*The nickname of Otago students garnered from the blue and gold scarves worn by students during the winter months in support of the local rugby team, and popularized by a film created in the 90’s that was set in Dunedin.

To sweat, sweet and
salty stagnant pools.
Flowing over every bruise;
Overflowing every cut.
Stinging.

To the sun above my head,
and the mountain
below my feet.

~S.M.F.

I’ve just returned from my last tramp in New Zealand. After our adventures on Stewart Island, JC and I decided we wanted to try exploring some of New Zealand’s true back country. We chose the Eyre Mountains-a series of peaks that even most native New Zealanders have never heard of. I’ve included some of my journal entries from the trip.

Day 3:

Mother nature thwarted our ascent of the Eyre Peaks. Awake and out the door by 9 am, I had visions of arriving at a crystal mountain lake by late afternoon and spending the evening lounging in the rays of the setting sun. The sun did not shine though. Clouds had settled on the high peaks and a mist whipped through the valley and ridges above.

JC and I set off through the field just out of sight from the hut. At the end of the field, which is filled with knee to chest high tussock grasses and divericate shrubs, we leaped across a cool, clear mountain stream and ventured into the bush.

The ascent was rapid—lifting our bodies and full packs over the lumps of ferns and rotting trees. At one point I thought I was bluffed in by a shear, 15 ft moss covered ledge, until I realized that by digging my fingers into the wrist deep moss, I could hoist my body and pack weight over the ledge. Progress continued.

Soon we were out of the tree-filled bush and in sight of the ridge. A scramble ensued, as I pulled myself up the ever-steepening slope with the help of handfuls of tussock grass. With a face full of wind swept mist, I reached the top of the ridge.

I was surrounded by mountains. 400 ft waterfalls crashed down distant slopes—white scars on black rock. Snow speckled some of the slopes, but for the most part, the mountains were made of tussock and rock.

We looked ahead at the ridge. It appeared easy-going at first until we noticed the sudden sharp incline that led to the top of a 1400 meter peak. On the map it looked passable, but from our vantage, it made us nervous. We continued anyways, being careful to stay clear of the clumps of aloe-looking plants that had sharp ends that could poke through even the tough fabric of my gators.

We reached the sketchy area of the climb where a slab of fallen grass and bush left a brown scar on the slope. We determined that it was safe to continue, and we made our way to the top. The weather was beginning to turn on us and the boots we had spent the entire previous evening drying in preparation for the day were now completely drenched.

Once on top, we stopped in our tracks. Gray clouds sopped us in and the ridge we were planning on taking to the Eyre peaks was a jagged backbone of wet, gray rock.

“I don’t think its smart to continue,” JC said.

I looked at him for a moment, then looked again at the mountains. I knew he was right, but a part of me wanted to continue, to test my will and endurance against the elements. There is something about the wildness and unpredictability of the mountains that places me in a trance and clouds my judgment on what I can and cannot accomplish. When I am thwarted, I become disappointed, which is strange since often turning around is the best and smartest decision. I should be relieved that I lived to see another day, and another more beautiful mountain. But I’m not because I’m left wondering if I ever could have succeeded. And this is the worst feeling yet. Wondering, maybe even knowing deep down inside that you were fully capable of climbing higher and achieving more than anyone ever thought possible.

We descended relatively quickly and are now back in the Upper Cromel Hut. A fire is drying our boots. I’ve finished “Into Thin Air” by John Krakauer. Dinner is almost ready.

Day 5:

A wonderfully adventurous day. I awoke to my alarm at 2:26 am. I got out of bed, put on my boots and gators and was out the door by 3:10 to race the sun to the top of a 1536 meter peak. No trail as our guide, just our headlamps and the faint, starlit contour of the ridge. JC and I were off, making steady progress up the steep slope of tussock and other low-lying shrubs. Pretty soon we crested the ridge and could see the dark outline of the peak above. Our pace quickened as we walked steadily over old rock slides. Soon we were about 50 meters from the top, but a rock field stretched before us. Breathing deeply, I led the way, making sure the loose rock did not hit JC behind.

We scrambled up the rock and soon were at the top looking at the snow streaked mountains to the north and the flat, foggy outline of the ocean to the south. It wasn’t even five yet, so we sat and waited. Almost two hours passed and the sun appeared from two directions, or so we thought. Wispy clouds made the sky into an intricate tapestry of blues and grays. An orange band separated earth and sky, but the sun never appeared. Too much cloud cover. At 6:45 am we headed down the mountain, now at a much faster pace with the aid of natural light. By 8 we were back at the Irthing Hut. I ate a quick breakfast and went straight back to bed. Sleep was restless but needed.

At 12:30 I arose again and spent some time hanging around the hut. Restless by late afternoon, JC and I left the hut again for another exploration. This time of a distant waterfall we spotted while hiking down from the ridge. From above, the fall did not appear too far away. But we soon realized we were in for a long afternoon of bushwhacking.

My knees now feel like minced meat due to countless stabbing they endured from “surfing” over the bush. My gators weren’t enough to protect my thighs from the sharp twigs and spines of the variety of menacing plants. The waterfall was interesting, but not the most spectacular of those we have seen so far on our explorations. It felt good to return and take a quick dip in the river. The fire is roaring now. The sun is shining. I just ate a delicious dinner of pasta, potatoes and gravy. Overall, a brilliant day.

“At times I wondered if I had not come a long way only to find that what I really sought was something I had left behind.” Thomas F. Horbein

Day 5: What makes a man decide he can attempt to defy mother nature? This is a question I kept asking myself on the trail today as I slipped through knee deep mud and was bombarded by stinging sand from gale force winds blowing across the dunes behind West Ruggedy Beach. I can’t say that I have the answer yet. Maybe by the end of this maddening journey. At one point today I did feel as though I were going crazy–screaming and singing through the soggy woods. No one was around except for JC and I, so does that really make me crazy? I needed something to make the time go by. I was getting a little bored with the rain and the howling wind. Can you dig it? I can’t hear you. MUD is making me a rambling fool, but that’s cool. You just sit on your stool and remark on my crazy lazy ways. I just want to go out and DIG the mud. I can’t hear you. That’s enough. Mt. Hellfire hut is small and there are a lot of dead flies. A strange teddy bear sits by the roaring fire. Call me crazy. Yes, call me crazy.

Day 9: Day of silence on the trail. Longest day too. Restless sleep. I woke up and saw that there was a full moon shining with a ghostly halo. A mist hung over the swamps surrounding the Rakehua Hut. Spider webs glowed in the morning sun. So delicate and intricate and deadly I guess. Three hours and forty-five minutes to Fred’s Camp when DOC suggests five hours. A short lunch at the hut. The Sand Flies were horrendous. Trail was like a roller coaster. Up and down, never stopping. I just kept going. Not another soul on the trail. It followed the bay. Good time to think, although my mind raced and wandered and didn’t really settle on one coherent thought. Swampland! Can’t go around it, got to go through it. Can you dig it! I was reminded of bog hopping. Wet, muddy, and a big smile. Eventually I reached the hut where Nigel and an older couple were waiting for a water taxi. I broke my vow of silence. I Dig Nigel, living his life on Stewart Island. Not sweating the small stuff. He is a crazy nut, but he knows it and he just lives, just lives. I finished “On the Road” and I’m almost done on the trail. The rain is falling hard now. I’m glad we had good weather on the trail. JC arrived forty minutes later. I jumped in the river. Cold.

Day 10: Last full day on the track. Whew! The trail is starting to get to me and I can tell its getting to JC too. We need a good meal. I know I have not consumed enough calories to keep me going for much longer. I’ve lost a step and my confidence is a bit shaken on some of the slippery slopes. Too many falls and close calls in the mud. But we made it to the North Arm Hut completing the NW and S circuits. All that is left is a walk back to town on the Great Walk. What a relief. This trail has been by far the hardest hike I’ve ever done. The huts have been a blessing. I don’t know what I would have done if I had to camp each night. The real challenge has been the mud and the consistently bad weather. I’ve definitely realized that I much prefer hiking peaks rather than long monotonous, grueling tacks. I was up for the challenge when I began and I feel that I have grown in some regards. Paradise comes through the window, which it kind of is doing right now. DIG it. I discovered that I need to pay nature far more respect. I feel that in the past I would begin an adventure with the mindset of conquering her. That’s how I began this trip, and look what happened–she won. I’m battered, confidence shaken. I’m still here, but I’m worn and weathered. And there she is, so beautiful and fierce, ready for anything. To take control, to pound me into submission. To cradle me at times, and to knock me on my ass. She’s unpredictable and that’s why I love her. Mother Earth. Mother Nature. Mother. That’s why she deserves all the respect I can give. DIG it.

Day 11: Ate the best hamburger of my life.

Sound disappeared. Then with the slight pressure of my pointer finger, so did the light. And then I too disappeared. It scared me at first. Complete darkness. Even the movement of my own hand in front of my face would not prompt a reaction from my blinded eyes. My heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird as I noticed the sudden warmth and staleness of the cave. Maybe it was a tomb. Time stopped. I was no longer my own entity, a creature with thoughts and feelings of his own. I became, for a brief moment, part of something more. I felt what Maori call whakapapa—my genealogy weaving together with the earth, my ancestors, with all things. I was darkness; I was earth; I was…

Light flooded the chamber as I placed my finger on the small rubber button of my headlamp. The surprisingly smooth, wet floor reflected the light against the scraggly stalactites descending like teeth from the cave ceiling. My light focused on J.C.’s glazed eyes. His pupils quickly shrank as they were bombarded with white light. “We should probably find the others,” he said. “Before they think we got lost in the depths.”

After taking one last look around the chamber, we crab-walked through the tunnel until we could once again hear the incessant roar of the underground stream we had followed for what seemed like more than a mile into the Luxmore Caves. The formation of the cave began thousands of years ago as glacial runoff methodically pierced its way through the limestone rock that covers much of the peaks around the Kepler track. The cave stretches from a point about half a mile southeast of the Luxmore hut. When we entered the cave we had no idea what to expect. Most of us had explored the Waitomo caves in the North Island as part of our AustraLearn orientation, but that had been with a professional guide. We were novices exploring uncharted territory.

As JC and I came to the fork in the cave where we had initially decided to turn left into the silent chamber we could hear the six other members of our group. They had waited behind a series of tight squeezes that at first glance looked seemingly impossible to get through. When JC and I didn’t return in over 20 minutes, curiosity grabbed hold and they decided to venture forth beyond the tight squeeze that initially caused them to pause. They were surprised to hear how much farther the cave continued to descend into the depths of the earth. We all wondered if we would reach an exit point somewhere down in the fern tree forests bellow if we traveled deeper into the cave. Muddy, wet, and a little disoriented from being in the darkness for over an hour, we all decided it was about time to turn back.

I squinted as my eyes readjusted to the obscure spectacle of the sun. My body ached from the strange movements I had made within the cave. Caving combines rock-climbing, hiking, and military obstacle course-like challenges all mixed into one. But the day was not done. It was only 12 pm when we made it back to the hut. After a quick lunch, a few of us ventured out again.

The plan for staying at the Luxmore Hut for two nights rather than continuing on past and completing the entire loop of the Kepler track was due to the vast amount of exploring we could accomplish in a close vicinity to the hut. Having explored the cave, the next plan of action was to hike Mt. Luxmore, a 4,700 ft peak that loomed over Lake Te Anau.

The trail was easy going at first, but with the top in sight, JC, Tyler and I decided to make a slight detour and head for the top through a steep snowfield. Movement slowed to a crawl as I followed the contour of a rock field near the summit. Loose rock and snow made every step seem twice as difficult as it needed to be. About 50 feet from the top, I came to a rock face that I had no other way around except straight up. Taking a deep breath, and looking back at the steep precipice that fell behind me, I thought, “there’s no going back now.”

In hindsight, free climbing the last stretch to the summit wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but it was exhilarating to feel the relief of making it to the top and looking out over the wide expanses of the Kepler as snow clouds moved quickly towards me. When the rest of the crew made it to the top we spent a brief moment reflecting on the beauty that surrounded us before heading back down to escape the brisk breeze that was beginning to pick up. Sliding some of the way down, we made it back to the hut and good time and decided that we hadn’t had enough exploring for the day. So, we headed off back to the caves to see if we could find the exit.

After another hour and a half of exploring the cave, we eventually made it to the end. There was no exit. The river we followed melted into the wall. Dead end. When we returned to the hut, the fire was roaring, and we decided we had enough exploring for the day. Snow began to fall, and we all fell asleep with thoughts of our adventures.

The woman with the butterscotch hair raised her eyebrow skeptically and forced out a whinny of a laugh.

“Alright,” she said. “But you’re going to need crampons, ice axes, avalanche transceivers, a shovel, and poo pots.”

“Poo pots?”

“Yes, just in case the latrine is completely covered in snow. You’ll have to carry everything down.”

I could tell that she thought the six of us stateside college students were dumber than the glacial rocks that were displayed throughout the Aoraki/Mt. Cook village visitor center.

“We’re only going to be staying in the hut for one night,” I said. “I think we can do without ‘poo pots’ for one night.”

We paid for the hut pass, walked over to the Alpine center to pick up our shovel, ice axes and crampons, and headed on our way to the start of the Mueller hut trail.

It started out as a whim. On Wednesday I approached Laura about escaping the confines of Dunedin for the weekend. I didn’t know where we could go, but I knew I wanted to go for a tramp above tree line, preferably in sight of Mt. Cook, New Zealand’s highest peak. After a few minutes of brainstorming we came up with nothing, so we googled Mt. Cook huts. The first hit: Mueller hut. The description read: “this hut provides a 360-degree panorama encompassing glaciers, ice cliffs, vertical rock faces and New Zealand’s highest peaks. It’s a great site for hearing and viewing ice falls, alpine sunrises and equally unforgettable sunsets.”

Perfect. We didn’t have to waste any more time searching on the turtle-slow Dunedin Internet for places to go. We had found our destination.

The plan was to leave Dunedin on Friday at 8 am sharp, arrive in Mt. Cook village at 12 and begin hiking by 12:30. Of course, plans don’t always go as smoothly as intended. We ended up leaving at 8:45, then the right, rear tire of Laura’s car popped while driving through a construction site. By the time we reached the butterscotch haired woman at the visitor center, it was 2:30 and some dark clouds started moving into the ravine next to the Mueller hut track. Luckily we had an extra day to wait it out. We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring some of the foothills surrounding the village.

On Saturday we left the visitor center prepared to conquer the track. Before we began, we bumped into four Australian men who had attempted the track the day before, but were turned back because of whiteout conditions near the top of the ridge. It was 11:15 when we started and the visage of Mt. Cook’s snowy slopes glimmered in the mid-morning sun. A perfect day for a hike.

Laura, Madden, Brian, Susan, Christina and I quickly gained elevation as we climbed the steps built into the side of the trail. It didn’t take long before we reached snow, and lots of it. We ate lunch at a rocky outcrop that overlooked the entire Hooker valley and the 10,000 ft. peaks that surrounded the 12,316 ft Mt. Cook. The sun melted the snow enough that the crampons were unnecessary. Snowshoes would have been much more useful, especially for Madden, whose lumberjack steps seemed to penetrate the layers of snow more often than not. The ridge was almost in sight when an Australian couple passed by. We asked them how the conditions were up ahead of us, and they told us point blank that, “With three children at home, they had much more to live for.” Gulp!

Turns out, there was a high risk for avalanches that day. We continued onward up the slopes until we reached a point about 200 meters from the top of the ridge where piles of snow streaked either side of a large boulder. A lone pair of ski tracks zigzagged up between the two avalanche zones. I turned around looked out at Mt. Cook and thought, “this stuff will be here another day.”

We made the descent sliding on our butts most of the way. I was disappointed that we weren’t able to reach our final destination, but we had made it farther than any other group in the past few weeks and the sun was still shinning by the time we reached the car. Another beautiful day in paradise.

On August 27, I stood at the corner of George St and Route 1 with my backpack on and my thumb raised in the air. An hour later, I was on the open New Zealand road to Christchurch. I had heard hitchhiking tales of long wet/hot days, the uncertainty of your final destination, the mystery of the person driving. All of these things crossed my mind as I held up my thumb to the line of traffic passing by. After 35 minutes, JC, Nate and I thought that three people might be too many for hitchhiking, so we began to part ways. But as soon as we got about a block away from each other, a car pulled to the side of the road and stopped. As we passed, the door popped open and a voice shouted, “Where you headed?” “Christchurch,” we replied. “Hop in.”

It turned out, Jason was an Otago student too, heading up to Christchurch to spend some time with his family for spring break. It was a beautiful day for a drive. We passed by the ocean and hundreds of sheep, most of which had gangly white lambs bounding around by their side. I soon became mesmerized by the landscape passing by. I fell into a deep sleep, and when I awoke the sky had darkened and we were driving by a sign that read: Christchurch city centre 10 km. Jason dropped us off at a Subway, where we ate dinner and awaited Laura.

Laura was the fourth member of our five person crew. She had the car, but couldn’t fit JC, Nate and I until Christchurch. The next day we picked up number five, Hanna, from the airport and together we began our whirlwind spring break tour of New Zealand’s South Island.

The journey began with a two day kayaking trip along the coast of the Abel Tasman great walk. We arrived at the Kayaking center at 9 am. Marty prepared us for life at sea, and by 11 am we were off paddling toward the gray horizon. We had two double kayaks and one single. Nate and I shared a double and Hanna and Laura shared the other. JC took the single. The ocean was calm, but the cloudy sky became more and more intimidating as the day wore on. We hugged the shore most of the day, exploring a few caves and checking out the fur seals that lounged on the rocks. At 1:30 we stopped for lunch on an island beach and watched as a light mist began to move across the coast. By 3 we decided we had enough paddling for the day and landed our boats on Te Pukatea beach. We quickly set up our tents and a tarp and then started exploring the beach that was just a few steps from our tent doors. While jumping around on jagged, pedestal-like rocks, we didn’t notice the band of rain clouds that were moving ever closer to shore. In an instant we were soaked. Luckily, the tarp was already set up. We quickly huddled beneath it and decided it was a good time to start dinner. Pasta, pesto and potatoes. Carbs, Carbs, Carbs. The good stuff.

By 8:30 everyone was in bed. The rain had let up, so I decided to head out to the beach. I looked up at the sky and was amused to see that it was cut in half. Half the sky shown brightly with pin-pricked stars, while the other half remained dark with lingering clouds. A fifty-fifty chance of a beautiful day. While walking along the beach I was startled by some movement in the rocks. I moved closer to investigate and was surprised to find a blue-eyed penguin staring back at me less than a meter away. These birds are a threatened species in New Zealand and to see one so close is considered good luck. I went to bed knowing that the next day would be something special.

And what a day it was. I awoke before the sun and headed toward the beach. A few whispy clouds lingered on the horizon, but nothing that would contain any rain. As the sun rose above the ocean, a sudden wave of joy rose in my chest. A smile cracked my face and it didn’t leave the rest of the day. The kayaking was spectacular. I went swimming twice. The water was cold, but the sun and golden beaches quickly warmed me.

We met Marty at 3:30 pm. We packed up Laura’s car and headed on our way to the next leg of our adventure: The Heaphy Track.

We began the Heaphy Track on a Tuesday and finished on a Friday. Fifty miles in four days. The most diverse terrain I have ever encountered on a single trek. We started in the mountains, which were covered in a dense forest of fern trees. On the second morning, JC, Nate and I woke up a 6 am to hike of Perry Saddle and watch the sunrise. There wasn’t a trail, so we had to bushwhack through thick vegetation. On the way down, we discovered a long stretch of forest that was covered in a thick layer of moss. That afternoon, we were walking through tussock plains, similar to those of Rohan in Lord of the Rings. On the third day, we began to descend into thick rain forest. Luckily for us, it started to rain too, so we got to experience the true meaning of a rain forest. We walked along the Heaphy River, which empties into the ocean and is greatly affected by the tides. At one point the trail disappeared under knee high tidal waters. We didn’t mind wading through. Our shoes were already filled with water anyways. The trail meandered through dense forest where trees hung to the edge of jagged cliffs. Then we reached the headwaters, which also happened to be where our final hut was located. The dark brown Heaphy river water blended with the white crashing waves of the Pacific. It was quite the sight, especially when the rain stopped and the sun tried to poke it’s way through the passing clouds. The final march out was 20 km along the ocean. Endless beaches, separated only by jagged rocks and the occasional stand of palm trees. The trek was amazing, despite the constant rain. When we finished we all felt a sense of accomplishment and pride.

That night we were awoken at 4 am with our hostel beds shaking. We all sat up, looked at each other, simultaneously asked, “Earthquake?” and then went back to bed. We were on the other coast and thought nothing of the 7.1 magnitude earthquake that hit Christchurch. Watching the news when I woke up I was thankful to be where I was. The photographs were devastating and New Zealand is very lucky that no one perished.

I don’t think I can express how lucky I feel. Later that day I decided to go skydiving at Fox Glacier. Before I came to New Zealand, skydiving never once crossed my mind. I thought it was for crazy adrenaline junkies. But being in New Zealand now for over two months, and seeing how the people here live for the simple sake of living, I felt that I needed something in my life to remind me of my own existence-to feel, for just a second, the power of my own mortality. As I fell through the sky and saw Mt. Cook towering to my right and the Pacific stretching endlessly to my left I can honestly say I felt this sensation. I wasn’t afraid, I was at peace. It was an amazing feeling. When we landed, I was speechless. All I could muster was a thank you to my guide.

An hour later, I was overcome with a completely different sensation. We had stopped in Aspiring National park to look at a waterfall. On our way back to the car, a man whom we saw at the skydiving base and two college age students approached us. They told us that half an hour prior, the plane we were flying had mechanical difficulties as it took off from the runway. It crashed and blew up into flames. All 9 passengers passed away, including the three guides that took Nate, Laura and I skydiving just an hour before. “Buy a lotto ticket,” the man said. We were all shocked and shaken up the rest of the day. We were two plane rides away from being in that plane. And I learned later that my jump was the last jump that my guide ever took in is life. Skydiving was this man’s life. There’s a certain risk with this lifestyle, but he was doing something he loved to do. He had worked the past five years to become a guide, starting off by packing parachutes. This was his life. I don’t know if this is the best way to go or just a stab in the back. I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around it.

That evening we watched “Into the Wild.” When I watched the movie after it first came out I envied Chris McCandless for taking such a risk, dropping everything and escaping from the daily grind that we all too often get carried away with. Work, work, work, towards appeasing everyone around you but yourself. Where’s the joy in that. I thought I could some day be like him. Hopefully not meet his same fate, but to experience life the way he did. Go into the wild and just live. The second time I watched it was a little different though. At the end of the movie, as Chris is making his final preparations to die he rights in his book, “Happiness is something that should be shared.”

He’s right. I hadn’t noticed it before, but there is something to be said about sharing the most beautiful places with the people you truly care about. Life is short and precious. I cannot express how thankful I am to be able to share it with all of you.

Last Wednesday a group of friends and I drove to Lake Te Anau where we stayed in a Botch (NZ summer home) for five days. The trip was out of this world. The first day there, we went on a cruise through Milford Sound. Shear, rock mountains jutted out of the water and towards the sky; waterfalls careened over ferns and stone; penguins and seals basked in the afternoon sunlight. We had beautiful weather. The sun shined brightly ever day we were there. On the second day, we went for a short tramp through a fern forest.

We came to a lookout point and were able to look out over true “Lord of the Rings” country. It was better than the movies because it was actually real and I was a part of it. After the hike I went swimming in Lake Manapauri. The mountain lake was a bit chilly but refreshing and it helped me escape some of the sandflies that were buzzing around. On the final day at Te Anau, I went for a long evening run around the lake to the start of the Kepler Track, one of New Zealand’s great walks. It was a dream run and I felt like I was flying.

Today I head off for spring break to kayak the Abel Tasman and hike the Heaphy track. More stories when I return.

The sea lions are huge. This big guy was lounging in the dunes at Sandfly beach at the end of the Otago Peninsula. I was able to approach him without even a flinch. As I was about to turn and walk away, he opened his eyes and gave me a quick wink before continuing his snooze.

The first week in Dunedin I spent some time with Ben Hood, a high school buddy who was just finishing up his semester at Otago when he got hit by a van. Luckily he managed to come away from the incident with a couple of scratches and a minor concussion. New Zealand isn’t a bad place to relax and recover either. Ben and his mom took me out to the Catlins, which are about two hours outside of Dunedin along the coast.

We walked on a “wheel chair accessible” path through a temperate rain forest (The kiwis really know how to maintain their paths). At the end of the trail the Purakaunui falls splashed over a series of step-like rocks. It was surreal. The water moved perfectly over the rocks as if the entire waterfall was engineered by an architect who designed the entrance to some skyscraper in New York City.

We also explored another exotic forest that eventually opened up to a cow pasture. We walked through the field all the way down a sloping hill to the ocean. At a secluded beach we searched for Paua shells, also known as abalone shells in the states. These shells were amazing. Blues, greens, purples, and pinks all swirled together in a glimmering carapace.

The day made me understand why so many New Zealanders describe things as “sweet as.” There’s nothing else quite as “sweet” to compare it to.

Two weekends later I was in the mountains! Just outside of Dunedin there’s a small range of tussock covered mountains called the Silver Peaks. I had spent some time at the Department of Conservation researching good hikes around Dunedin that wouldn’t require a car to get to. These mountains seemed to be the perfect, secluded weekend getaway for the hiking fanatic that I am. I asked a few people from the AustraLearn group if they wanted to join me and they all agreed that it would be a fun and challenging weekend. 13 miles from my flat to the Jubilee Hut and then back again the next day.

There was 13 of us that made the journey. We began before the sun rose from my flat, walking along the hilly backstreets of Dunedin. We were quite the sight to the few early risers who passed us by. By the time we reached the main trail the sky had lightened, but the all-too familiar feeling of Dunedin mist began. Despite the wet and windy weather, everyone kept a positive attitude. We meandered through tussock fields and exotic fern forests, never really certain of our surroundings due to the thick blanket of fog that hung on top of the Silver Peaks trail.

By the time we reached the hut, we were all thankful to be able to scrape the mud from our thighs and change out of our soggy socks. Jubilee hut was a perfect, warm change of scenery from the chilly university flats we had left behind in Dunedin. With 13 warm blooded bodies, the hut was steaming in no time. We ate rice and soup and by 9 pm we were all lined up along the two bunks ready for sleep. At 12 am I awoke to use the bathroom. When I stepped outside, the clouds had lifted, revealing an endless night sky and a Cheshire moon. The gorge was lit up and the distant sound of a river rushing through ferns could be heard from below. I fell back to sleep and didn’t need to dream.

When we all awoke the fog had returned, but it wasn’t as heavy as the day before. We could actually see the surrounding countryside this time, which made for an entirely new hiking experience despite the fact that we were going back the same way we came in. Devil’s staircase quickly warmed up our cold, wet boots. By the time we reached the Silver Peaks ridge again, the fog had lifted just enough that we could see the entire Otago Peninsula and the ocean in the distance.

By the time we made it back to Dunedin, we were all tired, sore and hungry. But everyone still had a positive attitude and a smile on their face. This was the most rewarding part of the trip for me. Of the thirteen people on the trip, only three of us had ever been on a backpacking trip like this before. With that many newbies, all it takes is one to shift the attitude of the whole. And yet, the attitude stayed positive the whole trip. I think it was a great introduction to the adventures one can have in the most adventurous country in the world.

One of my big goals for my time here in New Zealand was to learn how to shear a sheep. One day, I decided to go and find a Dunedin sheep farmer that would teach me. I walked up the road toward Mt. Cargill, the tallest mountain in Dunedin and a regular hangout for sheep in the surrounding area. About halfway up the road I saw a pasture with several sheep grazing. I walked up a driveway to a house that I thought looked like a farm. I knocked on the door. An old man named Rolf answered the door. He told me the sheep did not belong to him but to a couple on the other side of the hill. He let me come in and he opened an address book and gave me his number. I walked down the road towards the other farm. When I knocked on the door another older gentleman answered. I told him that I was interested in learning how to shear sheep. The man did not shear his own sheep, but hired someone out to do it. He gave me the contact information. The only problem was that it wasn’t the shearing season (January and February). It was lambing season though, and most farmers shear the bellies of their ewes so that the lambs can access the milk more efficiently. I headed back to Dunedin dismayed, but not without hope.

The next weekend a group of us headed out toward the end of the Otago Peninsula for some sight seeing. At the beginning of the trip we passed by a hill with a monument on top. We wanted to visit the monument, but there weren’t any signs telling us where to turn, so we took a side road that headed toward the ocean. With the ocean in sight, but no sign of the monument, we passed a farm with about 300 sheep corralled behind a wooden gate. “Stop the car!” I said.

We turned around and drove into the farm driveway. I got out and rounded the corner and there was a young Kiwi in a black tank top and slippers shearing the belly of a sheep. His girlfriend, dressed in a baggy over shirt and pants looked on as three sheep dogs bounced around my legs. I told them about wanting to learn how to shear a sheep and the kiwi told me to hop up on the platform and have a go at it. He demonstrated first. In three smooth swoops, he had sheared the stomach. With a few touch-ups of the hindquarters, he gave the sheep a solid kick in the rump back into the corral. My turn.

I opened the gate and grabbed a sheep by the scruff of its neck. “Don’t pick that one,” the kiwi said. “Pick the biggest one.” I grabbed the fat one and tried to lift it out of it’s pen. It didn’t budge. With a little help, I managed to drag it onto the platform and straddle it. The sheep flopped on its back as I wrapped its front, right leg around my thigh. “Alright mate, give it a go. Just make sure you don’t cut the tits.” I looked down with the razor in my hand and gulped. All I saw was wool. I slowly brought the razor to the belly and turned it on. The buzz sent a chill down my spine. If I were in the sheep’s position I would be freaking out at this point. But it did not move. Slowly I worked my way around the stomach, making sure not to nick the tits. Then I lifted the legs and shaved around the hind parts. Not the most pleasant of places on the sheep. When I finished, the sheep looked worse off, but the Kiwi said, “Good on ya mate. Now give it a good kick in the ass.”

“What?” I asked. “Give it a kick in the ass!” he repeated. I followed orders, but the sheep moved to the other side of the platform instead of back into the corral. “Grab it!” I lunged. Instead of grabbing wool, I grabbed nothing but air. The sheep bounded, and I mean bounded, off the platform, past the barking dogs and into the driveway. “You better get it before it runs into the road.” I leaped off the platform and chased after the sheep with a few of my friends, who just moments ago stood dumbfounded as they watched the sheep careen off the platform to freedom.

I had it cornered at the gate. This sheep was mine. But, as I lunged for it again, it pulled a Barry Sanders and darted between my arms and down the road. I chased after it for a little ways, but it’s four legs were faster than my two. My friends and I watched on as the guy’s girlfriend hopped on an atv, chased the sheep down the road, tackled it, tossed it over the fence, and casually walked back to the farm. What a woman!

My sheep shearing accomplished, we decided that it was best that we left the farm before the entire herd escaped. If I learned anything from this experience, it’s that, when a New Zealand sheep farmer tells you to kick his sheep in the ass, you better kick it quickly and kick it hard.

We spent the rest of the day touring around the Otago Peninsula. We went to lover’s leap, the chasm, and Sandfly bay. These places were some of the most beautiful places I have ever been in my life.

Two weekends later I was in Christchurch rooting for the All Blacks as they defeated the Aussies.