Queenstown to Nelson May 9th to 18th
Queenstown is New Zealand's oh-so-hip snow and adventure sports hub. It has a tranquil, lakeside setting but the town is anything but. It's a buzzing youth and tourist fuelled place where the pressure to go faster, climb higher, and jump off stuff is almost tangible. Our hostel is a rambling place with cartoons on every wall, and unique in that our four bed dorm shares a kitchen, bathroom, and lounge with just one other four bed room. One of our room mates, Mat, is a Huddersfield uni graduate and local, a coincidence that leads to an offer from him to show me around when I get there this September. Anne returns from a day at the wineries absolutely battered and, to mine and Mat's amusement, proceeds to fall into a deep upright sleep on the sofa.
Anne takes on more wine the next day while Mat and I take a walk through the gardens by the lake, get coffee, lunch, and watch a movie back at the hostel. Mat's honest, fun, and easy company. I wake up on Friday with butterflies in my stomach: it's bungee jump day. Me and fourteen or so other strange people who thought it would be a good idea to pay NZ$200 to throw themselves out of a cable car climb into the 4WD bus and bump our way to the jump. Nevis, as it is called, is one of the highest jumps in the world at 134m. You jump out of a cable car suspended above a gorge and fly downwards at over 100kmh for around six seconds before bouncing, mercifully, back up. I climb warily into a harness, eyeing the straps nervously and me plus three other jumpers are transferred, via open metal cable car, over the middle of the gorge to the box we are to jump out of. New straps are put around our ankles and I watch with heart in mouth through the glass floor as the first guy goes. He falls for what seems like far too long. Soon it is my turn, and my nerves leave me. The bungee cord is attached to me while I sit back in a dentist style chair then I shuffle to the edge, looking down, wondering absently what on Earth I am doing up here.
"One, two, three, BUNGEE!" shouts the man holding my harness and so I spread my arms out like wings and dive downwards, face first. And downwards is most certainly where I go, with a speed I cannot describe and an entirely new feeling I am quite sure doesn't have a name. Before I know it the cord stretches and absorbs the shock for me and I am flying back up, weightless and careless. On the second bounce I reach up and pull my cord and am righted and given the opportunity to breath and take in my surroundings. Not bad, I think. Not bad at all.
That afternoon Anne and I depart for the Franz Josef glacier way up the West Coast. The drive there, across the Southern Alps on the Haast Pass is spectacular. Waterfalls cascade down from immense heights every 100m and the thick green forest, lush with vegetation and moisture, borders the winding road continuously as we cross bridge after bridge and watch the sun set into the river. Tonight we have the good fortune to start chatting to a lovely group of people fresh off one of the tour buses, the Magic (or more often called "Tragic") Bus. Steph and Kris are from Scotland, Erin is Welsh, and Eamonn Irish. Anne, despite labelling herself antisocial, is a deft conversation starter and we pass the evening with this fun group, and I go to bed with a promise of a beer with Steph and Kris when we are all back on the Aussie East coast next month.
Franz Josef is a tiny town, built only to accommodate those wishing to visit the glacier, and so Anne and I decide to drive over to Fox and do some walking today. Fox is -as the guide books put it- "the other local glacier" and is home to some nice easy walks, ideal for a crisp and sunny day like today. I had woken with a headache and the intention of staying in bed and sleeping it off but it seems our room mate, Marc from Chicago, has invited himself along with Anne so, he being an unknown quantity, I decide I will rise and accompany them for the day. Strolling around the lake walk now, it is clear that Marc is harmless and decent, but one can never be too careful who one gets in a car with.
Anne and I have developed an amusingly conservative scale for rating views and sights in New Zealand and Marc is shocked by our low rating, 6.4, of this lake and mountain vista. I explain that we have seen a lot of lakes and mountains and that we couldn't very well give them all 10.0. Our rating skills, accurate to the decimal point, encompass not only what we are looking at but also include considerations for light, time of day, weather conditions, wildlife conditions, and such details as how low down the snow comes on the mountain and whether or not the surface of the lake is rippled. Marc looks outraged that we judge nature in such a way but Anne and I just laugh.
The next day is Sunday, but my usual home routine of lying in bed with my companion, the hangover, working on mustering the energy to get up and watch the Hollyoaks omnibus seems a world away as we are booked on a full day glacier hike today. We bump our way up the glacier valley in the tour bus. My feet are soaking, the boots the company gave me are sopping but protestations were met with shrugs, and I am wondering if a) shorts were an unwise choice and b) I should have stayed tucked up in bed.
We trudge along the valley behind our guide, arguing over whether the sheer ice-cut rock and mountains whisped with low cloud deserve a 7 rating, before reaching what is ominously titled the 'terminal face' AKA the beginning of the ice. Being an FJ guide is quite a job. They arrive at 7am to begin cutting steps into the glacier with pick axes, they are expected to cut up to fifty steps an hour, ready for the arrival of the tourists at 9am. Due to the volatile and ever-changing nature of the environment the steps have to be re-cut ever single day. We're split into groups of eleven and our guide comes down from his pick-axing to meet us, hands bleeding profusely from the work. His name is Thomas. We all strap 'Ice Talonz' to our boots and begin the steep ascent. At first it feels odd and slightly scary to walk on the ice but it soon becomes natural. We climb warily up and down, over the almost sheer waves of ice and walk gaping-mouthed over huge ice plains rippled like sand on the beach that Anne and I both agree deserve a 9. After a short lunch stop thing get really interesting. We are into crevasse areas now, places where the ice is smooth and blue and sheer. Thomas is cutting the path as we go. Suddenly we come to an ice wall that has a hole right through it and Thomas tells us we're going up and through. It's exhilarating, pulling myself up and clambering through the tunnel surrounded by frozen blue. The girl behind me, Tasha, is very short and so finds some of the day more challenging but I enjoy helping her through the difficult bits. When you have someone else to encourage you forget any fears of your own.
At around 1.30 we pass through a crevasse where the ice walls are so close together that everyone has to remove their backpacks and push themselves through. I am glad now for my shorts as they dry quickly rather than hanging sopping around my ankles like everyone else's trousers. There is barely enough room here to fit one boot width so you can imagine how disappointed we are the hear that we must turn back. The group ahead of us have seen a flake -a dangerous piece of overhanging ice- that we can not pass under in case it falls. What follows is a couple of hours of back and forth, our guides searching for good paths to take us down. It is cold, frustrating, but also dangerous and exciting. In the world of glaciers, there are no certainties it seems and nothing is planned. We hop over ice holes scarily deep, walk alongside cracks full of literally ice-cold water and chat to one another in this unique surrounding. Tasha's boyfriend Joe and I get on well and we talk about life back in England as well as cracking poor jokes in the more cold and miserable parts of the afternoon such as, "always look on the bright side of ice", and, "being stuck on a glacier is snow joke". Eventually, at about 5pm, we are back down. I feel happy but also kind of proud of myself- a day like today shows you that you can do things, physically and mentally, you weren't convinced you could do. It may not sound like much, but it felt like it.
This evening Anne and I go for a drink with Tasha, Joe, and later, Marc. We chat about the day and travelling in general. When I finally get into bed I am exhausted and feel good. Really good.
Monday is departure day again, this time to the seaside city of Nelson on the North coast of the Southland. Anne is planning to settle there for a couple of months and find work at a vineyard so this will be the last big journey we make together. And a big journey it is with perhaps eight hours on the road. The West Coast is pretty desolate with only a smattering of small towns. Mostly the road stays close to the Tasman Sea which makes for some rugged coastline views. However, the road is horribly and seemingly unnecessarily windy and so Anne and I must take it in turns to be the passenger and feel nauseous. We arrive in Nelson as the sun begins its daily business of setting and walk into the Palace Backpackers, a huge old hilltop house converted into a hostel. Belgian Receptionist Veev greets us and she is completely and wonderfully mad. She talks in such an animated way in her delightful accent, laughs so often, and is so scatter-brained that she is immediately likable and Anne and I share many a smile as she shows us round the great wooden bunk-free building.
Tonight we chat to other guests, most noticeably French Canadian brothers Pier (desperately cute) and Israel, Canadians Jesse and Jason, Hawaiian Emily (an intelligent and unique girl) and, would you believe it, Marc, who has turned up here in Nelson and is, coincidentally, staying in our room. The hostel has one large dining table surrounded by sofas which encourages group conversation and I welcome the insights and opinions of the vastly different and wonderful people. I know immediately that this hostel is a place I'd like to settle for a long while and vow to return here when university is over. I climb into bed at gone 1.30am and try not to wake everyone up as I cough myself to sleep.
Tuesday brings sunshine, warms and welcome after so much cold, and I while the day away in a lazy fashion reading The Devil Wears Prada on the sun-drenched balcony, lazing in the hammock and enjoying the sight of Nelson and beyond it, the sea. This evening Anne, Marc and I stroll down to the House Of Ales to drink local Monteiths ale in litre glasses and partake in a pub quiz, which we fail miserably at. I pass the next day in a similar fashion as the last, pleased to have some time to myself to relax after two busy weeks. This evening it is cheap climbing at the indoor climbing centre down the road so Anne and I, plus new-comers 29-year-old Irish boy Tony and 19-year-old German Frederike stroll down, harness up, and do some climbing. This is a sport I have never tried before and, despite being a weakling muscle wise, I really enjoy myself. It's free from competition as your are alone on that wall, encourages team work, and builds fitness and confidence. Never in my life before have I thought about my forearm muscles but blimey do they ache after an hour's climbing. Frederike, despite being a complete novice, is a natural -agile like a cat- and I stay with her and Tony to watch and encourage though Anne decides to head home.
Later tonight, after some great life-talk over Guiness, we find ourselves at the Rock Bar. Yep, you guessed it, singing karaoke. Jesse, Pier and Israel plus a bunch of other hostel folks are here too and Frederike convinces me it'd be a good idea to sing 'Truly Madly Deeply' by the one and only Savage Garden.
The next morning is once again blessed with sunshine so I only allow myself two hours for lazing in bed and finishing my book. Afterwards I take not one but two walks around Nelson; the first alone, the second with Frederike and Tony. It's hardly a strenuous day and Anne and I follow it with a hardly strenuous evening -our last together- spent packing and chatting. The next morning, after the world's most windy drive, Anne and Sammy the Sunflower drop me off at Picton, the port where I am to catch the ferry to the North Island and capital of NZ, Wellington. A quick hug and Anne is off. I'm sorry to see her go but I know, somewhere inside of my very full head right now that I'll see her again. It's just the way it is.
Anne takes on more wine the next day while Mat and I take a walk through the gardens by the lake, get coffee, lunch, and watch a movie back at the hostel. Mat's honest, fun, and easy company. I wake up on Friday with butterflies in my stomach: it's bungee jump day. Me and fourteen or so other strange people who thought it would be a good idea to pay NZ$200 to throw themselves out of a cable car climb into the 4WD bus and bump our way to the jump. Nevis, as it is called, is one of the highest jumps in the world at 134m. You jump out of a cable car suspended above a gorge and fly downwards at over 100kmh for around six seconds before bouncing, mercifully, back up. I climb warily into a harness, eyeing the straps nervously and me plus three other jumpers are transferred, via open metal cable car, over the middle of the gorge to the box we are to jump out of. New straps are put around our ankles and I watch with heart in mouth through the glass floor as the first guy goes. He falls for what seems like far too long. Soon it is my turn, and my nerves leave me. The bungee cord is attached to me while I sit back in a dentist style chair then I shuffle to the edge, looking down, wondering absently what on Earth I am doing up here.
"One, two, three, BUNGEE!" shouts the man holding my harness and so I spread my arms out like wings and dive downwards, face first. And downwards is most certainly where I go, with a speed I cannot describe and an entirely new feeling I am quite sure doesn't have a name. Before I know it the cord stretches and absorbs the shock for me and I am flying back up, weightless and careless. On the second bounce I reach up and pull my cord and am righted and given the opportunity to breath and take in my surroundings. Not bad, I think. Not bad at all.
That afternoon Anne and I depart for the Franz Josef glacier way up the West Coast. The drive there, across the Southern Alps on the Haast Pass is spectacular. Waterfalls cascade down from immense heights every 100m and the thick green forest, lush with vegetation and moisture, borders the winding road continuously as we cross bridge after bridge and watch the sun set into the river. Tonight we have the good fortune to start chatting to a lovely group of people fresh off one of the tour buses, the Magic (or more often called "Tragic") Bus. Steph and Kris are from Scotland, Erin is Welsh, and Eamonn Irish. Anne, despite labelling herself antisocial, is a deft conversation starter and we pass the evening with this fun group, and I go to bed with a promise of a beer with Steph and Kris when we are all back on the Aussie East coast next month.
Franz Josef is a tiny town, built only to accommodate those wishing to visit the glacier, and so Anne and I decide to drive over to Fox and do some walking today. Fox is -as the guide books put it- "the other local glacier" and is home to some nice easy walks, ideal for a crisp and sunny day like today. I had woken with a headache and the intention of staying in bed and sleeping it off but it seems our room mate, Marc from Chicago, has invited himself along with Anne so, he being an unknown quantity, I decide I will rise and accompany them for the day. Strolling around the lake walk now, it is clear that Marc is harmless and decent, but one can never be too careful who one gets in a car with.
Anne and I have developed an amusingly conservative scale for rating views and sights in New Zealand and Marc is shocked by our low rating, 6.4, of this lake and mountain vista. I explain that we have seen a lot of lakes and mountains and that we couldn't very well give them all 10.0. Our rating skills, accurate to the decimal point, encompass not only what we are looking at but also include considerations for light, time of day, weather conditions, wildlife conditions, and such details as how low down the snow comes on the mountain and whether or not the surface of the lake is rippled. Marc looks outraged that we judge nature in such a way but Anne and I just laugh.
The next day is Sunday, but my usual home routine of lying in bed with my companion, the hangover, working on mustering the energy to get up and watch the Hollyoaks omnibus seems a world away as we are booked on a full day glacier hike today. We bump our way up the glacier valley in the tour bus. My feet are soaking, the boots the company gave me are sopping but protestations were met with shrugs, and I am wondering if a) shorts were an unwise choice and b) I should have stayed tucked up in bed.
We trudge along the valley behind our guide, arguing over whether the sheer ice-cut rock and mountains whisped with low cloud deserve a 7 rating, before reaching what is ominously titled the 'terminal face' AKA the beginning of the ice. Being an FJ guide is quite a job. They arrive at 7am to begin cutting steps into the glacier with pick axes, they are expected to cut up to fifty steps an hour, ready for the arrival of the tourists at 9am. Due to the volatile and ever-changing nature of the environment the steps have to be re-cut ever single day. We're split into groups of eleven and our guide comes down from his pick-axing to meet us, hands bleeding profusely from the work. His name is Thomas. We all strap 'Ice Talonz' to our boots and begin the steep ascent. At first it feels odd and slightly scary to walk on the ice but it soon becomes natural. We climb warily up and down, over the almost sheer waves of ice and walk gaping-mouthed over huge ice plains rippled like sand on the beach that Anne and I both agree deserve a 9. After a short lunch stop thing get really interesting. We are into crevasse areas now, places where the ice is smooth and blue and sheer. Thomas is cutting the path as we go. Suddenly we come to an ice wall that has a hole right through it and Thomas tells us we're going up and through. It's exhilarating, pulling myself up and clambering through the tunnel surrounded by frozen blue. The girl behind me, Tasha, is very short and so finds some of the day more challenging but I enjoy helping her through the difficult bits. When you have someone else to encourage you forget any fears of your own.
At around 1.30 we pass through a crevasse where the ice walls are so close together that everyone has to remove their backpacks and push themselves through. I am glad now for my shorts as they dry quickly rather than hanging sopping around my ankles like everyone else's trousers. There is barely enough room here to fit one boot width so you can imagine how disappointed we are the hear that we must turn back. The group ahead of us have seen a flake -a dangerous piece of overhanging ice- that we can not pass under in case it falls. What follows is a couple of hours of back and forth, our guides searching for good paths to take us down. It is cold, frustrating, but also dangerous and exciting. In the world of glaciers, there are no certainties it seems and nothing is planned. We hop over ice holes scarily deep, walk alongside cracks full of literally ice-cold water and chat to one another in this unique surrounding. Tasha's boyfriend Joe and I get on well and we talk about life back in England as well as cracking poor jokes in the more cold and miserable parts of the afternoon such as, "always look on the bright side of ice", and, "being stuck on a glacier is snow joke". Eventually, at about 5pm, we are back down. I feel happy but also kind of proud of myself- a day like today shows you that you can do things, physically and mentally, you weren't convinced you could do. It may not sound like much, but it felt like it.
This evening Anne and I go for a drink with Tasha, Joe, and later, Marc. We chat about the day and travelling in general. When I finally get into bed I am exhausted and feel good. Really good.
Monday is departure day again, this time to the seaside city of Nelson on the North coast of the Southland. Anne is planning to settle there for a couple of months and find work at a vineyard so this will be the last big journey we make together. And a big journey it is with perhaps eight hours on the road. The West Coast is pretty desolate with only a smattering of small towns. Mostly the road stays close to the Tasman Sea which makes for some rugged coastline views. However, the road is horribly and seemingly unnecessarily windy and so Anne and I must take it in turns to be the passenger and feel nauseous. We arrive in Nelson as the sun begins its daily business of setting and walk into the Palace Backpackers, a huge old hilltop house converted into a hostel. Belgian Receptionist Veev greets us and she is completely and wonderfully mad. She talks in such an animated way in her delightful accent, laughs so often, and is so scatter-brained that she is immediately likable and Anne and I share many a smile as she shows us round the great wooden bunk-free building.
Tonight we chat to other guests, most noticeably French Canadian brothers Pier (desperately cute) and Israel, Canadians Jesse and Jason, Hawaiian Emily (an intelligent and unique girl) and, would you believe it, Marc, who has turned up here in Nelson and is, coincidentally, staying in our room. The hostel has one large dining table surrounded by sofas which encourages group conversation and I welcome the insights and opinions of the vastly different and wonderful people. I know immediately that this hostel is a place I'd like to settle for a long while and vow to return here when university is over. I climb into bed at gone 1.30am and try not to wake everyone up as I cough myself to sleep.
Tuesday brings sunshine, warms and welcome after so much cold, and I while the day away in a lazy fashion reading The Devil Wears Prada on the sun-drenched balcony, lazing in the hammock and enjoying the sight of Nelson and beyond it, the sea. This evening Anne, Marc and I stroll down to the House Of Ales to drink local Monteiths ale in litre glasses and partake in a pub quiz, which we fail miserably at. I pass the next day in a similar fashion as the last, pleased to have some time to myself to relax after two busy weeks. This evening it is cheap climbing at the indoor climbing centre down the road so Anne and I, plus new-comers 29-year-old Irish boy Tony and 19-year-old German Frederike stroll down, harness up, and do some climbing. This is a sport I have never tried before and, despite being a weakling muscle wise, I really enjoy myself. It's free from competition as your are alone on that wall, encourages team work, and builds fitness and confidence. Never in my life before have I thought about my forearm muscles but blimey do they ache after an hour's climbing. Frederike, despite being a complete novice, is a natural -agile like a cat- and I stay with her and Tony to watch and encourage though Anne decides to head home.
Later tonight, after some great life-talk over Guiness, we find ourselves at the Rock Bar. Yep, you guessed it, singing karaoke. Jesse, Pier and Israel plus a bunch of other hostel folks are here too and Frederike convinces me it'd be a good idea to sing 'Truly Madly Deeply' by the one and only Savage Garden.
The next morning is once again blessed with sunshine so I only allow myself two hours for lazing in bed and finishing my book. Afterwards I take not one but two walks around Nelson; the first alone, the second with Frederike and Tony. It's hardly a strenuous day and Anne and I follow it with a hardly strenuous evening -our last together- spent packing and chatting. The next morning, after the world's most windy drive, Anne and Sammy the Sunflower drop me off at Picton, the port where I am to catch the ferry to the North Island and capital of NZ, Wellington. A quick hug and Anne is off. I'm sorry to see her go but I know, somewhere inside of my very full head right now that I'll see her again. It's just the way it is.
posted by Aisling at 2:35 AM
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