On the first day, it snowed uphill.  It fell down one side of the valley and the wind blew it back up the other, into my path, blinding and horizontal.  That night, camping at Laguna Salto, I lay in my tent listening to the wind.  It would begin as a low rumbling, somewhere behind the hills, and build steadily into a locomotive of rushing air and frightening sound until it was on top of me, flattening the windward side of my tent until it flapped around my ears where I lay.  I curled up in my sleeping bag and jacket, hearing the elements thrash it out, feeling small and powerless.  On the second day the sunshine coaxed me out of my down cocoon.  Peaks bright with morning light caught my eyes and stirred me into action, up the hill, across the approach to Paso Australia.  I achieved the pass but the celebratory dance was cut off abruptly as the wind slammed into me with the force of an 18-wheeler, pushing me off my feet until I sat, just below the pass, with my back and pack to the wind and my heels dug into the scree against being thrown all the way to the lake at the bottom.  The wind was spinning miniature tornadoes across the lake surface in all directions.  It was even worse at the bottom of the second pass.  I was walking across a deep glacial trough, alongside a lake.  Jagged slices of granite surrounded me on all sides.  The sky was still bright and blue above me, but I was wearing gloves and a hat and jacket, moving into the wind, gritting my teeth and screaming back at it when it blew hard enough to stop me in my tracks.  I found shelter behind a tall rock and stopped to catch my breath.  The wind was like a living thing, ripping down from the peaks, over rocks and through the thin tufts of grass growing next to the lake.  It snapped, like a plastic tarp being torn off a woodpile and shredded.  By the end of the day, I was exhausted of wind, blown raw.  Even after I’d found a sheltered campsite for the night, the sound of the breeze being dispersed among the trees made me flinch.  Why am I here, I wondered, and for a brief moment, wished I was elsewhere.  The wind scared me.

On day three, I woke with silence ringing in my ears.  Stillness greeted me as I climbed out of my tent, and I cooked breakfast outside, without needing to build a wind-break.  I walked on tip-toe the entire day, holding my breath as I summitted Monte Bettinelli in sunshine and calm air and reached the rustic hut on the shores of Lago Windhond.  Day four, the same.  Not a breath of wind to impede me.  I retraced my steps over Monte Bettinelli, marveling for the second day in a row at the panorama that lay spread before me.  To the south, the islands of Cape Horn, dark blue and misty, but visible.  Westward gleamed the white steep peaks of the Cordillera Darwin, and between here and there, the rough spine of the Dientes themselves, the soggy yellowish lowlands of Navarino, and countless lagoons and beaver ponds, sapphires in a gold setting.  Superlatives rolled through my head, but not through my heart.  For the first time in many solo hiking missions, I was not content.  Something had changed.  I’d shot myself up with my usual fix, but failed to reach the same high.  The wind had stripped away my confidence, my courage, and pressed  an acute awareness of my mortality into my skin.  Alone on the top of Monte Bettinelli, I felt no awe, no wonder or magic at the landscape.  I felt alone.  This was what I’d wanted: to be on my own at the end of the world, fighting the elements, testing myself.  And now I felt only a desire to be safely on the other side of the hills, finished, and back among people.

see the rest of my photos from the island

This blog, I sometimes feel, has become that hungry beast.

It began innocently enough – I could whip off a light, informative entry in about fifteen minutes, a half an hour if I was being thoughtful, an hour at the absolute maximum if I’d been slack in reporting on my travels.  You all read it, and wrote wonderfully encouraging comments.  Once stroked, my ego began to purr, and I started putting a bit more thought into each entry.  Themes emerged, and I got excited about organizing my updates around ideas instead of events.  Reader reviews (bless you all) were positive, and the beast began to grow.  Once informed that I had something good, I wanted it to be better.  And better.  I needed substance, depth, details!  Internet sessions became longer and more expensive, and entries came fewer and farther between.  The pressure began to build.  Weeks now pass between entries as I struggle to find the time and energy to tend to the beast which will no longer be satisfied with quick updates.  This creates both a backlog of events on which to report (with feeling and wit) and a certain sense of suspense among you all, faithful readers.  “Where are you?  What’s happening?” you ask.  I’ve begun to avoid my email account guiltily, but I can still hear the blog-beast as it paces, testing the hinges, ready to break out.

The following, therefore, is the hiss of the safety valve as it vents a jet of steam, relieving some of the pressure.  Quick and artless, but effective.  I’m letting the beast out the back for a run.  Apologies if it eats any of your kids.

So, back to the place where I fell off the track…
There was the curanto.
Then the Navimag.

Then the Parque Nacional de Los Torres del Paine, the jewel of Chilean Patagonia.  I hiked for the first three days with Angus and with Clementine, Ben, and Jerome from the Navimag, then went my own hardcore way.  I trekked for ten days in all, in the hottest, clearest weather in Patagonian history, then came back into civilization (Puerto Natales) and took the job at the erratic rock hostel.

The job at the rock led to a trip to Cabo Froward, the southernmost tip of the American mainland – visited by the Pope in the early 90s – accessible only by boat or by a two-and-a-half day hike along slippery beaches and through vicious, sucking turbal (peat bogs) and across freezing, chest-deep rivers.  There were eleven of us, all self-sufficient and keen trekkers, but despite our high spirits and determination, were turned back a half-day from our destination because of dangerously high rivers.  Instead of succumbing to disappointment, we spent an evening drying our underwear on sticks over the campfire and bonding as “Team Toasted Panties”.

Another month of work at the erratic rock followed before I could start counting down to the Circuito de Los Dientes de Navarino – the Teeth of Navarino.  It’s the southernmost trek in the world, and it’s the only thing I knew about in Patagonia before arriving.  I arrived in Puerto Williams (the tiny town you’ll recall from my last entry), made a stir as the crazy gringa, then disappeared into the wilds for eight days.  The hiking was rough, the weather rougher, and I emerged on the other side of the eight days with a whole new respect for the word “remote”.  I do have a proper update in the works with details of the trip.  It’s three-quarters written, and it’s a story I don’t want to skip.  It’ll get here…eventually.  Photos exist as well.  Stay tuned.

After the Dientes, I crossed the border into Argentina and spent two weeks between El Calafate and El Chaltén, two dusty frontier towns built up for the sole purpose of serving the tourists who descend in droves to either 1) visit the Perito Moreno glacier or 2) hike in the Parque Nacional Los Glaciares.  I did both.  I spent a week and a half in El Chaltén, a town still under construction (est. 1985), sleeping in my tent and going on day hikes, seeking out new and exciting vistas of Cerro Torre and Monte Fitzroy (the two showpieces of the park).  Winter arrived about the same time that I did, and for the last five days of my stay I was hiking and camping in the snow.  Beautiful, but I think it’s time I moved on from Patagonia.  I’ve been in South America for nearly four months, and three of them in the deep south.  Time to check out some new places.  Therefore – I’m off to Peru.  I fly from Puerto Natales to Santiago tomorrow, then get a 26-hour bus to the Chile-Peru border, then through another series of buses and towns will arrive in Cusco, Peru on the 16th or 17th.  It’s going to be epic.  When I get to Cusco, I’m going to be tired.

Hope this fills in the gaps.  In the meantime, here’s this piece of unrelated news: the film “Ice People” (documentary about life in Antarctica filmed while I was working at McMurdo) will be premiering at the 2008 San Francisco International Film Festival, April 24 to May 8.  If you’re in the Bay area, check it out!  If you’re not, but still crave a taste of the cold, you can still enjoy the trailer.

Two weeks I had, between the Teton mountains and the unique thermal and wilderness attractions of Yellowstone.  On my own, without a car, I became dependent on the kindness of strangers.  Initially, I had my doubts.  Are Americans willing to trust?  Are they capable of being open-minded and generous?  Or are hitchhikers a species extinct – killed off by the culture of suspicion and distrust that is growing steadily in our country?  Standing at trail heads with my thumb raised high, I saw confusion, shock, discomfort.  I watched the faces driving past, some looking resolutely ahead, ignoring me, others staring unabashedly, mouths open in disbelief.  What is she doing?! I never had to wait long, though, and in each case the individuals who stopped to offer me a lift were friendly, helpful, and full of concerned goodwill.  Each of them (I caught perhaps fifteen separate rides, anywhere from two miles to eighty) expressed admiration colored heavily with concern.  “You’re pretty gutsy…but jeez, girl, you gotta watch out for those weirdos!  Aren’t you worried?  Aren’t you afraid?” asked Paul the insurance investigator.  Some, like the three old friends on their way to a funeral, told me stories of when they were my age and hitched across the whole west, from national park to park.  “But people aren’t like they used to be – be careful!”  Some were hesitant.  Three thirty-something surgeons from Texas, in Jackson for a conference, told me they would never pick up a hitchhiker, normally.  Others were excited for me.  Jason, a Gulf War vet, on vacation with his seven-year-old son, wished he could be doing what I was.  “It’s so great to meet a true adventurer!  That deserves a ride.”  Some only wanted company.  The emphysemic painter from Las Vegas was almost too wrapped up in his own affairs to ask where I wanted to be dropped off before launching into his life story.  I found it interesting that those who were open-minded enough to pick me up, still maintained a sort of blanket distrust of other people – as if they were the sole safe bet in a world full of serial killers.  Are we too large, as a country?  Are we all strangers to one another, and therefore incapable of trust?  Even I, open-minded world traveler, began in a cynical state of mind.  Not that I was fearful, but that I doubted whether my fellow Americans would be willing to lend a helping hand.  I was reassured, my faith in humanity – Americans specifically – restored, recharged.  I needed help, and got it – over and over again.

Beyond the hitchhiking, there were a few notable encounters with folks interesting, generous, and fun…

There was Jan, the German cyclist, whom I talked into joining me for a spectacular day hike in the Tetons.  Hooray for someone young!  Someone my own age!

Then there was Steve, the Hollywood paparazzi photographer.  When not taking pictures of Brittney Spears shaving her head in a barber shop (oh, yes, that was him), he volunteers as the campground manager at the Mammoth Campground, which is where I met him.  He watched me set up my tent in the freezing rain (this was the evening of the morning during which I was eating oatmeal in the bathroom) before approaching me, shyly.  “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.  I’m not trying to hit on you, but I do have a pull out couch in my RV that you’re welcome to have, if you want it…I have two daughters about your age, and, well, I’d like to know that someone would take care of them, too.”  So, for two glorious nights I had a warm, dry, soft bed and a roof over my head, and a flat screen TV with surround sound to watch movies on.  Thank you, Steve!

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!

Still blinking sleep out of my eyes, a movement in the trees fifty feet away caught my attention. “Oh…there’s a bear!” I whispered, nonchalant only out of shock. Bob laughed, thinking my lack of excitement indicated a joke, and then choked abruptly as he looked where I was pointing. A young black bear was stalking us, slowly, cautiously, obviously drawn by the scent of our food, which hung in a tree on the other side of our camp. We lay silently, breathlessly, watching it to within twenty feet. “How close we goin’ to let it get?” Bob asked. “Not much closer than this!” I declared, and we both sat up hurriedly. “GOOD MORNING, BEAR!” I shouted, and watched it stop short to assess this new obstacle between it and its breakfast. Bob worked to keep it away by shouting and hammering his hatchet against the trees and logs. It kept its distance, but would not be deterred. It paced a half circle around the camp, sniffing our cooking gear, and even trying to walk off with Bob’s jute dish brush at one moment. Eventually it tired of the game, and lay down across a log to watch us and wait for us to pack up and leave it to sniff at our leavings.

With this exhilarating start to the morning, Bob and I climbed rapidly up the lake shore to our next camping spot, startling a bull moose and an impressively-antlered elk along the way. At Dead Horse Lake, elevation 9,000 ft, we dropped our gear and cooked up a filling breakfast of oatmeal and trail mix while admiring the view: a small, round lake, more of a pond, really, with spruce-lined shores and steep mountains surrounding it. Several large, recent rockslides spoke of the youth and instability of the peaks, but the tiny hillock where we made camp was peaceful and protected. It was, however, also home to about 3,784,331 mosquitoes. I know this because I was counting the number of times I slapped, whacked, squished and swore at the tiny, needled devils between spoonfuls of breakfast. Our repellent situation had taken a turn for the worse. The plastic bottle had broken, spilling precious, potent elixir all over my backpack. My pack, my book, my stove, my toothbrush, and my water bottle were all marvelously protected from mosquitoes, black flies, horse flies, deer flies, ticks and more. Bob and I, on the other hand, had little more than thin layers of polypropylene and wool to keep the buggers off. These two fabrics, while excellent for keeping warm and dry, put up absolutely no resistance when confronted with mosquitoes. We were covered.

We retreated to higher ground, to Lost Lake, where the elevation (10,500 ft) seemed to discourage the mossies, and spent a pleasant afternoon, miles from civilization, and that much closer to heaven. I read, took pictures, and later, growing sleepy, followed the lake to the place where it narrowed and began to flow like a tiny creek down the side of the mountain. The clear water ran across rocks and grass, and where it touched earth tiny flowers sprang to life and sucked gleefully at its sweetness. Indian paintbrush, purple-and-cream columbine, and dozens of nameless wild things in blues, whites, yellows, pinks, and purples. Bob found me later as I stretched and climbed and worked my way across a massive boulder field, rocks three times my height. “Where are you going?” he called. “To the other side!” I shouted back. “Why?” “To see what’s there!” I laughed. On the other side, I found, was a narrow green valley, and towering above it, a dark fortress of rock. Flat on the top and sheer on the sides, I was looking at a long castle rampart, booby-trapped with precariously balanced rocks and cornices of snow, just waiting for an invading army to attempt a breach. Gorgeous. I lay on my back in the stiff, prickly alpine grass, gazed out into the valley, and just breathed.

Then we had to climb back down. The sun was tending toward the western part of the sky, but several hours of daylight remained yet. As soon as we reached our makeshift camp, the mosquitoes returned. I could almost hear them laughing with glee as they dove upon us and plunged their tiny daggers through our layers of clothing and into already itching skin. Bob caught fish in the lake for dinner, and in doing so acquired enough bug bites to swell his eyes to tiny, puffy slits and his nose to a shape that Karl Malden might have recognized. I cooked potatoes in the fire, and sliced veggies and lemons to roast in butter with the fish. It was a beautiful night – campfire, sunset, fresh fish, outdoor cooking – but I barely took it in. I was rather occupied in squishing the daylights out of any buzzing thing that thought to land on me. The little bastards were relentless. Bob and I could have made up our own rhythm band with the beats we were creating, slapping and tapping and bopping and socking. All to no avail. The buggers kept coming. We stood in the campfire smoke until our eyes watered and screamed. We walked up and down, pacing the length of the campsite while we shoved the food into our faces. Still, we had to stop moving long enough to lay out our sleeping bags and wash our dishes, and the mosquitoes were so thick they formed a visible aura around us. As soon as the chores were done, we were in our sleeping bags, wrapped up and willingly foregoing fresh air in the interest of being without mosquitoes.

I fell asleep, and woke perhaps four hours later, suffocating. I poked my head out of the bag and gasped oxygen gratefully. It took me a moment to realize what was different. No mosquitoes! It was cold – perhaps forty degrees – and a full moon had risen magnificently over the lake, bright enough to illuminate the mountains around us, cold enough to have sent the mosquitoes to bed. It was a small miracle, and I gulped greedily at the air and relished the quiet. They were back by morning, and we literally sprinted out of the woods. Eight miles in four hours, barely stopping for an apple and an energy bar. Back at the Bronco, we slumped into the seats and grinned tiredly at each other. “I. Have. Never. Seen so many mosquitoes on that trail,” Bob panted. A week later, I’m still itching.

Back at the ranch, the days are darn near perfect. It’s hot – 95 in the shade today – but the house is usually 10-15 degrees cooler, and the air is dry, making the high temps far more bearable than a typical New England summer heat wave. My list of acquired skills is lengthening steadily. I learned basic plumbing: soldering pipes together to hook up an outside spigot; connecting PVC and copper to our temporary kitchen sink. We now have running water in the kitchen! I’ve disassembled old doors and learned how to create jam-extensions and casing around the old door frames, then worked on building up my arm muscles while I stripping several layers of ancient paint and finish from the doors themselves. Today I learned how to tape and mud sheet rock, and how to build a framed wooden panel to cover an access hole in the upstairs hallway. Our project for the next week will be constructing a railing for the staircase and then trimming, filling, sanding, and polyurethaning the whole lot.

Forest fires, both close and distant have obscured the horizon off and on for the last couple of weeks. Some mornings we wake to smoke in our throats and a thin gray haze floating through the valley where our house is situated. Then there were lightning storms, some with rain, some with only wicked purple clouds and brilliant white bolts. Bob and I sit on the porch and watch it all, content to be quiet observers, sometimes reading, sometimes talking, sometimes singing along to the radio. Most nights we spend at least a half an hour with the horses, grooming, playing, bribing our way into their hearts with carrots and other treats. There’s a little Arabian that I’ve named Lady – making her mine is my goal for the summer. Bob’s teaching me to gain her trust and slowly get her accustomed to a rider. First, the harness. Last night was the saddle, an ordeal that left the poor girl sweaty and edgy. We’ve got a way to go before I’ll be getting on her, but it’s something to work towards, and I love that I have the opportunity to live with and learn about the animals in this way.

It’s another windy night, and the cats are nestling closer, sharing their warmth. I love it, even though they make my eyes itchy. I’m rereading Les Miserables, the unabridged version. Soon I’ll get up and cook up some soup, or maybe I’ll just have a sandwich. Bob’s working at his shop in town, on a welding project or maybe rebuilding someone’s transmission, so for tonight it’s just me and the cats and the wind. Ahhhh yes.

See my skills!  New photos, befores and afters and inbetweeners and others just for fun.
http://community.webshots.com/user/susanm483

And now there is a soft gray cat in my lap.  Oh, the simple pleasures.

If I visualize this period of transition as a piece of music, then at this moment what I am hearing is the quiet reflective melody that follows a particularly powerful crescendo: The Hollyford Mission!  It was a ten day trip, through the remote wilds of Fiordland in the southwestern corner of the South Island.  Three days tramping along the beaten path of the Hollyford River valley with a few other hardy souls, three days living in a hut on the beach waiting for bad weather to clear, and four days of complete solitude on the hardest trail I’ve ever walked.  On day one, I hiked 30 km (18 miles – Huge.) and felt six of my ten toes and the bottom of my right heel develop large, swollen blisters.  On day three, I found myself caught out in a torrential downpour, complete with jagged bolts of lightning and crashing thunder, on the wrong side of a flooded river, and had to spend the night huddled between flax plants in a wet tent in a wet sleeping bag.  On day four, I waited for the eye of the storm, packed all of my (sopping wet) gear, crossed the river, and all but sprinted the last three kilometers to the Big Bay Hut.  Big Bay (as the name would suggest), is a large, rectangle-shaped bay on the northern coast of Fiordland.  It’s accessible only by helicopter, small fixed-wing planes, or a four day walk from the nearest road.  Remote.  Beautiful.  Even in the throes of the storm, the wild seas and gray, rocky beach were magic.  What a place to be stuck.

I waited out the weather for two and a half days, and could have easily let myself forget the outside world and simply stay.  There were three surfers stranded with me for the first day, waiting for a break in the clouds so that their airplane could land on the beach and take them home.  Before they left they introduced me to our neighbor, a hunter named Aussie Bob, who was spending a few weeks in his private hut a kilometer further down the beach.  When the surfers finally soared away, it was just Bob and me and the beach and the wind and rain.  Bob was perhaps fifty years old, a sheep-shearer, and for 17 years had been hunting the coast and hills of northern Fiordland.  I wished, repeatedly, that I had a tape recorder to capture the stories he shared.  A genuine, multi-faceted individual, a true man of the land who could gauge deer’s bloodlines from the shape of the antlers of the stags he’d killed.  He described himself as a redneck, but he was the most open-minded and accepting redneck I’ve ever met.  “Different strokes for different folks,” he’d say as he shook his head over the lifestyles of the various people he’s met in his long and varied life.  He wasn’t sure what to make of me at first: a young woman on her own in the absolute last frontier of the NZ bush, confident of my abilities yet responsible and aware of the risks of the back country and the measures needed to counter them.  I walked down the beach to his hut the first night to listen to the weather forecast on his mountain radio, and stayed to chat over a can of beer.  As he listened to my stories of Antarctica and past tramping experience, I could see his respect for my independence grow at the same time as he sought to protect me.  Bob sent me home with flour and yeast to bake bread in my hut’s camp oven, and the next afternoon showed up with fresh venison back steaks (the nicest part of the animal) wrapped in a plastic bag.  These I cooked in a curry, using the ingredients that the surfers had left behind.  Venison curry and fresh bread baked on a wood stove in a little hut on the beach in Fiordland in NZ.  I’m not sure that cuisine gets any better than that.

For two days, life took on a simplicity and a peace that I would find difficult to recapture.  In the mornings, I stoked the fire, got it roaring, with a kettle on top of the stove for tea, then ventured out to the beach to check the weather and gather more driftwood to feed the fire.  The water would be hot when I got back, and Bob would pop in and join me for a cuppa while spinning yarns about his work and his misadventures as a young, redneck Aussie visiting New Zealand for the first time.  After tea I’d have a wash at the faucet behind the hut, sweep out the sand, mix up a batch of bread dough to rise, then sit and read and watch the birds, fantails, wax-eyes and tomtits, swoop and dive outside the window.  Eventually the rain stopped and I could go for walks on the beach, taking pictures and collecting shells.  In the evenings I’d walk over to Bob’s hut to catch the weather and listen to his stories.  I’d inevitably show up barefoot (it was warm enough, and it was easier than putting on wet hiking boots), which would make Bob shake his head.  ”You’re a tough bitch, aren’t you?” he said, in a tone of deep respect and admiration.  The night before I left, three of Bob’s hunting mates arrived by fixed-wing plane, and he invited me to come over for a roast (wild boar, pumpkin, kumara).  There I sat, smack in the middle of a kiwi hunting “man’s weekend”…how did I get here?  I marveled.

The rest of the trip was along the Pyke River valley: tough going.  This was a track that sought to break me.  It had already sent blisters, lightning, wind, rain, floods.  The second half tried to turn me back with fallen trees, mud, lakes, suffocating bush, thorns, vines, roots, slips, trips, falls, cuts, and bruises.  It thrashed me good, and then dared me to keep going – and I did.  Yet my memories are tinged with a glowing sort of magic.  I saw no one.  Red deer grazed along the sides of the rivers, and stags roared terrifyingly in the bush.  A NZ falcon swooped down from its lofty perch to examine me close up.  At one side creek, I balked at the murky orange water of questionable depth and the half-submerged tree stumps that poked out ominously.  Instead of walking through it, I took a gamble on a fallen tree that conveniently bridged the 8-foot creek.  It was narrow and smooth.  Too narrow and smooth.  So much for my dry sleeping bag and my mobile phone!  The next day I walked around Lake Wilmot, a small lake made nearly impassable by windfalls – it took me four hours to cover one kilometer.  Next was the Black Swamp, where I had to leap between tiny tussock mounds to avoid the sucking, stinking mud that at one point swallowed both of my legs up to my groin.  On the last day, I walked five kilometers through Lake Alabaster (yes, I had to walk IN the lake), climbing over slippery rocks and fallen trees, staring tiredly through my raincoat hood (it was raining again) at the waterfalls pouring down the cliffs on the other side of the lake.  Like the creature from the Black Lagoon, I rose from the lake at the end of the day, trudged wetly across the beach to the hut, and stood solidly on the porch.  I turned and surveyed the length of the lake I’d just conquered, and cheered.  The Hollyford – Pyke/Big Bay Mission: DONE!!  Satisfaction supreme.

24 April, 2007

(A real time update: Kelli and I are in Taupo, in the middle of the North Island, and all is well.  More to come as the (mis)adventures continue!)

A week of sunshine followed by two weeks of pouring rain saw me doing my best to help Susan out around the Dreamhouse.  Washing windows, edging gardens, cooking meals, vacuuming, dusting, mowing lawns, hauling wood, etc.  The rain cleared for a weekend, just long enough for the whole family to travel south to Hokitika for the world-famous Wildfoods Festival.  It’s an annual event on the Coast that draws up to 30,000 visitors from both NZ and around the world and celebrates the – ahem – wilder side of West Coast cuisine.  By way of example, I present a list of the delicacies that I, personally, consumed: venison, wild mushrooms, crickets (they were in peanut butter truffles, so they tasted okay, but when I was still picking legs out of my mouth a half hour later, I had to rate the crickets as the nastiest thing of the day), snails, homemade ice cream with organic strawberries, kava (a traditional beverage from Fiji), corn on the cob, kangaroo, crocodile (tastes like chicken), elderflower champagne, worms (chopped up and served in chocolate truffles), punga (native ferns), possum, horse (that one I could have done without), and huhu grubs (fat, white wood-boring critters that taste like nuts when roasted).  It was a day for daring and for strong stomachs.  I met up with Andre and Genevieve, two of my favorite Ice people, and spent the night with them out on the beach, relishing the opportunity to enjoy their company in the real world.  More rain…I visited Geoffrey’s gold mining claim and fell on my bum in the mud.  I also got to watch the whole mining process, do a bit of panning for myself, and actually hold raw nuggets of gold in my hand.  We escaped the rain for another weekend, this time across the Alps to Christchurch to watch the Crusaders (the local professional rugby team) bash the Bulls, a team from South Africa.

All in all, I spent a refreshing, fun (if a bit wet) three and a half weeks with Geoffrey, Susan and Navare.  It was longer than I’d planned to stay, but I’d mapped out a 9-day hike through the main divide of the Southern Alps, and couldn’t attempt it til the rains quit, as it involved numerous river crossings and fairly rugged, un-marked terrain.  Just as I was beginning to think I’d have to scrap the whole thing and move on, the rains cleared, and I was off.  Nine days… The idea for the trip originated with Lumir, and it was a doozie: gorgeous river valleys, tempting tall peaks, pristine lakes, natural hot springs, and two challenging mountain passes in the very heart of the Alps.  Definitely the road less traveled by.  For the first four days I was completely alone.  There wasn’t a soul living or breathing for miles…just me.  It was an incredible, empowering experience, having to use a map and compass to find a safe route, having to problem solve and navigate and take complete responsibility for every aspect of the trip.  The first night out, I slept next to the Waiheke River in a bivouac that I constructed out of a large blue tarp and a length of rope.  I woke during the night, rolled onto my back, and stared directly up into the clear, starry sky: wow.  I waded up one river, crested the first pass (the Amuri), and spent four days wandering the river valleys of the eastern Alps.  I camped next to Lake Sumner and was almost carried away, bivouac and all, by sandflies (wicked, demon biting insects that travel in gangs of millions) but was rescued by a kind, retired schoolteacher-turned-fisherman-and-violin-maker who loaned me an extra tent for the night.  He also shared his wife’s homemade cake with me and in the morning, wouldn’t let me leave until l’d sat and had a cup of tea with him.  Love, love, love this Kiwi generosity.  On the second to last day of the trip, I stood on top of the Harpers Pass (936 meters – approx 3,000 ft.) after a long, extremely difficult morning’s climb, and felt my soul absolutely fill to bursting with triumph – I had done it!!  Nine days in the back country, completely self-sufficient, learning, growing, and loving every minute.  It was a bit anti-climatic then, when I came down from the pass and had to stay put in a hut, a mere sixteen kilometers from the end of the trip and civilization, waiting for two whole extra days because of a wicked rainstorm and flooded rivers.  Two days, alone in a hut, reading, playing solitaire, watching the rain, doing jumping jacks, stoking the fire, and staving off the stir-crazies by working on the 1,000 piece jigsaw that some kind, blessed soul had left behind.  It was a relaxing way to end the trip, if a bit boring.  Eleven days later (nine days tramping, two days sitting), I strode out of the bush and made my way back to the Dreamhouse on the hill, stinking, filthy, but revived.

So now: freshly showered, clothing laundered and hiking boots dried, I’m off.   Last night Susan and Navare and I had a farewell marshmallow roast in the gia (a Mongolian dwelling, like a yurt…yes, they’ve got a yurt as well as a boat on their property.  They’re a pretty unique family.), and this morning Navare presented me with a piece of a possum jawbone for good luck.  It’s hanging from Dr. Gonzo’s rear view mirror, along with a piece of shell that Jenny gave me before I left Methven.  Ahhh, it’s good to be on the road again.  I’ve got three weeks before Kelli gets here, and way, way too many things to try and fit into that time.  Oh well.  A full life is a good life.  I’m back to the internet cafe scene, which means less time for emails and website updates.  With any luck I’ll be in the mountains most of the time anyway.  I’m a month and a half away from the Ice, and a month and a half away from home.  I’m at the balancing point, ready to make the most of the downward journey.  Let’s go have some fun!!

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…

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.

My luck with the weather, all sunshine and clear skies, continued after I left Fox Glacier, where I wrote my last update.  I drove south along the west coast, giving Andy (the skinny Brit who hiked the Copland Track with me) a ride as far as the Haast township, then moved on alone, driving in a pinkish dusk through the alps via the Haast Pass.  Where the west coast is lush and leafy green, the eastern side of the mountains is brown, gray, and barren, and the shift from one landscape to the other is surprisingly quick: a blink, and suddenly the ferns become tussock, and the forest becomes open land.  The constant parade of mountains, waterfalls, bluffs, rivers, lakes, hills and intense open sky on the drive to Wanaka and Mt. Aspiring Nat’l Park became a blur after a while.  My senses were full; I was numb.  In Wanaka, I drove into the National Park and along the Matukituk (mah-took-e-took) Valley, and did a short hike up Mt. Iron, overlooking Lake Wanaka and the mountains around it, but I’m not sure that I even took out my camera.  I noted each vista, acknowledged its beauty, but after a while, there’s just too much.  Instead of roaming the hills around the town, I spent two days with Angus, my artist friend from Wellington (he’s recently moved to the South Island), watching movies, getting takeaway curry and catching up on his recent trip to Nepal.  I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again – there’s nothing like friends to make one feel at home, even halfway across the world from home.

From one friend to another – Anja!  We had a happy reunion in Queenstown before driving around Lake Wakatipu to Glenorchy and preparing for a five day tramp in Mt. Aspiring National Park.  The Routeburn Track is designated one of NZ’s “Great Walks,” like the Lake Waikaremoana Track I did on the North Island.  Our plan was to cover the Routeburn in three days, then connect to another nearby track, the Greenstone, making it a five day loop.  Only one word can possibly start to cover our trip: WOW.  Not even a word, just an exclamation, an amazed, disbelieving exhalation of breath.  The trip was incredible.  It’s a surprisingly easy walk, but one that is hugely rewarding.  The trail features a full day (seven hours of walking) above the treeline.  Our day in this alpine zone was perfection.  Truly not to be believed.  Not a cloud in the sky, not even a whisper of wind or a small cluster of fog to obscure our views – mountains above, behind, rivers and fiords below, and tarns, waterfalls, rocks, and sunshine all around.  And a good friend to share it with.  I value my independence, and savor my moments of solitude in the mountains, but this time it meant even more to stare out at the trail ahead and then turn to grin at Anja, not needing to speak a word because I know we’re both thinking the same thing.

The sky at night on the track was starry and cold – the huts were cold as well.  We slept in wool hats and mittens, and begged our bladders to hold on until sunrise, not wanting to leave our sleeping bags until the light had begun to melt the frost and ice on the path to the long drop toilets.  One night I bundled into my ski jacket and climbed to the helicopter pad outside one of the huts to look at the stars with Kevin, a blonde, Canadian stoner.  The mountains that ringed the valley (on whose side we were perched) framed the sky in a long, ragged oval. Not wanting to lie on the cold ground, Kevin and I stood on the edge of the landing pad and stretched backwards, bending our backs impossibly until we had caught the entire expanse of sky in our line of sight.  Our vision dominated by purplish starlight, our voices strained by the angle of our backs and necks, we marveled.  “I’ve like, just realized our infinite smallness, man,” Kevin whispered, awed.

Rain in this region of the country is inevitable, and we counted ourselves lucky to have just one morning of heavy falls.  Where the trail was stone, tiny pieces of jade and ruby glistened like wet silver from the crushed rocks underfoot.  Lower in the valley the rain turned the trail to mud.  Anja had commented earlier that traipsing through this country makes her feel as if she’s an elf in the Lord of the Rings.  This day, in the rain, she amended, ”Today, I feel like an orc, marching through the mud.”

I asked,”So if we’re orcs, does that mean we should be thinking evil thoughts about killing hobbits and taking over the world?”

“No, I think the orcs feel the same way that we do – ‘Oh, why am I here, marching in the mud, I wish I was in front of a fire with a cup of tea!’”

After the hike, the night before I had to bring Anja to the bus station (she’s flying back to Germany), we slept in Dr. Gonzo in a deserted campground in the middle of a sheep paddock outside of Queenstown.  It was already dark by the time we parked, and a slight wind nipped at any bits of exposed skin.  The two of us squished into the enclosed long drop toilet (think plastic port-o-potty) with my cook stove, seeking shelter to boil water for instant soup and noodles.  Back in the front seat of the car, we prepare the rest of our dinner using the arm rest, dashboard, and our laps, cutting up cheese and buttering bread while our hot soup steams up the windows.  “Dinner at home is going to be so boring!” Anja declares.  Backpacking is a test of resourcefulness, ingenuity, inventiveness, flexibility.  It pushes the boundaries of one’s ability and also one’s basic needs – how much, exactly, can you live without?  It’s this challenge that appeals to me.  One’s living standards are drastically lowered.  Things unthinkable become acceptable and fussy concerns are forgotten.  Not showering, not having a dry towel or dry clothes.  Weird combinations of food because it’s what there is (boiled potatoes and canned asparagus pieces, potatoes and half-cooked lentils, beetroot on crackers, rice with cheese, carrots and tuna).  Sleeping in the same clothes I’ve been wearing for a week straight.  Stripping naked in a hut full of people.  Cooking in campground bathrooms.  Getting smelly.  Getting downright stinky.  Having a pee on the side of the road next to my car.  Living out of the car.  Dr. Gonzo’s become my house – bedroom, living room, kitchen, wardrobe, garage, pantry, office, library, tool shed.  Everything in its place, all the essentials within reach from the driver’s seat.  It’s a good lesson in simplification, one that I hope to bring home with me.

This life, lived intensely for most of May, this hiking, living out of the car, cooking on my small stove, packing certain things and not others, learning what kinds of food to buy, walking day after day after day has come to feel routine.  I think I’m getting the hang of it, and oh, it feels good.  And yet, just as I’m feeling at my most self-sufficient, fit, equipped and prepared, I lose the plot.  Brick wall.  As I mentioned earlier, this is winter.  I’ve had good weather thus far, but it’s getting progressively colder.  After saying goodbye to Anja, I drove to Te Anau, west of Queenstown, and then pointed the Doc due north, heading for the legendary Milford Sound.  The drive is intense – the landscape almost too wild and rugged to be beautiful.  Sheer rock faces, mountains layered impenetrably, like a stone barbed wire fence between humanity and the remote fiords.  Even in the late afternoon, the road was still frosty in large areas, shunned by the sun.  The Homer Tunnel, a truly gutsy piece of engineering, little more than a wormhole, bores straight through the mountains and provides access to the coast.  Unlit except for the Doc’s headlamps, edges unsmoothed by tiles, the tunnel is an imposing black cave of dripping sharp rocks.

I camped for the night, in the car, at a trail head.  It got dark fast, and with the dark came cold.  The mountains seemed to loom, ominous, unforgiving, cold, completely indifferent to my presence.  I felt my aloneness as a physical pressure.  I am tiny, insignificant, and I don’t belong within these peaks.  Humanity doesn’t belong within them.  They’re too big, too sublime and awful and sharp.  It’s frightening.  My desire to continue this trip is freezing over.  At this point, I still had two weeks before I had to be back in Methven to work, but this all felt like the last gasp, like I was running out of luck and out of energy.  I’m tired.  This was my state of mind as I shivered over dinner, and then bundled up to sleep.  It was a rough night.  My legs seemed to get more sleep than I did, boastful with pins and needles.  The nights are so long.  And so cold. It’s dark by five, and not light again until 8:30, fifteen endless hours later.  Cold has become my constant companion, clinging with icy nails to my bones, in my hands worst of all.  The word, “cold” is a tangible being, demanding attention and siphoning energy.  It’s the constancy, I suppose, that makes this unbearable. Cold while cooking dinner, cold getting ready for bed, cold in bed, and waking up, there’s ice on the car and air laced with frost waiting to claim me.  It’s relentless, and it wears away at a person.  Hot food, tea, and mittens reclaim frozen flesh, but only momentarily, and never completely.  And each time you get a little less warm, and then a little less again.

And with that, I retreated.  From being hardcore, on top of the elements, I’ve shifted to the other extreme, humbled.  I spent a few days in Te Anau at a backpacker’s homestay, then a couple of nights in Cromwell with the parents of my friend Jim from Wellington, quietly, wonderingly grateful.  Warmth, lights, running hot water, a bed, facilities, laundry, proper cooked food.  The little things, too.  A fire, a duvet, a mirror.  A drying rack.  Books.  A soft black cat.  People to talk to.  Walls, doors, and windows between me and the elements.  I could have wept with relief.  Fifteen days out of twenty days of traveling, I’d been outside, or in the car, or in a hut.  Fifteen nights of fighting the cold, of cooking, washing, living as a constant adventure/challenge/struggle.  No wonder I’m tired.

At the moment, I’m back on familiar ground, staying with Moni in Tekapo, relaxing before I begin work on Tuesday.  It’s been a fun month, but I’m missing you all a lot.  Be well, my friends.