Peeks and Velleys, A retroactive post.
From dusk till dawn, coast to coast, holiday parks to primitive bush camps, I'm a marvel of touring fanaticism. The past weeks are an amazing blur, much like the pavment beneath my wheels. Details of specific days have blended together into a spectacular mosaic panorama of the country.
The cities I've visited (a city here is any crossroad with a population greater than 1000) are as varied in style and character as the landscape itself (I've visited most of the cities on the south island, with Queenstown and Ivercargill being the major exceptions, though the latter Mick Jagger once called the asshole of the world). My least favorites, ironically, have been those striving to capture my tourist dollar the hardest. Kaikoura is a good example of tourism run rampant in my opinion: skydive with dolphins, ride a whale, club a seal if you've got the money. They don't well reflect the honest geniune attitude of New Zealand culture.
It would seem that New Zealand may have the highest number of hikes per capita in the world, though I can't back that up with proof (impressive considering the whole of the south island has only a population of 1 million). Every stop, city or town, big or small, has an overwhelming number of walks ranging from 20 minute overlooks to 5 day tramps.
I have yet to turn down an enticing tramp, or a good walk. So far, ten walks and one kayaking trip in 9 days, though none longer than a few hours; its a bit like trying to make a meal of hors deurves. I wish I had enough time to venture on one of the great walks.
Of course that's not to say the day hikes haven't been incredible, if anything, they have only whet my appetite for their longer counterparts. The first hike summited Mt. Stokes with its 1200 m peak in the cloud cover. At the summit it was a bit like trying to watch scrambled ummm.... pay channels, trying to get a glimspe of something good. Every now and then the clouds would momentarily part allowing a quick tantalizing peep of Marlborough Sound below.
All of the rainforest walks in Karamea were fantastic, especially those at the end of the McCallums Mill Rd. The road itself was a challenge, 16 km of loose gravel, steep climbs and descents, blind corners, all of which the BMW handled with refined German efficiency (think David Hasselholf from Knight Rider).
Speaking of Germans, the night before my walks I had made friends with a relaxed German. He had spent an extra day in Karamea due to a suggestion from another traveller. Without transportation, he was stuck in the small lifeless town, unknowing and unable to access the incredible walks in the vicinity. Unlucky, as the Aussies say, though he was about to head up the coastal Heaphy Track for 5 days so he was not that unlucky.
Driving Skippers road, a dead end 22 km gravel road heading deep into canyon country, was the highlight of the motorcycle touring. While not the most technical road, it is the most precipitous road I've ever driven: a cure for anyone bored with life, or for a LOTR fans salivating for grand cinematic scenery. The road was also notable for the first lying Kiwi I met. There was a rough 4WD track at the end of Skippers, and I was curious where it lead and so I asked one of the guides from the scenic tours. His response, "Nowhere, the road ends here. There's nothing down there." A few minutes later he weaseled himself back into his van full of tourists and lies and then proceeded to drive down the nothing nowhere track. Thanks buddy.
In the previous few days I had consumed something unclean, be it the lamb cutlets a la E coli in Arthur's Pass (celebrating the successful completion of Avalanche Peak track, on which I only lost my hat once), or the roasted chicken fettucini con giardia in Wanaka. Since noodles and boiled water have been my only culinary concoction, nothing was at fault on my end, unlike shortly thereafter, where something was terribly faulty with my end.
Mercifully the full brunt of the ailment didn't manifest until well after Skippers Road (on which there are precious few safe stopping points). On my way north towards Christchurch, there was a churning and gurgling insisting I break early for the night. The forced destination was a holiday park in Lake Tekapo, or as I call it now, Lake Take-a-poo.
The cities I've visited (a city here is any crossroad with a population greater than 1000) are as varied in style and character as the landscape itself (I've visited most of the cities on the south island, with Queenstown and Ivercargill being the major exceptions, though the latter Mick Jagger once called the asshole of the world). My least favorites, ironically, have been those striving to capture my tourist dollar the hardest. Kaikoura is a good example of tourism run rampant in my opinion: skydive with dolphins, ride a whale, club a seal if you've got the money. They don't well reflect the honest geniune attitude of New Zealand culture.
It would seem that New Zealand may have the highest number of hikes per capita in the world, though I can't back that up with proof (impressive considering the whole of the south island has only a population of 1 million). Every stop, city or town, big or small, has an overwhelming number of walks ranging from 20 minute overlooks to 5 day tramps.
I have yet to turn down an enticing tramp, or a good walk. So far, ten walks and one kayaking trip in 9 days, though none longer than a few hours; its a bit like trying to make a meal of hors deurves. I wish I had enough time to venture on one of the great walks.
Of course that's not to say the day hikes haven't been incredible, if anything, they have only whet my appetite for their longer counterparts. The first hike summited Mt. Stokes with its 1200 m peak in the cloud cover. At the summit it was a bit like trying to watch scrambled ummm.... pay channels, trying to get a glimspe of something good. Every now and then the clouds would momentarily part allowing a quick tantalizing peep of Marlborough Sound below.
All of the rainforest walks in Karamea were fantastic, especially those at the end of the McCallums Mill Rd. The road itself was a challenge, 16 km of loose gravel, steep climbs and descents, blind corners, all of which the BMW handled with refined German efficiency (think David Hasselholf from Knight Rider).
Speaking of Germans, the night before my walks I had made friends with a relaxed German. He had spent an extra day in Karamea due to a suggestion from another traveller. Without transportation, he was stuck in the small lifeless town, unknowing and unable to access the incredible walks in the vicinity. Unlucky, as the Aussies say, though he was about to head up the coastal Heaphy Track for 5 days so he was not that unlucky.
Driving Skippers road, a dead end 22 km gravel road heading deep into canyon country, was the highlight of the motorcycle touring. While not the most technical road, it is the most precipitous road I've ever driven: a cure for anyone bored with life, or for a LOTR fans salivating for grand cinematic scenery. The road was also notable for the first lying Kiwi I met. There was a rough 4WD track at the end of Skippers, and I was curious where it lead and so I asked one of the guides from the scenic tours. His response, "Nowhere, the road ends here. There's nothing down there." A few minutes later he weaseled himself back into his van full of tourists and lies and then proceeded to drive down the nothing nowhere track. Thanks buddy.
In the previous few days I had consumed something unclean, be it the lamb cutlets a la E coli in Arthur's Pass (celebrating the successful completion of Avalanche Peak track, on which I only lost my hat once), or the roasted chicken fettucini con giardia in Wanaka. Since noodles and boiled water have been my only culinary concoction, nothing was at fault on my end, unlike shortly thereafter, where something was terribly faulty with my end.
Mercifully the full brunt of the ailment didn't manifest until well after Skippers Road (on which there are precious few safe stopping points). On my way north towards Christchurch, there was a churning and gurgling insisting I break early for the night. The forced destination was a holiday park in Lake Tekapo, or as I call it now, Lake Take-a-poo.
posted by Vit-One at 6:49 PM
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