3-2-1 Bungy!

I don’t know why, but I didn’t hesitate. Once I was at the edge, I didn’t have a doubt in my mind. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

Three. Two. One.

And I was falling.

It was the most fantastic sensation! I gave a whoop of joy, and then it was back up, and down. I felt a sense of absolute abandon and weightlessness, and utter joy as I bounced up and down between the most amazingly bright river and a beautiful blue sky. The cliffs around me were a blur. I wished it would never end.

There are simply not enough words to describe how bungy jumping felt. It was exciting, amazing, and went by far too quickly. After I was pulled into a boat on the river, I ran up the cliffside, feeling as though I would simply burst out of my own skin. I wanted to run everywhere, proclaim my excitement to the world, and burst into joyous song, only my mind was racing so fast I couldn’t think of a single song to sing (despite the fact that one of the boatmen who took me to shore requested I sing because he discovered I was a choir teacher in our brief exchange on the boat). Had this been a musical, I most certainly would have started singing on a surge of orchestration full of swelling trumpets and rising melodies.

I really must thank Robin for prompting me to try this most amazing experience. I honestly had never imagined myself bungy jumping. I’ve long had a fascination with sky diving and would like to journey in a hot air balloon at some point, but I never really thought I’d try bungy jumping. When Robin and I were talking about my impending visit to New Zealand, she suggested that I might want to try it. She and Rich had just gone bungy jumping in Queenstown, and as she noted, New Zealand is the place where the sport was invented. What better place to try it?

I initially gave a tentative “maybe.” I wasn’t completely committed; but the more I thought about it, the more the idea took hold. “Why not?” I mused. I would be jumping with a reputable company full of professionals who knew how to hook me into the gear correctly, so safety wasn’t a concern. If I didn’t like it, I could chalk it up to having had an experience. If I liked it, it would open a door to a whole host of extreme activities I had not tried before.

Looking back, I think I was more nervous before my first jump than I acknowledged at the time. When we were on our way to breakfast that morning, I took a look in the mirror and noted that I was ghostly pale. (This was quite a feat considering that I had gotten a bit sunburnt the day before on the Tongariro Crossing.) Although I am normally a voracious breakfast eater, I didn’t really want to consume much that morning. And anybody who knows me well knows that I am a chatterbox--when I’m with good friends or family, I cannot stop myself from talking. And talking, and talking. That morning, as we drove from National Park to Taupo, I wasn’t silent, but I did have fewer words than normal. There were actually noticeable moments of quiet in the car where I wasn’t holding up my end of the conversation as well as I normally would with my equally chatty friend.

Yet, there was no going back in my mind. There wasn’t a moment when I said, “I don’t want to jump,” or “I don’t know if I can do this.” I even heard the terrified screams of the two girls who jumped before me (one of whom sounded as though she was being chased in a campy slasher film) and didn’t think about backing out.

Did I shout? Certainly. You can see for yourself in the video (complete with commentary by Robin) posted on my Facebook page. (I was planning to post it in the blog itself, but after at least four failed attempts at uploading, I figured that it wasn’t worth the stress. Everyone who reads this blog is a Facebook friend, anyway . . .) Yet, rather than screaming, I gave more of a whoop of joy. As I bounce back up, listen closely and you can hear me exclaim a “holy cow!” (Seriously--who says “holy cow” mid-bungy jump?)

After the first jump, I naturally had to jump again. Once was not enough. Twice was not really “enough,” though it did suffice for that day. The second time I jumped, went backwards. It was fantastic--on the second jump time slowed just a little bit, and I was able to really take in my surroundings as I fell backwards into the air. All I could see at first was the sky above. It was surreal.

I don’t know if there’s really any one thing I loved most about bungy jumping. It was thoroughly exciting and soul-satisfying all at once. Most people look at me incredulously when I tell them that I bungied in New Zealand; I laugh. I know I look like a kindergarten teacher to most, and therefore people assume I have the daring-do of one as well. Well, I have the video to prove otherwise. And I’m definitely planning to jump again, though it’s not to disprove anyone’s expectations. I just want to jump again because I really liked it! Maybe next time I’ll do a flip off the platform!

And sky diving is something I most definitely need to take from a dream to a reality.

The Tongariro Crossing

The mountains rose up out of the mist like a scene from a movie, but even quasi-questionable weather couldn’t diminish our excitement for the Tongariro Crossing.

See?

Yup, we were pretty excited for 19.4 kilometers (that’s 12 miles, American friends) of mountain hiking.

The Tongariro Crossing is known as one of the world’s most amazing hikes. It takes you across a full mountain, with everything from the scrubby plant-covered base to the rocky mountainside, the windswept mountaintop, lakes, waterfalls, and wooded terrain that felt almost like being back in the north woods of Wisconsin and Minnesota. The variety of terrain seems so surreal, looking back at my pictures it seems impossible that it was all encapsulated in one day-hike.

The hike started innocuously enough. It was flat with wide dirt pathways. When the walk got marshy, the conservation department had already put up boarded walkway so you didn’t sink into the sodden ground. (It wasn’t that wet when we hiked, but it was a bit damp and drizzly at the start of the walk.)

Just prior to beginning the ascent toward Red Crater, we came across the side track to Mount Ngauruhoe, best known to Lord of the Rings fans as “Mount Doom.” Prior to our hike, Robin and I had talked about wanting to climb Mount Doom. After all, it’s Mount Doom! How often does one get the opportunity to do such a thing? However, we had been forewarned that this was a tricky climb. First, our hostel roommate from the previous evening, Peter, had already shared with us his experience in climbing Mount Doom. (For the record, Peter is just about one of the most fascinating individuals I’ve yet to meet! He has travelled all over the world on extreme adventures; he shared several stories of his escapades with us. He works in his home country of England for a while, saves up, and then takes off all over the world. He’s just . . . cool!) Just like the hobbits, you have to climb Mount doom on all fours, grabbing at bits of dirt along the way. There’s no real path. This wasn’t enough to completely deter us, but we decided to “see how we felt when we saw it.” Our second warning came from our bus driver who dropped us off at the start of the track, a man craggy enough to have been carved out of the rough hewn mountainsides we came across along our hike. Due to the fog and the wet terrain from the previous night’s rain, he cautioned that anyone who wanted to climb Ngauruhoe should consult with him first, and that only the most experienced of hikers should take the climb. Robin and I glanced at one another and confirmed that although we were perfectly suited to trek the Tongariro Crossing, Ngauruhoe was not ours to conquer that particular day.

(This just gives me an excuse to go back and trek the Tongariro Crossing again! I need to face Mount Doom!)

We confirmed our decision not to climb the summit of Mount Ngauruhoe whilst passing Mount Doom--from the wide track, you could see the hardened lava flow from it’s last eruption (1975), but the entire mountain was completely shrouded in fog. Not ideal climbing conditions for gals who had not previously grappled with hand and foot climbing.) We were thrown a small consolation prize just as we were about to ascend the steepest part of our hike--the wind shifted the clouds and we got a glimpse of Mount Ngauruhoe through the mist.

As we turned back toward the track, we were given one more moment to ponder our options (and level of fitness) before we continued our hike. Here I am, thinking really hard. (Or plotting something nefarious. Take your pick!)

And we were off!

Climbing, climbing, and climbing!

Uphill adventuring isn’t so bad. Yes, it’s tough, but it’s not pure evil. Stairs, on the other hand, are a different story. I know they can be dead helpful sometimes, but so much of the time they feel like sheer torture. During the stair-laden part of our hike, we heard a lot of heavy breathing, both from ourselves and those we hiked near or passed. One lady said, “I feel like I’m working a dirty phone call!”

Luckily for us, the stairs ended. Though we continued to climb upwards, we had more gradients and rocks to help us along our way. However, we did encounter climate changes! We had happily layered ourselves for this hike, and though we were sweated from the exertion of the uphill hiking, it was quite chilly at the top! Coats came on, pants got rolled back down. I actually traded out my lighter jacket for my better-insulated one when we stopped for lunch.

(Incidentally, simple peanut butter on bread, at the top of a hike tastes phenomenal. Extreme wind enhances the flavor.)

As we walked away from our lunch stop, the craziest thing happened! It became warmer; the wind, instead of simply blowing at us in cool blasts, actually blew the fog away and we saw sunlight and blue skies again. And not a moment too soon! As we started our first mini-descent, skating through loose, dark dirt toward the Emerald Lakes, we were treated to some of the most astounding colors we’d seen yet. In front of us, we could see the bright green of Emerald Lake, caused by minerals that leach from the surrounding rocks. Against the black of the volcanic soil, the blue of the sky, and the

constantly moving fog, the green of the water appeared gem-like. When we turned around, we also had the chance to see red crater, which mere minutes before had been so saturated in fog we had to take it on good faith that it was there.

After the breathtaking scenes at Red Crater and the Emerald Lake, the rest of the walk felt serene. There were moments where the view opened up into vast landscapes that seemed to go on forever. In the last kilometers, we plunged into woodlands that felt like we had suddenly landed back home in the midwest!

All too soon we found ourselves at the end of the track. It was gratifying to have beaten the anticipated 7-8 hours--we managed the trek in six hours! Oddly, even though we had done an awful lot of walking and climbing, I didn’t feel particularly sore or even tired. (Of course, the next morning, my first few steps were a bit like Frankenstein’s . . .)

And remember that half bottle of Shiraz we had started in Raglan? We finished it that evening . . . after we had each enjoyed a complimentary glass of wine (included with the purchase of our bus tickets; for those of you familiar with my low alcohol tolerance, this was A LOT of booze in one sitting!). It was almost surreal sitting back with wine in hand, watching a full moon rise over Mount Doom in the distance. The rhyme made me giggle. Or maybe that was the wine talking . . .

Cave Women

Personally, I think Robin and I are ready to grace the front of a Wheaties box. If this picture doesn’t scream “Breakfast of Champions!” I don’t know what does.

Ok, perhaps I jest. But there is something about putting on a wetsuit, a helmet (complete with its own torch), and adventuring through a cave that does make one feel a bit inspired.

Accomplishment number one: putting on said wetsuit, when it was still wet from an earlier run through the caves. If you’ve never experienced this particular joy yourself, the sensation of putting on a waterlogged wetsuit is not pleasant. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that it’s downright nasty. It’s cold and rubbery and feels like you’re trying to put on another layer of skin that disagrees heartily with you. Robin caught this, um, charming picture of me as I pulled up the bib top of my wetsuit. I assure you it was as clammy and cold as the rest of the suit.

Accomplishment number two: facing the more frightening cave critters. Ok, I’ll admit that this wasn’t the worst thing ever. In fact, it was pretty easy to avoid the frightening cave critters altogether, and frankly, they weren’t that scary. But we did see a weta, a sizable cave-dwelling spider that looks like it popped directly out of the fourth Harry Potter flick as soon as we entered the Ruakuri Cave in Waitomo. (Robin was none-too-pleased by its presence.) And though we thought our guide was joking, there was in fact an eel waiting to greet us in one area of the cave. For some reason, that gave me the willies, and I proceeded to squeak whenever someone in our rafting group shouted “eel” to me throughout our adventure.

Accomplishment number three: black water rafting. Robin sent me an email that listed several things we could tackle prior to my trip to New Zealand, and this was one that made my “must” list. Ostensibly, we simply “tubed in a cave.” Yet, there was a bit more to the black water rafting than simple tubing. We did a bit of hiking through the cave river, which was tricky at times. Although you have a torch on your helmet, you often can’t see your footing through the darkness of the water. Rocks jut up out of nowhere and if you’re not careful, you may just take a nasty dive and injure yourself. (For all of you who are privy to my more clumsy exploits past, I am pleased to say that I emerged from this particular venture without incident!) We also got to jump off some waterfalls that were 3-4 meters in height. They weren’t particularly daunting in comparison with the waterfalls that Robin and Rich had already conquered weeks earlier whilst canyoning, but we still heard our guides give the warning: “Make sure you jump far enough away from the fall so you avoid the undertow, but not so far that you hit these rocks . . .”

Accomplishment number four: singing in a cave. It’s a funny thing, but as soon as I told anyone in New Zealand that I taught choir here in the states, I was asked, “Are you going to sing us a song then?” Ordinarily, I don’t feel stage fright. I love to entertain an audience from a stage either as a soloist or part of a choir. I like the adrenaline rush and the thrill of live performance. Yet, when asked to do this human to human, without the distance an audience and performance space, without a character to play or a planned program, suddenly it’s the most daunting thing in the world. My mind blanks, my pulse rushes, and though I nearly always have a soundtrack running through my head, I can’t think of a song. I feel like a stunned child, paralyzed in the moment, struggling through the far reaches of my mind. What can I sing? Why can’t I think of any songs that I know??? Then I proceed to berate myself for not being able to think of any songs since having a catalogue of songs in my brain is so much a part of who I am at every other juncture of my life that I often sing bits of songs when people utter phrases from them in ordinary conversation. Thankfully, I was able to pull a verse of the Irish folk song “The Salley Gardens” out of the recesses of my brain. So while floating through the river, helmet torches dimmed, and only the light from the glowworms above to light our way, I sang. It was a frightening moment personally--Robin had built me up to the rest of our caving group, and I was loathe to disappoint. But regardless of what others thought of my singing, I enjoyed a moment of personal satisfaction both while singing and afterwards. The acoustics in the cave were stunning. (I should sing in caves more often!) And I take great pride in the fact that I was able to share something I find intensely personal in a truly unique situation.

As mentioned above, we also saw one of New Zealand’s natural beauties while in the cave: glowworms. From the water below, we stared up at the dazzling light of what looked to be thousands of glittering stars above us. In reality, the glowworm is an ugly, gooey little larva, made pretty by its bioluminescence, which, as our caving guide pointed out, is really just glowing fecal matter used to capture its prey. However, knowing the truth about our little friend, arachnocampa luminosa, could not diminish the beauty of the little buggers. They are truly a sight to behold.

Perhaps the only downside to the adventure was the chilling cold. However, this was nothing that a hot shower, followed by hot soup and a toasted bagel, couldn’t fix. Would I do it all again? In a heart beat! Perhaps next time we’ll add in some repelling for an added thrill!

Nerd Alert!

Doot-do, do-do-do. Matamata! Doot do-do-do! Matamata!

(If you have no idea what little song I was singing while writing the opening lines of this entry, I insist that you check out this lovely YouTube clip of the muppets singing “Mah Na Mah Na.” Your inner child will thank you.)

On March 17, Robin and I bid farewell to Rich and began our own little sojourn into Kiwi country. Our first stop? Matamata, a lovely little town, now famous for its Hobbity hamlets. That’s right folks, we let our inner nerds out to play and took the tour of the Shire set. Having both read and watched The Lord of the Rings, I instinctively recognized the rolling green mountains as Hobbiton, and delighted in having the opportunity to visit the set. It is so quaint! There are round little doors and chimneys popping out of hillsides as far as the eye can see. Across the lake, you can see the Green Dragon and the mill. Real fruit grows on the apple and pear trees! It’s so picturesque even the most Orc-like individuals would feel their blackened hearts melting. Sadly, I cannot publish any of the pictures of the Shire here. Before touring the set, Robin and I had to sign a bit of parchment that said we wouldn’t, or Peter Jackson may just gobble us up for second breakfast. Or elevensies. Or afternoon tea. So you’ll have to be satisfied with our mock-hobbit pictures from the shuttle launch in Matamata.

Yessir, I’m skipping. And for good reason. I’m apparently too tall to be a hobbit! (The new casting call for The Hobbit asked for extras 5’2” and under. At 5’4.5,” I’ve missed the cut-off.) I think my lack of hairy feet may also have put me out of the running for the casting. As you can see, Robin has attempted to make herself hobbit-height, but alas, I think she’s more elvish with those long limbs.

Our time in the Shire led us to feel a bit hobbity, so we were concerned about food immediately following our tour of the set. Luckily, Matamata complied and we didn’t have to go on much of a quest to find lunch. (Just one lunch, though. We are too tall to be hobbits, after all!) Near the cafe we visited, we came across the Manly Milk Bar. Now, we know what Milk Bars are--small convenience stores from which one can readily buy various food cupboard staples like milk, juices, crackers, and treats. It’s not a fully-stocked grocery store, but enough to help you “get by.” It also acts as a newsstand. However, I couldn’t stop giggling at the name of this Milk Bar. What made it “Manly?”

I had to investigate.

Using the best skills one could glean from The Boxcar Children, I sauntered casually into the store, saying “hello” to the elderly gentleman behind the counter of the Manly Milk Bar. On the right, a refrigerator for soda, milk, and juices. Next to the counter and spilling over onto it I saw a wide array of candies. Frozen treats were located in a freezer on the right of the counter. Shampoos, soaps, and other personal sundries were located in the back of the shop. Toys were on a shelf just beyond the cold beverages. This wasn’t feeling particularly “manly.”

And then I saw it--the “man cave.” Lurking surreptitiously behind a tall shelf was a rack of magazines with scantily clad and cleverly black-bar-censored women.

It’s a good thing this was not really a Boxcar Children mystery. I don’t think the wholesome Boxcar kiddos would have been able to make sense of the “man cave” in the back of the Manly Milk Bar. I think they might be altogether scandalized if they saw two people *gasp* holding hands. I can’t bear to think of how they’d react to scantily clad women on magazine covers!

(I, on the other hand, giggled.)

To commemorate this momentous occasion, I struck a “manly” pose, in the vein of Sears catalogue models, outside the Manly Milk Bar.

(Hey, a girl can only do so much to be “manly,” especially when wearing a ruffly purple t-shirt.)

We headed toward Raglan next, a beach community noted for its black sand beaches and surfing. While on route, we took a small detour to Bridal Veil Falls. It was a short trek to the falls, but the twisty roads to reach the track were killer. I travel fairly well to most places, and I like a good thrill from time to time. However, the one thing I simply cannot master is twisty roads (or spinning rides). I do not blame Robin’s driving in the least--again, she handled those twists and turns like a pro and kept us safe to the bitter end. I just wish my stomach would listen to my brain, which kept uttering “It’s ok, it’s ok. Don’t toss your cookies!”

The visit to the falls was worth it, though! McLaren Falls had been nice; Bridal Veil Falls was impressive in its sheer force. It was a taller fall, and we even managed to see a rainbow in the mist. (Thanks to my handy dandy 35mm “biggie” camera, I managed to capture that rainbow too! Look closely!)

(Ok, I’ll admit that the rainbow wasn’t that difficult to capture. I also snagged some shots with my digital “point-and-shoot” camera, which also came out nicely.)

(And since this entry is entitled “nerd alert,” I guess this is the appropriate time to note that I had a total of THREE cameras on the trip--the 35mm biggie, the point-and-shoot digital, and my HD Flip cam for video. Nerd alert, indeed!)

Arriving in Raglan after our day at the Shire and Bridal Veil Falls, we were in for a very different sort of visit. We stayed at the Karioi Lodge, a hostel that hosted its own surf school. Since we were just passing through for the night, we weren’t part of the school. However, we still got a taste of the surf culture. We met some very nice people at the lodge, but looking around we got the sense that a few of the travelers had been there slightly longer than the average backpacker would stay. Perhaps they’d originally intended to stay for 3 days of surf school, but liked the surf life so much that they stayed for 2 weeks instead. This is not in any way a judgment--just more of an amused observation. The lodge itself had a comfortable, relaxed vibe that permeated every inch of the property. The kitchen was clean but well-used. Our shared bunk had a slightly damp but pleasantly camp-like smell. Robin and I opted to get Indian takeaway from the city proper that evening, as part of the Kiwi culture. (I know, I know! Indian food doesn’t scream of Kiwi culture at first glimpse, but takeaway is like a whole food group unto itself! The folks of New Zealand seem crazy for their takeaway food, and based on the caliber of the Indian food we got, I can see why! It was exquisite!) We also opened our bottle of Mills Reef Shiraz and each had a glass. (Please note--we still had about half a bottle left after this. For future reference.) In plastic wine glasses, of course! I think actual glass would have defied the very nature of Karioi Lodge and felt completely out of place. Plastic? Just right for the occasion.

And perfectly suited to us at the time. Two gals off on a wild and crazy, and slightly nerdy, road trip.

Observation

On our second day in New Zealand, I awoke to the sound of birds chirping happily outside my window. (It was a bit like being in a Disney cartoon. Had I not been so delighted to be in New Zealand, I might have been forced to make a snarky comment about this. However, when you’re on holiday somewhere as amazing as New Zealand, you’ll forgive the saccharine moments and actually rejoice in them.) Bits of puffy white clouds broke up the brilliant blue of the sky, and I had to smile as I stretched my limbs in bed. After being teased by Robin and Rich’s landlord about the pallor of my skin the night before (working my Minnesota-pastiness to its best!), I was determined to get a bit of color.

Robin and I ventured off to explore McLaren Falls after breakfast. It was a lovely area that looked almost as if it could be part of the midwestern landscape to which I am accustomed. It wasn’t as piney as Copper Falls, a hiking trail and waterfall I visited several times in my youth in Wisconsin, but it had similar elements. We used our “can’t touch the ground” skills from the previous day’s rock-skipping adventure, but now with greater consequences. On the first day, slipping off meant you might touch down onto a beach of shells. Sure, it might sound like you’ve crashed through a plate of glass, and you might even get a few scrapes, but at McLaren Falls, you ran the risk of getting wet at best, or taking a nasty tumble and potentially injuring yourself as you skidded down rocky ledges, perhaps breaking a limb or cracking your skull open.

I was game!

The climbing was very successful. We didn’t have many threatening moments--there were many safe places to climb since it hadn’t rained for quite a while. (Robin tells me that when she and Rich first arrived, they drove to McLaren Falls shortly after an enormous bout of rain and couldn’t even see the rocks we were climbing.) Not long after we arrived, a cluster of young Arab men came to the falls. They were jovially taking large group pictures. Our two groups didn’t really intermingle--we all had our own agenda. However, it seems we were the subject of some observation. Robin and I were finding our way back up a pile of rocks, and she managed to just barely make a sizable grab to pull herself back up. Being somewhat shorter, I couldn’t quite hoist myself up the same route. It seems the group of gentlemen noticed, despite all their group picture-taking, and they asked in broken English if we were ok, just as I was looking for an alternate route back up. We thanked them for their kindness, but showed them that we had found another route.

Which leads us to this.

Right. So . . . This picture shows a flatter area of the falls. Naturally, Robin and I were attracted to the brightness of the sign, and the fact that it read “CAUTION” in huge letters across the top. Robin told me to pose in fear. Somehow, I came up with something that looks more like a salute. Perhaps this in homage to the great sirens that could warn us of imminent flooding danger. “Oh, great sirens, please don’t sound whilst we are here.” (Yup. That works.)

After we climbed, we went to the Mills Reef Winery. It was a winery. We sampled several wines. They were good. We bought a bottle to take home. It was a Shiraz.

(Remember this detail for future entries.)

After a brief detour to put on our “togs” (Kiwi for swimsuits) and pick up Rich at the house, we headed back to Maunganui and sampled the beach. I just about had a second layer of sunscreen on (remember the aforementioned Minnesota pastiness? I have a tendency to turn as red as a lobster without proper precautions in the sun. While I wanted some color again, red was not the goal.), when I decided to go for it and jump into the water. At about shin level, it felt quite nice. Apparently Robin and Rich were watching for that moment when you realize that it’s actually a bit chilly. They got their moment--it hit about thigh level and my jaw dropped open. However, it wasn’t enough to deter me--it was simply a little cooler than anticipated. I waded in further and eventually just dove forward. It was great! I hadn’t been in the ocean for ages! There is a different current here, and salt water adds a whole new level of fun for swimmers. (Don’t open your eyes! And for goodness sakes, don’t open your mouth! Good lessons I remembered not too long into my swim.)

We dried ourselves in the late afternoon sun and proceeded to take a little hike up a cliff to see the spout, an area where the water rushes up and spits upward like a whale spout. It was now our turn to be the observers. There was a whole pack of teenage boys jumping off the edge of a nearby cliff straight into the ocean. This was a mighty tall jump, and might have been tempting had the tide not been so strong. We watched as some miscreants who had jumped in tried to swim up through the spout. Let’s just say that was a bad idea on their part. (They were bright enough to turn around and go back another way. Thank goodness. Much as they weren’t my favorite blokes in the world, I didn’t need or want to see any particular harm come to them. I’m not much for carnage.)

“So, Gillian,” you ask, “why do you categorize these youths as miscreants? Perhaps they were just adventurous.” Indeed--some of the teens were simply thrill-seeking in their jumping. However, the two who attempted the spout were definitely deviants. After the sadness of seeing the expired little blue penguin on the shore the previous day, we were elated when Rich first spotted a live one swimming near the cliff, and positively squealed when we too caught a glimpse. (Rich has some keen vision! When Robin and I couldn’t see it, she insisted that he must have made it up just to torment us. We were absolutely giddy when he proved her wrong.) The delinquent teens earned their standing because of this little penguin. Prior to their jump, they were cheering for the penguin to get washed into the spout and crash upon the rocks. Not cool, boys. Not cool.

(No penguins or ruffians were injured during our visit.)

Kia Ora, Llama!

The sky was a brilliant blue, a fully saturated color that is usually reserved for postcards. A glowing orb of warmth radiated between the thin stretches of cloud that looked as though someone had loosely pulled a cotton ball and scattered bits of it about the sky. I stepped into the sunlight, blinking in wonder. “We’re not in Minnesota, anymore!” I thought to myself. “Hallelujah!”

Don’t get me wrong--I love Minnesota. I adore our state with it’s many Scandinavian-American quirks, and usually try to recruit everyone and their cousin to live here. Here you can be in the metro area, but a mere thirty minutes later you can be in the country looking at open expanses of field that stretch as far as the eye can see, or stumble upon one of our 10,000 lakes. I have loved Minnesota because I can be my expressive, artistic singer self, diving into our rich history of choral music, but I can also find the outdoors. For a kid who grew up canoeing with her dad, skiing and building snow forts with friends, and was generally covered in grass stains between the ages of 4 and 11 (ok, 12), Minnesota is glorious.

But as many a Minnesotan will tell you, this winter has been tougher than most. I love winter and snow as much as the next northerner, but having accumulated some 60 inches (that’s about 152 centimeters to the rest of the world), I was ready to dig out of endless winter.

And so I was more than ready to absorb myself in the warmth of New Zealand at the end of their summer and beginning of fall. Having a good friend to visit there made it all the better!

My dear friend Robin picked me up at the Auckland airport on March 15, and we were off on a Kiwi road trip! This was a feat in itself--Auckland is about two hours from Robin’s New Zealand home base in Tauranga, and required feats of bravery in the form of driving on the left side of the road. Kudos to Robin for her masterful maneuvering on tiny, twisty roads, up and down through the rolling hills and mountains of New Zealand. She did an amazing job! (Actually, Robin and I have had some, uh, interesting car adventures here in the states, and as I told her throughout our road trip in New Zealand, I think she may fare better on the left side of the road!)

For the first two days, we stayed in the Bay of Plenty area. I am thankful that Robin is a master planner. I bounded off the plane thinking I was ready to tackle just about anything. Robin knew better. One shower later (to get rid of the stink of 16 hours of plane ride), Robin, her husband Rich, and I headed to Manganui, a 10 minute jaunt down the road to a small mount and beautiful ocean view.

We proceeded to hike up this small mount, which was quite lovely. Here you can see a glimpse of the stairs we climbed. The angle is a bit off here, but it gives you an idea of what we climbed. (I now acknowledge that this is not my best camera work--I wanted, like so many of us, to believe that I am invincible and was not at all susceptible to exhaustion. I’ll be human enough to admit that I might have been wrong.) This was one short portion of the climb. There were more stairs around the corner

As we climbed, we met an interesting old codger. He was a salty man, weathered by long hours in the sun, carrying a pack and a walking stick. Meeting him, you get the feeling that he may live in a small hovel carved out by rocks and trees near the mount. He fancies himself a psychic and endeavored to tell us about the demise of the US and the northern hemisphere. I don’t think I could write every detail of his ramblings if I tried, but suffice to say, friends, if a man named Douglas Wilder wins the American presidency in 2012, you should join me in flocking to the southern hemisphere on the earliest flight or boat ride you can book. Apparently he will help incite the demise of the entire northern hemisphere and the southern hemisphere will be the only safe place left. (Anyone fancy taking a canoe through the ocean? That would be a very different kind of adventure, but exciting nonetheless!)

The rest of the afternoon is shrouded in a haze of memory. I remember playing “don’t touch the ground” with Robin and Rich, hopping from one large rock to another during low tide. It was a delightful throwback to childhood, made all the more fun by the prospect that you had to grasp at the edge of taller rocks and hope that you had something to throw your foot on to make your next move. (Being at least 4 inches--that’s 10 cm--shorter than Robin and Rich, I got a bit creative with this process.) On this rock-lined shore, I happened to see my first wild penguin. Sadly, it was an expired penguin--small and blue, we could only tell it was a penguin by its little webbed feet. Robin bemoaned our sad little feathered friend, especially since it was one of my first New Zealand wildlife sightings. Admittedly, I have approximately 37 penguins in my classroom at school that my students have gifted to me over the years, and it was a bit depressing to see a departed penguin instead of one that was happily swimming in the gorgeous aquamarine ocean. (Rich and Robin both offered to taxidermy the little blue penguin for my collection, but I opted to pass. Somehow, I just didn’t think customs would find it kosher.)

Before I knew it, I was falling asleep at Robin and Rich’s kitchen table while Robin and I were trying to map out some of the finer details of our impending road trip. They packed me off into the spare room, and blessed sleep had me immune to the world as soon as my head hit the pillow. Day 1 in New Zealand had already brought a welcome burst of sunshine and warmth, and the journey was just beginning!