7. Beech, please—We came to see the MF trees.
Fiordland National Forest, Southlands, New Zealand
May 4, 2025
[Hiking Log: Survived, and sometimes that’s good enough]
Today, we left Queenstown for Te Anau, fully enjoying the emotionally charged sport of navigating a road trip as a married couple.
I’ll admit— I was happy to leave behind Queenstown’s curated bro-town energy and immediately plunge into what can only be described as live-action fantasy terrain.
The mountains don’t “rise” so much as loom behind mist like they’re trying to look mysterious and emotionally unavailable. The Misty Mountains? Not an analogy. That’s them.
Also, Smaug the dragon lives here. I saw him.
The sheep, cow, and deer pastures are on brand, wholesome—rolling hills, perfect fences, and livestock so photogenic they might be unionized.
Then the scenery hard-switches into …primordial forest, icy rivers, and glacial plains that look like they haven’t heard from humans in a while and are fine with that. Think: big Elvish energy.
Beloved reader, reminder to click the link below for more pictures on my blog website.
We stopped in Garston: Home of the Hunny Shop, where they sell honey, bee venom skincare, fresh-picked lavender, and sheepskin rugs so soft they make you question your moral compass and interior design choices. Definitely bringing a few souvenirs back. Watch out, people.
Along the roadside, I spotted a small, extremely Kiwi sign: Emergency number for lost sheep. If you see wandering ewes, be sure to call.
For real.
You can’t make this up.
Because apparently the emergency hierarchy in Fiordland goes: 1. sheep, 2. weather, 3. humans.
I mean, I get it.
Or at least—I’m starting to.
Our Sunday morning drive continued with both the serenity of lakes and mountains and the sacred trifecta of road trip fun:
(1) Music selection hard negotiations (John votes for 1993 alt-rock nostalgia, I vote for literally anything electronic)
(2) Ongoing discussions about whether Google Maps or Apple Maps is better
(3) And the classic: “So, where are we stopping for lunch?”, which hits different when one of you spent hours researching and planning… and the other “didn’t see the email.” Because he didn’t open it. Because it’s fine, he’ll just Google something now.
And yet—I must admit: John’s Secret Talent™ is some freakish sixth sense for restaurants. He’ll just gaze out the window, sniff the wind, and be like, “That one.” No recommendations. No Instagram geo-tags. Just pure gut feeling and witchcraft.
And he’s never wrong.
Never. Fucking. Wrong.
So I’ve learned to silence my primary personality trait (control freak, at least I’m self-aware) and simply follow the restaurant whisperer, because sometimes Google is no match for whatever eldritch food radar my husband apparently possesses.
He brought us to The Olive Tree Café, a loved local spot in the heart of Te Anau.
I mean… fuck.
10/10 for that Polynesian curry: warm, rich, deeply spiced, and briefly united us in silence—a truce written in chicken, pumpkin and coconut cream curry.
Restaurant shaman wins again.
Afterwards, we drove around Lake Te Anau, where the scenery becomes so beautiful it feels hostile.
Like, you need to calm down, nature.
We settled on hiking into an enchanted forest and forgetting, for one glorious moment, that “turning onto the wrong side of the road” incident, which we will never speak of again.
We headed into Fiordland National Park and hiked part of (must emphasize that) the 60km Kepler Track—a trail that feels less like a casual day walk and more like a moist portal to another realm.
This wasn’t just a hike. This was an ancient cathedral, dripping with moss and secrets and vaguely judging you for wearing synthetic-fabric trash in its primeval kingdom.
From the first step, the southern beech forest wraps around you like it’s sucking in the trail—and maybe your soul. Every branch, every stone, every unsuspecting root trip is upholstered in moss so green it seems poisonous. The air? Think wet bark, ancient dirt, and a hint of elven breath.
I kept waiting for a Lothlórien elf to step out and say, “You’re underdressed. Also, turn off your phone.”
I studied tree ferns, crown ferns, ferns that look like they unionized, and orange lichens crawling over things like they own the place—because they do.
And yes, I researched most of this, because while I am not a botanist, I am very botany-curious.
We heard the occasional bird call echo through the canopy, and a fantail followed us briefly—probably to judge our pace. I was constantly on the lookout for a kiwi bird after a sign promising me that they live there.
The hike wasn’t hard. It was just… all-consuming. Shadowy? Constantly. Dank? Aggressively. But that’s the point. You don’t go into Fiordland looking for sunshine and smiles. You go for fog, ferns, and the kind of darkness that threatens Fangorn will get you.
And for one second, standing there in the filtered light and damp silence of this ancient forest, I felt wonderfully irrelevant.
Hike review: Strong Fangorn Forest meets Anduin River energy. Would hike again, would likely relent my soul.
We looped out of the forest through Dock Bay, a quiet cove wrapped in moss-draped trees and existential peace. The water was glassy, the silence was total, and for a moment I was the star of a prestige wilderness drama called:
“Soul Reset: The Te Anau Elvish Chronicles.”
I auditioned, but apparently my BMI disqualified me from playing an elf. Brutal. Accurate. Moving on.
I think I saw halloumi fries somewhere on the menu for dinner….
After our hike, we decided it was time to check into our accommodations. I had, in my great wisdom and research prowess, booked us into Fiordland Lodge for the night.
We navigated to it, followed the road out of town, winding through the countryside as the hills rolled open like a brochure. The lodge sat perched above it all—a five-star timber-and-glass dream, with sweeping lake views, a gravel driveway that crunched expensively, and the kind of landscaping that whispers, “we have a very good wine cellar.”
John, wide-eyed, looked around and said, “Wow. I can’t believe you booked this.”
And I said, “Me neither.”
Scoreboard:
John, Restaurant Shaman: 1
Me, Booking Gremlin Who Occasionally Triumphs: 1
TIED!
One step inside the lodge and we were wrapped in the scent of warm cedar, like walking into a hug from a very expensive tree. The sunlight streamed through the windows, catching on plaid armchairs that practically begged to be collapsed into.
We were ready. Emotionally and physically.
The the woman at reception looked up from her screen, gave us a gentle, practiced smile—the kind reserved for lost children—and said,
“I’m sorry… we don’t have a booking under your name.”
Cue that cold, sinking feeling. The one where you pull up your reservation and suddenly realize there’s a Fiordland Lodge and a Fiordland Motel, and you picked the one with parking in the back and a window that doesn’t open all the way.
Yum yum.
… Revised Scoreboard:
John, Restaurant Shaman: 1
Me, Lost Tourist: 0
So we got back in the car, turned down the gravel driveway of dreams, and headed off to our actual booking—at the Fiordland Motel.
Which turned out to be nice in its own… sturdy and functional way.
Soon we found ourselves on the tidy, sun-warmed balcony of the Fiordland Motel, glasses of Moy Hall Pinot Noir in hand, staring out at a view that honestly didn’t care where we were staying—it was stunning regardless.
Well, if the scoreboard isn’t in my favour, at least I’m still adventuring with my best friend and partner of 10 years. Helps that he’s cute. I can say that because I know he will NEVER read this travel blog.
The sun dipped low over Lake Te Anau, throwing liquid gold across the water like some kind of divine apology for earlier booking mix-ups. The Pinot was smooth, earthy, and slightly brooding—basically the wine equivalent of a man in a good sweater.
We clinked glasses, sank into our patio chairs, and let the hills darken slowly, feeling that rare, elusive thing: vacation calm.
John could tell I was tired. Hungry. And needed to soak in some water. So he deposited me into the shower…
And he slipped off to forage for dinner (read: beef), a ritual that involves walking calmly to a nearby café but acting like he’s hunting it with a spear.
Meanwhile, I enjoyed my gloriously uninterrupted shower and momentarily forgot every annoying thing I’ve ever done.
My best friend and partner in crime returned from the gourmet and delicious Black Dog Bar & Eatery with steak, cheesecake, pride, and fried cauliflower that I definitely “didn’t want” until I ate all of them.
Scoreboard:
John, Restaurant Shaman: 2
Me, Tired Wife: 0
I guess I married right.
The End.
(Until tomorrow, which by the way, is the big one: Milford Sound).
