August 26, 2016:
This entry was partially created in March and, like many of my written ramblings, was forgotten. Being back in New Zealand after a not-so-very-long absence has had a stirring effect on me. I feel Deja vu on every corner and down every street. Where did the time go? I find myself in almost the exact spot I was six months ago; the same country, the same city, the same cafe, the same seat where I began writing this story--but my mind is in a very different place. It is focused on the future, not the present. I am not here to travel, to roam, I am here with a purpose, with a job. Tomorrow I fly. Back to Antarctica, back to a world apart from the world. But before I go here is one more essay about life before I take you south and fill your minds with cold stories. This is what my thoughts will subsist of for the next six months--until I am once again standing on grass, drinking-in the warm lilac breeze.
March 29th, 2016:
Redeployment day in Antarctica had finally arrived and we were huddled together on a LC-130 listening to the thrum of propellors. Only hours before we stood in a wasteland of ice and volcanic rock, and now we were destined for a couple of tiny islands adrift in the Pacific Ocean pulsing with vitality. I had been in this position before--five times, to be exact--and I was familiar with the emotions, with the intense gratuitous love of life and the heart-stirring excitement of coming home to it. The drastic transition from a deprived state of being to complete submersion has an osmotic effect--balancing and renewing the senses. We flew from death towards life, from sterile to prolific. It’s a deprivation and reward that revitalizes perspectives. A white canvas suddenly filled with vibrant color, every brush stroke a gift. My eyes always need time to adjust, to constrict against the bright images that can have a blinding effect: rocky giants, rolling fields of luscious green, sparkling sun-lit water, and dense, dark rain forests that spill onto miles of roaring coastline. New Zealand is a precious-stone that shimmers on the blue-body of the Tasman Sea.
As I stepped off the plane and onto the air field at Christchurch International Airport I breathed long and deep. The humid lilac-scented air filled me with each inhalation and I pictured those lovely oxygen molecules supplementing my blood and renewing my dry, thirsty body. With our contracts complete we were finally released from months of obligation. Like horses turned loose from the confines of their stalls, all we wanted to do was run. With our bags in tow, Ryan (my brother), David (my partner), and I rented a Mazda Bongo camper-van and drove north along the mountainous Kaikoura coast. Slick, athletic-looking seals, very different in appearance and demeanor from their chubby southern cousins, speckled the rocky shoreline. Gulls floated on the salty wind fussing at us, fussing at each other, and weathered fishing boats dropped their rusty anchors in sheltered coves. Dinner that evening came fresh from the briny. How wonderful it was to be eating food that hadn’t been frozen for months, even years, before reaching our plates.
In the waning light of our first day on the road we set up camp and watched the last streaks of color fade into the night. The sun took a final bow, dark curtains closed, and the full moon entered the stage. We chose the perfect spot on the beach for the scene; or, I should say, it chose us. The truth was that our van with its bike-sized tires and rear-wheel drive couldn’t handle the shallow sand. We were stuck. It turns out that Mazda Bongos are more suited for the paved streets of Tokyo then they are for the wet, rocky, sandy, and steep roads of New Zealand. Dewy grass and a slight gradient was often a challenge for our small gut-less van.
The next morning we woke tired from a night filled with strange dreams. It took me a moment to remember where I was. It was the sound of the pushing and the pulling of the sea that jogged my memory and brought me back to the present. Smiling to myself I watched a little green beetle make its way up the wall of my tent--the first insect I had seen since September.
We wriggled out of our sleeping bags, stretched our arms towards the sky, and ferociously yawned like roaring lions. I rubbed the sleep from one eye and cast a tentative look with the other towards our beached vehicle. The previous evening was spent trying not to think of our predicament, but now it was time to get to work. The problem was clear, the solution was traction. We gathered our materials, anything we could find: driftwood, stones, sleeping pads, floor mats. A trail was laid behind the tiny wheels and, with hope mixed with skepticism, we started the engine.
It was slow progress. Every attempt and short gain was followed by digging and the reorientation of our traction. Inch by inch we moved as we labored towards our freedom. Two hours later with me nervously hunched behind the steering wheel, Ryan pushing with all his strength against the hood, and David and his weight strategically perched on the bumper, we finally broke free. Hooting and high-fiving, with huge smiles splayed across our faces, we ran into the ocean and rinsed away the worry, frustration, and sweat from our ordeal.
Four days after bolting out of Christchurch we found ourselves back in the city on a mission to pick up Scott--our sarcastic foreman, father-figure, and friend. We waited all afternoon at the CDC for his arrival, but the plane never landed. When redeploying from Antarctica you are never guaranteed to fly on time. It’s a perk if you do. Weather delays, mechanical issues, and over-booked flights are always an accounted risk. Despite being thoroughly warned, there are always a handful of first-year rookies driven by post-Antarctic excitement and the need for structure in their travels who make unrefundible plans. The rule is to always give yourself at least a buffer week to account for the delays. We knew that Scott’s plane had either not taken off or that it had boomeranged--turning around mid-flight for some unforeseen reason.
That night the Bongo climbed slowly up one of the rural roads that overlooked Christchurch and the sea. As the sun sank behind the hill-tops the city began to glow like stoked embers. The darkness deepened and the lights flickered with intensity, spreading down the valley like a large urban fire. Rarely do I look at man-made scenery as beautiful. I prefer the essence of nature, raw and organic. If I were in charge of the world’s architecture we would all live and work in natural-looking structures--blending into the earth like the homes of the Pueblo and the Algonquin. Despite my deep prejudice I was captivated by that stunning display of illumination and human-ingenuity. That scene smolders in my memory as an evening of beauty and of deep respect for my kind.
Two days later Scott’s plane finally landed. February is one of the last months of summer in New Zealand, and we were feeling the effects of the sun. A pink flush spread across our cheeks and down our shoulders. Scott’s skin was a pale reminder of what we had left behind. I could see the excitement and the relief in his eyes. A proud look of completion coupled with profound weariness. Six months in the Antarctic wilderness is a tough, yet gratifying experience. We work long and we work hard, but when the time comes to head north we exhale deeply, swaddle ourselves in the warm blanket of life, and rest our bones.
Where to now? Our internal compass and instincts pointed north and that’s where we went--over the Cook Straight via ferry and up, up, up towards the top of the north island. We fled like fugitives escaping the law. We knew that if we stayed in the south winter would be nipping at our heals. In the north we found a tropical hide-out, a true South Pacific Island. So much of New Zealand’s south island looks and feels like Montana--forested and mountainous with an alpine-coolness. The climates of the north and the south can be as different as Maine and Florida. Upon arriving in Manganui, we grabbed surf boards, slathered on sunscreen, and headed for the beach--the last of the clinging ice dripping off our heels and into the hot sand as we went.
In the Bay of Islands we rented sea kayaks for a few days and explored the archipelago of golden beaches. Our traveling style is usually go, go, go, but among so much beauty we relaxed in our own much-needed ways. Scott macgyvered a harpoon and tried his luck at spear fishing, Ryan kayaked and snorkled the surrounding islands, Dave climbed the hills and hiked the valleys, and I found peace and solitude in the shade of a palm tree while reading a book. Our days were simple, no longer weighed down with decisions from the outside world. We came and went as we pleased, dragging lines in the sand with our kayaks. In the evenings we cooked dinner on our portable stove, played card games, drank spirits, and watched the sky explode with color and slowly darken into a star-dusted sky.
On our second night of playing Swiss Family Robinson, Scott and I dragged our kayaks down the beach and into the dark water. As I pushed off from the shore and settled myself into the cockpit of my boat, a galaxy of bioluminescent phytoplankton appeared ignited by my motion. For a moment I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, that the green and blue shimmering light were reflections from the night sky. As I stared into the inky-black water a startled fish shot through the depths like a comet leaving a tail of neon green. With the blade of my paddle I began stirring the cosmos--drawing forth the light, the energy, from that invisible watery world. In the distance I could hear Scott’s paddle striking the water. His kayak glided by, the bow slicing through the darkness, and a dazzling contrail of phosphorescence shimmered in his wake.
After three weeks on the north island, crusty with sea salt and buzzing with vitamin D, we loaded up the Bongo and merged south onto Highway One. Scott’s time was coming to an end. Only a few days remained and many miles before he had to be back in Christchurch to board his flight home. After hours of driving--over the bridges of Aukland and through the vast countryside where grazing sheep speckled the hills like clouds in a green sky--we arrived in the port of Wellington. The next day we would board the ferry to the south island, but that night we were intent on exploring the city and stretching our unutilized legs. We walked with out purpose, occasionally stopping at a restaurant for drinks before continuing down the bustling city blocks. At one point we lost site of Dave and when he reappeared he waved a piece of paper in the air like a prize. It was a map of all the local breweries. Off we went in search of ambers, IPAs, and lost inhibitions. The following morning my head throbbed with pain and self loathing as our boat rocked its way to Picton.
Back on the south island we made the beautiful yet steep drive over Arthur’s Pass. The Bongo’s engine whined and her transmission lurched as we pushed her up the 2,400 meter summit. On the eastern side of the Southern Alps, after winding back down into the lowlands, we found a secluded camping spot with a crystal creek, mountainous views, and a huge field where we flung our frisbee. It was perfect! Well, almost. The only thing that cast a shadow on our beautiful location was the cloud of sandflies.
Sandflies, for those who are unfamiliar, are loathsome little creatures. They resemble gnats, but their feeding habits are very different from those benign insects you find hovering over your fruit bowl. Unlike a mosquito’s single penetrating proboscis, a sandfly likes to gnaw at its dinner with tiny jaws, dosing the blood with anticoagulants. The effect is torturous! An unbearable itch that lasts for days. There were mornings when I woke up bloody from a night of unconscious scratching. There is, however, a chink in their little black armor. They possess a pair of puny wings that are rendered immobile when a slight breeze hangs in the air. Also, a leisurely walk will leave them in the dust because they are incapable of keeping up. As long as you remain moving you are safe, and when you get tired you can always hide in your tent. We were often lulled to sleep by the gentle pitter-patter of diabolical sand flies flinging themselves at the nylon walls.
The windshield-wipers worked hard against the blurring rain as we drove east into the city's center. Christchurch’s usual sunny disposition felt dampened by the weather. The temperature had dropped significantly and we reached for our sweaters and huddled next to the Bongo's heat vents. It was hard to believe that only three weeks prior we were waiting for Scott’s plane to arrive in shorts and with sun-burnt noses. The next day at the airport we parted ways with our friend. The Bongo seemed empty as we left Christchurch and headed back towards the mountains. There was a void in the air where Scott’s jokes use to linger. We each took turns trying to fill the space, but none of us could come close to emulating Scott’s legendary sarcasm.
At this point in our adventure we only had two weeks left before we would be boarding our own long, trans-pacific flight home. Where to go? What to do? We pulled out our maps and traced our fingers over secondary and tertiary roads. We were tired of sharing the island with throngs of tourists. We wanted wild and wandering hikes and isolated campsites. We began spending the remainder of our time in New Zealand trying to get lost.
One of our first micro-adventures took place near Mt. Cook National Park. We summited an obscure peak--gaining over 5,000 vertical feet on our trail-less ascent. At the top of the mountain the 360 degree view was spectacular! We soaked up the low sunlight and the images of glaciers sweeping down craggy peaks before we made our descent. The light from the full moon illuminated our way as we arrived back at our valley camp.
A few days later we found ourselves east of Queenstown on The Nevis Road. At over 4,260 feet it is the highest road in New Zealand. The terrain was devoid of trees and large vegetation and huge boulders peppered the rolling hills. I felt like I was in the moors of England, an image straight out of the pages of Wuthering Heights. One of my favorite sunsets in New Zealand took place in that high country as we set up camp and cooked our dinner. From our perch, and without any vegetation to obscure our view, we watched the sun sink below the horizon with intense regality. The resonating glow lasted for what seemed like hours and drenched everything in crimson light.
It would be a shame to come to New Zealand and not make a stop in the Fjordlands. In my opinion Milford Sound is one of the most impressive contrasting displays of land and sea. Having visited this part of the country five years ago, David and I knew that there would be hoards of people congregated at the end of the road--the only road that leads to Milford. Despite the obvious deterrent we wanted to share this special place with my brother. Our decision turned into one of the most memorable experiences of our six week trip in New Zealand.
The rain started in the morning as we drove north towards Milford Sound, and it continued to fall for the next three days. The last time David and I had visited the Fjordlands it was as sunny as Tucson--a lucky anomaly. This specific region of New Zealand is known to get an absurd amount of annual rainfall. It pours more days than not. After seeing the two sides of Milford--sunny and dry verses damp and saturated--I've found that I decidedly prefer the latter. Milford Sound is at its full glory when enshrined by water. The rivers rage and drop violently out of the mountains. Cliffs spill over with waterfalls that, from afar, look like trails of tears. The ground drinks until it can't hold another drop, until the water rushes in a torrent along the forest floor, collecting flora and darkening into a deep bourbon-colored broth. Clouds linger like ominous floating spirits, occasionally granting views of formidable spires of limestone through their transparent bodies. To witness a place altered and changed so drastically by an element is always an incredible site. This beautiful scene made me feel as if I had been transported to a mystical world. A place where you could almost believe fictitious creatures resided somewhere in the mist.
After leaving the Fjordlands we headed north up the west coast, stopping in Franz Joseph to wait out the deluge of rain that had flooded many of the roads in the area. A couple of lethargic days later the sun finally showed its face and we continued north to the Wataroa Valley. Here we set off on our last adventure--a two day hike along the Perth River that led us into the dense wilderness. Like many of our hikes, this particular location was pin-marked on a map by Ryan with the hopes of getting a better glimpse of one of New Zealand's many high-classed, kayak-able rivers. The Perth rushed past us, cold and strong as steel, and as blue as the Montana sky--a coloration caused by mountainous silt dissolved in its waters. The trail was non existent at first. We walked through pastures where cattle methodically chewed their cud and followed us with bright, densely lashed eyes. Eventually we met up with the trail--a narrow path used mainly by local trappers and hunters. We did not encounter a single soul as we traveled deep into the wilderness. It was just us and the Perth. The stars shined bright that night as we made camp, and the next morning we woke and hiked back towards the trailhead, towards that docile head of cattle, and towards the Bongo.
Two days later and only sixty miles from Christchurch, we toasted to David's birthday and to our beautiful and successful trip through New Zealand. So many stories are packed into those six weeks. I wish I was able to capture every moment in words, but the memories flood my mind like the waters of Milford. An abbreviated version will have to do. The rest of these moments will live freely with in me. Visions of strange flightless birds and ancient virescent trees; times of fellowship and laughter with beloved friends and family; feelings of frustration, and strong emotions of joy and awe; secrets stirred-up from the sea, and musings born in the mountains.
Good bye, New Zealand. Thank you.
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