Travel Photography, Writing and Photoblog from Matt Feldman

The Start, Near Mount Cook, New Zealand

Kia ora, everyone! It's that time of year again. Time to polish those brass knuckles for yet another stampede-like trip to the mall. Time to take a page from Elvis' playbook and shoot out those radio speakers after the bazillionth grocery store listening of Chimpmunks Christmas songs. Time to quit your PhD program and head overseas. Oh, never mind, that last one's just for me.

Yes, summer (in New Zealand, at least) is here and — surprise — I'm in a nomadic kind of mood. The final countdown is on. Three years of saving frequent flier miles, 330 days in planning (okay, so I booked it a bit early), four days to departure, and I'll still scramble to barely make my flight out of South Bend.

Send me your suggestions. Your requests. Your wrath. Your kiwi recipes. Your spells and hexes from the bowels of Middle Earth. Wait, that's what I'm sending you.

Let the shenanigans begin,
Frodo

Just over 1700 km from Marquesas now. The in-flight map is almost all blue with only two prominent features: the Date Line and the Equator. In the air some 4200 km from Los Angeles, the massive 747 heads southward on the map. I had hoped that we would move towards the intersection of those two famous lines, but in banking left about an hour ago, chances of that were ruled out. And besides, such a trajectory would take me to Papua New Guinea.

5:15 pm. Lunch is finished. But instead of relaxing in a post-prandial stupor, all I can think of are numbers. 9 hours, 23 minutes left to Auckland. 2444 km from Honolulu, Hawaii. A blistering 888 km/h. At 10 km above the Pacific Ocean, it's -38^oC, contrasted by the undoubtedly balmy clime of Mona Kea, Hawaii, now some 2168 km to the west.

As the plane pushes on, more figures fill out the story of how I got here. It took 120,000 frequent flier miles to redeem my Business Class ticket — representing three years of flying routes with extra segments instead of nonstop flights, detours, cris-crossing the country on gratuitous trips, pouncing on bonus mileage promotions like a crazed airline coupon clipper and pursuing the holy grail of air travel with an almost religious zeal: the voucher for free travel. I've been dubbed the Airline Whore for my unflagging willingness to give up my seat on full flights in exchange for a later flight and a voucher, but having racked up $2500 in free travel in the past two years, 120,000 frequent flier miles — three years of flying extra routes, detours, cris-crossing the country on gratuitous trips, pouncing on bonus mileage promotions like a crazed airline coupon clipper and pursuing the holy grail of air travel: the voucher for free travelperhaps the moniker is appropriate. Strategic planning to select overbooked flights, flexible travel plans, the cooperation of the weather on travel days and a little luck have all conspired in my favour: free travel has been a self-propagating wave that has led me to a trip otherwise impossible.

This trip wasn't the original goal of the mileage hoarding, however. As my frequent flier balance ticked upward, I had my sights set on the most improbable of trips under normal fiscal circumstances: France on the Concorde. An astonishing $10,000 per ticket, the extraordinary experience of supersonic jet travel would be worth every mile in my account, even if the actual dollars for such frivolity would never be there. But with the Concorde service suddenly and tragically discontinued and my miles insufficient to secure a seat for the few remaining flights, I continued to earn miles for an otherwise equally unreachable vacation: New Zealand. In the big seats. And then I waited. And flew.

Booked 330 days prior to departure to ensure an available seat in the prized Business Class cabin, this is my farthest airplane voyage to date at over 27,000 km round trip. And as much as numbers comprise the story to this point, the numbers going forward are just as formidable. 21 days in New Zealand, seeing both islands. On the south island, I aim to do 2500 km of driving in seven days. On the wrong side of the road. In a mid-90's rented Toyota.

But first I have to get to Auckland.

The day started in South Bend, Indiana, at the crack of early. A 4:20 am alarm would normally set off a round of irate shooting, but I was ready for the car in less than 20 minutes. Thermostat turned down, everything unplugged, I left my house in the criminal hands of my neighborhood and made for the airport for my flight to Chicago. Bag checked, boarding passes printed, film un-x-rayed, I settled down into a departure lounge chair to news of the capture of Saddam Hussein. People were high-fiving each other like they had conducted the raid themselves. What would this mean? A revisionist history view that the ends had (finally) justified the means? And an early Christmas present to the Republicans with assurances of a 2004 win? Talk about headache material.

The plane left South Bend in the dark. Late. And cold enough that everybody's breath was visible in the cabin air. But still gone. After a short walk to C-19 at ORD, I medicated myself into submission for the flight to Los Angeles. My plan was to sleep to the west coast then remain awake across the Pacific, land in Auckland at 10 pm, sleep and wake up having dodged the jet lag bullet. I settled into 8F with my pre-departure orange juice, popped in my ear plugs, pulled on my blanket and was asleep before taxiing.

Los Angeles was a zoo. And a half-drugged blur going down the jetway, through the terminal and into the gray morning to cross the airport. The temperature was in the low 60s. People were in jackets and wool hats. I crossed the parking lot to Terminal 2, Air New Zealand's home, where a swarming mass of humanity crowded the security lines back to the doors. Lines which I skipped, thanks to the express lane designated for Business/First Class ticket holders. Sheltered by the quiet seclusion of the ANZ lounge I read, napped, drank wine and munched snacks in front of the windows. In the pouring afternoon rain, airplanes from around the Pacific rim came and went. Places exotic and distant all, but few seeming as exotic or distant as New Zealand. And with a flashing television monitor making the boarding announcement, it was time.

Inormally begin a trip recounting the items, often essential, that I've forgotten. And while this excursion isn't without a few minor wayward objects, the major gear is all with me. As the days tick by, however, I'm now progressively losing stuff. At this rate, it'll be me and whatever I can stuff into my pockets for the ride home.

Those of you who have tuned in to past excursions know that I'm used to dog crap. Paris has steeled my nose — if not my shoes — to the way of Le Turd. You don't have to keep an eye out for any doggy deposits in Auckland, however. Because you're too busy watching out for sheep shit. And cow paddies. And other very mysterious looking things that surely came from the business end of some grazing animal. I'm not an expert (yet), but I'm guessing it's from the numerous chickens that also wander around Auckland's parks, waiting to be sauced and barbequed.

The city is filled with parks. Beautiful ones. On hills. In valleys. Atop dormant volcanoes (some 25 of them in the city alone). Around monuments. Anywhere there's not a bank or a sushi shop or a souvenir shop, there's a tract of green grass with palm trees. But these parks are filled with animals. "You have experience in one of these, right?" "Oh yeah," I lie. "It's been a while, but I've done it before." "Well alright, mate, have a go!"In a country where the sheep to human ratio is 20:1, animals are given such regard that they may as well have bus passes and library cards.

Scatological experiences aside, Auckland was so nice that I left after one day. After watching the sun go down on One Tree Hill (of U2 fame but without the tree, however, which was hacked down a few years ago by a local nutjob) I began the next morning by heading to a little island paradise, courtesy of a tip from the hostel travel desk. Waiheke ("why-hee-key") island is only a 45 minute cruise from downtown, but it may as well be alone in the South Pacific. Waiheke is to Auckland what Santorini is to Athens.

The first hostel I tried had been closed and vacated, so I hitchhiked (yes, a first) to a second, more remote hostel with a spectacular vantage point. I checked in.

I plan to spend my morning kayaking around this slice of paradise. I haven't kayaked since Greece in 2001, when I rented a boat that was only slightly larger than an inner tube and with similar handling characteristics. So years later, I figure I probably know how to get by. Until the rental guy brings out some kind of big, serious boat with a rudder and spray skirt and other assorted gizmos for me to break. "You have experience in one of these, right?" "Oh yeah," I lie. "It's been a while, but I've done it before." "Well alright, mate, have a go!"

I carry the bright red boat down to the beach and put on the spray skirt. Thankfully, there's nobody else on the beach for hundreds of meters. The rental guy is undoubtedly watching me from his window as I clumsily attempt to handle the big red kayak. I secure my camera gear, protected in a new dry bag, to the hull and tug the boat out into about three feet of water. I lower the rudder and point north into the bay. A break in the surf lets me hop into the kayak, as quickly and smoothly as I can. Easy does it. Don't wobble. Straighten out, aim into the waves. I dip the paddle a little deeper. One, two, three, four strokes. I'm moving. I look up to see a wave coming in. Five, six, seven and I pull a little too hard on the left side. My weight shifts. I'm leaning. Sliding left. Farther. Past the point of no return as another wave hits. A doom-laden thud as it connects with the hull, flowing over the nose of the kayak. Like in slow motion, I see my tripod and a whole lot of camera gear start to swing over the left side. The last thing I think of as I'm rolling under are the olympic whitewater rafting competitors who right themselves without missing a beat or a gate. I'm no whitewater racer. Upside down and in relatively serious trouble, I unseal the skirt, pull it away and push out of the kayak and up to the surface. Breathe.

My camera gear held to the boat.

My $15 dry bag and $2 caribiner saved the day and kept a couple thousand dollars of camera gear dry. I'd clipped the bag to an X-shaped bungee cord on the top of the hull. The tripod was less secure, connected by a nylon strap. They both swung free and went underwater with me, but as I righted the boat, I saw they had stayed anchored. Only in waist-deep water, I gently climb back in, certain the rental guy is taking notes.

Now sitting in a couple inches of water in the kayak, I re-secure the spray skirt and move northward into a deeper part of the bay. I don't dare open that bag. Paddle, paddle, nice and easy. Beyond the breaking waves near the shore, the bay is calm. Which is good because I have to teach myself how to operate this damned kayak.

It wasn't until after another half hour of (spill-free) paddling that I realized I'd lost my Oakley glasses in the debacle.

And then the penguins showed up.

After a day of intense driving that has me feeling prepared to enter next year's Paris-Dakar rally, I am chilling out, drinking. The average single North American car lane is as wide as entire two-way streets on Waiheke Island. And many roads are "unsealed" (gravel), with some having a just narrow strip of gravel shoulder before a several hundred meter drop to the ocean. And roads are driven on the opposite side. And at especially tricky segments of highway, there are comforting signs with things like one big red exclamation mark. It's that kind of place. Not dying was my accomplishment for the day.

On the bus to Rotorua, light is fading and we're rolling through Middle Earth. Well, northern Middle Earth. Sheep and horses and merinos dot the roadside. They're around every curve out here, and an hour south of Auckland, there have been a lot of curves. The bus is winding between pastures and small hills, most a few hundred feet high. At a pit stop near Cambridge, I restock my candy bar rations. While awaiting departure, I walk down the road to take a sunset picture. Back on the bus, I realize I left my 1-day old replacement sunglasses on the ground where I set up the photo. Rotorua is an hour away.

From my hostel (with its own rock-climbing wall!) in downtown Rotorua, I walk the 3 km to a Maori village, where after $17, a musical performance and a few hours, I realize it's not the place I originally wanted to go. Back on the road, I continue on to the Cultural Center, with its mud pools and geysers and other fascinating, if stinky, geothermal activity.

Local legend has it that nowhere is the earth's crust so thin as it is in Rotorua, resulting in the smorgasbord of senses that defines this town. My afternoon visit to the Polynesian-themed spa lasts a wonderfully tranquil 20 minutes before the chaotic arrival of a busload of swim-cap-and-goggle-toting Japanese tourists who decide to conduct time trials in the largest of the spa pools.

AChristmas carroll singalong concert in the park. Mean black swans the size of 8-year olds. Casinos and strip clubs around every corner, almost as frequent as churches. There are steaming and wheezing and erupting geysers. Volcanoes. Boiling and belching mud pits. It all has an intrinsic juju that evokes the future that theologians have promised the wicked among us. Set it under a quintessential postcard-blue sky and infuse it all with the transient — yet sinus-clearingly acrid — smell of sulphur, and you've encapsulated Rotorua.

What a great town.

Although the bar scene is a bit confusing. The crowds are big and varied. Hipsters and klub kidz. Senior citizens. Backpackers. A busload of camera-toting, karaoke-seeking Japanese tourists. But when the posse of Maori warriors walk in, pierced and painted and some with a hairstyle that most resembles a large, spikey crown atop an otherwise shaved head, I can't decide if in my jeans and t-shirt, I'm over- or underdressed. So I just order another gin and tonic and get my groove on.

I have since moved on from Sulphur City, with a flight down to Christchurch, on the east coast of New Zealand's South Island. "The most English town outside of England," says the sign. Steaming and wheezing and erupting geysers. Volcanoes. Boiling and belching mud pits. It all has an intrinsic juju that evokes the future that theologians have promised the wicked among us.And here from my perch at the corner of Worcester Street and Oxford Terrace, beside the bridge over The Avon as a punter glides past and in earshot of the tartan-clad piper playing two blocks up, I cannot possibly think of where such an eristic comparison arises.

In sonic news, I'm realizing this trip has been a series of missed musical opportunities. I left Auckland one day before Naughty By Nature. I was one day late in Auckland for my new favorite punk band (if in name only) Elemeno P. And I'm four days late for Cypress Hill here in Christchurch. But I did get to see the amazing Boogie Monsta.

Tomorrow, it's from here in Christchurch that the real adventure begins. Normally, a week with 2500 km of driving would be enough to force a redefinition of my notions of Hell (Rotorua's boiling mud pits notwithstanding). But for the next seven days, I'm literally on the road to Middle Earth.

Foot to the floor,
Mr. Muggle

Two hours from Christchurch, through low, grass-covered hills, we swing around a bend. The road stretches out across a massive plain of grass and flowers and sparse trees, sliced in two by the grey road — a straight shot that stretches out until it disappears at the base of the Southern Alps. Mt. Cook is the star of this show. At 3764 m, it's the highest peak in Australasia and it's scraping the sky in the distance as I pull over for photos of the first views of the rock.

Cars and motorbikes and camper vans and German cyclists fill the roadside attraction, a lane designated for parking so as not to disrupt the highway traffic. Cameras come out and the first views of the mountains get recorded. Frames of film fly by. People jockey for position in the lineup of cars. It's 22^oC/74^oF but the wind is howling. I set my glasses on the roof of the car and move forward to shoot from the fields of lupen, with their blue and purple and pink and white flowers. I need another lens. Back to the car, I head for the trunk. The roadside gravel is large and colourful and noisy underfoot and my hiking shoes have thick soles and are laced tight.

I never saw my glasses blow off the roof of the car. I never heard them hit the gravel. I never thought of looking down as I walked back to the trunk. I never saw the glasses on the ground. I never even felt them get pulverized under my feet as I made for the trunk. They never stood a chance.

But at least the sky was pretty. And what followed were two "day of the year" days hiking around Mt. Cook.

Was that the inevitable karmic upswing after a crushing blow? Are two epic days in the Hooker River Valley the yang to the yin of personal destruction? Is this backpacker karma and how can I reign it in? What are the rules? What is the order of deeds done versus tolls extracted? And where the hell do I get off this increasingly expensive roller coaster? And why, on this trip, does it have a propensity to destroy all my eyewear?

Helen, my friend from Wellington (we met in Carcasonne, France in 2001) and my navigator on this little rolling circus, said that in her 25 years in NZ, only twice has she seen sheep being herded along the highway. That kind of postcard-perfect crap just doesn't happen in the real New Zealand.

We round a handful of corners heading towards Mt. Cook and the road turns white. And black. And it's moving. And baaaaahing. Sheep. Thousands of them. A veritable sea of wool is moving down the road towards us.There is a frenetic rumble as the herd flows past, all white and black and noisy and stinky. Only the sound of hooves on pavement is audible as I'm a boulder in a river of animals.

I slam on the brakes to avoid the production of copious ground lamb chop. I have to get out and shoot and instantly I'm surrounded by sheep. There is a frenetic rumble as the herd flows past, all white and black and noisy and stinky. Only the sound of hooves on pavement is audible as I'm a boulder in a river of animals. There are so many sheep that I finish a roll of film, rewind it, load another and watch still another thousand animals stream by. All with the highest peak in the country as a backdrop and without a cloud in the sky.

The herd passes, but I see one straggler on his back in a ditch beside the road. Is it hurt? Stuck? The sheep makes no attempt to get up. It just lays there, four legs straight up in the air. The herding dogs have passed but one rancher follows behind. I point out his stray and he calmly heads down the bank, grabs the sheep by its neck, flips it over, smacks it on the behind to get it in gear. The farmer moves on without a word.

Helen is laughing at the improbable odds of our woolen encounter. And the next day, a hundred kilometers away, it happens again.

We reach Mount Cook in the early afternoon and set out for a quick but gorgeous two hour walk to Kea Point. The only hostel is full and the Unwin Hut is jammed to the rafters with climbers and their very serious-looking equipment, so we backtrack to Glentanner for a hostel, then return back to Mount Cook to eat at the only open restaurant for 75 km. After a dinner of a massive calzone and a handle of Red Rock ale, we loop back Glentanner and hope for the continuation of the incredible weather.

The few clouds that were bumping into the mountains have gone by morning. Two helicopters load hikers from a base beside the hostel and ferry them across blue skies of unparalleled richness and clarity. It even smells clean here. Mountains rise in all directions. Glaciers peer down on trees and fields and lakes and rivers. Sheep bleat in the distance.

The Hooker Valley walk begins in extraordinary style and only gets better. Swing bridges over frothy, ice cold rivers. Colossal gorges. Sight lines to Mount Cook that leaves hikers' jaws agape. What is supposed to be a four hour round trip is now at six hours, with no sight of the end of the trail. Mindful of the time, and our lack of extra minutes in our itinerary, we turn for the car, saving something for next time. The rolls of film are flying by.

The drive ahead is, if the maps are to be believed, onerous at best. With no direct route from Mount Cook to the West coast of the island, we must head south to Queenstown and go around the mountain range, then back north along the only road running up the southwest coast. It's a long haul. But with an afternoon detour to Glenorchy, it's a beautiful trip toward Milford Sound.

The site of the fifth highest annual rainfall anywhere on the planet, Milford Sound sees some 9 m (30 feet) of rain pour from the sky each year. And most of it seems to be coming down tonight.

After driving through places like "Devil's Staircase Bluff," so many rivers that they're numbered rather than named (we just passed "Creek #160"), insanely perched little towns along the Crown Range Pass, I'm used to seeing highways barely holding their own against nature. Continual "slumps," where the road has crumbled and fallen a few hundred meters down the hillside, are evidence of a changing terrain where fault lines push up some mountains at the geological equivalent of warp speed — over 1 cm per year.Milford Sound sees some 9 m (30 feet) of rain pour from the sky each year. And most of it seems to be coming down tonight.

But the drive into Milford Sound is unlike any other, and not even because of the town names ("Thank You for Visiting Athol!"). Low hills of the Queensland area turn to grassy plains bathed in glorious sun, and fields of coloured lupen beside shallow, wide rivers. We pass 45 degrees latitude — the middle of Middle (and regular) Earth. And in the distance, dark clouds crowd high peaks. The temperature drops. The wind comes in brief gusts. Small drops of rain gather on the windshield. Once again, the road plunges into the hills.

Surrounded on all sides by vertical cliff faces of black rock, reaching thousands of feet straight up with huge waterfalls pouring out, photographing sights on the road to Milford Sound is like trying to take pictures in the shower. But during rainfall is the only time the waterfalls are active and visible, and I mentally check off another yin and yang of the trip. Every few minutes, we climb out of the car for more pictures and give up using our rain gear. We're soaked and cold but can't stop laughing at the incredible beauty of it all. It's impossible to imagine surroundings so remarkable. Over 10 cm of rain comes down overnight.

So much water falls here that Milford Sound has both fresh and salt water — the top 7 m of the sound's water is the lighter fresh water, with the heavier, saline ocean water below. Even the roiling waves don't disturb the chemocline and the result is an extraordinary variety of marine species inhabiting one location. Winter, says someone on the boat, is the only time the Sound sees blue skies.

We pause to dock at a floating observatory and nature center. The outpost is like an inverted fish tank — a glass building submerged in Milford Sound that allows visitors to descend several stories below the surface and see the sound's wildlife in their natural, undisturbed habitat. Displays and photos and a tour guide point out the creatures on the other side of the glass.

Back on the cold and windy deck of the tour boat, the sideways rain leaves me pining for Waiheke Island, my tropical xanadu north of Auckland. As I wring out my shoes back at the hostel, I vow to return to Waiheke before heading home, if only to reacquaint myself with the sun.

The road from the Purple Cow Hostel in Wanaka to the glaciers of the west coast takes us past Puzzle Town and it's massive 3-D maze (open on Christmas day!). We push on through amazing mountain vistas toward Haast and through Mount Aspiring National Park and the Blue Pools. Weird mailboxes. Abandoned and dilapidated shacks. Roadside fences covered in underwear and shirts and ski boots.

Out of the park, past waterfalls and runaway vehicle ramps and cattle stops, I pull over and walk back a few hundred feet for a photo of yet another amazing river valley/winding road/misty mountain scene. Walking to the vantage point, I pass a sign that appropriately designates this spot the Halfway Bluff. After driving about 1700 km, that is exactly what this location is.

A little red car comes to a stop beside me, evidently with similar photos in mind. I take my shots, return to the car and turn the key. Nothing. Again. A few half-hearted whirrs that fade to silence. Christmas day in the middle of nowhere and I have a dead car. I try again. And again. Nothing.

I open the hood, as if an ominous gaze from a layman is going to fix whatever is wrong. With nothing appearing to be on fire or conspicuously absent, my investigation work appears complete.Christmas day in the middle of nowhere and I have a dead car. I try again. And again. Nothing.

The little red car comes around the corner, notices our open hood and pulls over. I ask if they have a mobile phone (thankfully, my rental contract includes 24-hour service). No, but they get out to have a look. The consensus between the four of us is that fault lies with the battery. Fabulous.

Halfway through my driving adventure, halfway through my entire trip to New Zealand, exactly in the middle of my route around the South Island on Christmas day when people are home and everything is closed, I have a car that won't start. I conjure ominous visions of the end of my smooth sailing, putting in jeopardy much of my meticulous planning for the rest of the trip. Halfway Bluff indeed.

We talk for a while and they give us a ride to the next town. I note that the driving seems a bit aggressive for a car only marginally better than my baby Nissan. Eyes focused ahead, they hit corners hard. The passenger has the map out and calls out the details of the route ahead in sparing but precise words of direction. They dive into turns with the pedal down and take short lines through corners. The driver has a solid grip on the wheel and the other on the stick. Like being in a video game, we rocket through the 15 km to the next town and I am fully impressed, and more than grateful for their help. They drop us off and we talk some more.

They're US Marines. Based in Japan. On leave. They fly F-18s.

Aha.

The driver, William, is the pilot. The passenger, Derek, is his navigator and weapons guy. With our tow truck arranged and ride back to the car secured, they continue on.

It's been some time since there's been internet access and an equally long while since things like paved roads, gas stations and towns with populations in the triple digits. We reach the relative metropolis of Fox Glacier by midnight, despite our little car fiasco. The two backpacker lodges in town are busy, but after today's debacle, we pick the one with the bar. With the gear unloaded, we head for drinks. The bartender announces last call and motions us towards free space at the end of the room.

And there are the two Marines.

Planning for an early start, we don't stay long. But we leave Derek and William saying we'll probably see them again.

About 1900 km of road is in the rear-view mirror now and it's all felt like driving through a video game. Well, with the exception of a 1.25 L Japanese engine under the hood, of course. And the fact that the car takes corners with a radius slightly larger than a Boeing 747. But other than the whole concept of "performance," it's precisely like video game driving. I only hope that by the time the trip is over, I'll be able to use the turn signal without activating the windshield wipers first — the side of the road you drive on isn't the only thing reversed over here. But the car is working and we're moving forward. Because I've got some cornering skills to practice.

The miserable cold and rainy weather of last night is still in full force this morning. It doesn't look good for heli-hiking. I figured that I would destroy my budget and take the rare opportunity to go on an absolutely extravagant excursion (as if this trip wasn't already). Besides, how often does the chance come to fly atop a glacier? But when we arrive at Franz Joseph Glacier, the plan is officially abandoned: all choppers are parked. We drive to the glacier trailhead and set out on foot, happy to be using the cold weather gear I lugged all this way.

Two hours from the car, across multiple roped-off boundaries and beyond ominously worded signs and pictures of falling boulders, we reach the glacier's terminal face. Well-outfitted (and skilled) climbers practically tease us in the distance, scrambling across the ice and snow with their guides. We've hiked farther than we should have without a guide, but we're aren't about to go further than the map.

Driving more than 2500 km around New Zealand is an endeavour filled with hazards. But winding roads and falling rocks and monsoon rains are to be expected. It's the bridges I'm not prepared for.

Constructing highways through challenging landscapes has led to bridge designs that are rather shocking by North American standards. While we might expect a two-lane road would necessitate a two lane bridge, in New Zealand there is no such luxury. On either sides of spans large and small, roads narrow and funnel traffic into one lane across a bridge.

There is often a right-of-way sign, indicating which driver must yield to oncoming traffic. The exception to the signs, however, are the long bridges where driver's can't see the opposite end. North of Fox Glacier, we come to a stop in front of one. This bridge, like many of comparable length, have pullouts at various points, so oncoming traffic can pass. Traversing the whole span would be too long of a wait for traffic at the other end, so drivers enter and sort out the right of way at various waypoints. But this bridge has another uniquely New Zealand wrinkle: Not only is the single lane bridge used by bidirectional traffic, but down the middle of the bridge runs a train track. Cars can duel for who goes first, but on this bridge, everyone yields to locomotives.

We aim northeast, planning to cross the island en route to Kaikoura. But a flash of souvenir-itis strikes me at Hokitika, known for its jade. Searching for nothing in particular but wanting something, the Jade Factory is the first stop. Everything in the display cases is gorgeous and the dark jade is pristine.

And there are the two Marines.

William buys a thousand dollar Triple Twist to keep in his F-18. The carving is a Maori symbol of good luck when traveling over water. I buy a Koru pendant, representing growth, harmony and new beginnings.

Absolutely Brilliant" reports the Sea Conditions board of the whale-watching shop in Kaikoura. But a cruise doesn't appear to be in the works for my afternoon. It's 11 am, but without a reservation, I am the 34th person on the waiting list. With a whole tour bus suddenly cancelling, the noon sailing takes 20 people ahead of me I am set for the 1 pm tour. I pass the time walking the beach, enjoying a massive falafel and Kumara (sweet potato) fries.

It takes some sonar-assisted searching, but the captain tracks down four massive whales in various stages of lounging on the surface. We spot the world's biggest sea bird (a huge albatross with a wingspan over 4 m) and two pods of more than 40 dolphins. And they are jumping. Finally, justification for traveling with my beach ball and hula hoop.

I drop Helen off early for the ferry back to Wellington, extend the seven day car rental to eight because of the breakdown's lost time and continue west of Picton, across the northern edge of the south island. I continue slowly, however, as narrow switchback roads of the Queen Charlotte Track is the craziest driving yet. Including time spent on open stretches at 110 km/h, the 34 km route to Havelock takes more than an hour.

The Rutherford Hostel is a converted schoolhouse once attended by the legendary Ernest Rutherford, Nobel laureate and scientist supreme, known for his research on the age of the Earth, invention of the smoke detector and, of course, the minor accomplishment of determining the model of the atom, thus beginning the field of quantum mechanics. Word on the street here in Havelock, however, is that Rutherford's graduate students actually did all the work while he mopped up the fame, giving their PowerPoint presentations all over the world.

With everything closed for the night, a trip to the hostel's free food box is my only option. White rice with canned corn never tasted so good.

Abel Tasman National Park has golden beaches and water so clear that kayaks in shallow water simply appear to be floating in space. I bask in the sun and climb some of the 57 km of trails that wind and twist through dense trees. I wander beaches and explore tiny side trails. After a week of intense traveling, it makes for a relaxing change of pace. So relaxing, in fact, I miss the last water taxi out of the park, which I can see in the distance, pulling out of the bay as I round a corner of a hill.

At the next campsite along the trail, a ranger tells me it's a four hour hike out. But there's less than 3 hours of light left. If I march hard, he says, I can make it in two and a half. Without camping gear, in rapidly fading daylight, in a distinctly last-chopper-out-of-Saigon feeling, my only option is to hit the trail and hustle. With just half a bottle of water for the trip, I set out. A brutal hike at a fast pace, I lumber up a hill and pause for a quick drink of my rationed water.

And there are the two Marines.

With a few days left before their return, they decided on a camping trip to the park. After a few calculations of coordinates, we figure this will definitely be the last time we'll run into each other. Third time's a charm. And I'm off.

It's dark. Beaten, broken and bloody from sandals wildly inappropriate for a top speed mountain march, I emerge from the four hour trail in two hours, 34 minutes. From the trailhead, I limp barefoot down the road to the car.

Back in Havelock, the Rutherford Hostel is full. Feeling strangely alert, I push on to Nelson, with its two guidebook pages worth of hostels. Still no luck. I strike out after five attempts. Picton, where the car must be returned in the morning, is two hours away. So I drive, park at a campground and sleep in the passenger seat.

It seems to be a rule on vacation that it's not really a trip unless I see somebody I know. I can't say that I know Derek and William, the two Marines I was fortunate enough to chance upon on Christmas day, but after three encounters, several days and hundreds of kilometers apart, it's beginning to feel like it. And yet none of those successive instances, fortunately, involved me needing to be rescued.

Going drinking last night was a wonderful reacquaintance with city life. Shops, bars, public transit, streetlights — the sweet signs of a major metropolitan area. And a break from hostelling, staying at Helen's house in Wellington, was a perfect respite.

Searching for a bar, we stopped at the Embassy Theatre, where just two weeks ago, with a massive parade, Peter Jackson, Wellington native, finally screened his heralded Lord Of The Rings film. Renovated especially for the epic features, the theatre is so popular that tickets are still sold out weeks after the premiere. But their bathrooms sure are pretty.Renovated especially for the epic Lord Of The Rings features, the Embassy Theatre is so popular that tickets are still sold out weeks after the premiere. But their bathrooms sure are pretty.

Wellington was nice, if brief, and has been my only visit to a museum on this trip. But the Te Papa Museum in Wellington was a fascinating look at New Zealand's recent and paleontological past, with an excellent dinosaur exhibit well worth the steep entry price.

And indeed, this is the country that was so collectively bored that they invented the sport of throwing yourself off a perfectly good bridge, feet attached only to a rubber band.

In eight days on the South Island, I logged 2976.6 km behind the wheel and loved every one of them. But I traded my car for a ferry and now back on the North Island, a bus takes me toward Taupo.

It began this morning in Taupo with a 5 am wakeup call for the bus ride to Tongariro National Park. The bars were still bumping and thumping with New Year's festivities, but I suited up with cold weather gear, attempting to be prepared for the Tongariro Crossing, billed as New Zealand's most spectacular one-day walk. "Spectacular" may be one word for it, but another may be "brutal." Or "grueling." Or "Don't Try This On Three Hours Sleep, Dumbass." The bus was filled with a hardcore collection of hikers; there was no shortage of serious climbing gear and serious attitudes.

But the sky was overcast — there was moisture in the air after yesterday, the first hot day following eight days of rain. As the last group was picked up from their hotel, the bus driver shouted that we shouldn't worry about the sky as the clouds will burn off within an hour. An hour later, we emptied out of the bus and hit the trail. Under an extraordinarily blue sky.

Armed with my sustenance of water, chocolate and cheese sandwiches that were actually grilling themselves within the confines of my backpack as I hiked, the eight hour track lived up to its billing. I can now say that I have summited Moldor (also known as Mount Tongariro, for you non-Lord Of The Rings fans). The perfectly symmetrical volcanic cone of the relatively newly minted Mount Ngauruhoe was a tempting side track, but the climbers ascending that trail actually looked like they knew what they were doing. And they had their sunglasses.

With the Tongariro Crossing, a major checklist item for this trip, behind me, I need a vacation from this vacation. So tomorrow I'm off to Auckland and back to Waiheke Island.

Sir Edmund Hillary

As I write this from an internet cafe in Auckland, I am awaiting lunch, awaiting my bus to the airport, awaiting my flight home (fingers crossed for a cancellation).

New Rule: Buses loaded with Japanese tourists, faces pressed to the glass, all holding cameras (some holding two), can appear at any time, in any location across this amazing country, seemingly out of nowhere. And they're filming you. So watch where you take that roadside bathroom break. And you may also be asked to pose for pictures with them at scenic/historic locations, despite your ordinary, co-tourist status. But you should ask for a tip. Because you'll probably get it.

New Rule: If you are sharing a hostel room with a backpacker traveling with a guitar: change rooms. If you cannot change rooms: change hostels. If you are a backpacker traveling with a guitar: your nappy dreads and John Deer Tractors hat and your faded outsized delivery company shirt with the "Jerry" name tag isn't ironic anymore. Your incomplete knowledge of staple Beatles lyrics is embarrassing. And LL Cool J is not an appropriate substitute. Your hands-free harmonica holder does not help your cause. You are not a Rastafarian. The Man has not got you down. Your name is Paul, you are a yuppie white kid from Madison, Wisconsin and you are horribly out of key. Stop it. Please.

Best street sign photographed: the infamous huge yellow "Caution," accompanied by the explanatory sign underneath: "Elderly."

Runner up: Avalanche warning sign, with rocks modified to depict falling sheep. Baaaaah! At least their landing may be soft.

Best street sign not photographed: The roadside Picnic Area sign, bright blue with a big, shady tree and a picnic table. Observed outside Nelson in front of a series of roadside mountains completely clear cut of all vegetation.

Best roadside attraction: the fence decorated for 50 m with underwear. And at some point last year, somebody came and stole it all (you make up your own jokes for that one), which, of course, was an event worthy of the front page of the New Zealand Daily Herald. Followed by people around nation and the world sending the landowner their unwanted undies to remake the masterpiece.

Best-named cargo ship: Italian Reefer. Observed in the harbour about a half hour ago, where I disembarked the ferry from my last two (perfect) days on Waiheke Island.

And back to the harbour is where I am going right now, because it is just too gorgeous outside to further extend this last dispatch from Middle Earth. And because I need another falafel.

Homeward bound, I wish I wasn't.

Run to the ocean, run to the sea." Or, in my case, run straight back into a major snowstorm whose howling winds scream "Welcome back, sucker!" The yin and yang of travel continued to the end. The bitter, cold, snowy, icy, sucky end.

After a fantastic send-off lunch at The Occidental in Auckland with a platter of two dozen huge, succulent mussels, topped with spinach and blue cheese in an onion and garlic reduction and a veritable tanker of Belgian beer, the obligate mad scramble to the airport was tinged with that final sinking realization that it was over. And my memory was over, too, because after buying a load of kiwi-laden chocolate goodies, in my race through the duty free shop 20 minutes before departure, I set the package down to affix stamps (damn postcards — you're all going to have to accept digital ones from now on) and never picked it back up. It's a fabulous realization to have, really, an hour over the Pacific. I plead sunstroke. So I had another few glasses of wine.

11 hours and 10,467 km later in Los Angeles (yet on the morning of the same day I departed — time travel is fun!), it appeared as though the entire Midwest United States had been closed on account of snow. If that only could have been decided before I left for the Auckland airport. Delayed flights, canceled flights, false starts, hours eating free jelly beans and cookies and chips and cheese in United Airlines lounges, useless airline agents and a four hour 120 km bus ride later, I have officially gone There And Back Again.

And maybe my luggage will eventually make it back again, too.

On a sad note, this was the first time in all my backpacking that I have been stolen from. And the bastard went for my camera equipment. But the silver lining: all the rolls were shot, the scenes recorded, the treks done. I just don't have a nice tripod anymore.

That concludes this chapter of my travails, er, travels from the road. I hope you've had fun reading. The slides will head off for developing today and web pages will follow once my thesis gets handed in, because I do need to graduate.

Next up will be a few short jaunts as a warm up for the big enchilada: four months in Europe/Africa beginning in late April. I hope. Because I'll need that time to thaw out. And buy some new glasses.

Is it time to go the airport yet?