January 10-13

Day 39 – Jan. 10 – Arrowtown

We learned today that 2 young Indian boys, brothers and the only children of an Indian couple, were killed at the base of the Fox Glacier, when a huge chunk of ice fell on them. They had gone right up to the edge of the glacier, where the ice is always ‘calving off’ (i.e., melting and falling). Signs are everywhere warning of how unstable and dangerous the ice is, but, unlike some places in the US might be, they make you take responsibility for your actions, rather than post a guard there and make sure you don’t get too close. One of the bodies was pulled out from under the ice by using a backhoe to chop away at the ice until they found him. But they were scared for their own lives to continue searching for the 2nd boy, so they’re going to let the ice melt and then his body will show up.

An interesting tidbit about NZ is that they don’t allow you sue somebody else when you get hurt. They are not a litigious society, but rather make you responsible when something goes wrong. You fall down steps that don’t have any handrails – too bad, you should’ve been more sure-footed. You trip over an area under construction downtown and break your leg – too bad, you should’ve looked where you were going.

We’ve determined there’s a good golf course in this area, so we headed out there in the morning. The starter paired us up with Des Cordelle and Barry Dawson, a couple of guys in their mid-60s. Barry was on his way home from checking on his hiefers he’s raising on a farm just a few hundred meters down the road, and Des was playing one of his many weekly rounds of golf because he’s retired and can. They couldn’t have been friendlier, or more welcoming. Barry was always off in the weeds hunting for his ball. He is married to a woman whose great-uncle was Burt Munro. Burt was the main character in the movie "The World’s Fastest Indian", starring Anthony Hopkins as Burt. We’ve become Burt Munro fans having seen the movie twice since we got here. It takes place in Invercargill, NZ, just south of here, and in the Great Salt Flats of Utah. If you haven’t seen it, rent it. It’s a good movie.

While we were warming up prior to playing, the owner of our motel drove into the parking lot, ran up to us in the practice area, and handed us our key. "We’re probably not going to be at the motel when you get back there, so we wanted to make sure you got the right key." They’re moving our stuff into another room today, since the one we’ve been staying in has been spoken for for tonight, and he was concerned we might not be able to get into our new room. Granted, the course is only about 3 miles from the motel, but you gotta admit, that was some service!
Turns out we’d entered the weekly tournament, so when we got back into the clubhouse, all 50 men and I, the lone woman, sat around and had refreshments until they tallied up the results. They singled me out as a visitor from the States and mentioned that I’d shot a 76. I guess they don’t have many women who play in their tournaments, though they all assured me that women are always welcome.

After having spent a couple of days in Arrowtown, making good friends of Des and Barry, and finding out more about this quaint little town, Joe and I have decided that this would be the town at the top of our list up to today that gets our nod for where we’d spend an entire winter if we had to choose just one place. They will not be building a single new house ever, because all the real estate designated for single-family residences has been built upon. The town is bounded on 3 sides by golf courses and on the 4th by a cliff. All the property past the 3 golf courses is reserved for farming into perpetuity. So this is the place to buy real estate, as there will be no more available ever in Arrowtown. All the houses are small and quaint, having been originally gold miners’ houses built about 100 years ago when there was not much timber for houses and most of the miners were single men who didn’t need much room. For most Americans it would be waaaay too small, but for us, who just need enough space on our next trip to unpack our meager belongings and somewhere to cook and sleep, it is perfect.

Day 40 – Jan. 11 – Arrowtown to Glenorchy

Instead of my usual granola and sliced banana, today’s breakfast was a hearty one of Eggs Benedict in one of Arrowtown’s cafes. We’re heading out to play golf at Jack’s Point, touted by Des and Barry as a must-play, and we won’t see food again for many hours. As usual, the course was deserted, and when we went into the pro shop to make arrangements to play, Ben, the young guy at the desk recognized me. He’d played in the tournament at Arrowtown yesterday and remembered my shooting a 76.

As we rolled up to the first tee, a plane came buzzing over one of the big mounds out over the fairway and flew about 100 feet over our heads, coasting to a stop on a grass runway right next to the fairway. High overhead we heard faraway voices and heard noises that sounded like flags flapping in the wind. We looked up to see 4 colorful parachutes with tiny stick figures, legs dangling out from beneath them, then watched until they glided to a perfect landing near the plane. Within 5 minutes the plane took off again with another load of people wanting to jump out of perfectly good airplanes.

For the whole time we played the course, we were entertained by the adventure sports machinery of Queenstown. Helicopters hovered and sailed overhead, then peeled off in the direction of Milford Sound. Airplanes flew in all directions, showing off the landscape to those with enough bucks to afford the aerial view. Boats of all sizes, shapes, and means of propulsion – propellors, jetskis, jetboats, steamships - criss-crossed the lake, pulling skiers and kids on inner tubes, and cruising the lake filled with sedate tourists wanting to enjoy the views from the water side.

When we came back to the clubhouse, Ben came out of the clubhouse to welcome us back and asked all about our games. He stood there talking with us for about 20 minutes, as if he had nothing else whatsoever in the world to do. Told us proudly that the club had plans to build hundreds of homes all over the beautiful fields of waving grass that are there now, making this one of the premier golf destinations in NZ. I’m glad we saw it before they ruin it.

I’ve got a bee in my bonnet to ride a horse while I’m here. That’s going to be one of my ‘adventure sports’, though hardly in the same league as hiking the Milford Track for 5 days or skydiving or landing on a glacier in a helicopter or bungy jumping. So we headed to the small village of Glenorchy and the Dart Stables, whose brochures proclaim "A horse riding experience you’ll remember for a lifetime’ and show portraits of some of their steeds. For example, Rashed, a purebred Arab (I hope I get this one for me!); or The Jazzman, a thoroughbred; or Drum Major, a pure Clydesdale (hope I don’t get this one).

Again, the drive along the edge of Lake Wakatipu to the town of Glenorchy defies description. It took us 3 hours to drive the 50 miles or so to reach it, because we stopped at every curve for pictures. Because the town is so small, and the guide books have scared us into believing there won’t be any accommodations, we were sure this would be the night we’d have to sleep in our tent. But our travel karma was with us once more and we found a room in the Glenorchy Hotel. Nothing fancy, but any port in a storm, Mother used to say.

After tossing our luggage in the room, I wanted to go see the horses. I’ve always been a horse lover, having grown up on a horse, and I just wanted to see them and pat them and maybe pick out the one I hoped they’d let me ride tomorrow. Well, we found the stable, and there was a pasture next to it, but there weren’t any horses in it. Maybe they truck them in in the morning.
As we had a lot of daylight left, we wandered through town, which took about 5 minutes as it’s only 2 blocks long, and strolled down to the old wharf on the lake. Another couple was also there, and we could hear they were speaking German. That was all we needed to strike up a conversation and learn they were from Innsbruck, Austria, and they work in a lodge on the side of the mountains as cooks. We spent about an hour with them, and then another couple, who spoke French and a bit of English but no German, joined us. Thus transpired one of the most delightful evenings, standing on the dock while the sun went down, speaking a mishmash of German, English, and French amongst 6 people who had only smatterings of one of the languages being spoken The French couple had been sailing around the world for 4 years, and, like some of the other people we met in Whangerai weeks ago, they’d headed for safety in Whangerai’s harbor for the winter to avoid the winter typhoons in the Pacific. They’ll be on land until April, when the danger is past and they can continue their round-the-world adventure..

Day 41 – Jan. 12 – Glenorchy

The horse trek was due to start at 9:30 am so we showed up at 9:00, hoping we could help saddle or brush the equines or something, but nary a soul was even around, including the four-legged kind. We wondered what we’d gotten ourselves into, but finally at 9:15 other dudes like us started showing up, then a horsey-looking lady unlocked the barn and the day began. ‘Sign this waiver, pay us, put on this helmet and these gumboots, then hop on the bus. The horses are waiting for us at the trailhead.’ That explains the absence of horses at the barn.

A fast, harrowing 15-minute ride up a curvy road put us in the middle of a field where the lucky horses of the day were tethered inside a rope corral. ‘You get Manuel and you get Spencer,’ the leader told Joe and me. We were shown to our mounts, who were wearing English saddles. I’m used to Western but have done some English, but an English saddle has always felt even more insecure than bareback to me. She led Spencer to a stump and I clambered aboard. After adjusting our stirrups and tightening the cinches, off we went, 6 dudes and 2 young women leading us. Two of the other dudes had never been on a horse before, were doing it to please their spouses.

I was happy because I was given a thoroughbred, usually a high-spirited animal. But Spencer fell in behind all the other horses, right behind Drum, a Clydesdale draft horse, the kind that pulled the Budweiser beer wagon in the tv commercials of yore. Spencer and Drum were mortal enemies, and whenever they got close to each other, which was very often, ears were laid back, teeth were bared, and whites of eyes were displayed. After 15 minutes my right knee began to hurt, so I took my feet out of the stirrups and let my legs dangle. But then I was subjected to a very unpleasant rocking motion of Spencer’s slow walk, which tossed me violently back and forth in the saddle. Whenever I put my feet back in the stirrups to get away from the back and forthing, my knee hurt and soon the straps from the stirrup began to rub my legs raw, even though I had on long pants.

‘Who wants to trot?’ yelled out our leader. Anything to get away from the dreaded jolting and knee pain. Wrong. It just multiplied all 3 kinds of pain I’d been going through. I was glad when she slowed back to a walk and I could go back to the slower pain. ‘Who wants to canter?’ That’s usually a nice rocking motion, so off I went with the other 3 who also wanted to speed up.
The cantering of this huge horse was not like any cantering I’ve ever experienced. He started off on the wrong lead, so I was jolted nearly out of the saddle every time his feet hit the ground. My helmet was bouncing around on my head and finally fell down so far it obscured my vision so I was flying blind. And the helmet made my glasses fog up, so I was doubly blind. Thank goodness my horse was just following the herd so I didn’t need to guide him or stop him when the cantering was over.

It ended abruptly. I pushed my helmet back on my head so I could see, and what I saw was Joe down on the ground, rolling around in the weeds, writing in pain, and moaning. When his horse stopped, his right foot came out of the stirrup and he went sailing. The leader hopped off her horse and was beside him asking him how he felt. ‘Just fine’, he said, but his moaning didn’t convince me. Soon, however, he stood up, limped over to his horse and got back on.
After another hour of jolting, we finally reached the barn. I vowed never to get back on a horse as long as I live. Strange thought coming from me, as I grew up on the back of Blaze, my beautiful palomino quarter horse, whom I rode bareback every day of my teenage years. I’ve always loved horses, and riding. But this was a most unpleasant experience, and I might have to admit I’m just too old and my bones aren’t designed any more for riding.

I tied up my horse, slid off, and found Joe standing, immobile, next to his horse, looking as if he was going to faint. I went over to him, put his arm over my shoulder and, using me as a crutch, he hobbled over to the car. That was the end of him. Interesting that of the 3 or 4 people working there, including the owner, only one came over to see what had happened. Even then, she didn’t seem very concerned, didn’t ask if we needed ice, or offer to help in any way. She told us that we should go to the hospital, that it’s free if it’s an accident, and make sure nothing is broken. Otherwise, everybody just left us alone to fend for ourselves.

We went back to the motel, where Joe hobbled to the room, again using me as his support, fell into bed, and didn’t move again for hours. I went out and grabbed something for him to eat, which he ate lying down, then he passed out, with help from some pain pills I brought with me, for the rest of the night.

Day 42 – Jan. 13 – Glenorchy to Te Anau

Joe woke me up at 5 am for more painkillers, and at 8 we got up for the day. He was feeling perkier than when he went to bed and didn’t want to go to the hospital, but I insisted. I wanted to know if anything was broken or badly out of alignment. By the time we got to the hospital in Queenstown, the painkiller had worn off and he was creaking around like a stiff, old man, leaning on my arm for support.

We had to pay $50 for the ‘doctor consulation’, (so much for the ‘free if it’s an accident’ theory) but the verdict was no broken bones, just bruising, take some painkillers, and you’ll be fine in a few days. I was relieved to hear that. I had visions of his having to spend time in the hospital, or our having to cut our vacation short and fly home for surgery on a broken hip, or some equally unpleasant option.

Armed with painkillers, and Joe sitting in the passenger seat for a change, we set off for the famed Milford Sound. This is the picture so much of the world thinks IS New Zealand. The cliffs dropping into the sea, full of waterfalls, and a lovely snow-capped mountain at the end of the fjord. After riding through scenery that was worthy of a photo at every turn, we reached the town of Te Anau, another Maori name, on the shores of the lake by the same name. We found a motel right on the water that has a beautiful yard with lots of blooming flowers and lots of grass, not the usual accommodation. Tossed our horsey clothes in the washing machine and sat down and enjoyed the view while our clothes got clean.

The drive over was one of those that defies description. I know I keep writing about how gorgeous the scenery is, but I’ve never been anywhere like this. If I look to the right, there is a 9,000-foot high mountain leaping right of the flat valley floor. Waterfalls begin nearly at the top and drop precipitously in a tiny white thread, leaving dark streaks down the whole drop to the valley floor, where they turn into a lovely stream of pure, clear water. By the time we cross it in the car, it will have slowed down, ducks will be floating on it and diving down to the bottom for the succulent algae they scoop up with their bills, reeds 6 feet high will be growing along its banks, in which birds will be hopping around.