Escape From Franz Josef, New Zealand

There comes a time in every man's life when he realizes that making ice sculptures in the rain forest really isn't very fun. Thus, with a muffled flourish, it's high time to seek drier ground, in both the sense of precipitation and alcohol consumption.. Before we leave, however, it's very important that we celebrate Christmas Kiwi-style: with copious amounts of booze leading to increasingly outrageous stunts, from climbing pungas to backflips off the roof in the dark while the punters smash each other upside the head with bags of frozen peas.

If anyone ever suggests you have a Flaming Lamborghini, make sure your calender is completely free for the next day and a half.

On deck: South Island Assault #2: this time it's Diesel Powered.

Sketches of Franz Josef, New Zealand

2:30 in the afternoon on Tuesday. I look above; my boots are definitely over my head. I look below; a 75 foot deep crevasse is definitely below be. Not a "choice" situation, as they say here.

3:45 pm, Wednesday. In the midst of a 300mm rain event (that's a full foot of rain for the Imperialists who stubbornly cling to antiquated systems of measurement), humping rucksacks filled to the brim with gravel up a staircase in the super-saturated rainforest to make even more steps. Dump gravel, slog down steps, wade through thigh-deep glacier water, fill bag, repeat. Suddenly, a soul-sucking office job in Albuquerque doesn't look all that bad.

Mid morning, Thursday. Drove to the perpetually empty Okarito beach, which was quite the happening place during the Gold Rush. Just myself and some rocks today, gently pissing away the morning before heading out to guide some wickedly attractive Austrian lasses up a wickedly attractive rain-polished glacier. Suddenly, this job ain't so bad after all.

High Noon, Friday. Carved a staircase in the glacier's terminal face in the fiendish drizzle whilst frighteningly large rocks rained down from above.

10 am, Saturday. Performed the fortnightly ritual of driving 2 hours away for the privilege of shopping at a supermarket. The gent at the adjacent stationary store made me two waterproof notepads by hand and charged me a mere buck for the both. He was just damn glad to get away from the fussy ladies looking for good deals on Christmas cards before the shops close at noon.

Sunday; There may have been an epic poker match, or maybe we sat on the porch and shot stuff while listening to underground Christchurch electronica, or maybe that was the day we pulled our neighbor's car out of the mud. Regardless, it probably rained.

1635, Monday. Stream crossing practice, otherwise known as "let's see how waterproof those boots really are". In case some of us were dry, we thought it would be a good idea to swim across the mighty Waiho, taking care to be far enough downstream to give the chunks of ice a chance to melt. Also practiced our Maori pronunciations in reverence to the folks from whom the Crown purchased an entire island coast for about 300 pounds.

Monday Night: celebrated the change of days off by "getting into the piss" at the local dive. Same old story (the day of the week does not matter, for in Franz Josef it's perpetually Groundhog Day): "Uncle Rowdy" makes an appearance and steals every hat he can find; disturbingly proficient pole dancing from the usual suspects; drunken tour bus dramas unfolding before our very eyes; too many shots of Chartreuse; a fight broken up by the promise of an extra handle of Monteith's Ale; someone in the corner retching from the infamous Red Peril while his/her friends laugh and offer words of encouragement; and a little "car traversing" to cap the night off.

Tuesday (again): tiptoed around the random dudes passed out on the floor to head out to Fox for a change of scenery (and it may be best to be scarce for a few days). Walked around Gillespies Beach amongst the hunting camps and rusting gold dredges in the bush. Took a few moments to admire my latest callouses.

etc...

Dunedin, New Zealand

Dunedin was to be my final urban experience before committing to life in the bush. The hostel was ghostly quiet, with the exception of some Greenpeace canvassers having a self-righteously vegetarian meal and sharing their solicitation experiences of the week. "Have you made a New Years Resolution yet? How about saving the planet?" was going to be the season's hit opening line. Brought back Oregon flashbacks, so I headed to the Speight's Brewery to learn why their beer sucks so much. Must be the water, which gushed from a spigot outside the brewery and attracts cheap bastards who want to fill their drinking water vessels gratis. Forced to endure some pretty awful "Southern Man" commercials, which sorta blatantly steals from the Marlborough Man, but Southern Man carries cans of beer in his rucksack when he's out wrangling. You would think whiskey travels better...

The girl from the Czech Republic we met on the trail in Manapouri assured us that the highlight of Duedin was the Otago Peninsula, home to the rare yellow-eyed penguins, not-quite-as-rare albatross, and so-ubiquitous-they're annoying seals. Perched high in the middle was a colossally pretentious castle with well-manicured garden, undoubtedly owned by someone who was a pain in the ass to deal with.

After a few beverages in the Octagon (which was subdued since the university hoodlums are home for the summer) I went to see a prog metal show. Unfortunately, the band was clearly treading in Classic Rock territory, but they were amusing nonetheless. The singer had fabulous Sammy Hagar-esque hair and the drunken punters in attendance were worth the $5 cover charge alone.

After 7 weeks of putzing around, I figured it's time to set up a semi-permanent base of operations. On to Franz Josef, about as far from Portland as you can get (in a number of ways). Nevertheless, the 8 months of being an Unemployed Homeless Veteran came to an end, ushering the dirtbag expat era.

Queenstown, Milford Sound, and Manapouri New Zealand

We had no choice in the matter...it was mandatory to get pissed in Queenstown, thanks to the 2 for 1 drink specials sponsored by the hostels for use at various dodgy watering holes. Our decisions were limited to the abundant activities that made Queenstown the adventure capital of the universe, if your idea of adventure is a six second adrenaline rush jumping off of something that was designed specifically to be jumped off from (that's $30/second, a decent wage in anyone's book). Playing the role of cheap bastard, we decided to slog up Ben Lamond peak right outside of town amidst the fully padded mountain bikers. Since I was in the company of a super-energetic Irishman, we polished off the trek in record time, using gravity much to our advantage on the descent.

I traded the bicycle racer for a German expat restaurateur and we were off to quieter locales, namely Te Anau, whose claim to fame is that it happens to have the last petrol station before Milford Sound. The tank filled, we cruised up to the sound on what some have described to be the most beautiful drive in the world, which may be true if it weren't obscured by fog and blowing snow. Regardless, I threw in the towel and committed my first blatant tourist activity by kayaking the sound (or, more accurately, fjord) on an uncharacteristically glorious morning. Having "did" the sound, it was off the beaten path to Manapouri, but not before a piss-your-pants conversation with a German sailor-turned-WWOOFer and Antarctic researcher from the unantarctic Monterey, CA. Be advised: German frigates actually have a speed designated INSANE, for those rare man-overboard moments.

It would have been wonderful to take a cruise out to the allegedly fabulous Doubtful Sound (Capt Cook supposedly considered sailing out of the sound a doubtful proposition), but there was nobody around willing to foot the $240 p/p bill, so we threw down a 20 and rowed a boat across a river and meandered along some muddy, sandfly-strewn tracks. It was my first attempt at piloting a proper rowboat, thereby dramatically increasing the time we spent on the water. I could blame it on the current, but there wasn't any.

Enough nature, on to Dunedin for the last taste of civilization before heading out to the West Coast for the duration...

West Coast of New Zealand (and Wanaka for Good Measure)

Cruised down the West Coast, notorious for "maritime" weather and a profound lack of record stores. Hit up Greymouth, which has a bad rap amongst travelers but has a gritty (make that salty) charm. It may smell like a paper mill, but at least there is Monteith's brewery to keep you occupied. I did make the critical mistake of spending a night in Westport, which has a bad rap amongst travelers that is well-deserved. It may smell like a paper mill, but at least the graveyards have sheep tending to the shrubs.

Passed a quiet three days in the jade capital of the country, Hokitika. Lovely sea-side town chock full of blue haired ladies buying knickknacks while their husbands scope out excuses to sit in the pub (the very important rugby/soccer/cricket match is a good one). Read about 7 or 8 National Geographics in the hostel and then hit the road.

Ended up in the hamlet of Franz Josef, where people from around the world come to spend a day crawling around a 50 million ton chunk of ice, usually in the rain. For some reason 7 of us were there applying for a job that would entail us doing said activity every day. A tight knit community with a church, grocery store, and plenty of bars with smokin' deals at happy hour.

Interviews over, we all migrated to Wanaka, which is often described as Queenstown 15 or 20 years ago. Like Queenstown it is situated around a fabulously blue lake with snow-capped peaks in the Mt Aspiring range in the background. A postcard town with overnight express prices. There is a excellent cinema in town (complete with warm cookies at intermission and couches for sprawling), but the best scenes are outside the door. A break in the weather inspired a traverse of the mountains right outside of town with an Irish tour bus driver who happens to be an accomplished road cyclist and has the lung capacity to prove it. A tiring and majestic 6 hour push concluded with a lift back to town courtesy of a gent from Timaru, who had nothing but scorn for Wanaka, but that wasn't stopping him from spending a holiday there.

Because it's mandatory, we have no choice but to continue on to Queenstown to see what Wanaka will look 15 or 20 years from now. All reports say "way too touristy", but to travel to New Zealand and complain of tourism is like going to Mississippi and complaining of the humidity.

Christchurch and Arthur's Pass, New Zealand

Pissed away a week in Christchurch for no reason other than inertia. I did manage to see the rugby league semi-final match where hometown heroes Canterbury soundly beat Hawke's Bay 20-3 in front of an indifferent quarter-full stadium. In fact, the only motivated people in the house was a crew of about 20 teenaged Tui-fueled Hawke's Bay fanatics who amused themselves by drunkenly singing their fight song for hours on end. At least they got their money's worth. On a depressing side note, mullets are apparently a big hit with the Kiwi youth.

On to Arthur's Pass amidst unseasonably and unusual pleasant weather. The fair skies didn't deter the infamous sand flies from veering from full-on attack mode or the protected yet incredibly annoying kea (the alpine parrot) from being a pain in the arse. Nevertheless, I took advantage of the relatively low springtime stream levels to slog around the muck and bogs in an uneventful overnight trek. The reward was a delicious meat pie at the only store in the village and some job hunting advice from the Ashburton-based truck driver who picked me up whilst hitchhiking back to the trailhead. Sounds like the seed hauling business kicks into high gear in January and they are always looking for broke and bored foreign schmucks to do the dirty work...sign me up!

On to the West Coast, where you are guaranteed endless winds and rain, but at least there are some decent breweries...

Kaikoura, New Zealand

After a final night of Sprig and Fern beer and BS in Nelson it was high time to check out the wilderness that this nation is famous for. A long, tortuous drive to the Mount Arthur region led to a soggy slog that will hopefully be better several months from now. In fact, a small crew of DOC rangers were working on digging drainage trenches next to the track, the only other souls on my overnight trek. My timing was fortuitous as I aided in the extraction of the trenching device from a little accident on a steep slope, requiring grunting, sweating, and the questionable use of gasoline in combustible places. I instantly became enamored by the legendary DOC hut system after a storm rolled through in the night, which was charming in a shelter but likely unbearable in a tent. Incidentally, the Fanella hut had a few issues of the Economist lying about, shockingly highbrow for a shack in the bush.

Sunnier weather awaited me in the absolutely gorgeous seaside village of Kaikoura, where one could possibly ski in the morning and swim with dolphins in the afternoon. Whilst climbing Mt Fyffe I happened upon the University of Canterbury Extreme Ironing Team, whose primary objective is to photograph themselves ironing in bizarre locales and positions. Obviously intrigued, I tagged along for the rest of the day, gaining insight into a gaining international phenomenon, right up there with Kambucha brewing and eco tourism. When you get tired of Kayaking and diving and feral goat hunting expeditions (at a mere $225 pp), you can always slip into the Strawberry Tree pub and have a pint of their Sheep Shagger Lager and see outstanding live acts like Urban Tramper.

Labour Day weekend over, it's on to Christchurch to seek labor of my own.

Nelson, New Zealand

Sitting in the "Sunniest City in the Country", where it has rained constantly for the past week. At the Green Monkey hostel, you will almost always find a dozen or so twentysomething weary world travelers sitting around pretending to read books they have no interest in, feasting on Ramen noodles and potatoes, and discussing the merits of the metric system. One such chap spends most of his days pruning trees in trhe soaking rain at $0.80 a pop. He stumbles in after work looking as if he'd been in a fight, but at least he made enough dough to pay for that week's beer fund. Two young Swedes have been here for 8 months and have seen/done enough to get their fill of the southern hemisphere for a lifetime or two. Realizing I wasn't one of those crazy Bible-thumping Americans, they deemed it safe to accompany me on an evening on cross-cultural debauchery, to include painfully public renditions of "November Rain". Needless to say they knew much more about American politics than I ever will.

The weather broke just in time to permit the Scandanavian duo and I to take my recently acquired Holden Vectra for a drive up to Abel Tasman National Park, which may be small but always packed with folks looking for hikes with a high satisfaction to effort ratio. Very impressed with the DOC's commitment to make life as cosy as possible for would-be adventurers. Sights being seen, it was back to the hostel for card playing, Facebooking, and passing of more time in self-imposed communal poverty.

Picton, New Zealand

While walking down Tory Street in Wellington contemplating the inexorable decline of the dollar and how it affects my fun factor I literally bumped into one of my heroes. The great David Kolbos was in town in the midst of his North Island hitchhiking tour. David will likely go down as one the great Permaculture Warriors of our time, having studied from the masters in New Mexico, Central America and New Zealand. Full of energetic inspiration, it is only a matter of time before he leaves his mark on the world (or perhaps closing the wounds opened by our forefathers). At a table creaking under the weight of wine bottles we solved most of the world's problems and even a few of our own. Good luck David, and Godspeed!

Even more fortuitously, the very next day on the Cook Strait ferry crossing I bumped into sustainability celebrities Sean and Louisa from Arizona. Seems as though they are on a similar mission as myself, but are a good six months ahead (they opted for the year of eternal winter, while I went with eternal summer).

Now in the one-horse seaside town of Picton. Happened to crash an acoustic jam session at an Irish joint down by the harbour. By the height of the festivities about ten folks were circled about playing all sorts of tunes, including the legendary Irish ballad "Sweet Home Alabama". Struck up a conversation with a gent who is on a motorcross crew whose van broke down and are effectively marooned for the time being. This certainly ain't a bad place to be stuck. Side note: if you happen to be passing through, stay at the Tombstone Backpackers...far and away the best facilities of any hostel you'll ever stay in.

Auckland, NZ

"Where I live in the Carribean we don't have a town drunk...everyone takes their turn!" the old sot exclaimed right before he spilled his beer all over the airport bar, shattering his glass in the process. "I swear to God I've never done that before...nobody will believe me!" The bartender replied "Nobody would believe you if you said you broke three glasses a night."

"I've lived in hostels since I moved here from Germany 15 months ago for my software development job. It's not very economical, but I absolutely hate searching for flats. Besides, I have new roommates every day."

The Auckland museum had a touching display in remembrance of all the Kiwis who valiantly gave their lives in the struggle to keep South Africa British.

Realizing that the economics of purchasing a car here were highly unfavorable (every bum on Earth descended upon Auckland to buy a cheap beater; hence the beaters are not so cheap) I decided to spent a day tramping about the tiny volcanic island of Rangitoto with a Chicago couple on a highly structured two month holiday. One eye was on the scenery, the other three were on the clock to ensure not a second was wasted. A decent diversion from the metropolis. Reminded me of the guy from Easy Rider who correctly observed that all cities are the same...some just happen to be wetter than others. Celebrated the outing with some heavy-duty Pirate Lager and canned bourbon and cola. I still have yet to see the appeal of Marmite, which tastes like sardine pudding.

For some indoor entertainment I strolled down to the Dogs Bollix to witness The Defendants play some of the best no BS hard rock since the mighty Atlanta quintet Artimus Pyledriver changed their name to something less creepy. An absolutely slaying cover of "Fairies Wear Boots" and then Left or Right hit the stage for a fabulous set of hardline psychedelic dub. A lascivious lass told me that Wellington is the most beautiful place in the world (never mind that middle-aged Ping had just said the same about northern Thailand), so on the Overlander I go...leaving the campervan haggling to the Germans who are thrilled at $7/gallon petrol.

Portland, OR

Apparently Portland has a bustling yachting scene as evidenced by last Sunday's "Sail For the Cure" event at the harbor. The well-heeled and blue-blazered elderly white folk were out en masse raising capital and presumably throwing back a few Manhattans to boot. The yacht club, as I discovered, is conveniently located near both the Portland Country Club and the airport...thus a visitor could have an action-packed day without having to drive through the undignified parts of town. Meanwhile, a mild bike ride away in the ethnic ghettos the Food not Bombs crew was performing their rabble rousing ritual.

Discovery #2 of the week: the East Burn Tavern's Tuesday $2 pint extravaganza...best deal in town, and you can watch BMX championships on the TVs gratis. Even better, a few doors down at the local wing joint the Sodbusters were playing their weekly set of old-timey classics and clever covers. Somehow the whole lot of us (including an older chap professing a fanatical zeal for the Dead Kennedy's Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables album) ended up paying witness to the pseudo-African rhythm collective called Toubab Krewe...a delightfully percussive end to the evening, save for a fruitless search to find a mythical empanada cart.

Having enough urbaneering we ventured out to the Columbia Gorge for some waterfall viewing and (for the slightly more spunky) cliff diving. It also served as the swan song for my trusty North Face daypack, which has been through Hell and back three or four times and is now crusty from several strata of sweat salt. The ideal whether brought out a delightful mix of Japanese tourists hustling about less they miss out on anything, PBR-swilling college students, and yoga fanatics looking for sacred spaces and karma cleansing. Not enough water for yachties, unfortunately.