BABY ICE, ICE
Miriyana Alexander chills out — and then warms up — on a South Island family road trip
It turns out that -8 degrees isn’t as cold as you’d expect. But -13C? Forget about it. I grew up in the Mackenzie Country, where winters were so harsh the condensation on the inside of the windows sometimes froze. But after more than 20 years in Auckland, I’d happily forgotten what real cold was like.
We were at Christchurch’s magnificent International Antarctic Centre. You’ll know it — It’s on the left as you leave the airport for the city and I’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve said we must stop. This time we do. And it’s brilliant. There’s the penguins (and associated feeding antics); science games; a ride on the all-terrain Ha¨ gglund; and the superb 4D theatre, where a mini-doco set on the breathtaking continent will jolt, shake and soak you.
The promotional material promises an inyour-face viewing experience, and when that bird poo comes flying at you, it’s not wrong. I ducked, along with everyone else.
The poo might not be real, but the water, snow and wind that cleverly buffets you in your seats is — it’s wise to keep your phone safely in your pocket.
But the icy Storm Dome is the star of the show. All you need is a warm coat, the overshoes are supplied. Put them on and open the door to feel -8C hit you in the face.
We bravely tell ourselves it isn’t too grim, but that’s when the fun starts. The lights dim, and the Antarctic-like storm starts. The wind is incredible — we hold our arms out and lean into it as it swirls and forces our eyes closed. This is what cold feels like.
And suddenly, I need to get out. A quick look at the thermostat tells me it’s -13C. I’ve only lasted a minute.
Harry’s braver than me and takes shelter in the ice cave. He leaves soon after, but makes it to -18C, the coldest the room gets.
Outside, the adrenaline’s still pumping, so we take the polar plunge challenge by dipping our arms into -2C water to feel exactly how cold the ocean around Antarctica is.
I’m out after three seconds; Harry lasts 18. The 8-year-old wins again.
Three hours southwest and roughly 50 degrees warmer, we’re in the water at Tekapo Springs, on the edge of majestic Lake Tekapo.
The trees rise behind us, and the glacial blue lake sprawls in front. Spring’s having a late wobble, so the Two Thumbs Range across the lake are snow-dusted. She’s a show-off, this place and we spend a happy few hours poolhopping.
Clouds bring the only disappointment, making the “Soak in the Stars” experience a nonstarter. The Mackenzie Basin is home to the world’s largest Dark Sky Reserve, and a stargazing tour from the comfort of a floating hammock sounds heavenly.
But for now the Milky Way is elusive, and given winter is the best time to see the magical green and pink Southern Lights, I can’t be too unhappy.
Instead, I make for the spa, where Ruby has her work cut out for her. I have 2020 written all over my face — the dark circles, deeper wrinkles, and frown lines.
Before long, Ruby’s facial working its magic, I’m sleepily marvelling at the change from the Mackenzie Country of my childhood.
When I grew up there, Twizel was a temporary town, teeming with workers building the mighty Upper Waitaki hydropower scheme. Now the area is all salmon farms, starry skies and hot springs.
Put it on your bucket list.
Even as city dwellers, we three knew 9am was no respectable time to be finishing breakfast before setting off for a morning’s fishing. Brad Staley, our fishing guide and embodiment of calm and competence, said nothing. We could jump in his double cab in about 20; that would be fine.
A quick loop to the Postshop for our day licences (adult $21 and child $5 for New Zealand residents) and Brad pointed the ute around the back of Mt John and up the western edge of Lake Tekapo. In 15 minutes, we had left the road, picked our way across farmland and were parked up with the vast lake to ourselves and not a breath of wind. A vision lifted from the opposite shore — the Two Thumb Range with a fresh dust of snow.
Brad pulled a reassuringly compact set of rods and tackle from the ute. A relief! We had the option of lure fishing at this spot — do check, many places are fly fishing only.
Harry was in his element, ready to traverse the loose, stony lake edge with Brad in search
of a spot and to beat dad to the first trout. It was going to be a close contest as the young fisher diligently followed Brad’s instruction and was casting cleanly within minutes.
The lake here dropped off steeply and the trick — it soon became clear — was letting the lure sink all the way to where the trout feed, then winding. A few snags here and there until Brad asks: are you sure that’s a snag? “Harry, keep your rod up, keep winding.” He’d done it, beaten Brad and dad to the first fish; a 3lb rainbow trout, and we’d been there less than an hour.
A photo, a grin as wide as the Mackenzie Basin and a quick discussion about the good luck that releasing the first fish brings. Off it went into the cold water.
Things went quiet and, as soon as we suggested leaving, a hit had dad’s line peeling off the reel and Brad reaching for his net. A longer fight, with Brad co-ordinating efforts, and a larger 5lb brown; now that’s good luck, and dinner! Brad said it was a pretty decent lake fish, and the chef at our Peppers Bluewater Resort could do it justice. He did.
“Then we do the dishes manually
With over fifteen different kinds of cutlery” — The Cabin, Ylvis
Ared formica dining table is set for dinner with a collection of mismatched plates and faux ivoryhandled cutlery. Bright plastic tumblers and painted retro water glasses are filled with sickly-sweet but refreshing Raro drink, which masks the weird metallic taste of the boiled tank water. Potato salad, slightly burnt sausages, leftover Christmas ham, and enough plums from the prolific tree out the back to make you never want to see another one in your life.
We smell of sunscreen and salt, looking innocently dishevelled with our crusty sea hair. Our bodies are happily weary from hours of swimming and canoeing at the beach, tiny shells still sticking between our toes and brushed under misaligned pieces of carpet.
There’s no telephone and certainly no internet. Mum makes us switch off the black and white TV for dinner — but to listen to the cricket we’re allowed to keep the staticky portable radio on, precariously perched on the windowsill with the aerial extended out the window to get the best reception.
Once an icon of middle-class New Zealand, the traditional Kiwi bach is fast becoming a thing of the past, as the old beach shacks are bulldozed to make way for more modern, luxury holiday homes. Those renovated properties are now worth far more in a monetary sense — but it’s the memories of simple summers and holidays without the mod cons that tend hold the most value for today’s bach owners.
Mum reckons our family bach at Charteris Bay, in Banks Peninsula, is one of the last of its kind. Grandad Bill built it in the 1950s. I never knew him; he passed away when Mum was 18, leaving my Nana Peggy to look after the property and their two teenage children.
Bill and Peggy lived on the West Coast and I grew up hearing stories about his business acumen, entrepreneurial spirit and handyman skills. After they moved to Christchurch, they fell in love with Banks Peninsula and would regularly holiday there. Bill loved the ocean, so when a sloping section came up for sale on a hill in Charteris Bay overlooking the sea and out to Quail Island, he didn’t need to think too hard about the investment — all £150 of it — and began the plans for a holiday abode.
“He was of the generation — and having lived on the Coast — DIY was part of the DNA,” Mum tells me. “He also had enough mathematical knowledge and experience to draw plans to scale. You have to think, it’s the 1950s, and a bach in those days was very much a bedroom, a kitchen and a living area, and you had an outside toilet.”
A bach, known as a “crib” in southern New Zealand, is not to be mistaken for a holiday home. A traditional bach needs a certain level of discomfort and ramshackle rustic touches to retain its authenticity. Three decks of playing cards, none of them complete. 999-piece jigsaw puzzles.
Monopoly with a few hand-drawn $50 notes. Dusty comics. Upcycled furniture. A selection of dinner plates and appliances no longer nice enough for the main house, but perfect for the bach. And the greatest adventure of all — the outdoor toilet.
Ours was a short hike up some steps to an old metal shed, with intricate spider webs decorating each corner. I remember making the nightly trek before bed with my four older siblings, lining up outside to go one-by-one, with one person charged with the all important responsibility of shining the torch for the person inside. I would sit on the toilet with my eyes closed, humming a tune to distract myself from the torchlight magnifying every arachnid monstrous proportions.
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But it was all part of the simplicity and beauty of a summer spent at the bach. While waiting outside the loo, you could gaze up into the starry sky, moonlight glistening on the water. Ah, the serenity — cobwebs and all. For four generations, our bach has been the ultimate go-to spot for adults and children alike to find peace and recharge the batteries.
“It’s usually a place where people unwind from the stresses of city life and, in the case of Charteris Bay, we had sailboats, we had swimming, we had walks, there was no television, we listened to the radio and we played lots of games and cards, and we read,” Mum recalls.
“And you got to know people on the beach. You congregated on the beach. I think that’s what makes a bach. You don’t have to have television and you don’t have to have the internet. We didn’t even have a phone.”
West Coast bach owner Daniel Beetham knows how special the traditional Kiwi bach is to many families, but fears they’ll soon become extinct, disappearing in favour of more modern holiday escapes.
His property at Woodpecker Bay near Punakaiki was built in the 1940s, and has changed hands a few times since then. Beetham has owned it since 2013 and rents it out on Airbnb. A prime position on the water’s edge, Beetham has been careful not to get carried away with any maintenance work.