Our trip to Milford Sound started out perfectly normal.

We had booked a small-group tour from Queenstown in a van that seated about twelve people. The seats were comfortable, everyone seemed nice, and I was feeling pretty good about the whole situation.

This was especially impressive because I am someone who gets carsick.

So when we started making our way toward Milford Sound and the roads became increasingly winding, I was prepared. I knew there was a very real possibility that I could spend part of the trip staring straight ahead, breathing carefully.

But somehow, I was fine.

No nausea. No dizziness. Nothing.

I was actually starting to feel a little proud of myself.

Unfortunately, the kid sitting directly in front of me was not having the same experience.

At some point along those winding roads, I realized something was happening in the seat ahead of us.

And then I heard it.

He was throwing up.

Directly. In. Front. Of. Me.

Now, I genuinely felt terrible for him because I know exactly what it feels like to get carsick. I have been that person. I understand the misery.

But I also know something else about myself:

If I smell vomit, it is going to become Barf-O-Rama very quickly.

There would be no sympathy strong enough to override my gag reflex.

Under normal circumstances, you might crack a window and get some fresh air.

Not in this van.

The windows did not open.

So there we were, twelve people sealed inside a moving van, winding through the mountains of New Zealand with one very sick child and absolutely nowhere for the smell to go.

I immediately pulled my sweatshirt up over my nose and mouth.

And that is basically how I spent a large portion of our scenic journey to one of the most beautiful places in New Zealand—sitting with my sweatshirt covering half my face, eyes closed, breathing through fabric and pretending none of it was happening.

I could not look forward because he was sitting directly in front of me.

I did not want to look around because acknowledging the situation somehow made it worse.

So I closed my eyes and mentally transported myself somewhere else.

Fresh mountain air.

Flowers.

Laundry detergent.

Anything except what was actually happening two feet in front of me.

Every once in a while, I would cautiously lower the sweatshirt.

Nope.

Back up it went.

Sarah, meanwhile, got to enjoy the scenery while I was sitting beside her looking like I was trying to survive some sort of airborne emergency.

The ridiculous part was that after all my concern about me getting carsick on the winding road to Milford Sound, my stomach was perfectly fine.

It was someone else’s carsickness that nearly took me out.

Eventually, we made it to Milford Sound, and I was finally able to escape the sealed van and breathe actual fresh air. Once we were surrounded by enormous mountains, waterfalls, and some of the most spectacular scenery we had ever seen, I could finally stop thinking about what had happened on the drive in.

Then we were given another option.

Instead of taking the van all the way back to Queenstown, we could take a helicopter.

Sarah and I looked at each other.

After everything that had happened on the ride there, this was not a difficult decision.

“Let’s do it.”

A helicopter flight over the mountains back to Queenstown sounded incredible.

But honestly, at that moment, they could have told me we were being airlifted out in a cargo net and I probably would have considered it.

The important part was that we would not be getting back into that van.

No winding roads. No sealed windows. No sweatshirt over my face.

And most importantly, no sitting directly behind the scene of the earlier incident.

We had found our escape.

Except, apparently, New Zealand had other plans.

The winds picked up, and the helicopter could not fly.

Of course it couldn’t.

Our beautiful scenic flight back to Queenstown—and, more importantly, our carefully planned escape from the van—was canceled.

Which meant there was only one way home.

Back into the van we went.

At that point, I was no longer concerned about whether I would get carsick.

I was simply hoping everyone else could keep their breakfast, lunch, and anything else they had eaten firmly inside their own bodies until we reached Queenstown.

So our Milford Sound adventure gave us breathtaking scenery, dramatic mountains, waterfalls, winding roads, a canceled helicopter flight, and several hours of me breathing through a sweatshirt.

Thankfully, we made it back without turning the return trip into Barf-O-Rama: Part Two.

And I still maintain that vans traveling winding mountain roads should come standard with windows that open.

For everyone’s sake.