Far from the maddening crowd

Sunday, 30 November 2025

Mike White is a senior writer and columnist.

OPINION: The weather forecast gave the three most enticing but unreliable words available in the MetService phrasebook: “Fine. Light winds.”

Naive and recidivist believers in the accuracy of the meteorologist boffins, it was all we needed to heave the kayaks on to the car, pat the old dog goodbye for the day, and set off for the lake.

En route, we passed the entrance for the area’s most popular walk, the plod to the top of Roys Peak.

It is a rites of passage for all able-bodied beings who come here, it seems. A “must-do”, as if the alternative is being shipped to a labour camp.

We have cautioned and counselled innumerable visiting friends that there are numerous better walks than this. Tracks less trammelled, views equally impressive, experiences more rewarding.

Yes, yes, they say, and then tell us they’re going up Roys Peak.

That’s the problem with Instagram: Impending visitors see a photo posted by some vacuous influencer, and think this is the ultimate, the only, the apogee of destinations.

It’s the same with the tree in Lake Wānaka.

Every day, hundreds, thousands of tourists trek around the lakeshore and stare at a tree. Let’s be clear, Wānaka is not short of trees. But this one happens to be in the lake.

Here’s the thing though: For much of the year, particularly this time of year, when winter snows are melting and swelling the lake, there are hundreds of bloody trees in the lake.

None of this matters to the fleeting tourists. It has to be this tree, this timber totem to the insidious persuasion of social media.

It’s one reason Roys Peak has become so overwhelmed. Because someone posted a photo of themselves at a spectacular viewpoint and said, “Look at me…follow me…”

So, as we passed the track entrance at 10am, it was little surprise the car parks were already full, and the $5 overflow paddock brimming, with cheapskates parked perilously, far down the road.

Sweaty figures hobbled down the last slope, and clambered the stile back to the carpark and blessed flat ground.

They were possibly early-risers who’d been among a trail of pilgrims in the dark, hoping to see sunrise from the peak.

Alternatively, they were among the unfit and unimpressed who’d flagged the whole expedition part-way up, and were now heading back to town for brunch.

The call of the summit vs the call of the stomach? “I’ll have the eggs benedict with extra bacon, and whatever bastardised coffee that’s currently fashionable.”

We carried on to the picnic area where we were putting in, and pulled up in the shade.

We were flanked by two campervans: Not the bullshit budget Toyota Hiace versions, but real ones, big square ones, ones that signified seriousness about this holiday malarkey.

We unloaded the kayaks, took them down to the lake’s edge, and returned to the car to kit up.

When I got back to the beach, one of the campervan drivers was crouched on the shingle, framing a photo with our kayaks in the foreground.

“It’s all right,” he said, “I wanted a photo of them without you in it.”

I told him I wasn’t offended by that.

He was from Hamilton, easing around the South Island with his wife, on a sheepskin seat cover.

They had three weeks left before they had to be home, Hamilton Man said, almost irked by the concept of a deadline, now he was retired.

Mind you, he didn’t seem in that much of a rush. I asked him where he was heading that day, and he mused a bit, but reckoned he’d likely make it to a well-known pub 30 minutes away.

From there, they’d head south, Hamilton Man said: Queenstown, Te Ānau, maybe Milford Sound.

I said it was a good time to visit, because it got mad over summer with tourists.

“Seems like it’s already mad,” Hamilton Man replied.

He was right. Town had been all abustle as we drove through that morning, parks a scarcity, visitors in sunhats ordering bastardised coffees, tailbacks at roundabouts.

But I warned Hamilton Man that it got worse. Over Christmas and New Year, locals hid and hunkered down, as tourists hordes took over, like marauding Vandals in jandals.

We readied ourselves for launching, and Hamilton Man readied himself for the day.

We put on sun screen, he took off his shirt.

We packed our gear in waterproof bags, he spread out his towel on the beach.

We sat in our kayaks. He lay down.

We wished him a lovely day and a happy trip.

He did likewise.

“Where are you going,” Hamilton Man inquired, as we pushed off.

“Not sure,” I said. “Straight out, probably. Go for an explore. Find a nice beach for lunch. See where we end up.”

“Far from the maddening crowd,” he replied, and gave us a wave.