Queen’s Day in Australia (though, while I’m a fan of 70’s rock and enjoy Bohemian Rhapsody, I’m still confused why they have one whole day dedicated to them), we fueled up outside of Queenstown and headed for Cromwell.

We drove up and out of Queenstown, past Arrowtown, and through the fruit growing region outside of Cromwell.  The vineyards gave way to the orchards.  The wineries gave way to the fruit stands.

We stopped for some fresh produce, and were amazed at the diversity.  They had the normals - banana’s, red and green grapes, apples, and peaches, and pears.  But they had the unusual ones too - the persimmons and star fruit and kiwano’s and tamarillo’s, and of course the Chinese gooseberry - better known as the kiwifruit, or simply, kiwi.

The fruit stand - really a store on the side of the road loaded with fresh produce, had free sampling and other treats as well - dried fruit and nuts, honey, and waxy honey comb.

It was all very good.

Then it was into Cromwell (can you think of a better English name) for a little brekky, past the gigantic fruit (all countries seem to have their giant statuary).  Through town and into the historic district we went.  When we got there, it was not only historic, but deserted.  Walking down the little hill into the ‘old’ part of town…there was nothing but a stray dog running down the street.  It was something out of a spaghetti western with the old town feel.  We walked to the café, located in the old feed and seed store, and ordered up our coffee and breakfast sandwiches.

The place was a museum.  Pictures of the English countryside on the walls.  Large seed chart hung on one wall.  And the breakfast and coffee were very good.

Soon we were on our way again, past the lakes and the mountains.  Past the pastures full of sheep and cattle.  Past the occasional dairy barn, standing amongst the dramatic backdrop of the New Zealand skyline.

Fruitstand outside of Cromwell (the town, not the dictator…)

Some of the fruits we saw in New Zealand….these outside of Cromwell

Vineyard, Orchards and Mountains

View of Old Town Cromwell…Felt like I needed a six shooter in my hand….

View of the cafe in Old Cromwell (the town, not the despot)

The Giant Fruit, not an American or Australian Original…

Viewing Heading up Lindis Pass

Glad we didn’t see this on Saturday night….

View Coming Down Out of Lindis Pass

Driving Across the Inter Plains of New Zealand

 We wandered the streets for a while longer, looking for bars that might appeal to us both, and finding one local hangout that looked very non-trendy, while still functional.  We bought a beer at the bar and made our way to a corner high top table.  Looking over the crowd of locals…ok, transient locals who had made this their bar.  A DJ played a mix of music (literally, mixes of music - some good, some bizarre).

As we were downing our second beer, and I was watching a strange scene unfold outside of the large sliding glass doors where an obviously intoxicated girl fought with a big patio window that she thought for sure was a sliding glass door, Melvin suddenly said: “Hey, this is from Lafayette, Indiana!”

Melvin used to play football for Perdue University in Lafayette, so hearing that anything in this far flung place would have any connection to his alma mater I’m sure caught us a bit off guard.

But sure enough, right behind each of our heads was a big beer sign for “Ye Tavern Brew - The Beer De Luxe” from none other but the Lafayette Brewing Company, Lafayette, Indiana.

How a beer sign from Lafayette came to reside in a local pub in Queenstown, New Zealand remains one of those strange mysteries that the world may never know.

We walked the streets of Queenstown, stopping for an occasional sip of the amber fluid at several establishments.  We did get a good laugh walking past some of the bars from the night before…what an ecliptic mix of places.  We also got a good laugh walking past the backpacker lodging where behind the counter were shelves that sold soap for $1 NZ, shampoo for $2 NZ, deodorant for $1 NZ…and prophylactics for $4 NZ….they knew their market…

We stopped for one last beverage at an Irish pub before heading back to the Novotel.  We had missed Mount Cook driving into Queenstown, it was our intention to see it driving out.

I must admit that sleep didn’t come easily that night.  Jumping off the bridge had gotten to me, combined with some of the other events of the days.  Too many things to think about.  Too many things to comprehend.

Over one million people had jumped off that very bridge since its inception; it wasn’t particularly brave or courageous.  But it was me jumping off that bridge.  It was sedate; middle of the road me that made the plunge.  If I could jump off a bridge, something that my mind told me was preposterous, what else could I, or should I dare to do, dare to dream, dare to achieve.

When sleep came, it was one of the best rests I’d had in a very long time.

The alarm went off at six o’clock, and we were out of the door of the hotel by seven o’clock, ready to fuel up and hit the road. With any luck, we’d be having breakfast in Cromwell.

The scenery was as spectacular the third day as the first, and today, we would actually get to see some of the things we had missed that first night that we sped along the river racing to Queenstown.

 From the hotel, we started down the street to find our fine dinning location for the evening - Fergburgers, we were told this place had the best burgers not just in Queenstown, not just in New Zealand, not just in the South Pacific, but quite possibly, the best burgers in the world (and perhaps in the galaxy…the folks at In and Out and a few fine greasy burger joints in Wichita, Kansas might disagree, but digress…).

On our way, we passed by the waterfront again, Maritime Park, along shores of Lake Wakatipu…and were drawn in by the smells of frying fish.

There, in a little hut, in the cold night air, was man frying fish.  And not just any man, but a very grumpy man who seemed angry at the world.  The hut was surrounded by people demanding fish.  His fish. His fried fish.  Paying him good money for his fried fish and chips.  And he seemed very angry about it.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“We would like your special please.” I said.

“And some oysters!” Melvin chimed in.

“You want some oysters?” I asked

“I think so, what kind of oysters are they?” Melvin asked me.

“What kind of oysters do you have?” I asked the man (standing right in front of Melvin and myself).

“Bluff oysters.” The man said…glaring at us.

“Are those the good ones you were talking about?” Melvin asked me.

“They are.” I said.

“Give us a dozen of the oysters.” Melvin said to the man.

I had Bluff oysters one of my nights in Auckland.  I’m a fan of oysters, and these were very good.  Not large, but meaty and with a lot of flavor.  We were looking forward to some good fish and chips and some good Bluff oysters.

When our order was called, we sat on one of the picnic tables and ate the fish and chips.  They were very, very, good.  The Bluff oysters were, well, not good.  Not good at all.

We finished our fish and the oysters (we shared an order…an appetizer) and headed to the infamous (not just famous…IN FAMOUS!) Fergburger.

Walking into the place, I felt very, very old.  This place was packed with kids.  Twenty year old kids.  Sometimes, I still envision myself being young.  I didn’t here.  My age came up and smacked me in the face.  These kids were being born when I was contending with girls in the eighth grade.

We ordered our beer (I didn’t see soda on tap…only beer) and our burgers (a classic ‘Fergburger’ for me…a ‘Big Al’ for Melvin) - and while Melvin went outside to grab a seat, I waited patiently in line, while being pushed around like I was in moshpit waiting for our burger.

Soon enough, our order was called and I went up to grab it.  “We need the receipt.” One of young ladies working behind the counter glared at me.

“But its outside with the other guy.” I said.

“We need to see the receipt.” She said with some intensity in her voice.

The other cute girl that had taken our order looked at us both and said, “Aw, he’s kind of cute and looks honest.  Go ahead and give him his burgers.”

Without tasting the Fergburger I will tell you that this place is the best place to grab a burger in the universe.  The burgers might not be quite as good as Bill’s or Jack’s in Wichita…but the service…ah the service…

Taking our burgers outside, I watched as Melvin unwrapped his ‘Big Al.’  The ‘Big Al’ is comprised of two large beef patties, two eggs, two pieces of bacon, cheese, beet root, lettuce, tomato, raw onion, garlic aioli on top of two grilled white rolls.

You would not want to meet a ‘Big Al’ walking down a dark alley….

My Fergburger was very good.  Just a good burger on a good bun with top notch tomato, lettuce, and cheese.  Basic, simple, and great with my beer.

View of the fish shack

The Fish Shack - a popular place

View of Queenstown at twilight

Melvin eating the ’Big Al’

Are Fergburger’s customers all young because the old ones die?  They must die happy…

 We were told there was one last thing for us to see, sorry; there are dozens of things for us to see, but one last ‘must do’ thing in Queenstown, the gondola.

Where in a town of ten thousand people would you find the gondola?  We could see the darn thing going up the side of the mountain with the visitor’s center at the top…but where does it leave the town from?  We took a few wrong turns, adrenaline and testosterone still thick in the car.

“Let’s just park at the hotel and walk to the gondola.  Carrying a side of beef.” I said, eating an empty glass coke bottle.

“Let’s turn at the next corner - it leads up.  We’ll bust our way through the trees to reach the summit with this stubbed nosed Toyota if we have to.” Melvin said eating bits of metal and stone he had found on the side of the road.

If we would have been thinking logically, we would have just followed the signs.  To the cemetery.  Where else would you find the gondola?

We parked the car and made our way to the entrance, where we were waited on by a young, beautiful blonde.

I love this country.

We hopped in the gondola and I proceeded to open one of the windows and hang an arm with my little video camera out the window, with Melvin snapping pictures as we went up.

“A winery and a gondola ride.  My wife is going to hate me for this.  We can’t tell her.” Melvin said.

We swung our way up the mountainside, looking out over the beautiful mountains that surrounded us.  Words can’t describe the snow capped, rugged mountains that reflected back on us from the waters of Lake Wakatipu.  The Remarkables on one side, the Eyre Mountains on the other, and in the distance, the Garvie Range, and Queenstown nestled in between them all, perched on the shoreline.

It was like something out of a fairy tale.

The gondola continued to make its way up the mountain side, through the thick, tall stands of pines standing nobly against the rocky mountain backdrop.

We were surprised to see a clearing through the trees, an open area cleared of trees next to the path that the gondola traveled, as we marveled at it, we continued to move up, suddenly, a platform, sticking high above the trees came into view…this was the bungee jump that overlooked Queenstown.

“Want to go again?” Melvin asked.

Adrenaline still pumping through my body, I replied, “No.  No thanks.”

Finally, we rolled into the big bay at the visitor’s center midway up the mountain.  While it was impressive to see a big building perched high on a mountain, after the jet boat and the bungee jump, it was a bit relaxed, and we probably needed that.  In the cool of the southern hemisphere winter’s day, we looked out over the mountains and the lake below us.  Soaking in the landscape.

This too was a place for thrills, with a concrete luge and a base for hang gliding.  But we had had more than enough thrills for the day.

Now it was time for something a little more sedate - we watched the slowly setting of the sun behind the mountains surrounding Queenstown from the snowy reaches behind the town.  Peaceful, serene, and the perfect end for the adventures of the day.

We hopped a gondola back for the base of the mountain.  Exhausted and hungry from the day behind us, we were looking forward to another good meal in Queenstown, and looking forward to what the night may bring.

In the Gondola, heading up the mountain

View of Queenstown from the Gondola

The Remarkables, with Queenstown in front

They are Remarkable

Corny?  Very.

View looking down on the other gondolas, note Bungee jump

A view at the top…and the chair lift going higher…

 We drove back into Queenstown, and I’ll admit, my heart was still racing.  We stopped to get some pictures of the Kawarau River Valley - with the wineries clinging to the land between the mountains and the river gorge, it was breathtaking in its beauty.

Clinging to the far side of the gorge was an Italianate winery, complete with long winding driveway butted right up against the massive drop off into the river far below.

I hope they had erosion control.

We had to stop outside of the little historic town of Arrowtown, both to sample the local wine as well as to face the fact that we both probably needed a little wine to calm our adrenaline fueled bodies down.

The place was impressive.  A good mix of stone and wood, like something transferred out of the hill country of Italy…and the view - the patio opened to a lake that was surrounded by snow capped mountains.

“What can I do for you guys?” the man behind the counter asked.

“We would like to taste some of you wine.” Melvin asked.

“Fantastic.  Which ones?” The smiling man said…a little too familiar…

“Whatever you got that’s good.” Melvin said.

“Okay….” Said the man, realizing that we were like too desperate hombre’s coming into the winery, and that we probably clashed with the other finely dressed patrons swirling and sniffing their wines in their finest wine tasting clothes…

While Melvin and I were in our grungy gear from the jet boat and bungee jump, the later one less than an hour earlier.

“Here, try this one, it is one of our finest pinot’s, and think you’ll like the quality blends of smells and tastes…see if you can smell the oak…” He said.

I took the glass that he handed to me and chugged it.

Melvin looked at me unapprovingly.  The man behind the counter winched.

“Hmmmm, not too bad, but I’m more of a Riesling man.” I said.

“Oh, we have a very lovely Riesling.  Here try this.” He said.

Both Melvin and I tried the Riesling.  Doing the proper etiquette, I swirled and sniffed it….and my nose hairs puckered.

“Wow.”  Melvin said. “Wow.”

“That smells like sh…” I said, quickly correcting myself to something that might sound a little more sophisticated…”That smells like fueling up our Massey 510 combine on a hot day back during wheat harvest.”

Melvin and the man behind the counter looked at me out of the corner of their eyes.

“I’m looking for the right words to describe it…”Melvin said.

“Like gasoline! Right!” Said the man behind the counter…me not bothering to explain that is exactly what I meant.

“Can you use that word to describe a wine?” Melvin asked.

“Oh yes, some of the best Rieslings have that smell.” The man intoned.

“Reason I don’t like Rieslings….” Melvin muttered to me.

A few more tasting later and I bought a bottle or two of the pinot gris, figuring if I chugged it, it couldn’t be that bad.

“You aren’t from New Zealand?” we asked the still to perky man behind the counter.

“No!” He said, “I’m from Wisconsin!”

“Fantastic!” I said, “One of my favorite socialist countries in America!”

The man behind got a weird look on his face….

“I’m from Minnesota.  Sorry, I love Wisconsin, just need to poke fun at your guys.” I said, adrenaline still rushing through my body, wanted to follow that up with some statement like ‘we could take you pansy-arsed state any day of the week….’ But I held my tongue.

And the wine is pretty darn good.

We loaded up the car, I think much to the relief of the well groomed people staring at us through the big glass windows of the winery, and were back on our way to Queenstown.

View looking up the Kawarau River

Winery on the far side of the Karawau River

A Closer View of the Winery Across the Karawau

Amisfield Winery…High Class place, with some low brow customers….and a badger…

Another view of the Amisfield Winery, Great pinot gris

 As they got Melvin off the boat, he charged up the stairs…making it to the number sixteen before he stopped, looked back at the river, up at the bridge, shook his head a little and carried on.

“Well, that was good.” He said.

“Yup.” I replied.

But you could tell that both of us were very much on an adrenaline high.

“You only made it to sixteen.  I made it all the way to twenty.” I said.

“What are you talking about?” Melvin asked.

“I made it to twenty before I stopped and had to look around to clear my head.” I said.

“I was counting.  Saw that it stopped at twenty.  That’s all I was doing.” Melvin said somewhat defensively.

“No problem.” I said.  “No problem.”

We charged back up to the top, took one last look down the viewing platform, then Melvin raced to the car to get our gear - we needed our wallets to get the video and pictures!

They had a couple of small television screens set up to view the video’s with headsets to listen to the audio to make sure that you knew what you were getting.  In truth, the adrenaline is still pumping so strong that they could have put up a video of boxing kangaroo’s and said that it was the bridge jump video and I think people would buy it.

“Well, how did I do?” I asked the guy setting up the video.

“I’ve seen worse.” He said with a little bit of mock seriousness in his voice. “We call yours the Indian dive.  You just kind of fall off.”

“Well, I did grow up on a reservation…hey, wait a minute, are you the Englishman that we were making fun of up in the booth?” I asked.

“Darn Americans.” He said with a bit of a bit of wink.

We paid for the whole lot - the pictures, the video, the postcards, and the small section of the bungee cords and we made our way to the parking lot.

I don’t know of very many things that are completely safe (over one million jumps with no accidents) and yet are so very freeing.  You want to talk about facing your fears, building up confidence, and overcoming your own feelings of doubt - try jumping off a bridge…or at least the one at Kawarau Bridge.

To the folks at AJ Hackett and specifically to the men and women who put up with my nervous jokes and banter, thank you for giving it right back without destroying the confidence and courage.  There is some leadership lesson in what you do, helping people jump off the bridge that society tells them not too, and you do it with class.

Even if you dingy is “Inept.”  A joke that is in my own mind, but funny none-the-less.

Oh, and for the record - my underwear - nary a streak.

As they pulled me into the boat, they were asking me questions and very firmly giving me instructions - knowing that the blood was still very much in my head.They asked the standard question: “Where are you from?”

“The States.” I replied.

“Where?” They asked.

“Minnesota.” I replied.

“Ah, Vikings fan.” One of them said.

“Yeah, how did you know?” I asked.

“I’m from Seattle.  Seahawks are my team.” He said.

I’ll admit, that threw me.  In the excitement, in the thrill, I couldn’t even tell the guys accent.  With the exception of the one guy at the top, probably one of the only American’s I’d seen or heard for days, and I didn’t even recognize his accent.  To the average lay person, that may not seem like much, but to someone that hasn’t heard a room full of American accents in months, that’s saying something.

I struggled with my harness (ok, tried getting out of the boat with it still on), and started my way back up the stairs.  I stopped shortly after mounting the steps, shaking the cobwebs from my mind.  It was then that I realized that the steps were numbered, and I had stopped on #20 and looked up and around.  Looking at the bridge, looking at the handful of people on the observation deck, looking at the guys positioning themselves in the little yellow dingy below and I sat in awe filled wonder and amazement at what I’d done.  It was exhilarating.

I made my way to the one of the small viewing platforms to watch Melvin take the plunge next.  I could see him way up on the bridge…about 142 feet to be exact, and was able to take in the scene with a different perspective, both physically, from down by the river, and mentally, as a man that had tempted and challenged himself, had fought the good fight, and survived.

Melvin did a great job.  His jump was good.  He didn’t touch the water.  Soon the little yellow boat was scurrying out to get him.

It was then that I noticed the name of the boat, and it is one of those things that you are glad that you don’t see from 143 feet up in the air.

The name of the boat…”The Inept.”

All I could do was laugh.

In truth, the name said “Incept” but the way that I read with my adrenaline buzzed mind sounds sooooo much better….at least in reference to my performance….

 I was first up.  And I have to say, the guys working the bridge were friendly, they were professional, and they had a great sense of humor.

“Your first jump?” One asked.

“Yes sir.” I said.

“Where are you from?” He asked.

“United States.” I said.

“Really? Where from?”

“Minnesota.” I said. “Northern Minnesota.  First line of defense against Canada.  They throw grenades we pull the pins and throw them back.”

They all paused for a minute and laughed.  We talked football, we talked about the states.  We talked about everything and anything.  I think they made us do that to take our minds off the fact that they were wrapping our legs in towels, putting harnesses around them and a safety harness on my waist.

Finally, the main guy, the most friendly of the bunch, asked me what I thought about the United States playing England to a halt in the world cup the night before.  “I think it’s fantastic!” I said.  “Though we really didn’t win.  It was a draw.”

“Listen, everyone here is just glad that you didn’t let those bastards win outright.  We were all cheering for the United States last night.  Still are this morning.  Hope to heck that the United States make’s it to the next round and England doesn’t.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Absolutely.” I said.

“Good, the guy inside the production booth that is taking the videos and pictures can hear every word that we are saying right now - and he is from England.  He hates it when we do this.” He said as I hobbled to the edge of the bridge, my feet wrapped tightly together.

“Well, at least it wasn’t one of you guys tying my up or setting up my cord.” I said.

“Nope, you’ll be alright.  Now just stand on the edge - look straight ahead, and jump.  I’ve got the cord all set, you might touch the water, but you shouldn’t get dunked (side note - you do have that option).  If you do a nice dive, you shouldn’t even get wet.  Now just be calm, we’ll count to three, then go.”

I’ll admit I’m not sure what happened next.  But I didn’t vomit.  I didn’t pee or poop my pants.  I did jump off a bridge.

It was exhilarating.

The feeling of free falling, the feeling of total loss of control, the feeling of the earth very quickly and very suddenly getting much, much closer.  In my mind’s eye, I tried to do a perfect dive, a perfect jump.  As I fell, I reached for the water, wanting to touch it, wanting to yell, or scream, or roar some mighty primordial roar like something inside of me had been set free.

Then all of a sudden, a pull upwards as the water of the Kawarau River suddenly started to look very much farther away.  I was pulled upward by the bungee cord attached to my legs.  I twisted in the air, letting my arms fly wide, imagining my stance and my act of freedom to be an inspiration to the people looking on from the space above.

I had conquered my fears, I had conquered my inhibitions, I had jumped the proverbial shark - I had jumped off a bridge.

Suddenly, I heard people shouting at me.

“Grab the pole!  Grab the pole!” The two men in the boat were yelling at me.  The little yellow life raft had been at the bank when I jumped, but sometime in the process, they had positioned themselves underneath me and were waving a metal pole in my direction, wanting me to grab it so that they could get me into the boat and get prepared for Melvin to jump after me.

That last final moment of sanity, what better way to spend it then getting a picture taken.

 Jumped or pushed?  Either way, taking the plunge

 Who knew I was an Acrobat?

The landing

 My stomach still gets a little queasy talking about this next part.  It sounds so ridicules, so insane, something so unlike me, that it is still hard to comprehend.

But in the end, it is just awesome.

I’m about as sane a person as you are going to meet.  Logical.  Old fashioned.  Calm.  Cool.  Collected.  Not one to make irrational decisions.  Earlier in the day when Melvin told me that he had bought us both tickets to the bungee jump, I thought that both of us were stark raving mad.

He justified it by saying that his wife had done it years ago and she was considered to be a sane person today, and in the back of my mind, I heard my folks ask the age old question, “If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?”

Apparently a friend no, but my friends wife, no problem!

My stomach was racing as we made our way out of Queenstown and back down highway 6, heading towards the Kawarau Bridge Bungee jump.

For a history buff like me, there was some consolation that I was partaking in a bit of history.  AJ Hackett and Henry van Asch started this site in 1988 as the first commercial bungee operation in the world.  Though neither of them was new to the sport of bungee.

AJ Hackett had jumped from places the world over, starting with a bridge in Auckland and taking his antics around the world, including one jump from the Eifel Tower.  The Kawarau Bridge Bungee is also one of the most popular in the world and has won awards for one of the best tourist attractions in New Zealand.

But Bungee isn’t new.  There have been several tribes the world over that have used jumping off platforms and cliffs while tied with cords or vines as a test of manhood. 

I’m not sure how manly it is too soil yourself.

Before we knew it, actually, much sooner than expected, we were pulling into the parking lot.  The adrenaline was pumping.  From the lot, the place looked like little more than a concrete building and a bridge.

The concrete building was over three stories tall and held sophisticated equipment, including a full movie theater, production studios, café, gift shop, and a huge viewing platform so that even if you didn’t want to put your life in your hands, you could watch other people plunge 142ft over the raging waters below.

It was at this point in the process that I began to panic.  Being old enough to feel it coming on and understanding that you while you are trying to act cool, calm, collected while your body is kicking into fight or flight response is comical.  On the one hand, you are cracking jokes, laughing, and bantering with others, on the other you are concerned about losing control of either your bladder (with obvious results) or your legs which you are sure can cover the five miles back to Queenstown in about fifteen minutes.

After nervously running around the place for about ten minutes - look there is a lady jumping right now!  Look at the cute girls!  Look at the move!  Look at the cute girls!  Read the sign next to the bridge!  Look at the cute girls!  Well, I guess there was still some body parts that were still acting right on cue…

Melvin and I got in line to get signed in for our jump off the bridge.

The lady helping us didn’t inspire us with confidence.  She was calm.  She was polite.  But she didn’t seem to care.  A gentleman came up to help us, and he was, to use the proper parlance, stocked.  He laughed at my jokes; he made a little fun of us about our nervousness, but also served to calm our fears.

Reading through the list of rules and regulations, I stopped at #7, are you known to have any neurological problems?  “If my family and friends knew that I was getting ready to jump off a bridge, they would argue with me on #7.  And I strongly suspect that I’m encountering #2 right now.”  I intoned with a mock sense of seriousness in my voice, #2 being high blood pressure.

The guy helping us laughed at me and said, “You’ll be alright mate.  Plus we already have your money.  No turning back now.”

Writing our weight on the back of our hand and making us fill out a toe tag (nice touch I thought) with our name, address, and other vitals, and we were soon ready to go.  I will admit, the guy helping us was great for inspiring confidence.  The other guy working behind the counter that was furiously erasing the devil features someone had added to his picture did not…

“I’m fine with the horns, but not with the tail.” He said as he rubbed the tail out of the picture.  Me now very much worrying that this could be an interesting jump.

Both Melvin and I had adrenaline kicking in.  While I don’t think he would admit it.  He stopped talking and we were both running around the place - need to go to the bathroom, need to put our stuff in the car, need to check out the cute girls, need to go back up to the car.

Finally, we needed to go to the bridge.

The concrete building (small on the outside, enormous on the inside) and the historic Kawarau Bridge 

 View from the old Kawarau River Bridge to the New Kawarau River Bridge.

 The Old Kawarau River Bridge with the Jumping Platform…River Below…

View from the viewing platform (which butts against the visitors center) and the rubber liferaft 150 feet below…that is not a toy…

 Taking off our protective gear back on the pier, we said our goodbyes to the helpful, attentive, and attractive staff and made our way back to the hotel.  The temperature had warmed from a cool -3C to a balmy +5C, and we were clearly overdressed.

We still had some time to spare, so we decided to wonder the town.

The narrow streets of Queenstown, which had a vibrant air at night (especially after some Bundy and Cokes) were as lively during the day (though slightly less intoxicated…not intoxicating…).  The stores were all open.  Tourist shops where you could get a shirt with a man getting intimate with a sheep with a warning sign ‘New Zealand, Men At Work’ along with other shirts both as much and not quite as distasteful.  There were a few shops that sold intricate craftwork, wood carvings, Maori spears, shields, and boats.

We managed to find one of the largest candy stores in town.  A long narrow shop that had fudge under the counter and rows and rows of candy…sorry, lollies…from floor to ceiling.  Buying some fudge (mint and cookies and cream for me) we made our way outside into the sunshine.

As nice as the candy looked, the sight of the women walking the street - all of them in high heeled boots - looked as good as the candy in the shop.

There was no doubt about it, Queenstown is my kind of town.

View from the back of the candy store, looking to the door

View from the door of the candy store

Fudge

The streets of Queenstown