Day Twenty – Chasing the Dawn

Although we are not leaving until 7 PM, the day flies by quickly repacking, viewing the pictures of Rick and Judith’s 6 year Dreamweaver cruise and a then a final “bit of a wander” with Rick around the property that is now his “deck.” Kris and I express our deep gratitude to Ray and Ann for making our trip so complete and all encompassing. Kris reminds Ray of their exchange three weeks ago when he asked what she wanted to see in NZ and she told him “everything.” He tersely replied, “Lady, I’m over eighty years old and even I haven’t seen “everything.” But on the contrary, we feel as though we have missed nothing thanks to him and his exquisite route map. A tearful parting over a glass of wine at the airport with Rick and Judith and then off to the second deck of direct flight NZ 6, a Boeing 747. The last time I was on the second deck of a 747 it was on a TWA plane and the second deck was a piano bar. Times change and now I’m displaying my advancing years once again. This second deck is half beds and half quite comfortable seats. Service was excellent and that included the meals. US Customs agents in LA were actually friendly. And that is a FIRST for me.

Since this will be the last of these reports to my son and friend Peg, I thought I might briefly sum up a few salient points about this fascinating country. Fuel is far more expensive than I had expected whether it is for your car OR your tummy. Much more so than I budgeted but then who ever stays within a budget on vacation? The people were exceedingly friendly regardless of which Island, City or Café one might happen to wander through. However, do NOT mention that you have friends in Auckland. Regardless of their apologies about the quality of NZ seconds, I found everything to be first class. Every public bathroom was spotless, signs easy to read and easier to understand. If the sign suggests a speed on the curve of 15 km per hour, BELIEVE it. I also now know that when a NZ map shows a coast road, it will rarely be in sight of the actual coast. When the map shows a straight line it will be lying. Do not look at a topographic map unless your heart is in excellent condition. I have learned that a bike can go uphill as well as down, a fact I was never aware of in Santa Monica Bay. (I feel no urgent need to test out this particular new nugget of knowledge but I am happy to pass it along.) When the menu says lamb, it really IS. I have observed that every store on every street in every city on both Islands has an overhang that covers the sidewalk, and have further deduced that it is not there to protect you from the sun. There is a reason why this country is green. I have learned that NZ Possum fur is warm and easily combined with Merino wool to make exceedingly expensive scarves and sweaters. In three weeks of driving mountain roads I read many signs warning of rocks on the road but never saw a single one. The road crews are magnificent with rock fall but their job description does not include picking up dead Possum road kill of which I stopped counting when I reached a thousand. I know that the possum is a nocturnal animal but don’t rocks sometimes fall in the night as well?

I am convinced digital cameras are the downfall of quality photography. When bytes are free, one’s trigger finger grows a callus. 96.37% of digital vacation photos should be deleted not copied. I took 791 photos, Kris snapped 368 plus I took about two minutes of video of the baby seals. Our photos of course, do not fall within the purview of my previous statement. I will edit same and include some with an edited and corrected version of the transcript from these past days. Anyone masochistic enough to wish a copy, contact me and I will forward a PDF file. My publisher is hoping there will be three or four salvageable paragraphs but I have warned her not to hold her breath. Special thanks to all of you who have read these missives for letting me into your private time. The granting of one’s time is far and away the most valuable gift of all. May the wind always be at your back, may the sun warm your face all your days and may every one of your dawns be sunny. RK

Day Nineteen – Chasing a Full Circle

Today we have only 150 kilometers to travel to return to the Clarke Homestead, soon to be the Turrell Homestead. I fill up the gas tank in Thames and look for a coffee shop because I am not a pleasant person without a strong morning waker-upper. Kristine will gladly attest to this truth as well may several of you. We stop at what appears to be a busy bakery in a working section of the town and when I notice a young Asian man behind the counter filling display shelves with great looking pastries, I immediately recall Rick’s specific warning many days ago. “During your travels you will stop in many bakeries for coffee and pies. Beware bakeries run by Asians,” he said, “their sweets look great but are inedible. They can work wonders with pork and a deep fryer, but sugary bakery is not their forte.” I’m glad I recalled those words because the bakery DID look great and I WAS tempted. Kris and I settled for a good coffee, (EVERY place in NZ has wonderful coffee. You just have to pay for the second cup) but she needed to drag me by the sleeve to get me away from the deep fried goods counter. Before 8AM this counter was chock full of deep fried chicken parts, deep fried pork chunks, deep fried hot dogs, deep fried spring rolls, deep fried lamb kebobs and several other deep fried un-recognizables. I will ingest ANYTHING deep fried, and this place was nirvana. I could live inside that display counter for a week… well maybe at least a day or two before my arteries congealed.

After nearly three weeks of driving and finding our way effortlessly through this beautiful country with its concise and accurate signage, the last 100 kilometers are the most confusing. Three separate roads with the same designation forced us to guess at the direction we needed to travel. Karma once again guided us directly into the Clarke driveway and Ray came out to greet two tired wanderers. The new house under construction now had walls and a roof and a floor and siding and… oh well you get the idea. It was looking like a real house. It was so real in fact that Rick and Judith along with her folks Ray and Ann had brought a picnic lunch out to it two days prior to our return. Ann fell off one of the steps and broke her arm. I was happy to report to her that the incident was exceptionally good luck because now no accident will ever happen in the finished home. I think the pain killers may have had something to do with her wane smile at my revelation.

Rick, Kris and I returned the rental car to the airport and stopped at the local butchery on the way home and I bought a large leg of lamb for our parting dinner that night. I paid $28 NZ for a piece of meat that would have cost $40 at any major grocery in the States. I thought it a terrific looking piece of meat but also remembered having at least half a dozen conversations in the past three weeks where Kiwis complained bitterly about everything produced in NZ as being of second quality. First quality goods were all exported. After Judith prepared the leg of lamb, I found the Kiwi complaints to be unworthy. It was one of the tastiest and tenderest lamb meals I have ever experienced. That “second” was a serious “first” in my mind. We easily emptied the two special bottles of wine Kris and I had brought from the vineyards and a hard rain drummed us to sleep. Our last full day in New Zealand and the end of one more outstanding day in a continual string of outstanding days. The full circle of this life episode is now nearly closed.

Day Eighteen – Chasing a Hot Bath

Once more it is raining as we depart and I opt for a no-walk around the harbor area but I do drive through a small boat yard because I spotted a sailboat of about 30 feet in length at a weird angle of heel while at anchor in the shallow bay and was curious. It turned out to be a design I recognize as British based on it sporting two bilge keels one port and one starboard on the hull. The tide was on the ebb (going out) and one bilge keel was on the mud while the other side of the hull was still slightly afloat. This type of design is common in areas with extreme tides like the one we were viewing. When 15 feet (5 meters) of water rushes out of the harbor and boats are left to rest in the mud, the twin bilge keels keep the boat upright until the tide comes back in and lifts the boat off the mud. My first cruising sailboat as a teenager in Wisconsin was a 19 foot pocket cruiser of this same design. The tidal range in Lake Michigan may only be less than 3 inches but I was told the twin keels would allow me to sail into bays much shallower than any other keelboat could access. This process of visiting small shallow bays is referred to as “gunkhole-ing” and no, I do not know the etiology of that term but I did take that boat into much shallow water. Often TOO shallow and my bilge keels both showed scars attesting to my thin water exploits.

Once again aiming the Toyota Puke northward, I was looking forward to our first stop, a small bay on the map labeled only as Hot Sand Beach. Again local knowledge alerted us to the place, having been recommended by the nice lady who had reminded us to turn on the bed warmers before we went out for dinner the night before. The Coromandel Peninsula appears to have been completely forested at one time but now is intensively logged as evidenced by the constant stream of double bottom log carriers flying at me around every sharp corner and rising over the top of every hill. The lanes are 8 foot wide and the trucks average about 9 foot wide. There are few side-of-the-road shoulders and those are rarely more than 2 feet except at turn outs for trucks going uphill. Also one must carefully consider tonnage rights when demanding one’s share of the lane since the Toyota Puke probably weighs less than one log being transported on a 20 log truck. As has been the case for the past two and a half weeks, gasps are audible from the passenger seat and I see more chocolate from the replenished supply disappear, but the sun has come out and the blue sky is radiant. In spite of the intensive logging, the road winds its way north through dense forests of pine varying in height signifying their respective age but also indicating a clear choice to harvest in a sustainable manner. Every now and again, one can glimpse a logged-over section and it is easy to see it confirms my theory about harvesting trees in a sustainable process. Nowhere is there evidence of the massive clear-cut logging that I have seen in many places in the world including the US.

Hot Sands Beach must be a bit of a misnomer since after walking a quarter of a mile the sand seems normal temperature (cold because it is winter) until we reach a group of about 30 people dressed only in swimming suits sitting around in mud puddles. They have dug little pits in the beach sand with rented shovels and are wallowing in the holes they have dug. After nearly three weeks here, my bathing suit is at the bottom of my suitcase with no expectation of ever seeing daylight and the sight of these intrepid folks doing a “hog” imitation would be humorous if my teeth were not chattering. Standing on one of the few “sandy” beaches we have come across, I marvel at the bravery of these hardy souls. When Kris steps into an unoccupied mudhole, she yelps and jumps backwards. The water is near boiling. . . well maybe not NEAR boiling but much hotter than a 106 degree hot tub.

The woman in the adjacent mud hole warns her to be careful because some to the pools are quite hot. The woman has an American accent and she and Kris start a conversation. The woman is here with her husband who is a Kiwi but they live and work in Ohio. She asks Kris where she is from and when Kris tells her Milwaukee, the husband says he had just been there a week ago. He mentions he works for a company in the marine supply business called Forespar. I chime in that I know of the firm as they are major providers of racing sailboat equipment that I have installed on several of the sailboats I’ve owned over the years. He then mentions a name of the one person he does business with in Milwaukee and of course, it is a person with whom Kris not only knows but shares a Board position with at the Community Sailing Center on the Lake Michigan waterfront back home. So here we are half way around the world, 10,000 miles from home in a tiny village with a population of 300 and the six degrees of separation has been reduced to two degrees. We do live in a mobile, global society. Kris and I exchange a few more words with them and continue to stroll the beach attempting to locate the source of the hot water that bubbles up into any depression one makes in the sand. Strangely enough, the sand is not hot to the touch nor on one’s feet, but when you scoop a few handfuls out, hot water immediately begins to fill the depression. Apparently it is only in this one section of approximately a hundred yards on a beach well over half a mile long that the phenomenon occurs. Nevertheless, just as when we drove through the Rotorua volcanic area with its many steaming lakes and ponds, I would feel a bit nervous being a resident here and living atop what can only be described as the lid of a huge pressure cooker.

Our next stop is a small city just across a bay about 25 kilometers up the coast but our map shows a ferry crossing so one is not forced to drive a 70 kilometer circuitous route to reach Whitianga. We still have not adjusted to the WH letter combination pronunciations as “EFF” and are corrected by a local but the ride is pleasant in the rolling hills and sunshine. Unfortunately, upon arriving at the ferry landing carpark, it is full. Then it becomes apparent. . . it is a passenger only ferry. We laugh and I am happy to report that although gas is about $8.00 US a gallon I am grateful the reliable little Toyota Puke gets about 40 miles to the gallon. We drive back out the way we came and do the around-the-bay-the-long-way trip only to find the little harbor town of Whitianga is missing the charm described so eloquently in the brochure. We can only assume the author of the brochure was a moonlighting wine label writer. We cross more small mountains to the western side of the peninsula and find an absolutely charming restaurant in an old hotel in Coromandel City but arrive well after the lunch hour.

The Pepper Tree owner invites is in to have seat anyway and produces an interesting menu that includes their entry into a country-wide “wild dish” contest sponsored by the NZ brewing company, Montieth. If you try the dish you get a free pint of an appropriately matched beer and a chance to vote on the entry’s “wildness.” I personally am not anxious to sample any dish that combines pork belly, shrimp and a local fish. Any or all of these items separately can entice me at any time of day but combined in one tall stack supported by green stuff and held together with glue that is allegedly edible makes me a reluctant experimenter. Call me chicken. The free beer and the opportunity to voice her opinion however, is more than enough to convince Kris to order it. I wolf down my large order of the local version of Fish and Chips done in a Tempura batter. Delicious. Kris is too stubborn to admit an error in judgment and declares the “wild dish” fabulous. The fact that she abhors pork belly is not mentioned in her raves.

Tomorrow we must return to Rick and Judith’s farm before 11 AM and so Kris and I find a small cabin on the shore of the Firth of Thames just north of the city of the same name. Sunset is only semi dramatic and Kris once again is able to dip her toe in another named body of water. My collection of Kris-with-toe-in-water shots is only exceeded by my collection of Kris-with-butt-facing-me shots. Waves crashing on a rock beach lull me to sleep quickly and deeply without a hot bath.

Day Seventeen – Chasing Solitude

Up early, we gaze out the large window to properly appreciate our view of the Lake Taupo and the far horizon where we came from yesterday. This morning those mountain tops are obscured by white clouds and the TV news announces that the Desert Highway is closed due to an early winter storm that has dumped 15 inches of snow across it. When we drove it yesterday, the sun shone brightly on the many sheep dotting the sides of the road and despite the wind, it was downright balmy. We take the news with a grain of salt but the picture on the front page of the local newspaper is of a helicopter hovering with a cargo net holding five or six sheep being airlifted to lower ground. Beneath the net are dozens more semi-buried-in-snow sheep awaiting their taxi ride to warmer climes. Weather Karma once again is overly kind to this New Zealand exploration. We are now quite pleased we did not stay that extra day in Wellington. The TV announcer also mentions that yesterday on his day off, he visited a most incredible place. He describes the small waterfall with the seal pups. He had visited it only one day after us and experienced exactly the same sense of magic as did we. Now everyone in NZ will know about this place and it will be so crowded as to be impossible to enjoy. Or maybe the pups will just stop coming when so many people are about.

Kris goes shopping while I “take a bit of a wander” as Rick would put it, but pull up short beneath the protruding nose of a McDonnell DC-3 aircraft. Renowned as one of the most efficient, safe and forgiving airplanes ever built, this one is now the main dining room of the local McDonald’s Hamburger Emporium. I chuckle at the irony of a McDonnell’s doing duty at a McDonald’s but soon find an empty coffee shop to sit down with a cappuccino to write this blog entry. Why is it that invariably when I choose the coffee shop because it is empty, it immediately fills up with parents and rug-rat offspring? In this instance, three moms with four kids and a screaming baby. They are impervious to their offspring’s annoying racket. This may be the only time I appreciate the New Zealand custom of no re-fills on coffee. I am too cheap to pay for a second cup (about $4.50 throughout the country) and therefore can leave sooner than I would have if they had re-filled my cup. I locate Kris but as we drive out of town, she realizes she has missed the best shopping district by one block. Alas, New Zealand roads are narrow and I am forced to keep going since I cannot find a wide spot in the road to do a U-turn. Kris thinks plenty of places are wide enough but like every woman I’ve ever known, she has spatial relationship issues and obviously is not qualified to assess the width of the safe U-turn distance.

Soon enough, scenic vistas and rushing waterfalls dull her sense of loss and we stop in the heart of the Rotorua Volcanic Area. Lunch consists of fries and “the World Famous Rotorua Lamb Burger.” At least this time they are not hyping it as the “best lamb-burger” in the world. With good reason I learn, as mine contains three large chunks of bone so I assume it is local lamb, ground locally, if imperfectly. The bone hunks do not affect the interesting taste however. As we drive through the national park, we pass numerous small streams and ponds with steam rising from them but having spent much time in Yellowstone, we stop seldom. Been there, done that, got the Tee shirt. Another narrow winding mountain road leads us to the base of the Coromandel Peninsula.

As dusk turns to night we locate a little two story motel at the harbor’s edge but the woman explains she has only an upper available. The price is a bargain… or so I thought. Twenty-two wet and slippery outdoor wooden steps later, I put down the two suitcases just inside the door. At once I know why she advised me to turn on the bed warmers before we went out to dinner. Three degrees colder and frost would cover all the surfaces inside of the rooms. Again, no internal heating except for a small electric heater in the living room and of course, the ubiquitous electric blankets. We turn them on and go out to find dinner. The only place open is what Kris describes as the “sorriest bar” she has ever seen in her life. We make do with a bit of cheese, bread and fruit left over from our car snacks. However, the bed is warm and the rooms clean in this isolated outpost of humanity replete with a large dollop of solitude. Kris may not have found any bargains in this morning’s shopping but we certainly found one here in Whangamata. That’s pronounced “Fangamata” for you Yanks.

Day Sixteen – Chasing a Rainbow

We rise early to the sounds of thunder and a hard rain and leave during same. Agreeing that our decision to bypass Wellington on the Queen’s Birthday (today) is the right one, we head off to Lake Taupo in the central highlands of the North Island. The rain stops but a wicked, warm crosswind screams in off the Tasman Sea and our last sight of that fabled body of water is one of raging, white surf blasting the rocky coastline as we head inland and of course, upwards. While the wind pipes up to about 40 knots, the road signs along the central “Desert Highway” which normally warn of frosty conditions now warn of high winds, but the road remains open. The miles along this “Desert Highway” are difficult driving as the Toyota Puke gets pushed all over the road. It is a challenge to keep it in my lane. We stop only twice, once for a streetcar museum a bit off the beaten path, but Kris snaps a few pictures for her “business deduction.” I am confused as to why there are several horses on the property until it occurs to me that really old streetcars were pulled by horses. Duh! Our only other stop is for a taste of the “world’s best lamb-burger” and I will remember it primarily by the grease spots it left on my favorite shirt.

In the space of a couple of hours, we traverse four entirely different geologic landmasses. It is as usual, quite picturesque driving in and out of a number of thunderstorm cells while bright sunshine is visible on distant peaks outlined by partial rainbows. At one juncture, we marvel at the most perfect rainbow either of us has ever seen. Coming over a hilltop, the rainbow extends over the entire horizon in a perfect half circle arc with every color of the spectrum brilliant and clearly delineated. I desperately look for a place to pull off the road but alas, no such luck on this narrow no-shoulder road. I doubt any photo attempt would capture the majesty of this sky filled with the half moon of color.

Lake Taupo is the largest lake in NZ and we follow along its eastern shore to the city where the TWIN PEAKS Motel speaks to us. Again, clean but as Kris explains to me, it has a bathroom designed by a man. “Huh? It looks just fine, modern and plenty of hot water pressure. What’s not to like?” I ask. She points out it has no shelves, no hooks, no soap or shampoo dish. I say, “What’s your point?” She rolls her eyes and asks about dinner. The innkeeper is a Brit and sends us next door to a British Pub. Hmmm. He claims the lamb shanks are to die for. They are terrific and against my better judgment I eat two of them, but in the interests of my arteries, I do not finish the garlic mashed potatoes and green stuff on the plate. I’ve now had Lamb Rump, Lamb Shanks, and Rack of Lamb in spite of Kris referring to me as the Baby Killer. I only regret that I cannot afford these lamb meals back in the US. Our view out of our hotel room is back across Lake Taupo looking towards the south where earlier in the day we had driven the wildly windy Desert Highway between two snow capped mountain ranges. The view is wonderful but it is not the end of our rainbow.

Day Fifteen - Chasing Seal Pups

The Blue Dolphin is directly across the road from the beach and Kris decides she needs a little “away from RK time” and goes for an early walk along the shore to dip her toe in the Pacific once more. It immediately begins to rain. She is obviously unaware of my weather connections with the Boss upstairs. A tip from the innkeeper before we leave results in a local stop about ten miles up the coast. A small waterfall is only a 5 minute walk from the carpark, but If we are really lucky, he informs us, there will be a few baby seal pups in the pool at the base of the waterfall. The steady rain continues unabated and without the local knowledge from the innkeeper, we would have passed up this waterfall because we’ve seen many the past few weeks. Had I passed this one however, I would have missed one of the most fascinating sights I have ever witnessed in my life. The stream is no more than 6 to 8 feet across at its widest, but mostly it comprised of small 1 or 2 foot rivulets cascading down between rocks. The short muddy walk to the base of the falls is steeply uphill (as is EVERYTHING in this country) for about 250 yards through dense forest. As we climb the walkway the steady drizzle continues and I am thinking about how warm and comfy the little Toyota Puke could be at this moment. Carefully stepping around a muddy bend in the path, we espy the small but pretty waterfall.

The pool beneath it is roughly 30 feet wide and 50 feet long before the water begins its short but steep cascade over the rocks to end up in the Pacific Ocean. As I stare at the pool I have to rub my bad eyes because the surface is stormily turbulent from shore to shore. When I open them, I am in shock. This pool is literally PACKED with baby seal pups. There must be over a hundred of them in the pool and they are jumping, diving and slithering up and over and on top of one another even coming out of the water up on to the rocks lining the pool. They are literally packed in the pool and more can be seen climbing the rocky stream to get to this private little playground. As we watch transfixed, one pup rises up on a rock to rest mid-stream and a friend behind him bites him in the butt to get him to keep moving upwards. At the pool edge are about 7 or 8 folks marveling at this sight, as are we, and several baby seals climb out on to a rock to stare at us with huge soft brown eyes. One in particular takes a liking to Kris and cranes his neck to get closer to her outstretched camera hand. They seem to be as curious about these strange two-legged, shore-bound creatures as we are about them.

In the water, the pups are like miniature rockets, unbelievably fast and agile shooting this way and that but never running into rocks or their neighbors. Absolutely incredible! This pool is at least 300 yards upstream from the ocean shore and at least 200 feet in elevation above it. Wildlife experts have surmised that seal moms show the pups the way to this pool to keep them protected while Mom hunts for food out at sea. The pups are obviously in heaven here as they never stop teasing one another and practicing “king of the hill” on the rocks poking up out of the water whether they be in the pool or on the rocky climb up the hill. It is cold, dreary and wet but we stand in the rain and fog transfixed for over an hour. One does not wish to take leave of this magical place.

Once several years ago I recall seeing the famous Monarch Butterfly Grove on the California Coast where millions of Monarch butterflies pack tightly together hundreds thick on a small grove of trees completely covering them in order to survive the cold nights. When the sun begins to warm the outer layers of butterflies they spread their wings and flutter off leaving the next layer to do the same. When over a period of 15 minutes, millions of “leaves” spread wings and flutter off on a morning zephyr, one feels enraptured by the complexity and beauty of Mother Nature. It was that same sense of awe that gripped us as we slowly made out way back down the muddy track stopping every few steps because we could see the pups coming both up the rocks and shooting down them as if surfing in the ten inches of rushing water. I snap a hundred photos and use up mega-mega memory shooting video of these amazing creatures. Again, it is rainy, dreary, and cold but we both declare this day one of our absolute best during our NZ Odyssey.

Because no visit to NZ would be complete without a wine tasting, we stop at two wineries further up the coast. Montana is the largest producer on the South Island and noted for their Sauvignon Blancs. We are underwhelmed but fall in love with one of their Pinot Gris and purchase a bottle for our last dinner in a few days before leaving for home. The other winery is the small St Clair Vineyard where we again fall in love but this time with their Sauvignon Blanc and decide one more bottle for our upcoming Last Supper is a necessity. Driving out of the vineyard, Kris spots a small sign across the road for a custom chocolate maker, which of course RK is unable to pass up. A woman rushes up to us with samples and so a few more contributions to the New Zealand economy are transferred from my pocket to the lady with the tantalizing Raspberry Vanilla Fudge.

Magical Seal Pups, two wineries, and a chocolate maker. A great day by any standard. Driving into Picton, the terminus for the ferry to Wellington and the North Island, she puts into words my feelings exactly when Kris declares, “OK, I’ve about had it with snow capped mountain peaks, frosty narrow roads and sheep on steep hillsides.” We end the day with a three hour crossing of Cook Strait in a gently rolling huge ferry. Kris is not a happy camper and needs to take one of her special motion sickness pills. Strangely, they do not seem to help. She feels better three hours later as we drive off the ferry and then 20 miles up the coast while thunderstorms and lightning follow us. Tomorrow is the Queen’s Birthday, a major public holiday here and the Parliament Building was the only stop either of us wanted to see in Wellington. (Wellington is the nation’s capitol and it will be closed so our visit will be postponed until our next trip here) We find a clean motel in an un-pronounceable suburb after several no-vacancy signs make us a bit nervous. The thunderstorm catches up with us but not before I get the luggage in the room. Weather Karma is still with us and we dream of seal pups chasing each other up a cascading mountain stream.

Day Fourteen - Chasing a Time Warp

I always knew that sooner or later my AARP card would come in handy. I use it this morning to scrape half an inch of ice off the windows of the Puke before we can leave Twizel. The thick cloud we encountered last night remains and is if anything, even more dense. I cannot fathom the difference between a thick cloud and a dense fog, but fall back on my father’s advice that if he didn’t know the answer, it was not worth knowing. We bypass the 30 kilometer side trip up to Mt Cook because nothing beyond 30 feet is visible anyway. Fifty kilometers down the road, I finally drop out of the clouds and brilliant morning sunshine greets us when we happen upon the small sign pointing the way to Stewart’s recommendation, the Mt. John Observatory. I take the cutoff and end up on one more single lane road that switches back and forth but always climbs steeply upwards into the stratosphere. Both sides of the road are lined with piled snow from a recent plowing. The chocolate is gone and Kris leaves deep finger impressions in the crash bar and my left thigh. At the peak we are the first visitors up and one more time, (I know you are tired of reading this) I believe I can see Australia, Indonesia and South America, all at the same time. The air here is unbelievably clear and thus the vistas defy description. (I know, I have been trying regardless) Lake Tepako and its small town are far below us and it is easy to feel like a Greek God on this mountain top as I sip my double cappuccino. Yup, this view is in my opinion, better than the one leading into Queenstown.

An hour later we are on a series of rolling hills (apparently flat, horizontal roads are illegal in this country) as one vintage car after another passes us going in the other direction. Nothing newer than a ‘32 model T and many dating back into the early teens make me think we have entered a time warp. There are no cars on our side of the road and for three hours none on the other side BUT these antiques. How does a 1909 Hupmobile make it up these hills anyway? Even Jay Leno needs a trailing crew van. A good number of these cars are open cabs and the passengers are dressed in vintage dusters, leather helmets and goggles. We wave and they laugh and wave back. Hard to believe they could actually be laughing while their faces were white with frostbite. These Kiwis are a hardy lot for sure. Kris and I estimate there are well over a hundred of them and that it is entirely possible we have entered a parallel universe. Reality returns when we come upon a series of SUV’s pulling tool cribs, several non-running vehicles and a tow truck. Yeah, get real Kiwis!

We stop at a street market in a town called Geraldine and Kris finds several pieces of jewelry she likes and I definitely know I am out of the time warp and back to reality. After a brief discussion with the artist who happens to be an avid sailor, I give him a copy of my Fayal Roads book. In return he offers Kris a piece of jewelry she has not yet bought. I don’t quite get the logic of MY giving him a book and he gives HER a piece of jewelry. But she is smiling and all is right with the world… almost. Once more the late afternoon drive results in an after dark harrowing (for her) steep and curvy descent out of the highlands to the East Coast and Kaikoura about fifty miles north of Christchurch. Dinner at the Blue Dolphin and I drop off to sleep quickly in a comfortable room at the Blue Seas Motel while the familiar sound of crashing surf lulls me into a deep alternative universe secure in my own warped sense of time.

Day Thirteen – Chasing a Harley

Somewhat anxious to leave, we are up early and cognizant of heavy clouds but we absolutely want pictures at the very tip of the South Island with the signage declaring it Land’s End. As we stand and marvel at the sign with distances from places we know like Capetown, London, and New York, it comes as a small epiphany just how far we are from Kansas, Toto. It is just dawning and between a heavily clouded eastern horizon and another lower cloud bank, the sun’s weak rays skewer the morning sky with brilliant shafts of red-orange, giving me just enough time to snap a photo of it backlighting the ancient lighthouse on the point. A beautiful sunrise counts as a good omen and we head off north having passed the midway geographic point of our NZ Trek. Everything now will lead back to our friends Rick, Judith and our new friends, her parents, Ann and Ray Clarke.

There are many stops before the end of this tramp but the first is Gore, the country music center of New Zealand. Luckily (or unluckily) we arrive in the middle of the one week they are holding the Golden Guitar Awards and the main street is packed with buskers plying their skills. Kris stops to listen to several of them and quickly whispers to me that Nashville is not threatened. The incongruous sight of cowboy boots and ten gallon hats in this out of the way little town does not mask really bad versions of Waylon and Willie. She does however spot a sign advertising the National Sheep Dog Championships the following week. I need to show her the cost of changing a return ticket to the US and remind her that Babe will probably not show up. She snidely says to me, “That’ll do Pig,” before reluctantly getting into the Toyota Puke.

I leave just as quickly as possible aiming the car towards the mountains once again. The sun shines brightly and the snow capped peaks beckon. An uneventful several hours slip by except that we have been passed at great speed by a number of motorcycles. More in fact, than we have seen the whole of the time we have been here. As the day winds down we climb another damn mountain right into a cloud. Visibility drops to 15 yards and my speed drops accordingly but of course my heart rate climbs proportionately. Kris is okay with this since she can’t see how high we are and how steep the road drops off into the valleys. We have a destination in mind but I decide I do not want to chance driving in these conditions in the dark and we stop at the only small town that has listed accommodations. It is named Twizel (tuh weye zell) and I think I have found another Knob’s Flat.

The only available room is in a barracks that were originally built to house workers for the huge hydro electric projects in the area. The room is depressing and also our first less than wonderful place but it IS clean. Both of us decide a couple of beers will improve our assessment of the night’s room choice. The one side of the bar is packed with bikers warming themselves in front of the monster fireplace with many pints of Speights as they discuss the huge NZ-wide rally they will all attend the next day. The opposite side of the bar is packed with rosy cheeked twenty-somethings looking too damn healthy for my taste. They are here for the NZ National Rowing Championships. Are all NZ championships held in June I wonder? Certainly explains why there is no room at the inn to be found in this dreary place of 600. We opt for the biker side of the bar and converse with Stewart and Tim, a couple of middle-aged bikers from Christchurch who are totally impressed with Kris’s I-Phone pictures on her with Bill Clinton, Barack Obama, and Madeline Albright but could not care less about the one of her with her good friend who just happens to be one of the owners of Harley-Davidson Motorcycles. They are Honda men. I drink another pint of Speights Dark. Stewart highly recommends we make a short stop at Mt. John Observatory on our way north. We take it with grain of salt coming from a biker riding one of those Japanese sewing machines. Just flying the flag for you here in NZ, Tim Hoelter, where apparently your Harley is chasing a few Hondas.

Day Twelve - Chasing Lazy Fish

The small wooden porch at Knob’s Flat is deceptively iced over and only noticed when my feet slip and slide nearly making RK flat. I am still peeved at myself for not inquiring of PC the provenance of the name Knob’s Flat but am resigned to my ignorance. The ice on the porch reminds me to take extra care on the early morning frosty roads as I drive the thirty miles to the head of Milford Sound. Basically it is 28 miles up and down steep hills each one leaving you a couple of hundred feet higher than the last until you find yourself in a box canyon walled in by towering rocky peaks and strewn with many VW and larger sized boulders along the side of the roadway. Obviously they have not grown at their current location which means they have rolled down from somewhere on high. It is sheer folly to gaze up at the peaks surrounding one. Even if you did see one tumbling toward you, there’s nowhere to run. You are the pin in a pinball machine and the ball might not get you right off or maybe not even on the second carom but surely on the fourth or fifth or sixth you will be squashed as it bounces off the rock walls lining the road. Must get into that damn tunnel as fast as possible… except the red light is on and it only changes every fifteen minutes! Now one is absolutely forced to look up and search for falling VWs. Thankfully no VW pinballs are careening towards me by the time the light turns green and my tires screech as I roar into that tiny tube of safety in the rock mountain.

Except I am claustrophobic and squeezed into this miniscule hole deep in the bowels of a solid granite mountain is pushing my panic button. Maybe being crushed by a falling VW is quicker and better after all than being buried under a gazillion tons of New Zealand Greenstone? They do have earthquakes here you know. The one lane tunnel is about a thousand yards long and started in 1935 but not finally finished until 1954. The ready excuse is that World War II intervened but this tunnel was dug entirely by hand with picks, shovels, and drill bits. I guess all the dynamite was used up during the war. Amazingly, two teams started from opposite sides of the mountain and missed meeting dead center by only inches. This without lasers or GPS mind you. All of which only temporarily keeps my mind off the fact than an entire mountain is sitting above my head. The light at the end of the tunnel prevents a blood curdling scream from reaching beyond my tightly compressed lips. Shooting out of the tunnel brings one to NZ Surprise Number 1,267. Do you recall I mentioned it was a 30 mile drive to Milford Sound? And 28 of them were uphill? Well, as the saying goes, what goes up must come down. . . and fast. A dozen switchbacks, each seemingly steeper than the next drops one back to sea level in just a short 2.6 miles. . . and an uncounted number of heart attacks, The chocolate rapidly disappears from her secret stash.

We do arrive in time to take the 10 AM small boat out on to the Sound nee Fiord. Having seen Bodo, Norway, this fiord is similar, with steep rock right up to water’s edge, no beach, and no place to drop an anchor unless you have 8 or 9 hundred feet of chain aboard. Sheer rock cliffs and tumbling water are spectacular however, no matter where you might be. Standing out on the open bow of the boat in the cold 12 knot wind as the aluminium (correct Kiwi spelling) 60 footer is making another 12 knots makes for 24 knots of chilblains. Admiring the scenery under these conditions is a bundled up joy. OK, OK I’m carping again but it is cold and when I turn to take a picture of Kris, the wind catches my treasured Port of Milwaukee baseball cap and flings into the icy waters of Milford Sound. Because I was on the foredeck at the time, the skipper sees it fly off my head and does an immediate u-turn. My hat is a lazy fish and refuses to swim deep and so the crewman, Rob is able to scoop up my lazy fish with a boat hook. My hat being baptized in the Tasman Sea will not ease the pain of Kris dining out for years to come on how the guy who has spent a good part of his life on boats loses his hat over the side of a CRUISE boat. Oh the pain and embarrassment this incident will cause! When I go up to the pilot house to thank the skipper he graciously replies it was, “no problem. Besides, we don’t like to deposit rubbish in our Sound.” Thank you for sharing that, Captain. A few tiny seals along a rocky point but no other sea life and soon we are back at the dock.

The drive out through the same mountain is remarkably stress free, probably because I have used up all of my body’s ability to manufacture adrenalin but it is just as dramatic including a slip and slide twice going down steep grades. Kris does not notice, but I could feel it in the loss of traction. My heart skips a beat or two and I cringe. Most places on this road have drop offs of at least 500 feet and guard rails are non-existent here because lawyers are non-existent here. When we approach a Y in the road on the way to Lumsden, we decide to deviate from Ray’s pink line on our route map and go to the very tip of the South Island to the small picturesque town of Bluff. At least Kris believes it to be picturesque because it is tiny AND the famous Bluff Oysters are found only in this one place in the world and for only two months out of the year. Hey, I’ve had my pix taken at Lands End, England, John O’Groats, Scotland so why not Bluff, New Zealand? By the way, they also rightly call this place Land’s End. With the exception of Stewart Island, a mere twenty miles away, the next stop is Antarctica a thousand miles further south.

We arrive in the dark but even in the dark one senses this is a grubby little working port. The one accommodation listing is a hotel dating back to the 1800’s. It has seven rooms and we manage to find it on the poorly lit main street. As per our usual arrangements, I send in Kris to do the negotiating. There are about 15 rough looking fishermen all with a pint in hand standing about the reception area and when Kris asks if they have a room, the innkeeper smiles apologetically and says alas, no, he’s full up. A loud voice from within the group of fisherman yells out however that he has a double bed. Kris asks him if it comes with a beer and another voice says “aye and he’s warm as well.” Smiles all around but Kris opts to stick with me and we do manage to find a charming little B&B on a dark side street after only driving past it three times. It is named the Lazy Fish. Another good omen and although the woman is startled to find any tourists here this time of the year, her welcome is warm, and so is the room. We take her recommendation for a Bluff Oyster extravaganza and they turn out to be quite meaty and strongly flavored of Southern Ocean. Kris is unimpressed. I eat two dozen. The fish may be lazy but I personally am no slouch when it comes to oysters.

I would also like it noted that Kris and I drank special toasts to two of our good friends, Eileen Francis and Ellen Homb, and also to my son Kevin who are all celebrating birthdays this week. Happy Birthday guys from smack dab in the center of the Roaring Forties, Land’s End, New Zealand, 44 degrees and 34 minutes south of the equator on the edge of the great Southern Ocean!

Day Eleven – Chasing the Fog

An early start for Milford Sound is negated by my misreading the map and I leave Queenstown in the wrong direction, on the wrong road. I would like all my friends to know this is not an easy thing to do in New Zealand and requires substantial effort. Basically there are two roads in New Zealand. The first is a north/south road (NZ-1) and the second is an east/west road (NZ-6) I do not know where NZ 2,3,4,and 5 are but I cannot find them on a map. Of course, I cannot find my way out of a town with a population of 4,000 so perhaps I am not the navigator I have led my Marina del Rey boat neighbors to believe I am. When Kris inquires why I did a u-turn and returned to town, I explain testily that I wanted to view the town from another hill and besides, I wanted to give the ice a bit of time to melt before I slid across it. She seemed unconvinced of the efficacy of my explanation.

Again the signs proclaim the road is open to Te Anau but probably is icy. This is getting old. Like any other driving day here, the road goes up a hill and then comes down a hill before starting back up another hill. These people would make great roller coaster designers. We are excited to see what Kiwis refer to as Fiordland with Milford Sound and Doubtful Sound as the two most famous. For those of you who are interested, both are named incorrectly. They are NOT sounds, they ARE fiords. The difference? A sound is formed by river erosion, and a fiord is carved out by a glacier. Hah! And you thought reading this blog was a waste of time! We do not have the inclination to visit Doubtful Sound even if it is the remoter of the two, as it requires two boat trips and a bus ride over a small mountain range (of course) while the head of Milford Sound can be visited via one’s own vehicle. From the city of Te Anau, it is 75 miles in and 75 miles out and one can take 4 or 5 hours to explore this NZ National Park during the middle of the day since there are practically no places to stay at the tiny town of Milford Sound. One is even warned to fill up with petrol as there are no gas stations once you leave Te Anau.

There is a short five minute walk along the way that takes one to a small glacial lake with picturesque views of the mountains rimming the valley we have just entered. The view is replete with ducks and various other forms of wildlife seen from a deck stretching out over the lake’s edge. While I gaze at the strangely narrow horizontal wedge of a cloud bisecting the mountain in front of us, Kris stares over the railing into the shallow water just beneath us. Pointing to the water she asks me what that thing is in the water. I look and tell her it is a pipe. She says it is S shaped and why would a pipe be S shaped? I am content to not know the answer but assure her it is a black pipe that has fallen into the water. I continue to stare at the weird cloud formation now hanging just a hundred feet or so above our heads when she says, “Look!” I do and I see the black pipe slowly move into deeper water. Once again the Critter Spotter Supreme has done it. The black pipe is an indigenous Black Eel of about 4 feet in length. She is very happy to be 2 feet above the water on a sturdy deck. I am SO very happy to be proven in the wrong once again.

Not wanting to stay the night in Te Anau, Kris locates a 3 room motel only 30 miles from the Sound (really a Fiord) just outside the park in a place on our map has labeled as Knob’s Flat. KNOB’S FLAT? A place is named Knob’s Flat? While Kris is proclaiming it to be a romantic rustic stop, I personally love the idea of sleeping in an oxymoron. Us wordsmiths are weird that way. She calls the number while we are still a long way from Te Anau and reserves a room from PC whom she says sounds quite a friendly man but somewhat… ahhh … different.

“Different?” I ask.

“Well.” she explains. “He asked when we would arrive.”

“What’s so different about that?” I say.

“When I told him we‘d arrive there about four in the afternoon, he said that was good because he would be finished helping the serial killers by then.”

Now, Kris is adamant she has heard him correctly, but I guffaw and continue watching the road for ice in spite of the fact that the roads have been drier than a San Fernando Valley summer. Directly in front of me, I espy the same weird clouds forming a well defined and stratified layer on the mountains ahead of us. As we approach closer, it appears the cloud layer is really a fog bank horizontally wedge shaped and slowly flowing into the valley we are traveling through as though it were following us. The sign on the valley floor tells us we have arrived at Knob’s Flat. Knob’s Flat is comprised of two small one story buildings, each with three doors to what are obviously motel units. Set back from the road are two other tiny sheds housing what I assume would hold a generator and a tool crib. As we pull into the gravel pathway in front of the newer of the two buildings, a man dressed in work overalls and sporting a wild crop of curly Einstein-like hair shooting out of his head at all angles smiles. He has a missing tooth.

Suddenly Kris’s recollection of his comment about helping the serial killers does not seem quite so whimsical. The fog bank is flowing in and has obscured the entire mountain now and before we can get out of the car it obscures the road behind us that we have just left. At times like this, I recall all those government types telling me how to react in what I might perceive to be dicey situations. The reaction instruction usually was to unlock the safety on your weapon. Kris on the other hand jumps out of the car, smiles and extends her hand to PC. He smiles broadly and then she asks him about the serial killers. You have to admire nosy women. They know no fear. PC laughs and says the local game wardens are having a problem with the local Possum and Stoat populations decimating the nearby bird flocks. To reduce the Possum and Stoat numbers they are putting out feeders with a poison mixed in porridge. CEREAL porridge. The game wardens are CEREAL Killers. The weird fog lifts revealing towering mountains surrounding us and best of all, the room is spotless.

Before he leaves for the night and returns to Te Anau, PC unlocks one of the other rooms in the other building. “Just in case something happens, like a fire, you can sleep in the other building,” he explains. I am not about to ask why he thinks something could happen. PC then points to my cap with its “Port of Milwaukee” logo and says, “Oskosh.” It turns out he is a pilot who has built his own little plane and has even visited Oshkosh, Wisconsin, USA to attend the Experimental Aircraft Association’s annual EAA convention. We compare homebuilt aircraft notes as I also have attended the EAA convention held at Oshkosh’s Wittman Field. Wittman Field is famous for being the busiest airport in the entire world for 9 days every August when thousands of strange aircraft take off and land on average at about the rate of one every 38 seconds for nine consecutive days. A slightly faster pace than the flights of fancy I may have when landing at Knob’s Flat and much faster than the weird fog bank that chased us into Knob’s Flat.

Day Ten - Chasing the Frost

Exiting the Aspiring Court Motel in HAAST, we pass by HAAST Beach, take the HAAST Road, leave the coast and follow the HAAST River up into the HAAST Valley all the way to HAAST Pass. Mr. Haast named all these locations personally even though he was only the SECOND person to traverse the pass and not the first. This man definitely had legacy issues and was obviously quite serious about securing his place in history. We are now in the heart of the Southern Alps and winter is in evidence by the myriad of signs telling me that ice in the mountain passes is to be “expected” today. These are those ubiquitous signs that fold up in good weather and fold down whenever some county worker remembers to warn the foolish tourists driving during this time of the year. The Toyota Puke comes fully equipped with chains in the boot (trunk) but they are locked with a security strap. For safety reasons of course, but my choice would be to leave the driving for another time and wait for better weather rather than put chains on a car. The morning sun on the Western coast is searing-ly bright white but as we climb into the mountains, first a few wispy clouds drift across and then plain old cloudy overcast weather socks us in giving the windshield wipers another workout. There are several waterfall walks and I, like the dutiful tourist, stop at each and every one. Stepping out of the heated car is a bracing event since the freezing cold wintry blasts rapidly chill one’s desire to stand about and meditate over freezing water cascading down a freezing rock cliff into a freezing river regardless of how many meters high it may be. We are still too low for serious ice on the roads but the bridges (of which there are multitudes and nearly all of them single lane) do have frost on them. The most common road sign here reads “Slippery When Frosty,” and I believe them. Passing through Wanaka, the mountain pass road we want to take into Queenstown is open but we are warned that “ice is probable.” Kris misses the sign and I do not reiterate the warning. She already has gone through an unreasonable amount of her emergency chocolate supply. It is her philosophical position that when I drive over a cliff, she wants to have had at least 10 ounces of chocolate in her mouth that will never get the opportunity to gravitate to her thighs. She reserves the chocolate for only the worst narrow mountain roads. We have been on a large number of those types in the first third of this road trip already and chocolate is in short supply.

As luck (or Karma) would have it, the clouds thin and then disappear completely as we climb the final pass before Queenstown. The roads are completely dry all the way up and we stop at the top of the pass and are blown away not by the wind this time, but by the view of Queenstown 30 kilometers away and 5000 feet below us. This truly is a country about which one can say, “A spectacular vista awaits at every bend in the road.” Having viewed vistas as varied as those from Mt Fuji in Japan, the Road to the Sky in Glacier National Park and Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, this one rated right up there with the best of them. A special thank you and shout out to Judith’s father, Ray Clarke, for charting this wondrous and all-inclusive course. We toss snowballs at one another, (I miss Wisconsin snowfalls) take a pix or two and head down the mountain at about 8 miles an hour because this side of the mountain hasn’t seen sun since last December. Black ice and hairpin switchback turns are not my favorite mountain driving conditions. More chocolate disappears from the emergency stash. The NZ road people however have spread “grit” on the surface and traction is far better than one could expect. The surrounding range of mountains named, “The Remarkables” are totally snow covered and glistening in this clear, crystalline New Zealand sunshine and appear quite benign at this distance. The ride down OUR mountain however, proves interminable as one can see the lake and the city of Queenstown in the distance but just when one thinks you’ve reached the valley floor another series of switchback turns keeps the adrenalin pumping. Thankfully the roads are nearly deserted and I am able to go slow enough to keep Kris from fainting, throwing up, or going into insulin shock from the consumed chocolate. It’s a good day on the mountain.

Queenstown is a ski town at the moment, because the slopes (called snow fields here) open tomorrow. Thus it is filled with kids and newbie skiers un-savvy in the ways of early ski runs. Usually more rocks than snow are visible this early in the year and worse, these particular mountains have no trees. Perhaps that is why they call them “fields?” Duh! Shopping is not what Kris had expected and we will leave for Te Anau, the gateway to Milford Sound in the morning, but first, one more “special birthday dinner” at a restaurant 9 kilometers out of town and, you guessed it… up a steep hill. Serendipitously, our innkeeper offers to check on reservations for me and the restaurant offers to pick us up and re-deposit us back at our motel. I jump at their generous offer. Walking back to the room, I suddenly am hit with the realization that if this restaurant is picking me up, driving me 9 km out of town, up a mountain, and then driving me back, I should have asked about the prices on the menu. Too late, Dumbo.

A cab picks us up at the appointed time and there is an Aussie couple already aboard and as the driver maneuvers around multiple sharp turns and steep inclines, suddenly I don’t care about the menu prices anymore, I am just relieved I am not doing the night driving. One less NZ hill for me to climb, be it on foot or by horseless carriage. Dinner at Gantley’s is superb, both of us enjoying NZ rack of lamb done the way is supposed to be done… perfectly. We four are their only diners this evening and my worries about the bill come flooding back to me until I gulp down another glass of a MORE than decent NZ cab. When in Rome, etc. I’m not driving, I’m merely paying and that is JUST FINE with me. Even better, Kris insists on using her credit card and I, as any true gentleman would do, give in to her heart’s desire.

When another cab driver arrives to take us back, we delay him a bit to snap a few photos of what I believe to be the most civilized wine cellar I’ve ever witnessed. They called it the ”reading room” but floor to ceiling wine racks line three of the walls and a full version of the OED graces the fourth. The world’s best dictionary, many, many bottles of wine and voila, the space is transformed into a room even our friend Peggy the sommelier, could love. (Peg, I’m sure it was temp and humidity controlled… if for no other reason than to protect the delicate pages of the OED) Later, I learn Gantley’s has repeatedly won “best wine list in New Zealand” and is rated as one of the top 100 lists in New York’s Wine Spectator magazine. Good thing I didn’t know that fact before committing to that last glass of wine. Kris refuses to show me the tab. I am grateful. Back at our Bella Vista motel, the room is small but cozy and wi-fi only costs me $6 NZ for an hour. More than worth it to cement my reputation for boring all my friends with one more inane blog entry. And far, far less expensive than that last glass of wine at Gantley’s, our own quaint and oh so private restaurant nestled deep in the steep hills overlooking a frosty Queenstown.

Day Nine - Chasing the Glaciers

Rosemary and Tim delay our leave-taking with a few more local knowledge tips but we escape and begin our first glacier adventure of the trip. We opt out on the 90 minute tramp to the face of the glacier instead choosing the short 20 minute tramp up (steeply up I would like to add) Sentinel Rock to an overview of the glacier from about a thousand yards. A clear morning sun is illuminating the snow covered tops of the range but as we head out on the path, the sun is obliterated and we are engulfed by ferns, flax and moss covered trees. Also the trail is up hill. Heavy on the UP part. Did I mention it was UPhill? Kris makes note of the fact it is the first time she can remember having ass cramps before breakfast. I just smile not wanting to give away my distress at tramping up one more damn hill. Apparently there are no flat, level ground tramps in this country. What really pisses me off is that the view when we reach the top is once again worth the heavy breathing and heart palpitations. Upon our return to the carpark, an entire busload of young men is preparing to take some gullible suckers on a guided personal tramp ON the actual glacier. The young men are all dressed in quite tight shorts, thin sweatshirts and cramp-ons for their boots so they can walk on the ice. I am personally disgusted by this show of false bravado and walk to our car. Kris apparently is intrigued by their equipment and attempts to engage more than one of the young men in a dissertation about their special equipment. I say if you’ve seen one ice pick, you’ve seen them all. By the time she gets back to our car the heater has warmed it to equatorial temperatures.

The Lake Matheson tramp is next for us and weather Karma is once again playing out in our favor. Sun and absolute calm on the lake make it possible to take several of those mirror image photos of the snow covered peaks that one only sees on postcards. Not a ripple disturbs our visage. A local we exchanged words with on the walk claimed we were lucky since this is the first time in over a month that the peaks were even visible much less experiencing a dead calm on the lake. Before we had finished the walk the ripples were appearing on the water and clouds were forming over the peaks. Luckily we had not heeded Rosemary’s advice and tramp around counterclockwise. We decided to ignore her warning because the only picnic table was much closer on the clockwise route. A growling stomach takes precedence over any errant leg cramps.

Of course the trail is nothing but hills and more hills and then more hills again. Rosemary’s words about walking counterclockwise because she didn’t like to walk up hill suddenly came back to me. Should we have gone the other way? Wait, this is ludicrous! Am I stupid or what? You start in the same place and regardless of whether you go left or right, you end up in the same place you started. You MUST climb every mountain and you MUST stumble down into every vale. What possible difference could the direction make? I’m still thinking about this conundrum when we arrive at the Fox Glacier. This tramp promises a close up view of the face and only a twenty minute tramp along a river bed. They lied. It is a mile into the glacier… along a riverbed yes… but there is a steep hill in the middle that one must climb to get to a place where one can step from unstable stone to rocking stone to unstable stone in order to ford three small tributaries. The end view was about 50 yards from the face and somewhat anti-climactic. However the many “DANGER DANGER DANGER” signs made for a great photo op for bragging to friends about my devil-may-care, adventurous nature.

Enough of the chasing glaciers and tramping bullshit and we drive in a comfortable heated car to a place called Haast where we find a room, dump our bags, grab a bottle of decent NZ cab and head to the edge of the Tasman Sea once again for sundowners on the beach. Beaches and sunsets are always romantic and although not quite as memorably colorful as the previous one in Punakaiki, there is a bit of color painted across the horizon. There is also a bit of a sandfly infestation. This sunset is viewed through a dirty windshield from inside the car while swatting the little devils that rushed in when we opened the doors. Romance is a tenuous condition.

Day Eight - Chasing a Shadow

Yesterday we deviated a bit north from Ray’s carefully delineated route to see the blowholes and pancake rocks at Punakaiki, but afternoon clouds and a flat sea lessened their dramatic impact. This morning’s brilliant sunshine and a half hour walk along Truman Track is a great start to the day. We climb down the path and steps and then over a narrow path to a small sandy beach dotted with massive truck sized rocks jutting out into the surf. The early morning sun is casting long fascinating shadows as Kris makes virgin footprints in the pristine sand and I turn this way and that directing her motions so as to get the most interesting photo. I am reminded of why models get paid so much. It is because they do not carp, talk back or complain about sand in their shoes or sun in their eyes. When you ask them to move three feet to the right, they actually move three feet to the right. Oh well, she’s good company when I do not have a camera in my hand. With high tide approaching now, we stop back at the blowholes hoping for a bit of drama but the sea is even flatter than yesterday and so seeing the pancake rocks in sunshine will have to suffice. Worse, no one has a clue as to the TrumanTrack naming history. My higher education and thirst for knowledge is thwarted once again.

Graymouth is the largest city on the west coast and the last stop for petrol but we cannot wait to leave as it is a sad little place, dirty, unkempt and barren. Several klicks down the road in Hopitika however, just the opposite is true. Much smaller and clean, it boasts a decent grocery store and a grand tabby cat staring us down from an open second floor window. We eat our lunch parked in front of a huge white edifice which just happens to be the only Catholic Church within 500 miles. The sign outside advertises one Mass on Saturday evening and one mass on Sunday morning. It is the largest building in the city. Wonder how many Bingo cards it took to pay for this and the sleekly modern rectory building next to it? Kris reminds me that religious or not, Karma will not forget my un-generous remarks especially after a delightful lunch of fresh Meat Pies.

Today is a pretty much a travel day and we finish the day at the Terrace Motel where the view from our room is of the resplendent Franz Josef Glacier a mile and a half further up the highway. Rosemary and Tim are the proprietors and seem overly glad to see us. Tim explains this time of the year is “rubbish” for their business and we are their only guests this winter month. And that’s one more than they had last winter. Rosemary is only too happy to speak with someone besides Tim, so she is effusive in her recommendations of what and where we must go. Especially be sure to tramp (A Kiwi way of saying walk) counterclockwise around Lake Matheson. When I ask why, she explains she doesn’t like to walk uphill. Like the dolt I am I say, “OK we’ll try it tomorrow.” Kris and I take a tramp around the town, all three blocks of it and she spots a Pukakoe bird next to the road. I only see a gray blob flitting off to a local tree. Kris is rapturous because they are rare. I am rapturous because Kris is rapturous. The flitting gray blob is rapturous because he’s alone in his tree now and away from tourists. He thought he was safe because it’s winter. He didn’t count on foolish Milwaukeeans desperately trying to prolong frostbite season here south of the equator. The long shadow of an early winter evening chases the sun glints from our glacier.