I finished John Steinbeck's East of Eden today. I realize that my penchant for superlatives will cast a very 'boy who cried wolf' shade onto the next few words, but please believe me when I say that East of Eden provided me with more joy and inspiration than nearly any other single entity in my history. I beg of you to read it, if you haven't, and reread it if you have.
If anyone is able to contact Laura Henneghan, please give her my most sincere thanks for the gift. I do not know what I would be doing now without it.
Monday, 14 March 2011
Sunday, 6 March 2011
Looking Backwards Pt. 3: A Fall
Juxtaposition is the heart of nearly any emotion or tide of feeling. Dark creates light, love creates hatred, and mediocrity creates itself. The buoyant glee that marked the day previous and entered my tent with the sun was bound to meet its shade somewhere, and I think that some deep delved crevice of my brain felt the darkness even then.
I awoke sharp and aware. The violent battle against soft comfort that usually marks my mornings had been won days before when I decided to set out on this excursion, decided to outnumber comfort hopelessly with fresh scenery and the siren call of waves. Amanda and Sam had been up for some time before me, running along the ridges and greeting the sun. Our chatter (and more specifically my thunderous, sputtering laugh) drew Mat from slumber slightly less subtly than his windowtapping had drawn me the morning before. We were happy, and the swift actions that pulled down our tents and brought food to our mouths spoke to that early joy. Our little pine castle was too good to dismiss, and with the prospect of endless exploration available in the mere few miles adjacent to us along the shore we knew that we wanted to return here for our second night. I stashed my pack under cover near a brushtail possum's grisly den and hung a bright green streamstained nalgene above it for future reference.
To hike packless the day after a 7 hour, 60 pound trek is like stepping out of a punk show at the House of Blues on a barely Spring night, when the mere difference in atmospheric pressure can heal bruises and compacted ribs alike. I half-leaped down the hillsides, and only but wished that I could full-leap and reach the sands in a single bound. We knew that Boulder Beach was closed to the public for another week, but we had seen tiny surfers on the waves in evening's glow and wanted very deeply to field-test the freedom that this new country claimed to offer. We reached the fence that separated us from the ocean, and had begun to shift our caterpillar collective across the barrier when an unquestioning voice behind us asked whether we were aware of the beach's closure. I was sure as I turned that we were facing an Authority, and that these islanders did indeed have some preternatural ability to sense the spoiling of their shores as I had deeply dreamed. Instead we faced an old man, just crossing the fence into frailty, a wizened resident in a red raincoat. We mumbled softly and guiltily as we clambered back over onto the track, and you could see even through the sunglasses that his eyes softened at our chastened tail-lowering.
“Sandfly Beach is just down the track here, should you take a right at the carpark. Sea lions, penguins, it's beautiful and open as well.”
Our eyes relit and our tails took up a tentative wag as we questioned the direction and excellence of this new goal. We traded glances and nods, reassured ourselves of the path, and set off again just a half-step less pleased with ourselves. I felt a small shiver run through me, and silently cursed the old meddler for stopping us, sure that Boulder Beach had held our hearts ransom these last 13 hours for a reason. I shook my head and scolded those negative thoughts, dropping behind the group to talk with our elderly Caution Sign in penance.
I asked after his origins and his home, which he somehow managed to morph into a diatribe against the prevalence of alcohol abuse amongst Otago students. As I expressed agreeance and sympathy with his plight I saw his mouthcorners turn up, and the pace of his walking and speech increased. He had lived in Dunedin his whole life, and seemed to equate the turning of the city's tides with the arrival of new University chancellors. The most recent chancellor had encouraged Otago's reputation as a party school, even going so far as to court the local brewery into sponsoring freshman orientation. The resulting Bachannalianism drew rich private school yups to the Pride of the Southlands, assured that they would receive a degree with the smallest possible effort and the largest hangover. I was absolutely sincere in my words as I decried this trend, tricked as I had been by the reputation of the University. My school in the States had shouted forth only the quality of Otago's geography program, and the availability of outdoor adventure. Now I was finding not only these but a horde of wife-beater clad young men firmly ensconced on front porches, with a beer or twelve firmly ensconced in each hand. Many of my fellow internationals had done their research a little more thoroughly and made the informed decision to come party hard at Otago, and many had already sent home for more brewmoney. Sharing these tales with my walking companion drew him out of his well-worn lecturer's shell and I saw him for what he was, a large heart with too many loves and cares, constantly scared that the beautiful youth around him would scar itself too deeply and scar him in the process.
I could not give up the opportunity to search for pearls while the shell was open, and immediately pressed in for information on my surroundings. He chuckled a little as he admitted his ignorance, pointing out the ubiquitous roadside flax as his only point of reference and knowledge. Just before we reached his stop, however, he straightened and remembered that the flat-topped evergreens dotting the countryside in little clusters were a western American breed, brought across by gold seekers in one of the great rushes of the 19th century. Look closely, he said, and you are guaranteed to find an old chimney, foundation, or fence post under these windblown markers. My head spun with treasure hunts and mapping plans, whirligigged around by this invaluable nugget of information. I walked quickly in excitement, and did not notice for too long that the old man had stopped behind me, out of breath and staring up at the close southern sun. That sun and his conversational exertion had taken their toll on my new friend, and he sat down in the flax to wait for his wife and chariot. I thanked him for his willingness to share and his deep love of the world, held his hand firmly in my own, and left the panting grandfather to recover his strength in the breeze. My companions were far ahead and almost to the beachroad's entrance, and I took long strides to catch up.
Sandlfy beach is not named after an insect. The great sweeping dunes funneled inward by two cliff faces nearly perpendicular to the water attested to the etymology of the place, as did the stinging bite of airborne beach. The winds here were strong, polydirectional, and constant. We took off our boots after the three hour morning hike and let wrinkled feet sink into something even softer than Smartwool. Every time I looked back at my friends a new piece of clothing had been removed, a wider smile graced their faces. We reached the water and were blown to the southern edge of the beach, away from the small clumps of tourists wandering along the calmer northern sands. I began to remove everything but my synthetic longjohns, unsure as to the acceptability of skin on public beaches here. Amanda and Matt showed no such reservation as they stripped naked and dove right in to the southern Pacific surf. I followed on my own time, ignoring their rather high-pitched warnings that sounded something like “oh my holy crap it's colder than a yeti's junk out here!” The waves were indeed cold, but in such a way as to bring a new awareness of life and living into me. My breath was shocked out of me, and I knew my lungs intimately. The muscles in my arms and legs contracted violently, and I knew my force and strength. My groin burned with cold and I knew what my body would do to protect its potential for life-making. The waves struck me and I knew what was real in me, what was vital.
I left the water after a spell, when my inner legs began telling me that I would never have children. I was staring ahead at the cliffs and thinking when one of the rocks began to move, and rolled over its flabby mass. I smiled at the sleepy sea lion, and watched him shuffle into a new sunlit spot with all the apparent haste of a glacier. His cliffs seemed sunny and beckoning, and I decided to find such a bed as my friend had found to dry off. Slowly and with the utmost caution I began to scale the rocks, pumice-like dark stone slowly etched by sandblast winds. The thousands of little pockmarks provided a perfect purchase, and I found a half-foot wide ledge a few metres up. The shelf continued to my left, towards the sea, for what seemed a long time.
I have always had trouble ignoring the vectors of nature, the beckoning lines and arrows. So much of the world begs to be followed and explored; so much of the world has evolved randomly, through so much uncaring natural process, to form tailored human highways. That thousands of years of wind, wave, and rock would carve a ledge so well fit to my feet negated debate, and I followed. Twenty, thirty feet I crept out across over the surf, fingers and toes intimately connected with the nuanced stone beneath. My little road reached its culdesac and I followed the order to retreat, tempted though I was to scale higher. I inched back along the ledge, feeling the sun and wind dry my skin and bake Sandfly Beach into my bones. I had reached my starting point, was looking for an easy path down, and then my right foot was gone from the wall.
For a long instant my weight lay on my hands, pinning me crosslike to the cliff on splayed arms as my feet swung out above the sand. Then my soft schoolwork digits lost the wall, and I slid down twisting and straining for purchase. I was so aware of my every square inch of surface in that time, aware of my side and back against the cheesegrater rocks, aware of my right heel's brutal touchdown on some outthrust point and the weightlessness of free air as I pinwheeled away from the face. Every moment was a snapshot, a series of crystal clear feeling-photographs held out at a distance for me to view even as my head and shoulders struck the wet sand and I rolled backwards onto my feet. I staggered up and questioned reality to its core, until a distant “Holy S*&%!!” rebuilt my crumbling faith in the moment.
Mat stood 20 metres away, semi-smile of disbelief and tentative hope glued onto his tightly drawn cheeks. I could tell, even from that distance, that he was stuck somewhere between the joy of my still-breathing state and the fear that must still have its roots thrust into his heart from the seconds previous. I walked towards him as steadily as I could, convinced in my mind that I needed to assuage his fears and convince him of my health. At the moment of his prophetic exclamation I had become convinced that my role was that of the capable explorer, the unshakeable leader. I was hurt, I knew that. Or did I? Perhaps I am alright, unharmed by the dictate of some foreign grace? I must be, I must...
I looked down at my hands, and saw the blood pooling in little moon-craters. There was sand and seaweed in the wounds, maybe the only thing keeping the blood from overflowing onto the beach. My right hip was devoid of flesh, and every step revealed some subcutaneous movement that I neither recognized nor cared for. My chest was splashed with small scratches and large bloodsand patches. And my back reeeeaaally hurt.
All of this in the few steps to Mat's expectant pose, all of this just in time to raise my hand palm-up to my friend and say,
“I'm sorry”
Mat laughed hesitantly,
“That was, uh, quite the fall there bud. Scared me a little.”
“Y-yeah, pretty stupid I guess. I think I am alright though? Is my back...?”
“Yeah, no, I mean, you got it pretty good.”
“Bleeding?”
“Not too mu- yeah, I mean, it's not BLEEDING bleeding.”
There was one wound here that I had never felt before in my life, could not place. Somewhere in the fall I had severed the tendon that linked my thoughts to my speech. I wanted so badly to tell him that it wasn't that bad, that I was okay, that Wow, the sun is fantastically bright right now and that seems to be making me a little dizzy but it's okay because I am a strong young lad and this shouldn't affect our trip at all and I believe that the proper course of action would be to go clean my wounds in the sea (saltwater, quite good for this type of thing you know, read it in all types of books as a child) and though I am perhaps a little worried by these wounds in my hands that oh my, look, they are starting to overflow their little basins and bubble off across my arm, how beautifully that red juxtaposes with the joyful green of the seaweed, wait, what was I saying about the sea, oh yes!
“Uuuuuh... gonna go wash off now.”
My foolishness seemed immaculate, impossible, perfect in its destruction of my plans and intentions. I cursed myself hardily for the first few steps towards the water until I forgot what I was cursing about and realized that the contrast was slowly seeping away from the sundrenched colors of my world. The sand was becoming the cliff was becoming the sky, and the only entity that retained its individuality in this bleeding storm was the diamondbright sea, sparkling hard and sharp and filling my horizon. I began to fear the flint waves, began to feel the cold mineral sheets razor through my hand and hip and back with a terrifying lack of care. For a moment I almost stopped, almost sat down in the sand to cry and hold my knees. But something in me reflected the hardness of that glass pool, and held my movement rigid as it told me that unshakeable leaders braved silly salt stings.
I waded into the surf and for a moment didn't even remember that I was supposed to be cold. The water was less hard in person, and even as I lay back into the waves its little razors seemed dull and distant. I realized that nowhere did my body hurt sharply; it instead merely ached dully all over, a winter's apathy rather than a breakup's rage. I picked myself up out of the sea and turned back towards Mat's distant form, lost slightly in the dying outlines of this strange world. I walked towards him, and every step brought me deeper into the fade. I realized that without the sea to guide me I could not distinguish anything in this sparkling, off-tan world. The contrast continued to equalize, the borders continued to dissolve, and suddenly the different shades of brown began to dance with one another, crossing outlines to mingle with their neighbors. The sand and sky amalgamating, I grew afraid that I would lose track of their position and fall into one or the other, so I decided to sit down. The comforting earth warmed my back as I lay, but not enough to tie my body back into physical reality. Indeed, at this moment the broken lines that used to separate things, and now frolicked through the muddy background, decided to reassemble. They drew great columns and fluted spires, vague peopleforms and roaring beasts. I saw faces I could have known forever or perhaps just met, and they leaned in close to disappear just before the secrets came. Brown turned to black in the world around me, and the lines inverted into a blinding light, new forms wreathed in flame. These angels or demons filled my vision, tested my will, drove home their great swo-
“SAM! SAM!!!! SAAAAAMMM!!!!”
I opened my eyes, and there was no hint of smile left on Mat's face.
“You passed out, dude. I thought you were just resting your eyes or something, but then you wouldn't wake up when I called you name. I yelled for help... you want some water dude?”
I nodded. Vigorously.
I took the water bottle and gulped furiously. I felt my back sting mightily, and realized that I had lain backwards in the sand, filling my 'not BLEEDING bleeding' back with a million little pieces of our none-too-benevolent microscopic earth. Damn.
Amanda walked over, and Mat explained the situation.
“I thought you were joking when you called for help. Jesus.”
“Can you walk me to the water, please? I need to clean off some more. Also, Mat, if you could go grab Sam and ask him to call his Kiwihost, I think I should get out of here. I am so sorry, guys.”
Amanda walked me to the sea, and held my hand as I dipped backwards into the water. This time it hurt. She asked for warning if I intended to faint again, since she wouldn't be able to catch all six and a third feet of me should I fall. I told her that wouldn't be necessary, and it wasn't.
We gathered our things, and the others waited as I gingerly tied my boots with my aching hands. Sand covered my whole body and drove stinging into my cuts as we climbed high and far to the carpark, and begged an old Australian couple for a ride. They dropped us off at Buskin Road, and we waited a long time in wailing winds for Derek and his girlfriend to arrive. Mat and Amanda went to fish out the stashed gear, and Sam rode with me back into town.
The nurse was gentle as she could be with the brushes as she scoured my wounds, and nicer than I deserved. We chatted about Minnesota, Dunedin, the Peninsula, and ice hockey. She gave me her email and phone number, inviting to her home for dinner. She also told me that her husband was a vet on the Peninsula, and that he would surely take me out on a cruise to meet the penguins and sea lions we had missed in my tumble. I hugged her before I left, and she forgot the wounds she had just tended in order to squeeze me as hard as she could. I believe she thought the tears that came to eyes were from some deep personal connection and not the phenomenal pain of a bearhug on my broken skin, and I truly hope that she thinks so to this day. Derek drove me home, dropped me off with a few encouraging words.
I sat down at my computer and began to write.
I awoke sharp and aware. The violent battle against soft comfort that usually marks my mornings had been won days before when I decided to set out on this excursion, decided to outnumber comfort hopelessly with fresh scenery and the siren call of waves. Amanda and Sam had been up for some time before me, running along the ridges and greeting the sun. Our chatter (and more specifically my thunderous, sputtering laugh) drew Mat from slumber slightly less subtly than his windowtapping had drawn me the morning before. We were happy, and the swift actions that pulled down our tents and brought food to our mouths spoke to that early joy. Our little pine castle was too good to dismiss, and with the prospect of endless exploration available in the mere few miles adjacent to us along the shore we knew that we wanted to return here for our second night. I stashed my pack under cover near a brushtail possum's grisly den and hung a bright green streamstained nalgene above it for future reference.
To hike packless the day after a 7 hour, 60 pound trek is like stepping out of a punk show at the House of Blues on a barely Spring night, when the mere difference in atmospheric pressure can heal bruises and compacted ribs alike. I half-leaped down the hillsides, and only but wished that I could full-leap and reach the sands in a single bound. We knew that Boulder Beach was closed to the public for another week, but we had seen tiny surfers on the waves in evening's glow and wanted very deeply to field-test the freedom that this new country claimed to offer. We reached the fence that separated us from the ocean, and had begun to shift our caterpillar collective across the barrier when an unquestioning voice behind us asked whether we were aware of the beach's closure. I was sure as I turned that we were facing an Authority, and that these islanders did indeed have some preternatural ability to sense the spoiling of their shores as I had deeply dreamed. Instead we faced an old man, just crossing the fence into frailty, a wizened resident in a red raincoat. We mumbled softly and guiltily as we clambered back over onto the track, and you could see even through the sunglasses that his eyes softened at our chastened tail-lowering.
“Sandfly Beach is just down the track here, should you take a right at the carpark. Sea lions, penguins, it's beautiful and open as well.”
Our eyes relit and our tails took up a tentative wag as we questioned the direction and excellence of this new goal. We traded glances and nods, reassured ourselves of the path, and set off again just a half-step less pleased with ourselves. I felt a small shiver run through me, and silently cursed the old meddler for stopping us, sure that Boulder Beach had held our hearts ransom these last 13 hours for a reason. I shook my head and scolded those negative thoughts, dropping behind the group to talk with our elderly Caution Sign in penance.
I asked after his origins and his home, which he somehow managed to morph into a diatribe against the prevalence of alcohol abuse amongst Otago students. As I expressed agreeance and sympathy with his plight I saw his mouthcorners turn up, and the pace of his walking and speech increased. He had lived in Dunedin his whole life, and seemed to equate the turning of the city's tides with the arrival of new University chancellors. The most recent chancellor had encouraged Otago's reputation as a party school, even going so far as to court the local brewery into sponsoring freshman orientation. The resulting Bachannalianism drew rich private school yups to the Pride of the Southlands, assured that they would receive a degree with the smallest possible effort and the largest hangover. I was absolutely sincere in my words as I decried this trend, tricked as I had been by the reputation of the University. My school in the States had shouted forth only the quality of Otago's geography program, and the availability of outdoor adventure. Now I was finding not only these but a horde of wife-beater clad young men firmly ensconced on front porches, with a beer or twelve firmly ensconced in each hand. Many of my fellow internationals had done their research a little more thoroughly and made the informed decision to come party hard at Otago, and many had already sent home for more brewmoney. Sharing these tales with my walking companion drew him out of his well-worn lecturer's shell and I saw him for what he was, a large heart with too many loves and cares, constantly scared that the beautiful youth around him would scar itself too deeply and scar him in the process.
I could not give up the opportunity to search for pearls while the shell was open, and immediately pressed in for information on my surroundings. He chuckled a little as he admitted his ignorance, pointing out the ubiquitous roadside flax as his only point of reference and knowledge. Just before we reached his stop, however, he straightened and remembered that the flat-topped evergreens dotting the countryside in little clusters were a western American breed, brought across by gold seekers in one of the great rushes of the 19th century. Look closely, he said, and you are guaranteed to find an old chimney, foundation, or fence post under these windblown markers. My head spun with treasure hunts and mapping plans, whirligigged around by this invaluable nugget of information. I walked quickly in excitement, and did not notice for too long that the old man had stopped behind me, out of breath and staring up at the close southern sun. That sun and his conversational exertion had taken their toll on my new friend, and he sat down in the flax to wait for his wife and chariot. I thanked him for his willingness to share and his deep love of the world, held his hand firmly in my own, and left the panting grandfather to recover his strength in the breeze. My companions were far ahead and almost to the beachroad's entrance, and I took long strides to catch up.
Sandlfy beach is not named after an insect. The great sweeping dunes funneled inward by two cliff faces nearly perpendicular to the water attested to the etymology of the place, as did the stinging bite of airborne beach. The winds here were strong, polydirectional, and constant. We took off our boots after the three hour morning hike and let wrinkled feet sink into something even softer than Smartwool. Every time I looked back at my friends a new piece of clothing had been removed, a wider smile graced their faces. We reached the water and were blown to the southern edge of the beach, away from the small clumps of tourists wandering along the calmer northern sands. I began to remove everything but my synthetic longjohns, unsure as to the acceptability of skin on public beaches here. Amanda and Matt showed no such reservation as they stripped naked and dove right in to the southern Pacific surf. I followed on my own time, ignoring their rather high-pitched warnings that sounded something like “oh my holy crap it's colder than a yeti's junk out here!” The waves were indeed cold, but in such a way as to bring a new awareness of life and living into me. My breath was shocked out of me, and I knew my lungs intimately. The muscles in my arms and legs contracted violently, and I knew my force and strength. My groin burned with cold and I knew what my body would do to protect its potential for life-making. The waves struck me and I knew what was real in me, what was vital.
I left the water after a spell, when my inner legs began telling me that I would never have children. I was staring ahead at the cliffs and thinking when one of the rocks began to move, and rolled over its flabby mass. I smiled at the sleepy sea lion, and watched him shuffle into a new sunlit spot with all the apparent haste of a glacier. His cliffs seemed sunny and beckoning, and I decided to find such a bed as my friend had found to dry off. Slowly and with the utmost caution I began to scale the rocks, pumice-like dark stone slowly etched by sandblast winds. The thousands of little pockmarks provided a perfect purchase, and I found a half-foot wide ledge a few metres up. The shelf continued to my left, towards the sea, for what seemed a long time.
I have always had trouble ignoring the vectors of nature, the beckoning lines and arrows. So much of the world begs to be followed and explored; so much of the world has evolved randomly, through so much uncaring natural process, to form tailored human highways. That thousands of years of wind, wave, and rock would carve a ledge so well fit to my feet negated debate, and I followed. Twenty, thirty feet I crept out across over the surf, fingers and toes intimately connected with the nuanced stone beneath. My little road reached its culdesac and I followed the order to retreat, tempted though I was to scale higher. I inched back along the ledge, feeling the sun and wind dry my skin and bake Sandfly Beach into my bones. I had reached my starting point, was looking for an easy path down, and then my right foot was gone from the wall.
For a long instant my weight lay on my hands, pinning me crosslike to the cliff on splayed arms as my feet swung out above the sand. Then my soft schoolwork digits lost the wall, and I slid down twisting and straining for purchase. I was so aware of my every square inch of surface in that time, aware of my side and back against the cheesegrater rocks, aware of my right heel's brutal touchdown on some outthrust point and the weightlessness of free air as I pinwheeled away from the face. Every moment was a snapshot, a series of crystal clear feeling-photographs held out at a distance for me to view even as my head and shoulders struck the wet sand and I rolled backwards onto my feet. I staggered up and questioned reality to its core, until a distant “Holy S*&%!!” rebuilt my crumbling faith in the moment.
Mat stood 20 metres away, semi-smile of disbelief and tentative hope glued onto his tightly drawn cheeks. I could tell, even from that distance, that he was stuck somewhere between the joy of my still-breathing state and the fear that must still have its roots thrust into his heart from the seconds previous. I walked towards him as steadily as I could, convinced in my mind that I needed to assuage his fears and convince him of my health. At the moment of his prophetic exclamation I had become convinced that my role was that of the capable explorer, the unshakeable leader. I was hurt, I knew that. Or did I? Perhaps I am alright, unharmed by the dictate of some foreign grace? I must be, I must...
I looked down at my hands, and saw the blood pooling in little moon-craters. There was sand and seaweed in the wounds, maybe the only thing keeping the blood from overflowing onto the beach. My right hip was devoid of flesh, and every step revealed some subcutaneous movement that I neither recognized nor cared for. My chest was splashed with small scratches and large bloodsand patches. And my back reeeeaaally hurt.
All of this in the few steps to Mat's expectant pose, all of this just in time to raise my hand palm-up to my friend and say,
“I'm sorry”
Mat laughed hesitantly,
“That was, uh, quite the fall there bud. Scared me a little.”
“Y-yeah, pretty stupid I guess. I think I am alright though? Is my back...?”
“Yeah, no, I mean, you got it pretty good.”
“Bleeding?”
“Not too mu- yeah, I mean, it's not BLEEDING bleeding.”
There was one wound here that I had never felt before in my life, could not place. Somewhere in the fall I had severed the tendon that linked my thoughts to my speech. I wanted so badly to tell him that it wasn't that bad, that I was okay, that Wow, the sun is fantastically bright right now and that seems to be making me a little dizzy but it's okay because I am a strong young lad and this shouldn't affect our trip at all and I believe that the proper course of action would be to go clean my wounds in the sea (saltwater, quite good for this type of thing you know, read it in all types of books as a child) and though I am perhaps a little worried by these wounds in my hands that oh my, look, they are starting to overflow their little basins and bubble off across my arm, how beautifully that red juxtaposes with the joyful green of the seaweed, wait, what was I saying about the sea, oh yes!
“Uuuuuh... gonna go wash off now.”
My foolishness seemed immaculate, impossible, perfect in its destruction of my plans and intentions. I cursed myself hardily for the first few steps towards the water until I forgot what I was cursing about and realized that the contrast was slowly seeping away from the sundrenched colors of my world. The sand was becoming the cliff was becoming the sky, and the only entity that retained its individuality in this bleeding storm was the diamondbright sea, sparkling hard and sharp and filling my horizon. I began to fear the flint waves, began to feel the cold mineral sheets razor through my hand and hip and back with a terrifying lack of care. For a moment I almost stopped, almost sat down in the sand to cry and hold my knees. But something in me reflected the hardness of that glass pool, and held my movement rigid as it told me that unshakeable leaders braved silly salt stings.
I waded into the surf and for a moment didn't even remember that I was supposed to be cold. The water was less hard in person, and even as I lay back into the waves its little razors seemed dull and distant. I realized that nowhere did my body hurt sharply; it instead merely ached dully all over, a winter's apathy rather than a breakup's rage. I picked myself up out of the sea and turned back towards Mat's distant form, lost slightly in the dying outlines of this strange world. I walked towards him, and every step brought me deeper into the fade. I realized that without the sea to guide me I could not distinguish anything in this sparkling, off-tan world. The contrast continued to equalize, the borders continued to dissolve, and suddenly the different shades of brown began to dance with one another, crossing outlines to mingle with their neighbors. The sand and sky amalgamating, I grew afraid that I would lose track of their position and fall into one or the other, so I decided to sit down. The comforting earth warmed my back as I lay, but not enough to tie my body back into physical reality. Indeed, at this moment the broken lines that used to separate things, and now frolicked through the muddy background, decided to reassemble. They drew great columns and fluted spires, vague peopleforms and roaring beasts. I saw faces I could have known forever or perhaps just met, and they leaned in close to disappear just before the secrets came. Brown turned to black in the world around me, and the lines inverted into a blinding light, new forms wreathed in flame. These angels or demons filled my vision, tested my will, drove home their great swo-
“SAM! SAM!!!! SAAAAAMMM!!!!”
I opened my eyes, and there was no hint of smile left on Mat's face.
“You passed out, dude. I thought you were just resting your eyes or something, but then you wouldn't wake up when I called you name. I yelled for help... you want some water dude?”
I nodded. Vigorously.
I took the water bottle and gulped furiously. I felt my back sting mightily, and realized that I had lain backwards in the sand, filling my 'not BLEEDING bleeding' back with a million little pieces of our none-too-benevolent microscopic earth. Damn.
Amanda walked over, and Mat explained the situation.
“I thought you were joking when you called for help. Jesus.”
“Can you walk me to the water, please? I need to clean off some more. Also, Mat, if you could go grab Sam and ask him to call his Kiwihost, I think I should get out of here. I am so sorry, guys.”
Amanda walked me to the sea, and held my hand as I dipped backwards into the water. This time it hurt. She asked for warning if I intended to faint again, since she wouldn't be able to catch all six and a third feet of me should I fall. I told her that wouldn't be necessary, and it wasn't.
We gathered our things, and the others waited as I gingerly tied my boots with my aching hands. Sand covered my whole body and drove stinging into my cuts as we climbed high and far to the carpark, and begged an old Australian couple for a ride. They dropped us off at Buskin Road, and we waited a long time in wailing winds for Derek and his girlfriend to arrive. Mat and Amanda went to fish out the stashed gear, and Sam rode with me back into town.
The nurse was gentle as she could be with the brushes as she scoured my wounds, and nicer than I deserved. We chatted about Minnesota, Dunedin, the Peninsula, and ice hockey. She gave me her email and phone number, inviting to her home for dinner. She also told me that her husband was a vet on the Peninsula, and that he would surely take me out on a cruise to meet the penguins and sea lions we had missed in my tumble. I hugged her before I left, and she forgot the wounds she had just tended in order to squeeze me as hard as she could. I believe she thought the tears that came to eyes were from some deep personal connection and not the phenomenal pain of a bearhug on my broken skin, and I truly hope that she thinks so to this day. Derek drove me home, dropped me off with a few encouraging words.
I sat down at my computer and began to write.
Saturday, 26 February 2011
Looking Backwards Pt. 2: Meeting the Sea
We had finally left behind the sardined buildings of the city proper, and were faced with the infinitely more palatable (though by no means ideal) open stretches of wool-dotted greenfields. Highcliff Road is a slender young thing, thin and wisping as it meanders across the peninsula's peak. The lack of sidewalk forced us to keep our eyes ever forwards, trained ahead for any sign of the speeding automobiles that would not give us the time of even a single waterfowl. Combined with the ever-present uphill slope, this forced ocular determination turned our ramble into a journey, a quest, a search for the next horizon. I let the fantasia take over my mind, and surrendered my thoughts to the pumping rhythm that pushed me ever forward. Before I left my home in St. Paul I had begun to consider the possibility of meditative walking, the transformation of backpacking into an exercise in focus and wellbeing. Any thought of such a spiritual awakening was forced from my mind upon entrance, however, as the drill sargent of purpose levied strict marching orders at every intrusion. Right leg, left leg, right leg, left. Rest step on the steep bits, let the leg lock and the bones relieve my muscles' strain. Long strides, feel the thigh burn... and push off again. I was a a machine, a robot with but a single programmed purpose, the physical embodiment of God's great walking concept. Looking behind me I realized that my comrades were sweating and panting solidly behind me, less robots than fresh recruits toiling in fear behind that strictest commander, a fear of shame.
I slowed my pace slightly, scolded myself, and determined that I would no longer give in to the destination poltergeist just as we reached our luncheon spot, the Soldier's Monument. Situated high atop the ridge on a massive stone foundation all its own, this towering statue stands watch over the bay and city of Dunedin, a tribute to the brave souls that died to protect someone's interests in bloody foreign escapades. Here, then, was my master and commander, the leader of my platoon of one. I sensed a spirit in this place, a little malevolence or perhaps a great one buried deep. I had failed to consider my companions or even my own dreams on this stretch of journey, enslaved as I was to these ghosts of the always running horizon, the ghosts that brought countless men and women sweating up these slopes. I stared down the empty, eyeless face of the soldier past and rejected his place over my conscience, turned the spirits back to their purposeless resting places. Perhaps it was that these soldiers could not understand what purpose they had died for, were left wondering at the end why they had chosen to keep thrusting their way up the ridge when the horizon never seemed to get any closer. But I digress.
Our lunch finished and my awareness regained, the remainder of our day passed in lightly springing gaiety, a hobbit's trek through the merry realms of this evergreen county. We stopped to take photographs of the stunning hills, asked in on an ancient old lady who sold beautiful handknit sweaters from her 19th century home, and laughingly forswore the use of our little map in favor of intuition, memory, and gut. Finally our turn appeared, the legendary Buskin Road, a gate swinging wide to our holy grail: undeveloped public land. We dropped for the first time off of our beloved ridge and swung round a hedge into the most beautiful landscape my eyes have yet been given the privilege. A carefree dirt track laughed its way through long grass and spearpurple thistles, great Californian evergreens and hedgehog brush as it kissed the hillsides on its way to the polished stone Pacific. A series of sharply drawn breaths marked our collective wonder at the sight. We were standing, freshly drawn and unsmudged, at some ancient painter's favorite dream of the world's edge.
The trek continued down through the path that we assumed would stop on the white sands of Boulder Beach. We sat for a long time in the tall grass of the hillside, silence scattered with a few languid statements like stones long settled in a meadow. The lack of words was made powerful by the massive aesthetic around us, the overwhelming beauty that left no doubt in one's mind as to the thoughts of the others. This has always been one of my favorite parts of wilderness travel, the breaking down of barriers between otherwise socially aware people. When it was time to rise we rose, and continued until we realized that our companion the track was leading us up onto the beachside cliffs, away from the comforting sands below.
Faced with a potentially setting sun and a fear of illegal campsites we decided to drop our packs, explore the elevated rock formations, and find a good tentpad back along the trail somewhere. The burden of our loads removed we floated a little, each person drifting to a spot of their own like dandelion seeds free of their head. I watched the others take their places on rocks and ledges, knees pulled tight into arms as they stared off into the sea. I laughed at the sight, an Indie stereotype, even as I was taken aback by their earnestness and lack of pretensions. I wanted so badly to understand the sea as they were perhaps understanding it, to let my mind wander in body's stillness, but I couldn't. Making as little noise as my awkwardity would allow I hopped on half-buried boulders through the thistle fields, and pulled myself up a slope to explore a set of bubbling rock outcroppings. After a full day of uphill trekking I found my drive towards motion hard to believe, but some part of me craved the mental emptiness of such physical maneuvering. The last semester of school had been an exercise in unbridled cranial output for me, and all such exertions require a counterpoint lest they overbalance the scale permanently.
We all remembered the glorious old pine that bent its body rooflike over fine rich dirt, and remembered that it lay but a few moments' walk back along the track. When we returned from the cliffside we found it even more perfect imbued with purpose, as every jutting branch became a hanger and every pile of overturned debris revealed more matresslike loam beneath. We spread out our tents and then spread out our food, both subjects full of bright color and inviting warmth. Two pieces of slightly crumpled wheat bread each, layered first with a coating of glass-jar fullgrain mustard. As the group 'starded their bread I unfolded my leatherman and sliced thick rounds off two ripe tomatoes and a young avocado, then gently unwrapped our muscle-builder; dense, dry salami. A can of brined beans and the cheese wedge crumbling open for consumption, and we were ready to feast. I love the abandon with which hikers dive headfirst into a dinner, the same lack of social grace that overtook us on the seaside hills. Food is a magnificent aesthetic itself, a fulfillment of nearly every sense and our great deep desires, capable of reducing even the tidiest king to a mere animal like the rest of us. As dinner ended we unwrapped the greatest treasure from our packs: a winebottle of coal-black New Zealand stout, purchased two days before in a small ale boutique and refrigerated in frozen vegetables for this very moment. We walked back out onto the track and slowly uncapped the bottle, savoring the subtle flavors of the thick-bodied beer with what remained of the cheese. The textures and nuances of the brew began to blend seemlessly with the soft light of the approaching night, and all great aesthetics became one as the sun set over behind the hills and withdrew its light from the aleblack sea. We headed to our tents for a short game of euchre and slept as soon as our heads hit our pillows.
I slowed my pace slightly, scolded myself, and determined that I would no longer give in to the destination poltergeist just as we reached our luncheon spot, the Soldier's Monument. Situated high atop the ridge on a massive stone foundation all its own, this towering statue stands watch over the bay and city of Dunedin, a tribute to the brave souls that died to protect someone's interests in bloody foreign escapades. Here, then, was my master and commander, the leader of my platoon of one. I sensed a spirit in this place, a little malevolence or perhaps a great one buried deep. I had failed to consider my companions or even my own dreams on this stretch of journey, enslaved as I was to these ghosts of the always running horizon, the ghosts that brought countless men and women sweating up these slopes. I stared down the empty, eyeless face of the soldier past and rejected his place over my conscience, turned the spirits back to their purposeless resting places. Perhaps it was that these soldiers could not understand what purpose they had died for, were left wondering at the end why they had chosen to keep thrusting their way up the ridge when the horizon never seemed to get any closer. But I digress.
Our lunch finished and my awareness regained, the remainder of our day passed in lightly springing gaiety, a hobbit's trek through the merry realms of this evergreen county. We stopped to take photographs of the stunning hills, asked in on an ancient old lady who sold beautiful handknit sweaters from her 19th century home, and laughingly forswore the use of our little map in favor of intuition, memory, and gut. Finally our turn appeared, the legendary Buskin Road, a gate swinging wide to our holy grail: undeveloped public land. We dropped for the first time off of our beloved ridge and swung round a hedge into the most beautiful landscape my eyes have yet been given the privilege. A carefree dirt track laughed its way through long grass and spearpurple thistles, great Californian evergreens and hedgehog brush as it kissed the hillsides on its way to the polished stone Pacific. A series of sharply drawn breaths marked our collective wonder at the sight. We were standing, freshly drawn and unsmudged, at some ancient painter's favorite dream of the world's edge.
The trek continued down through the path that we assumed would stop on the white sands of Boulder Beach. We sat for a long time in the tall grass of the hillside, silence scattered with a few languid statements like stones long settled in a meadow. The lack of words was made powerful by the massive aesthetic around us, the overwhelming beauty that left no doubt in one's mind as to the thoughts of the others. This has always been one of my favorite parts of wilderness travel, the breaking down of barriers between otherwise socially aware people. When it was time to rise we rose, and continued until we realized that our companion the track was leading us up onto the beachside cliffs, away from the comforting sands below.
Faced with a potentially setting sun and a fear of illegal campsites we decided to drop our packs, explore the elevated rock formations, and find a good tentpad back along the trail somewhere. The burden of our loads removed we floated a little, each person drifting to a spot of their own like dandelion seeds free of their head. I watched the others take their places on rocks and ledges, knees pulled tight into arms as they stared off into the sea. I laughed at the sight, an Indie stereotype, even as I was taken aback by their earnestness and lack of pretensions. I wanted so badly to understand the sea as they were perhaps understanding it, to let my mind wander in body's stillness, but I couldn't. Making as little noise as my awkwardity would allow I hopped on half-buried boulders through the thistle fields, and pulled myself up a slope to explore a set of bubbling rock outcroppings. After a full day of uphill trekking I found my drive towards motion hard to believe, but some part of me craved the mental emptiness of such physical maneuvering. The last semester of school had been an exercise in unbridled cranial output for me, and all such exertions require a counterpoint lest they overbalance the scale permanently.
We all remembered the glorious old pine that bent its body rooflike over fine rich dirt, and remembered that it lay but a few moments' walk back along the track. When we returned from the cliffside we found it even more perfect imbued with purpose, as every jutting branch became a hanger and every pile of overturned debris revealed more matresslike loam beneath. We spread out our tents and then spread out our food, both subjects full of bright color and inviting warmth. Two pieces of slightly crumpled wheat bread each, layered first with a coating of glass-jar fullgrain mustard. As the group 'starded their bread I unfolded my leatherman and sliced thick rounds off two ripe tomatoes and a young avocado, then gently unwrapped our muscle-builder; dense, dry salami. A can of brined beans and the cheese wedge crumbling open for consumption, and we were ready to feast. I love the abandon with which hikers dive headfirst into a dinner, the same lack of social grace that overtook us on the seaside hills. Food is a magnificent aesthetic itself, a fulfillment of nearly every sense and our great deep desires, capable of reducing even the tidiest king to a mere animal like the rest of us. As dinner ended we unwrapped the greatest treasure from our packs: a winebottle of coal-black New Zealand stout, purchased two days before in a small ale boutique and refrigerated in frozen vegetables for this very moment. We walked back out onto the track and slowly uncapped the bottle, savoring the subtle flavors of the thick-bodied beer with what remained of the cheese. The textures and nuances of the brew began to blend seemlessly with the soft light of the approaching night, and all great aesthetics became one as the sun set over behind the hills and withdrew its light from the aleblack sea. We headed to our tents for a short game of euchre and slept as soon as our heads hit our pillows.
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
Sunday, 20 February 2011
Looking Backwards Pt. 1: Leaving Dunedin
The last 10 days have been an ever-accelerating rush of experience; a tangle of motions, words, and places that leaves me unsure if I could ever organize such a mass, and whether any amount of writing could do it justice. Since I created this damn blog of my own volition, however, I have erased any excuse not to attempt a summation, and thus summarize I will. I think I will begin with what is freshest on my mind and body, and what I can feel most freshly right now are my wounds.
Two mornings ago I awoke to a light tapping outside my window, and stretched my way out of sleep to the sight of Mat Grewe standing full-smirk above and behind my pillow. Through a series of busynesses, failed attempts, and apathies I had avoided purchasing any sort of time telling device for the first week of my stay here, and as such required either sunlight or flesh and blood to stir me from a night's rest. Mat left my window with a flick of his finger towards my sliding-glass back door, and I tossed my covers aside to don the synthetic mess I call "Trail Clothes." I hustled through my bedroom door, turned the two corners necessary to unlatch a lock and invite Mat inside, and sat down at my kitchen table to shake dream stuff out of my head. Mat was his standard relaxed, businesslike self as he cracked eight eggs into a fry pan and plugged in the toaster.
Few things are more unnerving than waking up at the behest of someone already well removed from the separate reality of sleep. An almost childlike helplessness raged inside me, furious that I could not even coordinate the filling of a water bottle when Mat was creating a masterpiece breakfast in my own kitchen, in front of my own cobwebbed face. Perhaps this helps explain the prevalence of coffee in our society; a steaming black equalizer that erases the cobwebs and sweeps the halls without requiring even the strength to hold a broom.
Without coffee the process is slower, but inevitably more thorough and lasting. As Mat set two steaming plates of cheesy eggs, peanut butter toast and fresh banana on the table I relaxed and for the first time noticed the hard grey light of the sky sinking into the ground, and the heavy tang of low-hung clouds.
"Perfect hiking weather" I mumbled through a mouthful of potential chicken.
"Yup."
A knock on the back door brought my ever-increasing attention to two slightly more eager and anxious faces, framed by the freshly bought packs that hugged their backs on vaguely tilted axes. A single lunging, lanky step brought my outstretched hand to the doorknob, and a light flick of that extended wrist beckoned the lad and lass into my living room.
Samuel Beecher and Amanda Huels removed their loads and sat down tenderly on the couch facing the kitchen table. They were nervous for slightly different reasons, with a surprisingly similar effect. Sam is a man new to this world, born afresh quite recently into a light far brighter than the one that had guided his path for a lifetime. Amanda is an old hand in the universe of nature, insight, and labor, but as a self-invited and late addition to our group she carried with her the social anxiety that will deeply color communication and connection. They carried the tension on their faces in nervous smiles, on their bodies in tiny repeated motions, and most haltingly in their speech.
Mat revealed no such physical excitement, but his opacity may well be legendary some day. Shoulder length dark hair pulled tightly back from his forehead by a headband, he continued eating, seemingly undisturbed by the entrance of our comrades or their palpable discomfort.
I leaned forward and increased the pace of my consumption, hoping to avoid the expectant glances and half-business small talk that will forever mark the first mornings of wilderness journeys. With tumbling hills and swelling oceans so close at hand, the mind is pulled in too many directions to make full sense of its man-made surroundings. So divided, it cannot help but fall to its simplest levels, repeating the same question about proper produce packing methods thirteen times without recognizing its redundant dullness. Even now, after dozens of these first mornings, I have not the self-prescience to avoid this rambling dead-end track. I have come to accept it, to enjoy my breakfast even as my mouth's pointless mumblings should feed me only disgust. As my food diminished so too did my excuse not to engage, and with a final yawn and stretch I rose from the table and faced down the three that would join me on my first overnight tramp into the New Zealand bush.
Our plan was simple, impossibly difficult to screw up. We would walk Southwest through the city along the bay, round its watery corner, and trek upwards onto the ridge that would lead us into the heart of the Otago peninsula. Dropping down off of the ridge we would follow a track to the shore, and along that shore through public land find a beachfront home for the evening. Our packs laden heavy with fine food, all-weather clothes, sparkling new gear and filled water bottles, the glory of that first step out of my kitchen onto Leith Street Central tied our hearts together nearly imperceptibly, intangible but for the subtle tug in your chest should you stray too far from the shining halo that surrounded your mates. We were immutably together as of that moment, as distinct from the 100,000 people that surrounded us as the sea from the shore. We knew that our destinies relied on the destinies of our friends, that any slip, any tumble would cost us each as dearly as the tumbler. Amanda carried my sustenance on her back as I carried her shelter. Mat's steady, unwavering strides set the pace for Sam's feet as surely as Sam's little basking pauses pulled us from within ourselves to view the world anew. And the joy and openness that we all shared was a perfect and impenetrable barrier against fear, worry, or darkness; we all knew that to let darkness in would be a personal weakness and a full group evil, a sin against the entirety of our journey.
Thus entwined, thus together, we floated through the farmer's market aloof and detached, an entity apart from the individuals and their collective throng. The nerves had burned off of Amanda and Sam as surely as mist in the morning sun, metabolized quickly by the simple enzyme of direct motion. A block of sheep's milk cheese to accompany our dinner, a fruitless search for pomegranates, a trip to the old railway depot's bathroom, and we left behind the faceless crowd. The steel rails of the train tracks pointed us towards the tapering end of the bay, begging to be followed nearly as insistently as their accompanying signs ordered us to stay away. Such a beautiful straight line, protected and directed towards our destination as surely as though made for our feet. Land, space, freedom all removed by a simple grant, by the fear of liability. We should have been free to run this land, set our heavy footprints in paint among the thousands of others past and present that certainly strode this perfect seaside route. But the easy path was already claimed, and the selfishness of space-claiming is like no other selfishness on earth.
So we followed a route more dangerous and less beautiful, a sometimes sidewalk along furniture stores and under raised concrete roads, a walk that jarred our overburdened knees and rattled the contents of our packs. Just before the road veered off towards the peninsula, towards freedom and unimpaired sightlines, a dark shadow plunged into the road, violent and unstoppable. The offending shadow was a cormorant fresh off the bay, regal and suicidal, a grumpy old Lear with nothing left to live for. He sat in the middle of the road, unperturbed even as a full size LandRover nudged slowly forward, attempting to dislodge him. He slowly turned his head towards the monstrosity and gave it a vicious peck, appalled at the gall of the modern intruder. Had not this bird known these lands for centuries, millenia before the toxic intruders drove him high into the hills? Was not this bay once rife with fish and squid, teeming with beasts of the sea, sky, and land? The bird gave little resistance as we picked him up and carried him back to the water, an old man teary eyed and finally resigned to a life, and death, devoid of glory. As we moved on Amanda noted the kindness of these drivers to halt their machines for such a creature, to not even honk as we removed their feathered obstacle. What kindness these humans have, to pause even for a second their journey to the petrol station!
We rounded the bay with a distinct trend towards the uphill, leaving behind us the trappings of urbanity and facing down a steep climb into the neighborhood suburbia that followed. Tightly packed houses graced the ridge on either side, obscuring our every geographical marker but elevation. Thankfully, up was enough, and climb we did through the twists and turns of cotton candy gardens and wee box houses. Bladder fit to burst after a morning of chugging Nalgenes, we asked a blonde and middle-aged woman where the nearest place to empty our tills might be. After giving us full directions to the nearest gas station (40 minutes away and across the bay) in a loud voice, she winked and pulled us in close. Looking about for unwanted observers she whispered that a park entrance could be found a few blocks up and to the left, through which one might discover a wealth of thick brush and college boy-width trees. We nodded solemnly, loudly exclaimed our intentions to reach the gas station should our innards rupture, and shot her a conspirators' smile as we marched towards the park. Bladders relieved we realized that we had reached Highcliff road, the narrow track that would lead us out into nowhere, past the fringes of civilized living. We wet our lips with the cool sea breeze, wiped our brows free of climbing sweat, and cinched our packs tight as we started towards freedom.
Two mornings ago I awoke to a light tapping outside my window, and stretched my way out of sleep to the sight of Mat Grewe standing full-smirk above and behind my pillow. Through a series of busynesses, failed attempts, and apathies I had avoided purchasing any sort of time telling device for the first week of my stay here, and as such required either sunlight or flesh and blood to stir me from a night's rest. Mat left my window with a flick of his finger towards my sliding-glass back door, and I tossed my covers aside to don the synthetic mess I call "Trail Clothes." I hustled through my bedroom door, turned the two corners necessary to unlatch a lock and invite Mat inside, and sat down at my kitchen table to shake dream stuff out of my head. Mat was his standard relaxed, businesslike self as he cracked eight eggs into a fry pan and plugged in the toaster.
Few things are more unnerving than waking up at the behest of someone already well removed from the separate reality of sleep. An almost childlike helplessness raged inside me, furious that I could not even coordinate the filling of a water bottle when Mat was creating a masterpiece breakfast in my own kitchen, in front of my own cobwebbed face. Perhaps this helps explain the prevalence of coffee in our society; a steaming black equalizer that erases the cobwebs and sweeps the halls without requiring even the strength to hold a broom.
Without coffee the process is slower, but inevitably more thorough and lasting. As Mat set two steaming plates of cheesy eggs, peanut butter toast and fresh banana on the table I relaxed and for the first time noticed the hard grey light of the sky sinking into the ground, and the heavy tang of low-hung clouds.
"Perfect hiking weather" I mumbled through a mouthful of potential chicken.
"Yup."
A knock on the back door brought my ever-increasing attention to two slightly more eager and anxious faces, framed by the freshly bought packs that hugged their backs on vaguely tilted axes. A single lunging, lanky step brought my outstretched hand to the doorknob, and a light flick of that extended wrist beckoned the lad and lass into my living room.
Samuel Beecher and Amanda Huels removed their loads and sat down tenderly on the couch facing the kitchen table. They were nervous for slightly different reasons, with a surprisingly similar effect. Sam is a man new to this world, born afresh quite recently into a light far brighter than the one that had guided his path for a lifetime. Amanda is an old hand in the universe of nature, insight, and labor, but as a self-invited and late addition to our group she carried with her the social anxiety that will deeply color communication and connection. They carried the tension on their faces in nervous smiles, on their bodies in tiny repeated motions, and most haltingly in their speech.
Mat revealed no such physical excitement, but his opacity may well be legendary some day. Shoulder length dark hair pulled tightly back from his forehead by a headband, he continued eating, seemingly undisturbed by the entrance of our comrades or their palpable discomfort.
I leaned forward and increased the pace of my consumption, hoping to avoid the expectant glances and half-business small talk that will forever mark the first mornings of wilderness journeys. With tumbling hills and swelling oceans so close at hand, the mind is pulled in too many directions to make full sense of its man-made surroundings. So divided, it cannot help but fall to its simplest levels, repeating the same question about proper produce packing methods thirteen times without recognizing its redundant dullness. Even now, after dozens of these first mornings, I have not the self-prescience to avoid this rambling dead-end track. I have come to accept it, to enjoy my breakfast even as my mouth's pointless mumblings should feed me only disgust. As my food diminished so too did my excuse not to engage, and with a final yawn and stretch I rose from the table and faced down the three that would join me on my first overnight tramp into the New Zealand bush.
Our plan was simple, impossibly difficult to screw up. We would walk Southwest through the city along the bay, round its watery corner, and trek upwards onto the ridge that would lead us into the heart of the Otago peninsula. Dropping down off of the ridge we would follow a track to the shore, and along that shore through public land find a beachfront home for the evening. Our packs laden heavy with fine food, all-weather clothes, sparkling new gear and filled water bottles, the glory of that first step out of my kitchen onto Leith Street Central tied our hearts together nearly imperceptibly, intangible but for the subtle tug in your chest should you stray too far from the shining halo that surrounded your mates. We were immutably together as of that moment, as distinct from the 100,000 people that surrounded us as the sea from the shore. We knew that our destinies relied on the destinies of our friends, that any slip, any tumble would cost us each as dearly as the tumbler. Amanda carried my sustenance on her back as I carried her shelter. Mat's steady, unwavering strides set the pace for Sam's feet as surely as Sam's little basking pauses pulled us from within ourselves to view the world anew. And the joy and openness that we all shared was a perfect and impenetrable barrier against fear, worry, or darkness; we all knew that to let darkness in would be a personal weakness and a full group evil, a sin against the entirety of our journey.
Thus entwined, thus together, we floated through the farmer's market aloof and detached, an entity apart from the individuals and their collective throng. The nerves had burned off of Amanda and Sam as surely as mist in the morning sun, metabolized quickly by the simple enzyme of direct motion. A block of sheep's milk cheese to accompany our dinner, a fruitless search for pomegranates, a trip to the old railway depot's bathroom, and we left behind the faceless crowd. The steel rails of the train tracks pointed us towards the tapering end of the bay, begging to be followed nearly as insistently as their accompanying signs ordered us to stay away. Such a beautiful straight line, protected and directed towards our destination as surely as though made for our feet. Land, space, freedom all removed by a simple grant, by the fear of liability. We should have been free to run this land, set our heavy footprints in paint among the thousands of others past and present that certainly strode this perfect seaside route. But the easy path was already claimed, and the selfishness of space-claiming is like no other selfishness on earth.
So we followed a route more dangerous and less beautiful, a sometimes sidewalk along furniture stores and under raised concrete roads, a walk that jarred our overburdened knees and rattled the contents of our packs. Just before the road veered off towards the peninsula, towards freedom and unimpaired sightlines, a dark shadow plunged into the road, violent and unstoppable. The offending shadow was a cormorant fresh off the bay, regal and suicidal, a grumpy old Lear with nothing left to live for. He sat in the middle of the road, unperturbed even as a full size LandRover nudged slowly forward, attempting to dislodge him. He slowly turned his head towards the monstrosity and gave it a vicious peck, appalled at the gall of the modern intruder. Had not this bird known these lands for centuries, millenia before the toxic intruders drove him high into the hills? Was not this bay once rife with fish and squid, teeming with beasts of the sea, sky, and land? The bird gave little resistance as we picked him up and carried him back to the water, an old man teary eyed and finally resigned to a life, and death, devoid of glory. As we moved on Amanda noted the kindness of these drivers to halt their machines for such a creature, to not even honk as we removed their feathered obstacle. What kindness these humans have, to pause even for a second their journey to the petrol station!
We rounded the bay with a distinct trend towards the uphill, leaving behind us the trappings of urbanity and facing down a steep climb into the neighborhood suburbia that followed. Tightly packed houses graced the ridge on either side, obscuring our every geographical marker but elevation. Thankfully, up was enough, and climb we did through the twists and turns of cotton candy gardens and wee box houses. Bladder fit to burst after a morning of chugging Nalgenes, we asked a blonde and middle-aged woman where the nearest place to empty our tills might be. After giving us full directions to the nearest gas station (40 minutes away and across the bay) in a loud voice, she winked and pulled us in close. Looking about for unwanted observers she whispered that a park entrance could be found a few blocks up and to the left, through which one might discover a wealth of thick brush and college boy-width trees. We nodded solemnly, loudly exclaimed our intentions to reach the gas station should our innards rupture, and shot her a conspirators' smile as we marched towards the park. Bladders relieved we realized that we had reached Highcliff road, the narrow track that would lead us out into nowhere, past the fringes of civilized living. We wet our lips with the cool sea breeze, wiped our brows free of climbing sweat, and cinched our packs tight as we started towards freedom.
Kia Ora, mate!
First and foremost I would like to apologize for my lack of contact with anyone and everyone over the last few months, and for that matter the last 20 years. I live my life in constant motion, and I live it with an eye towards love and connection. The sum of these drives is an accumulation of friends (and family members?) across the world, and a marked lack of time to keep up with them. I guess that this "weblog" is an attempt to bridge that gap, if only in a small, silly, and somewhat egotistical manner. Like a great and glorious tyrant on his island throne I wish to grant you all the privilege of feasting upon the every minute detail of my ever-so-intriguing life, one impersonally-aimed textbox at a time. Feast, my peasants, feast!
In all reality however, I hope that some of the things I have to say interest you, or that you find some connection or small joy in my life through words.
Between you and me? I am just doing this to stop the growing number of emails in my inbox with the subject line "Alive!?!?!"....
As the Kiwis say, "Kia Ora!" Welcome!
In all reality however, I hope that some of the things I have to say interest you, or that you find some connection or small joy in my life through words.
Between you and me? I am just doing this to stop the growing number of emails in my inbox with the subject line "Alive!?!?!"....
As the Kiwis say, "Kia Ora!" Welcome!
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