Just me and a mattress in the back of the car.

The last of the autumn leaves on the tree lined banks of Lake Benmore.

Not much sleep but you know, the youth of it, so good.

Over the snow-dusted Lindis Pass to Omarama, late afternoon driving with tremendous tunes, expansive views of lakes so blue and tussock covered hills that are huge and orange and go on forever, the snowy tops picking up the warmth of the sun as it softens.

It’s windy as buggery at the Sailors Cutting campsite so I instead head over the hill looking for shelter. Turning off at Otematata I find a council campground below the power station on the autumn tree-lined shores of Lake Benmore.

The last light is fading as I wait for the local sheep to make room for me on the road and wind down to the campground, spotting a campfire surrounded by bodies on camp chairs.

I find a spot reasonably well spaced from the others but head over to say G’day and just make sure I’m not in their way seeing as it looks like they own the place. All eyes on me as I approach, they’re all cradling cold cans of Speights and one bloke’s prodding at foil-covered potatoes in the fire.

We exchange friendly G’days and how ya goings and they’re fine with my parking spot for the night;

“She’ll be right. So long as you don’t snore! Haha, actually better hope you don’t mind me snoring! Come and join us if you want, there’s a spare chair over here.”

Any apprehension I had about feeling safe on my own in an isolated campground fades quickly and the warmth and joy of acceptance settles in, like finding someone to talk to at morning tea time on a training course. I wish I didn’t care about that kind of stuff.

You better hope the alpine fault doesn’t decide to tremor and break free that dam full of water. We don’t stand a chance.

I excuse myself to get tea (dinner tonight is a pottle of marinaded mussels and a bag of lettuce) and return with a glass of wine and settle into the spare chair to listen to hopefully hear some stories.

Turns out this is their summer home. They’ve been coming here since they were kids ad now they’re retired they set up their caravans, awnings and shower cubicles in November and hang leave them set up until the camp closes at the end of May when the water pipes start to freeze. Nights often spent yarning until the wee hours, days spent boating on the lake, reading, pottering, one couple love a bit of biking and walking. Tonight’s their last night and a whole bunch of their other mates packed up and left today.

The banter of lifelong friendships and comfortable summers spent lakeside together flows beautifully. There’s talk of a nighttime wander to go cut the cable that sends all the power up the North Island. That’ll give them a shock! Didn’t you know this power station feeds half the North Island?! I’m warmed and entertained, bottles clink, wine is spilled, I say my goodnights at 9pm which, three hours after dark settled in feels like midnight. I wake up to pee at around 1am and they’re just heading off to bed. A wonderful group, good value and warmly included me but a few jabs here and there lets me know that being from the North Island originally and then the West Island (Australia) and now overpriced and overdeveloped Wānaka (“getting as bad as Queenstown, we moved from there 10 years ago, no good anymore”) makes me wonder if I’m more likely tolerated. Regardless, they’ve made my night and this is the beauty of solo travel. It’s so easy to join the campfire and listen. No distractions or other place to be.

My night’s a long one and I learn that next time I need to park with my nose downhill a bit next time to make up for the tilting in the seats folded down. I find myself slipping down the slope in my sleeping bag, feet crumpled up against the boot. The first sign of dawn is a relief, time to make coffee and head off for a sunrise wander.

Driving up above the dam (Otematata is the best dam town!) I park and puff my way up the hill to marvellous views on the west side to Aoraki/Mt Cook and catch all sides around the mountain. There are sadly no native trees around here yet. Poplars and willows around the lake’s edge, up here pines make a nuisance of themselves spawning wildling pines amongst cedar, lupins, the odd eucalyptus and other colonial imports. The hills are barren, tussock and rock. I’ve read that tussock is marvellous, but I dream of valleys full of native trees and the subalpine beauty you see in other parts of Aotearoa. One day baby.