I’ll say it straight out – planning a New Zealand trip is daunting. By now, I’ve got lots of experience to draw from, but we’re much more budget-conscious at this point in our trip and we’re trekking back into costly territory.

Our decision to spend two weeks total in New Zealand is based somewhat on the budget but also on the fact that Stephen’s cousins are joining us in Chile in early March. My girl Megan sends me the itinerary that she and her husband Josh followed on their month-long van trip the previous (U.S.) summer of both the North and South Islands. We spend some time researching and mapping out her recommendations and ultimately decide that for the pace we want to travel, we’ll just drive the South Island. Here’s what we think we can do in two weeks:

The Route and Approximate Drive Time

Week One – What I share in this post

• Christchurch > Kaikoura
• A unique marine ecosystem draws wildlife to this oceanside town set against a stunning mountain backdrop
  • Drive time: 2.5 hours
• Kaikoura > Marlborough
  • A world-renowned wine region famous for its production of Sauvignon Blanc
  • Drive time: 1.5 hours
• Marlborough > Abel Tasman National Park
  • White sand beaches and turquoise water on this protected coastline make this park a much-loved spot for hikers
  • Drive time: 2.5 hours
• Abel Tasman > West Coast, South Island
  • This sparsely populated region still evokes feelings of a wild frontier; you’ll find it abundant with rivers, rain forests, glacier and geological treasures along with penguins, seals, and other marine wildlife.
  • Drive time: 3 hours
• West Coast, South Island > Ross
  • A town just shy of 300 residents, Ross was once a booming gold rush town that still maintains its gold rush charm
  • Drive time: 1.5 Hours
• Ross > Franz Josef Village
  • Franz Josef is one of two famous glaciers on the south island and is famous for its accessible location in a temperate rain forest
  • Drive time: 2 hours
• Franz Josef > Haast
  • Famous for its Whitefish Sandwich, the Haast Region is a UNESCO World Heritage Area known for its beaches, dunes, lakes, and wetlands that support the habitat of many native New Zealand species
  • Drive time: 2 hours

Week Two – Coming soon!

• Haast > Wanaka
  • Ahh, Wanaka. Queenstown’s younger, hipper sister.
  • Drive time: 1.5 hours
• Wanaka > Queenstown
  • Queenstown is a mountain town in the middle of the south island. It’s stunning scenery and daredevil adventure opportunities make it one of the country’s most popular tourist destinations.
  • Drive time: 1.5 hours
• Queenstown – two nights
  • Stayed in an RV park so we could hang out with our friends for a few days
• Queenstown > Te’anu
  • Te’anu is the Gateway to Milford Sound and home to the famous Te’Anu Glowworm Caves.
  • Drive time: 2 hours. in the wind.
• Te’anu > Milford Sound > Lake Wakatipu at Kingston
  • Lake Wakatipu is the third largest lake in New Zealand, and its water is 99.9% pure
  • Drive time: 4.5 hours
• Lake Wakatipu > Mt. Cook > Lake Pukaki
  • Mt. Cook, or Aoraki in Moari, is the highest mountain in New Zealand, while Lake Pukaki sports a brilliant blue color created by glacial flour
  • Drive time: 4 hours
• Lake Pukaki > Tekapo > Christchurch
  • Tekapo and the surrounding area is a designated dark sky reserve and is home to St. John’s Observatory
  • Drive time: 5 Hours

The “One”

Once we have our dates, it’s time to make the most important decision of the trip: transportation.

As you can imagine, van rentals in New Zealand range from converted station wagons to luxury RVs. In our budget, which, as usual, is cheap, but not sketchy (I’d make a great financial advisor, don’t you think?), our options seem slim.

There are basically two categories of camper vans: self-contained and non-self contained. Self-contained means that the van is equipped with ways to store freshwater and to properly manage waste, including black and grey water (toilet and sink) systems. A self-contained certification means you are allowed to freedom camp, for free, anywhere in the country, unless it’s explicitly posted that it isn’t allowed.

Non-self-contained is pretty much any other type of vehicle. Unless you’re self-contained, you are required to park and sleep at designated camping sites with facilities, which you have to pay for. Prices range anywhere from $8/person per night for a government-run, bare-bones campground to $30/person per night for full RV parks with kitchens, showers, common rooms, laundry, and playgrounds.

We decide that a self-contained van, even though they’re more expensive to rent, will allow us the freedom we need on our loose itinerary. I scour every site I can for reviews and documented experiences with a few of the cheaper self-contained van companies, and I end up reading one of many reviews like this one I made up from a Aussie backpacker bro:

Me and my mates picked up the van and all was bonza. First time we make a downhill, the bloody brakes go out. We fly outta control at top speed (45 kph) and we’re all packing darkies, ready to bail when my mate Jack sticks his foot out the van door uses his feet to slow us down (in thongs no less). Me and my mates nearly died, deadset. No one answered the phone when we called to try to get our dollerydoos back. It was the shits but we picked up a slab from the servo and now I got quite the story to pick up girls at parties. Cheers CheapCamperVans.com!

Aussie Backpacker Bro

At about the time I’ve come to terms that we can’t afford a self-contained rental, I come across a site called Mighway. This website offers peer-to-peer van rental, similar to Airbnb, where people list their own outfitted vans for other people to rent. The prices were in our budget and renting a van directly from the person who put the time and effort into outfitting it and most likely uses it themselves makes me feel a little less uneasy that we’ll end up out of money and writing a review like the Aussie bros.

And, well, just like that, we get confirmation that we’ve rented a white Toyota Hiace name Moana from a guy named Roy.

The preparation

We time our flight from Melbourne to Christchurch to arrive in the early afternoon, and I book an Airbnb to stay in the night before we’re scheduled to pick up Moana. The apartment has a washing machine and a full kitchen, which we take advantage of to get all our laundry done and prepare some basic food meals. We put together and freeze breakfast burritos, chop and bag veggies, and cook, shred and freeze chicken breasts, and while all this is happening, we take advantage of the fast wifi to download playlists, maps, apps, books, and podcasts.

In the apartment’s living room, there’s a bookshelf full of fiction novels and Lonely Planet guidebooks. Since I have also reserved this same apartment for the night we come back to Christchurch when we return the van in two weeks, I decide it’s okay to borrow a novel and two of the guides to New Zealand’s South Island.

We meet Moana (and Roy)

The next morning, Roy has agreed to drive Moana to our Airbnb so he can drive us back to his house to take care of the administrative stuff.

“Kia ora,” he says with a wave. Hello. We greet one another and he helps load the bags in the back of Moana.

Roy is a tall, burly man with dark, curly hair pulled back into a ponytail. He is chatty, but speaks slowly and softly, his words drawling along with a thick Kiwi accent. His demeanor is warm, carefree, and casual.

Once we’re all packed, he pulls out of the side streets and on to a boulevard toward his home.

Roy passes the time on the drive to his house by chatting with us about the non-profit he manages. It’s a church-based organization called The Crossover Trust, whose mission is “growing resilient children and youth of character” through “thriving woven communities.” The organization rents a few outfitted, self-contained camper vans to raise funds. One-hundred percent of the rental cost of the vans goes directly to Roy’s non-profit.

We arrive at Roy’s home in about 20 minutes, a modest brick ranch located in a cul-de-sac. I look around at the house and yard. It’s not so different than a household at home. In addition to Moana, two other vans sit in the long driveway and Roy tells us he’s working to outfit those for Crossover, too.

He turns off the engine and waits for a beat before he asks us if we want coffee or there’s anything he can get for us while he arranges the paperwork. I had already made coffee before we left the Airbnb, so I politely decline and we attempt to match Roy’s energy by exiting the van slowly and wait for him to start the orientation.

Roy ambles around the van. Along the way, he points to things and asks if we know how to do this, or are familiar with that. Thing is, I start to panic because one, I pretty much know nothing about maintaining a camper van, and two, I’m only understanding about a third of the things that are coming out of Roy’s mouth.

“Here’s how you secure the chilly bin.” WTF is a chilly bin. “As you make your way up North, just watch for *tone drop, mumble mumble* it’s usually heaps crowded.” Wait, watch for what? “Oh right, yeah-nah it’s sweet as.” Sweet as what? It, apparently. They never say. They just end it with as. And it describes something that’s cool.

I ask for clarification and joke nervously, something about how we’ll try our best. Now normally at home this is a social queue that I need more explanation. What I get from Roy is “just keep her on the left side of the road and she’ll be right” and that’s about all.

As we’re finishing up the tour, the screen door opens and Roy’s wife and daughter walk out onto the front step. His daughter looks to be about eight. She’s wearing a neat school uniform. Roy introduces them and she smiles shyly and leans into her mom’s legs.

“We’re off to school. There’s a Hāngi tonight to raise funds so Roy’s been prepping that since yesterday,” his wife tells us. She explains that a Hāngi is a traditional Māori (Māori are the indigenous people of New Zealand) “cookout” where people place baskets of food are on hot stones in the bottom of a hand-dug hole. They cover the hole with a wet cloth and a mound of dirt and leave it for many hours to cook. Then, when it’s ready, they dig it up and feast.

I would have loved to be a part of this local cultural event, but we have the keys, a cooler (or should we say chilly bin) full of food, and a full tank of gas. It’s time for us (Stephen) to get behind that wheel and (very cautiously) hit the open road.

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Alright, now that you know Moana and what we’re working with, let’s get back on the road.

To the North! Not all the way to the wall, just to Kaikoura

With Stephen at the wheel, I cautiously navigate us out of the city. It is a two and a half hour drive to our first destination. As Stephen started to get comfortable, I pick up Borrowed Lonely Planet book to learn about Kaikoura.

Kaikoura is a stunning ocean town of just under 4,000 residents. Surrounded on three sides by mountains and one side by the ocean, it’s home to the Kaikoura Canyon, a deep underwater trench with currents that result in an abundance of sea life close to the shore, including whales, dolphins, and fur seals.

Before we leave, Roy tells us that most of our driving will be done on two-lane highways and he encourages us to use the pullouts designed for slower vehicles to pull over and let cars pass.

We take our time and when we arrive in Kaikoura, I direct Stephen to a lookout just outside of town. We take a minute to shake out the tension that’s built up during the unfamiliar driving. The scenery is stunning and it finally starts to sink in what we’re about to immerse ourselves in for the next two weeks.

We make a quick lunch and decide we’re ready to go explore, so we head down to browse the main street shops of this chill little beach town.

As I’m flipping through a rack of clothes, pretending I’m cool enough to be shopping at a New Zealand surf shop, the store girl approaches me.

“How ya going?” She asks. We exchange a few words and she asks where I’m from. I tell her I’m from the US, and when she asks how long I’ve been in New Zealand, I tell her we just arrived the day before. And then…this exchange happens:

“Yesterday? Ah, you must be neked,” she says.

“Sorry, what?” Did she just ask if I was naked?

“Neked – you must be neked,” she repeats.

“What? Naked?”

“No, knackered! I mean like tired,” she laughs.

Ohhhh knackered. “Oh! Tired – yes, we’re a little tired but excited to be here.”

I’m not joking even a little. I seriously thought she asked if I was naked. No, it didn’t make any sense.

Still laughing at the language barrier, we’re ready for happy hour, so we stop at a low-key bar to have a snack and a beer, but not before I buy a mood ring to replace Stephen’s wedding ring, which he lost in the Philippines. We wrap up our afternoon by taking a walk along the beach, which stretches for more than 4 kilometers from the town to the Kaikoura seal colony. It’s composed of flat, black pebbles that make a sound like a rain stick when the waves crash and the water pulls back through them to the ocean. It’s one of the most unique things I’ve ever seen.

Evening is approaching, and we need to find a place to sleep tonight. I pull up Campermate and find a lot for freedom campers just outside of town, but when we drive by around 4:30 pm, it already has a crowd. We drive back to the lookout lot and search again for signs that forbid overnight camping. We can’t find any, so we decide this is where we’ll spend our first night.

I spend a good portion of the night waiting for a knock on the window to tell us we’ve broken the rules, but, no knock comes, and we wake up mostly rested to a beautiful view of the Tasman Sea. We have breakfast and take a short walk before we start to pack up the van, secure everything, and continue north to our next destination – the wine region of Marlborough.

Marlborough; or WINE WINE WINE!

I am so excited for our day in Marlborough. Marlborough is New Zealand’s leading wine region and is famous for its Savinougn Blancs, of which I am quite a fan. There are more than 100 wineries in the area, so for maximum efficiency, Megan and Josh recommend hitting up as many of the cellars rooms along the Golden Mile Wine Trail as possible via bike.

First things first – ditch the van. I find a place to stay the night in the parking lot the Woodbourne Tavern and Motel in Renwick. Unfortunately, by the time we get there and have our obligatory Tavern meal (which is what they ask in exchange for lodging), it’s nearly 1 pm. Most of the tasting rooms close at 4:00 pm so instead of wasting precious time, we determine 1. that there are enough wineries within walking distance and 2. that we can’t spare another minute, so we pocket the $60 we’d have spent on bikes and hoof it to the first tasting room.

Forrest Estate Wines

We stroll (speedwalk–clock’s ticking) the paved path of the Golden Mile through the endless vineyards until we reach Forrest Estate Wines, which is the closest winery to the motel. A shady lawn strewn with low tables and bean bags enhances the cellar door (tasting room) and sets a wine vibe. And, well, there’s a vineyard dog. Eeek! We enthusiastically line up for our first tastings.

We taste, purchase a glass, and take our crisp Sav Blancs outside to enjoy the relaxed atmosphere of the lawn (and the dog).

Framingham Wines

There is no time to spare, and so we’re off to our second winery on our route. Its name is Framingham Wines and it’s charming, of course. More tastings, more Sav Blanc, more lawn lounging.

Wairau River Wines

Alright folks, time is ticking and cellar doors are closing. As we hit the pavement our hopes are high and our buzz is slight.

It’s close, but we safely make the last tasting at Wairau River Wines. The ladies behind the bar pour generously and chat with us as they bustle around finishing up for the day. They tell us that this area has suffered from a terrible drought this summer and explain how that will impact the wines produced that fall.

Since it’s our last cellar door, we buy a glass AND a bottle and wander to my favorite outdoor space of the day. It’s right next to the grapevines with shaded picnic tables, bocci ball, an art garden, and unobstructed views of the mountains that are unbelievable.

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Sadly, the cellar doors are closing. We leave the magic of the Golden Mile and buy a bottle of wine for the back to our van in the parking lot of the motel. Can’t be getting too soft.

We finally shower!

It’s a Sunday morning and we wake in the motel parking lot to rain. Over a breakfast of instant coffee and van burritos, I open up Campermate and find free public showers available at a city rec building just down the road.

When we get to the rec center, the lot is nearly empty. We park the van and I volunteer (read: lose Paper, Rock, Scissors) myself to figure this out. I grab my toiletry bag and case the concrete building. The outdoor restrooms are open, but I scour them and don’t find any showers. I pull out my phone to read the description again and it specifically says it’s open on Sundays and to use the locker rooms. Every other door on the ground level is locked, so I climb the metal stairs to the second level. The walls and windows are glass and overlook the rugby pitch.

I peer in and recognize the space as something like a city council meeting room. There has got to be an office in here. I try the handle and voila! It twists without protest. I pull the door open and cautiously stick my head in.

“Hel-” WHA, WHA, WHA. A blaring, wailing of an alarm permeates the space. I shut the door and hustle down the stairs to the van.

I jump in the passenger’s seat. “STEPHEN!!!” Should I call the emergency number and tell them the situation before they get here, arrest me, and extradite me back home? Should we just…drive away? Have they got cameras with our license plate? Are they going to call Roy?

Out of analysis paralysis, I end up just sitting there and will with all my might for the alarm to stop. But it doesn’t. It continues to resound across the barren parking lot for about five minutes. And finally, a car. The police? No, it’s more like what’d I’d call the Kiwi equivalent of a Geo Metro. If a car could be annoyed, this one was. To my surprise, it doesn’t even brake tap as it tears right past us and speeds toward the building. The Kiwi Metro slows just enough to begin a U-turn, pauses for a beat. WAH, WAH, WA– the alarm stops. I hold my breath as the car whips around and with a squeal, speeds past Moana, and whines out of the parking lot.

Either Kiwi cops are chill AF or this happens routinely enough for them to have a remote that control the alarm from the car.

Relieved and mortified, and a little less confident in Campermate, I locate another public shower in Nelson, which is about an hour into today’s drive. This one turns out to be official and we bought three minutes of hot water for $4.

The Abel Tasman tramp

While we spend the next few hours walking around the shops in Nelson, we think about where to go. We’ve knocked two places off our list, and until we’ve agreed to meet friends in Queenstown in a week, we kind of have an open itinerary. We can head straight to the west coast, or take a small detour and spend a day hiking at Abel Tasman National Park.

The logistics are pretty simple. The 60-kilometer coastal trek spans the length of the wildness reserve and can be split into sections that equate to a 3-5 day hike if you do it straight through. By the way, they don’t call it hiking in New Zealand. They call it tramping. Which turns out was also the name of my hobby in high school. Sorry, cheap comedy.

Although Campmate has betrayed me once, I just can’t shake that girl and I open her up again, but this time, I cross-reference Borrowed Lonely Planet. The information boils down to parking at the southern trailhead in Marahau, do a half-day hike to the first campground, and then hire a water taxi back to the trailhead.

After a short one-ish hour drive, Campermate leads us down a steep gravel road that opens into a beautiful meadow. It’s functioning as both a campervan park and a sheep farm. It’s just a few miles from Marahau and costs us $20/night by way of a self-payment box.

Though there’s plenty of spots, we feel a little close to our neighbors…which are a flock of freshly shorn sheep. V New Zealand.

Well, let’s get to tramping

The next morning we park in a lot at the trailhead in Marahau. We secure the van, hide valuables, double-check supplies, and start tramping.

The coastal track is a well-maintained gravel path that steadily rolls up and down with the slopes of the landscape. Occasionally we come across smaller trails that intersect the main path and lead to down to the beach. The views are fabulous and we take our time to enjoy and scenery. I also directed a short film, which I plan to enter into Sundance this year:

Twelve kilometers later, our hike finishes at a camp called Anchorage. This is where we’ve been told water taxis come on a regular schedule to pick up hikers and take them back to Marahau. We wait for a while and see a few boats come and go, but they’re all tour groups. When we finally talk to someone official-looking, he tells us that at this time of the year, they pretty much only pick up on reservations, and if we need one, we should call soon. Most of them finish running around this time. There is no service, but the bunkhouse has spotty wifi, and by the grace of some rare New Zealand bird, Stephen gets our names in for the last two spots on the last taxi of the day.

Though it wasn’t as terrifying as the ferry ride in Thailand, it was a rough enough 15 minutes for me to become intimate with the oh-shit handle. We get to the shore at Marahau and I start to gather my things, but when I look up, we aren’t docking. The captain drives the boat straight up the boat ramp and onto a trailer that’s attached to a tractor. Then, without missing a beat, the tractor pulls us all the way out of the water and straight to the taxi rental shop, where we walk five minutes back to Moana. Alright then!

The West Coast; or how to you find a place to sleep, and our first scolding

Of all the things to worry about, freedom camping is the thing that gives me the most anxiety. I’m a rule follower, pretty straight up. I read as much as I could about freedom camping, which amounts to this:

• You don’t have to sleep in a designated camping area if your van is certified self-contained, but there was a lot of chatter on the internet that many camper vans will have a self-contained sticker, but aren’t TRULY self-contained. If you get caught freedom camping without the proper setup, there’s a fine. And a fine is something that would put a major damper on our budget, no matter how small the fee.
• Freedom camping is allowed everywhere in New Zealand unless there are signs posted that prohibit it. Or if someone wrote a review in the app that said there weren’t signs posted, but they were asked to leave anyway. Where are these signs posted? How many feet between signs? Basically I’m convinced that we’ll be woken up with a flashlight and a tap on the window, asking us to move along.
• There are lots of government-run lots that are specific for CSC vans. Sometimes they have a port-a-potty but other times they have nothing. The challenge, however, is that these lots will fill up. So you’ll plan to end your day’s drive in one of these lots to ensure you’ve parked in a place without issue, but when you arrive, there are no spots left. Then what??What’s the backup plan then, STEPHEN? Alright alright these always make me anxious, okay?

So after our Abel Tasman tramp, it’s time to get more serious about how we’re going to handle freedom camping. When I say we don’t have a plan, I don’t mean we haven’t decided if we’ll sleep at the Motor Inn or the KOA, I mean we don’t even know what direction we should turn when we leave Abel.

When we still can’t land on something, we just drive west until it gets dark.

We gape at the scenery and talk through our options for where to sleep, and we both agree and reassure ourselves (me) that we could really stop anywhere if we want to. I try to be confident and point out a few places along the road, but I’m still unsure about the rules. There’s a fence line there, does that mean this is private property? What about this pull off? Is it far enough off the road to be safe? All in all, I’m a chicken, and we decide to keep driving until we make it to a designated freedom camping lot, located just past the location where the highway turns south along the west coast.

It’s close to sunset, and when we pull into the lot and it’s clear right away that the place is full. I see two dozen camper vans parked haphazardly in the grassy field. Okay, guys, had we all parked a little more diligently, we should have had room.

Each pair of van custodians scurry in the waning light, claiming out their procured property with camping chairs, cooking stoves, and damp laundry. They freeze in their tracks when our headlights sweep past and stare us down with beady eyes, like little packrats making claim to loot. We continue to creep through the lot in hopeful anticipation there is at least one remaining space that Moana can squeeze into.

The following story is a figment of my imagination. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

“Lot’s full,” I hear one of them say (in my head) through clenched teeth. His hand emerges from behind his back holding a bat and he thumps it against his open palm. Other rats begin to gather behind him and puff out their chests. “Yeah, find your own place to sleep,” his skinny girlfriend hisses from behind a curtain of stringy hair.

Yikes! Let’s get out of here. They continue to stare and hiss while we maneuver the five, six or seven-point turn required to avoid their extremely unimpressive parking jobs. We slowly drive out of the lot, scared and defeated.

Luckily, my plan B was a well-worn pullout I made note of less than a mile back on the ocean side of the highway. We pull in, just in time for the tail end of the sunset.

The next morning, Stephen takes a walk back to the camper van lot to use the toilets (recall the no dumping rule?) In the meantime, I heat up breakfast, sip my instant coffee, and pack up for the day’s drive.

As I’m packing away the kitchen utensils, I see a pickup park in front of us and a hippie with dreadlocks get out of the driver’s seat. He walks over, surveying the van, and then he KNOCKS ON THE VAN DOOR. My stomach drops and I wait for a beat before I slide the door open.

“How ya going,” he asks. I tell him I’m fine, and ask if there’s something I can help him with. He asked me if we had camped overnight in that spot, and I answer yes, we had.

“Well you must have got in right after I did my last patrol,” he responds. I explain that we did go to the free lot down the road first, but it was full (of greedy rats), so we checked for signs, and when we didn’t see any, we chose a well-marked pull-off near the off the road to stay for the night.

“Well,” he says, “yes there aren’t signs, but across the highway is private land, and we don’t really like for freedom campers to park in this township.” He explains that they run into lots of issues with people who leave trash, and though it’s not posted, they discourage it by doing a round at sunset.

I tell him we hadn’t known, and that we’ll be leaving as soon as my husband returns from the bathrooms. He says not to worry, waves goodbye, and leaves.

And there it was. It happened: my first freedom camping scolding. It wasn’t so bad. And it was by the Kiwi equivalent of a mall cop. Meh ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Ross, NZ; or, Ban 1080, just how lucrative is prospecting in the 21st century?, and a predator-free New Zealand by 2050

Since we left Nelson and our trip advances toward the western part of the south island, the landscape changes dramatically from one kilometer to the next. There are Jurassic Park-level trees and ferns, dripping in shades of emerald, hunter green, and chartreuse. When the steep, winding, two-lane highway takes us down from the mountains and opens up to the valleys, farmsteads and sheep dot the wide, flat expansive of land.

I pay attention to the signs and note the handful of postings for freedom camping–both and prohibited and allowed. I see the occasional private property signs at the bottom of driveways, as well as a few political yard signs, but there’s one message that I see pop up more frequently the further west we drive. After a few instances, I finally can make out the words. The messages vary but the point is clear. They all say Ban 1080.

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We continue our drive which winds along coast. I keep my eyes peeled toward the Tasman Sea, on the lookout for penguins and sea lions. Borrowed Lonely Planet piques my interest around a small town on the route called Ross. Ross is a relic of a bygone era from the New Zealand gold rush, and they offer tourists the chance to strike it rich by way of a good old fashioned gold pan. We arrive at the visitor’s center in just enough time for them to tell us they are closed for the day. I’m super bummed about this, but, there is beauty in living in a van and being a raging gambling addict– we can just stay the night and prospect tomorrow!

From the parking lot of the visitor’s center, I check Campermate and Borrowed Lonely Planet. There is, in fact, a place–literally, just one place– to park overnight. It’s in the gravel parking lot of the Empire Hotel.

It’s a relic of the bygone gold mining era. We pay $10 each and have use of shower and bathroom facilities and a gravel lot to park the van. Once we park and settle in, we walk over to check out the bar and mingle with the locals.

Inside it’s dark and typical dive-bar decor covers the walls. Blue-collar men in short shorts and wellies hold pints of beer and chat in groups of two or three. We take two seats at the bar and order beers from the weathered but cheerful bartender. She serves us our drinks with a smile and leans over to chat with a man sitting alone nearby. His face is friendly and well, also weathered. His grey mustache hides his mouth but his eyes have a sparkle when he talks and his laugh is deep and booming.

Little by little, they bring us into the conversation. We learn that the man sitting at the bar used to be the owner, but he had to sell the place when his wife got sick with cancer. Also, the Empire Hotel was once home to a famous pool-playing cat who was featured in a full-page tabloid.

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We order our second round and I remember the signs I saw on the drive in.

“Hey I have a question. What do those 1080 signs posted around down here mean?”

The man glances toward the bartender and back to me. He begins to explain.

New Zealand has many native species of birds, insects, lizards, frogs, and marine mammals, but its only native land mammals are bats. Because there are no native land predators, New Zealand has a vast population of birds, many of which never evolved traits to protect themselves…like flight. Or any desire to mate. It’s actually super fascinating how animals that have never had to defend themselves have evolved into absolutely helpless creatures.

Anyway, In the late 1800s, Australian traders introduced mammal species into New Zealand for a variety of reasons. Possums were intended to create a fur trade. Stoats (similar to a weasel) were introduced to control rabbits, which are also an invasive mammal. As you can imagine, these mammals had a devastating impact on the native wildlife of New Zealand. They’ve depleted native plants, and have pushed many bird species to near extinction, including their beloved kiwi bird.

In a desperate effort to reverse the damage and save the birds, the New Zealand Department of Conservation has committed to eradicate the invasive species of stoats, possums, and rats by 2050. As in, completely rid the country of the entire population of three invasive mammals.

The methods of eradication include trapping, bait stations, and aerial poisoning. The aerial poison that is used in the more rural areas where trapping is difficult is called 1080.

“So not only do the possum kill the birds,” he continues in what I decide is what a thick, kiwi drawl sounds like, “they also carry tuberculosis and spread it to our cattle. Which then we have to eradicate the whole herd. So a lot of us don’t see another way except to use the 1080.”

At this point the bartender chimes in from down the bar.

“Nah, that’s bullshit I’d say. I’ve lost two dogs to the stuff, nasty stuff.”

“That’s right though, dogs don’t typically get into it but they’ll catch a live critter or eat a dead one that’s been poisoned and that’s what will get them,” he explains.

We discuss the situation for a while longer before Stephen and I retreat to our home on wheels to make dinner.

This situation remains on my mind, and I realized I’ve seen evidence all along our road trip, including traps and bait stations along the trail at Abel Tasman National Park and brochures at many tourist information centers. Hearing the issue straight from the people it impacts is once again a reminder of what the true meaning of this trip is for me.

I’m a prospector! (Spoiler…I’m not very good.)

I’m up bright and early to make my instant coffee because the this morning is get rich day!!! I get out of the van at the visitor center and speedwalk to the door, $10 clutched in my outstretched hand, ready for my rental.

Be cool. “So, ah, what’s the odds out there? Any gold left? Anyone ever find any?”

“Oh yeah,” says the visitor center guide. “Loads of people. I had a Dutch couple up last summer who stayed for two weeks. Ended up finding enough gold to make a ring.”

Egggcelent. We gather our gear and our raincoats and start to hike through the woods along the stream, stopping every so often so I can feel the vibe. I finally find a clearing that I’m ~drawn~ to and spend the next few hours sifting through pebbles and silt.

Damn. Nothing. Okay this one’s the one. Scoop. Shake, shake, shake…Damn. Nothing. Okay this next one’s the one.

In the end, we each add a small fleck of gold to our collection tubes and take them back down to the visitor center, my eyes glinting with greed.

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I run into the office holding out my vile, beaming.

“Gold, right?”

“Let’s see here. Ah, yeah, nope, fools gold,”

WHAT.

“Don’t worry,” he goes on. “I’d say round 99% of people don’t find any either.” To be honest, I’d feel a little swindled if it hadn’t been so much fun.

The Pancake Rocks and knife making

In addition to the adventures I’ve shared above, our time on the West Coast included a few other notable things.

We pull off the highway one morning to see a natural rock formation called Pancake Rocks. The site is a self-guided, roundtrip path along the high cliffs of the coast. Informational signs along the way explain the rich geographical history of the area and how the rocks formed. It also provides us a chance to interact with more locals and see interesting Kiwi things, like an old refrigerator, turned into a leave one, take one little library.

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Duo glaciārium; or, two glaciers

The south island has two famous glaciers called Franz Josef and Fox Glacier. They’re only about 20 kilometers apart, so we think we’ll be able to visit them both on the same day. Franz Josef is the first stop, and we pull into Franz Josef village, where we stay the night before making our way to the glacier hiking trails the next morning. This time we rent a spot in a proper RV park and I’ll save you the story, but we are nearly tricked into paying $90 to sit in a hot tub. Turns out, with a little bit of marketing language, calling something Hot Springs implies that they are Natural Hot Springs. No. They were just hot tubs. And you had to make reservations. And I think they were inside.

Anyway, we’re not really sure what one must do to experience a glacier. Of course, there are many fantastic, incredible official tours to take in Franz Joseph to go hike, touch, and I don’t know, maybe taste the glacier (kidding)? Most of them include a helicopter ride where you do wondrous sightseeing from above, or for the adventurous, land on the glacier and then participating in a glacier walk. All of these options are well out of our budget, so we opt for the free, get-as-close-as-you-can-via-trail option.

The Franz Joseph trail leads us parallel to the glacial fields of great big white and grey rocks, where it winds up and around the glacier’s ancient path. Informational signs along the way educate us about how glaciers work and identify the point in the landscape where the glacial terminus, or endpoint, was located during various years of the last couple century.

The glacial fields are so stunning to me. I hurt my brain trying to grasp that these rocks have been shaped and smoothed by water over thousands of years just to be placed in the very spot where it lies in front of me. It’s mind-bending and peaceful and existential and wild.

After a few hours of soaking it all in, we return to the van to see how far we can make it on our way to a town that I’m definitely not cool enough to live in and barely cool enough to visit–Wanaka.

The trail to Franz Josef is open and safe enough for us to get pretty close to the terminus, but most of the Fox Glacier trails are closed due to unstable conditions. There were signs all along both trails warning visitors to stay on the path and use extreme caution because even though it seems motionless, the glaciers are always advancing or retreating, causing the ice of the glacier to be unstable and unpredictable. To make their point, staff post articles detailing the death of two Australian tourists who were buried and crushed by falling ice in 2009 when they crossed the safety barriers to get closer to the terminus of Fox Glacier.

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The way to Wanaka, but first, whitefish, possom socks & a $10,000 reward

There are not many towns between Fox Glacier and Wanaka, and we make it as far as Haast before we realize we’ll need to stay the night. It’s a town of about 240 people, and a glance through the options on Campermate tells me there are a few camping options, including freedom camping. I’m a little skittish and the freedom camping information isn’t totally clear, so I decide we’ll drop into the visitor’s center to ask for some advice.

Here, we learn a couple of things:

1. When I ask about freedom camping, the lady at the desk asks me what our van setup is. I start to tell her, and she interrupts me and says there’s no way it’s certified to be self-contained. I tell her that the owner says it is, and we have verification in the form of a permit sticker in the window.
   
   She interrupts me again and says that people “say” they’re certified all the time but don’t truly meet the requirements, and that there is no way the van I described meets the requirements. Um, okay. She proceeds to tell us we’ll need to drive and stay at the campground with facilities a few miles down the road. Okkay then.
   
2. There’s a sign posted on the community bulletin board that offers a reward of $10,000 if you can provide evidence that certain bird species are not completely extinct. We take this pretty seriously and imagine how long our trip can be extended if we can claim the reward. Stephen snaps a photo for safe keeping.
   
3. We learn that this area is famous for its whitefish sandwiches, so we make a note to try one.

When we arrive at the RV campground, we set up the van and settle in. We decide we’re going to treat ourselves and try to find a whitefish sandwich. There’s only one restaurant that’s open for dinner, so it’s not hard to pick.

On the walk to the restaurant, we stop at a local shop to browse. They have lots of sweaters, scarves, and socks made from a unique blend of fabric – 50% Merino Wool and 50% Possum Fur. Um, gross, right? Actually, possum fur is made of fine, hollow strands, the design of which lends itself to excellent insulation qualities. It’s also quite expensive, but I find a pair that’s on sale. As I walk to the register to pay I try to mentally separate the New Zealand possum from the North American opossum.

We arrive at the restaurant, a bar and grill called The Hard Antler. Hunting trophies and gear fill the walls. On the menu, we easily find it: The Legendary Whitefish Burger. We both order beers to sip while we anxiously wait to taste this legendary fish sandwich.

Well, it arrives. And it’s not….a fish sandwich. It’s a sandwich made out of small fishes. Tiny little fish, smooshed together in a patty. And served on Wonderbread©.

Week one is a wrap

We have a restful night and it’s getting colder, so I wear my possum socks to bed. The next morning we wake to an important milestone of the trip – it marks our second week on the road. This means seven full days of driving on the other side of the road (Stephen), camping, tramping, and attempting at least two get rich quick plans.

But wait, there’s more! Another whole week of tales of the trail to share, so stay tuned for New Zealand South Island, Week 2.