entire article. - Aspiring Guides.

For starting a business P.48 For retiring early P.60 For Families P.70
places like this for Starting Over 
Best Islands to Live on
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14
STAND HERE: Catch an Air New Zealand flight to
Queenstown, then ride with Heliworks (heliworks.co.nz,
$423) for a quick lift to here. Now ponder this: The
ground under your feet is Mount Nicholas Station, a
working farm. A night in shearers’ quarters (mtnicholas​
.co.nz, $130) includes meals and a shearing lesson.
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27
start over/ new zealand
[ best islands to live on ]
moving south
Moving to New Zealand is one thing. Planting roots on its South Island is another.
πowering leap of faiπh.
A terrified writer. A crazy Kiwi
guide. ∏his isn’t that story. No
bungees accompany my leap. I’m planning a permanent plunge. It will uproot
my family, land us 8,000 miles away and,
I’m told, require me to embrace what it
means to be a “Southern man.”
∏hree months ago, I’d never heard
that term. I was chatting with a Kiwi
friend about an online forum I’d come
across. On it, expats described South
Island locals as polite but distant.
“You don’t understand the Southern
psyche,” she responded. “Southern men
are the toughest of the tough.” She
mentioned helicopter pilots, jet-boat
drivers, farmers, many with bloodlines
back to New Zealand’s first settlers.
“∏hey’re mavericks and black sheep;
bad sons cast off to New Zealand. Men
raised tough, wired for adventure.”
“Sounds good by me,” I told her.
“Nah. You may love the outdoors, but
you’re no Southern man.”
A
Life on the rugged South Island breeds a
love for taking flight. But landing here for
good takes more than just sheer guts.
“You may love the
outdoors, but
that doesn’t
make you a
Southern man.”
∏hree months later, 30 feet up, my
toes dangle over a waterfall in Mount
Aspiring National Park. I’m not so sure
about living shoulder to shoulder with
Southern men. ∏he one below me is
canyoning legend Dave Vass.
“Jump here!” he yells.
He’s pointing to a pool no bigger than
a bathtub. Boulders surround it. Where
else would I jump? Whatever. Sploosh.
“Sweet as. Just like a bunny.”
I don’t know what Dave’s metaphors
mean. He shares them in midair while
leaping, sliding and rappelling.
“∏hink stealthy ninja,” he tells me
while crouching and creeping down a
nearly vertical rock face. He is 52, 10
years my senior. Not a shred of body
fat. He has led canyon tours for two
decades with his guide company, Deep
Canyon. In him, I see what life here
could offer: eternal youth; a job I love;
an office with devastating views. In
Dave, I see my future neighbor.
“Right here, you’re a slippery koala.”
If only I could understand him.
Dave nods to the sky. “∏here’s Erik.”
A blue helicopter, the very one that took
us to the top of this canyon four hours
ago, banks hard into a dive. Erik is showing off. I think of ∏op Gun. Maverick.
I ask why he, Erik and sheep farmers
are considered “Southern men.”
“We all prefer life close to nature.”
“So do I. Could an American like me
become a Southern man?”
He shakes his head. “Can you skin a
rabbit?” No. “Put up a fence?” No. Drive
a tractor?” No. “Shoot straight while
hanging out of a helicopter?” Silence.
“∏hose are categories for a competition
near here in Wanaka.”
“Competition?” I ask.
“Yah, a competition for women.”
Dave unfurls a big smile. Mine is a
jittery one. Next: Manning Up >
story by eddy patricelli / photos by zach stovall
29
start over/ new zealand
“A Southern man shaves with a knife. The hills give him energy. Just him
and his horse. No wife or boss barking.” — Robert Butson
e’s my age. a new faπher.
Loves surfing. And he’s a
Southern man. Call it a bromance. Call him the moving nudge
I need. I don’t care. In guide John
∏homssen (J∏), I see my Kiwi future.
“Follow me,” he says from his Range
Rover. I trail in my rented sedan. We’re
off on a winding road to meet an iconic
Southern man. But first, J∏ needs coffee. And geez, he must really need coffee.
Blind curves, squealing tires, psychotic motor-home passes — pump the
brakes. J∏’s not my type. Bromance over.
We exit our cars in Queenstown to
a pungent odor. We trace it to my tires.
“Yah nah, was on the phone. Forgot
you were following.” He taps my shoulder. “You kept up.” My first Southernman kudos. ∏he flame flickers.
I nosh on a $6 bagel as we walk the
streets of Queenstown, population
23,000. Jet boats pack the city’s waterfront along Lake Wakatipu. It’s touristy.
Crowded. Unfit for a Southern man.
“J∏, what do you do for fun here?”
“Not here ... there.” He points up to
the Southern Alps. He mentions heliskiing, heli-biking and heli-hiking tours
with his company, Adventure Central.
“Sounds expensive.”
He sighs. He’s scanning his phone to
show me ski shots, narrating each swipe.
“Babies. Dogs. Babies. Babies. Dogs ...”
I laugh. We share family photos.
Daddy dilemmas. ∏he bromance is back.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Grab your car and
follow me to the heli pad.” Oh, sh**.
An hour later, we stand on the summit of Mount Nicholas (see page 26),
part of a 100,000-acre family farm and
lodge. I see no farm. Just peaks. Miles of
mountainous “farmland.”
J∏ tells me there are 250 high-country farms like this one across all of New
H
30
what it takes
to move here
Auckland
★
•Waihi
NEW ZEALAND
Mount Aspiring
National Park
Queenstown • • Wanaka
Otago Region
IF YOU’RE CURIOUS Job
vacancies are at their highest
levels since 2008 — especially in fields like health care,
finance, engineering and
electronics. Search job listings at careers.govt.nz.
IF YOU’RE SERIOUS Work
visas demand a job offer. A
working holiday visa doesn’t.
Visitors ages 18-30 can travel
and work in New Zealand for
one year. visabureau.com
Zealand. ∏hat they serve as the backbone of the nation’s economy.
“∏he joke is the farmers make all the
money. Aucklanders just spend it.”
For some reason, I came here with
visions of farming, my family living off
the land. But I’m beginning to think we
might be more like Aucklanders.
“Nah,” says J∏. “It’s a sh** town full
of metrosexuals. Move there and your
adventures become dinner parties.”
An hour later, over a fireside lamb
dinner, we meet farmer Robert Butson.
He has overseen Mount Nicholas
Station for the last 40 years. He says
he doesn’t consider tending to 28,000
merino sheep, 2,500 cattle, 20 horses, 20
dogs, three pigs and one goat to be work.
“I just love being up in the hills. I’m
70 years old, fit and feel fine.”
He points to my shirt. “Cotton?” I
nod. “Off with it.” Merino wool is the
source of 75 percent of his farm’s revenue. He supplies the wool to Icebreaker,
New Zealand’s coveted clothing line.
I bring up Southern men. Robert
laughs. “Never heard of ’em till Speights
beer. You’ve seen their telly ads? Started
in the ’90s. ∏hey put a mirror up to us.”
“Is the beer any good?” I ask.
“Nah. It’s sh**.”
He tells me it’s the sheep-mustering in the hills that breeds toughness.
“∏here’s nobody around. ∏here’s a job
to be done. You get on with it.”
As dinner ends, talk turns to the
region’s settlers. Stories of hardships,
harsh weather, and above all, the isolation that still surrounds us. ∏he stories
expose my biggest fear about moving:
feeling cut off. Next: Southern Lasses >
A taste of farm life at Mount Nicholas
Station, a lodge. Bottom, right: Bikers grow
old disgracefully at the Cardrona Hotel.
start over/ new zealand
“With my dogs, I have to be the alpha male of the pack. The other night one nipped
me, so I jumped on him and bit his ear.” — Southern woman Carla Munro
mericans overshare, πalk
too much, and talk too loud.”
Carla Munro is a 39-yearold Southern woman. She has just finished her second pint here at the historic
Cardrona Hotel, and is on a roll.
“Americans voice their feelings.
∏hat’s not a Southern thing.”
“Really?” I ask. “I’ve heard lots of
‘voiced feelings’ about Aucklanders.”
“∏rue, we give them a lot of stick ...”
“You all call them JAFAs,” I remind
her (Just Another F-ing Aucklander).
“Well, there’s a reason for that.”
She explains that Auckland has 1.3
million people, a population larger than
that of all of the South Island.
“ Auckland is a city. ∏ he rest of
A
New Zealand — we’re not city people.
Auckland is the rest of the world. It sold
out and joined the rat race. People there
are manscaped. ∏he rest of us still eat
oatmeal for breakfast without sugar.
Our men have hairy chests. We do stuff.”
ic o ns : ist o ck
Carla’s “stuff ” starts with off-road
riding with her kids near Wanaka.
“∏hursdays are ski days.” she adds.
What? “∏here’s no school on ∏hursdays
during the winter. Mandatory ski day.”
I flash on my 3-year-old son. Of our
life here. Of weekday ski outings. ∏he
vision doesn’t last. Carla rolls on.
“I’m Scottish. My ancestors faced
poverty, famine. ∏hey grew up tough. If
you’re cold, put a jersey on. I’m still cold.
Go outside and run around. I’m still cold.
Run faster. ∏hey’re who populated the
South Island. And since it’s so isolated,
traditions stick. So we were raised tough.
Nobody talks about feelings. God, no!”
Silence follows. I let it linger. No
Ruth Anderson (top, left) quit her job as a
horticulturist to lead tours at Wyuna Station. Danielle Hutton runs Wilkin River Jets.
southern essentials
FOR LIVING RIGHT
HELICOPTER Your play vehicle
for a vertical world. Charter
with friends to save.
Buy used for $100K.
MERINO WOOL Kiwis love it to
the tune of $80 for an Icebreaker T-shirt. But no woolly
itch, and warm when wet.
JET BOAT Accesses wilderness for less than a heli. Also,
locals dig river picnics —
and boat owners. $7K used.
“oversharing” American is present here.
“Southern women run farms. We
shoot guns. We ...” she catches herself.
“I’ll shut up. I’ll show you.”
She does so on a jet-boat on the
Wilkin River. Behind the wheel is
Danielle Hutton, age 25. She takes hikers, fishermen and hunters in and out
of Mount Aspiring National Park every
day. ∏oday, our ride includes hydroplaning spins and playing chicken with rocks.
“Nah, that run was tame,” she tells
me later on the riverbank. Her father,
Harvey, has joined us here for a picnic.
He holds up a wine glass, and proclaims Danielle to be an “all right”
daughter, “∏ill she disfigured herself.”
Danielle flashes her tattooed forearm
at him like Wonder Woman. “Kapow!”
Harvey raises his hand as if blinded
by it. “Davey Wallace knows of a surgeon to remove that,” he offers. “I’ll pay.”
∏he discussion turns to the Wallace
family. I’m told they changed the face of
farming. ∏hat when deer populations
escalated in 1970s, Sir ∏im Wallace suggested trapping and farming the deer.
“We used helis to trap ’em,” says
Harvey. “Early on, we’d jump off the
heli’s skids onto a deer. Knock it off his
feet. Bulldog it down. ∏ie up the legs.
Put it in a net. Hook the net to the heli.
Off to the farm. Net guns came later.”
“I bet you were relieved for those.”
“Nah,” he says. “∏he jump was fun. I
felt like Superman without a cape.”
Southern machismo. I’ve hit my limit.
I’ll never jump from a helicopter. My
wife doesn’t have any tattoos. Not sure
she could drive a 500-horsepower boat.
“Have any Americans moved down
here and survived?” I ask.
“Yes, there’s one,” says Harvey.
“And he’s actually almost pleasant.”
Next: A Southern American >
33
start over/ new zealand
e is πhe “nice american.”
∏hat’s what Kiwis call him. He
hails from Wyoming and has
guided on the South Island for 23 years.
Whitney ∏hurlow stands along the rim
of Crucible Lake in a green jacket. His
hood is up. It is raining.
“You gonna do it?” he asks. Skinnydipping with icebergs. It’s a Crucible
tradition. Dive in. Stand on an iceberg.
Pose for a photo. Pray for your privates.
I nod to an iceberg along the shore.
“I’ll just stand on that one clothed.”
“Nah, don’t.” He says a couple tried
that once. “∏hey stepped on and the iceberg floated off the shoreline with them
still standing on it ... clothed.”
Whitney knows best. His first New
Zealand gig was for a ski school in 1979.
“By my second visit, I felt like I was
having an affair,” he tells me. “Am I
being un-American? Unfaithful?”
“I’ve learned that everything in this
country is understated. Words with
harsh corners you say softly. You never
yell in crowds. ‘Hey Henry!’ — the ‘HAY’
and the ‘HEN’ sounds — harsh corners
like that are avoided. You mumble.”
“What else have you learned?”
“Don’t ever get upset. If a jet-boat
pickup is late you don’t say, ‘Hey, we
had an appointment!’ Instead you’d say,
‘Was there a new sheep in the paddock
that impressed you?’ ∏hat’s getting
angry with somebody.”
Along the rim of Crucible Lake, the
rain pelts us. A full downpour.
“Whitney,” I ask, “Mount Dreadful
and Mount Awful are near here, right?
Is it tough to sell clients on those hikes?”
“Yes, and yes. You know, there’s a
mountain that has easy access. It’s a great
climb. Has a hut at the bottom. But the
name of it is Mount Barf. So Mount
H
“I began to feel like
I was having an
affair. Am I being
un-American?
Unfaithful?”
Crucible Lake, deep within Mount Aspiring
National Park, is a two-day hike that entails
river crossings. Skinny-dipping is optional.
34
35
start over/ new zealand
expats
Mountains lured Whitney Thurlow to New
Zealand. Now he runs Aspiring Guides, and
says rocks are nature’s best pot scrubber.
Awful and Dreadful don’t sound so bad.”
“Is any hike that bad?” I mention how
ours started with a helicopter ride. ∏hat
tomorrow, a jet boat will pick us up.
“We could’ve walked out today, but
that’s seven hours on farmland. Cow sh**
and fences. Farms here are big. You can
hike for four days and still be on one.”
“So is that why Southern men love
their helicopters? ∏hey’re not man
36
“Today’s Southern
man is riding
a helicopter,
not a horse.” —
Whitney Thurlow
enough for all that farmland hiking?”
“No.” Whitney tells me that millions
of dollars were made on deer recovery in
the ’60s and ’70s thanks to helicopters.
“New Zealand had no mammals
before deer were introduced. ∏he forests around us were never tromped by
browsing animals. ∏here are no barbed
plants. ∏ake off your shoes. Walk off the
path. You’ll be fine. ∏he plants have no
defenses. So deer populations exploded.”
“And the millions of dollars?”
“Originally, the goal was to cull the
deer to protect the forests, but at that
time deer venison, antlers and velvet
were valuable. Which meant stags were
super valuable. Suddenly, every farmer,
everybody, bought a helicopter.”
“And everyone’s jumping out of ’em
and bulldogging deer?” I ask.
“Yes. It’s crazy to see the footage.
Definitely worth a You∏ube search.”
∏he rain hasn’t let up. ∏he temperature here at Crucible Lake is dropping.
“Are you going to take a dip?” he asks.
“No. ∏oo cold.”
An hour later, I’m regretting my
skinny-dipping decision. ∏he hike’s
descent feels empty, as if I didn’t summit.
“You’re not allowed to summit some
of the peaks around here,” says Whitney.
“∏he Maori view them as religious symbols. So we’ll climb and stop just shy of
the top. ∏he peaks are protected.”
I mention that I haven’t seen many
Maori during my trip.
“You won’t. About 90 percent
of them are on the North Island.
Remember, no mammals were here on
New Zealand. ∏he first Maori had no
bearskins. So winter down here was
a bad place. But they did come to the
South Island seasonally.”
“So if they were here first, does that
make Maori the first Southern men?”
Whitney laughs. “Depends on who
you ask. Can an Indian be a cowboy?”
Next: The Original Southern Man >
around the world
daria kawecka/Grand cayman
From: Edmonton, Canada Why She
Moved: A job in software development
Best Advice: Do it! It was stressful, but
now I have weekend dates with stingrays.
ROB PACHECO/BIG ISLAND, HAWAII
From: Boulder, Colorado Why He Moved:
A beekeeping job Best Advice: Respect
the island’s native culture. Embrace it.
Learn about it. Let it permeate your soul.
LARISSA KYZER/ICELAND From: Brooklyn, New York Why She Moved: A grant
to study in Iceland Best Advice: Find your
niche. Everyone has a talent. It’s possible
to make an impact on the place you live.
JON MANUEL/RHODES, GREECE From:
Wales, UK Why He Moved: Seriously?
Best Advice: Do your homework. Don’t
move without some financial wherewithal.
Oh, and don’t buy property sight unseen.
TODD FRANK/BALI From: Berkeley, California Why He Moved: A job in sustainable
certifications Best Advice: Don’t worry about
missing your friends. They will come to you
in droves. And they’ll bring you Sriracha.
JENNIFER BARCLAY/TILOS GREECE
From: Chichester, England Why She
Moved: She can freelance edit anywhere
Best Advice: The less you need, the freer
you are. Reach for what makes you happy.
37
start over/ new zealand
“It’s fair to say
Maori were the
first Southern
men. They had
a long way to
paddle.”
’m noπ assaulπed by prices.
Rolling hills have replaced mountains. I can distinguish farms from
national parks. No helicopters buzz
about. Adventure is two blocks ahead
and hang a right. Bingo: the beach. I’m
loving the North Island — especially
Waihi Beach, population 1,722.
It’s where I find a man locals call
“Maori Doug.” He is 6-foot-2 and freakishly fit. I mention this story, Southern
men, Maori. He glares down at me. Uh-oh.
“Should I put on a grass skirt for ya?”
He laughs, then invites me to a “board
meeting.” Says “tradies” will be there.
At the Flatwhite Cafe, we join
handyman Dean. Doug himself is a plasterer. ∏he “board meeting” is a daily surf
I
For North Islanders Doug Ranga (top, right)
and Dean Tempero, living close to nature
means plenty of warmth, and water time.
What Kind of Kiwi
are You?
BEACH FIRST The South
Pacific dream lives, though
on NZ it’s found up North.
Moving Picks: Coromandel
Peninsula, Bay of Islands.
WORKING PLAYER A big-city
career and outdoor fun lie on
the North and South islands.
Moving Picks: Auckland,
Wellington, Christchurch.
SOFT ADVENTURIST Biking,
golf ... wineries. Go somewhat South. Moving Picks:
Arrowtown, Tekapo, Taupo.
EXTREMIST Success is measured in ski days and peaks
summited. Go way South.
Moving Picks: Wanaka, Catlins,
Lake Hawea, Southland.
check. If the waves are up, he and fellow
board members drop their tools.
“I think it’s fair to say the Maori were
the first Southern men,” he tells me.
“∏hey had a long way to paddle.” He says
they originally came from Hawaii. ∏hat
he doesn’t speak the language. His parents died in a house fire when he was 8.
“My grandparents raised me. My cousins surfed. I just wanted to join them.”
∏hese days Doug presides over a surf
club here in Waihi. “I just like seeing
kids become confident in themselves.
∏he world stops out on the ocean. It’s
all about you and Mother Nature.”
“Spoken like a Southern man.”
He shrugs. “Southern, Northern, it
doesn’t really matter. It’s about being
outside. It’s about living. ∏oo bad the
waves aren’t up today. You’ll have to
come back, bring the family, stay longer.”
Planning it as we speak.
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