Tripreport: 2005-03-03 - 2005-03-13: I could swear I'd seen this place before
*looks around at the once familiar surroundings of his weblog**surreptitiously blows off a layer of dust from the tab bar*
*whistles happily as he tidies away some dead links*
Ah yes... Tripreports. These ephemeral signs of life from this being known, amongst some of those who have specialized in the noble Art of Knowing, as the Aanimal; World Traveler Extraordinaire, Slacker amongst slackers, for whom all the world is but a destination.
What then, dear readers, has this most austere being been spending his time on in the months since we last spotted him? A surprisingly mundane period in his life, it would have to be said, although highlights included mingling with the rich and mighty at Dragon*Con, stalking the Tad in Chicago, heroically fighting to fit the complete St. Louis Arch into his viewfinder, and roasting hotdogs and marshmallows on a camping trip amidst trees gone absolutely wild with pretty fall colors.
Oh yes, and very occasionally editing some pictures, the result of which can now once more be seen in this next installment of the ever less up to date tripreports. :)
So, onward we charge. When last we saw our noble hero, he had embarked upon the dangerous crossing of the Cook Strait, separating the Northern sheep of Kiwiland from the Southern sheep (it is written that if ever these two flocks combine, they will form a menace so terrible that not even the great Aanzie-baa could stand against them). Accompanying him was his trusty sidekick redNathalie, as yet unaware that the scenery around Picton was deemed to be perhaps the most boring bit of New Zealand outside of Gore, and so at length extolling the virtues thereof.
Fortunately for our hero, the Village Bakkerij was having one of its rare days on which it was not closed. This meant that dutch buttercake could be introduced, while talk was swiftly shuffled off stage right.
Once every last crumb of the buttercake had disappeared, our dynamic duo hopped into their chosen mode of transport (a tiny Toyota Echo, in which the levers for window-wiper and turn-signal had surreptitiously switched places compared to those in the Ford Ka they had abandoned that morning), and zoomed off into the distance. Short stops were made for especially pretty surroundings, such as those of Buller Gorge, but otherwise the journey was uneventful all the way to the West Coast.
Ah, the West Coast of the South Island of New Zealand: Home to untold marvels, wonders beyond compare, sights unimagined... and a lone tourbus, standing by the roadside with a blown tire, a gaggle of backpackers around it, flagging down the occasional passing car.
Although not as glamorous a job as fighting evil overlords in their volcano-lairs, our heroes quickly rose to the challenge of helping out those in need. Heroically shifting about their oversized luggage until one half of the backseat could be raised again, they transported one lone traveler onward to Punakaiki, from where a phonecall to a nearby garage could be made. This traveller conveyed onto them tales of misery and woe; apparently this was the fifth bus belonging to the tour company he'd been in since he started out in Auckland - all had broken down.
At Punakaiki, our dynamic duo set out to see the mysterious pancake rocks in all their glory. Alas, today's tide was not all that high, and on its way out already, so they could not be astonished by the astonishing blowholes, but it was a worthwhile stop all the same.
Onward, the journey went, now with a different traveller from the same destitute tourbus in tow; the tourbus was deemed beyond repair for the day, and so each of these bedraggled backpackers had to make their way to the final destination for the day, the much-talked about center of West Coast civilization: Barrytown.
Alas, if only our heroic heroes had looked back in their rear-view mirror, a short time later (after passing two houses and half a cow) they might have seen the placename sign for Barrytown receding in the distance (why the "town", if such it could be called, didn't have a sign on the other side will forever remain a mystery). Or if only the hotel that this traveller would stay at would actually display a sign with the name of this hotel, rather than a completely different name. Yet dwelling on such might-have-beens has never done anyone much good, and so, darkness swiftly descending upon our intrepid group (accompanied by a most marvelous sunset), it wasn't until the Aanimal recognized the distinct shape of Point Elizabeth that they knew that had journeyed on too far. And so they backtracked once more, and after much trials and tribulations finally delivered their backpacker charge at her destination, to then turn around and once more make their way over the winding roads of the West Coast.
Sadly, the hostel at Greymouth that was their chosen hideaway from the horrors of the night closed at the early hour of 20:30, as our heroes discovered when they stood at the locked door thereof. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth and declaiming on how no good deed ever goes unpunished was only narrowly averted by a resident of the hostel which unlocked the door for them after fierce knocking on the windows. Inside, an envelope with instructions on how to find their room and the key thereof was waiting for our heroes.
All's well that ends well, so they exclaimed, and celebrated with some gourmet cheese sandwiches.
Well rested for a day of more good deeds, our turbo tourguide and his smashing sidekick set off to walk the Point Elizabeth Walkway, which was as gorgeously green as ever.
Onward they journeyed, over rackety one-lane bridges, where a fierce lookout was kept for any approaching trains, past untold turtle-like campervans and through green rainforest beyond compare, ever onward to Franz Josef Glacier. Having checked in here, our noble heroes decided to go and walk a trail as yet unknown, that leading past Peter's Pool to Roberts Point, although the hour was such that this final destination would most probably not be reached. Of course, perhaps they could've reached it if it wasn't for the sight that greeted them a mere five minutes away from the carpark, mesmerizing them for untold minutes with its stillness, reflecting beauty like Snow White's mirror. Verily, it was Peter's Pool, putting on a rare show of unsuspected quality, such as no photograph could ever hope to capture.
Yet perhaps it was for the best that Peter's Pool assaulted them so early on in their tribulations. For whose wise soul would be able to sing out in surety, sharing knowledge of how our noble heroes would've handled the overwhelming green-ness of the rainforest which came shortly after, if they had not been thusly prepared? Babbling brooks and waterfalls cascading down betwixt bemossed boulders, ferns shooting up and strangling vines hanging down all around, and everywhere the green light filtering through to set it all alight. Truly, it was a marvel to behold, and few things exemplify more that it was the true stuff of legends which our heroes were made of, than the mere fact that they came back from this fairy world to tell the tales thereof.
After many hours of being thus captivated, our noble adventurers emerged from the rainforest onto the gravel at the bottom of the glacier, from which they could observe that the glacier was as dirty as ever. The walk back once more took them through the beauty of the rainforest and past Peter's pool, and it was only the lure of a pasta dinner with cheese and wine that managed to eventually lure them back to civilization.
After the short drive from Greymouth to Franz Josef, the next day once more saw our heroes facing a long drive ahead of them. Ever up over the winding roads through Haast Pass (with only a few choice words for the lack of engine power of their chosen vehicle), past Thunder Creek Falls, skirting Lake Hawea, and on into the Kawarau Gorge, where the madness of rope swinging, jetboating and bungy jumping was observed.
When in the afternoon the rain that had been accompanying our dynamic duo since Franz Josef abated, they swiftly set out to walk part of the One Mile Creek, as the Aanimal had previously enjoyed the surroundings of this walk.
And indeed, the waterpipe still pointed true; rare beauty could be observed here. Moreover, coming back down from the mountain, the most sublime and surreal light was playfully putting on a performance over the hills at the other side of the lake, leaving our heroes quietly grateful for having been fortunate enough to observe such a wonder.
As the next day broke, change could be felt in the air. A sense of anticipation hung over the land, like fog on an early winter day. Slowly, the truth of today's coming endeavours spread, rustling through the grass, cascading over the rocks, until it permeated all. A reverent hush fell over the world as it witnessed our heroes embarking upon a pilgrimage to the most beautiful locale of all.
Up, they laboriously struggled, until they reached Lindis Pass.
Onward, they continued, to the wide plains of the Mackenzie Country.
Outward, they gazed here, looking over the milky blue waters of Lake Pukaki, a tiny Mt. Cook shimmering in the distance.
They lingered for a while at the Canals, paying homage to these lines of power, transporting vividly colored water from one lake to the next...
...and then they journeyed on.
And so at last, in the fullness of time, they arrived at the holiest place of all, Lake Tekapo itself.
What can one say about this place that hasn't already been said?
Our heroes, for once, are at a loss for words, and just slowly walk by the edge of the water, drinking in the tranquility, and trying not to explode from total beauty overload.
Times flies by in a blur, and before our heroes know it, the following morning has arrived. A fierce wind whips up the lake into a frenzy of waves, and any plans of taking a helicopter flight over the mountains are quickly squashed. Our heroes are helpless before this onslaught of nature's power, and can do no more than to huddle behind the windows of the hostel (big and gorgeous as ever) as rain washes over them in waves as unending as those on the lake. (Alas though, the once familiar manager of the Lake Tekapo YHA, Andrew, has taken off, and the new manager has seen fit to install a television device. Although our heroes did not observe this atrocity to be on during their stay, things just aren't the same anymore. Luckily the true owner of the hostel remained, in the form of Nefertiti, imperiously strolling around like always.)
As nature's fury abates, and the clouds disperse, our heroes take a gamble, and set their sights on the lofty peaks of Mt. John. Little do they know that here a menace awaits them unlike any they have faced before.
Slowly they make their way up through the forest on the south side of Mt. John, until they emerge from this green protection to the eternal tussock grass that covers most of the Mackenzie Country, including the top of Mt. John. And it is here that they first come face to face with the woolly menace which has in recent years become the true power in Kiwiland. An entire flock of them is making a concerted assault on the pinnacle of learning and wisdom which has since times unknown nestled here upon the very top of Mt. John, and this flood rolls over and around our heroes as if they weren't even there, effortlessly scaling the heights, while our heroes are reduced to following the loop track, knowing in their hearts of hearts that they cannot reach the entrance of the observatory in time to stop this threat.
They are left with no choice but to gaze longingly over the promised land, knowing that its beauty has been forever claimed by these marauding hordes of doom.
And indeed, once our heroes finally reach the very peaks of Mt. John, they can do naught but to gaze upon the entrance to the Mt. John observatory, and see it cordoned by a vast army of sheep, content to starve the inhabitants with their relentless siege.
Mourn, ye people of the world! Mourn for wisdom lost to their cloven clutches!
Meanwhile nature has not yet played out its part, turning the climb up Mt. John and the subsequent walk around its loop track into a most invigorating experience. Ordinarily our heroes would be happily battling the piercing wind for hours, but their spirits had been dampened by their inability to repel the woolly menace. And so, after a few more minutes observing eternity, they hurriedly made their way back to planes more suited to mortal existence. Managing to bypass the many duck sentries which had obviously been placed at the bottom of the hill by the cunning sheep hordes, our heroes returned to the outpost of human civilization. And it was here, gazing upon the eternal Church of the Good Shepherd, that they were granted a sign from the heavens. Even in the face of the most crushing defeat, gorgeous light can still exist; and verily, even the never-abating tourist hordes can for a magical few minutes be absent.
At 05:30 the following morning, our heroes woke from their slumber, and most carefully crept out of the hostel. Through the deep dark night, they slunk, once more past the duck sentries, through the forest, evading the creaking trees lunging at their hair with their tangling branches, until finally they arrived at the top of Mt. John.
For a moment, then, our heroes experienced elation. Not a single sheep was to be seen. Yet, they were too intelligent to be so easily fooled. The absence of the sheep could only be explained by the fact that the sheep were hiding. Cunning masters of disguise, the sheep had probably infiltrated the observatory, and were at this very moment observing our heroes from within. Now and forever more, our heroes would have to be on their guard, never knowing if the next random passersby was truly a person, or but an ill-fitting costume for one of their woolly adversaries. Yet they could not let the sheep know that they now knew, and so they stayed there on the top of Mt. John, strutting around victoriously, and exclaiming in loud voices over the colors of the dawn, which had at this time decided to reveal themselves in all their glory, shooting out over the nearby hills, to set the crowns of the faraway Southern Alps aflame with heavenly colors. Yet when this spectacle was over, our heroes still swiftly made their way back down to the village under the guise of being chilled to the bone by the cold weather, and here regathered their strength with a delicious pancake breakfast.
As the forecast for the day still was not good for helicopter flights, our dynamic duo decided to leave this place of woe for the day, and to rest their souls with vistas of the lofty peaks of Mt. Cook. Alas, Mt. Cook itself was barely visible behind the clouds, but beautiful light was still playing over nearby mountains, and so the unsealed road to the Tasman Glacier and the Blue Lakes was taken, and the souls rested on such beauty as might be found there.
Our heroes lingered over a traditional cup of pickwick tea at the Hermitage, and our trusty tourguide proved his worth in tourguiding by having his smashing sidekick try some real New Zealand meatpie. It is unknown if she has yet forgiven him for this. :P
Yet another day was spent in the wondrous environment of Lake Tekapo, with a brewing storm changing the colors to be even more surreal than they already were. Of particular note on this day was a drive up along the east shore of the lake, with the storm following closely in the footsteps of our noble heroes. More carbonara pizza was done justice to that night, along with delicious cheesecake and icecream. Yes, life truly was good for our heroes.
A final day was spent in Christchurch, filled with cheesecake and exploration of the Botanic Gardens, and then the sad time had arrived when our heroes would part. Yet it is written that as long as the menace of the sheep lies over the world, they will find ways to reunite, and together protect humanity from such nefarious plots as the ubiquitous woolly villains might be hatching.