Adult Under Construction: Not the Beach Boys' West Coast

Finding a job to follow apricot-picking was quite easy, as I mentioned in my previous post. Getting there, however, promised to be an adventure in itself. Arthur's Pass is a village of less than 100 people on the eastern side of the mountain pass for which it is named, well within the boundary of the national park of the same name. And I would be approaching it via the West Coast, one of the wildest areas of New Zealand, without my own transport.

Despite the formidable journey ahead of me, I spent one day in Alexandra tying up loose ends. Without really thinking about it, I was making the third major move of my time here; despite staying in a variety of places, I had been in Central Otago for almost two months. As I packed my bag, I remembered why I enjoy having a job to keep me in one place – my pack is gigantic, and its contents don't like to stay put. I don't mean it's bursting, but if I stay in one place for more than two nights, necessity will empty at least half of it and spread it throughout my living area. So as I packed to leave Alexandra, I could look forward to being able to empty the bag again in two days.

The bus connections to Arthur's Pass were, predictably, not the smoothest. Central Otago is not on a well-worn tourist track, and the West Coast's massive size and winding highways make it difficult to pass through quickly. Rather than try to make an inadequate bus schedule fit my needs, I decided to hitchhike all the way if I had to. I gave myself two full days, and it all began outside Alexandra at around 8.45 on Tuesday morning. After about 15 minutes, I was picked up by two women working for a franchise of Crest Cleaners on their way to Cromwell. It wasn't quite the distance I was hoping for, but putting Alexandra behind me was good enough.

After almost no time waiting in Cromwell, I was collected by a couple from Edmonton who are also on working holidays. They both worked north of town, and were able to drop me at a spot about 20 kilometers outside Cromwell. As I waited next to a sheep pasture and listened to their bleating in the intervals between passing cars, the movie O Brother, Where Art Thou? came into my head, as it tends to do. I remembered the scene where the main characters pull over to pick up Tommy in the middle of a vast stretch of farmland. Despite the racial inaccuracy, the line that kept popping into my head was, “Pull over, Everett, let's give that colored boy a lift,” Southern drawl and all.

It was not a long wait, however, and before long I was riding next to a blinds salesman on his way to Wanaka. He clearly made the drive frequently, as he was talking on his phone as he picked me up, and was quite willing to find ways to distract himself while driving, including looking up Arthur's Pass village on Google maps. Although he was good company, I was glad he was only going as far as Wanaka. That stretch of road is not particularly tricky to drive, but it would have been a nightmare riding with him through the Haast Pass.

After being dropped at the turnoff for the West Coast to join about four other hitchhikers in the same spot, I was soon picked up by a Danish pilot on a two-month holiday. He was heading through the Haast Pass in a rental car, and we got along very well. Far from being in a rush, he was taking full advantage of being on such a scenic route. We made three stops for photos, some of which required small hikes, and he was even generous enough to provide me with lunch. I would have happily ridden with him to Jackson Bay (literally the end of the road, southwest of Haast), but I felt obligated to continue north and so began hitching again in Haast.

Haast was...well, it barely was. It's actually a group of three settlements that are all several kilometers apart, and from where I hitched I could only see a roadside café, a gas station, and a regional tourist office. But maybe my opinion of it was worsened by the wait I endured there. Haast is either the last or the first town on the West Coast highway, and it seems that few tourists make time to stop there. The Fox and Franz Josef glaciers are well to the north, and Queenstown and Wanaka are all the way over the mountains to the southeast. Many people seemed reluctant to even slow down as they passed. Very few of the cars that passed me were driven by young tourists like myself; most were rented camper vans, which I have found to be disinclined to picking up hitchhikers, as they are often occupied by families. So I waited. The time passed fairly quickly, as each car could have been the one to stop, and one hour passed almost without my noticing it. I also knew my Danish friend would be headed north later in the evening, so a ride would come eventually. But I was thrilled when one of the campers finally stopped, a rental driven by a middle-aged English couple. They took the time to provide me with a seat belt in the rear portion of the vehicle, and said they were heading to Franz Josef, the further of the two glaciers.

Once again, I was lucky to be riding with a cautious driver for an extremely difficult stretch of road. The West Coast is filled with one-lane bridges, hairpin turns, and winding ascents and descents. I had been thinking of hitching even further that evening, but as we passed mile after mile of uninhabited scenery, I began to think further progress unlikely. There is almost nothing in the way of human settlement between Haast and Fox Glacier, about 100 kilometers apart. I began to worry that I might not be able to find a place to sleep, but once we reached Fox Glacier, I knew I was back in tourist country. Fox and Franz Josef are two towns that exist solely because of glacier tourism, and every building seems to provide either accommodation, food, or tours (some have all three). When I arrived in Franz Josef, I had my pick of at least ten different places to stay, which must be a record for a town of its size.

After such a long day of hitchhiking, and thinking that I should probably get to Arthur's Pass fairly early in the day, I reexamined the bus schedules and found that hitching would not be necessary. Although tickets were not cheap, I had saved money the previous day and felt the need to be fairly exact about my arrival time; I was heading to a new job, after all. So I made the necessary purchases (about 10 minutes before departure) and soon found myself cruising towards Hokitika. We made a very entertaining stop at the Bushman's Centre in Pukekura, a welcome reminder that quirkiness exists in even the smallest towns. And the small town of Hokitika, of which I had high expectations for some reason, left a very favorable impression on me. I couldn't stay to find out why, however, as I was quickly headed off to Greymouth and then inland to the mountains. Within three hours, I was in Arthur's Pass and getting acquainted with my new surroundings.