Middle Earth at Middle Age

There was, I’ll admit, a certain amount of anxiety that surfaced when I turned 40. To combat this, I returned to New Zealand, my homeland, summoned two childhood friends and headed for the backcountry. The point was to prove that I hadn’t lost the gumption required to be a Kiwi girl and that the onerous march of time hadn’t rendered me a hopeless urban sissy. For real wilderness, we knew we had to go to the sparsely populated lands of the South Island, where the people are frighteningly hardy. I knew they had what it took to propel me over the midlife abyss.

The Lakes District of south-central South Island is notorious for its great beauty and hairy-edge adrenaline sports. Almost half of all tourists to New Zealand visit Queenstown, the mountainous township on the shores of Lake Wakatipu. Here they fling themselves off bridges while tied to industrial elastic, thrill to rocky near-misses on the Shotover Jet boat, boogie board the rapids of local rivers or, more sedately, drink wine or take a bus tour. But what most of them don’t realize is that if you drive 30 minutes on any country road away from Queenstown, you’re deep into the Middle Earth that awed moviegoers in “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy. The bulk of visitors never actually get there.

Jackie, Sally and I had spent many teen holidays down south hiking, riding, rafting, skiing and flirting with the notoriously able Southern Men. Our flirting years over, we decided instead to hire our own Southern Man in the form of a private guide. The advantage of having a guide is he arranges all activities, he knows the remote areas, he tends to raise the fun factor, and he invariably has a “mate” somewhere who can bend the rules when the need arises.

South Islanders have never been good at rule following. In fact, they are supremely accomplished at rule ignoring, which is a large part of their charm. New Zealanders in general have tremendous respect for individualism and don’t like to be told how to behave. The closest the authorities have come to this, I noticed, is their anti-drunken driving campaign with billboards declaring, “Drive Drunk. Bloody Idiot.”

Being a nucleus for adrenaline junkies, the Queenstown region heaves with Uber-athletes and, in turn, adventure companies that match clients with trained guides. I sifted through Web sites, then phoned Inner Momentum because it looked inspiring and promised all manner of derring-do. Lead guide and company founder Jeremaia Fisk answered my call and sounded amusing and professional despite using words such as “mind-blowing” and “humming.” During our conversation, I became overzealous and asked Jeremaia about Inner Momentum’s philosophy. Silence.

Twenty years in California and look what’s happened to me, I thought. Southern Men don’t espouse personal philosophies. I knew better than that. Eventually he recovered, responding, “Right. Um. Well. I guess you could say we’re trying to take people away from the complexities of daily reality and put them back into the moment. We surround them with stunning nature and remind them how to push themselves to the point of extreme happiness.”

I hired him.

In February, peak summer in New Zealand, we flew from Auckland to Queenstown. Jeremaia met us at the airport for our six-day, five-night trip. He was 26, blond, lean, and had a surfer-grunge goatee, a wry blue gaze and an irreverent sense of humor. We piled into his SUV and, after lunch, headed for our hotel. Our plan was to alternate rough backcountry nights with pampering hotels. A week of bathing in rivers, although compelling, is not my first choice unless there’s no alternative.

We were beginning decadently, staying at Eichardt’s in Queenstown, the latest in a string of luxurious boutique hotels populating New Zealand. The hotel’s five rooms were beyond fabulous, the owners having spared no expense in elegance, service and decor. Although one of the most expensive hotels in the country, the place still has New Zealand flavor, with pioneer antiques in a historic building, and endearingly warm service. My room, or actually my own private sitting room, gazed over the blue waters of Lake Wakatipu with the remarkable Remarkables mountains soaring behind.

Knowing we would be in the wilderness the next night, we had dinner at Saffron, a restaurant in Arrowtown, 20 minutes outside Queenstown. Saffron, according to Conde Nast Traveler, is one of the world’s “Top 100 tables.” Lofty praise for a restaurant in a town with a permanent population of 1,600. The decor was spotlit cool with bold art and a Euro/Thai menu: fresh seafood, wild game and organically grown greens and fruits. Our dinner was excellent and, with the American dollar being worth almost twice New Zealand’s dollar at the time, affordable. Main courses cost about $20.

After a meal of green-lipped mussels in brioche crumbs and red duck coconut curry, we drifted over to the neighboring Blue Door Bar. The roaring fire and leather armchairs give the impression that you’re not really in a public barroom, but more likely in a tiny private underground home. You could, for example, be in Sam Neill’s den. A local Kiwi-done-good, the “Jurassic Park” actor lives nearby at his winery, Two Paddocks, which produces a notable pinot noir. He often patronizes the Blue Door, locals say, although not that night. Jeremaia and a couple of rock-climbing buddies joined us for a drink. In keeping with Southern Man protocol, they drank countless Long Island iced teas mixed, alarmingly, with Red Bull Energy Drink, remaining completely unaffected.

The next morning Jeremaia collected us, and we drove 25 minutes north of Queenstown to hike the Sam Somers Heritage Trail. The four-mile track wound along the Williamson spur, heading to the stone hut where Sam Somers, a crazy land surveyor and local legend, isolated himself during the gold-mining days of the 1870s. Years later his skeleton was found clutching a bottle of whiskey in his one-room shanty atop a waterfall.

For the first mile we climbed gradually up through shimmering red and silver beech trees and the vivid green tentacles of ferns. The next two miles were steeper, and we rested on the ridge overlooking the hyper-real blue of Lake Wakatipu and the ragged gray Eyre mountains. Then the track circled gently down and back to our waiting car. The hike had taken 2 1/2 hours, although it could be done in two if no stops were made.

Returning to Queenstown airport that after-noon, we met the Heliworks helicopter that would take us to Big Bay, a beach on the west coast of Fiordland National Park. Accompanying us was Jeremaia and his “mate” Dale Hunter, the owner of the hut where we were to stay. (Inner Momentum arranged the helicopter trip, but we paid for it separately.)

Dale was an archetypal Southern Bloke, an even tougher subcategory. A weather-beaten, singlet-wearing, knife-carrying silent type. A man who had spent eight years living alone in the bush catching wild deer to stock the farms producing Cervena, New Zealand’s gourmet venison. Jeremaia had warned us not to expect Dale to talk much, and his rugged appearance warned us off. Dale came with Sid, a Jack Russell terrier upon which he doted. One doesn’t really expect a bloke like Dale to own a Jack Russell. A German shepherd maybe. But Sid sat tied to the rear door of the helicopter, fixated grimly on the ground below. “‘E’s lookin’ for deer,” Dale mumbled.

The flight to Big Bay, about 60 miles away, usually takes 30 minutes, but we had elected the scenic route. Brendan, the pilot, swung low over serpentine rivers, hovered over snowy mountaintops, banked to clear knife-edged ridges and shot through valleys. We traced the Dart River, flew over mountainous sheep stations and skimmed thick forests. Although helicopters are not cheap to hire, it was one of those incalculable, must-do lifetime experiences. Imagine a theme park ride through larger-than-IMAX scenery.

“Gobsmackingly gorgeous, eh?” Brendan said through the headset. Perfectly put.

We landed briefly twice, once next to a perfect alpine lake, and again on a glacier, where, under cornflower blue skies, we crunched through snow to gaze on the untouched valleys below. And then we reached Big Bay, a sweep of pebbly shore, steely seas and a tight green weave of roadless bush.

The hut at Big Bay was the no-frills kind of place so typical of antipodean backcountry. Built of salvaged wood, plywood, driftwood and random planking, the hut was a far stretch from Eichardt’s, but it had fabulous charm. Inside were a tiny kitchen, fireplace and two sleeping areas, one with a double bed and one with homemade bunks. There were also two external bunkhouses. It did have indoor plumbing, but because the bathroom lacked the rather crucial element of a door, I preferred the long-drop out back with a sign posted above it mandating “One Person at a Time.” (A long-drop is a deep hole dug into the ground with a wooden lean-to built around it. This serves as the lavatory, and is a very common sight in the New Zealand bush.) Dale had built the huts by hand, flying and boating in generators and fridges. He allows Jeremaia’s guided parties to use the place, although only the hearty should venture there.

Dusk approached as Dale lit a fire and broke out the beer. Then he and Sid disappeared with a bucket, returning it filled with paua, New Zealand’s version of abalone. Like abalone, paua is a delicacy, and the amount Dale collected within half an hour would sell for about $175. In a pan over the fire, he cooked up fritters with fresh-picked watercress. And while he cooked, he began to talk. He told us about his mate Beansprout, a bush recluse so known because he cultivated sprouts in his hair under a hat. He spoke about the only book he had read in his life, “Papillon,” and how it had prepared him for pretty much anything. About how Sid had followed a scent and saved the life of a hypothermic hiker. And about the time he was at sea watching a gray whale cow play with her calf when his motorboat rose into the air on the back of a bull whale, and an eye the size of a child’s head swiveled to stare him down. Then Dale wandered outside, jumped in a kayak and threw out nets so he could cook fresh fish for breakfast. Dale, it seemed, was an enlightened Southern Man.

The following day the men rose early to check the nets. They had caught several small sharks, and Dale fried up another feast.

Later, the helicopter dropped Jeremaia and me near a penguin colony about a nautical mile from the hut. The others took the helicopter off to sightsee. We were to walk to the colony, then cut through the bush back to the hut on a trail Dale had vaguely indicated from the air, the hike taking no more than an hour. Jeremaia and I set out to observe the rare yellow-eyed penguin, so named because of its yellow iris and head stripe. Fewer than 6,000 remain in the world.

When it came time to head back, it became obvious that the bush had swallowed any evidence of a trail. “Right, then,” said Jeremaia. “We can sit and wait till they miss us, or we can bush bash.” Perfectly aware that Kiwis never suspect disaster until someone’s on the operating table, the bush-bashing option seemed prudent.

The “bush” was, in fact, rainforest, with knotted vines, twisted trees and ancient ferns. It was striking in its prolific chaos but slow going, and at times we were on all fours. Tired, I veered into a clearing, the sort of grotto depicted in fairy tales as the habitat of elves and witches. Trees had carbuncled faces with lichen beards, and spectral light stippled the spongy earth. I sat down. New Zealand’s wilderness has always been a sacred place for me. It’s about as close as I come to spirituality. And the forests are architecturally inspired, verdant cathedrals with shaft-of-light pillars, leafy domes and songbird altos.

Jeremaia doubled back, “Aw, gurl, you’re off the compass course. We gotta stick to it or we’ll end up in bloody Auckland.” To a Southern Man, the congested North Island metropolis, my hometown, is Satan’s lair.

During our hike Jeremaia told me about his past. Although he was fair in coloring, he’s of Maori heritage, a descendant of New Zealand’s native people. He spoke the language and had lived on a marae, or Maori village, for a part of his childhood. Big Bay was an area rich in Maori history, particularly the trading of greenstone, New Zealand’s nephrite jade. For the Maoris, it was pounamu, which means “heart stone.” It was a mineral that held great mystique and potency and was used for jewelry, weaponry and as gifts for venerated people. Jeremaia wore a carved piece of it around his neck. To illustrate the power of the stone, he told a chilling story. When he was on the marae, he was friendly with identical twin boys. They each had a carved greenstone rock, given to them at birth. They carried the carvings everywhere. Jeremaia walked home from school one day with one of the twins. The boy reached into his pocket and found his greenstone broken cleanly in two. It was a large lump, not easy to break, and he was upset at what it might foreshadow. When the boy arrived home, he learned that his twin brother had just been killed on his bike.

Three hours later, we staggered back onto the beach and walked up to the hut. Dale looked at our filthy clothing and grinned, “Miss the trail then, did we?”

That evening, we flew back to Queenstown, diverting over Milford Sound, a fiord created by a glacier and then flooded by the sea. With its theatrical cliffs, peaks and dozens of waterfalls, it is the most popular walking track in the country. The helicopter headed straight into a wall of spray from Sutherland Falls, one of the tallest waterfalls in the Southern Hemisphere. We rose vertically up the sheet of water until the spray dropped away and we were over tranquil Lake Quill, which feeds the ravenous falls.

Nearing Queenstown, the helicopter stopped to drop us off near Matakauri, our next luxury lodge. Matakauri has only seven rooms that teeter right over Lake Wakatipu, in the bush 15 minutes outside Queenstown. The rooms are enormous mini-homes, with one of the most staggering views in the world. Huge picture windows frame water, mountains, sky and not another sign of humanity. We each had a candlelit bath then headed to the restaurant for a gourmet meal, fortifying ourselves for the next excursion--an overnight horseback trek.

In the morning, Jeremaia got us, and we headed for Glenorchy, a country town 45 minutes north of Queenstown. People come here to walk the spectacular four-day Routeburn Track that follows a pioneer trail through the Southern Alps. There’s also boating on the Dart and Rees rivers, and devout “Ringies” flock to hike Paradise Valley, the setting for the cities of Isengard and Lothlorien in “The Lord of the Rings” films. Dart Stables operates two-hour and six-hour horse trips, as well as two-day trips into Paradise, with overnight stays in cabins at the top. The stables provide their own guides, so Jeremaia had a reprieve.

Riders were grouped according to ability--gallopers, trotters and walkers. I’m a comfortable rider and so was given Sterling, a thoroughbred with a highly strung but well-intentioned disposition. We bonded immediately. Sally and Jackie were intermediate riders, so they went with the trotters. We had three guides, the leader being Sue Veint, a robust Southern Woman who appeared as a Rider of Rohan in “The Lord of the Rings.” Most of those Rohan warriors were actually women, Sue told us. They were able to remain in the saddle longer during the more frenetic battle scenes.

We rode up the Dart Valley beside a broad river, gradually ascending into alpine hills. The sky was an iron blanket of gray, and the rain fell heavily halfway through our seven-hour ride. People are often surprised at how much it rains in New Zealand. My stock response is twofold. One: The Maori name for the country is Aotearoa, or “Land of the Long White Cloud.” There’s your first clue. Two: There’s a reason the country is perennially green and luscious.

There’s something about riding in the rain that makes you feel wholesome. Maybe it’s the stupidity of it, but at that moment, soaked to the skin and with the ground growing slick, I was indeed pushed to the point of extreme happiness.

Finally, we arrived at the Paradise huts, set deep in a glowing silver beech forest. The structures were basic but better than a tent. There was no electricity, but there was running water. Heat came from a wood stove, light from oil lamps, and the shower was wood-fired. “We haven’t gussied anything up for the tourists,” Sue said. “We give ‘em the real deal. After all, this is how Kiwis spend their nights in the bush.” Each hut had two single beds with a sleeping bag. Our gear had been brought up earlier by jeep, so we had dry clothes at hand.

The group consisted of two middle-aged couples from Chicago, two British women in their 20s, four Australian women also in their 40s, us three, and the three guides, one of whom was a man. All 16 of us crowded into one hut for dinner, crammed around a rough wooden table. Clothes steaming over the wood stove, we sat, drank red wine and ate large portions of overcooked steak and potatoes. What followed was a hilarious and protracted party of strangers. Sue told stories about the movie stars and the catastrophes on “The Lord of the Rings” set. The British women, who were on a worldwide trip, lamented about the foreign dates they’d been on. We debated who was tougher, Southern Men or Outback Aussie Blokes, and we all agreed on how bold and lovely New Zealand is. Occasionally one of us would get up and lurch into the rain to use the long-drop, returning to the little lamp-lit hut on the hill and its merry occupants.

It was still raining the following morning, and we had the seven-hour ride back. For some this was too much, and there were groans, but it was exactly what I had come for. I threw on a Driza-Bone, the oilskin raincoats thankfully true to their name, and Sterling and I galloped through wet pastures and down country tracks. It was blissful, and it wasn’t until I returned to the stables that I realized I was shaking from the cold.

Jeremaia was waiting for us. When I dismounted, he handed me dry clothing, his own, ordering me to change. Then he presented me with a bar of chocolate, and at that moment he was a young god. The two British women stared in admiration and envy.

“He’s your what?” they whispered.

“Um, our private guide.” There are, after all, a few privileges to turning 40.

That night we stayed at an inn called Arrowtown House in Arrowtown. We returned to the Blue Door, where Jonty the jaunty bartender poured drinks liberally and kept the fire hot. I admire any man who can concoct a fine mojito 8,000 miles from its origin.

On the last day, we briefly hiked two miles of the Tobin’s Track above Arrowtown, and then descended to wander through the streets. A quaint gold mining town that sprang up overnight when gold was discovered in the Arrow River in 1862, Arrowtown thrived for 10 years then died just as quickly. During the past 20 years, however, it has gentrified into a hip summer and winter getaway. The buildings are mostly painted-clapboard miner’s cottages, reminiscent of the American West. There’s a pioneer museum, and the streets are lined with shops selling wool sweaters and possum fur products. Possums, those nocturnal, plate-eyed creatures, were introduced by settlers and are now considered pests. Fifty million of them are destroying the forests and depriving native birds of their habitat, according to government figures. New Zealanders shoot them, trap them, poison them, run over them, and set their dogs on them, all with a profound sense of patriotism.

And now, with true Kiwi contrariness, there’s a booming industry in “eco-fur.” If that sounds like an oxymoron, it’s a money-spinner in places such as Arrowtown, where furry hats, jackets, scarves and pillows are purchased by locals and tourists. I succumbed and bought a possum scarf, which, I must say, feels rather sensual.

Another find was the lavish movie theater Dorothy Browns, decorated with pink chiffon curtains, chandeliers and easy chairs, with a bar and bookshop attached. We saw “Whale Rider,” an enchanting New Zealand movie about Maori lore and tradition on a modern-day marae, based on the novel by celebrated New Zealand writer Witi Ihimaera. The film has captured hearts internationally, winning the 2003 Sundance World Cinema Audience Award.

Jeremaia reckoned I had knocked a decade off my psyche during the time with him. The truth was I didn’t feel 10 years younger, but I was more willing to be gracious about being 40. I’d decided to embrace the corny adage about age being all in the mind. Trips like this one helped me actually believe in it.

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GUIDEBOOK

“Mind-Blowing” New Zealand

Telephone numbers and prices: The country code for New Zealand is 64, and the area code for the Southern Lakes is 3. If calling from within New Zealand, you will need to add a zero (03). Prices are in U.S. dollars unless otherwise stated. Hotels charge 12.5% government sales tax besides the quoted rates. Room rates are for a double for one night. Meal prices are for a dinner entree.

Getting there: Air New Zealand and Qantas offer connecting service (change of planes) from Los Angeles to Queenstown.

Guides: Inner Momentum Private South Island Guides, P.O. Box 880, 3 Daveys Place, Arrowtown; telephone and fax 442-1017, www.imnz.com. Rate: $465 per day. Includes guide, lunch and transportation.

Serious Fun New Zealand, P.O. Box 1323, Queenstown; 442-0996 or (800) 411-5724, fax 442-0923, www.seriousfunnewzealand.com. All-inclusive group adventure tours start at $2,595 for 11 days.

Where to stay: In Queenstown, Eichardt’s Private Hotel, P.O. Box 1340, Marine Parade, Queenstown; 441-0450, fax 441- 0440, www.eichardtshotel.co.nz. Rate: $735 per night, including breakfast. Matakauri Lodge, Glenorchy Road, P.O. Box 888; 441-1008, fax 441-2180, www.matakauri.co.nz. Rate: from $370 per night, including breakfast and dinner.

In Arrowtown, Arrowtown House, 10 Caernarvon St.; 442-0025, fax 442-0051, www.arrowtownhouse.co.nz. Rate: from $205 per night, including breakfast and tax. Arrowtown Old Nick, 70 Buckingham St.; tel./fax 442-0066, www.oldnick.co.nz. A B&B; in the old jailhouse. Rate: from $89 per night.

Where to eat: In Queenstown, Gibbston Valley Restaurant, Gibbston RD 1, State Highway 6; 442-6910, www.gvwines.co.nz. Entrees from $8.

In Arrowtown, Saffron Restaurant, 18 Buckingham St.; 442-0131, www.saffronrestaurant.co.nz. Reservations essential. Entrees from $16.

Helicopter touring: Heliworks, Queenstown International Airport, Tex Smith Lane, P.O. Box 2211, Queenstown; 441- 4011, fax 441-4012, www.heliworks.co.nz. Rate: $970 per hour.

Horseback trips: In Glenorchy, Dart Stables, P.O. Box 47; 442-5688, fax 442-6045, www.dartstables.com. Rates: Overnight trips, $215; two-hour ride, $45; six-hour ride, $86.

Entertainment: In Arrowtown, Dorothy Browns Cinema and Bar, P.O. Box 144, 3 Buckingham St.; 442-1968, fax 442-1953, www.dorothybrowns.com.

For more information: Tourism New Zealand, 501 Santa Monica Blvd., Suite 300, Santa Monica, Calif. 90401; (866) 639-9325, fax (310) 395-5453, www.purenz.com. Also www.queenstown-nz.co.nz.