Losing Myself on New Zealand's North Island

No grit. Lots of adventure.

Photo by William Warby on Unsplash

Here’s a little known hack for creating space for the souvenirs you want to cart home from your trip: lose things.

We’ve been traveling for several weeks now. Along the way, I’ve lost the charging case for my airpods, a pair of flip flops, my credit card, an entire day due to something called the International Dateline – and on our flight from Tahitit to Auckland, New Zealand, I lost my cool.

Where do you fall on the etiquette surrounding reclining airline seats? (If you’re lucky enough to always fly Business Class – skip ahead – this section isn’t for you). Here’s what Forbes Magazine recently wrote about reclining seats:

“...If you’re determined to recline, at least be as kind and considerate as you can. Always check the person behind you before reclining. If their tray table is down and they are working on a laptop or eating, wait until they are finished…”

I can get behind those rules, so I didn’t say anything when the ten-year-old boy sitting in the bulkhead seat in front of me leaned his seat back even though my knees were on my chest.

But when the meals were served, I gently tapped him on the shoulder to raise his seat. He did it with no complaints or rolling eyeballs. Of course, after the trays were picked up, down went the seat. A few hours later, I pulled out my laptop, hoping to get some writing done. Once again, I asked the young boy if he’d put his seat up. No problem.

When the boy’s mom, seated across the aisle from him, saw his seat in the upright position, she leaned over and physically pushed his seat back into the reclining position.

“I can’t use my laptop,” I protested.

The woman was either a minor Tahitian celebrity or someone who had an in with the airline. Throughout the flight, I watched enviously as a steady parade of people fawned over the elegant, long-haired beauty. They’d kneel by her (reclined) seat to chat or bring her chocolate, champagne, and elevated meals. Did I mention that My Guy happened to be sitting in her row, stretching out his 6’4” frame and happily accepting all of the freebies that came with basking in the woman’s glow?

“It’s fine,” she retorted.

“That. Is. So. Rude,” I shot back loudly enough for everyone on the plane but MG to hear.

But she’d already resumed nuzzling the neck of her lover next to her.

It wasn’t fine. It sucked. When we disembarked, I was still steaming.

“Who was that woman you were sitting with?” I asked MG when we met up at the end of the jetway.

“I don’t know, but she was really nice,” he answered. “Champagne, chocolate, a bulkhead seat….Man, I scored.”

Ding. Ding. Ding. Wrong answer, buddy.

“I need some space,” I said through clenched teeth, walking twenty paces ahead. MG caught up with me outside of the duty-free store.

“I’m sorry you had a miserable flight,” he said. Apology accepted even though what I really wanted was for him to agree that the woman was a bitch.

Instead, he said, “If we hurry, we can beat the line at customs.”

There’s nothing like avoiding a line to rev my engine and divert my attention….

But there’s more to the story. I couldn’t stay grumpy for long.

How can you not love a country so pristine they make you declare your hiking boots when you pass through customs so they can brush off the dirt before returning them to you in a sealed plastic bag? New Zealand is one clean country.

At first glance, it might even seem a bit boring without the grit of tent cities, litter, and open fentanyl use. And a landscape of gentle golden hills of hay, corn, cows, and one-lane roads that lulled me into thinking I hadn’t left southern Oregon.

Even the North Islanders are a bit apologetic.

“Just wait until you get to the South Island. Now that’s really something,” they tell visitors.

Hidden beneath those rolling hills is plenty of excitement. New Zealand sits over two active tectonic plates that bump into each other like two highschool jocks having a rumble, creating several volcanoes, a witches cauldron of geothermal activity, and an occasional earthquake.

My Guy indulges in hot springs with all the fervor of baseball fans plotting ballpark tours, and New Zealand has more than its fair share. So, I knew we couldn’t visit the North Island without stopping in Rotorua, a town with more mud-colored thermal pools and steam vents lining its streets than pedestrian crosswalks.

Clouds of steam erupting from the rock face of Rainbow Mountain

We spent a day hiking through a dense forest of giant ferns, beech trees, silver birch, and spiky-leafed cabbage trees (so many trees!) and staring at plumes of steam escaping like the words of an angry god from the rock face. Afterwards, we headed to Hell's Gate, which felt more like heaven to soothe our sore muscles in mud baths a la Lois Litt from Suits. No wonder the Maori have used the mud and thermal pools in this area for generations as a source of healing.

The mud baths at Hells Gate felt like heaven

We left Rotorua behind, but not the warmth of its waters. In the town of Taupo a few hours south, we found a lake dotted with “Hot Beaches” where you can skooch your bum into sizzling black sand and swim in water as warm as Hawaii even if the temperature in the rest of the lake gives you goose bumps.

In Taupo, we weren’t too far from Tongoriro National Park and the famed Tongoriro Alpine Crossing. The one-way trek across Mt. Ngauruhoe (Naa-ooroo-hway), the setting for Mordor’s Mount Doom in the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, begins in the town of Whakapaka. I haven’t mastered the tongue-twisting Maori language, but after learning that “Wh” is pronounced “F,” MG and I have had a lot of fun reciting the town’s name over and over.

“Whakapaka.” Have a go. See what I mean?

The 12-mile Tongoriro Alpine Crossing is one of the top ten day hikes in the world, according to some guidebooks with glorious views of mountains and crater lakes.

We didn’t do it.

Instead, we chose a still challenging but less intense trail that kept the iconic volcano in view as we traipsed through a landscape that varied from thick bush to a savannah-like setting of wheat-colored grass and purple heather and ended with a view into not one but two turquoise lakes. Stunning.

Mt. Ngauruhoe aka Mount Doom

Mount Doom may have been the ultimate destination of Frodo and Samwise, but it wasn’t ours. We were off to Waitomo Caves on the western part of the island to discover the magic of glow worms. Donning wetsuits and boots, we sloshed over rocks and floated on inner tubes through a cave. At a certain point, maybe because we were all freezing and wondering why we’d been crazy enough to sign up for the tour, our guide had us take hold of the boots of the person behind us.

“Turn off your headlamps,” he instructed.

We floated in absolute silence. A tubular train moving slowly through the cave guided by the twinkling light of a million tiny glow worms clinging to the limestone walls and ceiling of the cave. Can I just say it? Wow.

It always feels awkward to move through a country without learning its history and experiencing the culture beyond what is in the museums or gleaned in books and online. On the other hand, is there a sensitive approach that doesn’t feel performative? I don’t know. But we couldn’t visit the North Island, where twenty percent of the residents identify as Maori, and not spend some time learning a bit of their history and culture. So we joined a hundred other tourists for an hangi – a traditional Maori feast where the food is cooked using heated rocks buried in a pit. In the evening, we soaked up the stories, songs, rituals, and history of the whanau Mitai-Ngatai people. Touristic? Sure, but I left with a better understanding and appreciation of a culture so imbued with meaning that its people wear their beliefs on their faces, arms, and legs in the form of intricate and symbolic tattoos.

Perhaps the biggest magic we’ve found on the North Island has been connecting with the New Zealanders themselves. Hello. New Zealanders may be the nicest people in the world. MG and I have stayed at dozens of Airbnbs around the world, but for the first time several of our hosts have become true friends with invitations and promises to visit us in the United States.

It’s been hard to say goodbye to the North Island, but as MG likes to say, “Push on.” Because there’s more to discover on the South Island.