According to Sam de Reeper, there's "a whole lotta rubies" in the hills above Lake Wakatipu. Sam, our suntanned, dreadlocked kayaking guide, points across sparkling water to the head of the lake, where snowy peaks and velvety brown hills crowd together, thick as thieves. The rubies were discovered there centuries ago, he says, embedded somewhere in the inhospitable rock faces of the Rees Valley. Sam's long-told legend of lost fortunes and dreams hints that the rubies are still there - you just need to know where to look.

The glint in his eye as he speaks suggests Sam knows much more about these rubies than he's letting on. But that's probably a good thing: we don't have all day, and Sam's grasp of local facts (and fictions) is enthrallingly endless. As much as I'd like to sit here, scanning the snaking Wakatipu and hearing tales of olde, our cluster of brightly coloured kayaks awaits.

In 2007, fresh out of university with a Bachelor of Applied Science in ecology, Sam returned to his hometown of Queenstown and set up his own kayaking company, Rippled Earth. With experience in kayak guiding in Milford Sound and the Abel Tasman area, Sam chose to base his operation out of Glenorchy, 45kms from Queenstown. It's an idyllic part of the world, and one to which Sam is intrinsically connected. Paddling gently across the clear, sapphire water, we see snow glistening atop nearby mountains and a waterfall tumbling into a snaking valley. Sam's voice joins the rhythmic swishing of our paddles. He regales us with the history of the island to which we're headed, and of the surrounding hills; the umber-hued furrows of which inspired his company name.

Hidden far from the parasails and jet boats of the Lake Wakatipu known to most, we land at Pigeon Island - home to no one but an increasing number of native birds. Since predators have been eradicated here by the Department of Conservation, a number of native birds have returned to, or been reintroduced to the island. Native tree plantings have added to the island's well-being, joining the mature stands of kahikatea, miro, southern rata and kowhai already thriving in the mild lake climate.

Upon the pebbly beach we perch on driftwood logs and devour fruitcake that Sam has brought as sustenance. Whilst the birds twitter and the lake water laps against our beached kayaks, Sam reads from the local history book that is his mind, producing tales of love and double-crossing; fortunes found and lives lost in days of yore.

"That's Mt Earnslaw over there," he proclaims at one point, indicating a commanding frosted peak towering above the ruffled lake. He tells us about the first man to successfully climb it - a feat doubted and unproven until after his death many years later.

"I climbed it once, with a mate," Sam throws in, casually.

"Had three days off work for my sister's wedding. So, the day before the wedding, decided we should get out there and give it a crack.

"Never again!" says Sam as he laughingly relays the epic, unplanned journey that ensued.

In his woollen hat, thermal top, shorts and mismatched jandals, Sam guides us on a stroll of Pigeon Island. He wanders slowly, discussing the medicinal benefits of the horopito plant and the antics of the ancient moa. He recounts days of his youth spent at family BBQs on the island, and more recently, weeks on study leave when he'd come here to cram in peace.

"But, time runs like a scared rabbit when you're on the island," says Sam, regretfully.

And we soon discover what he means. Checking our watches we scamper back to our boats. A buffeting wind has turned the sparkling, still lake into a choppy mass of white tips. With the wind to our backs we let the waves pick our kayaks up and propel us forward in great, surf-like surges.

Surging water isn't unheard of here on Wakatipu, Sam tells us. New Zealand's third largest lake has a mysterious habit of rising and falling at a rate of around 12cm every five minutes. There are various explanations for this unusual phenomenon: the fluctuating atmospheric pressure causing a lake seiche; or even the rhythmic, still-beating heart of the giant whose sleeping body is said to have formed the lakebed aeons ago.

Of course, science tells us the lake was, in fact, formed by a glacier that carved out the zigzagged bed during the last ice age.

But you can't trust everything you hear. After all, science also tells us we won't find rubies in these sun-scorched, rippled valleys...

Amelia visited Pigeon Island courtesy of Rippled Earth Kayaking, Destination Queenstown and www.fourcorners.co.nz