I think MyFace* is quickly making me an indifferent blogger. Minutiae is more easily communicated, as are pictures and other shorthands that serve as updates for the lacking-in-attention-span (myself included). Plus, I'm blogging less than when I first started while in grad school. Less idle time to myself, I suppose. I still get the writing bug every so often, however, and some things warrant a bit more exposition, a situation that has yet to be satisfactorily addressed by FB's "note" function. Two and a half weeks in foreign countries, for instance, deserve a bit more than hastily uploaded pictures, and it's all the stories that live in between the shutter clicks that are really what make a trip worth remembering. And if I don't write it down, even in the e-phemera, I won't have it later on.

*I didn't make up this cute reference to narcissistic online social networking. I heard it on NPR somewhere, maybe Planet Money.

Day <0: It seemed like we had been waiting forever for the trip to finally happen; we bought the plane tickets in March (!!!). Most everything about our travel plans were set before we left, with the exception of figuring out which hiking (the Kiwis call it tramping) trips we would take in Fiordlands. Already we (I) had had to adjust our expectations for what we'd be able to do given the season during which we had chosen to visit. The Milford Track is billed as the finest walk in the world and early on I was intent on completing this four day trek...but found out later that bridges along the track are removed during the winter to prevent damage from avalanches. Hiking through all sorts of bad weather I'm ok with, but you either know how to cross a river without a bridge or you don't. You don't learn on the job. A portion of the Milford is still accessible in the winter time though, so we planned on doing just an overnight there-and-back. The rest of our time in and around Te Anau we would determine once we were in town.

Seventeen days is a long time for food to ripen in the fridge, so we were busy trying to get rid of anything edible in the days leading up to our departure. Friends were invited over for dinner and lunch to help us consume mass quantities. We pounded down seven eggs (it would have been eight if I hadn't dropped one into the sink) and all the leftover lunchmeat the morning we left in the form of massive omelets and washed it down with hamburgers two hours later for lunch. Our fridge was all bachelor-esque by the time we left: all condiments and partial jars of spaghetti sauce and salsa. Home ownership adds an interesting twist on pre-trip preparation as well: I spent a couple hours weeding the backyard and mowing the lawn the day before.

We arrive at ORD two and a half hours or so in advance of our flight to check in. At the counter, as the ticket agent went through our itinerary, he asks, "Do you have an Australian visa?" The music in the background scratches to a halt as the needle is lifted from the vinyl. My eyes widen and I eke out, "No, I don't." In six months of vacation planning, all my attention had been on NZ, which does not require a visa, and at no point did I or Sabina pause to inquire about entry into Australia, our first destination. Fortunately, my stomach only had time to do one complete roll before the airline employee told us to step down to the end of the counter and see his colleague for handy e-visas. The music in the background warbles back to life and we are allowed to travel.

The connection through SFO is notable for a few things: an exhibit on Russel Wright with oddly amusing illustrations from his manuals on hosting dinner parties; Best Buy and Sony vending machines for travelers who have a few extra hundred bucks to drop on a new cae=mera, iPod, or accessories whilst dashing from gate to gate; and an ad for Chanel that inspired this conversation:

Me: Is that Keira Knightley?
Sabina: Yes.
Me: She's wearing a hat.
Sabina: No she's not.
Me: She's got a hat on?
Sabina: walks away

The in-flight entertainment options for long haul trips are impressive these days. Not only do you have your own screen, there's an entire library of movies, TV shows, games, and music for you to peruse at your leisure. I caught up on summer fare like Star Trek and classics like Raging Bull.

Day 1: Arrival in Auckland in the wee hours of the morning en route to Melbourne. The fun thing about British-y accents like the New Zealanders' is that passenger pages sound so polite and refined yet are wonderfully passive aggressive at the same time. "Paging passenger so-and-so. This is your final boarding call for flight whatever to whereever. The plane is ready to leave and all the other passengers are waiting for you."

We arrive in Melbourne later that morning and after having our Trader Joe's granola bars and trailmix inspected by customs agents, meet Sabina's Uncle David in the waiting area. The plan for the day was to visit a few of David's commissioned art projects around the city, so we dropped the luggage off at his home, packed some lunch, and headed out. We visited a rooftop garden he helped design. The building, which belongs to the city government, is designed top-to-bottom with the latest eco-friendly bells and whistles--computer-controlled shades that move during the day to regulate temperature and lighting, water piped throughout the internal structure for heating and cooling, etc. The roof area is full of wire structures and scaffolding, the idea being that climbing plants would cover walls and pillars, and form a canopy over the area. A few years after completion of the roof and the plants are only starting to do what the designers intended. They're harder to train than first expected. Also somewhat underperforming are a couple wind turbines that were placed where they are completely shielded from moving air because of surrounding buildings.

Our next stop was the headquarters of a big telecom company where David was commissioned to create five works of art to be placed in the elevator lobbies of five different floors. They represented the four basic elements--earth, wind, water, fire--and people. The pieces were creative and engaging on their own, but to hear David talk a bit about the design and implementation process for each gave us a deeper appreciation for them.

We walked around downtown and the riverwalk for a while before going to pick up David's two boys and going home. A note about home: David's little cottage is a well-loved, if spartan, dwelling. The one bedroom has a bunk bed for the boys, David sleeps on a futon in the living room, and we slept on the floor in the studio. The house--and the expansive, jungly backyard--is crammed to the gills with art, art projects, models, works-in-progress, and all manner of creative expression. The kitchen walls are covered floor-to-ceiling with the kids' school and personal projects. Heat is provided by a single space heater. The bathroom is essentially a screened in outhouse with a toilet whose flush capability is undetermined (we didn't inquire). Regardless, Australia is in the midst of a drought so accordingly, we used buckets of shower and rainwater to wash away solid waste. Few creature comforts...except for the food. We ate like kings that weekend. David is quite the accomplished cook and we all gathered together in the kitchen daily to make homemade waffles, pot pies, pizza, pan-Asian fried rice, fancy desserts, and cannelloni (not all on the same day).

Day 2: After a night tucked warmly in our sleeping bags (and keeping a headlamp nearby for trips to the bathroom), we went to visit good friends of David's down the street for brunch. It was a very pleasant meal together, probably less so for the boys who had to put up with grown ups talking about boring things like healthcare and politics. In the afternoon we headed out into the city again, visiting a veteran's memorial and botanical garden. The garden has a children's garden within, another large project on which David was a contributing member. We got a nice personal tour from one of David's collaborators on the garden, who's also on staff at the facility. Lots of creative, hands-on, kid-friendly components to what they designed.

Day 3: A slow morning meant that we got to church just as they finished. But we got a chance to see yet another of David's projects, a chapel that he helped design and build when he first settled in Australia in his 20s or early 30s. A lot of neat little stories about how this small, radical 1970s Christian community scraped together what they could to build, thrive, and serve. We hung out for a while with the tiny congregation at their very warm post-service tea and social hour before heading to lunch.

Sabina and I ventured out on our own that afternoon, taking in a fascinating Salvador Dali exhibit at the city art museum. Had no idea he dabbled in so many different media. In addition to enjoying some notable paintings up close, we also got a kick out of an animated short on which Dali collaborated with Walt Disney. Considering the Disney brand in its current inception, it's a bit jarring to imagine Dali identifying Walt as a premier surrealist with whom he just had to create something. But then you watch Fantasia and concede the fact that maybe Disney was just as wacked out as Dali. I also chuckled at Dali's irreverent protest against Nazi Germany--proclaiming that he found Hitler sexually attractive.

Day 4: Dawn-ish wake up call for the cab ride to the airport. A few hours later, we land in the capital city of Wellington. New Zealand boasts the world's strictest customs inspection because of its desire to protect its unique ecosystems from invading species, and because we are conscientious travelers, we declare that we might have dirt stuck to our hiking boots that may need to be looked at (and we have to declare our granola bars and trailmix again). We're escorted to a controlled area off to the side and present our soiled items. The whole customs process took us at least an hour start to finish, but on the plus side our shoes were sparkling clean afterward. There was other drama in the quarantine area while we waited. An inspector cut himself on the job and there was a mad scramble to get him patched up and the blood splatters cleaned off of counters and floor. And then there was the family whose luggage was burst open like a pinata, spilling out every non-perishable food item from southeast Asia known to man individually wrapped in plastic grocery bags. That's gonna take a while.

We were eager to get to our hotel--both travel guides we consulted rated it well and we were looking forward to a cushy place to stay for a couple of nights in between our more rustic destinations. The lobby was definitely promising. The hallway that led to our room was less so, with its low ceilings, narrow walkways, and walls that were in the process of being replastered and painted. The room itself proved no better. The carpet was fraying at the corners, the linens dingy, the furniture dated and worn, the mattress soft and unsupportive. The view out the window was of the overhang in front of the building that covered part of the driveway. Unimpressive in every way. Not that this was an uncomfortable place to stay; it was wholly adequate. But expectations are a funny thing. If we had been headed for a chain motel, we might have been blown away by it.

The concierge supplied us with a restaurant suggestion and we headed out into town to walk around and get an early dinner. Few stores were still open as we meandered around. Dinner was good and satisfying and we zipped up our jackets for a brisk, windy post-meal stroll around the harbor. Civic Square was fun to see at night but we would have to wait until the next day to appreciate the oceanfront.

Day 5: A light breakfast at a cafe around the corner from the hotel was a nice way to start the day. A little people watching, a little perusal of the newspaper courtesy of the hotel. At 10am sharp we reported to the tourist center inside Civic Square to find our guide for a two hour walking tour of the city. Marilyn, a retired schoolteacher and current tour guide/museum volunteer, escorted us and another couple from Auckland around town, feeding us historical tidbits and explaining the sights. For the afternoon we went to the national museum and just as evening began to arrive we took a cable car to the local high point to see the city and harbor from above. There was an observatory and botanical garden there as well. A nice dinner out and our time in Wellington had pretty much drawn to a close.

Day 6: The morning was leisurely since we had a late morning flight to Queenstown so we headed down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. Besides being an overpriced hotel breakfast, the only worthwhile note from this experience was my first experience with Marmite, which did not go well. I suppose I was naive to think that it would taste like Nutella because it looks a little like the sweet spread. So getting a biteful of a salty, savory paste on toast was almost cause to regurgitate it on the spot. Later on in the trip, I would ask a tour guide what Marmite tastes good on. "Oh, anything that will mask the taste." That about sums it up.

We opted for the cheaper bus instead of a cab to get us to the airport so we hauled our luggage a block or so from the hotel to the stop. As we were waiting, a cabbie drove up and began trying to convince us to let him take us at whatever fare we wanted; he was going to the airport anyway and would have gone passenger less if he hadn't seen us. We eventually cave in and agree to the fare we would have paid had we stuck with the bus. We were nervous all the way in that he would spring something extra on us at the end, but he kept his word and we got to the airport ahead of schedule. I guess the only potential loser in the deal is the cab company he works for; since he didn't run the meter, he just gets to pocket the entire fare. We thanked him for the ride and told him maybe we'd visit his homeland of Fiji someday.

The Wellington airport was the only place we found during the entire trip where Internet service was available free of charge. We didn't go out of our way to hunt for hotspots, but no other airport or hotel had free access. En route to Queenstown our pilot played the part of tour guide for a short time, pointing notable features on the landscape below, including the Franz Josef Glacier. For that, he first banked one direction and then back to the other so that each side of the plane could take a gander.

The descent into Queenstown is glorious, flying low into a picturesque valley with the town laid out below on the edge of Lake Wakatipu. We arrive early, which meant that our rental car was not yet available. This gave me time to sit around, grab some lunch, and stress out about driving on the left side of the road for the first time. Eventually we're handed keys to a Honda Fit and upon finding the car in the lot, I promptly unlock the car from the passenger side (because the steering wheel is now on the right side of the car) by mistake. No, I wasn't just trying to be chivalrous.

Driving on the left side of the road is disorienting--especially roundabouts--but thankfully not terribly hard to adjust to. If roadways had been busier, it would have been more stressful, but nowhere that we went was there much traffic. Awareness of the car's position for perpendicular parking and lane position came steadily. I made one awkward u-turn because I went counter-clockwise as I'm used to rather than going clockwise as needed for left lane driving. I was hoping that by the end of time with the car, I would stop hitting the windshield wiper by accident when wanting to signal a turn, but that never happened. Yet at least once since returning to the States, I've had a complete mental block when wanting to hit my turn signal, resulting in, of course, the wipers sweeping across. It's as if that part of my brain devoted to knowing which lever is the turn signal was so confused after going to NZ, it now is completely inoperable, even when returning to what it's been doing for thirteen years.

It's a bit of a cliche that when someone says, "You can't miss it", it's bound to be hard to find. However I've concluded that Kiwis are particularly bad about giving you directions and those directions being nowhere near as obvious or easy as they make it out to be. This happened on a number of occasions, beginning with the lady behind the rental car desk. Would the way to Te Anau be clearly marked as I head out of town? Oh sure, there's signs all the way. Now, it's entirely possible that we missed a key placard or two as we got onto the highway we hoped with crossed fingers was the correct one. That being said, it took us about an hour into the drive before we saw the first sign that indicated that we were indeed on the way to Te Anau. There wasn't even the occasional sign to reassure us that we were on the right road (unlike US interstates that have their numbers marked every few miles). Maybe we just missed them all while fidgeting with the windshield wipers and making sure we weren't too close to the shoulder.

The drive through the South Island countryside was gorgeous and I even got confident enough to pass some cars on the two-lane road. We arrive in Te Anau and pull into the Dept. of Conservation to get the logistics taken care of for our intended tramps--and none too soon either, as we walked in half an hour before closing and stayed past it getting our ducks in order. We are told that only the north end of the Milford Track is passable and that the Routeburn, even at modest altitudes, winds through known avalanche runoff zones. That was too bad, since I had had at least three different people tell me that even a portion of the Routeburn is a spectacular hike to do. So we acquire our hut tickets for the Milford, get directions for our next few stops (book transportation to the trailhead, buy cooking fuel and bug repellent, rent an emergency locator beacon and other gear, get groceries), and head to downtown Te Anau a mile or so down the road.

We went to a little shack storefront to book the boatride required to get us to the trailhead. Our original plan was to stay in a Te Anau hostel for the night and head up to Milford Sound the following morning. The employee at the booking office raised an eyebrow and began strongly suggesting that we actually make the two and a half hour drive (oh, that's longer than I realized) that night and stay at the Milford Sound hostel so that we'd be ready to catch our boatride at 8am. In hindsight, it would have been possible to stick with our original plan, but on the whole it made a bit more sense to tackle the unpredictable-in-winter drive (even in the dark) that night, giving us more time, than to try to push it the next morning with a hard deadline (when the boat left) to meet. We acquiesce, book the boatride, let the clerk shift our hostel reservations around, and move on to the next errand before blasting out of town.

A slight detour here is warranted for me to blow the lid on NZ's tourism-hospitality complex. You've perhaps heard of the military-industrial complex, an idea brought to popular attention by Pres. Eisenhower. The THC works similarly. Every tour operator, hostel manager, and booking agency in NZ are on first name bases with one another, and can make, shift, swap, cancel, or otherwise manipulate reservations at will with nothing but a quick phone call. We suddenly need to stay at Milford Sound instead of Te Anau for the night? No problem, the boating office can handle it. Last minute decision to go on a day cruise the next day to Doubtful Sound? Easy, the hostel manager can put in a word with the company. Need to find gear before your tramp? The DOC will point you in the right direction. Taking a tour bus from Marahau to Nelson? Your driver will wave at every other bus and coach driver he passes for the entire hour. This is an unescapable, well-oiled machine, and if you visit NZ, you will be caught in its comforting "No worries!" web before you know it.

Back to us running around town. Now that plans had taken an unexpected turn, the stress level rose incrementally. We had to get going before too late, before fatigue set in and driving becomes dicier. We still needed to get groceries and gear and dinner. All the talk of rain (are we really going to need to wade through hip-deep water?) and avalanches was getting spooky. We bounced back and forth between two retail outfitters (a third one, a small family operation I had found online and had as my first choice, is appointment only during the off-season and was closed), getting items we knew we needed (cooking gas, sandfly repellent), and wondering about what else would be helpful to buy or rent (gaiters? rain pants? warmer clothing?). Sabina eventually settled on just an additional base layer. Sabina was still worried about potentially wading through streams, especially since she didn't bring waterproof pants on account of me telling her we would rent gaiters and she took that to mean hip-waders but leg gaiters would be minimally effective with that much water anyway so we opted out of extra raingear.

We get the beacon and groceries, stop to get Chinese takeout, and are back on the road a little after 7pm.

The Milford Road is very pretty as we would see on our return trip, but in the darkness broken only by our headlights, it was a winding, foreboding journey into unknown terrain. We found out several days later that by law, we should have had chains in the car. Luckily, the road was dry and clear the whole way, and we only had to manage the anxieties associated with left side driving and a two-day hike of unpredictable difficulty. Switchbacks, 10+ foot snow drifts (avalanche run off, perhaps), and a long, downhill tunnel through a mountain added some nervous excitement.

We breathed a sigh of relief as we pulled into the lot of the Milford Sound Lodge between 9 and 9:30. Our bunkroom key is inside a little brown paper bag taped to the security screen at the now-closed reception counter. We unload, scarf down dinner, and spend the rest of the time before bed repacking our luggage in preparation for two days and a night on the track. We chatted a little bit with our bunkmate, a Glaswegian named Mark, who was halfway through a five or six week trip through NZ. Unfortunately, he had broken his glasses a bit ago and was now trying to make do holding the lenses up to his face every once in a while and hoping that his photography would fill in the blanks once he returned home. Sleep that night, while short, was surprisingly restful.

Day 7: The next day arrived like a cold, wet sponge. We scrambled to get our gear together and the remaining luggage stowed in the car before our transport to the trailhead arrived. We were still filling water bottles and stealing toilet paper from the shared bathrooms when Jorge padded in just before 8am. He was bundled up against the cold weather in a fuzzy hat with earflaps, a big flannel coat, and...bare feet. He works for a kayak touring company and I guess it's just easiest this way since he's always walking through shallow water anyway. We piled into a little van and drove a few minutes down the road to the edge of Milford Sound. From here--after Jorge graciously took our banana peels to be thrown out--we clambered into a rubber raft with an engine to be ferried across to Sandfly Point terminus of the Milford Track. Sabina hesitated getting into the boat, not wanting her feet wet quite yet, and Jorge obliged her by lifting her into the craft. Remember that earlier comment about me not being chivalrous? I was already on board. We wondered if Jorge internally questioned our trampiness, since our (my) gear was kind of still all over the place. My water bottle kept falling out of my pack's side pocket, I had yet to put on my waterproof overtrousers, and I was still carrying a package of grocery store muffins for breakfast. All of this was loosely arrayed around my feet as we shuttled across the sound, the wind and mist whipping through our hair and the mountains steely and proud looming in all directions. The ride was only long enough for me to put my pants on and after we disembarked a few minutes later, Jorge bid us farewell until 4:00pm the next day, turned swiftly around, and left us in the Fiordland wilderness.

Sandfly Point comes by its name justifiably--these little, biting black flies descend in clouds once you stop moving. The 12USD roll-on bug repellent proved to be worth the money spent. We gobbled down the muffins, stretched a little bit, and set off down the track.

Most of what we experienced is best conveyed in pictures, which I've posted at FB and Flickr. We were enveloped in verdant lushness with only the occasional break when the track would lead out to lookout points up the ridge along the river valley. Streams of water were constantly trickling down mountainsides. A few places along the trail, tree trunks and other debris blocked our passage and we had to slowly pick our way under, over, or around these obstacles. The rain came and went and finally decided to stay halfway through the day. I learned that one should really break out the duck cover once it starts misting--no use waiting for it to actually come down steadily. By the time we reached the hut where we spent the night, the only thing in my pack still dry was a pair of socks and a pair of underwear. Even my sleeping bag had taken on water. Perhaps for our next trip I should invest in a pack liner as well. Still, the rain did add some natural beauty to our walk and kept temperatures comfortable. The waterfalls were full-throated and energetic, and walls of moss-covered stone dripped and flowed like shower heads.

Great Walks like the Milford are well-maintained, conservation-minded affairs, and the DOC has an extensive system of tramping huts all over the country. They're large buildings or a complexes of buildings that have bunkspace for tens of hikers at a time, common areas, heating and cooking facilities (typically only during peak seasons), staff during the peak seasons, and some even have flush toilets and treated drinking water. They're designed to manage the number of people allowed on the tracks at one time and keep backpackers from pitching tents anywhere they please (some tracks have designated tent areas as well). The Dumpling Hut had an impressive common lodge, several bunkhouses, and private buildings for staff. As it was the off season, we were there by ourselves and decided to stretch the guidelines and sleep in the lodge. This was primarily motivated by the presence of a wood burning stove and the prospect of warmth, light, and dryness. Unfortunately, no potential fuel was available that wasn't saturated with moisture and my survival skills clearly do not include starting a fire with damp twigs. That was disappointing, but at least we were now sheltered from the elements, and had space to spread out and settle in for the night. Uncle Ben joined us for dinner, I mopped up what water I could out my sleeping bag, and we fell asleep to the sound of rain pattering away on the roof (and the occasional creepy screech from some animal in the woods).

Day 8: We awoke to no change in the weather--it was raining as incessantly as it had the day before. Nothing we had laid out in the hut was any dryer than it was before either. The ponchos came out to give us an extra barrier against the precipitation and we went back the way we came after refilling our water at a nearby stream.

The constant water had noticeably changed the trail. Creeks and rushing water flowed across our pathway where it had been dry the day before. New mountainside waterfalls had emerged and existing ones gushed with great volume. The first day we entertained ourselves finding stepping stones across small creeks. The second day we had no choice but to stride through the ankle-deep water.

We reached Sandfly Point, soaked to the skin, at the same moment Jorge motored up in his raft, about a half hour ahead of schedule. We relished the idea of getting back to civilization and enjoying a hot shower as we headed back across the sound. Jorge had a few things to see to before he dropped us back at the hostel and had us warm up in a big tent filled with drying kayak equipment. It smelled like a musty locker room but the jet engine-esque propane heater made it bearable. We returned to the hostel, made quick trips to the bathroom to change, and piled back into the car for the ride back to Te Anau, stopping to take pictures of the scenery we had missed during the nighttime drive in.

The hostel in Te Anau was a highlight during our trip. The private rooms were converted motel rooms, but expectations are everything. Although the sheets were mismatched and the kitchenette in need of updating (metal cabinets? What decade is it?), it far exceeded what we had in mind and was a very comfortable place to return to that day and for the two to come.

After cleaning up a bit we visited the hostel's front desk to get oriented and get some suggestions for how to spend our remaining time in Te Anau. Watch the tourism-hospitality industry in action: the hostel manager suggested we go on a day cruise through Doubtful Sound while it was still running cheaper off-season rates. Sounded good to us, so she immediately got on the phone, a few minutes before end-of-business, and booked us the remaining seats for the next day's cruise. Voila. Dinner in town that night and then we tucked in for some much needed rest before we got going again.

Day 9: Doubtful Sound is the smaller, less traveled of the Fiordlands' two biggest sounds, the other being the--according to Doubtful devotees, anyway--more commercialized Milford Sound. Over the course of the day, we would get on a bus to get on a boat to get on another bus to get on another boat to see the Sound. The first boatride carried us across calm, glassy Lake Manapouri where we were surrounded by green mountains shrouded in mist. A few peaks were high enough to be snow capped. And then we made a very odd stop on the other side of the lake.

The Manapouri Power Station is powered by Lake Manapouri's water running into the sea and seems to be a mandatory destination for anyone participating in a tour of Doubtful Sound. The station is not without its points of interest, with a viewing area of the turbines, interesting history, and clever engineering. But the idea that one cannot opt out of the station tour on the way to Sound--whereas one can do a station tour without visiting the Sound--strikes me as the pork barrel spending equivalent of tourism packages. It was as if at some point in its illustrious history, the station decided that it needed a bump in revenue and managed to strike a deal with the tourism-hospitality complex. Henceforth, all tours to Doubtful Sound included the power station sideshow, with the extra, unavoidable cost passed along to the tourist. What the THC is getting in return, I don't know. Maybe reduced electricity rates and a promise of no interruption in service.

The Sound (in reality a fiord, but it was named before geologists realized the area was glacial-cut rather than river-cut) is beautiful as well, with more sheer cliffs covered in greenery and cascades of water rushing off of them. A penguin and a seal were spotted as we made our way out to open sea, and often our boat captain would maneuver the craft as close to waterfalls as possible. The clouds broke for a brief time while we were in the sound, gifting us with the appearance of a full rainbow for a few short minutes.

In a place that attracts as many outdoorsy types as it does, it's interesting to note that often one's nationality can be discerned from the brand of gear one is sporting. We were pegged as Americans (by an Arizonan) because of our Marmot jackets. Backpackers hauling Deuter rigs are likely to be from Germany. Kiwis have their homegrown outfitters of Icebreaker and Macpac. On our day cruise two couples covered head-to-toe in Quechua coats, pants, and shoes were, not surprisingly, from a Spanish-speaking country (Spain, in fact). One of them also provided one of the more amusing interactions of the day as we were waiting on a dock for a boat to arrive. A large brown bird, about the size of a well-fed housecat hopped by and one of the cruise passengers (wearing a Ford racing jacket; wonder where he's from) declared it to be a kea. This prompted some oohs of appreciation for his knowledge of the local fauna and some coughs of disagreement from others who believed otherwise, including one of the Spaniards. A tense series of stubborn but polite rebuttals ensued ("Are you sure?" "I'm very sure." "I'm not sure it is." "Oh, it definitely is." "I think their beaks are different." "That's definitely one.") and we could feel everybody wondering if they would need to take sides eventually. The unyielding back-and-forth petered out, at which point the Spaniard with the fancy camera started discretely showing people pictures of an actual kea she had shot earlier in her trip. I suppose a quick query to our guide would have laid the matter to rest, but that didn't happen, perhaps to avoid the ire of the incorrect party for the rest of the day.

Eventually we made it back to Te Anau, worn out and hungry. We walked into town to a pizza place where we were seated at a booth next to their "space heater"--one of those 8 foot tall propane burners that are more appropriate in outdoor settings. We appreciated its warmth at first but found ourselves retreating farther and farther into the booth as the night went on, trying to avoid its fiery aura. Later on, a teenaged girl with a bit more awareness than we did reached up herself and switched the things off. Dinner was a long time coming that night as the shop's ovens decided to go on the fritz. We learned this not from our waitress directly, but from overhearing her tell others that came in after we did that no more pizza was to be had for the evening. We guessed that our pie was the last to have been put in, and maybe they were just keeping the door closed to make sure it would cook, albeit slowly as the heat dissipated. Indeed, ours was the last pizza to be served that night.

During the stroll back to the hostel I imagined seeing the Earth and the place on it that we usually occupy in Chicago. And then I'd spin the globe around and find that tiny spot on its underside where we were at that very second. Miles away from home, just the two of us, walking around like it was the most normal thing in the world. I was awestruck and thankful. How blessed are we to be able to experience all that we had so far, with more to come.

Day 10: The Kepler Track just outside Te Anau is another Great Walk and was another suggestion provided by our hostel manager. She described it as a "5-6 hour return trip", which I interpreted to mean 5 or 6 hours round trip. However, when we stopped at the DOC on the way to the trailhead, further discussion with the staff there reveals that it's actually 5-6 hours one way. Same words, different language. We were optimistic though, with good weather forecast and just a daypack to carry.

Everything about the trek up to Luxmore Hut was scenic. The section through mossy forest with a springy layer of needles and brush underfoot. The bit along lake Te Anau on a clear day with white-tipped mountains in the distance. The steep ascent through alpine forest. Be careful not to get too engrossed in your surroundings though, otherwise you'll be caught unaware when that crazy couple on their morning run sneaks up on you and jogs past. They gave Sabina a startle. That forest does absorb all sounds until they're right on top of you. We would see that couple on their jog back downhill later that morning. Seriously? Running?

Getting above the treeline was a revelation. Sabina talks about wanting to cry in awe of what we saw when we came out, I think I was grinning like an idiot, unable to stop as I swiveled around to drink it all in. For an entire 360 degrees around us, you could see Lakes Te Anau and Manapouri, small towns in the lowlands, and majestic mountains near and far. The sky was dotted with a few clouds and we could see for miles upon miles. It was the highlight of the trip.

We stopped for lunch at Luxmore Hut, where we ran into other folks also using the facility. There was a Korean guy with whom we chatted for a long time. After a while we grabbed some snacks and headed out for the afternoon to some higher alpine area. As we finished lunch, two townies clomped into the hut with ski gear (!!). They had been dropped by helicopter at the hut the day before and had spent the last day and a half skiing on the snowy side of the peak. Pretty amazing. I wish we had had enough time to take a quick walk over to where they had been, but we had to make sure we got back before dark. The 5-6 hour one way trip proved to be much less without the burden of a full backpacking rig (it took us about 4), but we were still wary of the time. We bid a fond farewell to the vistas on Mt. Luxmore and hustled back down to the car.

We made dinner that night in the communal kitchen of the hostel, and spent the rest of the night gathering our gear from every corner of our room and packing it for our departure from Te Anau the following morning. Among the things that I did not pack were casualties from our two-day trek: sunglasses that got crushed either in a backpack or the pocket of my pants, a poncho that was rent asunder by the Milford brush, a knit hat that was left behind at Dumpling Hut. I also retired a nine year old pair of waterproof Columbia shell pants that have been great for both skiing and wet weather hiking over the years. Was one of the best $50 I've ever spent. Now I get to dream about a potential replacement.

Day 11: This was primarily a travel day with only check-out and check-in times to worry about. Breakfast at a cafe and a bit of souvenir shopping rounded out our time in Te Anau and we got on the road to Queenstown. We stopped along the way to take pictures of sheep in pasture and a nice view of Lake Wakatipu nestled into the surrounding mountains. Our hotel was one of the nicest places we stayed in the whole trip (a close call with the B&B in Nelson), and even had a view of the lake and mountains out the balcony if you stuck your head way out and peered around the building to the left. They also have an arrangement with the local public bus system to offer guests free transport from hotel to downtown.

In addition to lunch, dinner and a bit of souveniring, we spent some time atop the local peak enjoying the view of town, lake, and mountains, and watching people bungee jump and "luge", kind of like gravity-driven go-karting on a winding, sloped course. It started to rain a bit too, which made the track a bit slick, and inevitably folks who ignored the gigantic SLOW sign wiped out with great panache directly below the observation deck.

Day 12: Our flight out to Nelson wasn't until late morning, which gave us an opportunity to visit local merchants for suitcase and stocking stuffers. The available parking we stuck with was limited to 30 minutes, which translated to a sequence of park-walk-browse-buy-walkbacktocar-repeat.

The drive to the airport was needlessly stressful as we missed the turnoff (from a rotary, I think) and went maybe 20 minutes towards the next town. Thankfully, we allotted a standard American amount of time before our flight in a place where the domestic flights require very little of the passenger, time and security-wise. There's no metal detector to pass through or x-ray machine to feed your carry-ons. You print your own baggage check-in strips and affix them yourself. Especially at small airports, the terminal's just one big room that encompasses ticketing, waiting, boarding, and retail. It's a very different experience from flying in the US. I kept wanting to take my shoes off for someone to inspect. At the Nelson airport they drive a cart train around the building from the tarmac for baggage claim. Even for the rental car return, you just park the vehicle whereever there's space in the agency's section and drop the keys off at the desk.

Nelson, situated on the north end of the South Island, is home to New Zealand's warmest weather, which supports a fair amount of agriculture and a lot of retirees. Flying into the airport, we got to see yet another variation in geography: urban areas and bits of beach along the coast, green swathes of farmland extending inland, all of it surrounded by rolling hills covered in forests of darker green.

The hostel we stayed at was the best from a communal standpoint. The private room we had was just big enough for a bunkbed and a chair, so not as all-inclusive as our lodging in Te Anau. But the Nelson hostel boasted a very large kitchen with lots of seating, pool, hot tub, sand volleyball court, free packets of ramen and laundry detergent for each guest, and some simple free meals (cereal and toast in the morning, soup in the late afternoon) provided daily. The kitchen was a hotbed of activity every evening. Three or four cook stations meant that the room was filled with aromas from all over the globe. The Spanish speakers were making tacos from scratch (though the tortillas may have been store-bought), the Korean guy was stir-frying garlic beef, another European was boiling potatoes and vegetables. We, in true American style, ate pasta and pasta sauce from a jar.

We had a bit of time late in the day to spend in the main part of town, which we used to get a lay of the land, groceries, and gear (just a fuel canister) for our next overnight trip that would begin the following day.

Day 13: Up bright and early again. I go through my morning routine while another hosteler sits on a chair just outside the bathroom, looking expectant and slightly miserable. He either had had a wild night out or had come down with a bug; he stumbled in at least once that I witnessed for his stomach to revolt. We packed our backpacks for another two day trip and left our remaining luggage in the care of the hostel. Around 8am a minivan swung by the hostel on a series of pickups to take people to Abel Tasman National Park. Our carload was a mix of folks doing kayaking and tramping, with the award going to the Oregonian girl who was going to do a 5 day solo of the entire Abel Tasman Coastal Track. Everyone got dropped off at the same place: the end-of-the-line for the water taxi service that hops up and down the coast in the park. The trampers took the taxi up to their preferred starting location, we walked across the way to the kayak outfitter to get oriented.

Our tour group was small: the two of us, a French couple, a Swiss girl, and our Kiwi guide. The sky was clear, the ocean calm, and everything was picture perfect as we meandered our way up the coast. Our leader Josh gamely fed us stories about park history as we paddled and did his best to keep the Frenchmen up to speed despite their English being a bit weaker. Not quite sure how his tales of war and cannibalism translated. Part way through the morning the girl from Switzerland began feeling seasick and we had to take a break on a little stretch of beach on a small island. She would eventually cut her tour short at lunch, opting to take the water taxi back instead of doing the full-day kayak she was originally booked for. The couple from France also took their leave at lunch, having signed up for just a half-day adventure. Josh laid out a generous spread of focaccia, sweet potato soup, muffins, cookies, and our choice of hot beverage for our midday meal. A few more hours on the water with quite a bit of wildlife (cormorants, seals, and a penguin) and we were done for the day, a couple hours ahead of sundown.

One big perk of the particular tour we booked is that if you're doing an overnight trip, you hand your backpack over to the taxi drivers and they'll drop them off where you'll spend the night, so as to not need to bring them on the kayaks. So when we arrived at Bark Bay by kayak, there were our packs, just hanging out on the beach. We did the reverse the following day, leaving the bags at the same location and reuniting with them after our hike back to town.

With a few hours to burn, we settled in a bit in the bunkhouse and cleaned up as much as we could (I rinsed off at the chilly spigot out back). We walked explored a small portion of the track leading away from the hut site, unsuccessfully looking for a reputed glow worm cave in the area. That night we ate dinner and hung out with a German girl and a group of Scots, chatting and playing Go Fish.

Day 14: The tramp back to where we started was another gorgeous postcard-worthy walk--except that Sabina forgot to pack her orthotics and had to improvise some insoles. It was tough on her feet but she was a trooper. Hiking the ridgeline gave us a different view of the beaches and shore than we had when we were at sea level, and it was yet another different sort of lushness than what we had seen on previous hikes. One unexpected bit of fun came when we reached a bay that split the track into two routes: at low tide one can pass straight across and at high tide one can either wade through hip deep water or hike around the bay entirely. Suggested travel times are a half hour at low tide, two hours the long way around. We reached the bay shortly before the lowest point of low tide and decided to go directly across rather than around. The sea was still slowly draining out, so we had to pick our way carefully, jumping over rivulets and squishing through sandy mud. The ground was covered in driftwood, seashells, and scurrying crabs. Finally we reached a stream of water that we couldn't jump over or walk around, and so we took a break for lunch in hopes that it would recede more. It didn't, which then required us to go barefoot through shin-deep water. Total elapsed time? About two hours.

A long busride back to the hostel and we eagerly took showers, had a hot meal, and rested weary feet.

Day 15: We got to sleep in a little bit, but still had to check out mid-morning. We gathered our luggage on our persons and walked about a mile to the B&B that would be our final lodging for the trip. A Kiwi/Canadian couple run the well-appointed inn, and the wife is a former restauranteur in Canada. As with any B&B, you're bound to find a certain decorating charm and this one was no different. The dining room was an ode to the the British royal family, with every available wall space covered in portraiture and prints, commemorative tins everywhere, and a framed side of a very large cardboard box covered in Princess Di stamps. Our hosts told us that they had a friend shipped a parcel from the UK to NZ, and the clerk at the post office covered the box in first class stamps--over 40 GBP worth. The B&B owners are also amateur designers, and in the living room was their entry to the World of Wearable Art contest, Bizarre Bra section. It was Lewis and Clark themed with two canoes, lots of coonskin fur, and a peekaboo mechanism.

We dropped off our stuff and spent the rest of the day walking around Nelson doing some shopping, eating, and visiting some of the artisans that the town is known for--including the jeweler that crafted the rings used in the LoTR movies. We splurged a bit on a prix fixe chef's choice dinner that night.

Day 16: Last day. Hung out in the sunroom reading and having some quiet time before breakfast. Breakfast was a feast; Janet's restaurant background was on display. Our flight didn't leave until later in the afternoon, and after Janet convinced us that we didn't need to be at the airport much more than an hour before takeoff (we compromised and decided on two hours before the flight. We ended up waiting for quite a while.), we went back into town to do more shopping and eating. There's a very bustling Saturday morning art/goods/retail/food fair in one of the town squares in Nelson, and we roamed the aisles there in addition to the brick-and-mortar establishments.

The return trip to the States passed by uneventfully and with considerably less anticipation than our outbound journey. That being said, it felt good to be returning home. There's much more of NZ we would still love to see and hope to visit again someday. But the traveling and sleeping in a different place almost every night was definitely getting wearying. It was nice to get back to what was familiar and consistent. We also came back to a fridge that had run out of coolant while we were gone and was having trouble maintaining coldness. Good thing we ate almost everything before we left.

Welcome home.