I was 68 miles (110km) into one of Europe's hardest cycling races when I took a break on the roadside, and started seriously questioning my life choices. Looking up at the 33 switchbacks I still had to climb before reaching the summit (of Italy's infamous Stelvio Pass), I said out loud, “Dad, if there’s ever been a time to send me a sign of encouragement, this is it.”
I then hit shuffle on my Spotify playlist and AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell’ started blaring. A favourite of Dad’s. I laughed. I cried. But most importantly, almost eight years to the day that my Dad died in a road cycling accident, I got back on my bike and chugged my way up the last 12.5 miles (20km) of the mountain.
As my legs kept spinning, I found myself thinking about how grateful I am for outdoor adventure - reflecting on how far my grief has come in the years since, and the role physical challenges have played in keeping me afloat. By the end of the ride, I’d decided it was time to return to where it all began, New Zealand.
We followed paths of twisting trees, dewy from rain, coated in various shades of moss. The reward at the end of the hike was a secluded bay of golden sand...
The first time we went there I was five years old and too young to remember big details. I do remember the excitement and some highlights, which coincidentally were definitely some of my parents' low-lights. Whilst we looked back at the trip with laughter lines around our eyes, it really was a disaster on paper. It started off well though, with mum slipping into the water in Kaikoura up the east coast from Christchurch, surrounded by dolphins. It’s one of the first memories I have of her: she’s beaming as hundreds of fins break the surface of the water, a backdrop of hazy grey and white snow capped mountains lining the shore.
Next we went to Abel Tasman National Park, a place fresh out of a fantasy novel. We followed paths of twisting trees, dewy from rain, coated in various shades of moss. The reward at the end of the hike was a secluded bay of golden sand tucked into the edges of the rainforest, and the promise of a water taxi back to our apartment. But we’d walked for hours and my little slow legs meant we missed the taxi. I remember the mood being low, parents discussing whether I’d manage the walk back or whether Dad would have to carry me. Just before we set off again, Dad sat on a fallen tree looking out to sea, hood up against the rain. I’ll always remember how at peace he looked there at the end of the world, in a country he could only have dreamed of visiting as a child himself.
Towards the end of our trip, mum joined a guided scuba diving tour of Milford Sound. The waters in the fjords were the deepest black - waterfalls pouring from the sheer cliffs. Dramatically, mum ended up featuring on the front page of the NZ Herald as she was airlifted off to a decompression chamber from surfacing too quickly. Fortunately she didn’t have the bends, as first feared, so Dad and I road tripped from the very bottom of the island to the very top to pick her up.
The easy access to safe and unimaginably rewarding outdoors adventure has a kind of healing property...
Secluded highways took us from fjords to rolling farmland; from snowcapped mountains to sandy beaches lined with temperate forests. I came home armed with a hand-drawn diary of memories, and a new need for adventure.
Much Better Adventures
In the fifteen years that followed that trip, my parents divorced, and both battled (and survived) cancer. Doing physically hard things was never about getting fit for them, it was always the unspoken release of a pressure valve. Being outside, walking until your legs feel like they might fall off, riding a bike with no destination in mind and exploring an entirely new place; I learnt by osmosis that it burnt the edges off the harshness of life.
With everything that had happened since that first New Zealand trip, it felt only right to head back there, but this time just with Dad. The country's beauty, the kindness of its people, and the easy access to safe and unimaginably rewarding outdoors adventure has a kind of healing property we were ready to reconnect with. We boarded the plane with a two-man tent and no real plan.
I laughed harder during those six weeks with Dad than I have at any other time in my life. We started in Christchurch, which had been rebuilt from the catastrophic earthquakes of 2011, homages to the resilience of the community all over the city. The first night we camped on the way up to Kaikoura, Dad woke me up squealing at 6am that there were dolphins playing off the beach outside the tent. We sat in the stillness and quiet of the morning, cup of tea in hand, watching dorsal fins rising and dipping below the surface. I thought of mum’s face all those years ago as I booked the exact same experience and spent it trying not to cry into my mask as hundreds of dolphins played around me.
We sat in the stillness and quiet of the morning, cup of tea in hand, watching dorsal fins rising and dipping below the surface.
We then took a detour from the road trip of years previous, heading instead down the country to visit Arthurs Pass; a hikers paradise that spans the centre of the island. The humbling mountains here are littered with gorges and flowing rivers, coloured a blue that it’s hard to describe. Hiking through Olihika Gorge was one of the most peaceful experiences I’ve ever had. A few solitary backpackers passed us as we sat on the rocks and ate our cheese sandwiches, legs feeling the good kind of tired. We spent the evenings pitching up at different Department of Conservation Campsites, washing in rivers or waterfalls, resting weary feet and letting the dust settle on the peace we’d found that day.
And so, just before Christmas 2025, I found myself back on a flight to New Zealand - our three man tribe now down to one. I felt I owed it to Dad to go back, to visit the parts of ourselves that we’d left there.
Having explored the hiking of the South Island, this time I turned to the North. I hiked the Pinnacles mountain range alone, spending the evening looking out over the view and thinking back to all the times since Dad died that adventure had given me a purpose when everything else had felt hard.
I talked aloud to Dad periodically on the way up, mostly blaming him (and mum’s) insistence I be outdoorsy for my sore feet and sweaty back. Once I reached the summit, I sat and ate a cheese sandwich looking out over the view. I thought about how grateful I am for my parents. It’s only as an adult that I truly understand that exploration, and challenging yourself physically and mentally, is the best medicine. It’s kept me afloat through the turbulent waters of grief, and it’s a tether that will always keep me bound to my Dad - in this life and the next.
Read the full Unlocking Adventures series now, live on the magazine