South Island

January 22 - February 3, 2000


The land of the Kiwis (who name themselves after the endangered bird, not the generic fruit) had prepared a less hearty welcome than its larger brother down the'e: It was raining heavily on our arrival, with modest temperatures around 20 C. New Zealand is very sparsely populated (3 million on an area larger than Great Britain), and the tourists here are most often long-term budget travelers of the hiker kind. Finding luxury accommodation is therefore rather difficult, especially in the beautiful but deserted southern areas. Our first test of the "Small Luxury Hotels" guide lead us to the "George Hotel" in Christchurch, allegedly the best in town, but after the charm of the Observatory it was at best middle class (also at a much lower price that did not correspond to the high rates published in the guide). If Christchurch (with 400,000 inhabitants the second largest city in the country, the largest on the South Island) could not convince with anything more professional, we were obviously better off assimilating to the backpacking pack, so we decided to rent a campervan at Maui (for NZ$137/day). Which was a rather good idea, as distances on curvy roads are nonetheless not neglectible, and sleeping wherever you stop gives you an edge over locating a proper motel and checking in and out every day. Plus, dinner options are few out in the mountains, and cooking your own gourmet snacks in campervan sweet campervan might be the best of choices often times.

So when on the first evening (shopping the basics at Save'n'Pak had taken some time) we saw we would not make it up to Arthur's Pass any more (the most scenic route on the entire island, traversing the Southern Alps from east to west) - and the weather was not too charming anyway - we just pulled over at the roadside and slept through a windy and rainy night until the brighter charming appearance of the next day's sunrise. Unfortunately, this appearance became darker the more altitude we gained, and standing in pouring rainfall up on the pass, we understood why there was rainforest all on the west side of the island, although the location was well south of the Tropic of Capricorn: It just rained all year round, up to 9 meters p.a. further down south.

As we were not here for the fun only, we nonetheless packed our Gore-Tex jackets and tramped (NewZealandian language for "hiked") up a steep rocky path towards the Devil's Punchball Falls. Now these were _real_ waterfalls, fueled by a decent amount of liquid, sending wild clouds of white mist through the entire valley, leveling the sensation of poundering rain with horizontal jets of spray - incomparable to Australia's comparatively semi-arid attractions. Surely, the path to the "Real Thing" is also more unpaved and wetter than the one to standard features - we were certain that our hobby hiking shoe gear would not keep up with this advanced challenge and bumper its limits soon on a more serious hike in this capricious environment.

The road led us through more rainforest and more rain down to Franz-Joseph Glacier, a collision between the rugged altitudes of ever-snowcapped mountains and the steep coastline, but unfortunately also the next morning those natural wonders were still kept in the secret veils of clouds and continuous rain, so we had to please us with admiring the unspoilt beauty of a clear day over the glaciers on an IMAX screen of a local helicopter tour operator (who obviously used the fascinating shoots from above to lure spectators to booking a helicopter ride). But even helicopters do not see better in clouds, so our van took us further down south, to Haast. On the way we could savor for a few moments the glory of the surroundings under afternoon sun, beaking through the rainy clouds at the coast and sending clouds of damping rain from the heated asphalt skyward, letting us pass through mists of half-condensed raindrops and brilliantly colorful rainbows framing lush subtropical green arrangements all around. This was Aladdin flying his carpet at low altitude through the equatorial outskirts of paradise.

Contrary to the weather forecast promising amelioration, we woke up the next morning to the continuous drums of rain playing on our campervan roof. We felt more lucky than ever that we did not try the alternative with car and tent (as some folks around us at the campsite); our laundry was still not dry, although we had hung it inside our van for more than a day. No wonder if the humidity outside is at a constant 100% - and cannot be any better inside with the repetitive addition of vaporizing rain from wet raincoats. Working with a tent must be the ultimate outdoor test in these conditions. That is probably why all campsites also offer cheap cabins in lieu of campsites for discouraged campers.

As by noon there was at least a blue ribbon of sky discernible along the coastline (whereas the inland mountains were still mantled in thickest greys), coastal Jackson Bay was the declared destination, further south on the beach. The dead-end road taking the curious explorer to a remote dozen of fishermen's houses leads through 46 km of deserted rainforest, with a short marked walk at the end to an even more deserted beach, illuminated ghostly by a composition of shadows and few errating sunbeams having finally found their way through multiple layers of misty sheets. Some fishing and farming gear owned by the habitants of this end-of-the-world village seemed to have been unused for decades, rusting in peace at the location of its last humble service.

Heading inland, chasing the wild winds, the scenery changed fairly rapidly from coastal rainforest to Scottish Highlands and Lochs, then further to steep rocky mountains, which Hercules must have had dismounted in northern Italy. Numerous waterfalls came poundering from above, many directly adjacent to the winding road leading further inland, where the mountain giants had been finally deprived of all superfluous ornaments like trees and ferns, conducting the interlude with similar blank neighbors in a baffling fortissimo. The subsequent set tuned in mellower tones, with the harsh rocks giving way to smoother hills painted in reddish yellow, and the overall landscape becoming more arid, in spite of the omnipresent clouds still covering the panorama. Here and there, brilliantly green patches stood out, like golf courses on lava grounds - man-made pastures that would evidently turn to the same yellow dry without automatic sprinkler systems.

Just a few dozen kilometers later, the environment had again shifted gears: The yellow canvas was now sprinkled with green, namely in two strikingly different tones; a very bright one of fresh bushes added to the dark flavor of the meanwhile more frequent conifers, passing this tricolor setting further on to a steep whitewater gorge until it reached a carbon copy of Lac Leman, the first lake with charming little houses on its shores. When the first "Bungy" sign showed up a few miles later, we knew we were close to Queenstown - the adrenaline capital of the world, where daredevil students in the 1970's reinvented bungy jumping with modern latex ropes, based on the ancient tradition of brave Philippine warriors. Those students, by the way, later formed AJ Hackett, the first bungy jump operator, who is by now in ongoing competition with a second challenger, trying constantly to top the other one with "world's highest jump". The latest ultimate Hackett experience leaves out of a 150m high cableway, whereas the other one offers helicopter and balloon jumps from whichever altitude seems convenient. Besides bungy, rafting, skydiving, jetboating, paragliding, other curious and allegedly dangerous enterprises can be booked everywhere. All the fast-food stores were here, Internet cafes, outdoor outfitters, photo shops, restaurants, everything the weary west coast traveler had to live without for too long. After hundreds of miles through vast stretches of uninhabited land, where tiny infrequent villages had a hard time to supply basic groceries or gas, here in Queenstown he feels he has caught up with the tourist-catering civilization again. Which is not surprising, as Queenstown is the designated base destination for skiing the area in winter as well world-renowned tramping in summer. Three of the nine "Great Walks", which the national DOC (Department of Conservation) has identified across entire New Zealand as representative examples of its outstanding natural beauty, commence nearby; among those the "Milford Track", graveling its often-treaded path across the unparalleled vistas of "Fjordland", the entire southwestern area of the South Island, where sea and mountains have been living in close symbiosis since the big icecovers disappeared. After the Milford track has been praised "the finest walk in the world" by an enthusiastic London journalist many decades ago, it attracts so many visitors each season that it is vividly booked well in advance, in our case even until March 21 (we inquired just upon arrival in Queenstown, January 26). As all hikers have to spend their nights in designated huts along the way, there is only a limited number of people allowed on the track each day.

Fortunately enough, our guidebooks described the quality of the two other Great Walks in the district as an "arbitrary skirmish between superlatives", so we booked into the "Routeburn Track" for the next day, a three-day tramp with two nights spent in huts. After studying the provided information brochures we soon realized that we were not at all properly equipped for the venture - rainfall of up to 500mm a _day_ had been recorded (tropical Queensland/Australia has 400mm in the wettest _month_), and without entirely waterproof outfit trampers are discouraged from even considering a start. The hut stays require sleeping bags and cooking equipment (which we did not take along from home), so we tried to fit our bulky-slash-heavy campervan utensils into only two available daypacks - which of course did not work out spacewise, so that we were finally encouraged to buy a serious backpack in the local adventure store, plus rent and buy some more professional outfit. Those preparations took most of this first really beautiful day in New Zealand, and we only found a few hours in the afternoon to enjoy the heavenly vistas of panoramic Queenstown from its neighboring mountain (We had walked up to the summit for a good hour to find busloads of Japanese at the top restaurant who had taken the rapid gondola). Fortunately the weather forecast for the next day was just as good, and having suffered heavy clouds all the days before, we were excited to find out the forecast was right.

Bus transportation to the track head took 2.5 hours alone, so that we set foot on the long anticipated hike not before 10am. But already the first mile lets one forget all the worries before, transporting the voyager directly into fantasialand: The silver beech forest which wants to be crossed before ascending to higher levels lulls the wanderer with all the myth only childish imagination can create when listening to tales of princesses and sorcerers. Moss-covered trees lie rotting between their towering voisins, as if covered by the dust of a thousand year's sleep, sometimes producing most bizarre forms as the omnipresent moisture enters deep into their hearts, exposing decay of unseen intensity. Everywhere marode trunks have fallen into each other, forming divine mikados of unsolvable complexity. Ferns and mosses cover every possible spot across these spectacular arrangements, creating green intensity of hallucinating splendor even intensified with shy morning sunrays peeking through the dense canopy.

The play of colors became even more fascinating when a vivid little river joined our trackside, beholding the purest of all waters, and thus shimmering in a watercolor composition of turquoise with a brilliance for which the only plausible explanation seemed to be that it sourced its contents directly from the Carribean seas. Never before have I seen a creek of such dazzling clarity, guzzling between washed rocks of grey and white, interluding with sun-dried branches and bleached trunks to form a mesmerizing contrast to the enticing emerald around the stony track. Tiny cascades along the way fed by melting water from above changed rapidly with numerous waterfalls of competing splendor, to be interrupted again by the soothing balm of dark green fern fields, covering the entire forest floor like meticulous carpetry. As the track wound slowly upward, the treading admirer is rewarded with sneak peaks of upcoming alpine attractions waiting further uphill, which are eventually reached on the second day, after crossing the tree line at the gorgeous waterfalls and the spectacular evening valley views at Routeburn Falls Hut.

Decent at first, the track winds upwards through valleys of sub-alpine meadows and amber lakes, offering more and more breathtaking postcard views when finally reaching Harris Saddle. A sideway to the Conical Hill rewards the steep and strenuous ascent with even more breathtaking 360-degree spectaculars. The overload of impressions at those altitudes leaves little room for even the gorgeous remembrances of the different beauties of day one. The track is like entire New Zealand, changing aspects at a dramatically fast pace, demanding quick changes in reception from a tramper's naturally slow-adapting soul.

As the path sidles along the mountain ridge above the tree line, new views open up almost behind every turn, finishing in a fantastic panoramic finale: Grey majestic mountains in the back, velvety valleys and laconic lakes to the left, white glorious glaciers en face, and to the right the blue silent sounds of Fjordland taking the eye out to a solemn sea at the distant horizon. A final glimpse of Heaven before the tracks winds down into fairy tale forest again, this time with even more mosses and ferns, proving that this corner obviously drowns in rainfall on the vast majority of days - how lucky were we to see this track with the best of New Zealand weather! Whereas in the first part mainly trees and rotting trunks were covered with the evergreen layers, here they cover every item in nature's inventory, carpeting even lush arrangements of stone into the orchard of Eden.

The second hut is reached just at the bottom of the forest, situated ideally at a sleepy lake reflecting the different shades of green all around, cut into its surroundings by an intriguing unclear border of white sands, inviting to a frosty swim for relieving the strains of the day.

The last day's challenge had to be attacked at the unholy hour of 6:30am in order to catch a bus at "The Divide", the trail's end. Unfortunately the capricious mountain weather had found back to its routine and featured cloudy mists along the final descent, drowning the rainforest into a foggy austere atmosphere. Again our pace was interrupted by frequent stops in awe for larger and taller waterfalls than the days before, swelling even more with the additional waters from above. Neither our time constraint nor the foggy clouds incentivized for a climb to the second viewpoint high above Lake Howden, which must be similarly spectacular in good conditions.

Having reached The Divide, the subsequent trip in the touristy coach was a relocation shock at its extremes: Coming from three days of isolation, we were thwarted back into the most-visited region of the South Island, with tourist buses waiting in line to shovel countless visitors to numerous boat cruises through famous Milford Sound. We should not have booked this convenient all-in-one package in Queenstown, and rather spent an extra day to drive the 200 kilometers back on our own, then renting kayaks to discover the natural beauties at gusto proprio. As the pouring rain (which our driver still described as "cloud sweat" in comparison to the usual shower intensity) impeded the often-photographed panoramic views, schemes of nebulous mountains could only give a vague idea of the region's natural thrills on a clear day. Yet, the additional water fuelled additional myriads of waterfalls, sometimes plunging down hundreds of meters from overhanging cliffs. (From which death-defying Queenstowners have already base-jumped from).

The drive from Queenstown to Mount Cook, New Zealands highest elevation at 3,700 meters right in the center of the South Island, saw again typical west coast weather: low-hanging clouds and constant rain, so that the sudden change in scenery to yellow drylands imposed the question why those areas look so dry, defying all green of the Queenstown area. The route became more and more deserted as we passed through gigantic hills of debris only covered sparsely with yellow bush grass. Here, after just an hour of driving north, the rain had stopped; and another hour later, the curvy pass road had led into a wide highway through an endless flat, taking us straight to the snowcovered peaks of Mt Cook at the horizon, shimmering brightly under distant clear and rosy skies of the setting sun on the other side of the range. This was again a perfect example how both scenery and weather can change abruptly in a matter of two hours, whereas in Australia the lonely asphalt cowboy can spend two days driving through the exact same stretch of land. We were right to choose New Zealand over Australia, even with its more adverse conditions - which form part of the New Zealand experience, and without which the country would not look as it does. The inhabitants comment on the weather only with an indifferent smile: "It's not been too nice so far this summer." or "Pretty rough today.", as if they could not care less - if they did, they probably would not be here.

Unless you are an experienced ice-climber, hiking in the Mt Cook region (in the center of the island), with most of its terrain constantly snow-covered, is fairly difficult - which is why many visitors book easier but not less scenic helicopter flights around its peaks. A helicopter pilot myself, I am always in the mood for such flights, thus was not in need for someone to eloquently persuade me. Fortunately our campground in Glentanner (20 km off Mt Cook - the campsite directly there does not have powered sites) had a helicopter tour office right at the reception, so booking would have been fairly easy, if not the inclement weather had again distorted the even shortest route. Crossing the Main Divide (= the tallest ridge between east and west coast stretching all along the island) was impossible due to high winds and heavy clouds on the west side. So we spent an extra day in this remote location, waiting for the forecasted fine weather of the next morning. The clouds had cleared already in the late evening, which enabled us to do a short 30-minute return trip to Kea Point at the base of the admirable hulk, to witness the last glimpses of the evening sun painting Mt Cook's white snowface into wonderfully warm yellow shimmers.

The next morning made the dream of fine weather in this particularly bad weather region come true, so we could finally embark on the helicopter and take off to cross Mt Cook's ridges to the majestic Fox and Franz-Josef glaciers of the west side of the Southern Alps. The views from above were fantastic: Spectacular clearness on all of the east side abruptly changed at the divide to a heavy cotton of clouds under which all of the west coast lay still asleep. You could virtually see the moisture condensing as the warmer weather systems of the ocean climbed up the steep slopes, burying the ascendant mountain faces under an almost flat white blanket, while some similarly white blades managed to be tall enough to pierce through the spread-out cloak. This ensemble of whites composed indescribable pictures of almost unnatural sophistication. As we headed back to our launch pad, again the clouds cut off clearly at the ridge, opening a vast blue valley to the horizon, through which we descended for the last 10 minutes of the amazing ride.

Leaving the Mt Cook region by car, the road lead out the same way we had come in, past the large Lake Tekapo - only that this time the intense sunlight exposed the entire splendor of its color, which we had not seen coming in at dawn. The turquoise of its waters was so opaque as if everything had shrunk to miniature train size and we were currently passing through a H0 landscape where the builder had imitated a lake with turquoise paper foil, not caring about its inherent unnatural appearance. The further we drove, the more assured of this situation we became, until at last the stunningly colored lake set a thrilling foreground to the white peaks in the distance; these peaks could not have been modeled, this must have been New Zealand reality.

The distance we wanted to cover for the remains of the day was considerable, in order to catch up with the extra day in the Mt Cook region - we had to roller over 500 kilometers on winding roads, coping with MacArthur's Pass a second time. The fine weather changed again massively during the drive, so we were already prepared for a second McArthur's in the rain - but all of sudden, just after we had entered the threatening gray layer into a thick impenetrable fog, the cloud walls went apart - opening for wide sketches of blue, changing the environs dramatically, as if the someone had operated the master switch and set the palette of the scenery to two shades lighter for every applicable color. The subsequent curves led through incredible mixtures of red, blue, and green, all the way up to the pass, from where we tried a short break of walk, which unfortunately turned out to be leading to nowhere after having followed wet creek runs into steep muddy grounds.

The next day in Greymouth, already on the west coast, continued where the precedent evening had left it, with ample sunshine and summer temperatures, so that we spent several hours in the reconstructed gold rush village of Shanty Town. This included digging and panning gold from its clay hills. And indeed, after an hour of washing, there were tiny sprinkles of the adorable material in our pans; but the entire process is so strenuous and back-breaking that I could not have imagined becoming a full-time gold digger

The next stop on the way up the coast were the famous Pancake Rocks, formations of eroded cliffs shaped into seemingly stony piles of pancakes. Of course we made sure to have all ingredients for pancakes aboard to bake our own real ones on site - and were disappointed to find out that the tourist cafe across the street had the same idea, offered pancakes with ice and fruits. Nonetheless, we prepared our own first to cross-taste with the competition product later (guess which one was better!).

The stone pancakes were quite interesting, the included Giant Blowholes less so, reportedly steaming out fountains of water during high tide. Being there at the wrong tide translates into seeing only some unimpressive stony holes.

The final drive to Picton on the east coast was again an example of the great variety of the South Island's landscapes, such as every time one crosses the Great Divide. It led from stunning coastal cliffs to monstrous mountains and vivid valleys inland, onward through softer forms of undulating hills. Nature's playground was meanwhile shining in all different shades of green, the darkest being the somber river, slightly brightening with conifers and bushes before blending into the middle green of wide pastures and savory meadows, dotted with young shiny trees and grasses boasting a yellow-green intensity. Here and there cattle or the omnipresent New Zealand sheep would daze lazily in the serene peaceful environment. This was the finest and warmest day on the west coast we had seen, and for the first time we were driving through the sharp angles of softened evening sunrays, feeling the unorthodoxly mild mid-European afternoon summer breezes.

The area covered later (Mt Nelson National Park) became increasingly less spectacular, and bad weather in the direction we were heading reduced its appeal even more so. Layers of low-hanging clouds spread over Marlborough, the east coast's predominant wine-producing region (how do all those vines get their vital sun?). Just at the border of clouds and evening sun, nature staged its last commemorable performance of a long day: black mountains background-lit by the low-hanging sun from behind, slowly fading into the heavy layers of condensing moisture; their dark sharp contours ghostly illuminated beneath a low-hanging softener of gathering haze.

Picton, the town where the inter-island ferry to the North Island leaves, is a funny town. Although considered a larger population by the standards of the South Island, it still assembles all its shops in an area that can be easily walked in less than five minutes. More interestingly, all shops (even the so-called "mall", featuring a handful of diverse mom-and-pop shops) close at 5 pm. Which meant we had to do shopping and Internetting in the morning, leaving us only the afternoon for a one-day hike on Queen Charlotte Track, a recommendation of a fellow tramper on Routeburn. The track is normally a 5-day stretch across the sidelining hills of Queen Charlotte Sound, but several one-day portions are accessible by water taxi across the bay. Even if you treat yourself with the entire tramp, those small vessels will gladly transport your backpacks from one B&B to the next.

At midday, all scheduled boats for day-trips had already left, and finding a water taxi was more difficult than expected. We were finally successful in hiring one directly at the quay, from the same guy (Arrow Taxis) that had told the tourist information over the phone that he was fully booked for the day. Checking in person on site often pays off.

The 4-hour piece-o'-track from Torea Saddle to Mistletoe Bay took us only 2.5 hours, partly because we did not have the bulky luggage of a real packer, partly because expansive stratocumulus covered the entire sky down to the altitude of the higher hills around, which discouraged the usual frequent photographic breaks. Although the track featured delighting views of the hilly green coastline intersected by the blue waters of the Tasman Sea, the blue appeared not quite as pictured on various postcards. We were left with the grayish sky's reflection in the habitually azure waters, which pasted the entire scenery more or less into a green-gray mixture. No doubt that bright sunlight would render the views more serene.

North Island

February 3 - February 8, 2000

 

Although every single guidebook recommends reserving your inter-island ferry ticket well in advance during the summer months, such was definitely not required, at least for the south-north connection (the traditional way is to drive the opposite way, from Auckland down to Christchurch). Our ship was not even half occupied on the vehicle deck. On the other hand, prices seem to be cheaper buying ahead. As the ferry is operated by the national railroad company TranzScenic, tickets can be bought at every train station, so we had bought them one day before in Greymouth. The Speed Cat "Lynx" covers the Tasman Strait in 1:45 hours, just enough time for a nice dinner aboard. The traditional "Interislander" ferry needs almost double that time, 3 hours, and is not even much cheaper.

On the other side of the strait lies windy Wellington, the country's capital. The area welcomes the southern adventurer with more industrialized impressions (and more traffic) than the entire South Island could accumulate. Whereas down south, even larger villages barely home a single well-equipped grocery store, here huge supermarkets appear frequently, and even furniture and antique shops line the main roads in regular order (I have never seen any in the south). Besides the shop experience, there is not much scenery on the first 100 miles north, so I appreciated a short break at a vintage car museum outside of Wellington. The locals seem to have a faible for such vehicles; a vintage car rallye was scheduled for the upcoming week, so an excessive amount of historic automobiles was rolling on public roads around Wellington and Picton. All of them would solace a faster motorist following at snail speed (especially uphill, when the handful of horsepower proves its long heritage) with the charming looks of gone-by eras.

A driver on the way up along the coastline has to deal with the stormy winds the Wellington area is known for. About a decade ago, these fierce winds (up to 150 mph) even made the Interislander ferry stumble onto rocks outside of the harbor, drowning a good deal of its passengers. As our campervan offered a large attack field for the sidewinds, navigating on a straight road was simulating a constant turn, with gusts sometimes hitting so hard that the steering wheel needed an immediate 45-degree tilt to stay on track. Once away from the coastline, the heavy winds settle down slightly and leave more time for the cautious driver to watch the hillscape with interestingly unbalanced wind-shaped trees along the way.

Directly in the middle of the North Island lies Tongariro National Park, an arrangement of three volcanoes, one of which is still active (and has actually erupted in 1995 and 1996, scaring some wintersport tourists off since). Whereas the area is still much busier in wintertime, when cottage-style bars and restaurants in the tiny villages around open their doors to skiers and snowboarders, summer is the best season for another Great Walk: The Tongariro Northern Circuit, a three- to four-day hike which crosses the steaming crater of the Tongariro volcano on day two. As this second day is by far the most impressive of the trail, many a tramper picks it as a day-hike; so did we, as our tight schedule for the North Island did not leave time for the more thorough experience.

We chose the tiny village of Ohakuhe, about 40 km from volcano central, as base for the Tongariro Crossing. The local campsite offers daily transfers to the trail head (7:00 am) with pick-ups from the trail end (4:00 pm). During the sleepy summer season there is only one mediocre restaurant catering to travelers' appetites in downtown Ohakuhe, even the pizza and kebab booths are closed until snow and skiers arrive. The more pampered traveler might therefore choose to stay at The Chateau, one of the few remaining luxury hotels in New Zealand, located directly at the slope of the active volcano. We probably would have done so, had we known of its existence before.

On the early morning of the heavy-duty walk (8 hours including breaks) the sky was peeled into a disgusting grey, which made getting up at 6:00 am quite a challenge. Surprisingly, the day was entirely clear at the other side of the mountain, and lead us straight towards a bright welcoming morning, preparing an ideal setting for the hike. The path initially bypassed lovely waterfalls and gurgling creeks pouring across sharp volcanic material before it led to steeper stony steps uphill for a strenuous ascent of almost an hour. It was here that we discovered what New Zealand's tramping tourism was about: hundreds of avid day-hikers had seized the perfect opportunity to climb the crater, and formed a veritable line all the way up to its rim, which dictated the uphill step frequency in an almost military manner.

Once up in the dusty flat crater basin the first magma marvels unveil: Stones in fiery tones everywhere, stunning crater lakes on either side, gorgeous views from the opposite rim across lava-filled black plains through brown-red valleys. Just on the other side, the magical formation of a unique horizontal volcanic shaft strikes the spectator: Here the Creator must have folded a sheet of stone like thin paper into a U-shaped outlet and placed it as a sideways drain into the steep slope, before the stone had slowly cracked and eroded at the edge in the course of the centuries. The outworldly nature of this composition is emphasized by the play of earth's intestine colors of red, brown, black, and white.

The path continues downhill to a ridge where all trampers stop awestruck: The fascinating view of three brilliantly shimmering Emerald Lakes below leaves even the most insensitive traveler breathless. Solvable sulphury yellow components have blended with the natural blue of small coldwater lakes to create this most unique set of natural ink of burning turquoise. Such fantastic is their appearance that the unparalleled play of subterranean matters and colors from a few minutes before unexpectedly pales in comparison. This was more magic than any of the other volcanic areas I have seen in my life.

The second half of the day leads further through the bleak and barren scenes of inhospitable soil, past a deep blue crater lake and stone formations in all shades of yellow, orange, red, brown, black. Those glooming rochers interlude with cold and hot water features, haling the damps of volcanic hot springs high up into the air, or forming shy waterfalls between rainbow-colored stones. In this part, the omnipresent sulphur smells become sometimes impertinent; but contrary to the threats of treads on the other side, the downhill part is a merely decent descent, still filled with outrageous outlooks to the east & west coast as well as onto the giant Lake Taupo - a view which can be savored all along the winding way until the final forest feature.

There are nine Great Walks all over New Zealand, which have been selected by the Department of Conservation to show the diversity of the country, and the North Island hosts three of them: in the center (Tongariro), west (Wainungu), and east (Wakatepu). And who knows me can tell that I had to at least _see_ all three, even though we had only five days for the entire North Island. So we went westward (ho!) to the next Great One - actually a Great Paddle: The Wainungu River Journey follows the stream where no cars or motorized civilization can intrude, through genuine Maori settlements. You can already tell that you are off the beaten track when approaching the trail entry points: the last 30 kilometers to Perikiki (where the arriving kayakers switch back to road) are unpaved and lead through rough dusty gravel with a variety of mud- and potholes. Unexpectedly, Perikiki was far less than a tourist-crowded base camp: this Maori settlement consists of hardly 5 houses, which jeopardized our plans to rent kayaks there. (One of the five inhabitants was actually a jet boat operator, but he did not rent anything.) Obviously all rental places are either at the trail head upstream or in larger towns (Ohakune, for instance) and their services include transportation to and from the trail, so that there is no need for amenities of any kind here. The only short-notice solution to our paddle problem was a Maori chap in bug-bitten smelly clothing who could bring up a canoe from Jerusalem (15 km downstream). He also amiably offered to transport our car to the finish line; but unfortunately afterwards our second SLR camera was gone. Of course he swore to us he had not touched anything and somebody must have opened the car on the parking lot and anyway blablah... (very likely in the middle of nowhere, with no signs of forceful entry at the door). Although we reported the incident to the police later, the only outcome was a lesson learned: Either take everything of value along on boat or hike, or at least lock it up separately where it is not found easily.

Our two-hour paddle tour led through a few interesting but calm whitewater sections beneath ragged cliffs, but the view was actually preferable from the car on the way back: The River Road, which follows the track of the river just a few dozen meters above, surprises here and there with nice overlooks. Maybe the kayak experience is better upstream (in the Great Walk section), but going upstream in this fast-flowing river with pure manpower was a matter of near impossibility, so we were forced into the southbound route. Plus, up north, the kayaker's quiet conception is often times annoyingly countered by noisy jetboats with the high-heeled crowd on board who does not want to miss out on New Zealand's hidden secrets either.

The drive back and eastward easily filled the rest of the afternoon (gravel, you bet). It led through harmonic hillscape, first with volcanoes in the background, then via a charming curvy backcountry road winding (in parts unpaved) across the green hills into a green-brown canyon and eventually into dark green forest-laden mountains. (The forest tree patterns were hereby formed in such neat regularity that it was evident they had been man-made.) After four hours of forcedly slow driving we finally hit the straight (tarred) main road to Napier, New Zealand's Art Deco Central. Rebuilt in the 30's after a destructive earthquake, its historic center now features back-to-back originals of the architectural style Miami Beach is famous for - just that Napier's landmarks are in much better shape. This is evidently due to the fact that New Zealanders still have a sense for thorough British craftsmanship, whereas most Miami houses have been patched superficially by lazy hot-tempered Latinos concentrating thoroughly only on the quick return on each dollar invested.

Napier rewarded a long drive with the most gorgeous sunset of the entire journey: Watercolory tones dissolved slowly behind the palm-tree lined promenade walks of this east coast metropolis, whose lanterns were just beginning to ban nightly shadows from the pavement. Our dinner place of choice was Breaker's Cafe at the beach strip, after the nice-looking Acqua Brasserie had forecasted a 45 minute waiting time for all meals. We still tested the Brasserie next morning (= noon) for brunch because of its inviting ambience, and rated it of equally good quality. Overall, Napier was the welcoming change after long weeks in the outback: Not too busy and business-oriented like Wellington, but still catering to all our needs (e.g. Internet access, or shops open after 5pm).

In the afternoon, we drove on north, to Wakatepu National Park, the area of the third and last Great Walk on the North Island (as you know, we had to hit them all!). With a similar scenery to yesterday's route we arrived rather early at even more extensive stretches of unsealed road, which consecutively slowed the average speed to about 30 kph. The rewards however came at the end of the day: Spectacular plays of evening light at the Lake Wakatepu (along whose shores runs the Great Walk) in the center of the park. The late afternoon sun had reduced the mountains rimming the large lake to blue shadows, throning majesticly behind a silvery glitterfield of water, which faded after sunset into crimson reflections of the darkening golden sky. This stunning view determined our place to rest for the night - 2 hours of slow driving from civilization in any direction - and so we spent the last night in the country like our very first one: In a parking bay at the street. Meanwhile, we were used to the behavior of the campervan outside of campgrounds: At the beginning, we had still been scared when the fridge stopped working after three hours without running engine; we had used far too much water, so that the tank was empty after washing evening dishes. Today, we were reduced to bottled water and pasteurized food anyway, as the electric circuit of this vintage campervan had gone down the drain entirely, leaving us without water pump or fridge. And the chemical toilet dispersed such an awful smell that we decided not to use it any longer. Basically the campervan had degraded to a car with berths in the back - but which in turn had coated all items stored in its lower cabinets with the fine dust of outback gravel.

Although we left our parking bay at nine o'clock next morning, we did not know yet that both our schedule and fuel supply were quite tight, given another 80 kilometers of gravel - which took us a good 2.5 hours - until we finally hit the tarred streets of the Rotorua region again. (N.B. Roadworks are going on at the moment to bring a solid surface closer to the forest, so it should be easier on future visits). And when we took the last turn-off to Rotorua with 30 kilometers to go, we were still hoping for a desperately needed gas station - which logically (we know our Murphy) did not show up. Consequently, we ran out of fuel, just 5 km before the city's first gas pump. Had we known that the only gas station of the region was right at the hot springs, about 2 minutes into the opposite direction at the previous turn-off... Even after refueling with the help of a friendly local, we had to drive all the way back, taking one hour off our already tight schedule. Our flight left the same evening, and Auckland was still 2-3 hours away. And the famous hot springs had yet to be visited.

Still, "Thermal Wonderland" lived up to its promising name, and we did not regret to have chosen the full 1-hour track instead of the small walk, passing by denominating curiosities like Devil's Home (underground grottos with smoke coming out of every corner), Devil's Bath (an uninviting yellowish soup), Inferno Crater (the name tells it all), and "Champagne Pool", a huge emerald lake with pearly fast-sparkling liquid of 74 degrees Celsius, sending constant sulphury steam skyward from its bubbling yet clear waters. It was not nearly as inviting for a bath as its French sibling. Champagne pool contrasts interestingly with other mud lakes around, where clumsy clayish coherent bubbles burst slowly at the surface, comparable to continuously forming air-balloons in extensive Hubba-Bubba chewing gum layers.

The wonderful walk on Wonderland's grounds led further on past spectacular overviews of an assembly of yellow lakes and damp-producing mud holes, then to cute little waterfalls between sulphury rocks and turquoise lakes, sometimes unraveling strangest patterns of decayed wood with clay-sulphur blends in interspersed stale water holes. The thorough trip was well worth its time, even though none of the latter (= time) was left for the other high-spilling geysers in Rotorua city. Neither was left for visiting the center of Auckland - we reached the airport just in time to return the car and hop on the flight.

Which means that some things remained undiscovered, waiting for a next visit to this spectacular country.