April 11-12 Dunedin

With Milford Sound tucked unforgettably into our heads, the next morning we were off to Dunedin on the south eastern shores of the south island and a relative breeze at only 3.5 hours worth of driving. Dunedin, as its name ably suggests, was founded by Scots and so much of it today continues to speak loudly of that heritage. Home to New Zealand's first university, a Cadbury chocolate factory, and an albatross sanctuary, there was much to see and eat here and again, of course, we were stunned by the scenery. Settled in and around a gorgeous peninsula of rolling hills, Dunedin is also apparently home to the world's steepest street which upon inspection might be challenged by a few in North Vancouver. However, with a full mini-van, Dad was reluctant to give it a go.

The Cadbury factory was a fun first stop and we (Alex in particular) marvelled at the Crunchie candy bar mountain just inside the door. A decent tour was highlighted by a deafening and somewhat interactive shower of a tonne of liquid milk chocolate. With Easter Sunday the next day and with no confirmation of the Easter Bunny's arrival in Dunedin, it only made sense that we stock up in the ever so well-placed candy store. Originally intended as a treat for Grampa's sweet tooth, he was not able to partake in as much as he might have liked and so the rest of us picked up the slack.

Then it was off to the local grocery store to wrestle over the last lamb roast. Wanting to eat in for Easter dinner, Pat did an admirable job of fighting off all comers and even better job of cooking it the next day. Tonight's dinner would however, see us part ways. Bill and Pat were off to celebrate their 29th wedding anniversary with seafood while we headed across a very rainy town to munch on a few monstrous ribs and some heavenly steak. After a few late Rugby League and Masters highlights, it was straight to bed for all.

Next day the kid crew was up early and discovered, to their delight, that there were indeed a "few" eggs scattered about the place. After a bit of cereal washed down with more than a few chocolate Easter eggs, we were fed and ready to explore the gorgeous Otago Peninsula. Home to the only mainland breeding ground of the Royal Albatross in the world and bizarre but beautiful Lanarch "castle", we first made a pit stop at a local market to sample the wares and a pretty cool playground. I swear I never promised Alex the amount of time he was bargaining for on the pirate ship, but without wanting to make too much of a scene, the lawyer-in-him got a few more slides out of me. Oh well, did I really need to go at that exact moment - or did I just want to win? No doubt, the latter.

The Royal Albatross Centre is at the very tip of the peninsula and required yet another dicey drive on the side of a mountain to get there. Once safely parked, the views were incredible and soon we glimpsed a couple of the big birds floating above us over the nearby cliffs. Though we did not want to pony up the trop cher tour fee, the free interpretation centre was quite good and a decent lunch convinced us all that we had had our fill. One incredible fact about the albatross that I must share is that once they leave the nesting ground, they often go for more than FIVE years before touching ground or returning home again! And I thought our year was adventurous!

Turning back toward Dunedin, we decided to take the high ground (literally) and very soon found ourselves at the gates to Lanarch Castle, a sort of Kiwi Casa Loma on the very tip top of the peninsula. Built by a gold-rich Australian who eventually killed himself in the houses of parliament, the colourful "castle" is now privately owned and offers some stunning views of the surrounding countryside. We walked the gardens and grounds in awe of the amount of effort and money required to build such a place, but at the same time appreciating why one might want to. You could develop quite a little God-complex living in such a heavenly locale.

Descending into Dunedin we made one last detour for Baldwin street - that steepest street - I alluded to earlier. After sizing it up and turning tail, we headed back to our very comfortable house on George Street in the middle of town. This place, this house, was far and away our nicest accommodation of the trip and a very fitting place to spend a "homey" evening over roast lamb. It was a meal and a moment where more than one of us remarked, "Who'd have thought we would spend Easter in Dunedin, New Zealand?" To which I would respond - about the day, the occasion, the location and the company - "Aren't we lucky."

Reflections on trying not to be American...

After travelling in New Zealand for a few days, I started to get a vague feeling of familiarity. It was a weird kind of feeling that wasn’t saying “I’ve been here before”, but more like “I’ve felt this way before”. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first, but after poking my head into a few of the many rugby shops in this country, I put two and two together. On the rack in one of these stores I noticed a t-shirt that said, “I cheer for only two teams, New Zealand and anyone who’s playing Australia”. There it was, staring back at me in 100% cotton, an explanation for this weird sensation. And it confirmed what I had been hearing in the media, the voices of the tour guides and locals in the pie shops - that despite their proximity, the Aussies and the Kiwis really don’t like to get along. Why this relationship seemed so familiar was that, in essence, New Zealand is the Canada to Australia’s United States. Thus, on the issue of national identity, New Zealand felt a lot like home!

It may, in fact, all stem from the vicious rugby rivalry. Actually, apart from the All Blacks and the America’s Cup the Kiwis don’t really match up, in size anyways, to their neighbour across the Tasman. And in that there is a common thread that links Canadians and Kiwis together. Both have larger dominant cultures on our borders. We are constantly and consistently confused for the other. We spend a lot of time explaining that we are not from the other place and why, in fact, we are better than that other place. We are often defined more by our geography than anything else and we are overjoyed when we beat our larger neighbor at anything. Even winning the recession seems like something worth back-slapping about.

In point of fact, during our time in Oz we have spent a lot of time trying not to be American. I would have to say that 9 times out of 10 an Aussie will assume we are from the States. And being Canadian and having had to deal with this all our lives, we usually smile, shake our head and politely say, "No, actually we’re from Canada”. Which usually gets one of the following responses: 1) A pause, then a brief look of confusion and then a shrug as if to say, “No matter, you’re all the same” 2) A pause, and then a knowing nod as if to say “Hey, then you’re alright – another mate from the colonies!” 3) A pause, then a look of concern and then something like “Mate, how cold’s it back home?” 4) A pause, then a look of genuine apology with something like “Sorry mate, I shouldn’t assume. That’s like assuming I’m from New Zealand.” And on that point, I would have to agree, it is like calling an Aussie a Kiwi or vice versa – and none of us, it seems, are all that crazy about it.

It would also seem that both Aussies and Kiwis have some sort of weird “hate on” for the States, or at least the idea of the U.S., though Mr. Obama seems to have lessened the fire, to a degree. So to be mistaken for an American in Australia is to incur the wrath or merely the hairy eyeball from many an Aussie who wonders why we’ve come. Of course, we all do this kind of “cultural profiling” all the time. Right now, somewhere in the “true north strong and free”, I'm sure some well-adjusted Canadians are persecuting some poor Aussie by insisting he eats kangaroo and wrestles crocodiles.

But in spite of my desire to set the citizenship record straight, there are times that I’m quite willing to run to the defence of the Americans. After all, we share the same continent and do tend to get painted with the same brush of distance-inspired ignorance. And while I might agree Americans can be loud or brash, I would also feel comfortable saying that compared to the Kiwis, Australians could be considered loud and brash, too. The point here is that we all get too much mileage and sanctimonious chest pumping out of repeating a few tired stereotypes often in the face of our own inner denial. For Canadians, that often plays out in a sort of “We’re not sure who we are, but at least we’re not American” approach to nation building. And I’ve been feeling that a bit around New Zealand as well. With so few people in such a small (or large) and remote country, perhaps it’s hard to confidently define oneself while looking “in”. Maybe we all need the big brother standing over us in order to chart a course based on nothing more than "not being like him”. Maybe that’s why in our travels around the South Island I can feel them “worrying” about what Australia thinks a bit too much.

The other night we were out for a drink with Lint’s cousin Sheila and her husband Andrew at a trendy bar in downtown Melbourne. After ordering our drinks we were accosted by a young woman from the table beside us. “F@#$!n Americans!” she drunkenly and jokingly slurred at us. Apparently, in her mind, she was the life of the party. She was actually pretty funny in terms of how drunk she was and how young and ignorant she was behaving. The minute we begged to differ and waved our Canadian passports in the air, all was forgiven. “Oh” she cooed, “I love Canadians!” After only 20 more magnificent minutes of her hilarious abuse, it came to pass that she was actually Kiwi! Thus her outburst against Americans started to make more sense – or at least more than she herself was capable of at that particular moment. In all of her self-conscious grappling for an identity, wherein she even admitted to moving away to “make it” in Australia, she could at least be safe in bashing the Americans – because after all we all “hate the Yanks!” I’m not sure why she thought we wanted to listen to her – maybe it was the vodka speaking or maybe the Kiwi saw Canuck as comrade. Regardless, she was thinking and drinking and worrying too much!

And I’m sorry, but I don’t hate the Yanks anymore than I do Kiwis or the Aussies or the Finns. Which is really to say, not at all. Sure, I didn’t much like their past president, don’t admire their health care or gun laws, and don’t really get “grits” - but I don’t hate Americans. And I spend a lot of time trying not to be one in Australia as much to merely educate people about recognizing the difference versus any real aversion to coming from Iowa. The lesson for me here and over there and everywhere is personal, slightly biblical and might go something like this: “Let he or she who lives in a perfect country, cast the first stone…and until then, get over yourselves!” Frankly, it’s all enough to make me just a little more proud when I utter the odd, “eh?”

April 9-10 Te Anau and Milford Sound

And so we bid a teary Kia ora to Queenstown. Kia ora is Maori salutation that means "be well". It can be used for both hello and goodbye. And though we were saying goodbye in Maori to one gorgeous part of the country, in just four hours time we would be saying hello to Te Anau our launching off point for Milford Sound, a UNESCO world heritage sight and arguably one of the most beautiful places on the planet. It looked like we might get over Queenstown.

Getting there wasn't going to be too shabby either. We pointed our trusty mini-van due south and followed the southern expanse of Lake Wakatipu toward the town of Kingston at its very southern end. It's a big lake, one of the biggest in the country, and the drive along it's eastern shore rivals the Great Ocean Road - at least for hairiness - if not for the view as well. The rating check for nausea levels was in full use for all passengers.

The weird thing about Milford Sound is that, as the crow flies, it's really quite close to Queenstown. However, there is the small or very large matter of a mountain range or two that stand in the way. As a result, you are forced to drive far to the south, following the lake until you have gone far enough to swing north again and drive back up the adjacent valley. In fact, you could easily drive to Milford Sound in an hour if not for those pesky mountains! Sheesh!

Te Anau is a pretty town that was bigger than I expected and seems to claim tourism as its main industry. With very few places to stay in Milford Sound, it's the perfect spot to rest and relax before your trip up the valley. A highlight of our time in Te Anau was a gluten-free pizzeria where Pat could finally enjoy some very good pizza and the mood was fun and festive as we all tucked in to one of our best meals of the trip.

In the morning we were up and at it early because we had a 11:00 am boat to catch in Milford Sound. With a two hour drive ahead of us and not knowing how many photo or nausea stops would be required, we loaded up the lattes and headed out. The first hour of the drive was stunning but relatively flat. The fields were covered with frost and the clouds were hanging low in the valley giving one that sense that we were headed for somewhere truly magical.

After about 1.5 hours, a few 'interesting" bits of road, and two stunning photo ops we came to a traffic light and a traffic jam. Well, not really but traffic was stopped dead. We had arrived at the Homer tunnel, a 1.3 km underground road that burrows straight through the side of a mountain and is the only way "down" to the Sound. A wonder of engineering, it took over 20 years to build with WW 2 getting in the way. It's only really got one lane, hence the traffic light, and within ten minutes it was our turn.

The rest of the road winds its way down to the Sound through a series of switchbacks and before we knew it we were pulling into a very large and very full parking lot close to a very functional visitors centre. I'm always amazed that you can travel so far and still find a latte and fresh croissant just when you need one. No, I guess we weren't exactly "roughing it in the bush" like good Canadians. On the shuttle to the boat docks we detoured by the busy airport where a fleet of helicopters had just brought in some hunters from a week's worth of killing. The freshly harvested deer antlers were a fascination for the boys who I don't think had ever seen the remnants of such a large, living dead thing.

Then, it was over to the wharf where we boarded our Red Boat Cruises boat and got comfy for a three hour tour... a three hour tour...any Gilligan fans? Well, this place, this unbelievable place is at once gorgeous and disarming all at the same time. Just as you think your mind knows what it is looking at, a huge boat appears no bigger than a speck against sheer cliff walls. They say that mountains do funny things to one's perspective of distance and size and I have never been in a place that toyed with that fact so wonderfully. Just as you were awed by the scale of one view, another appeared around the corner ready to take your breath away.


Highlights had to be the seals we trolled up to, basking on the only rock for miles and the waterfall the captain expertly stuck the bow of the boat into. Said to be twice the height of Niagara Falls, it sounded like we were standing beside a jet engine as the spray and mist covered our faces. It was a fun, awe-inspiring, crazy, once-in-a-lifetime moment and one that seems even more poignant when I think back upon it now. I hope the boys aren't becoming blase about all of the incredible things we are doing. I don't think they are. Our trip to Milford Sound and all of its tunnels, antlers, mountains and waterfalls will linger in their minds longest while all the other stuff fades....won't it? I don't see how it can't.

April 8-9 Queenstown

Queenstown is my kinda town. Not that I'm the bungee jumping type, but I am the outdoorsy, fleece-wearing, latte-slurping type and Queenstown's got all that and more. It reminded my very much of Whistler but with even more going on - if that's possible. Oh, and did I also mention the stunning scenery, world-class skiing, great shopping, killer restaurants, 5 star accommodations and wicked dance parties? It's got it all...but more on the dance parties later.

With the weather continuing to be wintery, our extreme sports window was appearing to be quite limited. I was immediately disappointed that the low cloud cover would postpone my paragliding lesson, but with steely resolve I...Not! There would be no paragliding, ever, but after a coolish swim and a slightly warmer sauna, we decided to scale the local gondola - straight up the side of Mt. Crumpet - or something like that, to take in the view and perhaps a little concrete luging.

Even on this cold and cloudy day Queenstown was hopping. I would need my most aggressive parallel parking tactics just to snag a spot remotely close to the gondola. Actually, the gondola is more like an elevator and my mind played "Spot the engineering fault" all the way up. Just as we miraculously neared the top, we whizzed past the AJ Hackett Bungee Jumping thingy and our/my hearts/heart lept at the mere thought of being on the same mountain as that obvious suicide machine. I don't know what my price is to bungee jump, but on this day a million dollars didn't seem to be nearly enough.

The luge is this very unique and way cool combination of toboggan, water slide, go kart and bicycle and its very addictive. You sit in a sort of sled-like thing holding onto a bike handle bar contraption, using it to break and turn. It is a tonne of fun and after Lint had pealed Alex off the wall in Turn 2, you couldn't wipe the smile off his face. After we all went once, with Bill leading the way, the boys and I "had" to go three more times, just because. If my helmet had even come close to fitting I might have agreed to a fifth run.

Extreme gondolaing and mountain luge were deemed to be enough wild activity for one day, so we headed back to our condo for a little grub and a dance party. We have this family tradition that every once in awhile we turn up the music and jump around the house. For whatever reason the boys were set on working up a few numbers on this night. Thankfully, the back-up dancers (aka parents and grandparents) were relegated to the role of spectator and we sat back to watch, giggle and drink wine as the boys performed 7-8 dances complete with costume changes and lighting effects. Sometimes the best moments are on top of a mountain and other times they are right in your living room.

In the morning we bade goodbye to our spacious accommodations and incredible view, caught a latte at the local Starbucks and got in the queue for our next big adventure - jet boating! All for the low, low price of a year's tuition we had booked tickets on the Shotover jet boats that run mere minutes outside Queenstown. Maybe the best known company in the country and with 2.5 million satisfied and still living customers in the last 35 years, we figured we were in good hands. And as we were soon to find out, we would want expert hands on that steering wheel!

While we had all planned to go, Pat decided that with a rough water warning, the river would do her back no favours. So, it was with heavy hearts we boarded our boat, met our driver "Telly", took a few snaps, and were gone. Two things that struck me immediately were how comfortable I was with padded seat and warm handrail and how friggin' close Telly could get us to the walls of the canyon. Of course, I kept saying, he's done this a million times but still...With incredible skill he slung and flung this boat up and down the river with 20 screaming passengers aboard. We did at least 3 full 360 spins without ever coming off plane and many times Lint, on the port side, could have easily touched rock. The boys were in heaven, including Grandpa Bill who had the front seat, and we all agreed, through wide perma-grins, that this once-in-a-lifetime treat came too quickly to an end.

And with that, we had officially "done" Queenstown. Not in a really extreme, risk-your-life-on-a-dare way, but still, in a kid, grandparent and family friendly way that we will all remember for a very long time. I was sad to leave and I guess the paragliders will have to wait for my return...

April 8 - Franz Josef to Queenstown

The van was still there in the morning, but not for a lack of trying on the weather's part. Man, this country is wet. The 12 year drought back in Australia seemed to be just a distant memory.

Today was glacier day but we would first need some serious parting of the heavens before the Franz Josef or Fox glaciers would come into view. After breky we optimistically set out in search of a glacier, choosing to park and walk to the nearest viewing platform for the Franz Josef, only ten minutes from our hotel. Thankfully, the rain let up (a bit) as the clouds moved higher up the mountains affording us a good view of what looked to be a glacier in a state of serious recession. I was amazed to see a sign on our drive in that indicated the glacier had been a full kilometre further down the valley a mere 20 years ago.

No longer content with staring at a bunch of ice and snow that wasn't really doing much, the boys indicated it was time to go. Alex, however, thought we were going to climb the thing and needed some serious "talking down" to get him back to the parking lot. Back on the road we decided one glacier was not enough, and with the Fox glacier only 20 minutes down the road, we made a quick detour to check it out. This was a real Chevy Chase at the Grand Canyon moment, as we hurriedly jumped out of the van, peered through some trees, took a few snaps and were then back on our way. Or maybe it was our version of the Amazing Race, and having conquered the detour, we were still ahead of "The Blondes" and the quirky, gay couple...

Whatever it was, our constant companions on this leg would be the winding roads, the rain, and the amazing number of single lane bridges. Like Aussie round-abouts, these babies take a little getting used to as you slow down (just enough) to figure out who's coming the other way. If it's clear then you swing onto the bridge and make your merry way across. It actually works quite well until you find yourself face to face with a semi half way across. Which we didn't. But I can't imagine having to back up, in the dark, over some raging river. I also wondered if single lane bridges were a purely economic decision or more a matter of rugged geography. Hitting one every 10 kms or so certainly gave one enough opportunity to wonder what the Kiwis have against building a bridge with two lanes.

We were now on our way to Queenstown on the shores of Lake Wakatipu - where they never have troubles, at least very few. En route we made a very buggy stop to take a pic at beautiful Ships Creek beach. Within seconds of exposing my pasty bare legs to the elements, these little buggers were onto me like flies on you know what. Like a black fly with a bigger bite, they must have smelled fresh meat and we were only to happy leave them to the German tourists just pulling in. Lunch would be in Haast at a popular diner that again featured fried food and more deeply fried food. When road tripping, like hang overs, grease seems to be all that you crave and I was quite content with my jumbo spring rolls and a few filched french fries.

The afternoon drive saw us climb up around some gorgeous inland lakes, surrounded by an endless display of mountain ranges. We were now in an area of the country that is a mecca for extreme sports enthusiasts from bungee jumping to jet boats and from paragliding to white water rafting. Passing through the outskirts of Wanaka, a smaller version of Queenstown, we decided to take a less major but more direct route along the Cardona Highway. It was a decision we will never regret. This was a road that needs chains in the winter and is touted as New Zealand's highest sealed road. There didn't seem to be one turn where one of us wouldn't gasp at the view, the road, or the drop off below. We stopped for a photo op at the heighest point of the pass and got a gorgeous glimpse of Queenstown far, far off in the distant valley. From here it was only another 45 windy and windswept minutes to our hotel.

Only now, it occurs to me, the beautiful serendipity of this experience. If we had listened to Mapquest or followed the obvious choice, we would have missed this gem and never been the wiser. Instead, we took a risk, tried something a bit different, and with apologies to Mr. Frost...that made all the difference.