New Year’s 2026

As the year turned, I was reminded that the path to adventure often begins when a plan takes an unexpected twist. Such was the case for New Year 2026.

We had intended to welcome the year at Barker Hut in Arthur’s Pass, but the weather had other plans — and so, naturally, did we. At the airport, we made the decision to head south, chasing sunshine and committing to a direction only once we were already in motion. By evening, as the light softened across braided rivers and open plains, we arrived in Twizel and pitched our tents beside Lake Poaka.

By morning, luck intervened. Through sheer good fortune, we secured two free spaces at Brewster Hut — enough for the three of us to squeeze in for the night. It felt like a small gift. The alternative had been tenting in cold, unpredictable alpine weather, and the cool temperature in Twizel (470 m above sea level) was already a good indicator of what we could expect 1,450 m above.

We began the climb late in the morning, steady and strong. Other trampers passed us heading down, confirming what the wind and dropping temperature suggested: it had been a rough night up high. A few tents had been blown off the mountain. The decision to abandon our glacier-side camping plan came easily. Some plans are meant to be released without protest.

Inside the hut, warmth gathered us around the table. We met Jess, a Dutch traveller who would quickly become part of our small crew. We talked late into the evening over shared snacks, dehydrated meals, and gas burners, the mountains beyond the windows framing every laugh, every story, every quiet moment.

The next morning dawned thick with fog. I assumed the glacier would stay hidden, and after the previous day’s climb, I wasn’t entirely disappointed. But Gordon, unhurried and quietly confident, suggested we wait. We did — and he was right.

As the cloud lifted, the glacier revealed itself in mist-softened beauty. Untouched. Sublime. Jess joined us, and somewhere along the way we learned it was her birthday — New Year’s Eve, of all days. The sun came out fully, rocks warming beneath our hands, and by the time we reached the ice, I was hot enough to consider plunging into the icy glacial waters. All four of us went in.

It was breath-stealing, shocking, exhilarating — the kind of cold that wakes you completely and leaves you laughing at your own boldness. A moment that will burn sharp and warm in my memory always.

We descended that afternoon after farewells were exchanged, my thoughts drifting toward the ramen awaiting us. I felt buoyed by a sense that things were aligning — until we reached Wānaka. It was full. Completely. The town buzzed with noise and crowds, far from the quiet alpine ease I’d been holding in mind. Over ramen, we recalibrated. The West Coast weather wasn’t playing along, so we pointed ourselves toward Dunedin instead.

That night, we picked a spot to freedom camp in the Lindis Pass, our best option given the late hour, and set off close to 10 p.m. The uncertainty weighed more than it might on any other night — New Year’s Eve, after all, a time of heightened expectation, when having no plan feels heavier than usual. Arriving in the dark stillness, the sight of other campers nearby was comforting. We pitched our tents and went straight to bed, too exhausted to note the time or year.

Morning brought the New Year — and with it, golden light spilling across the Lindis Pass. Rolling hills glowed warm and wild, more beautiful than any photograph. It finally felt like summer. Our neighbours, Allan and Diane, greeted us with cheerful conversation and generosity. Hearing we were headed to Dunedin (their hometown) they shared penguin-spotting tips and even pulled a map from their motorhome, highlighting an e-bike route around the harbour. By breakfast, we had a plan. The luck, it seemed, had returned.

Dunedin emerged under low cloud and moody skies. We went straight to Tunnel Beach, where mist and drama suited the landscape perfectly. It rivalled the glacier in awe, just differently — less stark, more brooding. Later that night, we went penguin spotting at Allans Beach, waiting until dusk and watching in the cold, growing dark for well over an hour. Once again, Natalia’s and my impatience was tempered by Gordon’s patience — to our delight and surprise, we saw them scurry ashore.

The next morning, I jogged alone through the city, shaking off long drives and stiff legs. The streets were still, cafes just opening, the city hushed. I passed grand stone buildings and soaring cathedrals, music in my ears, taking the time to breathe and simply enjoy the city waking around me. It was grey again, but dry — a small victory.

E-bikes became the highlight of the day. Electric assist mercifully engaged, we rode the harbour loop — wind in my hair, salt in the air, the simple joy of movement. Port Chalmers charmed immediately. I disappeared into a second-hand bookshop, dusty shelves heavy with forgotten stories, before we warmed ourselves with fish and chips and caught the bike ferry across to Portobello. The ride back was long, blustery, and fun in that satisfying, earned way.

That evening, plans shifted again. Rain threatened in Timaru, enthusiasm waned at the thought of wet tents, and over a good pub meal Natalia asked the obvious question: why not just drive on to Christchurch? So we did.

The following morning, Christchurch welcomed us warmly. Coffee and pastries from Bohemian Bakery (essential, always), then Akaroa on the Banks Peninsula — a place I’d yet to explore. I’d kept my expectations low, which made its quiet charm all the more delightful. By afternoon the clouds thinned, and from a boulder overlooking the harbour we shared M&Ms and basked in the sunshine, another good day quietly sealed.

That night, at New Brighton’s hot pools, something shifted. Muscles softened in the warm water as the sun sank low and lights flickered on across the Port Hills. Later, walking the pier in the cool night air, emotion finally caught up with me. Perhaps it was the stillness. Perhaps the accumulation of days. But I realised how little I’d felt the weight of the New Year until then — carried forward by constant movement and, more importantly, by the people beside me.

At one point, reflecting on the year ahead, I’d said that almost everything in my life was changing. Gordon’s response was simple: “The people don’t.” It landed fully there, on that pier. Some stay. Some don’t. Christchurch holds memories of both. But the dream here isn’t about old endings — it’s about new beginnings. About cherishing those who remain and releasing the rest.

Our final day brought proper summer at last. Sun, heat, turquoise water at Godley Head, long grass shimmering in the wind. I felt at home — in the landscape, and in the idea of what was still to come.

This trip was unexpected from the outset. Each day brought twists and turns — and above all, delight. Life isn’t linear. Plans get disrupted, and you adapt. But this isn’t a loss. Let the unexpected surprise you. Hold the future lightly. Sometimes the detour becomes the better path.

As I head into 2026 — solo travel across Europe, the possibility of moving to Christchurch — I carry this trip as a quiet blueprint. There will be delays. There will be pivots. But now, I trust the timing. I boarded the plane home not with sadness, but with a calm knowing: the journey ahead will be layered and textured. I may not arrive exactly where I imagine, when I imagine — but I will get there.

Captures collected across shared days, from different hands and cameras.