Free Kiwi Tracks by Lonely Planet Page A

have been. The commercialism has little appeal for me, despite the build-up given by the Scottish couple during the drive up here. With all the businesses vying for the tourists’ dollars I can’t help but feel uncomfortably like a punter, and I decide to continue on to Wanaka tomorrow.
    A casualty from the party weekend walks up the path at a snail’s pace in front of me. As I pass, I stop practising saying ‘cool’ with a hard ‘kuh’ and ask her: ‘What’s there to do in Queenstown?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I arrived here on Friday night to party, and this is the first time I’ve been outside since then.’ Although she is young, she has dark rings under her eyes. ‘Still got a hangover,’ she adds proudly.
    She has what I detect is a Scandinavian intonation. Sometimes I amaze myself at how quickly I can recognise foreign accents. Often I can guess within a couple of spoken words
    ‘Kuh-ool,’ I say. ‘You’re Danish, right?’
    ‘Canadian,’ she replies.

    The Wanaka backpackers lodge reflects the tone of this settlement, which is downright sleepy compared to Queenstown. Befitting the more laid-back atmosphere of the place, classical music plays softly as backpackers play chess or read. I set off early in the morning for Mount Roy, which towers solitary on the other side of the lake. In a setting like this, it is impossible not to
fantasise what it would be like to live here permanently. I could easily be tempted to settle in Wanaka, a community in a setting as beautiful as Queenstown’s, but still unspoilt by mass tourism and rabid urban development.
    From the summit of Mount Roy, I peer through my camera at panoramic views of tiny sheep in green fields, a turquoise-blue lake and snow-clad mountains. By twisting the polarised filter to punch out the sky and paint the lake a darker blue, I can saturate the colours by removing the extraneous reflections.
    It takes me most of the day to walk all the way around the lake to the top of Mount Roy and back to the backpackers. My mind is full of thoughts, memories triggered by the cool air and the scenery. The hike reminds me of walking in the mountains of Norway some months ago. On my last day in Norway and our last day together, Kirsten and I walked up a familiar valley, well above the tree line. It was one of those rare September days, the weather stable, the sky blue; although it was cold, the sun was strong enough to warm us in its direct light.
    Already the grass and bracken had turned rusty autumn colours. We both knew that this time tomorrow, I would be gone. I wanted to climb one last peak. With the intensity of the condemned we hiked to the summit, where we sat huddled together staring out over the surrounding mountains and valleys. Only the fading September sun kept us warm. As it dropped in the sky, the shadows crept up the hillsides. Then the sun disappeared behind the mountains, casting us in its shadow. Once again, the familiar deep-rooted fear of an impending Norwegian winter cast its icy tentacles into the depths of my being.
    I held Kirsten tightly, knowing that tomorrow I would not be able to hold her any more. As I scrunched up my eyes, the tears I had successfully been holding back squeezed out, dampening her hair. She started crying too, great hulking sobs. The sound carried far down the valley.

    In the morning, when I roll up to pay for the overnight accommodation, the owner of the backpackers says: ‘You look terrible. You going to travel feeling like that?’
    I nod. It’s hard to know if am really sick or whether I’m just so psychologically down that I feel like an invalid. LONELY GUY is emblazoned on my forehead again – and I don’t have a sense of humour about it today.
    ‘God loves a trier,’ she says, shaking her head.
    I sleep on the bus most of the way to Franz Josef Glacier on the West Coast. I have a burning fever, my joints hurt, and it feels as if my eyeballs are being pushed out of their sockets. It