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...