Right, left. Repeat if necessary.

Me thinks that the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow. 

- Henry David Thoreau

He who limps is still walking. 

-Stanislaw J. Lec

My grandmother started walking 5 miles a day when she was sixty. Now she's 93 and we don't know where the hell she is.

-Ellen DeGeneres

We committed to walking 10 000 steps a day before leaving for NZ. We kept to our pace prior to leaving and, according to our trusty pedometer, have managed about 425 000 steps in the 40 days we have been here. According to my arithmetic we have, thus far, kept to our commitment. What does your arithmetic tell you? 

And what thoughts have all this walking conjured up? And are we limping? And do WE know where the hell we are...or where we are going? 

Not many new ones; on occasion; and no and no. 

But we can talk about where we have been. 

But before we do...a word about walking in NZ. I believe we mentioned in a previous blog that walking (tramping) is a bit of a religion here. There are walking trails (tracks) EVERYWHERE! Each campsite has a map of the area and, ahead of any other point of interest, is a listing of the tracks - often an easy stroll away from the campsite. Local communities pride themselves in the tracks that are available and, judging from the conditions of the tracks we have been on, there must be an army of volunteers that maintain them.

While we have our favourites, there is not a walk that we would say we disliked. Each one has had an interesting viewpoint or hidden treasure that makes it special. Some are spectacular. Some are magnificent. And some defy description.

Today was one such example. We are in the far north of the North Island and had a short driving day ahead of us so we decided to do a short walk we read about up to St. Paul's Rock overlooking Whangorea Harbour. The description in a brochure at the campsite we were staying at was 'a short 30 minute walk to a viewpoint that looks over the harbour'. Sounded like a perfect stopover and was on the way to our final destination for the day. So, we wound our way through pastureland and along scenic coastal roads (about 30 km that took close to an hour to drive...such is NZ) to a laneway that ground us up about a kilometer of steep terrain to a 'carpark' where we saw this...

The rock was close. Certainly no more than 30 minutes away. But, I must admit, a wee bit of trepidation crept into my thoughts as I conteplated the look of the sheer cliffs that surronded St. Paul's Rock. However, nimble toes Grenier wasn't phased and started lacing up for a wee stroll up...needless to say, I kept my trepidation to myself.

So up we went. As we aproached my anxiety deepened...not sure why...

And it seemed that nimble toes may have sensed a bit of the trepidation. Being the loving wife that she is she started running ahead singing 'Gerry is a scaredy cat'...

So I started running after her to demonstrate my complete lack of fear. Which didn't help matters much as she started to scamper closer and closer to the edge of the abyss.

I took a moment to pause and collect myself. In this moment I realized that our commitment to 10 000 steps a day may be good for my health but I was getting a little worried that it may not turn out so well for my daredevil spouse. And in that moment I lost sight of her only to hear a cackling from around the corner. I mustered up all the courage I had to follow her footsteps, rounded a corner only to see this:

And to hear this: "None of that foo-foo bouldering for me, boys! Gimme a rock and I'll crush it. Who's the bad ass now!!!!"

So...now I was really worried.

As quickly as I could I navigated the precarious technical portion of this world-class scramble with the agility of a walrus and caught up to my bad-ass wife sitting at the top looking at this:

Breathtaking doesn't come anywhere close to describing the view. I stood there soaking it in when I heard nimble toes taunt "WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG OLD MAN?!?"

Needless to say, this snapped me back to reality and all the trepidation that I held for the safety of my dear, dear loved one. I calmly asked her to take the camera and snap a shot of me on the summit. She grumbled something inaudible and quickly took this shot (note the right hand using the summit marker for balance):

No sooner did the shutter snap when she said: "This is boring. Here catch the camera. I'm outta here. I need another hit of adrenalin!"

I calmly suggested that she go ahead. I wanted to soak up the views.

"Works for me," she taunted, "I'm out."

And off she scampered. Leaving me grasping the summit marker as my legs shook like jelly. I sat there for a few minutes listening to the mountain goat leap over rocks hollering every so often "Who's the badd-ass??? Meeeeee!!!!"

I waited until the hollering stopped and bellowed.

"Janet! Get back here. I need some help getting down!!!"

A distant voice called back.

"On my way, Grandpa!!!"

Like Ellen DeGeneres, I'm a little worried where this new walking habit might lead.

How dark is dark?

Months ago, while planning for our NZ adventure, we each grabbed onto one 'must do' from what we were reading. For Janet, it was Milford Sound. Which is not a sound after all as it is a glacial formed geological oddity (thus a fjord) vs a river formed geological oddity which would have made it a sound.

There. Now you have something to share at your next dinner party when the conversation turns to geological oddities. As it inevitably does at our dinner parties.

Milford Sound. Had I said 'Milford Fjord' it would be more accurate but you wouldn't know what I was talking about...even though it is found in Fjordland National Park. Go figure.

Speaking of geological oddities; just the other day we were exploring a tidal shelf just a few steps north of Shag Point (named for the bird...not the activity) on the east coast of the south island and found the oddest of odd geological oddities. Even odder than the famed Moeraki Boulders, these are boulders that are birthed in the sea when mud settles on skeletons of dead animals (think dinosaurs), and then builds over time into spherical boulders that, a few million years later, appear on a tidal shelf just north of Shag Point (named for the bird). Sorta like the process of a pearl; except a dinosaur is the starting point instead of a grain of sand. 

Me standing on a dinosaur pearl near Shag Point...named for the bird

The day after visiting the boulders on the east coast we looked at our calendar and discovered that our NZ adventure was hurtling towards its conclusion. The conversation went something like this...

Gerry: Wow! There is so much left to see and we are going to be leaving soon!

Janet: I guess you're right but I'm happy...I made it to Milford Sound. 

...silence

...more silence

Janet: Oh yeah...was there something you wanted to see?

Gerry: Well...the ONLY reason I came to NZ was to experience one of only five International Dark Sky Reserves in the world!

...silence

...silence

Janet: you are SUCH a nerd!!!

So out came the maps and we plotted our route from the east coast of NZ South Island, home of strange boulders just north of Shag Point (named for the bird) to the alpine majesty of Aoraki National Park - home of one of only five...FIVE dark sky reserves IN THE WORLD!!! 

I could hardly keep my pants dry I was so excited. And the trip was magnificent! We left the crashing surf of the eastern Pacific and the weird geological oddities; drove through the plains and sheep paddocks; through the foothills and wine country and, finally, into the heart of alpine wonderland. 

And it took us two and a half hours! 

Can you believe that? We experienced the geography of three provinces in TWO AND A HALF HOURS! 

We arrived in time to do two hikes before the sun went down. The hikes were memorable for Janet. All I could think about was what I would experience when that irritating ball of fire would disappear behind Aoraki to the west to release the splendour of the dark sky.


We drove back to our campsite after looking at the mountain vistas and glacial magnificance; tucked into a dinner of steak and potatoes and (patiently?) awaited sunset. 

And the sun did eventually go down. 

A dark sky reserve is so named due to its absence of pesky light pollution that detracts from the celestial splendours that emerge after the setting sun. Wanting the full effect of the dark sky reserve I convinced Janet that we should wait in the van until it was good and dark so that we could open the van door at just the right time for the breathtaking view of galaxies, supernova, rings of planets, gaseous nebulae and all else that the universe might throw at us. 

So that you might gain an appreciation of the depth of darkness, I snapped this picture of Janet awaiting the celestial splendour while in the van:

If you are wondering how I got the picture of her with such a beautiful smile, I timed the snapping of the shutter at the moment she uttered the word 'please' when she said: Would you PLEASE put that stupid camera away!!!

Do I know my wife?!?

The conditions were perfect. It was dark. REAL DARK. I slide the van door open and,  with bated breath, looked up to the heavens to see this: 

Apparently, as we were in the van awaiting our magical celestial baptism a system blew in; and with it a thick cover of cloud blocking our view of anything that was more than 500 feet above our heads. 

So how dark is dark? Really, really frickin' dark. 

As we tucked in that night not being able to see our fingers waving in front of our eyes our conversation went something like this: 

...silence

...more silence

...yet more silence

Janet: Milford Sound was sure nice.  

Gerry: It's a fjord

Janet: You're such a nerd! 

Who has seen the wind?

Who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I

But when the trees bow down their heads

The wind is passing by

Whoever wrote this poem, with its reverent pastoral references, was likely thinking about a gentle breeze wafting over prairie grasses; or, a cool sea breeze on a hot summer's day. However, if they were here in NZ with us, I believe the poem would have gone more like this:

Who has seen the wind?

Nobody

If you're daft you may keep your eyes open 

While walking the beach

And have your eyes sandblasted outta your head

Or, if you dare look anywhere but at the branch you are clutching while the gale force winds blow

Whatever else you are seeing will likely be your last

Or, if you stand watching trees 'bow down their heads' then be prepared to take a trunk to your head

At 90 miles an hour

Perhaps this is why there are no famous poets who hail from the NZ south island. Oh, you don't believe me? OK...name a famous NZ south island poet...

I rest my case.

Thus has been our experience while visiting the magnificent NZ south island (or, as those who live here refer to it; The Mainland). As an example, last night we spent our first of three nights on the Otago Peninsula. At our campsite, the proprietress directed us to the 'prime' spot on the 'terrace' overlooking the sea in the village of Portobello which laid below us. Here is the view from our back window (Janet asks that you please ignore the unmade bed):

We were completely unaware of the evil that lurked to the west. A once-in-a-hundred year windstorm blew in and almost blew us into the lovely, quiet village of Portobello. The van rocked and bounced all night long...from the wind. The wind blew so hard that the road we drove in on was flooded by the seas lapping up and over the road; trees were downed all over the peninsula; and, power was out for almost a full day. The papers the next day reported winds at the end of the peninsula that were recorded at over 150 km/hr.

But to us it felt like just another south NZ 'breeze'

Winds so strong at Milford Sound that it blew me AND the sea akilter

Wind messing our hair at Te Anau Lake

Janet hangs on for dear life as a vertigo inducing blast nearly blows us off Key Summit in Fjordland National Park

The 'poet' trying to 'see' the wind while the not-so-daft one knows how to keep the blasting sand at Farewell Spit outta the eyes

So it has been here on the NZ South Island. Janet has seen some world class scenery. I, on the other hand, hope to regain my vision once I figure out how to get my contacts out of my eyes without grinding more sand into my cornea. 

Driving...NZ style

"Kiwis drive on the left side of the road: cars are right-hand drive. Give way to the right at intersections"
                                            -Lonely Planet p.668

Thank you, Mr. Planet, for the detailed tips for driving in NZ. Given the paucity of information, we thought that it might be helpful for those considering visiting this place by car to get a fleshed-out, first-hand account from a couple of perspectives; the driver and the drivee.

The Driver
Before we get into the actual driving perhaps a word about the roads would be in order. There are three kinds of roads in NZ: small country roads; secondary highways; and, state highways. All of these three types of roads are the same width; EXACTLY two car-widths (one going each way) or about one car width and a half a campervan width. The only distinguising feature between the roads are the markings; country roads have none; secondary highways have a dotted white line seperating the two directions of travel; and, state highways have the additional feature of a solid white line painted on the each edge of the road signifying the, well, edge of the road because there is rarely a shoulder.

Continuing on the roads...the above sign should be recognizable by any Canadian driver. They have these signs here in NZ as well. Except we can't for the life of us figure out why they bother spending the money on them. Let me explain. In Canada these signs are used to indicate an abberation...a winding section of the road. For example, when we leave Calgary driving east we drive for a day and a half before we encounter such a sign just outside of Kenora. It is posted because after driving straight for a day and a half it is understandable that a winding section of the highway might be shocking and, thus, require a warning. Here in NZ they should really hang only one of these signs at the entrance to the country 'cause that about covers it. Well, I exaggerate; there was that one straight stretch just south of Turangi that went through a 2 km bit of arrid dessert...there should have been a straight arrow on that stretch to assure us that is was not a mirage!

Just about ready to talk about the driving but, before I do, a wee word about the signs. The first that I would like to mention is what we have dubbed the 'dummy dot'. It's a rather unassuming small blue circle with a white arrow that has immeasureable value.

I believe that this helpful little sign is meant to indicate the presence of a concrete barrier that one would find entering a roundabout or, perhaps entering a parking lot. However, I see it as the quiet little kiwi politely indicating what lane I should be driving in. (A correction to Lonely Planet...kiwis do not drive on the left side. I have been set straight on a number of occasions; we drive on the RIGHT side; they drive on the CORRECT side...or, in my best kiwi accent corrict side.) So, every time I see the dummy dot I hear the following: 'Right, mate. You may want to scoot over 'ere to the corrict side of the road. S'all good.' 

I have noticed that, often, as you leave a tourist site or a campground you will often see two dummy dots one on top of the next at the entrance to the main road (secondary or state highway...see above). I believe that this is intentional as these would be the parts of the road where a number of mistakes are made in the area of lane selection. The 'double dummy dot', for me, is accompanied by a slghtly crustier kiwi voice that says: 'GET YER ARSE OVER 'ERE TO THE CORRICT SIDE!!!'

The second helpful sign is posted a few feet ahead of a 'narrow' bridge. We were told by the folks that rented us the campervan that narrow bridges are one-laned bridges. Well, for a car...maybe. Usually defined by white-painted concrete fences on either side, a narrow bridge will accomodate a campervan as long as you do not rock the van, fold in the mirrors and are good with deep scratches in the paint on both sides. Furthermore, the sign indicates who has the right-of-way on such a bridge. Does the white arrow mean go? Or does the red arrow mean 'careful, mate...there might be someone comin'. S'all good.' One day, if we are here long enough, I'm sure we'll figure that out.

So, time for a bit about the actual driving...from the driver's perspective. I will choose to recount the story of a 25 km stretch of glorious NZ state highway that takes you over Takaka Hill. Hill??? Well, that's what they called it. And we drove it twice. It is the Ogre that guards the entrance to Golden Bay so we were fortunate to drive it twice; on the way in and on the way out again.

And it was fun BOTH times. The dream road for a driver getting used to the correct side of the road driving a 5 meter long campervan with a manual transmission. To say it was a winding donkey path perched on the edge of sheer cliffs would be complimentary. Footpath with lines? Maybe a more apt description. 12.5 km up with approximately 9, 762 turns (most of them hairpins) followed by 12.5 km down with a few more turns than we had going up. My arms were sore from the turning of the steering wheel and I am certain the van will need new brakes from the screeching downhill portion. It took every ounce of driving finesse to guide our beast over this pass (I felt my father's foot stomp on the imaginary break a few hundred times as I steered the van within inches of the edge of a cliff).

I would have been a little worried if it weren't for the squeals of joy emanating from my darling wife's lips. I didn't realize how much she enjoyed such precarious vehicular conditions. Her gasps of wonderment at the breathtaking views encouraged me to take her closer and closer to the edge for a better look. I actually made a bit of a game of it...how close could I get? And how fast could I go around the hairpin turns.

Pretty fast as it turns out!

The Drivee

 Let me tell you how the driving story REALLY went!!
I like to think of myself as patient, optimistic and relatively calm in the face of impending doom and disaster.  The divets on the dashboard left by my fingers as I held on for dear life tell another story.  To all the holy saints who heard my pleas and cries of horror, I am forever grateful (surtout à Ste Bénite qui m'a sauvé plusieurs fois du précipice).
 For those of you who know me well, I am not one who is prone to using profanity.  I find it shows a poor vocabulary repertoire.  HOWEVER, there are times when no other words adequately describe a situation.  For instance, those so called squeals of delight Gerry heard during the traverse over Takaka Hill Road From Hell was really "Oh phoque! OH phoque! OH PHOQUE!!!"  to which he answered "Ya...I sure hope we get to see seals too when we go sea kayaking!!"
 How to describe driving along these NZ roads? At every turn I want to scream to Gerry to slow down. When I anxiously glance at the speedometer and realize that we are actually going the speed limit (25 km/hr) I just close my eyes and repeat the immortal words from Monique of Tête à Claque fame: "Oh my God! OH MY God!! OH MY GOD!!!!" silently of course, so as not to distract him from the 180 degree turn he has to negotiate!
 Oh...and let's not forget that the drivee is also the navigator....not easy to read a map when your stomach is ready to empty its contents down the million metre cliff or you're being thrown against the van door while your darling husband pretends that he is Mario Andretti leading the pack at the NZ backroads Grand Prix.

How will I survive this harrowing driving ordeal you ask?  Luckily, NZ has no shortage of good 🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷.
Aurevoir. Adieu. Or in NZ...Hiyha.

We thought we'd leave with a pic of Janet enjoying her 'gripping' adventure on Takaka Hill. Poring over the maps of the south island tell us that the true NZ driving adventure is yet to come!