A packraft sits on a shoreline in Mahau Sound, New Zealand.

I would never recommend trying to use a packraft to paddle New Zealand's Marlborough Sounds to anyone, I'm thinking, as I paddle furiously but futilely across Blackwood Bay, facing a brutal 20-knot (37-kilometers per hour) headwind. This may be the worst adventure idea I've ever had.

For the past six months, I had been dreaming of tackling an authentic adventure by myself -- one that would test me both physically and mentally and allow me to make use of my backpacking and paddling experience. After some brainstorming and extensive research, I decided that a two-month, self-powered trip across New Zealand's South Island would be an excellent choice for my walkabout, due to the island's natural beauty, difficult terrain, and extensive network of lakes and rivers.

A paddler admires Queen Charlotte Sound, New Zealand from a packraft.

A newly-built, Appalachian Trail-like, 3,000-kilometer backpacking trail called the Te Araroa spans the length of New Zealand, and I started planning my trip using the trail as the backbone of my route, then modifying the path as necessary to allow me to explore more remote areas and follow natural waterways with my packraft, a small inflatable boat designed to fit into a backpack. Southbound Te Araroa hikers on the South Island begin at a small harbor in the far northeast called Ship Cove, which seemed like an obvious place for me to begin my cross-island traverse. But, when I looked at the intricate map of the Marlborough Sounds, I realized that I'd much rather paddle the Sounds than hike them, giving myself the freedom to explore the bays.

So, after flying for 21 hours from Los Angeles to Christchurch (the South Island's largest city), driving four hours to Picton (the Marlborough Sounds' primary port), and taking a 90-minute water taxi to Ship Cove, I pulled a packraft out of my backpack, inflated it, and jumped into the water.

My first day on the Queen Charlotte Sound unfolded just as I imagined it might when I was poring over New Zealand topo maps in my Los Angeles apartment. The sea was calm, and though my arms quickly barbecued and my almond-white-chocolate snack mix melted into a messy goo under New Zealand's relentless sun -- the ozone layer over the country is particularly thin -- I had little problem paddling close to six kilometers per hour through Endeavour Inlet. Occasionally, I stopped paddling completely to relax, gazing out over the unfathomably aqua water, watching grey-blue spotted shags (birds) walk along rocks with their funny orange feet, and taking covert photographs of lazy, brown seals napping on rocky, rugged shorelines. In the early evening, I paddled into a primitive campsite in Ratimera Bay, where a middle-aged New Zealander and his wife appeared immediately from their tent to look at my raft.

A packraft sits on a shoreline in Mahau Sound, New Zealand.

"Are you sure that thing is seaworthy?" the man asked. And, then, without waiting for an answer, he offered, "Have you seen those big brown birds? The weka? Watch out for them -- they'll steal anything."

He was right. After falling asleep in my tent, I awoke at 3 AM to the sound of someone rummaging through my gear, only to catch a glimpse of a weka bird running off with a plastic bag. In the dark, I tried to chase the bird, but it ran into the dense forest, where I quickly tripped on a fallen log, allowing the bird to escape. Upon returning to my tent, I discovered that my half-eaten bag of precious white chocolate goo had been stolen.

Now, only five hours later, as I paddle frantically against a 20-knot headwind with a GoPro camera strapped to my head, I'm learning why a packraft is not always a great substitute for long, streamlined sea kayaks. On top of the front of my raft, I've tied my large backpack, which, on the ocean, acts like a bulky, immobile sail. While having a "sail" on the raft can sometimes prove useful in tailwinds, paddling forward with a strong headwind is nearly impossible. Even though I'm paddling hard, I'm being pushed backward by the strong wind. When I lean back to recover for a few minutes, the GoPro falls off my head, and, before I have time to react, it immediately sinks to the bottom of the deep ocean. My frustration turns into fear when I start wondering if the wind is going to push me out to sea, making any place that I could camp for the night inaccessible.

A spotted shag (bird) sits on a rock in Queen Charlotte Sound, New Zealand.

Stay calm, I think. There's no way I'm going to make it to Mistletoe Bay tonight, but maybe I can camp on a nearby beach until the wind dies down. I look at the maps on my GPS device and notice a possible campsite that's not too far away. There, I realize, I could wait out the windy conditions until the next day. Then, while my spray skirt is detached, without warning, a large wave tumbles over my boat and partially fills it with water. I notice that my "dry bag," which contains warm clothes and my headlamp, hasn't lived up to its name and is also now filled with water.

A seal sleeps on the shore in Queen Charlotte Sound, New Zealand.

Despite the strong wind, I manage eventually to get to the bay with my new campsite choice in the early evening, having completed only half of my planned distance for the day. As I slowly muscle my way into the bay, I pass an anchored sailboat with a man standing on the bow.

"How you goin', mate?! That's quite a craft you have," he yells. "Once you're all set up, why don't ya come aboard for a drink?"

So, after doing my best to secure my belongings tightly in my pack to foil the weka birds, I paddle out to the sailboat where I meet Steve, a fireman, and his wife Kim, a special education teacher, both of whom live in Wellington on New Zealand's North Island. Steve gives me a beer and a big bowl of chili, and Kim asks me why I'm out paddling the Marlborough Sounds by myself.

"My brother doesn't have enough vacation time to do a trip this big, and my girlfriend and I broke up last year," I say. "She wouldn't have been into this anyway."

"Well, look for someone with a good heart," Kim suggests, glancing at her husband. "That's what you need."

As I get ready to go to sleep later, I'm disappointed to discover that my headlamp no longer works, having been destroyed by ocean water. Thankfully, the sea is much calmer when I wake early the next morning, and my paddle to Mistletoe Bay is straightforward. When I arrive and set up camp, I chase off a couple weka birds, vigilantly protecting my gear and supplies, though I manage to pour boiling water all over my knee while making dinner. It's hard to stay disciplined and do everything right when you're constantly exhausted and living out of a bag.

The sun sets over Kumutoto Bay in Queen Charlotte Sound, New Zealand.

Yet, in the morning, despite the planning and execution mistakes of the trip so far, I remember why I've chosen to carry a packraft during this adventure. Because the Queen Charlotte Sound doesn't reach Havelock, my target town for the end of this stage of my trip, I deflate my raft, attach it my backpack, and hike over the hills separating Queen Charlotte from Mahau Sound. When I reach the sea again on the north side, I pull my packraft back out of my pack, inflate it, and get ready to start paddling again. It's a simple trick, but a magical one nonetheless.

Mahau Sound is one of the most beautiful places I've paddled in my life: the water looks like oxidized copper, the lush hills look covered in emeralds, and the wind is nearly still. My paddle is mostly a serenity exercise until, about 5 kilometers away from Havelock, a strong wind begins again. This time, though, it's a tailwind. On the way into Havelock, I use my paddle only as a rudder while the wind pushes me toward the town. I'm only 500 meters from Havelock's shore, when I see that I must execute a 90-degree turn and then paddle perpendicular to the wind.

An unhelpful sign directs hikers in Mistletoe Bay, New Zealand.

The wind is so strong, though, that, as soon as I make the turn, the wind takes hold of my boat and pushes me sideways, marooning me on a long sand bar just 300 meters from the shore. I try to paddle off the sandbar, but the wind has pinned me on the beach.

Fine, I think, petulantly. I'll just sit here until the wind dies down. But, after sitting for 20 minutes, embarrassed about how I must look -- an incompetent idiot sitting on a raft marooned on a sandbar just minutes away from shore -- it becomes clear that the wind has no plans to stop any time soon. I decide to get out of the raft, put the backpack on my back, and carry the raft to the end of the sandbar near Havelock's shore. Then, I'll be able to finish paddling the tiny 100 meter gap between the sandbar and the beach.

So, I detach my backpack from the raft. The moment I do so, the wind immediately blows the packraft -- which weighs almost nothing without a heavy backpack attached -- across the sandbar and toward the ocean. For a second, I watch helplessly as my raft flies through the air toward the sea.

A hiker backpacks with a packraft from Queen Charlotte Sound to Mahau Sound.

This may very well be the most embarrassing moment of my life, I think. I'm never going to tell anyone about this, ever.

Once the packraft hits the ocean, there will be no chance of me being able to retrieve it, because the wind is blowing it away much faster than I can swim. I have one chance to avoid losing the raft. I drop my backpack on the sand and begin sprinting across the sandbar as fast as I can, yelling as I do. I feel like a one-man slapstick adventure comedy, but I manage to grab the raft just a split-second before it blows off the sandbar and into the ocean.

After catching my breath, I reattach my backpack to the boat to weigh it down, adrenaline rushing through my body. When I've calmed, I jump back into the boat and paddle the final distance to Havelock, relieved when I finally feel the sand under my feet.

I've lost a bag of snack mix to a bird thief, sunk a GoPro, drowned a headlamp, boiled my knee, and almost lost a packraft to the ocean. Nevertheless, I've finished the first stage of my New Zealand adventure in four days. It's true: I wouldn't recommend packrafting the Marlborough Sounds to just anyone (try renting a sea kayak) -- but I'd also recommend ignoring my advice to anyone searching for a fantastic adventure.

Next, I'm heading out to spend nine days hiking what many consider to be the single most difficult section of trail in all of New Zealand: the Richmond Alpine Track, through the imposing Richmond Range.

Hanging by a wire

My hiking and paddling trip across New Zealand's South Island takes a miserable turn.

When the French Trio — Raphaël, Charlotte, and Alain — and I arrive in Hokitika to take a rest day, the streets are filled with teenagers and twenty-somethings wearing banana, unicorn, and Bob Marley costumes, hula skirts and leis, and long fake beards. I’m confused. Have I been in the wilderness longer than I thought? Is this the future, a place where dressing like fruit is the fashion du jour? Quickly, I realize that we’ve walked into the Wildfoods Festival, Hokitika’s biggest weekend of the year, during which the town's 3,000-person population balloons to 10,000. Not psychologically prepared to deal with drunken partying after spending 10 quiet days in the wilderness, the French Trio and I decide to build a large bonfire on the beach by ourselves and spend the night relaxing under the stars, feeling the cool drizzling rain on our skin, munching on supermarket pizza, and recounting stories of our days hiking together.

A rescue helicopter hovers above a ravine on the Toaroha Track on New Zealand's South Island.

In the morning, Alain goes fishing at Sunset Point near the mouth of the Hokitika River and manages to catch a kahawai, an Australian salmon. I’ll be leaving the French Trio shortly to continue hiking across the island, so the three of us decide to have one last “hut night” together — in a Hokitika motel room I booked that we brand Hank Hut. In it, we drink wine, cook the fish, and bake a large, celebratory chocolate cake for our final hurrah.

The French Trio and I sit under a tree canopy on the trail to Grassy Flats Hut near Kokathai, New Zealand.

“Be careful on the Whitcombe,” Raphaël warns me, as we eat. “It’s a real adventure.” I’ve finished nearly half of my trip across New Zealand’s South Island, but I’m feeling nervous, because I’m about to tackle what may be the single most difficult section of my adventure: a hike over rugged Whitcombe Pass, a crossing of the notoriously swift and dangerous Rakaia River, a hike over Butler Saddle, and a packraft down the Lawrence River to Erewhon, where I’ll reconnect with the Te Araroa. (The Te Araroa’s trail notes urge hikers to hitchhike around the Rakaia due to a risk of drowning when fording the river, but I plan to mitigate this concern by using my packraft to cross.)

An iconic clocktower sits in the middle of Hokitika, New Zealand.

After saying goodbye to my friends, I hike up the Toaroha River toward Cedar Flat Hot Pools Hut. As usual, the trail isn’t always marked, and I spend a lot of the day bouncing in and out of the river, alternating between easy forest trail and difficult routes around boulders along the riverbed. Because I started the day late, the sun sets before I reach the hut, and it’s dark and raining heavily when it becomes clear that the only route forward requires me to walk directly into the deep, fast-moving river. This isn’t something I want to do in pitch black, and I assume that I must have missed a trail leading out of the river to the hut. Frustrated, I backtrack and carefully scan the bushline in the dark, searching for a trail marker. It takes me 30 minutes to discover a small opening in the tree line, which, thankfully, eventually leads me to a trail over a swing bridge that leads to the hut. There’s no one else inside, so I eat a quiet dinner while reading the hut’s guestbook, which shows that the hut’s last visitors left five days ago. Not many people use this trail.

Charlotte stands on the beach in Hokitika.

I’m frustrated when I wake in the morning and it’s still raining, because I don’t want to wait out yet another bad-weather day trapped in a hut. So, when the rain clears at around 11 AM, I decide to continue up the trail. Energized, as always, by the Dances with Wolves soundtrack, I follow the track up the river valley, moving up and down through steep ravines and creek beds intersecting with the Toaroha River. To my dismay, the rain begins again after a couple hours, and the steeply descending sections of the trail, covered in snow grass, become very slippery. Quickly, I’m soaking and exhausted, trying to navigate the wet trail while having to carry a heavy, nine-day supply worth of food. Not even Dances with Wolves manages to lift my mood.

Starting on the Toaroha Track requires walking down a dirt-road easement through Middlebranch Farm near Hokitika, New Zealand.

I’m about a two-hour walk from the next hut, Top Toaroha, when I find myself standing at the top of a particularly steep drop-off, descending down into a creek bed below. I don’t see an obvious trail leading down the cliff, but it’s not uncommon in New Zealand for landslides to have washed away sheer trail sections. I spot an orange trail marker on the ravine’s opposite side, so I know that the intended route is to climb down into the ravine and then back out.

But, when I take my first step down, the snow grass is more slippery than I expect. Suddenly, I’m sliding at a dangerous speed, totally out of control, down the embankment. When I reach the bottom, my left foot and leg smash into the ground. I hear an alien popping sound. Disoriented, it takes me some moments to realize that I’m lying on the ground, at the bottom of the cliff, in the rain.

My ankle hurts, though I suspect that it’s only a bad sprain. I decide to try to escape the freezing rain by walking on to the next hut, where I’ll be able to better evaluate the severity of my ankle injury. However, when I stand up and try to take a single step, I’m suddenly screaming. The pain is excruciating. I fall immediately back to the ground.

A sign providers hikers with time estimates for the Toaroha Track.

“Fuck!” I yell to no one. “I can’t walk! Oh, shit!"

For ten minutes, not knowing what to do, I sit in the rain, with my sopping clothes sticking to my skin. I’m getting very cold, very fast. I’m baffled that I’ve had an accident like this on a trail that’s not particularly hazardous; I’m still days away from reaching the more dangerous Whitcombe Pass. Nevertheless, this area doesn’t have mobile phone service, and I know from the previous hut’s guestbook that it will probably take at least five days for another hiker to wander by me on this rarely-used trail.

My SPOT Gen3 device sits in the rain while transmitting an SOS signal to the Globalstar satellite network.

Suddenly, I can see the next three miserable months of my life in my imagination: hospitals, doctors, surgeries, and eventually, being stuck, not able to hike, in my Los Angeles apartment. I’m angry and sad that I’m not going to be able to finish my hiking and paddling dream trip across New Zealand’s South Island — one of the greatest wilderness adventures of my life. And, one of the worst parts is that I know I’ll never be able to reunite with my favorite people still on the island: German Te Araroa hikers Jana, Carsten, Lena, and Neil; French lawyer, Sophia; 60-year-old, New Zealander Henk; my hilarious logistics team, Kiwis Brittany and Andy; the super-tough, Kiwi, father-daughter combo Stu and Julia; and, of course, the French Trio: Raphaël, Charlotte, and Alain.

Breaking your leg is the least fun way to get an aerial tour of New Zealand.

I don’t want to, but I know I don’t have much of a choice. I push the SOS button on my SPOT Gen3, a satellite-based emergency messenger, designed to send daily check-in messages and location updates — my mom’s favorite feature — and summon a search & rescue team in the case of an emergency.

I purchased the SPOT device because it’s one of the least expensive emergency messengers, but I have been aware from the start of my trip that it only works with a clear view of a Globalstar satellite in the sky. I also know that it’s a one-way-only communication device. Even though I have pressed the SOS button, I have no way of knowing whether my call for help has been successfully transmitted. At the bottom of this ravine, surrounded by high cliffs with substantial tree cover overhead, I don’t like my chances. Furthermore, if local rescuers receive my message, I have no idea how they will respond. Will they hike here from the nearest road? That could take two days. Will they send a helicopter? There’s nowhere nearby that I can see where a pilot could land a chopper; rescuers may need to land somewhere far away and hike for hours to reach me.

The view of New Zealand's Lewis Pass Road from the back of an ambulance is dazzling.

I decide to prepare myself psychologically for a three-to-five-day stay at the bottom of the ravine. I set up my tent — by hopping around on one leg — on top of some moss and fallen trees. The ground around me is not flat, and maneuvering with only one working leg is nearly impossible, but I manage to construct the tent well enough that I can get out of the rain, inflate my air mattress, pull out my sleeping bag, strip off my wet clothing, and get into my sleeping bag to dry and warm up.

Once inside, after devouring some chocolate peanut butter cups and trail mix, I make plans for the moment the rain stops. I need water, so I’ll crawl to the nearby creek, fill up my CamelBak, and drag it back to my tent. I suspect that my SPOT won’t be able to successfully transmit my SOS message, and I’m also afraid that passing hikers or rescuers won’t be able to see me in this creek bed. So, I’ll inflate my bright red packraft as a visible signal and crawl out of the ravine to higher ground, dragging the raft and messenger device with me. Finally, I’ll make a campfire.

An x-ray from the Greymouth Hospital in New Zealand shows my leg, with a fibia spiral fracture.

I’m just about to crawl to the creek for water, when I hear the sound of a helicopter rotor. That’s impossible, I think. It’s been just over an hour since I pushed the SOS button! I look outside the tent just in time to see a helicopter whiz by above the Toaroha River. Maybe it was just a sightseeing flight, I think. But, 20 minutes later, the helicopter returns, flies over “my" ravine, and slowly lowers, until it's hovering 15 meters above me. The rotor wash is like a tornado, and the only thing stopping my tent from being ripped away is the weight of me in it. Suddenly, a woman attached to a cable descends from the hovering helicopter and lands next to me.

My leg sits in a cast in the hospital in Greymouth, New Zealand.

“Hi, how you going?” she asks. Even in an emergency, the New Zealand accent is charming.

“I’m so embarrassed,” I say. “But, I think I’ve broken my leg."

As she looks at my leg, the woman tells me that her name is Sarah. She says that she’s a helicopter paramedic who descends from helicopters into the New Zealand wilderness on a daily basis.

“Well, it certainly looks like you smashed it pretty good.” She attaches a foam splint to my lower leg. “It looks deformed. Good on ya for pushing button. You did the right thing."

After we pack my tent and other gear back into my backpack, the helicopter returns, hovering above us again. Sarah attaches my backpack to a wire that pulls it into the helicopter. Then, she attaches a chest harness and the wire to me.

“When you’re in the air, lean back,” she warns. “If you start spinning, you can use your arms as rudders to control the spin."

Slowly, the hovering helicopter’s winch starts pulling me up.

I’m hanging on a cable, 15 meters in the air, from a helicopter above a river valley in the New Zealand wilderness. I feel myself spinning, so I lean back and stretch out my arms. I sigh. I can’t seem to control the spin.