New Zealand first impressions: simple and close-to-Earth
Exploring New Zealand articles
One: New Zealand first impressions
Two: Intro to NZ mountain biking
Three: Unhinged—riding a NZ classic
Four: NZ sandflies are an itchy initiation
New Zealand is one of the most isolated countries on the planet, and getting there from the U.S. is no small feat. Those willing to put in the effort will be rewarded by a country overflowing with outdoor adventures and pastoral sensibilities.
Like traveling to Japan, China or other Pacific Rim countries, you have to cross the International Date Line to get to New Zealand from the U.S. We took off from San Francisco International Airport the evening of February 11 and landed in New Zealand the morning of February 13 after a 13-hour flight. When we returned to the States five weeks later, the process was reversed. We got home just a few hours after taking off.
Kind of tough to get your mind around.
The flight path from San Francisco to Aukland makes for 13 hours in the air.
After a short layover in Aukland, we boarded a regional prop plane and flew south to Nelson, a city of about 40,000 on the north end of the South Island. We descended a portable set stairs to the tarmac and walked into a small terminal where we were greeted by four familiar faces: friends we met on a mountain biking trip in the Spanish Pyrenees three years ago. Since that trip, we’ve gotten together each year with Liz and Alan, who will be our initial hosts. Their age belies their physical prowess. Both in their 70s, they can ride mountain bikes as well or better than many aggressive riders in their 20s or 30s, and they’re particularly good at descending rough, technical trails. On one of our earlier trips together I coined the adage: “If Alan won’t ride it nobody will.” It’s nearly as true for Liz.
During our drive from the airport, after all of 10 minutes on the ground, Liz asked about our first impressions of New Zealand.
Maybe we hadn’t been on the ground long enough, but I didn’t have a lot to say. Everything up to that point had seemed predictable: the country appeared beautiful, they drove on the left side of the road, cars and houses were smaller than they are in the U.S.
With a little further reflection, my list expanded: Passing through customs had included a stout screening to keep foreign soil and microorganisms from invading New Zealand’s isolated island dirt. Those who failed had to go to a special room to clean their shoes, tents, sleeping bags or bikes.
Nelson, New Zealand from the air.
Another observation was the ethnic make-up of the people at the airport. Some 20 to 30 percent appeared to be New Zealand natives, called Maori, a culture I knew little about at the time. There had been a few Asian folks, too. A tour operator told us February is usually peak season for Chinese tourists, but the coronavirus outbreak had significantly curbed Chinese travel in 2000.
The farms around Brightwater, New Zealand.
I don’t mean to sound unobservant, but those were most of my first impressions: people talk funny; the steering wheel is on the wrong side of the car; and they’re proud of their pristine dirt.
Alan and Liz’s back-yard garden and the hillside where they graze 120-odd sheep.
After a few short stops, we drove 15 minutes to the pastoral town of Brightwater where Alan and Liz own a small farm in a valley above town. February in New Zealand is the equivalent of August in North America, and the grass-covered hills were drought brown, while irrigated fields lining the roads grew strong with alfalfa, hops, apples and grapes. After stopping at a stock yard where farmers were bidding on sheep, we drove up a small road into a grass-covered valley. Near the top of a hill was a modest, one-story house surrounded by fruit and nut trees: Alan and Liz’s farm.
A morning walk near the farm.
The stillness was overwhelming. A chorus of cicadas pulsed from the trees, broken only by the occasional bawl from one of their 120-odd head of sheep. Otherwise their valley was still. Cars passed once every hour or two. The breeze breathed soft. The sun was warm. It was beautiful and, pretty quickly, restorative.
We enjoyed a sunny dinner on the patio, played with their sheep dogs, Belle and Jess, and, after dinner, went for a walk down the completely car-free road. We knew some of Alan and Liz’s story, but dug in a little deeper and learned about their pretty rich lives. They’re 20-odd years our senior and have traveled the world a few times over. They’ve lived and worked in Canada and Antarctica; spent a year sailing from Hong Kong to New Zealand; earned a living as ski patrollers, surveyors, business owners, ranchers and, for liz, as a nurse., and Alan as a ski area manager. They’ve kayaked, skied, biked, hiked and climbed their way around the planet; but they’ve also lived in their modest house on the small farm in a tucked-away valley above Brightwater, New Zealand, for 40 years.
We slept that night with open windows, which let pasture smells puff through the room. Around 5 a.m., a half hour before first light, the valley’s roosters began to crow. Then came “rush hour” when about four cars passed within the span of five or 10 minutes. Then the valley returned to its customary silence, and I lay back down to ponder first impressions—eventually arriving at some less obvious ideas about New Zealand, things about the quiet valley above Brightwater and Alan and Liz’s connection to it.
Despite their extensive travel and adventures—one a scale I admire but am not sure I aspire to—they live simple and close to the Earth. There’s a productive garden in the back yard, and most of their trees produce fruit or nuts. Tending to the sheep and staying involved in the mountain bike community are activities that continue to give them strong sense of purpose, and their lives seem full, grounded and happy.
It took a few days to coalesce, but my first impression of New Zealand was largely based on our friends, who we already knew to be soft-spoken, generous and alive in an admirable way. I know they may not be representative of the country as a whole, but it was a pretty good starting point, and we were honored to be welcomed with genuine spirit and warmth.
Looking north across Brightwater’s farm country.