The One Where Freedom Camping Isn't "Free"

Forty bucks will buy you a patch in the grass, a kitchen with no pots, pans, utensils, cups, plates, or bowls, a stove with one setting (burn everything), a refrigerator that you can unlock with a $2 coin, dish soap that you sheepishly borrow from a high school kid, showers that will put you another $2-5 in debt, internet access (for an extra $12 an hour), bathrooms impossibly far from your sleeping quarters, and a bunch of screaming kids. Sounds appealing right?

With “freedom camping” increasingly becoming a problem with the locals around New Zealand, my friend Nicky and I decided tonight to be polite law-abiding tourists and pay for a campsite in the small surf city of Raglan rather than quietly slipping to the side of the road and bedding down for the night. Normally we would park somewhere unobtrusive, cook dinner in the back of the van, find a public toilet to do our business, be in bed around eight, and be quietly asleep by nine. In the morning we pack up our things (sometimes taking other people’s discarded trash with us) and head out for a cuppa and some shopping. So how do we get acknowledged for our low-impact sleeping and economy boosting spending? Threats of a $200 fine and a big ‘get the hell out and don’t come back’. It’s almost worth it when compared to absurdly priced “camp sites” up the road.

It is understandable that locals have become frustrated with campers parking on private property, ditching rubbish, and leaving behind appalling poo poo’s (and the accompanying toilet paper)… and I can easily see why freedom camping is losing support. But not every Yank in a van is going to live up to the stereotype that a handful of tourists have unfortunately given the rest of us. I really don’t understand how someone can have the mentality of ‘lets head to this beautiful country and give the locals a big thanks by chucking out our garbage on the side of the road and taking a big crap next to that lovely tree’. What’s even more atrocious: meeting those tourist and watching first-hand how they toss aside their plastic packaging and beer can along with their cigarette butts. Their response when confronted? Generally a shrug and a helpful reassurance that ‘Someone will pick it up’ or that, ‘we’re leaving so it doesn’t really matter’.

Excuse me while I puke.

If someone can shed light on this mentality (in today’s age when we have constant reminders of our carbon footprint etc) please e-mail me! So while I hate to disrespect the people and government of this stunning country – I equally cannot subject myself to being ripped off of forty hard-earned dollars for a ‘proper’ campsite. So RESPONSIBLE freedom camping – here we come!

-Ashley

Fun Fact: Want to check out with your own eyes how adorable Raglan is? Rent the movie The Endless Summer, shot on location in the tiny New Zealand town amongst its’ world-class surf. 

The One Weekend of Trying New Things

One. Two. Three. Where the hell is my rescue??? Four. Is that a kayak? No, damn…it’s a rock! Five. Six. Don’t panic… Seven. Was that a bump? Eight. Oh my God! Kayak! Grab it! Nine. My lungs are exploding; take a breath…CRAP that was only water! Ten. Drown or swim? Screw it. I’m swimming.

There is a saying when one comes close to death that goes something like, “your life flashes before your eyes”; well, I wasn’t exactly close to death, but my life was definitely flashing before my eyes. Ten seconds is a relatively short time to hold your breath, but when you are upside down emerged in freezing water, drifting into rocks with half your body uselessly lodged into a piece of plastic, ten seconds is a very very long time. Here I was, not twenty minutes into my first trip kayaking down a river and already I had flipped on a pathetically calm rapid. Yanking my legs from the overturned kayak, I shot toward the surface with wild and panicked determination. Gasping for air in between heaving coughs of water, I felt myself being pulled by my lifejacket onto the bow of an instructors kayak.

“Had a nice swim did we?”

Cough. “Ye-,” cough “-s”.

“Told you not to lean away from the rocks”

Cough. “I’ll definitely,” cough, cough, “remember that now.”

Two weeks ago I had no intentions of learning how to whitewater kayak in the next…maybe ever. But when a cheery Kiwi university student gives a completely random invite to go on a practically free three-day whitewater adventure, it would be stupid to pass up such an opportunity. So here I was, sputtering and shivering half submerged in the Mohaka River trying to figure out how the heck I was supposed to get back in the kayak.

One of my Instructors on an earlier trip. 

Luckily I was surrounded by several very helpful and experienced instructors including CJ (Canadian Jen), Obi, and Magnum (a slightly serious but very fun older gentleman). CJ held my paddle while Obi emptied the water out of my boat. Finally Mag steadied me while I wedged my legs back into place and unsteadily tested my balance. Within a few minutes we were headed downriver again and maneuvering through one set of rapids after another. Three more swims and two t-rescues (when a kayaker flips and uses another kayak to upright themselves) later, I had completed the day’s run. Cold, wet, hungry, and exhausted, I wouldn’t exactly say I was thrilled at the idea of two more days on the river.

We managed to pack 10 people into Pip before shuttling back to camp where food, dry clothes, and a warm fire awaited us. Night fell as the haphazard members and friends of the Auckland University Canoe Club (AUCC) gathered around a massive bonfire. A giant redhead aptly nicknamed Big Red was quick to consume his drinks and begin the first of many songs of the night. Half playing his beloved didgeridoo and half singing, Big Red led all 60 of us in enthusiastic choruses of The Lion King’s Circle of Life and the crowd-favorite Hakuna Matata. I found it enormously entertaining to be singing Disney songs alongside several dozen full-fledged (and slightly if not incredibly drunk) adults!

Day two was apparently not meant to be a river-day. Outnumbered by club-members, my friend Caroline and myself were ousted out of our spots on the raft to run a grade 3 section of the river. Instead, we drove out of the mountains and toward the ocean for a relaxing day at the beach. My first real attempt at surfing was humorous if anything, and a rugby-related shoulder injury kept me from being able to paddle the waves for very long. After six or seven goes at catching a wave (followed by as many wipeouts) I called it a day and made my way to shore. Swapping a surfboard for driftwood, I began indulging in a favorite childhood past time and built a sweet beach fort!

By evening we were back at camp and had just settled in when a random girl came running toward us. She worriedly asked if we had cell phone reception before explaining that she needed to call 111 (the equivalent of 911) because one of the AUCC guys was really sick. I jumped up to follow her back toward the tents along with a fairly new kayak instructor named Ellie. We approached as light was fading and found a young man shivering and in a state of fevered delirium. Apparently the girl had just happened by the tent and heard the guy moaning. One look and it was obvious the poor kid was not in good shape. I quickly assessed his condition by asking him as many relevant questions as I could think of, while just feeling his forehead was enough to know he had a very high fever.  Ellie was careful to get very specific responses before grabbing someone and jetting off in a car to find cell phone reception.

In the 45 minutes it took Ellie to make the phone call, we had already begun moving Omar (in fear that his appendix had burst) onto a board in preparation of loading him into my van. The hospital was over an hour away and we had no idea if anyone had been able to make a phone call. As we were just about to move him, word reached us that the ambulance was on its way so we covered Omar in blankets, got him to drink a little water, and waited. The ambulance arrived nearly three hours into the ordeal. Omar was loaded in and driven away. Within minutes of his departure it was as if nothing had happened and everyone began gathering for dinner and the nights unruly festivities. *Omar is still in the hospital with a virus or something but will be okay.

Morning came quickly on Easter Sunday and soon the lot of us, sleepy and now on our third day of showerless camping, began readying ourselves for yet another day on the river. Once arranged into kayaking and rafting groups, the newbies (including myself) were sent on a frenzied Easter hunt for a chocolate rabbit amongst the beached kayaks. I came up short of a chocolate treat but was rewarded with a bag of Goon (the inside container of boxed wine) to drink on the river instead. Because there weren’t enough instructors (most had left earlier to kayak a gnarly Grade 4 section of the river) seven of us were put into a raft with Obi as our guide. Obi, not happy to be guiding a raft down a measly Grade 2 river, brought with him chips, beer, and magazines and situated himself smack in the middle of the raft.

“Who’s rafted before?”

Three of us raised our hands.

“Alright, you” (pointing at a clueless looking shaggy-haired freshman) “you are guiding us first. If the boat starts going out of control I’ll tell you what to do.”

And that’s how the raft went down the river on Easter Sunday.

Perfectly content to sit on the raft and chill down the river all day, my time on the boat was short-lived. While bumping our way down the first rapid, we noticed a group of kayakers on the side of the river with several standing on the shore. Once we got close enough, the instructor Victoria cheerfully asked for a volunteer to kayak in place of a girl who had spent the last ten minutes swirling around half-drowning in an eddy. No one looked very interested so I took a big swig of Goon, high-fived Obi, and jumped into the water.

Day two on the kayak was phenomenal. The girl who I switched with had a kayak that was a hundred times easier to stay upright in than the topsy-turvy contraption I had paddled two days before. I smashed through the rapids and was able to maneuver around obstacles without fear of rolling with every splash. Only swimming once (I rolled trying to avoid another kayaker who had already flipped) my second attempt left me wanting more. Once back at camp, buzzing from the excitement of a successful day on the river, I noticed a girl named Lou walking by her motorcycles.

“Hey Lou! Can I try riding one of those?”

“Hell ya girlfriend!”

Sweet as.

I somehow managed to get the dirt bike started on my first attempt, into gear on my first attempt, and took off in an attempt to brake. I got the bike to stop but didn’t realize how heavy it was and found myself leaping over the handlebars as the bike fell to its side. Laughing, Lou ran over to help me upright it before I jumped back on and started the process over. This time I was able to stop and go several yards before Lou shouted at me to let ‘er rip. I did! Much to the annoyance of other campers, I zoomed up and down the campsite testing my speed with each pass. It was brilliant! I got hooked to the adrenaline rush before I even got off the bike; it was like mountain biking without all the effort!

What an epic weekend of firsts…Now I just have to figure out how to do it all again!

The One Week of Beautiful Chaos

As I’m writing this, I haven’t showered in 5 days. My hair has hit a whole new level of glossy, I refuse to put on clean clothes for fear of getting them dirty the second they hit my skin, I think I found traces of seaweed in my sportsbra a few minutes ago, and Atown and I have been heavily debating over who smells the most. For those of you who know me well enough, you are probably shocked to hear I’ve gone more than 8 hours without a shower. But when you are driving 800 miles, hiking 52k, and crossing an ocean in less than a work-week, it’s hard to find time to stop for a rinse (not to mention the predicament of finding a warm and free shower)!

So what, you might be wondering, has kept me and my travel mate so busy?

A whole lotta beautiful chaos.

Leaving Queenstown roughly four hours behind schedule, Atown and myself headed out into the sunset thus officially beginning our road trip. We made a quick stop an hour away in Wanaka to pick up last minute gear before driving into the night to get as far as possible and eventually finding a place to sleep. Having been around the South Island of New Zealand long enough, I knew that the countryside Kiwi’s don’t appreciate “freedom campers”; I found a discreet spot next to a field to pull over for the night. Tired and ready to catch some Zzz’s, I was kept awake by a sandfly that had made its way into the van. For those of you who’ve never experienced sandflies, imagine a tiny gnat-sized bug that sucks blood and leaves a bite that itches bad and long enough to make mosquitos look like your best friend. After three hours of trying to swat the sandfly to death, I was too awake to fall asleep and decided I might as well be driving. By turning the headlights on, I illuminated the inside of the car enough to see DOZENS of sandflies buzzing all around. No wonder I couldn’t kill the dang thing! Freezing and out for vengeance, I rolled down the windows and drove 100K letting the wind rid me of my nighttime pests. But alas, if its not sandflies ruining your night, the opossums want in on the fun. Unlike North American opossums, these kiwi cousins are as cute and cuddly as a kitten. Unfortunately for them, they are nocturnal, overpopulated, and not bright enough to stay off the roads. Three hours and three roadkills later I had had enough bloodshed for the night and finally pulled over for some shuteye.

Waking up feeling refreshed despite very little sleep, Atown and I drove another 2k to the Fox Glacier. The glacier was massive, jutting out of the mountainside in mammoth sheets of blue ice and rock debris. At the base, a river gushed from the core with enough force to move bus sized icebergs and boulders. And all this ice was amidst a subtropical rainforest! Driving onward, we made our way through one tiny hick-town after another, surrounded by some of the most stunning mountain scenery I’ve ever witnessed. Stopping only long enough to see the crystal-clear reflection of Mt Cook in the picturesque waters of Lake Matheson, we made it to Greymouth just in time to catch a few high school boys doing an impromptu haka (traditional Maori dance) in front of the schoolyard. Stocking up on food, beverages, and more last-minute gear, we continued onward to see the pancake-shaped Pukanaki rocks and blowholes amongst a breathtaking oceanside drive.

A seaside dinner at a picnic site led to a fight with some local weka birds over who was taking home our recent purchases. Chasing down apples and grocery bags, Atown at one point was under a bush playing tug-a-war with a weka over our toilet paper. Coming out victorious, we packed up Pip (the van), took in a beautiful sunset on the beach, and drove on further north. Sleeping on the side of the road in some unknown town, we woke up early (and by “we” I mean that I woke up and drove while Atown continued sleeping for a few more hours) so we could get a decent start on our trek through Abel Tasman National Park.

Atown made new friends while I packed our rucksacks and soon we were off with Stephen, our newfound mate who happened to live 20 minutes away from where Atown grew up! The first leg of the hike was pretty, but slightly monotonous with a mostly uphill trek in and then steep decent onto the beach. Once at camp, Atown wandered while I set up the tent and then wandered some more while I made dinner. We then played gin rummy (I kicked Atown’s butt!) and at dusk settled in for a near sleepless night on the rock-hard freezing ground. I woke up to watch in awe as a couple from Alaska, using only the few items they carried in with them, created a breakfast worthy of any 5-star hotel! Atown and I thoroughly enjoyed our oatmeal (which I cooked) and spent the morning on the beach before heading out to our next campsite 8 hours away.

Accidentally missing low-tide, we made an attempt at crossing Torrent Bay before we realized we were literally going to be in over our heads and turned back for the high-tide route. Luckily this route brought us to a near-perfect creek that meandered through tropical forests before spilling into the teal blue waters of the Tasman sea. Onward we pushed past golden beaches and breathtaking lookouts until we came upon a second crossing. At first the fast-running receding tide was fun to traverse, but soon the water became more stagnant and our feet were sinking through nasty mud and onto the sharp points of millions of tiny shells. Yelping and laughing our way to shore, we put our shoes back on and continued through the subtropical forests of the park.

Having accidentally gotten both pairs of my shoes wet, I spent a few hours rotating footwear to avoid blisters before giving up and walking jesus-style (barefoot) until the path became too rocky for my already sore and now raw feet to handle. When I began to feel like the hike was becoming unbearably long, we came upon a group of merry trampers who, having hiked a few hours less than us, provided a much-needed pickup until we arrived at the campsite. The group, consisting of a hot Canadian guy (they do exist!), a hilariously outgoing girl from England, a Swedish girl who spoke with a pseudo American accent, and an adorably sweet girl from France who was constantly working on her English vocabulary.

Day three began at sunrise with yet another tidal crossing. We walked a quarter-mile across sand, thousands of shells, and tidal streams before trekking back into a tropical forest of ferns. Two more hours of beaches, hill climbs, and beautiful ocean scenery brought us to the end of our tramping journey and the beginning of a new adventure: getting back to the car that was parked 35 miles away.

At 10AM park rangers informed us that just getting to the main road involved walking 12K up a mountain. Undaunted, we decided to walk until we found a ride…we made it about a 2K up the road before fatigue set in and we threw ourselves on top of our bags to sit and wait. An hour (and several passing cars) later, we were still on the side of the road bathing in dust as each car passed us. Finally giving up, we began our walk back to the information center to hail an expensive water taxi back to the car. But before we got there, a van of two hippie Brits pulled over and offered to give us a ride almost all the way back to our car!

We hopped in, excited to finally be done walking…or so we thought. Before getting out of the mountainside, Paul and Izzy asked if we minded stopping to see a waterfall. Not wanting to be rude and slightly interested in seeing more nature (after 7 days straight of the stuff), we agreed. We spent 45 minutes walking up and down a path to what turned out to be a gorgeous waterfall; including crossing a petrifying swing bridge only wide and stable enough for one person to cross at a time.

Back on the road, we pulled over every few minutes to make some sort of mechanical repairs before continuing on. Heading up a massive hill, Atown slept as I made small chat until suddenly, the front of the van began filling with smoke. I thought, we should’ve paid for the water taxi, as Paul pulled over and began even more repairs. On a time-constraint to make our ferry to Wellington, we wished Paul and Izzy the best, grabbed our gear, and hitched out our thumbs. It wasn’t long before an equally substandard van pulled over to give us a lift. Inside, two young Mexican women and a VERY smelly German entertained me while Atown slept some more. Getting dropped off only a few miles from our final destination, I said “adios” to our southern sisters whilst Atown shouted an Italian “ciao!” at the girls.

It had been over five hours since completing our tramp, and we needed the luck of at least one more ride to make it back to the car. Luck came in the form of a multicolored polka-dotted Subaru with a Spaniard driving. I didn’t catch the guy’s name, but his car smelled of kettle-corn and he was headed to Takaka. Atown and I both exchanged knowing glances and stayed quiet about the fact that the poor guy (whilst driving us closer to our destination), was driving in the opposite direction of Takaka. Arriving at the trailhead of Abel Tasman, we both gave him a big thank-you for the lift, and another “ciao!” was added from Atown. We had finally made it back to my beloved Pip and alas; our epic and beautiful three-day tramp was over! We had enjoyed stunning scenery, some hilarious moments, the challenge of traversing the entire hike in three days, and most importantly- I had managed to keep Atown alive…barely!

Fun Fact: The national ice cream flavor here in Kiwiland is a delightful vanilla and caramel treat called Hokey Pokey.

The One Where a German Carpenter Saves the Perfect Day

Sunrises that turn the sky purple and the clouds brilliant shades of pink and orange, rivers so vibrantly teal and so clear that every pebble can be seen on the riverbed, forests thick with ferns and the tweeting of birds, lakes of water sitting impossibly high on the tops of mountains, the sweeping depths of golden yellow valley floors lined with crisscrossing blue streams, snowcapped peaks fighting the suns warmth, immensely huge cliffs with dozens of cascading waterfalls, stunning views of the sea blocked from advancing further by glacier cut mountains, clouds eerily in the distance moving as if alive and swallowing everything in its path, wooded mountainsides completely covered in a thick soft blanket of moss, and emerald green pools of water sitting amongst a meadow of lush grass... this isn't a fairy tale folks, this is the Routeburn Track.

Words don't do justice to the beauty of the 19-mile hike A-town and I undertook early Monday morning. Getting up at 4am, we double-checked our packs for food and emergency gear before filling up with water and heading on our way. The hour and a half drive in the pitch-black soon became lit enough to make out figures of sheep grazing and mountain peaks in the distance. Arriving at the Routeburn Shelter, we stripped down to running shorts and t-shirts, stretched, and then began our mission.

Crossing swing bridges and climbing rock-faces, we made our way jogging and walking briskly up a steep ascent to the first hut on the track; stopping once or twice for the some of the dozens of photos taken throughout the day. Pausing for a few minutes to catch our breath and to enjoy the sun that was finally up, we began running into other hikers, some on their second or third day of walking the track. Within minutes we were off again, carefully picking our steps over loose rocks and water as we ran. Stopping only for pictures and to navigate passing hikers, we arrived at the summit of the trail after two hours of an exhausting climb. Two elderly Kiwis provided a wonderful break and some much-needed encouragement before we continued on.

The path became more narrow, snaking along a mountainside with very little room for error. A slip in the wrong section would inevitably send you a few hundred meters down a very unforgiving rocky cliffside. Starting to feel the fatigue, and definitely the hunger, we both took our time descending to Lake Mackenzie while enjoying the clear skies and warm sun. An hour spent eating, napping, and having a hilarious impromptu photo shoot left us rested and energized for the last 7 miles of the trek.

The track leveled out (in comparison to the first half of up and down zig-zagging) enough for us to pick up the pace. Still careful to watch every step, we found ourselves racing through the forest until coming upon the base of a massive waterfall. Falling from 1,000 feet up, water crashed over jagged rocks before settling into a crystal clear pool of calm water. Snagging a few pictures before heading out, we were forced to slow down and climb massive boulders until the trail appeared again. Realizing we were way ahead of schedule, and both not particularly ready to start running again, we spent an hour walking and reliving the glory days of playing rugby and the crazy times with the crew at Chico State.

Mid-story I realized the trail had become extremely level and made the decision to run again, figuring it was unlikely we would have such a nice gradient for very long. Ever the typical American, A-town busted out her headphones and picked a "sick beat" on her iPhone to keep pace with. Her beats must've been pretty sick because I found myself in a sprint just to keep up. Literally leaping over streams and banking off of rocks, I felt like we were in a video game and was very thankful for all the agility drills I had gone through playing rugby. Rocks aren't exactly as forgiving as cones and I quickly learned that looking up meant twisting my ankle and so kept my eyes to the ground.

Arriving at the last hut, thoroughly exhausted, we took in more water and set a goal -to run the last 2 miles in 20 minutes.

Then we turned the corner and saw the massive hill we had to climb.As we trudged to the top A-towns knee almost doubled in size and we both agreed it would be better for her to walk the rest of the way to the car. Ever the competitor, I figured that since I started the hike running, I was going to finish it running. Forgetting the ache in my legs and the pain in my ankles, I cruised to the car dodging tourists left and right. Finally at the parking lot, elated to have conquered 19-miles in 7 hours, I was far too quickly reminded of the one small error I had made that day- leaving the car keys at home.

Because the track goes in one direction, I had driven my coworker's car to one end and she had taken mine to the other. Being excited to have the opportunity to use one of my spare keys (that costs nearly $200 if you remember) I told her to lock my regular keys inside the car. Unfortunately the spare key was a few hours away still hanging out in the pocket of my jeans. A-town arrived as I was trying to wedge the door open with sticks. A few dozen broken sticks later, and with no cell phone reception, I had all but given up. Rock in hand, poised to smash a window, I looked up to see a campervan pull up. Weighing the fun of smashing a window against the cost of replacing it, I listened to A-town's suggestion and headed over to ask for help.

A van full of young hippie Germans is always promising! One stirring spoon and a carpenters measuring stick later, and presto, the car was unlocked! The Germans were surprisingly funny, and I spent a few minutes profusely thanking them and offering them gum as a reward. Thankful to have the lucky fortune of having a German carpenter save the day, A-town and I clamored into Pip (the van), high-fived ourselves to a job well done, and drove away smiling.

-Ashley

Fun Fact: Not only did I manage to lock the keys in the car that day, but an hour later I left the lights on and drained the entire battery. Luckily A-town has no qualm shouting at strangers, because we soon were rescued (for the second time in a day) by a drunk Virginian man with jumper cables!

The One Swim-Bike-Run

Gasping for air, I lifted my face from the water to scan for the buoy I was swimming toward and could have sworn it was drifting farther away!

Pushing onward (and trying to figure out how the hell to swim in a straight line) I noticed the lead swimmer shoot past me in the opposite direction at what seemed like an impossible pace. Great, I thought to myself, I’m not even halfway and that psycho is almost out of the water! Another 200 excruciating meters later and my feet touched the mushy bottom of Lake Hayes. Throwing a quick look over my shoulder I wasn’t surprised to see only a handful of women still swimming behind me. I had my work cut out for me for the next two legs of my first triathlon (since my glory days as a six-year-old CARD triathlete superstar in Bidwell Park).

Half stumbling, half jogging, I made my way up the hill to the staging area where my bike (a roadie rental from work) was waiting for me. While tying my shoes, I noticed how few bikes were still in the staging area and silently cursed myself for not training more in the water. The irritation fueled my adrenaline, and as I ran through the grass toward the road with my bike- I began my attack. Picking off two competitors before leaping onto my bike, I then put it in high gear and charged past several more women on the gravel, my thin wheels precariously balancing over the ruts.

Once on the road, I came around a corner and noticed the dozens of women ahead of me, all pedaling vigorously through the rolling hills. Soon an unplanned group of cars turning were slowing down a group of fellow riders and myself. After about 10 seconds of impatient waiting, I looked over my shoulder to the car behind me, threw my arm out to signal I was merging, and riding out into the oncoming lane, I furiously peddled past the traffic whilst passing another three or four competitors. Over the next few miles I set my sights on the woman in front of me until she was behind and continued to push my pace through the beautiful New Zealand countryside. Thankful for my summer evenings spent climbing up steep mountains in search of downhill rides, I took advantage of a number of big climbs on the way back to overtake several groups.

In the final leg of the ride, I finally met my match in the form of a small woman in blue trainers. We used a bit of teamwork to draft off one another (a helpful break from arduous solo pedaling) until we arrived back at the staging area. Shouting a few words of encouragement at one another, we ran to drop off our bikes before losing each other in the mayhem of runners, bikers, and supporters.

With legs of jello I jogged back out toward the trail, listening to friends cheering and re-adjusting my mop of hair as I ran. Knowing running was one of my strong suits, I mentally had a laugh at all the impressive swimmers and continued my attack. Tired and feeling energy slip away with each step, I didn’t know if I would be able to catch anyone else. Luckily, everyone else was drained too, and I’d like to think my rugby mentality of “all out, all 80-minutes” helped me push through the fatigue. Gaining on and overtaking one exhausted woman after another, I forced myself up what seemed like vertical mountains before letting my momentum build and sprinting down the other sides.

A good second-wind allowed me to muster up a quicker pace as I noticed bigger gaps between runners. Finally, realizing I had less than a mile to go and no one close enough to catch-up to, I let up on my “race” mentality and enjoyed the sun, the stunning lake view, and the elation of competing again. A smile broke on my face as my feet hit the grass and the finish line was in sight.

Just over an hour of swimming, biking and running had passed and I felt the exhaustion melt away into euphoria and satisfaction as I crossed the finish line already thinking about entering my next race.

-Ashley

Fun Fact: Two 12-year-old girls competed in the race, one of them completing the course ahead of over half the field!

The One Camping, Rafting, Hiking...Oops, That Was Just Work!

As another massive gust of wind swept through the campsite I literally used my entire body weight to hold down the half-collapsed canvas tent. My coworker pounded furiously at the metal stake to secure the tent back in place, but as soon as one stake was firmly in ground the wind would counter-act our efforts, and as if to mock us, two more sides of the tent would launch into the air. An hour passed before the wind died down and the HQ Events staff (including myself) was able to rejoin our group of 35 Australian clients – all happily boozing it up inside the Skippers Canyon gold-mining museum, which was doubling as our dinner venue.

This was night two of a three-day binge of “work”. I had started things off Wednesday evening with an exciting and equally terrifying drive into the canyon. I happily careened around corners and through ruts in a lifted Land Rover whilst re-living the glory days of driving the family jeep in high school (*sidenote: Mom, I never took that car off-road, I swear)! Once onsite, Dugald, Nick, and myself spent several hours pitching 12 mega-tents and admiring the awe-inspiring evening sky –including the most massive full-colored rainbow I’ve ever seen; it was perfect enough to make the front page of the SF Chronicle during Pride weekend! Once the tents were up, the sun was down, and the rain started, the boys and I shared a few beers, stories, and yummy camping grub.

Thursday morning started out ominous and blustery but broke into mildly overcast as Dugald and I literally ran a few kilometers back up the canyon to meet the clients. Mostly middle-aged and mostly men, the Aussies piled out of the bus with their matching backpacks and looks of confusion. Apparently the idea was that the group didn’t know where they were going or what they were doing until the last minute –this included going to the airport and trying to get through immigration without knowing where they were flying (not an easy task and only feasible outside the US)! Dugald made up some fish story regarding the conditions of the road and how the group was going to have to hike 20k’s into camp; to my surprise they all began hiking without complaint. A few minutes later, having figured out Dugald was full of it; we arrived at camp and quickly set to the first of many activities throughout the trip (including jet-boating, gambling, and team competitions).

Our venue was brilliant, an old mining encampment complete with an Indiana Jones style bridge, mining tunnels, and more old mining equipment than you would know what to do with – all sitting atop vertical canyon cliffs that dropped into the teal blue waters of the Shotover River. As the sun set, what was a slight chill turned into down-right cold and the only defense most of the hot-weather-minded Aussies could think of was more booze. Smashed and happy, the good ‘ol boys sat around the campfire and began a competition of who could tell the dirtiest most politically incorrect joke. I learned that night that those who hail from Oz aren’t just good swimmers and crocodile hunters – they can drink and tell jokes with the best of them!

Near midnight my boss Karla and I were able to coerce the last of the group to their tents, but not before having to turn down several sloppy offers of sharing body heat. Tired and annoyed to be frozen in the middle of “summer” I headed to my own tent, curled into bed, and lay gazing at the most starry sky I’ve ever seen; I even caught a glimpse of a few super-sized shooting stars. Shivering and happy, I dozed to sleep listening to the symphony of snores and bodily noises emitting from the tents surrounding me.

A tapping noise stirred me from sleep and as I cracked one eye open I noticed a thin layer of frost was covering the inside of my tent. Not wanting to get up and face the cold, I told Dugald to piss off but was (not so) gently reminded that despite the camp-like environment, I was still “at work”. Within the hour I was chatting up the clients while eating an amazingly delicious catered breakfast and sipping hot tea wondering when or if it was ever going to get warm again. Shortly after I found myself struggling to take down the tents that the wind had so easily dismantled.

By midday camp was packed and Dugald and I were playing musical chairs with vehicles whilst trying to get to the white-water rafting site with everything in order. Arriving just on time with the raft guides, we suited up and were soon on the rafts with our clients headed down the river. I still can’t believe I got paid to paddle through rapids with some of the most hilarious people I’ve ever met!

Once off the river, the group had a few drinks before heading back to the hotel. I had a short period of downtime before having to dress-up and head out to the client’s awards banquet. The banquet was not on my work schedule, but rather the head of the group had invited me to join them (along with getting the free drinks and dinner) because they had enjoyed my company. I was flattered to be invited and enjoyed a lovely evening socializing and listening to one client after another declare how this years’ muster (as the annual even is called) was the best ever. Hearing firsthand from the clients how meaningful the trip was to them and receiving heartfelt praise for my work was an extremely gratifying moment that further established my desire to work in event planning.

With job requirements like being able to talk loudly, talk a lot, socialize, compete, run around (sometimes literally) and make lists, I think I’ve definitely found my calling!

-Ashley

Fun Fact: Today I realized that anyone I meet from Australia or who is a native New Zealander instinctively shortens my name to Ash. It then occurred to me that these people shorten EVERYTHING!

Examples:

- Brekkie (breakfast)

- Tea (dinner)

- Sunnies (sunglasses)

- Ambo (ambulance)

- Avo (avalanche)

- Beaut (beautiful, admirable)

- Ute (utility vehicle, AKA truck or SUV)

- Esky (refrigerator)

- Cardi (cardigan or strappy tank-top)

- Arvo (afternoon)

- Kindy (kindergarten or preschool)

- Mozzie (mosquito)

- OE (overseas experience)

- Sammie (sandwich)

- Ta (thank you)

- Uni (university, not to be confused with college)

- Cuz (cousin)

- Chrissy (Christmas)

- Rellies (relatives, parents)

- Welly (Capital city Wellington)

- Barbie (a barbeque, and yes, for real they say this one)

The One Endless Adventure: AKA Living in Queenstown NZ

I know you’ve all been dying to know what it’s like to live in the Adventure Capital of the World, so wait no longer because you’re about to find out everything you ever wanted to know about little ol’ Queenstown New Zealand!

When explorer Will Rees decided to start a farm off the shores of Lake Wakatipu (wa-ka-tep-ooh) in 1860, he probably couldn’t even dream that 150 years later the area would be the most visited tourist destination in the entire country. Thanks in part to a gold rush occurring in the area and the popularity of extreme sports readily available in and around town, Queenstown has grown and flourished, with costly living expenses to boot! Want to know what Queenstown looks like? Check out The Lord of the Rings Triology (filmed in and around QT), Willow (my favorite movie of all time, also filmed in Northern California), X-Men Origins (actor and hottie Hugh Jackman still exists on the local video store customer database), 10,000 BC (horrible movie, I know), and the stunning scenes of The Chronicals of Narnia series.

So what is it that I do in Middle Earth? Anything and everything that I don’t have to pay full price for! A typical week always holds an adventure or two. In the past few months I’ve been bungy-jumping, white-water rafting, jet-boating, paragliding, and down some of the gnarliest mountain bike trails the country has to offer. I’ve also been in the process of conquering my fears of dark bottomless water while swimming Moke Lake, Lake Hayes, and an occasional dip in the freezing Lake Wakatipu. Daily runs on the hilly trails along the lakes keep me sane whilst hikes and bike rides around town keep me in awe of the beauty I’m surrounded by.

Working part-time at four different jobs has kept me busy, mostly dealing with tourists. Since I’ve been living here for longer than 3 weeks, I’m officially considered a local and still can’t believe some of the things “tourists” say and do.

Favorite observations:
- Asian tourists taking pictures…of EVERYTHING.
- Asian tourists taking more pictures.
- The European man who insisted on wearing a wetsuit for his jetboat ride. (For those of you who have never been on a high-speed jetboat ride, the only contact with water is when the spray from 360-degree turns drizzles on you.)
- Foreigners coming in to buy shoes and then having near heart attacks when they realize the “cheapest” shoe available is $145.
- Americans crossing the street wherever they want and expecting traffic to stop (cars will only stop for pedestrians at zebra crossings, aka striped cross-walks)
- Explaining the menu to foreign customers with items like: flat white (espresso and milk), long black (espresso and water), kumara (sweet potatoes) filo (veggie filled pastry), bangers and mash (sausage and potatoes), capsicum (bell pepper), cuppa (tea or coffee), fizzy (soda), lemonade (sprite), chocolate fish (marshmallow covered fish), stubbie (bottle of beer) and tinnie (can of beer).

Favorite comments:
- “I’ve been on the website, so I obviously know more about this product than you do.” (No offense to my Pommy friends but Brits can be the snobbiest people ever!)
- “How far is it to 7-mile reserve?”
- “Will this rain-jacket keep me from getting wet when it rains?”
(and my favorite)
- “When you take the cruise on the lake, when is the best time to see the dolphins?”

Ah the joys of living in a town where 4 in every 5 people you come into contact with are from another country! As i've previously mentioned, living in Queenstown isn’t cheap either. Gas prices are the highest you will find in the country (at a measly $6.00 a gallon), monthly grocery bills on a budget hover near $400, at the bar an “inexpensive” beer costs $7.00 (whilst buying a 6-pack of the cheap stuff at the market will only run you about $14), the “early bird special” season pass for the nearby ski field (smaller than Boreal) has jumped to $799, and rent per week for a bedroom 15-minutes from town costs $120-$250. It’s insane that I’ve been able to save any money at all since moving here!

I guess if it were economical to live here the town would be over-run. Living in the most expensive place in the country (which has one of the most expensive economies in the world) has its drawbacks, but you can’t put a price on being able to bike, skydive, boat, raft, bungy, hike, swim, ski, kayak, paraglide, skate, helicopter, cruise, snowboard, horse ride, paintball, golf, abseil, base-jump, zipline, off-road, disc-golf, luge, fish, or run after work!

-Ashley

Fun Fact: When watching the Olympics over the next few weeks check out my mate Mitchey Greig in the newly added event of skier-cross. One of ten NZ winter Olympians, Mitchey is a Queenstown native and one of the craziest chicks I’ve ever met!