The day was still dim through the Landcruiser windows when we pulled into Wakefield. A quick breakfast stop at the “Wakey Bakey” (Wakefield Bakery, famous across Nelson, New Zealand for its pies) gave us warmth and fuel for the day ahead. Rosie usually joins me on these wilderness trips, but this time I was heading out with a new friend—someone who, like me, needed a few days of reset in the quiet company of the mountains.

Why We Go

Some folks will say Scottish Express has always been about mountain biking. That’s true in part—wheels and trails have been a big part of the journey. But really, what drives us is something simpler: being out in the wild, whichever way you get there. Hiking (or “tramping,” as we call it in New Zealand), hunting, or even just sitting beside a fire—these are the moments that balance out modern life. Sleeping under the stars with good company, far from the push and pull of everyday business, gives us back a sense of equilibrium.

The Norwegians have a word for this: friluftsliv( pronounced:FREE-loofts-liv)—living life in the open air. And that’s what this trip was about.

Into the Foothills- Nelson , New Zealand

Our plan was modest but meaningful: four days wandering the foothills by the Howard Valley, slowly climbing toward Speargrass Track and the Robert Ridge. We deliberately carried more than just tents and stoves—the rifle came along too, because we had this half-joking, half-serious fantasy of roasting venison over an open fire. Reality turned out simpler, but no less rewarding.

Winter packs are always heavier, weighed down with what you need to survive icy nights. But the pace of stalking (that slow, hyper-aware way of moving through the forest when hunting) meant that even with the weight, we never felt rushed. When you stalk, you notice everything—the crunch of frost underfoot, the sudden dart of a bird’s wing. You’re tuned in.

Finding Camp

Now, I’ll be honest: Nelson, New Zealand forests can be either a delight or a form of green torture. On the map they all look the same, but your boots tell you the truth. Luckily, day one turned out to be kind—manageable undergrowth, soft moss, and a ridge climb that led us to a small boggy lake straight out of Star Wars. Think Yoda’s swamp on Dagobah from Return of the Jedi. It wasn’t exactly a welcome mat for camping, but it reminded us that in off-track travel, every side path is a gamble.

That first night we found ourselves at a place called Snows Stream. Up high in the headwaters, I couldn’t figure out why anyone had named such a small run of water—until later when old maps showed us there was once a historic track through the area. That’s the magic of these valleys: little hints of stories left behind, now hidden by forest and stone.

Campfire Rhythms

Because it was midwinter, fire became a ritual. Morning and evening revolved around its warmth—hands stretched close to glowing coals, smoke twisting up into the crisp air. As the wind cut through the forest, bringing a sharp southerly bite, the flames reminded us both why humans have always gathered around them.

By day, we climbed ridges and pushed through shifting layers of forest—thick alpine shrubs, gnarled subalpine plants, and then, finally, open shelves of land where streams carved down into the valley. It took patience, contorting through the vegetation, but when we discovered a wide flat spot beside a murmuring fork of alpine streams, bathed in golden afternoon light, we knew we’d found “campsite heaven.”

That night we cooked strips of marinated beef over sticks in the flames—a poor substitute for venison haunch, perhaps, but no less satisfying.

The Coldest Night

Our journey wove on, camp to camp, slowing to absorb every ridge and every stream. At one site, I left my sleeping bag too exposed and woke to find it frosted stiff, boots frozen solid. That morning fire took longer to coax back to life, and we huddled close until the sun finally rose above the ridgeline. It was a reminder of how winter tests you—quietly, constantly, and without drama.

The last day was a weary descent along Hodgson Stream, trading the moss-carpeted tracks for harder walking across river stones. By the time we reached the car, packs heavy on tired shoulders, we were ready for home—but also reluctant to leave behind the stillness we’d found.

What the Trip Taught Us

Looking back, I think trips like this offer something more than just “where we went” or “what we hunted.” They’re about redefining adventure. You don’t always have to bag a summit or tick off another trail. Sometimes the real journey is simply four days of being still with the forest, of playing with the idea of friluftsliv—that wise philosophy of outdoor living. Some times its the smaller things that count.

In a fast-paced world, we often carry the same hurried mindset even into the forest I’m learning, slowly, to let that go.

Your Turn

So here’s my question to you: what does friluftsliv look like in your life? Maybe it’s a mountain lake. Maybe it’s just a walk in the local park. Maybe, like us, you’ll find yourself walking through a wilderness that could easily double for a film set.

If you want some inspiration, we’ve got an interactive map of local adventure spots in the Nelson New Zealand region. Or just drop me a line—I’d be glad to share ideas for your own version of friluftsliv.

Because sometimes, the best journeys don’t take you “out there”—they bring you back to yourself.