Traveling Dina - Explore. Dream. Discover.

After our morning farm encounters, we had a quick snack of chicken nuggets and fries (still avoiding drippy sandwiches and meat pies at all costs) and headed over to Queenstown River Rafting, or Green River Rafting, or Whatever River Rafting Headquarters (it seemed as though they were the same company, anyway.) We got on a rickety white bus with school-bus style seats towing a trailer loaded high with six or so big, 7-man yellow inflatable rafts.

We drove about ten minutes to a set of buildings that made up the changing station at the endo f the river run. We hopped out, and I got kitted up in my second Size 0 wetsuit of the trip. All changed into our 5mm thick neoprene overalls, jacket and booties, we waddled back over to the bus, hopped on, squeezed ourselves into the tiny seat, and got set for the 35 or so minute journey to the riverhead where we were to put in.

On the way, a friendly, tow-headed, young kiwi lad gave us a lighthearted rundown of the joys and risks of rafting. Just as I was thinking I might very well choose to just skip out on the dangerous-sounding rafting adventure and take the bus home, we turned onto the famous (or infamous) “Skipper’s Road”, a “class B” “highway” that is highlighted in rental car contracts as being forbidden to drive on. Apparently, heavy vehicles and trailers were also “not recommended,” but Queenstown River Rafting likes to live on the edge.

And what an edge it was! Skipper’s Road is more like a dirt and gravel path. One car-legnth wide, vehicles need to use turn-outs to allow traffic to flow or pass. At first this was fine, but as we slowly trundled up the windy lane, gathering elevation, the drop-off at the edge of the road became more and more precarious.

The views were gorgeous, but the road a bit too narrow, our vehicle a bit too unwieldy, and the drop-off a bit too extreme for me. I’d read a traveler’s tale about a woman in a horrible bus accident in rural Cambodia, and I kept replaying the details of it in my mind. despite trying to not focus on my anxiety and the apparent risk of our little Sunday drive, i kept visualizing us tumbling over the edge, my body sandwiched between hard ground, glass, metal and greg’s body. every curve, it was all I could do to keep from squealing, and I must admit that several times I turned from the window and buried my face in Greg’s neoprene-clad shoulder.

Our impish guide remarked, “Oftentimes, people who thought they weren’t so keen on the rafting decide to go for it rather than take the bus back.” After too many long moments on this precarious, winding ridge road and a way too-close-for-comfort incident with a blind curve and a jeep, I was firmly one of “those people.” Rafting it was!

Greg and I kind of wanted to spend our last day together persuing common activities, so we tried to find something we were both interested in doing. He made it pretty clear that he was done with hiking, and I wasn’t particularly interested in doing a Jeep “Safari” of Lord of the Rings (LOTR) filming locations. So, we settled on a river rafting trip, as Queenstown is kind of known for its rafting. I was even able to let Greg and the Info Center chick convince me to do the more “extreme” trip, which has about 8 class III-IV rapids instead of 2. (The higher the class #, the more “exciting” the trip, i.e. the rougher the rapids and the more likely the raft may flip or someone may get thrown out.) Yes, I’d completely lost my mind.

But three weeks of seeing all those promotional flyers with pictures of happy people bungee jumping and skydiving made me feel I needed to show at least a little spine before I left New Zealand. We concluded that the Tongoriro Crossing didn’t really count — that’s just a little weather on a volcanic ridge, right? Plus I have no proof I was actually there. so, river rafting it was.

But first, we decided to head over to the “Deer Park Heights,” a hilltop game farm that had LOTR filming sites for greg, and feeding of tame “wild” animals for me (although I think Greg loved that part just as much as I did…)

We drove the loop road, curving steadily up the hillside, passing fenced fields of cool animals like real miniature horses and giant, immobile bison. we drove on to the first “feeding station”, which was just a huge coin-operated pellet dispenser. We placed a coffee-can sized tin under the spout, inserted our $1 coin, pulled the handle and… whoosh! Tin full o’ nuts. We started feeding the few miniature horses behind a fence (”When feeding the horses please supervise children as the animals can be frisky.”) when I sensed a presence behind me.

I turned to look. Just past the road, slowly but steadily ambling up the rise were four or five absolutely magnificent animals, moving gently and taking us in with huge, round, long-lashed eyes. At first we thought they were llamas, but they were so friendly, gently, clean and soft… Aaaah, alpacas! The leader was jet black with a knowing, confident look, and it was clear he wanted some nuts.

The alpacas were all taller than me, and it was intimidating to be looking such large creatures, with thier large teeth and formidible girth, in the face. But oh! How soft they were! They didn’t really appreciate being pet, though — only fed — and they were fairly aggressive about getting their nutty pellets. I gave the can to Greg so he could relieve me of some of the attention.

I didn’t really want to leave these magnificent creatures — I was falling in love with a soft, white alpaca, who hummed when he came near me and eventually kneeled down on the ground to rest. “Alpacas are gentle, elegant, inquisitive, intelligent and observant.” Basically, they rock. But we pressed on, to see what else the farm had to offer.

Well, if we thought the alpacas were a bit iffy on the personal space issue, we hadn’t seen anything yet. I suppose I should’ve been more prepared, what with the “be sure to watch children from crowding animals” warning along with traumatic memories of childhood petting zoo experiences, but I was indeed NOT prepared for the full-on goat onslaught to come. These were goats on a mission, and they weren’t just the cute little baby goats. they were full0grown, horned, demanding, HUGE papa goats after my can of treats. I put the can on top of the car, and the goats tried to get up there and get it! It was mass goat chaos. I did enjoy seeing a hugely pregnant mama goat waddle around, and watching Greg feed the crowds was fun.

Back up the road, we fed a few llamas, and had the thrill of actually hand-feeding deer. The deer who aproached us, though, were even bigger than the alpacas, and truly intimidating. (Luckily, the deer with the 10-point antlers stayed farther away.) One deer got right up in my face as I walked backwards and aggressively went after my can of treats. I freaked out and dropped the can, and the deer had a field day. Greg ran out and rescued the remaining food, but the deer kept sticking thier whole faces in the can, crowding him and covering him in gross deer-drool. Still, it was a thrill. I can’t forget that big, black pulsing nose as the deer approached me. Crazy!

We kept being set upon by goats — “ambushing bastards”, as Greg called them — and even as we drove around to take in the amazing views there were goat speedbumps lying everywhere, looking up at us lazily, refusing to move unless we got out of the car to feed them.

We drove down to feed some loudly braying donkeys, including one who must’ve been naughy as he was all off by himself. The sound he made as he watched all his frinds get fed was truly heartbreaking. A donkey’s bray is a horrid, grating sound, but to me it’s also filled with all the sorrow in the world. It truly pierces the heart.

There was a particularly funny moment when we drove to the donkey paddock. “Do you smell something?” Greg asked. I ddin’t, and went off to feed the donkeys. When I returned, he’d discovered the source of the odor — a HUGE, wet, steaming cow patty, flattened by the first tire, and directly under Greg’s door. PRICELESS!

We started the day off slowly, with phone calls back home reassuring everyone we haven’t been eaten by confused rabid sheep, a stop-off to copy Greg’s already full 1 GB memory card onto CD, and the requisite Flat White for D.

That done, we set off to trek to the bottom of the glacier I’d walked on the day before. The distance makes a glacier seem much smaller than it really is. Only when seeing a person standing near its edge is it’s sheer massiveness understood from afar.

The walk from the viewpoint to the glacier’s edge ws closed off, but we decided to walk it anyway (along with lots of other people.) It was a plasant, mostly level walk, picking the trail out amidst flat rocks and pebbles left by the melting ice. The river was the same gorgeous slate-grey, reflective color of the rain-swollen streams we’d been seeing over the last week, fed by the rivers pouring forth from underneath the glacier itself, as well as countless towering waterfalls originating in the mountains and tumbling down to the valley below.

At one point, some DOC workers (I’d call them “Rangers” but they lacked the cool hats) came to ask all of us stupid tourists if we’d “noticed” the barrier we’d had to climb over to come onto the track. They warned us that only those with “experience” should be hiking, but it was our choice. So, we went a bit further, but thankfully were able to resist the foolish but kind of almost irresistable temptation to run up and touch the glacier. As we stood, gazing upon its majesty, the glacier came alive. We heard an echoing crack, then a roar as a huge chunk of ice seperated from the face and came crashing down.

Fox humored us two more times with masive chunks of ice shearing off its face and landing with a crumbling crash at its foot. We high fived our decision not to venture too close. The last fox thrill I had was spotting a wild green parakeet (aka “Kea”) flitting aroundi n a bush by the overlook. Not as monumental as falling ice, but cool nonetheless.

The rest of the day was spent on a beeline to Queenstown, with a few stops for quick hikes and photo opportunities along the way. Lake Matheson’s classic shot of the towering peaks of Mount Cook and Mount Akora (I think) reflected in its waters was obscured by bad weather, but the walk through a moss-covered forest was still delightful. We passed countless slightly scary and ever-longer one-lane bridges, and stopped at a salmon farm, where the salmon swam in sad circles in their little round pens, but their smoked flesh in the store was cheap and tast looking.

We enjoyed the remarkably tender and mild cold-smoked salmon at Haast beach, another Tasman Sea shoreline wild with wind and driftwood. We spied on orange-billed Oystercatchers as we ate the salmon with our fingers and gazed into the stormy sea.

We also stopped for countless waterfalls — the noisy Roaring Billy Falls, the tall and spindly Thunder Falls — and took a short hike through a forest of ferns and palms out to the polished stones of a vast and empty riverbed.

Walking out into the empty riverbed was eerie, as if something was wrong. We expected to hear the roar of rapids coming to fill up the space at any moment. I felt truly insignificant, there amont the pebbles of the naked riverbed, the gorge towering up the sides.

Then we passed through the charming town of Wanaka, where we surely would’ve passed a few evenings had we not been pressed for time. The town is on a gorgeous lake and has a friendly, laid-back feel, plus came highly recommended by a friend. But we decided to push on to Queenstown, and I spent the dwindling light in the car finishing up a New Zealand wool beanie for Greg, to show my appreciation for him spending part of his vacation with me. (And, of course, I’m obsessed with making beanies.)

After settling in at our lovely but slightly out-of-town hostel, we set out for some food, and wound up having a FANTASTIC sushi dinner. The soft-shell crab roll was flavorfull and moist, and all the nigiri sushi (big slabs of fish on rice) were thick and fresh. Then we ordered venison tataki, which is quick-seared, then ice-cooled venison (think “tartare” but seared on the edges). It was unbelievably delicious. So much flavor! I could’ve eaten it all night, but we restrained ourselves, and just enjoyed a slightly-more-than-reasonable amount of food. Yum!

Just being in the helipcopter was an amazing — if terrifying — experience. Unfortuneately, I was so nervous I didn’t get as much out of the incredible views as I would have had a Valium come free with the flight. I was in the front, leftmost seat, so basically I was surrounded by window. It felt vaguely like there was nothing between me and the air — I mean, what’s a little plexiglass, anyway? The pilot swung us around so each side could get good views of a waterfall, and I yelped and hung on to the little puny handstrap as hard as I could.

In between trying to not wet my pants, making bargains with god, gasping for breath and making little squeaking noises, I marveled at the absolutely remarkable sights below us. All of the huge seracs, deep, deep crevasses, the sharp pinnacles of the glacier were revealed, the color of the ice, whites and blues, sparkling below. The few people and the other helicopter sitting on the face of the ice below were like ants, toys completely dwarfed by the sheer enormity of the ice sheet.

From above, we could see that it’s not uniform, not one “sheet” per se but riddled with cracks, lines and fissures. Only for small sections in certain areas are there smooth undulations, little moguls of ice with an unbroken surface. We landed in a tiny circle made of rocks on one of those smoother sections of ice. After we debarked, we crouched down, looked away, and held on to our hats as the chopper took off, blasting us with wind and fragments of blown ice.

We put on the crampons they supplied for us — four small spikes attached to a flimsy strap that fit around the insole of the boot. They were quite unimpressive, but did a remarkable job. Although all of our first steps were tentative, soon I was jumping along the ice like a little be-cramponed gazelle. Much easier than the scree and powder slopes I descended on the Tongoriro Corssing!

Our guide, Troy, a sprightly, skinny Kiwi with a labrae piercing and a skinny ginger soul-patch, couldn’t have been more than 22 years old. (When asked if it was safe for the heli’s to fly when the cloud cover creeped down, he replied, “Very safe, you just can’t see much!”) But he was confident on the ice, leading us to the more impressive formations and carving out stairs with his ice axe for the less coordinated folk on the tour.

(The only real complaint I had was that I felt like there were too many people in our group, of such diverse age and ability that those of us who had no problem climbing and scrambling and exploring were constantly held back by those for whom a glacier walk was probably pushing the way outer limits of their adventure qotients. That and the woman from Connecticut who wouldn’t shut up, yapping on about how much better life is in New Zealand because the society is so outdoor-oriented and “non-materialistic”, yet at the same time complaining about not being able to find a place to get a manicure.)

We spent a few hours following Troy around on the ice, stepping in and past and over countless frigid streams of water carving out snake-like luges in the surface of the ice, then disappearing again in cascading waterfalls into holes and tunnels in the glacier. We took pictures undera “pressure arch”, formed when the faster ice flows up against the slower ice, buckles, and forms an arch. there were dripping caves with pass-through tunnels, and I slid through one, drenching myself in the process, but it was a rush nonetheless.

It was remarkably warm on the glacier, the brilliant white surface reflecting and amplifying whatever light the sun chose to give us. My 100% NZ possum/wool blend hand-croched beanie was a bit too big but insulated perfectly. And not one but two of the frofessional guides complimented me on my “mountaineering chic” look of cat-print thermals under rolled-up pants. I was toasty warm and comfortable (not to mention stylin’) until the sun began to hide behind the mountains, and we returned down the glacier’s face to wait for our return chopper.

Exhilerating!

Today was the first time I’d really struggled with pangs of disappointment since not seeing any dolphins. One of the things I really, really, REALLY wanted to do in NZ was to go climibing on a glacier. Due to safety issues, people are generally only allowed on the ice with a guide. A few companies compete to offer a variety of different guided walks out on the glacier.

Even though the weather was wretched all day yesterday, I had hope that it would clear up today, and so I’d signed up for a “heli-hike”, and incredible experience where a helicopter brings you way up on the glacier, higher than you could ever hope to climb in a day, in order to see amazing formations — seracs, crevasses, blue ice — you can’t really see any other way. I was scheduled fro the 11:45 AM heli-hike, but set my alarm extra-early to try to get on the earlier trip so Greg and I would have time to move on to the Fox glacier, about 25K down the road, later in the day.

But, when I woke up at 8:00, 8:15, it was POURING. So I just tried to go back to sleep, and figured I’d wait till 11:45. But by 9 it was clearing up, and I ran over to heli-hike headquarters, hoping to get on the 9:15 hike. But, they deemed it not clear enough, and the morning hike was cancelled; I should come back at 11:45.

I killed time using the internet and writing postcards. The skies kept clearing up, and I was certain I’d get to go on my heli-hike, but afraid to hope too much. As it got nearer to 11:45, the skies darkened once again, and my trip was cancelled. On top of that, all other opportunities to go on the ice that day were full, booked, no doubt, by other disappointed heli-hike customers. I was, how you say? Totally bummed out.

After a bitter, thick, over-priced flat white and two pieces of the driest, most rubbery fried chicken I’d had to date, we decided to blow the town of Franz Joseph Glacier, and to satisfy ourselves with having seen the glaceir itself only from afar (which was still amazingly cool) and try our luck down the road at Fox Glacier. Fox Glacier’s formations are, supposedly, less spectacular than those over at Franz, but then again the town is considered quainter, with fewer crowds.

I’d signed up for a full-day hike for the next day on Fox, but once there asked if there was any room on their 3:30 heli-hike… and there was!!! I couldn’t believe my luck. How fortunate we’d chosen to press on instead of stay at Franz Joseph! I kept my fingers crossed that the weather would hold, and didn’t quite believe it until I was sittin gin a wooden building, putting on thick wook socks and strange leather hiking boots with a helicopter (pronounced “helly-copter”) outside the window…

I awoke in our private room in Hokitika tot he tranquil sounds of waves crashing on the beach. The scene became slightly less tranquil as i realized that the sound wasn’t the ocean, which was 4 or 5 blocks away, but the torrential rain being swept across the asphalt in shimmery dense curtains.

The downpour was clearly soaking to the bone anyone who ventured out for more than five seconds, so we took our time getting ready for the day and quitting the hostel. We stopped to check out more locally hand-crafted pounamu (hard nephrite jade), paua shell (polished abalone), carved bone and other NZ keepsakes. There was a bit of art, as well, and a US-”wild west” themed shop selling NZ jade items nestled among the gun replicas and John Wayne posters.

We took a quick stop to see Hokitika Gorge, despite the rain, as it’s listed as one of the many NZ “don’t miss” spots, with a tranquil, turquoise river and yet another swingbridge that the Kiwis are so fond of. The storm had changed the stream’s nature, and as we peered into the gorge we were greeted by churning, slate-grey rapids, beautiful in their own right, as well.

Aside from a stopover in the tiny former gold-mining village of Ross, where I meandered around the small (and I mean small) visitor center while Greg panned for some more tourist gold, the day was filled with changing weather and awesome views.

We passed rickety houses on vast tracts of farmland, each decorated with huge stands of blue and white hydrangeas, all slightly past their prime. There were steep, towering dark-forested mountains wtih their tips in the clouds, dark fingers easing right down to caress the flat bright fields the sleeping cows shared with seagulls. Long, skinny waterfalls tumbled down practically vertical faces of rock and foliage to land in the rushing grey rivers below, each stream with a layer of swirling mist rising like steam from the surface.

We picked up a couple of miserably wet-looking German girls who were hitchhiking outside of Whataroa, as much to help them out as to give us some new people to talk wtih. I continued to crochet and take inthe scenery, and Greg and the girls chatted a bit about travel. Eventually we made it to our destination, the town of Franz Joseph Glacier (home of the actual Franz Joseph glacier itself), and checked into our hostel.

Right away I wanted to check out the glacier, so we drove to a parking area where there were a few trails offering different views of the glacier. Greg walked with me to the first viewing area. Along the trail, there were signs indicating where in the valley the ice had reached in years past. The glacier itself, even from a distance, is truly massvie and supremely impressive. As I’ve been enamoured of glaciers and other Everest-related topography for quite some time, I wanted to hang out with the glaciers a little longer. So, Greg agreed to pick me up a bit later as I hiked around and contemplated the ice.

I’m sitting on a bench, listening to a lone chirping frog by a hidden kettle pond surrounded by reeds and temperate rain forest. We’re all hemmed in by towering mountains and watched over byt the ice-blue and black Franz Joseph glacier, a halo of thick clouds creeping down into the valley and blanketing us all…

I finished off the day with a meal of chicken tikka masala at the large and fairly empty Indian restaurant a short walk just outside of town, chatting with the friendly waiter, reading the New Yorker I’ve toted around with me for three weeks. It felt, almost, like home.

I’m not coming home, we’re getting married!

You can see that it’s love.

But he dumped me after he caught me getting frisky with the goats…

So I slaughtered him and used his fur for a beanie.

(OK, not really. That’s wool. And Greg! He rocks even more than the Alpaca.)

Aaaand, the obligatory scenery shots:

Waterfall (it’s a lot higher than it looks!)

Crazy Palm Forest:

More updates soon!

We left our cozy fire-warmed retreat house and headed over to Punakaiki, which makes me laugh every time I try to say it. Punakaiki is home to the famous (at least in NZ) “Pancake Rocks”, an area where the limestone was deposited in such a way as to form a layering effect, almost like stacks of flapjacks. The rocks have been partially eroded by time, waves and water, and the resulting effect is remarkable.

The water from the rushing ocean surges into coves, caves, pools, gulleys, and blowholes, where the sheer power of the water rushing into smaller and smaller spaces forces it up and through cracks and hols in a fury of noise and spray. The sounds are really quite remarkable, every wave reverberating when it hits the rocks. It’s a booming unlike your regular “crashing waves on a beach” — the rocks form rooms or caverns with walls and overhangs, and the crashing is amplified as if with a microphone. Then, of course, there are the sounds of everybody swishing by in their rain gear, muttering to each other in German. I would’ve liked to have spent some timejust sitting and writing by the roaring and powerful sea, but the weather and crowds led me not to.

I took a very brief, very wet walk along the Pororari River trail, another level trek through a riverside jungle, the river full and swollen with rain. Again, I would’ve enjoyed walking on it for another hour or so, but Greg was waiting for me in the car, still in shock, I suppose, from the Tongoriro Crossing, and also not wanting to get wet.

There were more gorgeous roads, views, and scenery. It was almost as if California’s Pacific Coast Highway along Big Sur were amplified, sheer size increased and a rain forest added. My favorite part of the drive was when the road, hugging the coast, curved inward along one side of “Ten Mile Creek”, winding around as it followed the gorge so we were driving inland. Then the road actually crossed over ther iver on a one-lane bridge, and turned completely around, following the river back as she flowed out to the ocean. Truly stunning.

Greymouth was another quick (and pronouncable) stopover, a slightly larger town with a Subway sandwich shop and a bus station. The highlight was the jade museum, where we learned that NZ jade is from a different type of stone than Chinese and other types of jade. There were jade masks on display valued at $500,000. In the attached store they had all sorts of gorgeous jade jewellery and trinkets, along with some possibly ill-conceived items like jade golf putters. I’m sure someone wants that!

We had fun stopping off at “Shantytown,” a recreation of an 1860’s NZ West Coast gold mining town. Most fascinating to me was the Chinatown exhibit, about the small Chinese community who wound up in NZ during the gold rush instead of CA or Australia. The representations of the miners’ shacks and stalls felt authentic, and the accompanying display text about specific individuals and the struggles of the Chinese in NZ in general was quite interesting.

The steam locomotive ride was a hoot, as well. The engine, named “Gertie”, fed with coal, was an authentic relic of the 19th century. She was able to both push and pull the train, and was quite loud, both the rushing of steam and the typical “chugga chugga chugga choo choo!” sounds. We stopped off to examine the engine and walk around, where I became enamoured of the wild and native Weka birds, similar to marsh-hens, walking around, wondering what was going on. They are described in the bird book as “curious”, and they are indeed!

Greg particularly enjoyed panning for gold. We were given a pan with gravel in it, shown the proper way to pan — basically, get all the silt, dust, sand and gravel to float out while keeping the heavier bits of gold dust in — and set loose. We both wound up with a small bit of gold flakes, which the friendly Shantytown fellow in charge of gold panning put in a little souvenir vial full of water for us. Cute.

Annnnd….. More driving. Sheep, cows, goats, fruit, and manure for only 50 cents a bag! Whoo-hoo, pull over, do we need some?

We landed in Hokitika, which is another town that is probably a lot nicer in the sun. The clouds cleared briefly enough for us to head out to the beach for a few moments, take in the roiling grey sea and long, wide beach littered with driftwood. There is something sad and scary but oddly beautiful about a deserted beach in bad weather; it would’ve been a nice evening to grab hands with a lover or friend and make footprints for miles, watching them wash away and recreating them once again, on and on.

But I shook off my romantic yearnings and listened to my stomach. We went to “Stumpers”, a half sports-bar, half restaurant, and had a few short pints (they use these short, stout mugs that may or may not hold a true pint) as we waited for our table. We shared steamed green-lipped mussells (so big!) as an appetizer, and Greg got a “whitebait” omelette, whitebait being little fish. I got lamb shanks over mashed potatoes, and it was divine. The sauce was a little sweet, but the meat itself was tender, falling off the bone as it should be, lean and delicious, and the portion incredibly generous. Yum!

We headed out to check out the Glow Worm Dell once it was dark enough — people, I cannot get enough of these glow-worms! It was a short trek out to basically what I gather to be a cliff of some sort, an overhang, where the glow-worms like to live. So when we turned off the flashlights, the sides of the path seemed to be lined with tiny dots of flourescent green light. Watching Greg try to take a picture of it was pretty amusing, as well.

Busy day. Wish the rain would stop, though.

Check out those leggings!

Amazing Scenery

Rushing River

Swing Bridge!