6. Queenstown, Remarkables, & Southern Constellations
Queenstown landscape across Lake Wakatipu, South Island
May 3, 2025
[Anniversary : Romantic Adventure Successful]
We began the day in Wellington—up early, into a cab, and off to the airport. A quick flight got us over to the South Island, landing in Queenstown.
The moment you exit Queenstown Airport, you’re met by The Remarkables—a sharply serrated mountain range. Johns first comment was, “These mountains remind me of Afghanistan.” Towering over the eastern side of Lake Wakatipu, they earn their name honestly. These arid, dusty peaks don’t just sit on the horizon—they dominate it, creating one of the few north–south mountain ranges in the world.
The Remarkables are made of schist, a metamorphic rock that reflects the sun in fractured silver during daylight and fades to indigo silhouettes by evening. The tallest point, Double Cone, reaches 2,319 meters (7,608 feet) and often wears a crown of snow, even in summer months.
This region was chosen for Mordor, Dimrill Dale, and the slopes of Middle-earth’s most sinister geography. But there’s contrast, too—because in real life, The Remarkables are also home to ski fields, hiking trails, and alpine lakes like Lake Alta, a glacier-fed basin nestled high in the range.
They are beautiful and brutal, ancient and sharply alive.
Within ten minutes, we had driven into the heart of Queenstown.
Readers, it’s Whistler x Banff, with more lakes, fewer moose, and a stubborn belief that everyone wants to jump off a ledge for fun.
The town itself sits in a valley carved by glaciers and vibes. The streets are a mix of alpine chalet charm and designer fleece, with tourists wandering in flip-flops, ski boots, or barefoot (somehow all at once).
The community here is equal parts adrenaline worshippers who throw themselves down mountains on bikes or skis and refer to gravity as “a suggestion.”
Queenstown runs on tourism, and everyone knows it. The streets feel curated for short stays: gear shops, tour booking stands, massage studios for post-bungee neck trauma, and roughly 700 places to buy a flat white.
First stop: Mommy needs food. And where to go? Fergburger. Not so much a restaurant as a gravitational field. Highly recommended by everyone including Jesus.
Located right on Shotover Street, Queenstown’s main artery, Fergburger pulls in a constant crowd—at any hour, on any day. When we arrived, there were dozens of people in line, snaking out of the restaurant like some sort of meat-driven conga. And no one seemed annoyed.
Because this is Fergburger, and you will wait.
The place itself is compact, chaotic, and fully aware of its legend. A glowing neon sign reads “Ferg Loves You”, which sounds a bit cult-like until you bite into the food and realize it’s sincere.
Then: walking and wandering the waterfront.
Queenstown is built around a lake that suspiciously sparkles. We walked through St Omer Park, Queenstown Beach, and the Saturday Market, where you can get handmade Māori carvings, street food, and—if you’re lucky—an existential crisis about why you don’t live here.
At the Skyline Gondola, we made a bold decision: not to ascend. After watching John Google “how scary is the gondola if you’re scared of heights,” we mutually agreed that climbing a mountain tomorrow like medieval peasants was somehow preferable to riding a small metal box on a cable. So we bookmarked the Tiki Trail for Sunday morning.
Meanwhile, mountain bikers were flinging themselves down cliffs with the enthusiasm of caffeinated goats. They looked happy. Suspiciously happy.
Dear reader, I’ll admit: with all the dreadlocks in Queenstown, there’s clearly something in the water—and it’s not shampoo.
As the sun set, we checked into the hotel, eat our way through some delicious Vietnamese street food from the market, and then made our way to Arthur’s Point for our appointment at the Onsen Hot Pools Retreat & Day Spa.
Reader, I’ll remind you that it is our wedding anniversary today. And we booked this relaxing experience.
Onsen Hot Pools is tucked into the cliffs above the Shotover River in a place called Arthur’s Point, just a 10-minute drive from central Queenstown. It’s the kind of location that feels secret even when it’s booked solid—a quiet bend in the landscape where the drama of the South Island softens into something intimate.
The spa itself is perched on a steep hillside, which gives each cedar-lined tub a panoramic view down into the gorge, across to the rugged Cecil Peak, and over the braided curves of the Shotover River, famous for its whitewater jet boats (which you’ll hear in the distance like distant mechanical seagulls).
As we soaked in the cedar tub, the roof rolled back, and the sky above Arthur’s Point bloomed into a map of stars—clearer and closer than we’d ever seen. No light pollution. No clouds. Just constellations we don’t get back home in Ontario, suddenly sharp and endless.
Aquila soared high, the eagle of Zeus stretched across the darkness. Delphinus, the dolphin, flickered nearby—small and delicate, like a constellation drawn with a whisper. Sagitta, the arrow, shot through the void below Vulpecula, the little fox. Further up, Cygnus—the swan—glided past Lyra, home to Vega, one of the brightest stars in the night sky. You don’t realize how many stories you’re missing until you look south.
And then—because the sky was showing off—a shooting star tore across the horizon, a quick, silver punctuation mark on a night that already felt mythic.
Crux and Centaurus had already dipped below the ridge, but the galactic plane still arched above us, dusted with the deep blues and shadows of the Milky Way. The sky felt lower somehow, like you could reach up and scrape your hand on it.
Our session ended with wine, snacks, and a massage that should probably be illegal in most countries.
That massage, though. Are you kidding me? Like someone rebooted my fascia. Like all my past stress was extracted and dumped into the Shotover River. If this is wellness, I regret every other version I’ve ever tried.
Afterward, we once again returned to our now-traditional culinary healer: Saigon Kingdom Pho Ga. Because I’ve been fighting off a cold all week, and John is firmly convinced that pho is medicine, and if I just inhale enough steam and star anise, I’ll be cured.
On the drive back to Arthur’s Point, I was gently reminded—for the third time—that my role is to “give directions, not driving advice.” John, ever the diplomatic driver, quizzed me mid-turn: “WHO is driving?” Answer: him. Translation: I’m to quietly sit there like a polite GPS that doesn’t say things like “maybe slow down” or “that’s a cliff.”
Which is hard, frankly, because John drives every road like it’s a Forza track, and Queenstown’s roads are not built for that energy. They’re narrow, winding, and, in the case of Arthur’s Point, feature a one-way bridge that operates entirely on local telepathy. There are no lights. Just a vague hope that someone will yield first.
Apparently one-way bridges are a thing here, which I find WILD.
Back at the Holiday Inn Express, we collapsed in a daze of anniversary bliss, Pho, and The Two Towers. The hotel, as always, delivered exactly what the name promised: expressiveness not included. Clean, quiet, and emotionally neutral—like a guest room designed by a tax accountant (Sheen CPA). But hey, the water pressure was great and nobody judged us for quoting Gandalf over Pho.
📡 ANALYTICAL COMMENT
10/10 would marry John again.
Queenstown, Day One: survived. Skypod avoided. Muscles boiled into submission. Burgers devoured with the urgency of people who think they might never eat again. Tomorrow, we “climb a mountain”—or, more likely, we start climbing, get lost, and join a family of drop bears.