On Wanaka
‘You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart always will be elsewhere…’ – Miriam Adeney.
It’s about time that I dedicated a whole blog post to the fact that Wanaka is my favourite place in New Zealand. I have long been meaning to write this post but for some reason I never got around to it before now. But finally, here we go!
They do say (whoever they are) that some places permeate you more strongly than others. People will ask you in years to come which places you loved the most out of all your travels and you’ll probably have at least one stand-out –
that one place that, for no real reason and yet for every reason, tugs on your heartstrings and calls you back.
It was only on my second visit to Wanaka that I realised how special it was. I should declare that my first visit was basically a write-off as I was ill and tired and determined to do nothing more strenuous than watch a movie in my room and relax before we headed to Queenstown the next day. But the second time I went, the spell was cast over me. As I walked along the lake front towards the line of autumnal trees, glowing orange in the late afternoon sunshine, I
felt a sense of calm wash over me.
I sat for a while that afternoon on a bench underneath a bowed weepingwillow tree. At that time of year, it draped yellowing leaves down to the ground, casting shadows that protected me from the harsh sun. I gazed across the lake towards the mountains beyond, all lightly dusted with the first snows of the season. They seemed to call to me, urging me to go and explore. You may remember my love of mountains…
The next day, I obeyed the mountains and went deeper in, further in, to explore the landscapes around Wanaka. I drove for miles along a pot-holed stone road, rattled to the bones as my car felt every lump and bump. I forded nine
murky streams to get as far in as I could go by car, before leaving it behind to continue on foot. My path wasn’t untrodden, but few feet had touched it before me that day. Many people were no doubt put off by the fords. I climbed
high into the mountains, taking a narrow, occasionally broken path that snaked through thick beech forest. It was flanked on one side by a roaring torrent of icy meltwater. Once or twice, I heard the splintering, crashing sound as a
chunk of ice broke off the glacier I was climbing towards.
I both revelled in and shuddered at my solitude. I was excited and scared by my daring that day, and finally, awestruck by the glacier that opened out before me as I finished my climb. Blue on white. Pure, fresh snow. It clung
precariously to the mountain side as it continued its slow, ponderous path downhill. A waterfall smashed down one sheer cliff before the water was blown away on the breeze – the fall too far for any of those droplets to ever
reach the valley floor.
The next day, I flew in a two-seater aeroplane over the very same glacier and marvelled at it from above. The clouds rolled back briefly to allow me glimpse of the virgin snow and ice, untouched by human hand. Our plane jolted
and dropped in an air pocket and my pilot advised that we turn back before the weather rolled in properly. Below us, the river ran like threads of silver along the valley floor, many channels woven together, apart, now narrow, now
wide, until it reached Lake Wanaka and fanned out, discharging impossibly blue water into the shadowed depths.
I spent three days in near solitude staying in an expensive chalet. I revelled in my own space, working on this blog, drinking plenty of wine, cooking in my own little kitchen, sleeping sprawled across a king-size double bed, sitting in front of a roaring log fire each evening that warmed the room so effectively I’d soon be sweating. I barely spoke to anyone save the odd comment with the owner if I happened to see him. As I packed to leave on the final morning, an overwhelming sense of sadness washed over me. I didn’t want to leave. When I drove out of Wanaka an hour later, tears beaded my eyelashes before trickling freely down my cheeks. I wiped them away fiercely and told myself I would be back.
Eleven months later, I rolled into Wanaka in a little red car and pulled into one of the lakefront carparks. From the driver’s seat, I could see the willow I had sat under all those months before, the leaves clinging to the last of their green before succumbing to yellow. The anxiety that had been plaguing me for the past three or four days subsided slightly.
An hour later, puffing and blowing and clutching a stitch in my side, I crested the top of Mt Iron and stopped to catch my breath and gaze back at the scene spread out below me. Both Lake Wanaka and Lake Hawea glittered in the
afternoon sunshine and beyond, the mountains rose hazily in the distance. Wanaka lay like a toy town at my feet, each individual metal roof shining. I stood for a long time, admiring the view, feeling my whole body relax as I
slowly caught up with the fact that I was back in one of my favourite places in the world. My anxiety had melted away as I’d climbed, each step taking me higher and apparently further away from the concerns that had been hounding me. A fragile glow of unexpected optimism settled on me. I strolled back down swinging my arms and greeting climbers cheerfully as they struggled uphill.
Two days later, I felt a similar glow of optimism and a sense of achievement as I reached the very top of Rocky Mountain and flopped unceremoniously down to eat the cheese and crackers I’d brought up as a snack. To my left lay the national park, all brooding mountains with Mt Aspiring rearing above the rest, half shrouded in thick cloud. Directly in front of me lay that river again, on its steady course to empty into Lake Wanaka. To my right was Mt Roy and the rest of Lake Wanaka, every bay and headland visible, the entire curvaceous lake set out in all its glory to be admired. I sat in the same spot for nearly an hour, long after I had finished my food.
A light breeze stirred my hair and made the short grass whisper softly. A fly buzzed nearby. The couple sitting not far away chatted quietly. Occasionally, I heard a stag roar in the distance. I revelled in my solitude and in the satisfaction of the climb. It had been a tough one – up slippery trails that were steep and required me to stop every now and again so that my breathing slowed once more. Now, as I admired the panorama stretched out at my feet, it all felt worth it. The view was a worthy reward.
I spent another two days in Wanaka, quiet and reflective. I wrote a lot and edited photos. I was camping to save money and when the kitchen got too busy in the evenings, I retreated to my tent to watch episodes of Modern Family and snaffle crackers and cheese and a plastic cup of white wine (keeping it classy!). I would finally sleep each evening around midnight, earphones in to drown out the campground noises, my tent softly lit from the outside by a glowing orange garden lamp. It could get cold, but it was peaceful and secure and I liked having my own space, albeit under canvas.
My next stop was Fox Glacier. As I drove away from Wanaka, the rain that had been threatening burst from the sky in fat, heavy drops. I angled my car towards the West Coast and skirted Lake Hawea for a final time. This time, I didn’t feel particularly sad to be leaving, although this time I didn’t know when I would be coming back. Instead, I felt calmer than I’d felt in days.
Wanaka has thrilled me, healed me, calmed me, quietened me, taken my breath away (quite literally), pushed me and become a part of me. It has made me laugh and cry, I have been contemplative there and I have been spontaneous there, jumping into some things without regard for my bank balance or, once, for my safety*. I have done everything and nothing there, tasted what is on offer and already I know I will return one day. Give it a year, five, ten, maybe twenty, but I’ll go back, because Wanaka is my favourite place in New Zealand and it has a part of me now.
*Always tell people where you are going before you head out into back country anywhere, but particularly New Zealand. I didn’t on that occasion and it was really stupid. If something had happened to me, no one would have known where to look for me and I would have been waiting a long time for help to arrive, especially because there wasn’t any signal. Don’t be stupid like me and risk it – make sure someone knows where you’re headed.
NB: You can find the longer versions of some of the stories in this post here:
Going It Alone
Sky High Aspirations
And a couple of gratuitous #thatwanakatree shots…
