David Hall is good with details and a plan.

David runs a bed and breakfast in Whitianga as well as New Zealand Encounters, the agency my son, Jack, called when he found he could fit in a vacation between a change of jobs in Asia. David put the trip together quickly and then fit me in for the final 10 days of their New Zealand excursion.

David lined up a combination of B&Bs, a hotel and activities to provide a multi-faceted perspective of the country. He prepared a loose-leaf binder that took us from point to point, down to exact distances between locations, photos of intersections to make turns and other points of interest along the way.

Few evoked as much discussion as a warning about an ice cream stand in the village of Kuaotunu, on the road to Whitianga, on the North Island. He thought we’d want to stop but cautioned about the size of the portions; they might be bigger than our stomachs. That seemed outlandish. How could anyone have too much ice cream?

We found the shop, with picnic tables and a small park, across from a stream that fed into the ocean. A path meandered down to the beach. It was mid-afternoon and a couple of cars were out front. Families were gathered at picnic tables. A couple waited at the takeout window, with its list of flavors and prices for one, two or three scoops. The single scoop was $2.50 in New Zealand dollars, about $2 American.

Lucy and Eddie were ready for two scoops and debating what flavors they should get when the customer in front of us went to a side window to get her cone. The ice cream dwarfed the sugar cone. It was an orange Eiffel Tower, with big chunks of caramel ready to slide down the sides.

Instantly, Lucy decided what she was going to have. Then came the question, was this a two- or three-scoop masterpiece?

The answer settled the scoop debate. This was a single scoop.

“Wow” was all Eddie could say. We all went for single scoops, ordering a variety of flavors so we could experience more of New Zealand’s ice cream. It’s worth the trip.

New Zealand is a large country with a landmass equivalent to Great Britain, but it is also remarkably small. The country has a population of four million. We were told that, if the population equally divided all the land, their houses would be so far apart they couldn’t see their neighbors. So, it was not surprising to drive for miles – all on the left side of the road – without meeting traffic or coming to a village. The major exception is Auckland, the country’s largest city, with more than one million people.

Even in Auckland we found a quaintness, which I attribute to David’s arrangements. He arranged for us to stay at Eden Villa Bed and Breakfast. Run by Christine and Anthony Morgan-Furlong, this neat house and rose garden sits off the beaten path at the base of Mount Eden, an extinct volcano that offers an easy walk and a good view of the city.

We were instantly made to feel at home as we talked about family and our experiences. A couple from Holland was also staying at the house, so discussion over breakfast ranged from world affairs to the Patriots-Colts game that was being played that day. Our hosts knew the winner would move up to play in the Super Bowl and offered their living room TV to watch the game.

I could tell Jack, Jen and the kids were interested, but the game would be played midday New Zealand time and there were things to do and places to see. Jack had a plan anyhow. He had his mini iPad, and as long as we could find wi-fi he knew we could tune in. David had nothing planned, so we followed Christine and Anthony’s advice and took a high-speed ferry to Waiheke Island. It turned into a relaxed day of strolling the island village, swimming at one of the many beaches and catching snippets of the game over lunch. On our return to Auckland, we drove along the coast, discovering a playground with zip line, swings and a variety of rides you never find in this country for fear of liability. Lucy and Eddie were delighted. We ended the day with pizza – Jen knew where to go from her cell phone – to celebrate the Patriots’ victory. The pizza was an expensive experience, but then, we’ve been spoiled in Rhode Island.

Native show

The following day we set off for a three-hour drive to Rotorua, where David had arranged for us to stay at Doonan’s Country Retreat. This bed and breakfast was up in the hills, offering views of fields with cows and horses. David lined up a visit to the Mitai Maori (the Mitai family are descendant to the local Te Arawa tribe) with a walk through the forest, a pit-cooked feast, or “hangi,” featuring chicken and lamb using heated rocks, like a clambake. The cultural show involved a generous amount of chanting, clashing sticks and people covered from head to toe in tattoos. They spent a lot of time striking intimidating poses and sticking out their tongues. The Maori, who came to New Zealand from the Polynesian Islands, were a hostile group with tribes attacking one another, because they took offense to sticking out tongues. And while the message was that this was a tough group, there was no pretense that this is a different time. The show was sprinkled with humor and engaged members of the audience – about 200 of us – in singing and making speeches on stage. It’s an enterprising undertaking, with shows being performed virtually every day of the year. We got an insight to the operation when one of the chiefs, who had been featured in the show, drove us back to the B&B in his van. The impression is that this is a tight-knit community that appreciates and values tourists while preserving the country’s history and natural assets.

That cause was reinforced the next afternoon, when we took a zip line operated by Rotorua Canopy Tours. Rope bridges 60 feet above the forest floor and riding cables – of course you have a harness, a hard hat and multiple fail-safe systems – was just the kind of adventure that appealed to the kids. It was a well-sized excursion with an Australian family of four joining our group. Our two guides followed safety protocols. At all times we were clipped to something, and one of the guides was always there to stop us from slamming into a platform or to retrieve one of the kids; because of their weight, smaller kids might not make it all the way. The heavier you are the faster you go.

At each platform they focused on efforts to restore the native forest, making it free of opossums, rats and stoats that have been introduced to the country and are decimating native plants and animals. The zip line fees have become a means of funding that effort.

If there was any doubt that New Zealand forests are full of nasty uninvited critters, our guides showed a picture of the opossums, rats and stoats killed in the first week by traps in an area of about 100 acres. The victims were neatly lined up in rows, with more rats than anything else. There were more than 700 carcasses.

We looked around nervously. Might there be some left? The guides said the reserve is still being cleaned out. Without natural predators, the opossums, rats and stoats have multiplied exponentially and, in the process, are killing native birds and fauna.

Super trout

Another New Zealand transplant, the trout, has fared well and is welcome in its new home. Being a fly fisherman, photos of giant trout always catch my attention and raise an element of skepticism. The fish look to be shoved nose-first into the camera lens or held way in front of the fisherman. They look big, but are they really that big? My conclusion was that New Zealand had some big trout, but nothing as huge as they looked to be.

David Hall had thought of that, too. A week before my departure, he emailed a simple question: Did I want to spend an additional $25 for a license for the half-day we would be on Lake Tarawera. He might as well have asked a devote Catholic if they wanted a pass for St. Peter’s Basilica while visiting Rome.

If I had traveled halfway around the world, I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to cast for such leviathans. But what happened the morning we spent on Lake Tarawera exceeded expectations.

I wasn’t prepared for a glass-smooth lake reflecting extinct volcanoes, and our guide, who arrived at an empty dock right on time in a 30-foot catamaran powered by twin outboards. John Hamill had everything under control. He quickly showed us around the boat and asked if we cared for coffee or tea.

Fishermen aren’t accustomed to such niceties. On the few times I’ve fished with guides the discussion opens with a disclaimer followed by an injection of the unknown such as, “There’s no saying what they’ll do today, but yesterday they were really whacking a number 14 wooly bugger.” That’s fish talk, not, “Do you take sugar in your coffee?”

John finally got around to the fishing. He dispelled any hope of casting. It was summer in New Zealand, the lake was warm and the fish were down deep, where it’s cool. We motored a couple of miles, the craft sending widening ripples on an otherwise empty lake.

I imagined world-class fishermen would be lined up in pursuit of the largest rainbow trout, but all we saw was one other boat, and they didn’t look to be fishing. His eye on the fish scanner, John stopped the engines as we drifted into a cove. He handed Jack and me fly rods rigged with thin bait-casting line and a one-ounce weight. About six inches up from the weight was the first of three white streamers. John released the line until the weight hit the bottom, handed me the rod and told me to slowly jig the line up and down.

Jen and the kids went to sit in the bow of the boat. After a half hour, John rigged up two more rods for Eddie and Lucy. Lines crossed. John got us untangled.

“If somebody gets a fish on, everyone reels in,” he advised.

A black swan swam over and checked us out. All was still. John poured us more coffee and we talked about fishing.

Nothing was happening. John had us reel in and we checked our rigs. We went back to jigging, except for Eddie. He’s pretty much tired of fishing and was questioning when we would be going to another part of the lake where there was a natural hot spring and we planned to swim.

It was at that point that the rod just about jumped out of Eddie’s hands. Jack and I were yelling at him not to let go. The reel was spinning. He was trying to gain control. John had the net ready. Eddie held on. The fish came to the surface and splashed. Eddie gasped. This was a big rainbow.

“A good fish, maybe four pounds,” said John. That was a giant in my book.

There was a lot more splashing before the fish was in the net and then the boat. We all wanted a shot with Eddie and his fish. He couldn’t hold on. It flopped out of his hands. Now it was flopping all over the place. John was trying to grab it by the tail. Eddie was jumping out of the way. Lucy sought cover. The giant rainbow was fighting back. One coffee was knocked over, washing the teak deck in brown.

John had a club to subdue the fish, but he couldn’t get a good hit. Lucy and Eddie looked horrified.

“What’s he trying to do?” questioned Eddie.

Finally, John grabbed the fish and shoved it into an ice chest. It thrashed about some more.

Five minutes later Jen caught one…maybe a little bigger. She was thrilled.

But it was Eddie’s fish that was the highlight.