Adventure Capital of the World
Famished after the long drive from Manapouri to Queenstown we decided to pop into Fergbaker for a meat pie. Some may think I’m crazy for not having opted for a burger at the “world famous” Fergburger, Fergbaker’s sister shop, but truth be told I’ve eaten my fair share of burgers. To say I’m a burger snob is an understatement, and my gut told me to steer clear of the hype.
Fergbaker’s meat pies were amongst some of the best local Kiwi food we ate. I couldn’t resist stuffing as many of them as possible down my gullet before we skipped town. All in all we ended up eating meat pies from Fergbaker three times over the course of a few days. During those visits we sampled a variety of pies: Thai chicken curry, venison, pork belly and apply, and lamb shank. Flakey and filling, those pies were the tastiest we encountered throughout all of New Zealand. My favorite was the steak and blue cheese one. Gooey, funky, and meaty deliciousness.
With sunset upon us we lucked upon a pair of stools looking out onto Lake Wakatipu at Public Kitchen & Bar. Cloudy Bay sparkling wine in hand, we soon dug into our first bowlful of green lipped mussels. A perfectly chill cap to a delightful day.
The following day Dad awoke early to play a round of golf at the Queenstown Golf Club. He had been invited to play by the club’s manager. I opted to sleep in a tad and enjoy our modern digs at the Mi-Pad hotel. Located right in the heart of town, the beds were comfy, but the room was a bit small and had Dad and I bouncing around inside like a couple of pinballs.
With no agenda I swung by Bespoke Kitchen for breakfast. I was thankful to find some healthy offerings available. The house-made cured salmon with avocado and ricotta on rye toast with charcoal seed bark truly hit the spot.
Afterwards I took a gondola ride to the top of Bob’s Peak to get a better view of Queenstown and it’s surrounds. Whilst up there I figured I’d give the Skyline Luge a go. Twas like go-karting without an engine. Sledding downhill I caught air a number of times. The park staff cautioned me to slow down, but I still managed to get a thrill.
Dad and I reunited that afternoon. After some solid fish and chips at Speight’s Ale House, we set out to go whitewater rafting on the Shotover River with Go Orange. Dad was especially excited for this activity. “Not a bad day all,” he remarked multiple times, “a round of golf in the morning and whitewater rafting in the afternoon.”
A quick shuttle took us to Go Orange’s facility just outside of town. Geared up in full wetsuits, helmets, life vests and booties, we boarded a van with 12 other adventurers.
The ride to our launch point on the river was anxiety inducing. Careening along an old miner dirt road somewhere outside of Queenstown was not the thrill-seeking adventure we had signed up for. There was no guard rail along the side of the road, and there was a terrifying sheer drop down to the bottom. More than a few harrowing turns had everyone holding their breath. Meanwhile, our guide chattered on trying to keep us all distracted with local tales and bad jokes.
Once on the water it became quite clear that this was no joke. The rapids were graded up to 3–4 that day. Thankfully our Aussie guide had ridden the Shotover River well over 200 times so we were in good hands. He briefed us and subsequently quizzed us on safety protocol and various commands multiple times early on.
Our boatmates consisted of a Danish grandfather and grandson, and a retired British detective and his wife. The Danes, hulking Viking types, were both rowers. The grandson, Johan, had just competed in at a rowing competition.
Gliding along the river we passed all sorts of rusting mining equipment, and more than a fair share of mountain goats. The Shotover River Valley was once one of the richest gold-bearing rivers in the world.
The first half of the ride was more leisurely. Our guide told us all to jump out into the water and float alongside the boat. A seemingly insane request, yet we all complied. The water was frigid, but the wetsuits worked well and it was actually quite fun. This Jedi mind trick was likely designed to make everyone more comfortable with being in the water should the raft flip at any point.
“This next one is called Devil’s Toilet,” informed our guide in his thick Aussie drawl. Johan and I were situated at the bow of the raft. Every time we hit a major rapid water would rush in from all sides and we’d get roughly jostled about. On at least one occasion Johan’s oar wanged my helmet but luckily no major injuries were incurred by anyone onboard. As we swirled around and around, we somehow never managed to flip despite being given many opportunities to do so.
Needless to say we had a blast. I’m fairly certain that was Dad’s favorite day as I caught him on numerous occasions searching for other places we could go rafting again.
That night we celebrated with some hearty Indian food at Bombay Palace. Although they took a minute to prepare them, the lamb dishes we ate were fantastic. The meat was ever-so-tender, and the curries were fragrant and complex. This would be the first of three times we would enjoy Indian food, and although Bombay Palace was the best of the bunch, overall the lamb curries we ate in New Zealand were all quite good, and better than what you find here in the states.
