Tripreport: 2004-07-29 - 2004-08-09: Jumping Fences
Christmas is approaching. *tears out hair* It's perfectly ridiculous to be aware of this at this point, but with over six weeks to go, I've already seen the first signs.Okay, Hayley Westenra is not a good artist to listen to while trying to get into an actual writing mood. *skips ahead to Heather Nova*
Originally expressed by Heather Nova:
Life is something, set to music.Is it just me, or does "Not Only Human" have a very similar beat in the background to "Shelter for a Rainy Day"? (Which, despite being a "2 Unlimited" song (gosh, I'm really dating myself here) ;) I am not afraid to admit to being partial to. (I figure it's the musical equivalent of the monkey-typewriter phenomenon. Given the staggering amount of bad commercial bands out there, some of them are bound to have produced a few filler songs on their albums which turn out to be actually worthwhile.))
I can hear it when I'm sad.
Now where was I? Oh yes, blathering into the void, trying to zone out on the rest of the lounge. So, christmas. I don't recall what commercial nonsense it was that brought it to my mind - probably some early store decoration somewhere - but I distinctly recall recoiling. Strange to consider that this will be the second christmas away from home. Worse, the second christmas in the middle of the summer. Not *looks outside* that summer - or even spring - is currently much in evidence. The sky is a delightful grey. (As I said on smarch a couple of days ago: it reminds me of home. And unrelated, but with very good timing, one of my friends from back home sent me photographic evidence that, yes indeed, it's raining there. Awesome!) :D Clouds and parakeets are racing loops around each other and, when it isn't raining, the light is the kind of light that any photographer would wish to have around in any and all locales which actually have stuff worth taking pictures of. Sad to say, Melbourne is not - for the most part - such a locale. You can only take so many pictures of the skyline from the other side of the Yarra River. And I'm not (yet?) someone who can just snap off pictures that show the culture, the always moving bustling everything, the interesting details in the grittiness of a big city. I need to be able to wander up and down a hill, pace back and forth next to a lake, constantly recomposing a shot until I see what it'll be. Landscapes are my friend; spur of the moment shots hardly ever work out for me. One of the benefits of having taking as many photographs as I have these past two years is that I've slowly learned to recognize when the possibility of a worthwhile shot is present. Mostly it's negative, in that I can instantly dismiss an opportunity as being wrong - the light too bright, the shadows too distinct, the composition lacking balance - but every so often it's positive. These are the annoying instances. I will wander around in tiny little circles, trying to see what it is that I should be seeing.
There's a shot here, I can just feel it!Yet feeling not being the same as seeing. At times it's taken me days before I managed to become consciously aware. With landscapes, you can take that time. (These usually are not the instances where light is the determining factor.) With big city culture shots, you usually only have seconds. So even when the feeling comes over me, even when I recognize it 'swiftly', the opportunity is almost always gone again.
Given that, Melbourne - though a very nice place - has not been very productive for me on the photography front. (Relatively, at least. In the nearly two months I've been here so far I've taken 192 pictures which I haven't immediately deleted again - but I wouldn't class a single one of those as even remotely exceptional.)
Another way in which I've been aware that christmas/summer is approaching is that the amount of new job vacancies is going down, and that more new jobs are for shorter periods of time. This last week I've only applied for three jobs, only one of which in Melbourne itself. Of course, all it takes is a single job, and there are a few things running in the background - next to the regular job applications - which might net me some real work, but overall the chances of me actually swiftly earning a lot of money to continue traveling on seem to be getting worse rather than better.
Anyhoo, all that is the boring present. Much better to dwell in the past, in memories of what was, and what will yet be again. Starting with this entry, all pictures to appear will have been taken with my new digital camera. I am honestly curious if any of you think you can see that the pictures are technically better. Personally I don't think it'll be noticeable. I *know* which shots would have been impossible with the old camera, but I think that the end result looks very nearly indistinguishable. The main benefit of the new camera is that using it, I have more chance to successfully capture the 5% of pictures in really tough circumstances which have the potential to be good far beyond anything else. (A select few of the upcoming pictures in this entry might even show that already, although it's a hard call to make if they really do.)
To celebrate the new camera and its influence on how I compose pictures - it uses the traditional 3:2 format rather than the (for digital) common 4:3 - I'm introducing a new size for some of my pictures. Next to 600x800, 700x700, 800x600 and 1024x384, a select few pictures will appear in 1024x512. This allows me to show just a bit more vertical features where useful, without giving up the essential idea of a panorama format which works so well for New Zealand landscapes.
And so, one sunny Thursday, I woke up at some unbelaly hour, once more managed the astounding feat of repacking my backpack, and staggered to the bus terminal. As the bus pulled out of Auckland, memories came flooding back to me from the previous time I'd set out south. Little did I know back then of what was awaiting me, yet even this more experienced me could not yet foresee the astounding beauty that would soon be revealed. All the familiar rest stops passed me by; tea and sausage rolls, always accompanied by the glorious sounds from my Karma.
As the bus reached Lake Taupo, I was awarded once more with the sight of the mountains of Tongariro National Park. Or rather, with many clouds all but obscuring the mountains from sight. Yet hints of white were spotted, and my gaze remained solidly drawn. As we passed Mt. Ngauruhoe and began the long stretch of the desert road (Tongariro National Park harbors one of the wettest deserts in the world), the sky cleared, and Mt. Ruapehu revealed itself in all its glorious whiteness. (Considering that I was hardly aware of how to handle my camera, and that the bus (complete with reflecting windows) was hurtling down the highway as I was taking pictures, I'm quite pleased with how they turned out. Slight fuzziness is in evidence, but not so you're really bothered by it.) Sooooo absolutely gorgeous to see in real life - much better than during the summer, when only a scattering of leftover snow near the top is present. This was Mt. Ruapehu as it truly deserves to be known.
Wellington was familiar as ever, with the annoying feature of the hostel so far away from the bus terminal, and the pleasing one of it being located across the road of a large supermarket. As I was expecting to return here in some two weeks, and had to leave early the next morning to catch a ferry, I didn't bother treating it as anything else but an overnight stop.
A boring ferry ride deposited me in Picton with some 45 minutes to spare before the bus would set out.
Just enough time to hop over to the village bakery for some dutch buttercake!, my mind posited, and my body considered it a perfectly splendid idea. Both were sorely disappointed as the place was closed for two weeks.
Strangely enough, now, in the middle of the winter, the scenery around Picton was overflowing with yellow flowers, making this otherwise relatively dreary and drab part of the South Island look to be quite nearly pretty.
Christchurch became a resting place for two days to recover from the previous two days on the road. Though the weather was good, the city didn't look quite as pretty as during the summer, and was scarily cold at night (with the temperature dropping to within a degree or two of freezing, resolutely killing off lingering ideas about winters in New Zealand being better than summers, which I'd been harboring ever since Mt. Ruapehu).
And so, onward to the actual destination of this return to the south. Lake Tekapo.
The journey starts with the same neurotic Bus Driver, still unsuccessfully trying to get half-asleep bodies to go into the bus in an order which will have their luggage be within easy reach when they disembark, still unsuccessfully trying to score a few laughs. He makes me smile though, and feels as familiar as life itself. The hostel cat did not suddenly decide to stop being lazy, but continues living the good life. The hostel owner is the same sympathetic guy as ever; he gives me money. (As a "stay two days, get the third free" deal is running.)
I approve of people giving me money.
What strikes me most, drawn back to the lounge to sit down behind the big windows and gaze out, is the tranquility. How did I ever forget this? Silence, pure and whole. That it may forever dwell in me.
A previous guest has put up pictures of her stay back in May in the guestbook. Back then it snowed. I'm instantly jealous. And yet, that is but one more aspect of perfection - would I begrudge the sun its flares? (Ah, but I would, I would, if I truly feared I might never dwell within them.)
Lake Tekapo is not the same as I'd seen it previously. No trace of the Blue remains. The hills are grey, flecked with white, rather than brown. The trees brown, orange and red (yet leafless), rather than green. Even the blue sky above appears to have found a new hue to call its own. In short, everything is different. But this is only the surface. Below the surface, the same sense of eternity remains.
Aspects of perfection.
Someday you, precious reader, will visit this place. To think otherwise is folly. I shall not allow you to not see these sights for yourself. The Bus Driver, many months ago when I had yet to see this place for the first time, made a very profound remark as part of his ongoing narration over the 640 kays to Party Central City. It has resonated with me ever since, and on this day he repeated it. Beyond sheep farming, kiwis also do deer farming. Deer need a two meter fence, rather than the one meter fence for regular cattle, as they can easily jump that.
Deer can actually jump the two meter fence as well, but they do not realize this, as they have grown up behind it.
Thus, far too many of us, puny little humans. Always seeing the obstacles, thinking of what can not be done. We must realize (and I dearly love those who already do, who think of being behind the fence as the starting point, even while still growing up behind it) - fences are there to be jumped. Knowing this truth, it becomes self evident that you will indeed visit Lake Tekapo.
You hereby have my permission to rejoice in this truth. :)
As in Christchurch, icy cold rushes in with the disappearance of the sun, yet I am loathe to go inside until the last rays of the sun have stopped kissing the mountains, and so as an arrow I speed to the one store in this tiny village which would be open and selling fingerless gloves (for my control of the camera must not be impaired).
As night draws over Lake Tekapo I return to the warmth of the hostel to pay obeisance to the hostel cat (The Most Beautiful - and impervious to threats of being renamed to The Most Fat). I explore the options of the software which came with my camera. Many of the options tempt me to disrupt my workflow. Luckily, now, many moons later, I can safely say that I resisted temptation and that Photoshop reigns supreme. Until I buy a larger memory card and start shooting in raw, that is...
On previous trips to this most wondrous of places, I have stood on top Mt. John and looked off into the distance. One feature which never failed to draw my gaze was Lake Alexandrina, just a short distance away (or so I judged when standing at that lofty viewpoint). Waking up on my second day in Lake Tekapo, the same blue skies of the previous day greeted me, and so I put into motion my plan to go and see this other lake for myself. After all, how far could it really be?
Going by the detailed map of the region, and the sketchy instructions on a leaflet about the walks of the same, both of which were hanging on the wall in the hostel, the path to Lake Alexandrina started on the other side of Mt. John.
And so my day started with the welcomely familiar track up. Leftover patches of snow at times made my progress a sketchy business, slip-sliding away, but I could always drag myself forward on some sturdy patches of grass (or at least, come to think of it, I hope they were sturdy) ;) and so eventually I once more found myself coming out of the forest and overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the place. When you near the top, every step you take opens up the view some more, and you usually spend more time twirling around in circles, trying to this time print it all in memory so you will never forget anymore how staggering large the place truly is, rather than actually walking forward. Needless to say, many pictures were taken, and the zoom capabilities of the extra lens I'd bought for my camera were duly put to work. (I hope you're all duly impressed by the silky smoothness of the white snow on the "detail of the Southern Alps" pictures, for you should be! Not a blown highlight in sight!</photography geek>)
I don't remember exactly how long it eventually took me to walk to Lake Alexandrina, but it can't have been more than two or three hours, so that wasn't too bad. In the summer, this Lake is a retreat away from the bustle (sic) of Lake Tekapo. Now, the few score vacation homes at the edge of the lake were deserted, and only a few black swans took note of my presence. Walking north along the lake, my plan was to find the stream flowing east, and to follow this to Lakes McGregor and Tekapo, which I'd then follow south back to the hostel. Given the rapid progress of the sun through the firmament, I was beginning to doubt if I could actually pull this off when suddenly the path I was following dead-ended at a barbed-wire fence. In these parts, usually there's a contraption to allow walkers to easily scale such a fence, as it only exists to keep sheep in or out, but nothing like that existed here, and the fence looked quite new and sturdy, besides being slightly too high to just step over. I pondered heading back the way I'd come, but instead decided to pretend the fence was the stream, and just head east. Going walkabout like that is quite possibly my favorite activity ever. Cross-country, with only yellow tussock grass, white snow, blue sky and a few distant mountains to keep me company. The sun was nice and warm (though in the shade of some hills, I was glad for my gloves), and the day was perfect. Eventually I ended up having to scale a fence anyway (but then, what are fences for, eh?) :) and found myself on a road leading back up to Mt. John.
The third day was one of those unique days in which Lake Tekapo did not look noteworthily attractive. The temperature was such that long walks outside were not particularly appealing, the sky was grey and featureless, and the light nothing special. Sitting inside behind the windows, gazing out, was as good as ever, and I used my time to good effect by sitting a few hours in the internet cafe, partitioning the server (at a theoretical $6/hr, though luckily afterward only charged at a very reasonable $2/hr), but overall the day was something of a loss.
To all outward appearances, the fourth day looked to be heading in the same direction. Yet, sitting beside the windows, reading a book and clutching a cup of hot tea (undoubtedly), I was noticing how the lake was quite quiet, lacking all but the smallest of ripples. Slowly, ever so slowly, stately clouds began coalescing in the sky, coming into existence like so many spaceships slipping out of hyperspace.
When the moment came, I was ready.
In the midst of the regular quietude of this place, a deeper hush fell over the world. For a few minutes, the sky was in perfect balance, and the lake turned an absolute mirrorlike silver. Interrupting my conversation with some of the other people sitting in the lounge, I rushed outside to the edge of the lake, barely remembering to grab my camera. Standing right there on the edge, I drank it all in, marveling at the perfection of the moment. Then I took a hasty few pictures, and ran off alongside the lake, hoping against hope to reach the Church of the Good Shepherd while the moment lasted. This was not to be, as but moments later the sun wrestled its way into view next to one of the newly formed clouds, disrupting the balance. Waves once more started up on the lake, and perfection was broken.
Though I finished walking to the church, no more pictures were taken on that day. Given what I experienced, what I saw, and what pictures I did manage to shoot, I didn't (and don't) mind a bit.
On the fifth day, I woke up quite unaware. A special somethingness was in the air, but I did not take notice. Luckily Lake Tekapo is such a place that it's impossible not to look out of the windows all the time, and so as soon as I walked out of my room, I saw. It was SNOWING! Gorgeous massive snowflakes were swirling around outside, and had evidently been doing just that for many hours already, as all was white. Was it only three days ago that I'd been strolling over the highlands under a blue sky, luxuriating in the warm sunshine? Such superb contrast.
Visibility was near zero, and the thick layer of snow made any trip outside go very slowly indeed, so other than a short jaunt off to the church (really, when there's a photo opportunity of that class within such easy reach, I am not nearly strong enough to resist), I mostly sat inside feeling very happy indeed. (Additionally, I will have you know that upon discovering that it was snowing, I behaved with admirable composure, and did not madly bounce about. Much.) ^_^
On the sixth day, the snow had mostly melted away from at least the roads and paths and around the lake, so that you could pretty much walk all over the village, even if going further afield was made unwise by a deep layer of snow. And so, me being who I am, I set out to go further afield, off to a viewpoint over the Lake up on the MacKenzie Country proper. The sky was mostly a uniform white, but here and there the clouds were breaking up, and through them absolutely pure white hills could be seen, glowing with an inner light. (It can't have been an outer light, as the sun was nowhere to be seen.)
Of the climb up to the viewpoint, two observations should be made, both of which made themselves known to me on that day with a crystal clear clarity. The first is that white really is an amazingly pretty color. The second is that any difference between snow and mud is completely superficial, except that snow is colder and has "seeping through" as its secret super power. :P
The destination, though with utter disdain for the necessities of life completely lacking in hot chocolate, was still well worth the walk. Yet perhaps the best thing about having set out on this day was that I was outside, looking around, and quietly noticing a persistent gap in the clouds, over in the west, just to the left of Mt. John. Surely such a gap would vanish swiftly, I knew, and so I did not dare to hope - but one does not need to hope to keep an eye on the sky, nor to notice that no vanishing was taking place. And so leaving the viewpoint was timed ever so innocently, so that I reached the Church of the Good Shepherd just as a fellow artist reached the gap in the clouds, making its presence known by lighting up the windows of this aforementioned church.
What follows can not be described by any words.
Luckily, words aren't always necessary. Pictures might not say everything - they might, in fact, fail to mention far too much of what was also there to be seen and experienced - but at least they are capable of saying something which might comes close to doing justice to the tiniest part of how it really was.
When at the start of this show I reached the Church, it was deserted; the few wandering tourists driven off by the threatening clouds. For the first few minutes, I was the only witness. Then the tourists rushed back in on the church-side of the canal - while on the other side I was swiftly joined by several people who I'll describe as photographers, on account of all of them carrying equipment at least as professional as my own, and knowing - as I did - that here was the place to be for the right composition. Yet though their tripods and lenses and filters might make me jealous, I alone had anticipated these moments.
It must be mentioned that although colors and shades appeared and disappeared as if on command by my very whim, causality is not always that easy to determine. It was my esteemed colleague and fellow artist who was ultimately responsible; I am but a chronicler of the works of this master of subtlety as he was jumping the fences of physics to stretch light in impossible way, mixing them on a palette as vast as imagination itself, creating hues that words can never hope to describe.
When the last stragglers of the entire species of pinks, blues and whites whose existence I had never suspected had passed before me, and I finally dared to breathe again, I slowly made my way back to the hostel. Chilled to the bone, and with shoes which had finally given up their resistance against the super seep, yet happier than anyone has any right to be.
Damn, this place is gorgeous.
And on the seventh day, I saw that things were much as on the sixth. The sunset was not quite as spectacular, but the light still very awesome indeed; darkly brooding, bringing out the deeper reds, and having me almost succeed in taking a picture similar to the one in the lounge of the YHA hostel, which I've been envious of ever since I saw it for the first time. Chilled once more as the sunset light faded away, I scurried over to the local pizzeria to warm me by the fire crackling in their hearth, and luxuriate in their truly delicious carbonara pizza.
And so the eight day began, bringing my time in Lake Tekapo to an end. Once more glorious blue skies had returned, and for a short while I harbored the hope of taking a helicopter flight over the Southern Alps in the few hours before my bus would show up, but it wasn't high season, and so no other people showed up wanting to do the same, while I by myself was nowhere near the required minimum complement for a flight. Oh well, you can't have everything - not that you'd know from me otherwise pretty much having had just that during this one week.