Travel Photography, Writing and Photoblog from Matt Feldman

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.