Journal

From a distance, Christchurch appeared as a wave of twinkling lights. After two weeks of small towns and open roads, the unfolding chaos of an urban center was somewhat unsettling. 

The next morning, I woke up to a winter wonderland. Packed with snacks, I made the drive to Mount Cook to hike Kea Point and Hooker Lake. I crossed rope bridges over rivers of glacier water and scrambled in my low-top converse chucks over snow-capped boulders. An hour down the trail, I was completely alone.

Showers had become optional. Breakfast had become minimal; hot water, instant coffee and biscuits. I wore the same pants pretty much every day, and I slept well. By day 9, hostel hopping had become surprisingly hat.

I settled beside the fireplace in the main cabin lodge, facing a huge bay window framing the white peaks of New Zealand’s Southern Alps. I had instant coffee by my side. And everything was alright. 

I love to travel alone. I love the open road and it’s complete and utter lack of expectation. I love that I can sing out loud; sugar binge and skip showers; roll windows down; drive fast or drive slow. I can stop just to stare, count clouds, write a while; or find some café and talk with a stranger for hours. It’s hard to find people you can do all those things with on the road, but if you do find them, don’t ever let them go.

Welcome to New Zealand. You’re free. To spend freely. To selfishly hope the world conveniently comes to an end in some catastrophic event as your bank account flat-lines. Day one in the place I have always dreamed of. No itinerary, no partner in crime; just my backpack and an onward ticket to Sydney, Australia.

Film footage of my three week road trip through South Island, New Zealand.