This Wild Life

We rented a new-fangled car with a start button and surround-sound speakers, but the parents wouldn't approve of the music I listen to, so we're stuck with Toby's playlist. And Dad is too used to being a driver, and Mum unnecessarily says "Careful, careful!" a lot, and grips the dash over the AIRBAG engraving.

We slap all the sandflies that come within our reach, even though they're just as awestruck as us. I mean, they make tiny replica mountains on our skin. And at night they exclaim: "I know, I know!" right into the caverns of our ears.

And Toby and I walk one tree off the track because it makes us feel like wilderpeople. I mean, we only walk on the easy, under-2hrs-return trails, because both Mum and Dad have old knees. But when we sit in the diner at 3pm, with a 5hr car trip to our motel for the night, I finish my bean nachos before the bowl cools.

We start early to beat the tour busses, though there's always one just behind us (even though they all stop at every lookout). We feel more local than the tour groups, but I've been told my accent is dismal. And when we all return home, they will have thousands more photos to connect themselves to this land, and to prove they've seen all the sightseeing hits.

I've seen more kiwi plushies than I imagine real ones have ever existed, but only one fake fern. I want to start a garden in my bedroom when I get home, although I'm starting to feel that this wild life is more genuine than that one ever was.

Two women on bikes struggling up the glacier we're cruising down signal to us, and yell: "Is it worth it?" - and I don't even know how to answer.