The One With REALLY FRIGGIN' BIG Rapids!

“Grab her! GRAB HER!” Nolan, our rafting guide, shouted above the roar of the Grade 4 rapid as my friend Mayu was swept past our raft.

As Alex (another friend) scrambled to pull Mayu out of the icy water, the raft continued its charge past boulders the size of school buses and water that threatened to swallow us all at any moment. “PADDLE! PADDLE! GET HER IN!” Nolan continued to shout as an enormous wall of jagged rocks suddenly came rushing at us. “RIGHT SIDE PADDLE! PADDLE HARD! STOP! BUMP!!!” we bounced forcefully off the wall, spun slightly, then, as if someone had turned off the ride – we calmly floated down the Shotover River.

“They would SO never let us do this in the States!” I announced, grinning ear to ear. Mayu let out a giggle and Alex flashed a brilliant smile. “Hell yeah Mayu! HOW WAS THAT RIDE?!”

The morning hadn’t started off this great...

Severely lacking sleep, I literally rolled out of bed onto the floor flinging my hand across the carpet in search for the piercingly loud alarm blaring from my phone. I had strategically moved it far enough away that I had to get out of bed to reach it. Turning the alarm off, I could hear the patter of rain on the ceiling…this was not the kind of weather to be rafting in. But how could I pass up a freebie?

Running late, I arrived at Queenstown Rafting only to find out there was only one space left on the morning trip. With Mayu, Alex and I adamant about rafting together, the numbers were not in our favor. Slightly annoyed to have gotten up extra early just to be rejected, I settled for Mayu’s suggestion of at least getting a coffee together since we were all already up and in town. As we began walking down the street we suddenly heard Indri (our mountain biking cohort and manager of QT Rafting) shouting, “Hey, there’s only three of you right?” We looked at each other in disbelief before practically running back toward Indri.

Within minutes we found ourselves crammed into a bus meandering up a dangerously steep, curvy, and impossibly small road on my way to raft the white waters of the Shotover River. An hour later, donning full-body wetsuits, wind jackets, helmets, and with Alex and her crew/kayaking skills at the helm, we were on the water attempting to paddle in unison. Mayu, quite content to be sitting next to our guide, sat behind and across from me. I tried not to be annoyed by the English girl in front of me who, whilst barely dipping her paddle in the water, was hitting my paddle and screwing up our otherwise perfect rhythm.

For the first half hour, the small rapids that shot up water into the raft easily impressed me. As Nolan (a fellow American) put us through the paces of important paddling and maneuvering commands he and I discussed the Rose Bowl and how much we both despise the Lakers. Soon enough though, he became serious as he described the upcoming rapids. Already accustomed to tourist operations over-emphasizing and under-performing, I didn’t really take him seriously until we rounded a bend and watched as the raft in front of us disappeared into a massive rapid before suddenly cresting over the top and smashing into a yet another wall of water. My adrenaline pumped and my heart soared…now this is what I called adventure!

Names like Rock Garden, Sharks Fin, Toilet, Pinball, Jaws, and Sequel described the series of rapids we traversed before attacking the exhilarating section of canyon whitewater aptly named Oh Shit! A week’s worth of freakish summer rainstorms had changed Grade 2-3 rapids to 3 and 4+ Grade monsters that had rafters scrambling to stay onboard or flying off into the washing machine cycle of the river.

After a series of exhausting rapids, and in a calm section of the river, Nolan encouraged those of us keen to cool off to jump overboard and enjoy a rapid without the raft. I lunged at Alex, toppling both of us headfirst into the water before we assumed “rapid body position” and floated feet first down the river. Looking back I watched as Nolan frantically struggled to control the raft solo and realized that everyone but Mayu had jumped out! With the raft out of swimming distance, and as the water became swifter and more treacherous, I heard shouts from other raft guides to start swimming toward shore. Within 30 seconds I was completely exhausted and making no progress toward raft nor shore. Watching the others struggle back into whatever raft was nearby, I soon was the last one in the water. Still uncomfortably far away from anything floating, I gave up on swimming and began trying to float as slow as possible. In the midst of all this, I remember thinking, “I am so not ever doing a triathlon! I’m in a lifejacket and I’m still half drowning!”

Eventually Nolan, raft, and crew caught up to me and I was hauled back onboard. Just a few more minutes down the river was our final challenge: a pitch-black 550 ft. long tunnel that channeled water into the colossal Cascade Rapid.

We all crouched inside the raft, paddles tucked in, as Alex – following Nolan’s commands, blindly steered us at the front. As the tunnel opened and we emerged into the daylight the sound of water boomed and Nolan shouted, “Okay, the raft in front of us flipped! Alright, get up! Paddle! Stop! Paddle! Stop!” we quickly approached the drop-point of the Grade 4 rapid and watched as emergency ropes were thrown toward ejected rafters, “Okay, everyone get down!” just as I curled inside the raft we slammed into a rock wall and then pitched steeply down a 12 foot drop-off. Water crashed over us and hurled as upward and over until, quite suddenly, we were back in calm water.

Grinning like idiots, we all high-fived and watched as the rest of the rafts in our group safely, in a rough and tumble manner, made it through.

I can’t wait to do it again!

-Ashley

Fun Fact: The Shotover is the second richest gold-bearing river in the world!

The One With Chico & Friends

“Come here you little bastard”, I muttered as I crept slowly toward the fugitive parrot that had escaped his cage. Although I had barely whispered, Chico must have heard me because he suddenly flew defiantly to the opposite end of the room. Benson, the giant Black Lab/Saint Bernard mix lay patiently as Chico obliviously approached the dog’s drooling mouth. I gave Benson a stern warning not to eat his buddy Chico before I managed to coax the dog outside while keeping the flying parrot inside.

I then tried a more pleasant approach to bird-catching - “Come here buddy, its time to go back into your nice home.” I continued to move cautiously toward the bird, whom perched on the couch – was finally standing his ground. I gently reached out my hand, hoping he would hop on like a normal bird; but instead was answered with three very quick, and very sharp pecks! The little shit had bit me! I yelped loudly, sending the bird fleeing back across the room. By the time I had inspected my hand for serious injury, Chico had gleefully flown back into his cage and was busying himself with preening his bright green feathers. Frustrated and annoyed, I pieced the roof back on the cage, hurled some colorful words at the bird, and then let the dog (who had been whining the entire past five minutes) back inside.

Welcome to housesitting at the Robb household.

I won’t even bother describing my fiasco with the two Chinchilla’s…

The past three weeks have been like a mini-vacation complete with all the unexpected adventures to boot.

To save you’re eyes, I’ll summarize:

A) So engrossed in watching an episode of Flight of the Concords, I burned a pot of rice so badly I could barley rescue the top layer.

B) When trying to “tidy up” the woodpile, I managed to initiate a domino effect of falling timber…all the way down the driveway.

C) I invited several co-workers over to enjoy the Jacuzzi – only to forget to turn the Jacuzzi on so we all reluctantly sat in luke-warm water for a few minutes before giving up and watching horror movies instead.

D) The car ran out of gas, in the middle of nowhere, driving from Arrowtown (where the Robb house is) to work in Queenstown.

E) Groggy and still half asleep, I fell at least half a flight of stairs before a frantic grab for the wall stopped me.

F) Walking past the family car, I noticed the radio had been ripped from the dashboard. I frantically called the police to make a theft report before the neighbor informed me the car had been like that for months.

G) I almost accidentally vacuumed up a Chinchilla tail when cleaning the poo out of the cage.

H) I lost the dog…kind of…twice.

All in all house-sitting was actually quite pleasant. I loved having a 2 story, 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom, huge front deck, Jacuzzi-and-surround-sound-filled house to myself for three weeks! Now its time to move onward and upward to my new crib! AKA, a garage that I pay $20 a week to park my van/house in and use all the facilities inside. At least my roommates are Irish, Welsh and Kiwi…things can only get better from here!

-Ashley

Fun fact: As an incentive to recycle, NZ charges $3.75 for a 15-liter waste bag that ALL NON-RECYCLNG MUST GO IN. So, recycling= FREE, landfill=heaps of $$$!

The One Longest Day

As I slipped and slid down the dirt mountainside following Naomi to check out the looming plunge ahead I was thinking to myself, “This chick wants me to RIDE MY BIKE DOWN THIS?!? IS SHE NUTS?!?” Then, as I clamored back up the hill to my bike and pulled myself into position to drop, my question change to, “I’M GOING TO RIDE DOWN THIS?!? AM I FREAKING NUTS?!?”

Guess so.

At nearly 10PM the sun is still refusing to succumb to the surrounding mountains, marking the longest day of the year here in New Zealand. Taking full advantage of the summer solstice, a group of kick-ass locals decided to ride the Wynyard Downhill track – and somehow I managed to get an invite.

I had spent the morning leisurely waking up to the warming sun cascading upon Arrowtown – a small town on the South Island, and without a doubt, one of the most beautiful area’s I’ve ever seen. Nestled between several breathtaking mountain ranges, Arrowtown boasts a historical downtown that lies parallel to a quaint river that at the moment is host to thousands of beautiful wildflowers.

Adam and Gary had stayed the night (after we all stayed up watched a hilariously scary horror movie) at the house I was housesitting. Delighted to be hosting my first sleepover in months, I quickly set-to making apple-cinnamon pancakes and eggs…dyed blue and green just for fun! After the boys showed me how to eat properly with my knife and fork, the three of us spent a lazy afternoon in the sun before heading back to Queenstown.

After dropping the boys off I packed up my bike and headed to Wynyard. The five ladies joining me had varying levels of experience (i.e. Naomi -internationally ranked pro, Pip -a newbie like me). Despite never riding an expert-level downhill track, I excitedly followed the ladies as they charged down the street toward the beginning of the track. I didn’t even make it 10 feet past the dirt before realizing I had popped my tire on a silly curb of all things!

Not to be out-done, another rider named Sal had suffered the same misfortune. So the two of us patiently waited for a car-ride back down to make repairs. Never having done anything beyond putting a chain back on, I listened as Sal walked me through how to fix my tire. A quick drive to get new tubes and several laughs later, we were headed back up to the top of the course.

I spent one terrifying run on my own bike (suitable for some pretty mean cross country riding but not advanced downhill courses) before the girls took pity on me and began letting me demo their own bikes each run. I learned that a few thousand dollars makes a world of difference when riding sheer rock faces and rutted-out burms! I cautiously followed - trying not fall as Indra, Naomi and the others hit jumps and wood rails at speeds I only hope to reach someday.

A few runs down Naomi, whether on purpose or by mistake, led us into a section of the trail with three options:

A- go down a really steep 15 ft. drop followed by huge ruts.

B- go down a suuuper steep 15ft. drop followed by smoother ruts.

C- go down a steep, really technical 20 ft. drop full of lots of ruts.

I chose option B and somehow, through sheer determination not to chicken-out, made it down without crashing. At least the first time through!

After a few gloriously adrenaline-pumping runs (and not too many crashes by yours truly) the girls decided to call it a day. Not a bad end to the longest one of the year.

FUN FACT: If you ever feel like complaining about gas prices, come to New Zealand. Petrol (as they call it) can be priced at over $8.00 a gallon!!!

The One Hundred and Ninety Dollar Key

“You know the chances of us finding this thing are like one in a billion right?”

“At least.

Finding keys on the side of a mountain is not unlike trying to find a needle in a haystack. Only a haystack doesn’t have heart-attack rendering peaks and overgrown razor-sharp bushes. My morning had been a challenging one already. Jess, a fellow American rugger had accompanied me on a 16K hilly bike ride that had brought us to the Roaring Meg Reserve; a scenic campsite/picnic area clustered next to two distinctly different, yet beautiful rivers. The Kawaru (ka-wa-row) River runs ashy blue through a canyon of jutting rocks and dangerous rapids. The Roaring Meg River is more picturesque with its mountain-fed clear waters pouring over boulders and fallen trees. But enough about water – lets get back to the seemingly impossible task Jess and I were tackling.

Our mission had begun, inadvertently, almost 24 hours before we found ourselves huffing and puffing up steep ridges. Having two days off of work, I had taken Jess up on her offer to visit Cromwell, a small agricultural township close to Queenstown. On my way to Cromwell I decided to hike the Roaring Meg Track. Once I realized the track was really just a road for the most part, I opted for the challenge of “free-hiking” up a random mountain. Free hiking is essentially picking an area to hike and going in that direction, often without the aide of trails. So up I went, sometimes following sheep trails, but mostly picking a path that avoided the thorns of the brush covering the mountainside. Two sweat-filled hours later I reached the summit. I was pleasantly surprised to find a grassy meadow appear amidst the havoc of rough terrain.

After a few pictures and a snack I began the tumultuous trek downward. Loose rocks and dirt sent me flying several times; one spill in particular must have dislodged my only set of car keys. Oblivious to the loss, I continued down the mountain until finally, thirsty and worn-out, I arrived at the car. Reaching into my backpack, it took me 4 or 5 pocket checks before I determined my keys were not in my possession. Just to make sure, I emptied my entire car out (after breaking in) and then literally ran the first 20 minutes of the trail looking frantically for the tiny key hooked on a very well camouflaged grey lanyard.

An hour later I had given up and called Jess to come rescue me. In the meantime I befriended four wonderfully nice (and good looking!) young men from the Czech Republic. Only two of them spoke English well enough for a conversation, but Peter entertained us all with his newly learned “hello! My name is Peter” and “you are such a beautiful lady”. About a half hour later Jess arrived and we bid farewell to our Czech friends.

A relaxing night ensued followed by morning plans of a mission to recover my missing keys. Jess and I geared up early and headed out with an optimistic and enthusiastic outlook about finding the keys (keep in mind the keys were lost somewhere in unmarked wilderness). About halfway up the mountain, with dark clouds descending upon us I kicked into survival mode and practically ran (okay, jogged - BUT UP A STEEP FREAKING MOUNTAIN) to the summit. A thorough search by both of us came up empty-handed. Until that moment we were both confident that the keys would be where I had last set my backpack down. Looking down the mountain at the seemingly endless and indistinct square mile of brush and rocks we realized the odds of finding the keys now had drastically plunged.

Slipping and at times crawling our way down, we were unsuccessful at recovering anything but new sand fly bites. Four hours later, feeling exhausted and rather dejected, we hitchhiked back to Jess’ house and laid out plans for our next hopefully more successful “mission”: teaching Kiwi’s how to play beer pong. I won’t recount all the glorious details of that night, but lets just say it was highly entertaining and that Kiwi’s are naturally VERY good at drinking games (in fact, they are very good at drinking in general…coincidence perhaps?).

With work looming ahead, I woke up, made my East Coast rugby hosts breakfast (my Dad’s recipe of yummy apple cinnamon pancakes), and called the locksmith. Within a few short hours Gary, the locksmith, had a new key made and my car was up and running. With Kiwi hospitality, Gary led me back to town where he made me two more keys, helped me fix the window I had broken, and then gave me a discount on his original quoted price (even though he had done way more work than I had originally asked). Before announcing the financial damage my carelessness would cost me, Gary informed me that, had I made a spare key BEFORE losing the original, it would’ve been a whopping $5. The final damage? $190. Lesson learned folks….

Fun Fact: The crime rate here is so low that there are only 6 officers on-duty to police 7 townships! So why is it that my locked bike got stolen across the street from the police station? Funny eh?

The One Bicycle Thief

It was a Team Bauer 24-speed front suspension mountain bike with disc brakes, shimano gears, brand new tires and custom pedals. It clicked slightly when peddling uphill in 14^th gear and my dear friend Stu had even switched the brakes to the American style so I didn’t hurl myself over the handlebars (too often). Its unique paint job included gold painted-on zippers and the seat liked to randomly swivel to the right. My helmet matched my teal and black gloves which, oddly enough, matched a 2-inch stripe of teal on the front of the bike frame. I told myself all this matching wasn’t just mere coincidence, and that the bike was destined to be mine.

But none of this matters anymore, because my beloved bike has been maliciously stolen…

[[[Fade from black]]]

It was a dark and stormy night in windy Queenstown, the ominous weather a precursor of the misfortune that was to befall the unsuspecting victims as they furiously peddled their bikes through the throngs of tourist…

Okay, really it was a warm and fair-weathered evening with a beautiful sunset and hardly any tourist – Adam would never hack it at peddling anywhere close to a “furious” pace, so lets just say we were cruising. As we wheeled up to Starbucks we waved through the window at the crew inside who longingly looked at us as if they wished that they too could be off work and embarking on an evening out. Adam hopped off his bike, leaning it against his usual pillar, then motioned for me to bring my bike over to lock up. Once securely locking both bikes, we headed to Monty’s – one of our favorite pubs.

Several hours later, holding a large pizza, French fries, and several movies, Adam and I both agreed that an attempt to bike home in our condition would be suicide for the pizza. So we walked home – sneaking slices on the way. An evening of vampire movies ensued, and before long, Adam was snoring loudly (in a very Welsh way). I bid adieu to the unconscious Adam and went to sleep myself.

The next morning Adam, on his way to work, walked outside before abruptly returning. “Where did we put the bikes?” he asked. I told him that we had left them at work and saw a small light go on in his head as he finally remembered. About a half hour later I got a text that no bike owner ever wants to receive.

ARE YOU SURE WE LEFT OUR BIKES OUTSIDE STARBUCKS LAST NIGHT?

I pieced the prior evening together from start to finish before responding with a definite YES. I was half hoping that Adam was playing a joke on me, but when he called from the police station to get a description of my bike, my hope vanished. Sulking to work, I immediately noticed the bare pillar where my bike had once been only hours before. Adam hugged me as we mourned the loss of our mutually favorite possessions and we reassured each other that the bikes would turn up eventually.

But boy am I looking forward to tackling the $%*# out of the poor guy who stole my bike when I find him! And I will find him…

-Ashley

Fun Fact: Ben Harper (singer extraordinaire) came into my work today and ordered a latte. Even famous people need coffee!

The One Where I Jump Off a Bridge

The wind was howling as Patrick and I crouched behind a tool box listening to people screaming as they fell. “Are you scared?” Patrick asked me. I thought about how cold I was and replied, “Nope.”. Truth is – I was a tiny itsy bitsy bit worried. But damned if I was going to let anyone see that I wasn't %100 ready to jump off a bridge suspended over hundreds of feet of canyon rock and water.

The group of jumpers dwindled until it was finally our turn to strap in. A nice guy named Jace made small chat as he wrapped towels around our legs and secured ropes to our bodies. I was thoroughly impressed that for close to $200, clients were fastened into navy blue towels before willingly jumping at heights that could kill – how technologically advanced! Patrick looked like he might throw up at any moment and I was increasingly becoming aware that I was minutes away from launching myself from a bridge into icy cold rushing water.

My cool demeanor quickly eroded as the bungy guy kept asking me to shuffle closer and closer to the edge of the platform. Patrick, already standing at the ledge and hanging onto a side rail for dear life, had become mute in his fear. Faint memories of waving at camera’s come to mind before the dreaded countdown began. (I was stupid enough to look down, which sent my heart racing and suddenly this whole idea sounded insane…how could I have ever thought this would be fun?! )Whether Jace started at 3 or 5 I have no idea, because suddenly I remember thinking Oh BLEEP! Patrick is jumping!!! And I half-jumped, half-fell screaming along with him.

The two seconds it took us to hit the water were beyond exhilarating. Patrick, in a panic, wrapped his arms around me and we began spinning mid-air before slamming into the icy water. Suddenly the rushing wind stopped and I couldn’t hear anything for a split second, then we were bouncing upward, soaking wet, laughing and whooping hysterically. Patrick turned to me and said “We did it! Give me a kiss!”, and so I obliged with a big kiss for my little gay friend.

I think we laughed for a good 3 minutes straight before the boat guy was able to rope us in and lower us down for unharnessing. A few high fives were in order before we, in our newly created adrenaline rush, ran up to see our video and pictures. As soon as a figure out how, they will be up for all to see!

Jumping from the world’s first bungy jump? CHECK!

-Ashley

Fun fact: The oldest person to bungy at the Kawarau Bridge Bungy is 94. The youngest? Last week a young man, strapped securely to his parents, celebrated his first birthday by jumping off the same bridge!

The One With The Car Manual…In Japanese

Tonight was one of those once in a blue moon nights where the strangest things happen.

It all began toward closing time when a very Irish woman with a very colorful vocabulary ordered a latte then asked, “Do I look like someone who has AIDS?”. Really though?! Who asks that??? And not only did she ask a perfect stranger a very awkward question, but she said it as casually as someone would ask if we could add extra shots of espresso to drinks.

Three hours later I found myself with my two mates Meghan (a Canadian) and Patrick (my hilariously gay Kiwi friend) outside of Ferburger –a world famous burger joint that caters to all the drunken tourists until the wee hours of the morning. Only tonight, there weren’t actually any burgers to be had. What kind of burger joint (and a supposed world famous one at that) doesn’t have their main entrée? I settled for a bag of french-fries, then proceeded to help the poor girl working the front counter yell out order numbers to the drunken lot stumbling around shouting incoherent things at one another. For my troubles she rewarded me with a tiny cup of ketchup – enough for about six fries, which had I paid for, would’ve cost me 50 CENTS (an entire bottle of ketchup costs $1.40 here)!

After our non-burger Ferburgers, I had the brilliant idea of putting transmission fluid into my car (keep in mind it is close to midnight at this point). The three of us debated which container to pour the fluid into for about twenty minutes, and then tried enlisting the help of four or five very unhelpful young men before finally consulting the car manual. “Does anyone speak Japanese?” I asked while flipping through the booklet written in several languages – all of them beyond my comprehension. Patrick, ever politically correct said, “I think someone at Ferburger speaks Asian.” I didn’t bother embarrassing myself enough to ask if someone spoke “Asian” inside the beefless burger bar.

Finally, I lucked out enough to have two extremely helpful taxi drivers come and save the day! I was astonished by how amazingly sincere and obliging the two were. Within a few minutes my transmission was raring to go and the Taxi man had run back to his car to give me wet wipes to clean up my hands. What a gentleman! Just another example of why I love Kiwi’s!

After getting to Meghan’s house well past midnight the three of us agreed to have a sleepover. As I began emptying things from my pockets, I noticed something in the extra cargo pocket. Throwing a confused look at Meghan I pulled out what turned out to be a car key. Who’s car key I have no idea, and I’m even more clueless as to how it got into my shorts pocket. Too tired to do anything but laugh about it, I proclaimed we would turn the case into Unsolved Mysteries and wait out the owner.

-Ashley

FUN FACT: Flight of the Concords – a New Zealand produced comedy, is the best show created since Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Check it out and be prepared to laugh! "You're so beautiful, you could be a part-time model!"