Back in May, I moved northeast out of Sandy into Cottonwood Heights, a stone’s throw from the canyon where I spent my winter.  I’m living with two ski instructors, Tim and Connie, and their two boys (10 & 8), plus three cats, one turtle, and one black Labrador/Great Dane mix.  It’s a house they built themselves, custom-designed to comfortably fit their six-foot-plus frames.  I need a step stool to reach the top shelves of the pantry, and I have to stand on my tip-toes to work at the countertop. The house is full of light, music, and color.  The windows at the front of the house are open to a panorama of the Wasatch Mountains.  There are speakers in every corner, even in the bathroom, and Jack Johnson, Michael Franti, Joni Mitchell, and Bruce Springsteen are regulars on the playlist. Photographs of family and friends plaster the fridge, walls and tables. My room is huge and bright, with six floor-to-ceiling windows.  It’s a room that begs to be decorated and inhabited.  For the first time, my few backpacking possessions seem inadequate, and within a week of moving in I’d already arranged to have my favorite Peruvian rug shipped to me from NH.  Tim and Connie’s is a house that feels like a home.

Though I endure rather than enjoy the city life, staying in Salt Lake through the summer has allowed me to take pleasure in being a part of a community of friends and their dogs, of rock-climbing partners, hikers, strong, creative women and outdoorsy men.  Winter relationships have grown and blossomed.  Chris, or Koogs, my skiing partner, has become my best friend and boyfriend, and partner in most things.  Together we’ve road-tripped to Colorado and to Utah’s Shakespeare capital to see Henry V.  We’ve hiked and biked and camped; gone to outdoor concerts, festivals, barbeques and parties; dog-sat, floated the Weber River on inner tubes, and soaked in the Diamond Fork hot springs.  Having someone with whom to share the summer enriched each moment and experience.

One of the summer’s highlights was a trip to Moab, Utah’s red rock Mecca and the gateway to Arches National Park.  Chris and I left Salt Lake one Friday night in May as the full moon was rising, and spent the weekend camping on top of a rock, with no roof over us but the stars.  On foot and on borrowed mountain bikes, we explored Edward Abbey’s desert paradise.  Early spring in the Utah desert means vivid green life against red buttes and mesas.  Biking before sunset on our second night, we turned a corner and observed a small grove of mature aspens standing in front of a sheer red wall.  Their bark glowed green in the low sunlight, and their slender branches curved gracefully, elegantly, as if frozen in the middle of a slow, twisting dance.  In that cool, potent moment, I believed we had found the lost Ent-wives of the Lord of the Rings.

As the warmth of the summer in the desert west fades and I look ahead to a second winter spent in Salt Lake City, it would be easy to be fearful, to wonder why I’m not moving on, as my custom has been.  Instead, I’m excited.  I feel like a new stage is coming in the life of Susan the Traveler.  The wave of serendipity that I’ve been surfing has become an eddy, a current swirling contrary to the main flow.  Though the pace has slowed, the voyage continues, and I’m happy to float on these friendly waters, trusting the swell to carry me where I belong.  I’ve got a new set of telemark skis and my old job at Brighton back, and I’m ready to make the most out of the winter and enjoy my new community of friends.  Let it snow!

It’s been a cold, gloomy Sunday. 45F, rainy, gray. Bob’s away, picking up a friend at the Jackson airport, so I’ve spent the day nestled into the leather arm chair in front of the fire, reading, writing, and luxuriating in the cozy alone time. I’m leaving the ranch in less than a week, heading up to the Tetons and to Yellowstone before flying back home. This weekend has found me wistful and sentimental, both for the time I’ve spent on the ranch this summer, and for past harvest seasons at home in New England. I’m looking forward to being home again, but am content to have these last few days of in-between time in which I have little to do but sit and relax and enjoy my surroundings. I was watching a movie when Cal burst in, and was contemplating making hot chocolate, but whatever he’s got up those red flannel sleeves is bound to be worth it.

We speed along the rough drive between my house and the main one, swerving around puddles and rocks, Cal cautioning me all the while, not to look, not to look! As we pull up outside of the main ranch house, he skids to a stop, shoves the gear stick into park, and leaps out of the Gator. I can’t keep from laughing as I hurry to follow him up the stairs to the porch. “Come, come, don’t look yet, wait til you get to the porch, you’ll get the full effect!” He’s running, actually skipping up the stairs, as if the phenomenon we’re about to observe is on the verge of slipping away. Coming to a halt in the center of the porch, Cal turns east, toward the canyon, and flings his arms wide. “Isn’t it amazing?” he whispers, awed. The first snow has fallen on the Absaroka Range. The clouds, which have hung heavy and thick all day, have lifted momentarily, and the last light of the day illuminates the mountains’ rocky summits, now laden with a thick coat of white. The ranch, the pastures, the houses, and the canyon maintain their standard reds, greens, browns, and yellows, but above them, this tall rampart of white stretches bright. It is stunning.

After driving me back to my own house (slower, now that the initial rush and excitement have passed), Cal sits with me at the window (it’s too cold and wet to take up our usual spots on the front porch) and shares with me the wine he’s brought. He’s still wearing his battered hat. This has become a tradition. One or two nights a week, Cal (the man who owns the ranch where I live) will pull up in front of the house in the Gator, pull a bottle of Yellow Tail Shiraz or Grenache from under his coat, and smile mischievously as he suggests we share a glass or two and discuss the woes of the world. Tonight, we’re talking about literature, the way that styles change through the years and yet build upon each other in an endless sharing of references, imagery and ideas. “There’s not a word you say that I don’t have a reference to. You say a word, and it’s like – ” Cal mimes a stone skimming across water. His mind is crammed with references and experiences, which hum just beneath the surface, waiting for a word or idea to brush against them and bring them springing to life. The stories he tells, like the books he loves, have a way of blending together with their similar references or overlapping characters. It is hard, therefore, to follow the details of his life. He speaks intelligently, but broadly, and has a habit of jumping between stories without warning. Many a night, Bob and I have sat on the porch in the glow of the red tractor lights, and listened, rapt, to Cal’s tales: of being a Presbyterian missionary, and later a minister; of his frustration with the corrupt nature of politics when he was a state Representative for Minnesota and Ohio; of getting lost on a hike in New Mexico and being helped by a woman whom he later discovered was the painter Georgia O’Keefe; of living in Jamaica and the school there that is named after him; or of entertaining the president of Pakistan as a guest in his home in St. Paul. The timeline is vague, but the episodes are rich.

Cal is eighty-two years old, capable of quoting Keats and Wordsworth at length, and more in tune to the current political state of the world than either Bob or I. He has a great passion for the world and its peoples. With all his education and experience, he’s learned to pay close attention to current affairs, and also, to be willing to adjust his views as society changes. I love to sit with my arms wrapped around my knees, quietly absorbing the sound of his voice as he spins his yarns, or to try to see his eyes through his orange-tinted glasses as he bewails the miserable state of modern politics and religion. The three of us, he, Bob, and me, will sit and talk ourselves in circles, about the upcoming election and foreign policy, nodding our heads and wondering why the people in charge don’t think like we do. One night, he quipped, “Now that we’ve solved the world’s problems, I think I’ll be heading off. I’m glad we’ve sorted everything out. Now if only they’d listen to us!”

Thin but healthy, he has thick, messy white hair, and wears hats, gloves, long sleeves, and long pants to protect his skin against the sun while he works outside on the ranch. He lives for this place. His days are spent digging irrigation ditches, stringing barbed wire fences, driving spikes into rail fences, cutting down trees, spraying weeds, and driving off the stray cows that wander across the river and into his pastures. Back and forth across the property, he zips around in his little John Deere like a white-haired Energizer bunny. Bob and I can hear the sound of the Gator as he drives it through the fields and between our two houses, and whenever we hear it coming, we look at each other and grin – “Here comes Cal!” – and walk out to meet him on the porch. If he’s just passing through, we’ll chat, and then Cal will smile up at us, “Well, I can’t think of anything else to do, so I’ll just drive around like I own the place.” He is a master of the parting shot.

It’s become dark as we’ve been sitting here next to the window, philosophizing. The wine is gone, and with a satisfied sigh, Cal stands up from the table to leave, wobbling a bit as he rises. Touching me briefly on the shoulder, he adjusts the cinch on his robe, straightens his hat, and moves toward the door, declaring, “Susan, you are a lovely person, and I enjoy talking to you ever so much. Good night, my dear.” Pausing on the threshold, he peers into the cold, damp night, then sighs and smiles tipsily. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…” he quotes, then turns, and with a wink and a salute, steps out onto the porch and on his way home.

*moving on…*
The job is done,
my time has come.
I’m heading for the hills of stone and the plains of steam
after which I shall return to my home, sweet home,
to family and friends who are my very own.

(see you in NE – Oct 5)

Lou, the trip organizer, is a local antiques dealer with whom I’ve become acquainted over the summer. The other two, Joe and Tom, are friends of his from way back. The trip is an annual one for them. For the last twelve years running, they (and sometimes other friends) spend the last week in August tramping, fishing, or otherwise enjoying the great, Wyoming outdoors. My invitation was rather more spontaneous. I was standing in line at the grocery store in front of Lou and Tom as they bought a few last minute supplies.
“How’s it going, Lou? What are you up to this week?”
“Hey, Susan, not too bad. Getting ready to head up into the mountains for a few days, up into the Winds, maybe up to the divide. Want to come?”

Experience has taught me to jump with both feet forward; that “yes” is almost always the right answer; that “why not?” can be a way of life. Still, I had to pause before responding to Lou’s invitation. Trust has been a much harder thing to cultivate since I’ve returned to the States. Ours is a culture of suspicion, and it took less than two weeks at home before I was reeled back in. That night, I considered the invitation, worst-case scenarios flitting through my mind. Little, bright red warning flags waved frantically, but I wanted to go. I recalled having similar qualms back in May when I was packing to move in with Bob for the summer: can I trust this man? At the time, a good friend asked me to consider the situation in terms of my experiences in NZ. If I was in NZ, would I be worried? No. So why am I concerned now? Is an American somehow more likely to be dishonest and out to take advantage of me? No. I took her advice, took a deep breath, and I’ve had a great summer. I decided to apply the same thinking to this hiking trip. I packed an extra knife, put on my best “Not a Victim” face, and on Saturday evening strolled into Lou’s house with my shoulders squared and the hopeful conviction that all would be well. Trust inspires trustworthy behavior, I thought. I shook hands with Joe and Tom as we were introduced, firmly, and with confidence. You do not intend me harm, I told them silently.

Sunday morning. We drove an hour east of Dubois, entered the Wind River Indian Reservation, and then rattled along for another hour on a narrow, steep, dirt road that was studded with rocks that seemed intent on gouging out the bottom of Lou’s van. Ruby the yellow Labrador stood with her forelegs on the console between the front seats, trying to keep her balance and watch the road at the same time. At the trailhead, Lou distributed bags of food, carefully doling out equal weights. Except for me, that is. I got the dried bags of pasta and the granola bars: the lightweight stuff. I frowned, but quietly packed away my share. How are they to know that I carried forty-five pounds for ten days through the Fiordland wilderness? The men swing their packs onto their backs, and I begin to do the same, but suddenly Lou is there behind me, lifting my pack off the ground for me. He’s trying to be helpful, but it’s far more awkward this way.

We have an easy afternoon to start. It’s three and a half miles to Twin Lakes, where we set up camp on a wide, rock ledge overlooking the two lakes. There’s a deep rift in the rocks between the lakes where water flows from one lake down to the next, and the sound of the rushing cataract is an excellent soundtrack to our first night. Marinated pork tenderloin and pasta cook slowly on the open fire while Joe plies the water of the calm lower lake with his fly rod. I wander about with my camera and Tom and Lou bathe discretely behind a piney outcrop. Later, we eat, and watch the sun go down. The guys tell me that they’re pleased to have me along: “12 years, and we finally get a woman to come!” It takes a while for the group dynamic to gel, however. I can see my uncertainties reflected in their eyes. Where I worry about harrassment, they worry about having to carry my pack or having to listen to complaints about dirt, blisters, and food. They say it’s not specifically a “boy’s trip”, but I see them wondering if this means they won’t be able to swear and burp and tell dirty jokes. Their instincts tend toward gallantry; mine keep me distrustful. As we bed down for the night, the sky threatens rain, and Lou tells me that I’m welcome to “platonically” share his tent if it starts to pour. I thank him politely, thinking privately that it will take something close to a hurricane to make me feel comfortable about crawling in next to him.

Day two and three pass without incident. The terrain of the Wind River range is stunning. With each foot of elevation gained, the views become progressively more spectacular. Lofty peaks, crashing streams, and pristine pools. There’s even a beach at the end of one lake! Tom and I can’t resist climbing down the rough, cliffy drop to walk barefoot on the coarse, yellow sand. This is heaven. We reach our base camp destination, Lake Solitude, elevation 10,800 feet. It is a breathtaking spot, as far west as a person can walk before coming up against the wall of the continental divide. The weather has been fantastic. We can’t believe our luck: nothing but sunshine, blue skies, and warm nights. I’ve slept outside every night, within shouting distance, but out of sight of the men. On the 27^th, I lay in my sleeping bag and stared at the sky as the shadow of the earth slowly eclipsed the moon and turned it dark orange. The men have warmed to me, and I to them, and every night we cook together, drink camp margaritas (powdered lemon Gatorade, tequila, and sliced limes), share stories, and argue over who has to get water to wash dishes. We tease and harass each other with careless impunity, and I laugh like I haven’t in a while.

Chivalry is still looms large. Lou, in particular, seems incapable of believing that I am competent enough to take care of myself. We have to cross a river, and I actually have to argue with him to be allowed to carry my own pack across. I endure a number of instructional sessions on fire building, trail finding, and pack adjusting. It’s not that I think I know it all, or that I can’t appreciate a helping hand, but I resent the unspoken assumption that because I am young and female, I need someone to take care of me. I get along more easily with Joe and Tom. I earned their admiration on day three when they caught sight of the quarter-sized blister I’d been nursing without complaint since day one. After that, they treated me with easy-going respect, as an equal. I’m pleased to be able to upset their stereotypes of women in the backcountry, and even more pleased to see my own concerns made ridiculous. These are good guys. There is, however, a distinct element of pursuit in our trip, a subtle wooing, an unmistakable flirtation. I am young, healthy, and single. They are older, divorced, and incapable of hiding their interest. It’s a scenario I’ve experienced and witnessed on countless occasions throughout my travels: the attraction of older men to younger women. Between Tom, Joe, Lou, and me, the immediate attraction is sexual; as the days progress, their interest changes. “I envy you, what you’re doing with your twenties,” Lou tells me. “It’s taken me to my forties, and now I’m ready to start over again and do like you.” Tom says my stories of backpacking and living out of a car remind him of his own youth: “I love your spirit, how adventurous you are.”

Summit day! From Lake Solitude we climb 1,000 feet to the continental divide, then haul ourselves through the thin air, up another 500 feet to the top of Mt. Kavageah (which may or may not be the correct name). I lag behind, constantly stopping to gawk at the view. Mountains! I am in awe, in my element. Following the men, I range in and out of hearing distance. All morning, they’ve been talking about potential business opportunities. Cash flow, real estate, interest rates, and locations. I can’t relate. Even as we reach the peak, they’re still weighing the pros and cons. I smile. This is hiking with 40-year-old men: not lewd suggestions, not salacious winks or outright aggression. Instead they discuss remodeling plans for houses, disputes with neighbors, and investment strategies, topics considered from the perspective of three men on the brink of middle age, looking for something to lend a little bit of spice to their lives. It occurs to me that this has been the theme of my summer: older men. An entire summer of feeling young, inexperienced, naïve and slightly off-balance. Constantly negotiating the questionable waters of male-female interactions, from staving off (or simply fearing) sexual advances, to fighting to prove my physical and mental capabilities, to trying to be a good listener for a recent divorcee. How wonderful it will be to spend time with women. To seriously discuss the mid-twenties growing pains with friends who understand rather than to nod politely at the concerns of men undergoing a mid-forties crisis.

After achieving the peak of Mt. Kavageah, and spending a second night on the shore of Lake Solitude, the four of us make our way back to our camp of the first night. Twin Lakes, the return. It is a hot, dusty afternoon when we arrive, and I announce that I’m going to swim to the island. “It’s just begging to be swum to,” I declare, dropping my pack and moving toward the shore before I can cool down or change my mind. “Better you than me!” Joe calls. I can hear them behind me having their doubts. It’s about thirty yards away, and the water is chilly. Still, I try to breathe rhythmically and keep my body moving, keep the blood pumping. Halfway there, I wonder if this is a mistake. Even when I reach the island, I will have to swim back. Have I, in my determination to step foot on that island, made a bad call? I’ve survived for two years on instincts and stubborn determination. I’ve willfully ignored the dangerous undercurrents of human interaction like I’ve chosen to disregard the substantial distance from the shore to the island. I keep swimming. Too late to turn around now. Five minutes later, I pull myself onto the rocks of the island, and hear the men cheering distantly. I grin to myself and wave victoriously in their direction. I’m winded, and cold, but I made it, with energy to spare for the return. Sheer guts and luck, I’m sure, have a limited capacity. But not today. This trip, these six days, has hit the recharge button on my trust. And when I make back to the main shore, I’m going to sit in the sun and drink the cup of hot tea that Lou has promised to have waiting, and enjoy the easy camaraderie of four hiking companions around the campfire next to a lake in Wyoming.

Trip photos here!

Here’s a brief sampling of the points of difference between Kelli and Susan…

Picnics: “What do you mean you don’t want to use my Swiss army knife to cut the cheese? I swear I rinsed it in the lake the last time I used it!”

Beaches: “UGH! This is – ew! Gross! My feet are SINKING! Bleugh! It’s like quicksand! Augh! This is disgusting!”
“Kelli, it’s SAND and WATER!”
“Yuck!”

Shells to Susan = beautiful treasure. Shells to Kelli = dead animal carcasses.

Susan staying in private rooms at backpackers for NZ$60 or less = huge splurge.
Kelli doing the same = roughing it.

Despite the differences, the trip was by all accounts a success. I ate out at restaurants and went shopping, Kelli went a day or two without showering and hiked up mountains; we each made sacrifices and stepped out of our comfort zones, and we parted at the Auckland airport on Sunday evening, still friends, still smiling.

While Kelli soared off into the darkening sky, I turned around and drove back to the city, my smile fading into an expression of determination and resolve. It was time to sell Dr. Gonzo. Insert ominous music here. This was Sunday. Since then, I’ve papered the city’s backpackers with fliers, placed classified ads, entered an online auction, called dozens of classic car clubs and spent three days camped out at a dim, depressing garage with other backpackers in the same dire straits. “We’re leaving the country in __ days. Won’t you buy our car?? Please? Pretty please?” They call it the Backpackers Car Market, but at this time of year, it resembles less of a market than it does a hospital waiting room. I sit in the uncomfortable chairs next to the half-empty vending machines, listlessly passing the time trying to read and losing focus, talking idly with other backpackers from Germany, Slovenia, Israel, Czech, Luxembourg, South Africa, Netherlands, USA, playing long, drawn out rounds of “Nominations”. We sellers sit near the door like starving lions, ready to pounce on anyone who walks in wanting to buy, growling territorially at each new competitor who drives their car or van into the garage, reducing our chances of selling our own vehicles by one more degree. The air is thick and heavy with dashed hopes.

Today is Friday, and I am still in possession of one “Reliable, Well-kept 1980 Toyota Grande – $1,000 O.N.O”. I love my car, but at this point I will be quite wrapped (Kiwi slang = excited) to see the back of it. The good side of the whole thing is that I’m getting to spend a week with Graham (my former boss from the Godley Resort in Lake Tekapo) and his wife and his wee dog. That fantastic Kiwi hospitality stays true, even to the end. It’s going to be hard to leave this country.

“Fear and Loathing has nothing on us!” I returned.

“Except hallucinogenics.”

It’s a whole new phase of my NZ experience – Kelli Time!  It’s strange to me: here I am, back on the North Island, revisiting old haunts, recalling experiences and adventures from nearly a year and a half ago, but this time with a friend from home.  Time and place blur as we discuss Clark events while driving along the Desert Road in the central North Island.  The last time I drove this road, I was returning to Hawke’s Bay to see George for the second time.  In Napier, I point out the orchard where I lived in a shed with Anne and Kathrin, my German friends, while Kelli updates me on the lives of our Worcester friends.  …where am I?  where have I been?  It’s a crossing of cultures that is both wonderful and disorienting.  I’m showing off the country like a proud parent, wanting Kelli to see all that makes me love this place.  At the same time, I’m looking at the landscape and culture through her eyes.  I’m seeing things again, for the first time.  Things that I now take for granted, Kelli exclaims over, and I am reminded of what it was like to be here eighteen months ago, when everything was fresh and different.

After our first day in Auckland during which Dr. Gonzo and I balked like spooked horses at people, traffic, stop lights, the motorway and buildings, we drove south, out of the city!  “Auckland is not New Zealand,” I explained repeatedly, and breathed easier with each kilometer of farmland I put between us and the urban scene.  Lake Taupo was the next stop, where we hid from the rain at Mulligan’s Irish Pub.  It was quiz night, and we joined up with Steve and Dave, two oil rig workers, to make “Team USANZ” and to take third place!  More rain the next morning found us a little bored, wandering the shops before heading an hour south to Turangi and the home of Lynn McGregor – a friend made on my last North Island travels.  Lynn had to work during the day, but she left the key next to the door and told us to make ourselves at home, which we did, grateful for the warm, cosy, free accommodation.  I stood in the kitchen and made tea (coffee for Kelli), while she leaned in the doorway.  “Susan, this is your life!  This is what you do…drive around…stay places…meet people…” Her tone was one of realization and respect.  I laughed, but then I had to think twice.  She’s right.  This is my life – and it’s not the norm.

On Thursday we did a “Kelli-Sized Hike” to the Tarankai Falls at the foot of Mt. Ruapehu: an active volcano!!!!! Two hours, including a small picnic stop and some fence-scaling and some standing-next-to-the-edge-of-cliffs by Ms. Blank!  This should be an advertisement: “New Zealand – release your inner adventurer!”  After another night with Lynn (yay Kiwi hospitality!), it was south along the Desert Road with stunning views of the three central volcanoes (the last time I drove the road, it was cloudy – this was fantastic!), then east to Hawke’s Bay and Napier, the Art Deco City.  Three nights spent in Napier was enough time to take in the Art Deco architecture, a couple of vineyards, a proper wine-tasting, a televised rugby match, several shops and clothing stores, the Hawke’s Bay Museum, and a fancy, dress-up dinner at the Mission Estate Winery.  The weather was beautiful and the wine divine, and I enjoyed reminiscing over my three weeks spent picking strawberries in the area.  On Monday afternoon we drove leisurely along the coast to Gisborne (the first city to see the sun) and caught up with Sandy Richmond, another friend from my last trip.  She took us out tramping across the farm to feed the new puppies and the new piggies, fed us good country tucker (home-kill lamb), and helped us wake up at six this morning to catch the (cloudy) sunrise.  Yay Kiwi hospitality!  Kelli was the chauffeur this morning – she slipped behind the wheel on the right side of the car, and piloted the (skeptical but obliging) Doc on the left side of the road, all the way into Whakatane, a gorgeous beach town in the Bay of Plenty, where winter = hot and sunny.  We’re off to the beach…

It’s a treat to have someone in the passenger seat reading the maps for me, and we’re both predicting great things for the twelve days ahead.  Volcanoes!  Beaches!  Wine!  Belated birthday festivities!  Kelli has informed me that she is “rugged” and ready for anything.  She’s even bought hiking boots.  This is going to be good.

Thanks for all the email wishes – much love to all of you :)

We’re heading south tomorrow…wish us luck!

A brief recap of the past weeks…
I spent six days out in the mountains with Lumir, hiking all the way up the Rakaia River, learning to route-find and cross rivers.  We had exquisitely hot weather, which he complained about and I reveled in.  I found myself to be in pretty wretched shape after six months of inactivity, but it felt wonderful to be out and about, getting sunburned and dirty, living on cous cous and porridge.  I could feel the Ice just melting off me.  We climbed a glacier and ate breakfast one morning on the top of a mountain at the head of the Rakaia valley.  Gorgeous!!  It rained our last day – the first rain I’d seen in six months – and we arrived back at Jenny’s wet, cold, tired and muddy.  I got to spend some quality time catching up with Jenny (the woman I was working for before leaving for Antarctica) and helping Lumir pack 50 kilos worth of photo equipment, clothing, and hiking gear into a 32 kilo luggage limit.  Then it was back to Christchurch…Lumir’s last night was spent on the Banks Peninsula, out on a sagging jetty.  We drank, and toasted each other, and slept curled up together in Dr. Gonzo, only to wake at 3:30 AM to make the long, foggy drive back to the city to get him to the airport on time.  It was sad to see him go…

It was odd to be in Christchurch.  Too many people, too much traffic – and too many people from the Ice.  It was odd, how we all seemed to feel this lack of interest in each other.  Suddenly we had nothing to talk about, and wanted only to move on, out of the city to where we didn’t know anybody.  I did get to catch up with Mike and Stephen, though, friends from Tekapo and the Godley, which was a very fun blast from the past.  I was quite happy to leave the city, though, this past Thursday, and head over to the West Coast, where the Jacobs have been keeping me busy with art festivals in town, badminton, and a night of fishing out at the beach under a full moon during which I managed to catch my first shark, despite initially casting my hooks onto the sand next to me…

This place (the green, lush, alive place) is the perfect antidote to the Ice.  NZ’s West Coast is my favorite.  Beaches, mountains, rain forest – the Anti-Ice.  I’m loving it.  I’m missing Lumir, and I’m still feeling a bit off balance in this warm, bright world, but every day I wake up to the sunlight streaming through the porthole next to my bed, and the chattering of cicadas in the palms outside, and I hear the ocean and I close my eyes and imagine that I’m floating…

It’s about 70 degrees F, the sun is out, I’m wearing a skirt and no shoes, and I just woke up from a nap in a sunny patch of grass with Lumir. In the last 24 hours (less than, actually), I’ve eaten ice cream (mochaccino), breathed deeply of the intensely humid air, walked barefoot through knee-high grass, cruised down an empty highway in Dr. Gonzo with my feet out the window, and stared in stupefied wonder at sheep, trees, flowers, grass, bugs, nighttime, etc.

And I’m with Lumir.

Sweet as.

It’s been six weeks.  It feels like forever.  Long enough that this bizarre place has begun to feel comfortable and familiar.  Normal.  Just in time for everything to change.  The time period known as “winfly” (“winter flight” – six weeks during which the ice runway is built and town is prepared for the bustle of the summer season) came to a smooth but sudden halt early this afternoon when the first C-17 of mainbody touched down.  It circled once, a tiny black bird that grew steadily larger as it approached.  I stood with several others on Hut Point and applauded when the wheels made contact with the blue stretch of sea ice two miles outside of town.  The applause was both heartfelt and sarcastic.  We cheered the skill of the pilots and the excitement of watching planes land on a frozen ocean in Antarctica, and we grimaced as we thought of the one hundred souls who were about to be released on us.  One hundred people today, another hundred tomorrow…by Saturday our population will have almost tripled.  Life is about to get exponentially more interesting.

The night at the coffee house was perhaps a week ago; each night since has grown progressively brighter.  The continent awakes, gradually easing out of winter hibernation.  People are keeping track of “firsts”: first blue sky; first day of positive degrees on the thermometer; first time sunglasses are necessary; first seal sighted outside of town.  Among the firsts and the excitement, another population is counting the “lasts.”  The winter-overs, the last of the winter workforce, are saying their goodbyes, making their peace, preparing to reenter the world.  Some have been here for six months, others twelve, and a few awe-inspiring folks are tallying their fourteenth straight month on the ice.  I, the FNG, watch the behavior patterns and interactions, understanding only a fraction of the emotions that emanate from their faces in visible waves.

Winter, or the idea of spending a winter here is a compelling consideration.  I’m being seduced by the bonds that I see among the community of winter-overs.  Andre (a twelve-monther: http://mcpenguin.livejournal.com) has given me the singular, weighty blessing of being “A Groovy Person,” a distinction which acts as a passcode and allows me entrance to the winter-over clubhouse.  These kids rock.  If wintering in Antarctica means I get to hang with these guys and others like them for six solid months, sign me up.  They’re not friends; they’re family.  The love is a perceptible thing; it’s the sunshine that brightens the six months of night.  The allure of these relationships is offset by a certain sense of pain and awfulness.  These are not easy bonds to break, and as I’ve been told on several occasions, Antarctica is about goodbyes.  It’s hard to describe.  Although, I don’t feel that I have the right to discuss the pain of separation.  I’ve been here for a mere six weeks.  The sadness I felt today as I watched the first twenty departees board the bus to the runway is laughable when I see the tears, the embraces, the brave clasping of hands.

I seem to be living a life of extremes.  It is exhausting.  Joy to sorrow, contentment to anxiety, calm to stress.  Each day runs the gamut.  One day feels like four; a week is a lifetime.  It is fitting, however, to live this way, in this place.  There’s a sticker sold in the shop here that reads: “It’s a harsh continent.”  Yes.

And so: SUSAN’S LAST WEEK IN NZ WITH LUMIR (the clip show!)

Picnicking at the Rakaia Gorge!  Being late (and slightly tipsy) for work!

Camping in Home Sweet Home (Lumir’s car – complete with curtains and double mattress)
Part One: parked on the side of a gravel road miles from anywhere, atop a hill overlooking an enormous river valley, Mt. Sunday (aka Edoras in LOTR), and surrounded by the Arrowsmith Mts.  In the morning, sleeping in, then crossing creeks and climbing barefooted to the top of Mt. Sunday!  Sitting on the land where Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas and the rest stood above the plains of Rohan, and broke Wormtongue’s poisonous web of words in LOTR: The Two Towers.
Part Two: on the edge of Lake Coleridge, the full moon flirting with us from behind immense, fast-moving clouds, feeling the wind rocking us, as strong as if stirred by the wings of an albatross, attempting to lift the car off its wheels and hurl it into the stony shore.

Lounging in the outdoor hot pools at the Methven Resort (where I worked in the restaurant), doing handstands, drinking wine, trying to make ourselves sink to the bottom where we held bubbly conversations, in depth.  Fleeing the rain that ended the hot pool party around 2 AM, taking shelter at the lodge with hot chocolate and LOTR: The Return of the King, only to fall asleep in front of the fire.

Last day skiing on the mountain!  With my own personal photographer, no less, making me feel like a professional.  It is such a treat to travel with a photographer, someone who appreciates the landscape on the same level as I do, but is able to actually translate the joy and wonder generated by the scenery into his frames.  Plus, it means that there are now quality pictures of me in NZ!  “Finally,” you say.

The day before I must leave: we cross a river and climb to the top of a ridge near Mt. Hutt, wandering, exploring, enjoying the fact that it is winter and it is 45 degrees and sunny.  We hike in jeans and warm fleece tops.  Searching for a different way to climb down, we find a wee creek, falling gently down a rather steep slope, overgrown and ostensibly impenetrable.  It’s the ultimate Kiwi bush walk.  Tough, tricky, and FUN.  A sampling of verbs: jump, swing, hang, crawl, slide, squeeze, stretch, reach, slip, grip, rip, fall, pull, work.  By the end we are bruised, wet, muddy, sporting leaves in our hair, scratches on our hands, and grins on our faces.

Later that night.  Curry and a jug at the pub with an assortment of friends close and casual – it’s my last night, and this is way better than packing.  Live music, cheap beer, and all the excitement of things to come.  I don’t sleep much that night.

On the road again…a long, rainy day drive north from Methven to Picton, where I must catch the ferry and begin to say my goodbyes to the country I’ve come to love.  A lunch stop at the beach, a wooden swing, and one last night of camping in Home Sweet Home, on a hill in the Marlborough Sounds…

One night in Wellington, two nights in Tauranga with my Kiwi family (Jasmine, Dan, Corrine, Kirstine and the rest).  Tomorrow, Graham (from Tekapo) and a free night in a fancy hotel, and the day after…home.  See you soon.