Hanmer Springs is nestled in the Southern Alps about four hours north of Arthur's Pass by road. I hadn't heard much about it before I went, but I knew it had hot springs and that was enough to draw me in for a day or two. What I did not realize is how much of a resort town it is. Popularized as an alpine retreat, it is a pretty common getaway for those Cantabrians who can afford it, as evidenced by the quantity of families I saw there. Coming by myself from Arthur's Pass, where five people are a crowd, I didn't mind being around some extra people. But being surrounded by visitors made the place feel a bit disposable. While at one of the bars watching rugby, a group of young women in costumes arrived. I exchanged guesses with the people I was chatting to about the occasion – bachelorette party was the consensus – and then learned it was a local girls' night out. The idea of “locals” in Hanmer Springs had never even crossed my mind. It's a place that thrives on short visits, which, in retrospect, makes me feel normal.

Kaikoura is a place I was far more excited about visiting, and with nothing holding me in Hanmer – not even one of the costumed locals – I hitched my way there fairly quickly. I had passed through on the train in November, but I had heard far too many good things about it to be satisfied with a glimpse out the window. Its location alone is a marvel: the Kaikoura ranges are almost directly on top of the Pacific Ocean and the ocean floor, so I'm told, drops quickly from the Kaikoura peninsula, creating a fruitful habitat and an eco-tourist magnet. I was lucky enough to be there during the slow season, when there are fewer tour buses and ample hostel beds available.

Despite living on an island, it had been a while since I'd seen the ocean, and I was eager to walk around the Kaikoura Peninsula. I was also lucky enough to do so on a sunny day. As I headed out along the peninsular road, the number of houses steadily dropped and the amount of wildlife increased. There is a well-advertised seal colony near the end of the peninsula, but before I was halfway there, I had already seen a colony of Hutton's shearwaters, a seabird that is endemic to New Zealand – in fact, endemic to the Kaikoura region. Once the town had been left behind a turn, I passed remnants of old whaling stations before reaching a boardwalk along the shore, leading to the seal colony. There had already been signs warning pedestrians to keep a safe distance from the seals, but I was surprised to find that the seals did not obey them. Had I not been on a boardwalk, I might have trodden on one as it lay in the bush along the shoreline.

The seal colony was the end of the road, so I continued on the trail which went up to the cliffs above, overlooking the ocean. Once again, I decided that I will need to create new words for “scenic,” because the view was staggering. Looking down from above on the clear water allowed me to get a sense of the ocean floor that I had read about, and gave me a view of a seal colony that is not advertised. I could see rain coming on, however, and did not stop to enjoy the view for too long.

The following morning, I hitched out of Kaikoura after a long walk to the edge of town, and made my way to Picton. I stayed there for the night and caught an early ferry to Wellington, where I stayed for five days, catching up with friends and running some errands. Before long, I was on a bus to Auckland, where I began my long series of flights back to the United States. 

Hanmer Springs.

The backdrop of Hanmer Springs.

Kaikoura, with the Kaikoura Ranges in the distance.

Hutton's shearwaters.

A seal, pondering a swim.

A seal, within the "safe distance."

Another seal colony, from above.

Looking south from the Kaikoura peninsula.

Splitting the Seasons

I've been in Arizona for the past few weeks, celebrating my brother's wedding and visiting with family. Needless to say, the shift from early winter in the Southern Alps to early summer in the Sonoran desert proved challenging, not least as far as packing is concerned. I am soon to return to New Zealand, and now it looks as though the shift back will be just as extreme. Here's footage from Arthur's Pass earlier this week, which I watched while sweating in 40°C heat.

Pancakes! As You've Never Seen Them Before

Hitchhiking had served me well on the journey up to Nelson, but I decided to take the bus on the return. I had my reasons for returning to Arthur's Pass somewhat early, and the bus followed a different route than the one I had taken up. And as I've learned in this country (especially on the South Island), every route is a scenic one.

We made our first stop in Murchison, and from there entered the Buller gorge. As we drove, we would occasionally stop for traffic signals, which seemed odd as there were no possible turns. Then it became apparent that the signals were controlling traffic along stretches of single-lane road, particularly at blind curves along the cliff base. I've grown accustomed to seeing single-lane bridges on the South Island, but this was something else again.

After passing through the mountains, we reached Westport and began heading down the west coast. The road from Haast to Greymouth rarely comes close to the Tasman Sea, so I was expecting something similar from the stretch north of Greymouth. Instead, I was rewarded with a stunning piece of highway. The road came so close to the water that I was thankful I was in a vehicle driven by a professional. We winded and twisted our way along the water until we reached Punakaiki, where we stopped for a second break.

Punakaiki, like Franz Josef and Fox, is a town built on the success of a single tourist attraction - the pancake rocks. These are limestone formations along the water that have eroded into a variety of aesthetically pleasing shapes, and simultaneously formed blow holes that channel the force of waves straight up into the air. I had heard of this spot, but never planned on going out of my way to see it. Now I'm glad I put it in my way. I'll let the photos below explain why.

Before long I was back in Greymouth, hopping on the bus back to Arthur's Pass. For a three-day weekend, I was quite happy with what I had managed to achieve.

Kiss Me, Hardy!

Since my arrival in New Zealand, the city of Nelson has been on the periphery of my plans. In talking with both Kiwis and travellers, the general opinion of the place was positive, but no one ever seemed able to give me a specific reason to go there. Now that I've been there myself, I can see that it is difficult to describe Nelson in a few words. But I'll try anyway.

One irrefutable fact about Nelson is that it is one of the sunniest places in New Zealand. In a country known for being able to produce four seasons in one day, anywhere with consistently good weather is a rarity. I've heard that last year Nelson's sunny day count came second in the country to that of Whakatane, on the North Island, but Nelson has a reputation beyond what statistics can prove.

Describing the character of any city is a challenge, but this one is particularly tricky. It is the center of a large agricultural region, and so draws in a horde of working holidaymakers during harvests. Abel Tasman National Park is not far away, so the city also draws in its share of outdoors enthusiasts. But the city itself has a vibrant center with an alternative streak, more befitting an American college town than of the center of one of New Zealand's most productive agricultural areas. And yet Nelson does not have a major university, although it does have one of the two main campuses of the Nelson Marlborough Institute of Technology. More than anywhere else I've been in New Zealand, Nelson manages to balance elements of several city types without exclusively being any of them.

My visit was brief, but I did manage to see the geographical center of the country. Being previously aware that Nelson has a sizable Italian population, I also kept my eyes open for a decent pizza joint. What do you know, I found one.

Stefano's Margherita. Delicious and reasonably priced.

In one of Nelson's many parks.

Looking south from the center of New Zealand.

Looking west over the city.

The center.