New Zealand - Wellington to Auckland

I like snow.  I like snow a lot.  I especially like snow when viewed from the interior of a warm house by a large window cradling a mug of coffee in my hands and a pot of chili simmering on the stove.  I do not like snow when viewed from the interior of a small car staring with laser focus on the dwindling asphalt while crossing a high mountain pass nine-thousand miles from home with the lives of my precious loved ones hanging in the balance.  Such was my predicament when we drove from the warm but wet city limits of Wellington four hours north to Lake Taupo for our penultimate night in New Zealand.  

We had only about an hour left to travel, and as we gradually ascended a mountain range marked by rounded hilltops covered with tall blond grass, I noticed that the slopes had a funny bleached look to them.  The digital thermometer in the car began dropping, and we realized the bleached hills had a coating of frost, and the road signs became illegible due the the coating of windblown snow frozen to the metal.  The already grey skies turned leaden as we ascended into a heavy mist which burst into a snow storm that sent heavy, wet flakes swirling in the air and covered the narrow lanes on the road at an alarming rate.  Traffic slowed, my hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, and I had visions of my little family stranded on the side of the road trying to keep warm in our synthetic layers and down jackets that were warm but not blizzard warm.

We had set out from Christchurch three days ago in a steady rain that lasted the whole four hours to the small community of Maruia where we spent one night to break up the long haul to Wellington.  The mountain ranges were covered with long white clouds that sent rain showers through the valleys creating surging rivers and slick roads.  When we arrived at our small motel, the driveway was partially blocked by a large motorcoach and an ambulance, and the coach passengers stood in an adjacent parking lot with concerned countenances.  We managed to pull into the motel lot where we met the owner who was visibly shaken. She told us that a lady on the bus had suffered a heart attack and that she had tended to her while waiting for the medevac chopper—it landed in middle of the highway as we spoke.  The motel owner showed us to our room as the chopper took off and the chilly rain continued even harder.

Despite our somber arrival, we spent a quiet night in the comfortable room and heated some shepherd's pies we had purchased earlier that day for supper and watched HGTV until it was time for bed.  The next morning came quickly, and after coffee and a bite standing, we loaded the car and hit the road again bound for the crossing town of Picton about three hours away.  The skies were still grey, but the rain held off, and we were able to enjoy views of the thick forests full of silver ferns as we approached Picton, where we found our home for one night just down the road from the one where we stayed when we first came to the south island two weeks before.  This house near the marina was owned by Brad and Sandy, a couple in their mid-fifties that tried to downsize but failed when the realtor showed them the two-story house with a pool and a view of the mountains.  We quickly settled into our one large room with three beds and then drove back to town for supper.

I taught myself to use Brad’s espresso machine and was so proud of myself that I drank several cups of strong brew which fortified me for a speedy packing-and-car-loading session in the persistent rain.  We said goodbye to Brad and made the short drive to the Interislander ferry terminal and turned in the Corolla which had served us so well in our south island travels.  After checking our bags and boarding the ferry, Deena and I stood on the top deck and took pictures of the mountains surrounding the harbor before joining Joseph and Deveny on the middle deck for a pleasant three-hour voyage back to the north island.  Everything would have been rosy except for the storm that blew through the Cook Strait creating monstrous waves that slammed the hull and sent the ship rolling through the sea—which gave me the worst case of seasickness I’ve endured to date.  The rest of my crew were not affected by the undulating sea, and they showed compassion to me by keeping their teasing to a minimum.

Picton

Safely back on land, I sipped a 7 Up while we checked out another rental car and made our way into the hills of Wellington, the capital of New Zealand and our base for the next two days.  Through the same hospitality service we used in Christchurch, we had arranged to stay with Phil and Mary Clare, empty nesters that lived in the suburb of Tawa with their pumpkin-colored cat, Rocky.  Phil is the director of Prison Fellowship in New Zealand, and Mary Clare is a nurse who also has her own lactation-consulting business.  They have three grown children, two of whom live in Australia; the third is just down the road in Wellington.  

When we arrived, travel weary and still a bit green from the boat ride ride, Mary Clare pulled us in with hugs and a smile and sat us down in the comfy den while she prepared hot tea and cake.  The rain clouds had lifted by then, and we could see their back yard through big French doors.  Phil and Mary Clare enjoy gardening in their spare time, and the property behind the house was full of silver ferns, cabbage trees, and heavy vines twisted around arbors still full of purple flowers.  Beyond their weathered cedar fence, the hills around Tawa formed the sloping walls of a lush green bowl which protected several of the surrounding neighborhoods from the stiff breeze coming off the sea from the harbor.  Phil had traveled to Auckland that day and wasn’t due back until suppertime, so Deena and I sat with Mary Clare and talked about her life in Wellington while she prepared the evening meal.  Deveny discovered Rocky the cat, so she was off playing with her new friend, and Joseph discovered the brand new TV in the living room which had ESPN available, so he was set as well.

Deveny and Rocky

Rocky being spoiled

Mary Clare was born in Ireland, and even though she had been with Phil in New Zealand for thirty-five years, I could still detect a bit of Irish lilt mixed with her kiwi twang.  Phil arrived home flush with the success of a busy travel day, and greeted the girls with a peck on the cheek and Joseph and me with a firm handshake.  I had noticed earlier that there were turntables positioned around the house, and Phil and I were soon immersed in conversation about the superiority of vinyl recordings over digital. We soon discovered that we had a mutual affinity for blues music.  Throughout dinner and the rest of the evening, the background was full of blues from Robert Cray, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and Paul Butterfield.  After Mary Clare served up a wonderful dinner of savory beef stew with herbs, mashed potatoes, and steamed red cabbage, we lingered over the meal for a long time talking about our travels, raising kids, and just life in general.  After a couple days of heavy travel, it was relaxing to just sit with good company and talk late into the night.

In our own rooms with electric blankets on comfy beds, we enjoyed a good night’s sleep and rose to the smell of fresh coffee coming from the kitchen.  Phil also took his coffee seriously; he worked his barista magic grinding fresh Cuban beans and making double espressos in a cafe-quality machine that cost nearly three-thousand dollars.  I’ve begun a long, subtle campaign for my own candy-apple red, retro-looking espresso machine that takes up very little counter space and saves tons of money in the long run much like a new, efficient heating system.  So far, my bride’s not going for it, but I’m patient and cunning.

Mary Clare served us a filling breakfast of porridge with fresh apricot slices and chunks of brown sugar that melted into candy pools in the steaming bowls.  With the sun shining and a full day ahead of us in Wellington, we struck out for the summit of Mount Victoria for a full view of the city from the area’s tallest mountain.  The road to the top was narrow and lined with cars parked at all angles which made for a hairy drive, but we were soon standing on the viewing platform at the summit looking out over the deep blue water of the harbor and the city of Wellington built along the edge of the bay and extending into the hillsides all around.  It was a fantastic view, but strong wind gusts forced us back into the car, so we drove the winding road back into the city and ended up at the Te Papa museum where we spent the entire afternoon going through every display.  The exhibits there were mainly focused on the history of New Zealand told through presentations about the Maori, animal and plant life, and immigration in the nineteenth century.  Sir Peter Jackson had contributed to the museum and helped produce their most powerful display about New Zealand’s role in World War I, specifically at the battle of Gallipoli, which was completely detailed, engaging, and heartbreaking in the manner of all stories of war and sacrifice.

Wellington

We had planned to see a few more city sights that afternoon, but the museum visit took its toll, and we drove back to Phil and Mary Clare’s house where we were greeted with more hot tea and coffee and fresh lemon cake with cream cheese frosting.  One of Phil’s old schoolmates had a birthday that day, and Phil invited me to accompany the two of them to the local pub. I had a great time listening to these two old friends talk about the good old days while enjoying a pint of the local brew.  We picked up pizza to take home for dinner, and because Phil and Mary Clare left us in charge of the house while they went into town to see a show, we spent a quiet evening reading and watching movies until they returned.  Even though Phil had to catch an early flight back to Auckland the next morning, he stayed up late with Joseph and me to watch a pre-recorded rugby match in order to help us fully understand the rules of this brutal game that the kiwis love.

We ate a quick breakfast early the next morning and gave Mary Clare big hugs, loaded the car, and drove down the mountain in the light rain.  We had four hours to cover in order to make it to Lake Taupo and the last AirBnB stay of our trip.  We kept a leisurely pace, and by the time we reached the Tongariro National Park, the roads were starting to ice up in the mountain pass, and I kicked myself mentally for not trying to make better time.  The thick snowfall was beautiful as it covered the grassy balds and the boulders in the streams of azure blue water. My family enjoyed it while I entertained visions of freezing in a stranded car stuck grill first in a snowbank by the side of the road.  Thankfully, the road started to descend, the temperature rose slightly, and the roads became clear as the snow tapered off on the far side of the pass.  Thirty minutes later, we reached the shores of Lake Taupo, found our home for the night, and I let myself relax as I eased our vehicle into the carport beside our cottage safe and sound from the peril of winter in late May.

Snow in May

We spent a quiet night in our comfy two-room cottage and had a simple breakfast the next day before packing up again and driving another four hours to the Ibis Budget Hotel right around the corner from the Auckland airport.  The drive took us on a highway through the middle of the north island and the countryside I loved so much in Glen Afton where we stayed for the first few days in New Zealand.  Tomorrow morning, we have an early wake-up call and a flight to Sydney Australia, and then a connecting flight to Honolulu, Hawaii—our month in New Zealand is suddenly over. The variation of natural beauty in this country is wide and breathtaking as new vistas open up around every curve in the narrow roads, and the lush landscapes help the natives live with the dangers of shifting tectonic plates and geothermal instability.  While the coastal drives, colossal mountain ranges, and glacier-carved valleys of the south island will always be part of my memories of the most beautiful places on earth, my heart belongs to the quiet countryside of the north island.  The green, rolling hills with dells full of little patches of woods and small streams running along country lanes made me long for an afternoon walk on a fall day with the promise of a hot bowl of soup on the stove in a small cottage painted white and a yard planted with flowers.