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Sensory overload. The azure blue sky momentarily blinds me. The wintry breeze tugs at my hair and creeps through layers of clothes. Blinking I stumble down the steps and out of the plane.

The smell immediately hits me. Not a sweet fragrance or an intoxicating perfume; instead, a pure smell. I breathe in deeply. It is the essence of the earth, fresh and crisp. It is the smell of mud and sedge and grassland after a deluge, almost as if I had stepped into a giant puddle, or a marshy green paddock. Come to think of it, I quite literally had.

For three long hours I had flown through puffy whiteness, the deep blue shimmering beneath. The first glimpse of my destination was a long white cloud stretching its gull-grey fingers across the sea to distant mountains. Underbellies fat with rain touched the verdant hills. Silvery threads of water snaked in every direction. Welcome to Aotearoa – land of the long white cloud.

Ka ao, ka ao, ka awatea … te take. It is dawn, it is dawn, it is daylight … the beginning.

Darkness wraps its arms around me as the coach winds its way down the road. Headlight beams flash in and out of consciousness. Shadowy shapes envelop the endless white line, which takes me into the dark hours of early morning. As the sun creeps up over the horizon, reality slowly comes in focus. Shapes become gnarled trees, dripping with shades of tea green moss and orange lichen.

Around the next corner the coastal capital of New Zealand spreads out before me. Wellington, which sits on the southern tip of the North Island, basks in the early morning glow. The creaking docks are covered with seabirds, preening their waterlogged feathers. Beaks are upturned to the warmth of the sun. The water glimmers like an intricate diamond, every facet sparkling with colour and vitality.

I board Arahura, a huge InterIslander ferry. The smell of the sea lingers in the rows of salt-encrusted seats lining the deck. As the ferry noses forward across the Cook Strait toward the South Island, Wellington fades into a dream. The bow of the Arahura cuts through the cobalt blue waves and sends salty spray across the deck. As the sea fog lifts, the long arms of the Marlborough Sounds reach out toward me. Their crowns are sprinkled with dense green undergrowth, whilst their rocky bottoms wrinkle and fold into the sea.

My journey on the South Island begins with the drive westward from Picton to Nelson. The emerald blue inlets of the Sounds constantly dip in and out of sight. Fern fronds sweep the road and mask dense layers of jungle. At Havelock I head inland. Impenetrable rainforest swallows the road as I descend into shadowy valleys. The temperature rapidly drops as the sun lowers herself behind the mountains.

I start the next day with an early morning drive through Buller Gorge. The bony shoulders of Old Man Mountain hunch over the road, clouds hanging ominously over them like smoke curling from a pipe. Primeval ferns and cabbage trees cling to the steep cliffs of the gorge. The tall native grass, toi toi, flanks the road and seems to wave me along.

At the northern plains of Westport I turn south and begin the drive along the West Coast. Distant mountains slowly hem me in toward the beaten silver sheet of the Tasman Sea. The first straight road of the trip becomes a mere garden path. It corkscrews along the precipitous mountain cliffs, virtually hanging over nothing. The invention of guardrails is forgotten here and I crawl along at snails pace. Fallen rocks hinder my path and I shy away from the road’s crumbling edge. The waves below constantly pummel the rocky coastline.

The beauty and ruggedness of the West Coast is incredible. In parts the greenery is so dense I cannot see past the first layers of ferns. Around every corner, waterfalls splash their way down over moss-covered boulders. Sea mist enshrouds the continuous line of breakers. Islands of stone capped in green dot the coastline like unwanted pieces discarded by the mountains.

A unique geological formation appears. Punakaiki Rocks are layers of ‘pancake’ shaped rocks eroded by the elements. They stand proudly over the ocean looking like a miniature version of the Bungle Bungle Ranges from Australia. With a whoosh a giant blowhole erupts and sends a shower of fine mist across my face.

As night falls I detour off the main road and make my way to Okarito, a small coastal village. Thick sea mist drapes itself over the land. House lights are like wavering ghosts in the darkness. A hand-painted sign resting in the gutter on the side of the road is my last resort for accommodation. At sixty dollars a night, this self-contained cottage is like a rose among thorns. It is beautifully fitted out in stone and wood, and scattered throughout are torn maps, yellowing magazines and ageing souvenirs. It has the feel of being just lived in and I instantly feel at home.

Morning comes. Hidden by darkness the previous night, Okarito is awash in colour. The cottage and surrounds are bathed in crystalline frost. From the mossy back veranda, the shadowy blanket of green reaches toward the distant peaks of the Southern Alps. Their rocky shoulders are swathed in white. Shafts of golden light edging over the horizon gild their pearly ice caps and transform them into shades of peach and rose. Tangles of sub-alpine scrub give way to luxuriant rainforest below. Melodies from the bellbird and kea drift through the fernery. Blossoming in the morning glow, the brilliant rata tree is like a splash of crimson paint against the living green canvas.

The land stretches and yawns. I leave Okarito to the silken mist rising from the valleys and continue south. I stop for coffee just past the small town of Franz Josef. Before me, cascading down the large bedrock steps to the valley floor, is the Franz Josef Glacier. It glitters in the early sunlight. Over seven thousand years, ice has carved the glacial valley and in its path has left a long rocky scar. Over this I clamber, reaching the glacier’s base in just over an hour. The solid twelve-kilometre arm hugs the mountain valley in a frozen embrace and stretches to the serrated peaks above. Blocks of ice litter its base like abandoned toys. A milky blue glacial torrent tumbles toward the nearby coast. I listen carefully and can almost hear the glacier creaking and cracking its seven thousand-year old bones. Alive and breathing …

The lonesome windswept coastline of the West Coast recedes into the sea mist as I turn towards the Southern Alps. The road twists and turns before me as it climbs steadily into the stony high country. The embankment on my left falls away to the Haast River, which races its way through the wilderness seeking escape into the sea. Dripping green rainforest wraps the slopes of Mount Aspiring, standing thousands of metres above sea level. Ancient trees stretch their limbs skyward, adding centuries to their lives. Straight from the snow peaks above, icy-cold waterfalls are cascades of clear jewels sparkling behind dark green shadows. Boulder-filled pools yawn open to welcome them as intricate ferns kiss the swirling sapphire water. This is a land of hidden beauty around every corner and under every frond.

The road climbs toward Haast Pass and I imagine myself entering the dark realms of Tolkien’s Middle Earth. Rainforest gives way to small winter bellflowers, which crouch amongst bleached grass. The frigid air seems to splinter with every breath. Remnants of snow lazily cling to the muddy edges of the road. Small springs edge their way out of rock crevices, only to be frozen in time as ornate crystal sculptures. The alpine scrub shivers as the frosty caress of wind swirls around the Alps.

I break free from the wintry embrace of Haast Pass. The land around me changes anew. Like sugar icing, snow dusts the alpine peaks, which flank the road before me. Mirrored lakes lap at their rocky haunches and reflect the dark tumultuous clouds above. Mountains wear shades of rowan, cinnamon and mahogany. Gnarled fingers of hundred-year-old twisted trunk clutch the barren slopes, their bare limbs covered with frost. The sun gradually disappears behind the steel-grey clouds that cloak the lofty peaks.

The next morning I open my eyes to the adventure capital of New Zealand. The sky is flushed with pale umber, rouge and rose madder. Queenstown sits on the edge of Lake Wakatipu and is surrounded by the jagged peaks of the Alps. People live and come here for one reason: to push the boundaries, to ride on fresh powder, to seek the ultimate thrill. The town buzzes with adrenaline. The Remarkables, Coronet Peak, Treble Cone and Cardrona are alive with ski poles, toboggans, beanies and whoops of bliss as the snow is carved to perfection.

In Queenstown my choice of death-defying sports is to skydive. I am told it all depends on the weather and I eagerly await the forecast. My hopes fade with the forbidding clouds of snow and rain, which drive the blue patches of sky behind the mountains. Instead I drive to the snowfields of Coronet Peak. It is like standing on top of the world. The horizon offers a 360-degree view of chiselled peaks, laced in wispy trails of white. Snow flurries through the air and crunches like salt underneath my feet.

As the sun sets, the delicate light of a silver moon illuminates Middle Earth. The Misty Mountains protrude their gaping teeth over Queenstown, mist curling round them like dragon’s smoke. The air is still, the faint smell of burning pine lingering in the air. In the cool quiet the creatures of Middle Earth awaken; the faint patter of hobbit’s feet on the pine needles the only sound to be heard …

I dream. I dream of shadowy mountains, which wrap around the depths of Middle Earth. I dream of the glint of metal glancing off a silver sword. The metallic sound as it is drawn from an intricate sheath. The hiss as it slices the night air. I dream of giant beasts galloping through the night, hooves ringing out on dusty cobblestones. The snuffling and snorting and occasional whinnies as they draw near. I dream of leaves dancing through the air, twirling their way through shafts of golden light in the forests of Lothlorien. I dream of feasting then slumber under knotted trees, head resting on a cushion of grass.

When I awaken condensation beads the windows of the hotel room. Silver rivulets slide and drop into the carpet. The light of dawn is weak and struggles to find its way over the silhouettes of the mountains. Leaden clouds mutter between themselves and drape their bodies over the land. The alpine air is six degrees. Donning my beanie, scarf, thermals, gloves, and at least three jumpers I set out.

I leave Middle Earth and its ragged peaks to the gathering pink and gold smudges of daybreak. The road stretches into the barren foothills of Central Otago, a rugged and dry plateau sheltered by the Southern Alps. The Kawarau River carves its way through the brown land, twisting and looping around the spindly trees, which claw for the grumbling sky. Aging fences hem paddocks of sheep, huddling for warmth and scouring the ground for slivers of grass. Along the edge of the road piles of rocks have been left to delight and confuse passing travellers. They are like sculptured masterpieces left by an invisible artist to slowly erode into the dust.

The small town of Omarama provides the first coffee stop of the day. The town has a huge souvenir store in the centre of town. Inside, shelves are crowded with furs and fleeces, skeins of wool and possum fur socks. Leather hats are draped with silk scarves. Postcards warp on metal racks. The smell of coffee drifts from a small café camouflaged by shelves of greenstone and paua jewellery. Busloads of tourists maintain a steady flow through its glass doors.

Tired of souvenirs, I walk into the adjacent public toilets. Sitting between the cracked mirrors atop the hand-dryer is a teenage romance novel. I pick it up, wondering who had left it, and why. A slip of paper tells its story. It is a BookCrossing book, left by a member of an international network who leave books behind in the hope they will be captured, read and released. I capture the book for a bit of a laugh and keep it to release into the wild of Australia when I return home.

I leave Omarama laden with souvenirs and unnecessary trinkets. The road returns to the undulating haze of olive green hills, which fade into distant brown peaks. Houses are few and far between, and the car seems to crawl through the silent landscape.

Bumps on the horizon gradually unfold into steep hills, and a yellow sandstone cliff juts from one plateau. I leave the car and climb to a sweeping view. Windswept paddocks and stunted trees cling to the edges of mountains, shoulders bared to the heavens. The cool caress of wind whispers in my ears, bringing the smell of mustiness from the pockmarked cliffs. In the dark overhangs, Maori rock-paintings of red ochre twist and weave a story of ancient origins. Intricate nests of mud and straw are sculpted onto the wall. Tiny rock wrens babble incessantly, flitting in and out of the cool shadows.

The mountains of Central Otago gradually recede into the horizon as the road descends into the farming country of the Waitaki district. A rural patchwork quilt of green and gold is stitched together with velvet pines and russet farm buildings. I sense the coast is near when the tangy sea air drifts through the vents.

I reach the coast at Oamaru. It is famous for its blue penguin colony and its collection of historic commercial buildings. I immediately get lost in the wide rambling streets. I find myself in what looks like a London street from the 1950s. Huge whitestone buildings in a mosaic of Gothic styles watch over the thrum of activity in the small cobblestone alleyways. Old cars and bicycles haphazardly clutter the curbs.

Oamaru’s Harbour-Tyne Street precinct is a maze of wooden floored rooms, high ceilings and creaking staircases. There is an art gallery, bookstore and even an antique bookbinder. Fuzzy grey-haired ladies sell knitted scarves, toys and old wares at the weekend markets. From across the dusty street a bakery lures me inside with delicious aromas of pastry and freshly baked bread. Walnut biscuits, almond bread, cream puffs and crusty loaves of rye and Vienna are decadently piled underneath polished glass.

I continue down to the waterfront and its creaking jetties. Rusted boats are being tossed on the icy-grey waters of Oamaru Harbour. I find the penguin colony and sit on the viewing platform, feasting on my indulgent purchases. Breakers crash over the Macendrew Wharf, sending plumes of spray metres into the air. Though it is the wrong time of day for penguins, I breathe in an air smelling of brine and musty penguin feathers. The sea air is freezing and I leave rosy-cheeked, invigorated and grinning from ear to ear.

On the drive north to Christchurch night soon sends the country into slumber. Lights wink on and cast a glow over the road. The shapes of steeples are ghostly silhouettes on the horizon. It is late at night and I check into a small hotel. I set my alarm for a 5:30 flight the next morning and soon fall asleep.

Engines roar. Eyes blink away sleep and glaze over glossy in-flight magazines. The roar reaches its crescendo and with a sudden shuddering movement bodies are pinned back into cushioned seats. Ears pop. Hearts pound. And then … a feeling of weightlessness. The plane begins its ascent into the early morning darkness.

The winking lights of Christchurch soon become distant constellations against the darkened land. As the ball of fire slowly climbs the sky, vivid hues of pineapple, peach and tangelo push the moon’s soft cream face behind the horizon. Shafts of light illuminate the clouds, overshadowing the land beneath and enveloping the small plane like folds of soft skin. Through the occasional misty gap, a steady transformation of colour takes place; stormy indigo and deep teal turns to a palette of pastel.

Two hours later the plane touches down in Auckland. First impressions are of towering buildings of asphalt and steel, dominating the inner city skyline like jagged teeth. The thousands of windows are like eyes, mirroring the golden glow cast by the sun. It is Monday morning rush hour and crowds of people and cars swarm over the streets at the blink of a traffic light. There is a constant sound of busy feet and blaring horns. Puddles are miniature oceans on every pavement, soaking those who are careless and rushing along. The air smells of car fumes, the sea and recent rains.

Auckland is a waterside city, wrapped by a silken blue sheet and punctuated by some forty-eight volcanic hills. Famous for being the City of Sails, boats dot the harbour like white daisies scattered amongst a field of blue cornflowers. Squawking gulls are like ribbons in the sky. Wavelets drum on hulls of bleached wood and fibreglass.

At 328 metres, the Skytower is a slender fang on the skyline. It is the tallest building in the Southern Hemisphere and takes only forty seconds by lift to ascend its hollow shell. I step out onto the viewing deck with a complete view of Auckland, a solid glass floor of thirty-two centimetres beneath my feet. Yachts are triangular specks leaving silvery trails on the glittering blue sea. People are grains of sand being blown across the streets. Cars and trucks are like toys banked up on the intersections.

West of Auckland out of suburbia is an area famous for its dramatic ruggedness, iron-sand beaches and pounding surf. My destination is Piha Beach, popular for both locals and tourists. The road winds its way around massive ferns and gradually descends the hills to the coast. Getting out the car, I am blasted with crisp squalls coming off the six-foot breakers. The sea is a tangle of foam, rising swells and wave tops being whipped by the wind. Lion’s Head, an imposing figure of rock with a mane of sage-coloured bushes, stares moodily out to sea. I walk along the beach, the stained black sands soft underfoot. Like brightly coloured flowers, paragliders glide lazily on warm air currents above the headland.

On the weekend I leave the frantic pace of Auckland and head south to Coromandel Peninsula. Eight-lane motorways soon become small winding roads, which curl around lush paddocks. The peninsula is a thin extended spine of volcanic hills, blanketed by the Coromandel Forest Park. Tree ferns and black birches are like raised hackles on its back. Tucked away from the road, wooden shacks have fences adorned with yellow buoys and knotted pieces of rope. The shallow waters of the Firth of Thames lap its western shores.

The gateway to the Coromandel is a small town called Thames. I stop briefly in the Main Street at the local markets. Organic produce of every description is scattered atop wooden trestle tables; kiwi fruit, kumaras, persimmons, feijoas, freshly baked ciabattas and selections of creamy blue and goat’s cheese. There are stalls with hand-carved wooden boxes, glass-blown ornaments and intricate dream catchers. Local musicians serenade the shoppers.

I head north onto the Peninsula itself. The road snakes its way around secluded inlets and the scattered fishing villages of Tararu, Ruamahunga and Kereta. At Coromandel Town, a road finally heads east over the peninsula’s steep grade. At its peak I can appreciate the natural beauty of Coromandel Harbour and the small islands dotting its waters. A sprawl of mangroves and marshy green paddocks fringe its edges.

It is here on Coromandel Peninsula where some of the last remaining Kauri stands. Famous for its beautiful copper coloured wood, Kauri trees were almost logged to extinction in years past. Tucked away from the road is the twin Kauri trees, possibly thousands of years old. They hold absolute power and beauty over the landscape. Leafy tips brush the pearly undersides of the heavens. Textured bark is a mosaic of peppercorn and oregano. Dark olive lichens cling to their massive trunks. Moss covers the ground and squelches underfoot. The silver undersides of tiny ferns seem to glow from the cool shadows. A tiny spring dribbles its way through smooth khaki coloured rocks. Only the tui’s tinkling voice pierces the absolute silence.

I continue to drive south along the eastern coast of the North Island and turn inland at the Bay of Plenty. The late afternoon sun glances across the windscreen. As it retires over the horizon, the land is enveloped in a blush of crimson. Distant pine trees become notched outlines. Headlights flick on, their wavering glow revealing darkened stands of pine and scarred mountainsides. Clouds of steam seep in puffs from the ground like dragon’s smoke. The sulphurous smell of rotten egg pervades my senses. I have arrived at last to Rotoroa, New Zealand’s famous thermal area.

The stars glitter against the smoky darkness. A canopy of rhino-grey needles forms an intricate roof. Flaming torches below illuminate pockmarked boughs. Surrounding the sandy arena is a palisade of wooden defensive paths and sharpened spears. Pointed tips jaggedly defy the branches above. Totem poles stand guard, their white painted eyes glinting from the flickering shadows. And then come the voices. Louder and louder, they echo across the arena. Ghostly figures appear out of the shadows and down the wooden walkways. Their feet stamp rhythmically, raising dust into the air. Beaded skirts swish around solid hips. A lone man steps into the arena, his hand clutching a long stick. He bangs it on the ground. A carved greenstone pendant hangs from his neck. An ebony tattoo braids over his face, sweat beading on his forehead.

The warrior stops before the group. Stops before me. ‘Haere mai. Welcome to Tamaki Maori Village.’

Tamaki is one of many places in the Rotoroa area, which open its doors to a Maori experience of past and present aspects of culture and life. The tour winds its way through a pre-European Maori village, and ends up in a marae, or meeting place. It is here where Maori men, women and children give insight into their culture through song and story. Women swing red and white poi, balls on string, and the men perform the haka, war dance. The tour ends with a hangi, a feast of meat and vegetables slowly cooked in a traditional steam pit.

It is late at night when I leave and I pitch camp in Waikite Valley, a short distance from Tamaki Maori Village. The land is black velvet, the moon radiating her soft ghostly light over undulating hills of forest. Clouds of steam merge with fingers of mist and stretch lazily through the valley. I close my eyes and snuggle deeper into my sleeping bag.

When I awaken frost carpets the ground. Beside the campground a white haze billows from a gurgling stream. I follow the steaming river to its source. Amongst the moss-covered rocks and draping fern fronds, a mineral spring boils up from the depths of the earth. Much of its water is curbed into Waikite Valley Thermal Pools, which adjoin the campground. I don my bathers for the first time in New Zealand. The water is so warm I become oblivious to time and several hours later I get out, my fingers and toes like wrinkled jellyfish. My skin feels clean and rejuvenated.

Just out of Waikite Valley are the rangy pines of Kaingaroa Forest, which hide the colourful volcanic area of Wai-O-Tapu Thermal Wonderland. The first sign of volcanic activity are the bubbling mud pools, tiny concentric circles forming on its slate surface. Surrounding pines are like bony skeletons, splashed with dried pewter-coloured mud. Further into the park, chemical reactions deep beneath the earth have left fluorescent yellow tags on the beige ground. Sickly yellow-green pools simmer and fester. Sulphurous smells drift throughout the park. The Lady Knox Geyser spurts foul water and steam into the air. Occupying a seventy-metre wide explosion crater, Champagne Springs is a pool of hazardous chemicals bubbling at over seven hundred degrees. The effervescent jade water is ringed with a ferocious looking orange and crystalline white. Evil smells create the feeling of stepping onto another planet.

I leave Wai-O-Tapu and drive westward to Huka Falls, known as Hukanui in Maori, or ‘Great Body of Spray’. The might of the Waikato River is squeezed through a narrow fissure in the rock, becoming giant turquoise rapids. Torrents of water smash their frothy heads against the moss-stained walls of rock and erupt from the other side in a huge fall of water. The crashing water reverberates through the ground.

Lake Taupo, ten kilometres away from Huka Falls, is the size of Singapore. It is like a giant unblinking eye in the centre of the North Island. Sailing boats are painted upon its surface of ruffled silk. Distant mountains to the south are capped in snow.

It is here where I let go of my fears, follow my dreams and do the unthinkable – skydive. At ten thousand feet, my legs hang out the side of the plane. There is nothing below but air. Straps are my safety net attaching me to my instructor. My head is thrust back onto his shoulder. I close my eyes for an instant.

Suddenly, I am dropping through the air at two hundred kilometres per hour. The thin air is hard to breathe and I gasp like a drowning fish. I open my eyes to the most magical view. The land is like a patchwork bubble of green, clouds like fingers of dust. Silvery threads of water snake in all directions. Lake Taupo is like a giant mirror. Ten seconds of free fall and the pink parachute is released with a snap. Then I am gliding through the air, the land slowly becoming bigger. It is so still and silent I feel like I am stuck on slow motion. When I land on the ground I am a rag doll, dizzy with euphoria. It is an experience I will never forget.

I drive back to Auckland for my eight o’clock flight back to Australia. I am still buzzing with adrenaline. Once again the paintbox of colour disappears into inky darkness. I store away the memories of the colourful landscape of Aotearoa. I have only seen a small glimpse of this diverse land but I know I will one day return to see more.