My First Real Trip... Lucky I didn't fall

Low Clouds
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I was enthralled when I found out I got the job at the rugby union; it is classic Kiwi culture if nothing else. My stomach constricted though when I realized the job started in less than 2 weeks. In my head it was still a month away, plenty of time to settle in, work part-time, even travel for a week or two before going full force back into the working world. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy to have a full time job, especially with a full-time pay check.  It was just a bit of a shock to the system really after being a Nomad for so long. I still wanted to travel before I was tied down for a month.  By that I mean a real trip and not hopping from couch to couch, but I knew the best I could do on short notice was a long weekend with precious little time to plan or get plane tickets that wouldn’t cost a fortune. Since I wanted to make my first foray into the South Island I chose the much more economical ferry instead but I boarded without much idea as to what I would do when I got there. I figured I’d have three hours on the ferry to figure it out.

Waterfall
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The first hour was pleasant enough so I got my latte and settled down with my notebook and a good view of what we’d just past by. Once we got out of the bay and into the Cook Straight itself, both the boat and my stomach started to roll. I wasn’t expecting it because my experience with ferries was limited to the Mediterranean ones that didn’t turn me green. My stomach, true to its childhood form, can handle any amount of rollercoaster style ups and downs, but any side to side or spinning motions and I’m instantly wishing I was someone else. I took evasive action, staggered to the front of the boat, set aside my coffee flavoured milk and starred at the horizon until I fell asleep for most of the voyage. When I work, the rolling had stopped and I was able to go above deck to see forested hillsides that cover the straights drawing you into Picton.

Twin falls
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The town itself is known as the maritime entryway into the South Island. It’s really just a small port town with its past prosperity due to its port, then its lumber mills and now transformed into a town wholly centred on tourism. This is easily seen through the best waterfront properties being taken by tour companies, cafes and even hostels. But to be fair, Picton is not known for the town, but the nature surrounding it. The main reputed beauty in the area is the Marlborough Straights and the Queen Charlotte Track that allows you to view them. It’s the ideal (at least best) place to hop on/hop off the track via the sound of the same name. The track is a 71 kilometre path taking the average person 3 to 4 days to walk. Not having that long or possibly that much stamina, I opted for the day trip at the far end instead, which I was told was the most impressive section. As I wasn’t the only one unprepared for a 3 day hike, the many tour companies also had many day hike options. Some companies, & I wish I would have known this before I packed, take your bag from hostel to hostel along the track for you so you don’t have to carry it the whole way, but have the luxury of fresh clothes and your own fluffy towel at each stage (especially if you’re staying at the hostels). Budget and not so budget accommodations lines the route, making it a more civilized nature trek than the others I’ve seen so far. The Abel Tasman, also in the area and also a 2 to 3 day hike has no pickup points and only Department of Conversation huts and camp grounds, which from the description are much less my cup of tea. No matter where I stay, I will definitely have to buy a pair of hiking boots before I try that tramp. My little, not so waterproof, tennis definitely wouldn’t do the job. As it was, the last hour of this hike, water had soaked in at the toes, through two pairs of socks, and worked its way down my foot and halfway up the back of my heels. In fact, the socks still wet as I’m writing this over 24 hours later.

What can I say I like my leaves
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Going back to the beginning, I had a 50 minute boat ride through the Queen Charlotte sound and some of her lesser known cousins before arriving at our starting point at Ship’s Cove. As we passed, early morning mists were still hovering over the hills, but sun was poking through the clouds. In our hurry to the destination hurried past our first glimpses of nature in the form of penguin that make their home in the area and Shearwater birds that hover just centimetres above the water before rising to flap their wings again. They skimmed just above the water searching for any tasty fish that might be too close to the top for their own safety. After docking and being told to meet the returning boat no later than 3:45, our group quickly separated, some hitting the path immediately, some having a quick look at the monument near the beach and others making use of the, get this, flush toilets. I choose to take on an additional ½ hour waterfall hike the opposite way out of the bay before starting the main attraction. It was just a little warm up with slippery slopes, dense foliage and the reward of a small but picturesque waterfall at the end.

Water droplets
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The main path started out unimpressively but then morphed through the 12 Km (about 5 miles) into radically different types of foliage. One ½ Km stretch would be oak trees without any underbrush due to the leeched top soil. It would then turn to lush green ferns blanketing the ground beneath palm-like trees growing together to form a ceiling of green pointy leaves above you. There were trees I had never seen before with black bark either from something that had infested it turning it black or just black barked trees in their own right. Both options were likely as there were more than one species of tree in that shade.

More foliage
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The rain started slowly at least with the canopy protecting me from the most of it. I was even able to keep taking pictures, but began stowing the camera under my jacket when it wasn’t in use. By the way mom and dad, great Christmas present; my new jacket has been immeasurably valuable and it isn’t even ski season yet. The rain started to worsen and eventually the camera was wrapped in a plastic bag not to be seen again that day. The one consolation was the thick white mists that hovered over the hills like white blanks covering the tree tops, sliding down into the bays before disappearing. It furnished a decidedly ethereal look at the landscape that was much less commonly bestowed than sunshine.  Have you ever been on a hill you knew was covered in mist, but you looked up seeing only rain drops and clouds far above? You can sense it surrounding you, but your eyes fail to comprehend it.

Etheral
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As I had walked through the forest it turned into an analogy for my life. I was so busy concentrating on the path trying not to trip and fall, on making it to the end on time that I was missing quite a lot of the beauty along the way. This was especially true as the rain worsened and my vision tunnelled to only what the black hood closing around my face allowed my eyes to see without consciously and awkwardly turning my head to take in what else was there. I feel like I’ve been so focused on getting to the next place, taking the next step and getting this or that done that I forget to take in the world around me, definitely missing all the experiences life has to offer. I mean, I missed the Coliseum in Rome for goodness sake. I was too worried about money and time that when I finally made up my mind to go on my last day, the line stretched halfway around the base so joining it would have meant missing my train. These are the things that when people get impressed by my travels I can only reflect with embarrassment that I haven’t taken full advantage of my opportunities.

Branch
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Anyway I digress, because if hiking in soaked feet for an hour can’t get me down, then my regrets about past travels shouldn’t either. I made it to the end with a whole 15 minutes to spare. Just enough time for a well deserved beer at one of the few bars in the country accessible only by boat and foot before getting back on the boat. I could have leisurely enjoyed my beer if I had known not everyone was paying attention to where the pickup point was because our entire boat sat for another 30 minutes waiting for our last two stragglers to finally find their way.

Branches
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The next day I opted for something I considered very unbackpackerish: a wine tasting tour. The Marlobough region, which includes Picton, makes 60% of New Zealand’s wines. It is known for its revised version of a classic, the Sauvignon Blanche. Two couples and our driver loaded into a mini bus and drove the 20 km south to the Wairau Plains where the majority of the region’s wineries are located. The Wairau rains, underwater aquifer irrigation, and moderate climate make it ideal for the white grapes they raise, but parish the thought that they might limit themselves to Sauvignon Blanche.  They raise the whole gamut of white grapes from Chardonney to the German Rieslings and Gewurtstraminers with a few reds like Pinot Noir and Chiraz that lend themselves well to the climate thrown in alongside. Over 50 wineries are spread out throughout this valley and most are open to wine tasting and of course, buying.

Dead leaves
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Our tour had arranged for a good mix of the more main stream (and by that I mean moderately priced) wineries and their very renowned (and by that I mean very high priced) competitors. The proud purveyors gave you a little history of the winery and the grapes and answered my very uneducated questions as you tried their range of wines. The first place even let us try the same wine, a Sauvignon Blanche of course, but from three different years to taste the difference time and how it’s aged can make. To my surprise, even I could tell the difference. I even managed to take on the look of a serious wine taster by copying my companions as they sniffed and swished the wines in their glasses before taking the first small sip, rolling the wine across their tongues before starting over again. I even bought a couple of bottles, one of which was an ice wine on order to sample at the last winery. If you haven’t had ice wine, it’s a dessert wine that is so sweet even a staunch wine hater would probably be impressed (at least if they have a sweet tooth). It generally comes from grapes frozen in a late frost on the vine before being picked, making ice wine a precious commodity. My romantic notions were dashed though as the hostess explained that in their warm climate the ice wine was made not by nature, but by the wine makers who lower the temperature, basically frosting over the outside of the large metal vats condensing the sugars of the otherwise normal wine. Oh well, still tastes really good. After my cheeks had sufficiently flushed from my afternoon’s activities, we once again boarded the bus and headed north to our temporary home.