It was Ami's idea to rent a car and drive to Harrison Hot Springs. I wanted to go camping. However, Ami patiently pointed out that we had neither a tent nor camping accessories. "Therefore," she concluded, "it makes more sense to rent a car, take a day trip, and be back home in the evening." I quickly rebutted that doing things that make sense does not come naturally to me. End the end, she got her way. We would day-trip to Harrison on Saturday, then drive to Mt. Seymour on Sunday.
In New Zealand, if you say "hot springs" it elicits images of bubbling hot pools of sulfur-scented water surrounded by forests of giant ferns. Well, either that or Rotorua. Either way, it's much more romantic than Harrison Hot Springs--or hot spring, since there was only one, and it was enclosed in concrete. The surrounding resorts pumped its water into their luxury baths, making the actual spring little more than a warm-ish pond.
Yet that tiny little body of water retained a quality I can only describe as dignity. One hundred meters away from the closest hotel, "the source" was pretty well ignored. Ami and I walked out to it on our way further into the bush. The rain was coming, so we didn't spend too long in one place. With the spring's calm water steaming on as it had (and will) for centuries, we disappeared into the old-growth forest and became, as far as we were concerned, the only people on earth.
View more photos of Harrison.
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