^Ever since we began traveling together, Marcela and I have been fixed on the ever-shrinking horizon of our shared "bucket list," with New Zealand holding the top position. For us, this place was always the ultimate, yet final, big goal—for good reason. Not only was it remote and expensive, requiring a significant commitment of time to fully explore, but it also symbolized the act of crossing off something meaningful from a list that had fueled our dreams for so long. Nonetheless, after a New Year's Day full of reflection, we finally decided to cast our commitments aside. We vowed to make this year the one we'd go.

Fast forward a few months and two long, journeys opposite directions around the world, we landed together again in Auckland—the gateway to New Zealand and the North Island's international hub. Granted a visa-free stay of three months on arrival, we naively thought we had ample time to explore. Little did we know what adventures and challenges lay ahead.

In pursuit of a more “authentic” travel experience amidst the rugged landscapes of the country, we had always dreamed of traveling throughout New Zealand in a rented campervan. However, by the time we looked into booking one, the options for available vans were dwindling—and those that remained were insanely expensive. The questions began to pile up: what were we getting ourselves into after traveling so long to get out here?

A week before setting foot in New Zealand, tension was high, but a shift began to take place in our mindset. After flipping through a few ads for old vans for sale and reading about New Zealand’s straightforward vehicle registration process, a new plan emerged: why not build our own home on wheels? We drafted a budget, hashed out a project plan, and set up a few viewings for the day we would arrive.

Sure enough, we purchased a van the first day of our arrival—a trusty 1992 Toyota Hiace. A retired ambulance, “Benny” (as he came to be named) had some great stories under its roof, low miles, and good mechanical bones. It had already undergone some initial steps towards conversion into a campervan, which we hoped would give us more of our time outside of the van, exploring, instead of inside working on it. After picking up some hardware and materials in Auckland, and began the drive north to begin our exploration.

Our first stop was the Bay of Islands, where we found a volunteering opportunity on a large rural property amid picturesque hills and ocean inlets. The owners of the property - U.S. and British expats - provided us with a space to stay and some tools for us to begin our build in return for our help maintaining their property in the mornings. We spent long days waking up in the frosty mornings, feeding the chickens and gardening around the house, and afternoons building out our van late into the night. Working quickly, we soon had a proper kitchen space, bed, and running utilities, and were eager to hit the road.

Before long, we did just that, tracing the coastline back through Auckland. We camped on picturesque beaches along the way—falling asleep to the sounds of the waves breaking nearby—and really began to enjoy the "Kiwi" way of life. We were struck by laid-back and open attitudes of everyone we met. The local laws and policies seemed designed to prioritize well-being and simplicity—a kind of social harmony that can only be imagined on an island nation of this size. (Or not?) It was a refreshing break from the complexity and bureaucracy of places we had come from.

We drove through rolling farmlands and green meadows on our way. And after managing a few mechanical hang-ups, started making some real progress south. The functions that initially stressed us and made life unpleasant in the van: cooking, cleaning, converting the bed—soon became habits and joyful routines that represented constants in our ever-changing days. We began to really enjoy this little home on wheels.

The ferry service between New Zealand’s North and South Islands is limited to a few operators. A series of mechanical issues at the beginning of the year had disrupted some of the boats running this route, making each of the nearly ten daily crossings fully booked almost a month in advance. Fortunately, we had heard about this bottleneck prior to arriving in New Zealand and had secured our slot for the north-to-south journey. The downside was that this put us on a tight schedule to reach Wellington, the port town where the ferry departs. Between building our camper and exploring the North Island, we found ourselves racing against time. With only a few days left until our scheduled ferry ride, we hoped for a trouble-free drive to Wellington and no further ferry disruptions that could set us back even further.

All the pieces fell into place, and we arrived in Wellington on time. As our ferry left the port, we enjoyed a celebratory beer while crossing the Cook Strait. As we got our first glimpse of the South Island's green bluffs against the sun setting, the reality of our dream trip began to sink in. While the North Island was a great introduction to the country, it was the South Island with its towering alpine peaks that had always captivated our imaginations. We disembarked at Picton, the small port town on the South Island, and found a nearby camping spot to rest for the night.

One of the hidden joys I've discovered over the years of outdoor living is the thrill of arriving at a campsite in complete darkness, only to awaken to the beauty of the surrounding landscape revealed by the morning light. As dawn light seeped through our frost-covered windows, it illuminated the dense forests surrounding the small peninsula where we had unknowingly parked. Two things became clear: we had entered a new and exciting landscape, and winter was approaching.

We fired up our stove and dripped out a hot batch of morning coffee, its steam and aroma filling the cabin of our van, and rolled out a map of the South Island. Motivated by the chill of the morning, we started to plan a traverse of the island in order to hit all of our destinations before winter fully set in. Soon, we had a zig-zapping line drawn across the map, spanning from coastline to coastline and back again, dissecting the alluring Southern Alps in three pieces. Energized again, we set off.

Our first stop in the South Island was the coastal town of Nelson. With its quaint downtown area and the surrounding expanses of farmland, we felt right at home here. We drove an hour from Nelson to reach the Abel Tasman National Park: the protected region making up the northernmost region of the South Island. Here, we decided to park Benny for a few days to shift gears and stretch our legs: trekking and camping along the coastline for a few days. The trail cut a tunnel through a unique blend of native bush, Manuka trees, and ferns, with sunlight filtering through the canopy in sharp rays. Occasionally, a pass would open up into a view of the shoreline: pristine, white-sand beaches and Caribbean-blue waters—completely at odds with the autumnal weather we were hiking in.

On the first evening, we plunged into the chilly water and emerged to dry ourselves with a beachside campfire as the stars began to come out. The smell of burning pine circled us along with the nearby seagulls. We were trapped in some kind of real-life Jack Johnson song, and life—life was undoubtedly good.

After our short trek in Abel Tasman, we resumed our journey, this time steering inland through increasingly large hills before reaching the alpine terrain of Nelson Lakes National Park. With our boots still warm, our love for the high alpine pulled us up higher. We left Benny again and hiked up to a small mountain hut surrounded by nearby snowy peaks. As evening settled in, the biting alpine winds tapered off, and the sky became a canvas of warm, vivid hues. An older man sat by me at the deck of the hut and we sat silently, watching the nearby lake change into a glassy reflection. Breaking the silence, he looked me in the eyes. “This is what it’s all about.” he said. Though I’ll never know exactly what he meant, I think I understood in that moment.

Breaking the silence, he looked me in the eyes. “This is what it’s all about.” he said. Though I’ll never know exactly what he meant, I think I understood in that moment.

After descending from Nelson Lakes, we continued across the Southern Alps with Benny and towards the east-coast city of Christchurch in order to restock. We were impressed by Christchurch’s pristine downtown areas and incredibly preserved botanical gardens. Autumn was in full swing now, and we focused our days around long, lingering picnics in the local parks, a respite that made us forget we were even in a city.

We continued inland again, this time crossing sweeping valleys of braided rivers, framed by towering mountains: some snow-covered and some still bare. We navigated down to Lake Tekapo, an area known for is incredible starry night skies, and got a glimpse of Mount Aoraki (Mt. Cook) before arriving in Queenstown to catch our breath again. We had now experienced a taste of the Southern Alps, and with the leaves around us beginning to shine a dim yellow, it was time for us to slow down.

Over the next month, we wandered through the West Coast: a wild, distant relative of California’s Route 1. We drove through the massive rock canyons and forests of the Fiordland leading to Milford Sound. Fiordland stunned us with its dramatic cliffs that fell straight into the dark waters below, flanked by towering waterfalls and lush rainforests. It was a frontier in the truest sense—untamed and grand on a massive scale. Later, we heard stories of an experienced local hunter who became totally lost in the Fiordland after following a deer less than one km away from his campsite, and ended up lost for four days before finding his way back - a testament to the natural maze that is formed from this area's terrain.

Having completed a full loop of the South Island, we found ourselves back in its center, Lake Wanaka, just as the leaves reached their full autumn peak. Our mornings there—long walks on lake's tranquil shore, surrounded by towering yellow Poplar trees and with a backdrop of blue mountains crowned in snow—are etched in my memory. Having neglected to put curtains into our van, we had unknowingly fallen into a more natural, primordial schedule of life: waking each morning at the first rays of light, and falling into a deep sleep shortly after it set in the evening.

With more time on our hands, we took to the local mountains around Lake Wanaka, staying overnight in the small Brewster Hut before heading back to Aoraki/Mount Cook National Park for a trek to the famous Mueller Hut.

Mount Cook, also known as Aoraki, is the highest mountain in New Zealand and a significant site in Maori mythology. Mueller Hut, situated high in the park's alpine environment, is one of the most notable of the park's public huts. The construction of the Mueller Hut was spearheaded by Sir Edmund Hillary, the legendary Kiwi mountaineer best known for being the first man to reach the summit of Mount Everest. Mueller Hut served as an alpine training ground for him, so for us, this place had a unique draw, a sort of pilgrimage for anyone with a love for high-altitude landscapes.

As we ascended toward the Mueller Hut, the weather turned: clouds gathered and cold rain began to fall. All around us, towering glaciers and craggy peaks made us feel infinitesimal. At the hut that night, a distinctive camaraderie set in—one that seems to only manifest in the isolated confines of a high alpine shelter. Nobody was particularly interested in each other's nationality or background. We were all just there: strangers huddled around a candle a tiny, red dot amid the endless alpine, the wind whipping outside and whistling through the small crevices in the hut’s walls.

By morning, the clouds had parted, revealing a breathtaking tableau of peaks with Aoraki at its center. These mountains may not have been the tallest or most formidable we've faced, but they were undoubtedly among the most beautiful.

"As I sit here, I realize that, with each journey, I've started to value the smaller aspects that make each place unique. It's not just about chasing the highest peaks or the farthest-flung deserts anymore. It's about discovering the subtle, yet beautiful details in every landscape I find myself. Still - this is not a hard scene to be impressed by."

With just one month left on our New Zealand visas, facing tight budgets and a growing need to rest our feet for some time, we stumbled upon another volunteering opportunity. This time, it was on a rural property in a quaint town just north of Christchurch. We made our way over to Cheviot - a town of one gas station, one grocery store, and certainly more sheep than people - and committed to staying for the month. Despite the highs of our adventures in the previous months, this turned out to be the highlight of our trip. 

The owners of the property, Ellis and Sanna, were an industrious multicultural couple, both with lives that deserved full-length documentary films. Ellis, an NZ local, left his hometown and a career as a professional hunter to travel the world as TV travel-show host and professional diver. He is the upgraded, Kiwi-version of Bear Grylls (with crazier and funnier stories) and turned out to be one of the most resourceful people I had ever met.

Working on the property—which sat on a large hill overlooking the snowy Kaikoura Ranges—involved various building and maintenance projects. During our first week, we were tasked with removing rusting staples from 200 old fence posts. What started as a strenuous and monotonous task—using a pipe and a pair of bolt cutters to carefully pry out each of the posts’ 14-plus staples—soon turned into a form of deep inner meditation. Marce and I developed a rhythmic workflow as a team, our choreographed movements allowing us to enter a state of "flow" for five hours a day. The blisters on our hands turned to calluses and an appreciation for this focused, yet, uninterrupted work deepened.

Although this type of work is much different than the corporate career I left behind when I began traveling, it has become a meaningful part of my existence. Whether it's picking coffee beans in Nicaragua, shucking buckets of walnuts in Turkey, or sanding wooden planks in a dusty workshop in Mallorca, it's in these moments of movement and work that I feel free. Physical labor propels my mind into deeper reflections, forcing me to think about what's truly important: the simple, yet beautiful, motions of everyday life.

We treasured our time with Ellis, Sanna, and the other volunteers who came and went during our stay in Cheviot. The allure of small-town, community-based living started to resonate deeply with us. On weekends, we seized the opportunity for nearby adventures, embarking on our first multi-day canoeing trip through the local mountains and soaking in natural hot springs. All the while, we began to confront the bittersweet reality that our incredible journey through this country would soon come to an end.

Our connection to this place was so strong that we started talking about the possibility of making it our permanent home. One clear path for extending our stay was applying for a one-year "Working Holiday Visa." While my application as a U.S. citizen would likely be a straightforward process, Marce's application presented a challenge due to her Mexican citizenship. New Zealand's Working Holiday Visa program only allocates 200 slots for Mexican citizens each year, and by the time we applied, those slots were already filled. This was yet another poignant reminder of the privilege I inherently have as a U.S. citizen and how geopolitical divisions continue to create disparities in opportunities around the world. As we weighed the possibility of relocating here permanently for full-time jobs, the reality of our families and other travel aspirations being so far away ultimately outweighed the immense joy we found in our day-to-day lives in New Zealand.

Many speak about traveling as a way to “find oneself”. But after three years on the road, I’ve found that the opposite is often more true. Traveling is less about finding what new foreign recipes and ideals to “add” to one’s life: it is an exercise of gradual un-finding. A revealing of everything that one does not need, of what is truly essential. The ideologies, biases, and luxuries that one collects and maintains when staying at home, are shed away. Like a sculptor chipping away at the granite block to find the solid form which has always existed inside, but needed a chisel to reveal.

In early June, we sold our beloved van to another traveling couple and packed our belongings into our backpacks again. We left New Zealand with incredible memories, new friends, and some invaluable life lessons—ranging from the luxury of being able to stand upright in a kitchen to the value of being able to create a home while in constant motion. As we waved goodbye to New Zealand, we understood that our bucket list was more than a checklist—it was an ongoing narrative, one that promised the world was still full of adventures yet to be written.