How I met my wife
At Grace's Door
It was a brisk morning in South Carolina when I exited a narrow beach path after surfing with my friend Colin Hansen. And it was between a few chilly Atlantic gusts when the idea of traveling to New Zealand for the first time began to cement in my mind.
What followed Colin’s jaw dropping was a shuddering of sorts. Suddenly, comfort and the future seemed to be at odds. There was no settling that. The idea of New Zealand seemed so distant and foreign. Colin had been before and loved it. But Colin is seriously adventurous, beyond me: surfing over reef breaks in Puerto Rico, sailing boats down the Intracoastal Waterway, flying across Panama in search of a wave that maybe a few hundred people know the name of ... or living on peanut butter in the mountains of New Zealand for 3 months.
Meanwhile, the extent of my desire for a good time often ended at either of America's great oceans. Because the first time I traveled abroad at 18, everything immediately went wrong. My luggage was lost, and delayed for days. Planes were diverted into other countries. My feet smelled atrocious after hours in boat shoes. I landed in a country with 4 recognized languages, and none of them were English. And there are so. many. trains. in Switzerland.
But the pure enthusiasm with which Colin described that foreign land ('Dude, my dad had to fly over, find me, and force me to come home.') slowly became my own justification. I was going to go, even if I didn’t know what that really meant.
The fear of an international border was to be further softened by the promise given to me by Jared Kreiss: he was born in New Zealand, so he knew his way around, and he had recently purchased a van there.
‘All you have to do,’ he insisted, ‘is book the flight and pack the bag.’
It turns out it really was that simple. Two months later in early January, I stepped off the plane and stared in awe.
If you have never been to New Zealand, it is near impossible to describe to you the depth of blue found in the sky. Twenty miles off the coast of South Carolina you reach the Atlantic shelf, where the sea reaches depths in the hundreds of feet: the sky in New Zealand is more blue than that. Hiking 6 hours to an alpine lake outside of Big Sky, Montana, you are met with mesmerizing colors and fish popping to the surface: the sky in New Zealand is more blue than either of them.
Rivers in Washington, blooming flowers in California: New Zealand, more blue. The air between you and that sky is fresh, crisp, and clear, always being blown in across the Tasman Sea: there is nothing between you, and the blue.
That is what immediately swept me away. What followed was 3 months in a tent across the South Island: standing on top of ridges and swimming beneath the surface of rivers, diving into the frigid ocean. I had never seen so much untouched beauty in my life, and until that point I had spent many years of my life in pursuit of that very thing.
Places with similar vista that I might drive to in some corner of America required a three day walk in New Zealand. Roads that are four lanes and blown into the side of a mountain in the rest of the Western world were one lane and carved into a cliff. People existed, but their priorities were nearly beyond comprehension: they lived in a world decades behind the Dow and S&P and two day free shipping. Three months in New Zealand had set me back thirty years in time.
But surrounded by somewhere so incredible, what I woke up to every single day during that period was a sense of dread. I would spend most mornings wondering (often tearfully) 'How am I going to afford this trip?' or 'Why can I not figure out how to make a living?' (still a poignant question). But those worries were inevitably washed away by noon, when I would overhear a park ranger mention that the forecast, for instance, called for 60mph winds and five inches of rain – just as I remembered that I was to be spending another unbelievable night in a tent.
It is that sort of overwhelming that I have found to be so beneficial in life. When the future is uncertain, and the past seems to haunt, what better thing is there to do than be overwhelmed in Creation? It is a practice so rooted in history, and an avenue the greatest men pursued: Moses, John the Baptist, and none more often than Jesus.
The issues and qualms so often faced are insignificant in comparison to the height of the Alps. They are a speck of sand when visualized against the dunes of Death Valley. And watching a glacial river flow through the most intricate braided pattern imaginable inspires me to think that the Creator of that can certainly create something out of my highly tangled life, even if I can not see how.
Which is so often the case.
Eventually though, I did return home. But my eyes wandered. I would lay on the beach in South Carolina and imagine myself hitchhiking, having not showered in two weeks. I would go to the best cafes in Charleston and hold my breath as I sipped a flat white, which never tasted as magnificent as it did over there. Then, in September that year, Jared told me he was going back for another trip, and I had an invite.
I debated taking him up on it – I couldn't really afford another trip. But I did have a credit card, and I knew at the very least I could always find another job as a carpenter and continue to live with my parents.
It didn't take long (only a few weeks, really) for me to agree. Before I knew it, a mission about getting people into the wilderness around Wyoming or New Mexico or Maine on some great roadtrip was quickly becoming about the very same thing, albeit with more hiking, on the other side of the globe.
The second trip was quite pivotal: the first time I went to New Zealand, I didn't know anybody besides Jared and his brother, Jason, who was studying there. But the second time I went, I had relationships standing with others on the burner. Social media had finally done for me what the inventors of that devilish medium first promised: I made connections with people online.
One of them was with Luke Paton.
How Luke and I started talking was a miracle in and of itself: his friend, Steve, had a few Instagram posts that went viral and they occasionally mentioned Jesus. I like that, so I followed and left a few comments. Maybe I replied to one of Luke's comments, maybe he replied to one of mine. History can argue amongst itself: the result was that we soon followed each other and exchanged a few messages.
In one of those messages, Luke said if I was ever back in New Zealand I should give him a shout: his family loves hosting people; strangers; hitchhikers; foreigners; friends; everybody.
So that's exactly what I did: I organized Jared dropping me off on the south side of the main highway outside of the city of Christchurch, and I stood on the shoulder. I tossed my thumb up and stood for awhile – far longer than usual – until a truck driver at a nearby gas station nodded and waved me over.
I have his name saved deep in a journal somewhere, and when it comes time to write a book I will force it to surface. But for us now: he was a large man, a Fijian, who worked nights as a bouncer in Christchurch and days driving a truck for a furniture company between their warehouses. I told him where I was headed: hours south, to one of New Zealand's southernmost 'cities' (all smaller than any town by American standards), Dunedin.
He wasn't going there, but he was going about half way. And there is only so much degradation a young man failing to hitchhike can take as people drive past and mouth 'Sorry'.
So I took him up on the offer, and we set off.
He offered me some of his energy drinks and candy, but I declined. We spoke a lot about his job: the people he worked for required a lot, but he loved them dearly. I even joined him on a delivery in the town of Timaru, where he was known for playing rugby.
Soon, he dropped me off on the side of the road. Getting from that halfway point to Luke's home was an absolute mission.
I had to organize a bus via an app in a town with a single bus, I had to stitch together a few hitchhikes, I had to sit quietly with a Colombian milk truck driver, all at the same time giving estimated arrivals to Luke – who lived miles into farm country from the main highway.
Eventually though, we did meet and he drove me back to his house.
In the following week, Luke and I became good friends. His parents became wise counsel as well. And I suppose to some degree, I must've proven myself as a reasonably trustworthy person. Because (hang with me) Luke's mothers, sisters, friend was headed to a horse show on the North Island - 15 hours away... and she needed someone to take her personal car there as well.
So the Paton's asked me if I wanted to do it.
I began to stutter. They said it was an open offer and I could think about it if I wanted to, but ... decide? What was there to decide? I was in New Zealand, I was being offered a 4x4 Ford Ranger, free gas and a ferry ticket, and I was told I could go anywhere I wanted as long as I delivered it on time.
I spent a few moments trying to figure out how to say yes, and then I uttered the words. Immediately, I called Jared: 'Dude, I just got offered a truck and it needs to go to the North Island, a place called Masterton. Wanna come on a roadtrip?' There was an underlying disbelief between us both: I was only in New Zealand because he offered me a trip and a free ride. Today though, the tides had turned and I was returning the favor. He took day to decide on an answer, which was: yes.
Yes was, evidently, the correct choice. We made the 15 hour trip into a (small) loop around Highway 35, one of the most notoriously anti-foreigner and gang heavy areas in New Zealand. We didn't know that at the time: as with the Outer Hebrides, I had literally just looked at a map and thought to myself, 'There's a road out there...?' and then decided to go see if that was true.
The gangs wouldn't cause us any trouble, though we did receive plenty of stink eye. The route on the other hand... After we dropped the truck in Masterton, what was next? We were to be stranded in, truly, the middle of nowhere.
Thankfully, Jared had a solution for that: he had grown up on New Zealand's North Island. And he hadn't seen any of the family friends he grew up with in nearly a decade. Quickly shooting off Facebook messages and hunting down phone numbers, he was organizing us both a place to stay on our way back to the South Island.
Soon, I dropped Jared off at a bus stop, where he caught a bus to Wellington, and then I drove to Masterton to deliver the Ranger. I wasn't really sure what the plan was then, to be honest with you. I had booked a bus ticket of my own to get to Wellington, but it was the following day. And now I was at a horse show in New Zealand with Amanda.
Amanda owned the truck I had been driving. She was very thankful and got me entry into the horse show. But I was only to watch for a short time: Amanda's friend Sam – who is now a member of the Out There Club – needed help of his own: his daughter was about to do her showing, and they had nobody to watch their other horse.
So he asked me if I had ever handled a horse before; I said no. He said 'That's no worries, it's easy' and then led me over to a beautiful white horse, with beautiful spots all over, and quite massive teeth. He put the lead in my hand and said,
'You can watch the show from here, just make sure you walk her every so often so her legs don't get sore. Oh, and don't let her step on your feet: she has spikes in her hooves.'
The absurdity of that moment can only truly be understood when we take a step back:
I was twenty three. I was 9,000 something miles from home, not having showered in a week, having effectively just joy-rode a truck across New Zealand, and was now at an equestrian show tap-dancing around a horse.
That truly is the power in just saying yes.
Successfully having managed my new role, it was soon time to go to bed. Some people at the show had been tent camping, so I figured I would do the same. But before I could set up my tent, the weather slowly became miserable: rain and wind was overcoming. Some packed up their tents and slept in their rigs, others in their cars. I had neither.
But Amanda had a horse trailer, and it was empty.
So I brushed a spot clear, blew up my sleeping pad, used a dash of hand sanitizer, pulled out my contacts, and fell asleep that night to the sound of hefty drops against the metal roof of ... the horse trailer I was sleeping in.
I actually slept just fine that night – against all odds. And when I woke the next day, it was time for me to depart. My new friend, Sam, offered to give me a ride to the bus stop in town, and I obliged. We had a pleasant conversation in the car, primarily consisting of me asking him who the hell he was, and he asking me who the hell I was, and how I got here.
We've kept in touch over the years. I'm not even certain if he knows the role he plays in this story. So Sam, thank you.
Soon he dropped me at the bus stop. I gave him a few Bryce C Travels stickers, and he gave me a wave. One of the most humbling parts about an adventure is just that: how quickly people enter your life, and how solemn it is when it's time to leave.
That very feeling is partially responsible for why I write: why forget when you can write?
The bus I was to catch would very soon leave me standing underneath the New Zealand Parliament in central Wellington. I was wondering the grounds when my ride arrived: coming to pick me up was, per usual, Jared. But now he was in a black Volvo. And driving him was Leigh.
I loaded my backpack into the back. I said hello. I sat in the back row and stared out of the window into a city, and a place, I had never seen.
25 minutes later, we pulled into the driveway of a home.
I stepped out, walked around to the trunk, grabbed my bag, and followed Jared and Leigh. They stepped around a corner, unlocked the deadbolt, and walked through the wooden trim.
I didn't know it, but there I stood: underweight, under-showered, and under-shaved, At Grace's Door.