Sunday, November 28/Day 8 South Island

Sunday was a doozy, but that's what happens when your first adventure of the day starts at 4:30am and you know that your last adventure of the day is scheduled to involve a five-hour drive if everything goes according to plan. FORESHADOWING. But nothing could squash our enthusiasm, not even having to wake up and get ready at 4:15am in the dark at a freedom campsite. Because today was Farewell Spit day. Farewell Spit is a sea bird and wildlife preserve closed to the public except for guided eco tours. We saw seals and birds and sand dunes and a lighthouse from our neat tour bus. Maybe that term isn't accurate. I'll go with badass 4-wheel-drive offroading truckbus of awesomeness. Behold:

The morning was magical.

The end of November is late spring in New Zealand. You know what that means? Babies. This little feller is the first Oyster Catcher chick of the season! Our guide Tim spotted him for the first time on our tour and whipped the bus around to take us closer. Oyster Catcher parents are fiercely protective as we had learned when Brent got dive bombed a few times by some angry parents back in Kaikoura when he unknowingly wandered too close to their nest.

Aw, twins.

And then a quick trip to Cape Farewell, the actual northernmost point on the island, and we were on our way back to Skyla and out of Collingwood.

It was late morning and we had to make some decisions that would affect the rest of our trip. My friend Mark spent several months in New Zealand a while ago and stayed for a bit at an organic tea tree farm while hitchhiking. He impressed upon me that if I was ever close to the farm that I had to look up the couple that owned it and go visit them. Nicest people in the world, he said. But if we were going to visit them, it would be a couple hundred kilometers out of the way, and we'd only get to stay with them for one night. I'd called them and left a voicemail, but before I received a return call, we'd decided that we just didn't have enough time to make it out to see them. It was a hard decision, but when you only have two weeks to spend in a place that it takes years to properly explore, there are lots of hard decisions.

So we got on the road to the next place. Hokitika was only about 260 miles away, but New Zealand roads are windy and speed limits are strict. We didn't want to waste any money on speeding tickets, and we were heavily warned that they're distributed liberally. Brent took the wheel for the first time and seemed super comfortable immediately. I'd driven a few miles one night on a beer run, and that was plenty for me. The memories of a little fender bender I had once in Ireland are still vivid, and I was not eager to drive. So Jesse had been doing all of the driving. In addition to fearlessness, the Smiths apparently like to drive. We were keeping a good pace, eager to get our first glimpse of the west coast. New Zealand obviously isn't huge, but the coasts are vastly different.

And then came the point when crossing through a small town that we realized we had made a wrong turn. It was as simple as taking highway 60 instead of highway 160. Nothing was ruined. We weren't turned around. We were just taking a more direct route toward the city that was the ultimate goal for the night, and that meant that we were bypassing the most amazing part of the west coast and several points of interest along the way. In order to get to the sightseeing spots we'd planned we would have to backtrack about 84kms in total. Morale dropped. I got the call from the tea tree people, expressing their sadness that we had decided we just couldn't take the detour and going on about what a nice young man that Mark was. My morale was boosted, but the general air in the car was tense. Jesse had spent weeks pouring through the guidebooks and making notes and plans and routes, and a mistake like this annoyingly crossed things off of the master list. And to add insult to injury, she was relaxing in the back seat for the first time. Brent and I both thought we were cooking right along on track, but shit, I should've been paying more attention. But no! Brent was determined. He would drive fast and we would make it to the coast before sunset and backtrack up the coast and see everything! And we did. The Pancake Rocks were the main goal.

I was often taking a video when the twins didn't know it.

We planned to freedom camp again, but once more, it's challenging to find a good spot in the dark. En route to Hokitika we stopped by a glowworm cave so Brent could see them even though we had already. And then we finally found a good spot to park overnight, sardining it since it was raining. Eighteen-hour day SUCCESS.

Saturday, November 27/Day 7 South Island

Our goal in Takaka was to get to visit the Farewell Spit, an incredible sand spit and nature preserve that extends out into Golden Bay like an arm and is the northernmost point of the south island. Because of the tides, you have to get in on a tour super early in the morning, and we'd booked our tour for the next day. So we fossicked about Takaka, souvenir shopping and stumbling upon an amazing weekend market full of jewelry and handmade trinkets. We popped into an internet cafe to check for grades since we'd finished our final exams over a week prior to leaving for the trip, and I discovered I'd passed all of my classes. HOORAY. The day was leisurely. We checked out rock formations at The Grove.

We chilled at Ligar Beach. It's probably my favorite animal.

And then we had a crazy steep hike to check out one of the largest cave entrances in the southern hemisphere, I think. One of us thought we read that somewhere, and now we can't find information about its size. It's poorly signposted, but we were determined to find it. A website about the cave says, "The last section of the hike, from the valley floor up to the cave entrance, is a steep and rough track requiring good fitness and experience." True story. It was a workout. This post is nearly identical to the experience we had.

From outside:

From inside:

It was super slippery, and I was too nervous after a couple of good slips to go too far down. Those Smiths, though, are fearless.

And then one more tiny adventure for the day: Pupu Springs, the clearest, cleanest water outside of Antarctica, apparently.

We planned to stay overnight at a campsite in Collingwood, the closest town to the Spit, but the campsite was charging $16 per person. SIXTEEN DOLLARS PER PERSON to park our van on a patch of grass, and maybe flush a toilet once or twice. In unison we said fuck that and went off in search of a freedom campsite. Freedom camping is generally frowned upon because tourists park wherever they want, clutter up the scenery, and leave trash. We were travelling before peak season, so we probably got away with far more than anyone campervanning it in late December or January did. There are many signs on city streets and water fronts explicitly warning against overnight parking or camping. So we wound our way up into a slightly residential area on a big hill and spotted a perfect spot: an undeveloped plot of land hidden from the street and other houses by trees and bushes. We zipped up into our little clearing and made dinner as the sun set.

We felt so victorious over the exorbitant campsite, though slightly paranoid that someone would spot us and kick us out in the dead of night. That's the kicker when it comes to freedom camping. But we were safe, and we even had a view of the bay with the tide out to go with dinner.

Friday, November 26/Day 6 South Island

The previous night we'd hurried from Picton to Marahau, which is at the base of Abel Tasman National Park. A quick overnight at a campsite is necessary when there's no daylight to find a freedom camping spot. Like many of our stops, we'd planned to show up early to one of the adventure shops and figure out what we'd do that day. Kayaking was the plan. The companies try to get you for as much as they can, obviously, but we didn't want to have a quick little trip with slow strangers and a guide that would cost $175. We were just about to walk out the door to go check with another company when they asked us how comfortable we were in water. Perking up, we all said fine. I fibbed slightly. I can swim, and I've been kayaking before, but I'm not exactly graceful. If we were willing to attend a short tutorial on tides, wind, and kayaking skills, we could have a self-guided kayak tour. Perfect.

We had a map showing us which islands had a place to stop, a toilet, or a campground. The wind was fierce that day. We were free to tool around for up to six hours before we had to get the kayaks back to the launch. We managed five. Every day we'd been working out to an extreme degree and it was starting to take its toll. We got to see some fur seal pups playing in the water out by an island, but the wind was so high that white caps kept us pretty close to shore. We made a couple of stops and basked in the panoramic view of mountains.

Jesse loves to collect seashells. Which reminds me: flash forward to the Australian customs a month later:

Customs officer: Do you have any animal or plant products? Seeds? Nuts? Seashells or pine cones?

Jesse: NOPE DEFINITELY NO PINE CONES NO WAY.

So sea kayaking in Abel Tasman was amazingly beautiful but oh so exhausting. The pain of the final hour, fighting white caps and big swells trying to approach shore, realizing we'd overshot where we were going because of tidal changes in the shoreline, is still vivid. Not to mention I'd recently watched this terrifying little gem. Overall:

We gave the kayaks back and kept moving. Just up the road we got our first glimpse of Golden Bay and then the quaint tiny town of Takaka. It was a spectacular drive on the way.

We pulled into the campsite and did our normal song-and-dance that we only had two people in the van. Some campsites charge per vehicle and some per person. We were often offended by the high charges that some of the smaller towns demanded since there were few games in town. This was the first time we got caught and had to fork over the extra money for a third person. C'est la vie. We were completely beat and just wanted to fix dinner, have a drink, and crash out. We did just that, but not before counting some shooting stars.

ALSO! Exclamation point!

Happy birthday, mom! My mom is awesome, you guys.

Thursday, November 25/Day 5 South Island

After a second night in Blenheim at one of the best campsites we stayed at the entire trip (parking spot near a sweet creek, cute ducks quacking around, clean kitchen, hot showers), we packed up to head north to Picton. Wait, you have to see these ducks.

Every night we'd cook dinner, pop out our lawn chairs, and plug the ipod into the handy jack provided in Skyla. By the end of two weeks of driving we were so sick of everything my ipod had to offer. Anyhow, on to Picton!

Picton is at the top of the south island. Home to the famous Marlborough Sounds, we couldn't wait to get some more exercise in. We'd only ridden 40K the day before, and we knew we needed to get some hiking time. We arrived in Picton, and within 20 minutes we'd hired a water taxi to take us through some of the sounds and to the start of the Queen Charlotte Track. We were told the hike would take us about two hours to get to the spot where the water taxi would pick us up for the ride back. FORESHADOWING. But for the time being we were innocently blissful as we cruised the glassy water. Some of my pet dolphins even chased our boat.

So. The chick at the water taxi joint told us it'd be a relatively light two-hour hike. Awesome. We were still a little tired from the day before but interested in some light exercise and views. The sign above, though. Huhwha? We were confused. The water taxi captain said he was picking us up at Endeavor Inlet, which the sign clearly says is FIVE HOURS away. In our previous four months' worth of experience with Department of Conservation signage around the country, Jesse and I knew that we usually cut those estimates in half. Fitness! So we headed out. Holy crap, the Marlborough Sounds should be in the dictionary under breathtaking.

The trail was very clear and relatively well marked, but wow, steep. Again, chick at the shop had told us about an hour of hard uphill and then easy walking. She was a bitch. Noooooo, she wasn't. But we quickly realized ol' girl had never walked the track herself. We were tired and hot, armed only with snacks and water and a map that seemed very deceptive at times.

OH and let's not forget that in addition to extreme saddle soreness, my darling sunburn from the bike riding was developing nicely. I applied sunscreen approximately seven times per day. Ask my travelling mates. They made fun of me endlessly. Apparently I missed some spots.

About three hours in we had a heart-to-heart with the map, realized the DOC estimate was more accurate than we had hoped, and picked up the pace. We had been given four-and-a-half hours for what we thought was going to be a two-hour hike. The enjoyability of the whole thing began to decline as we imagined missing the water taxi back to Skyla. But fear not, for we finally made it to the dock with a few minutes to spare, got picked up, and played with some more dolphins on the way back.

We hadn't planned to stay overnight in Picton, so even though we had our asses completely kicked by the Queen Charlotte Track, we had to stay on schedule and drive a few hours to the next campsite. But not before stopping for Brent's very first fish and chips experience.

I asked the guy working what kind of fish it was. "Oh, we use whatever's freshest each day. Today I think it's actually shark."

"...I'm eating shark right now?" I ask.

He looks worried. "Uh, yes."

"Freaking awesome," I say.

On we drove.

Procrastination/Flashback to Wednesday, November 24

From Kaikoura we moved on to a town called Blenheim (pronounced Blen-im) in the Marlborough wine region. I've loved wine from the Marlborough region long before I ever knew I would have the opportunity to live in New Zealand, and I kept saying that if I had a bucket list, wine tasting in Marlborough would have been in big block letters near the top.

The campground where we parked Skyla rented bikes, so we took to Blenheim on two wheels. I hadn't been on bike in a couple of years while the other two are bike fanatics. Brent actually used to work for a pedicab company. We estimated that we rode about 40K over the course of eight hours, managing to squeeze in tastings at six wineries. I was cripplingly saddle sore for days, but it was one of the best days of my life.

roses on the ends of rows is apparently the thing you do

some wineries have nice dogs for you to play with