"Cutlivate Your Own Garden" Part Two

Our small party continued southward and the sky turned a threatening grey then opened up, rivets ran down our windows and small rivers snaked across the road. We drove through corridors of towering trees and lacy ferns. Raindrops hung from and dripped off of every leaf and branch, the rivers, already swollen with rainwater and runoff, increase ever more until once bubbling brooks grow into savage monsters devouring everything in their path: bulldozing past granite rocks and swallowing up saplings. The rain lets up ever so slightly as we stop for lunch just outside of Fox Glacier.

The road leading up to the glacier is uneven and rocky, small signs advise of the rapid withdrawal of the million-year-old block of ice and rock. It has shrunk over a kilometer in fifty short years. We drive over rocks only recently exposed, a large hill of ice, camouflaged by a coating of rocks and debris gives itself away with the slow drip of glacial water from beneath an icy overhand, it broke off during the retreat and it shrinks evermore at a visible rate.

We picnic in the car, munching on sardine sandwiches washed down with a bottle of merlot. Glasses in hand we venture into the misty rain an onto a swing bridge offering up a vantage point for viewing the glacier. The bridge sways beneath our feet and we try to take pictures of the scenery and one another, attempting to capture the glory of the moment in a stagnant 3x5 replica. How do you bottle the grandeur of the sheer cliffs, how insignificant you feel and how short your life has suddenly become? The land around us remains but we march on and on and into oblivion; New Zealand will stay.

We walk towards the glacier, measuring the passage of time in footsteps and short breaths. The clouds grow heavy above and release their weight on the few trampers out to enjoy themselves regardless of what Mother Nature dishes up. All around us the mountains are in a constant state of change. As the glacier shrunk back it carved sheer cliffs into the surrounding hills leaving behind a very unstable structure. Released from the grips of binding ice the hills sigh and stretch and avalanches of rocks tumble down taking out everything on the way. Moss and seeds find new homes in the recent additions and quickly the landslide slides back into the surroundings.

The frequent rains feed the plethora of rivers and creeks pouring out of the mountains and they race over the edges of the cliff faces and down the rockslides forming waterfalls that stream onto the valley floor, a constant flood of water pours out from under the glacier itself forming the main river snaking between the two towering hills. We trek on toward the glacier, clambering over the rocks and fording the streams.

A sign, still meters from the glacier, advises us to keep back, the glacier is unstable and capable of breaking off at any moment. But I did not come this far to not have my close encounter with so ancient a history. I want to touch it, feel the ages in a cold crevasse and steady myself on the melting surface. We cross over the ropes and make our way up to the face of the glacier. High above us it towers, deep caverns slide into the depths of the icy mammoth. I touch the glassy sides and climb onto its slick hide, the first person and the only person to make contact, older than I will ever know. I truly am insignificant.

"Cultivate Your Own Garden"* Part One

Harvest is behind us now but the experience continues in our travels. Traversing the highways of the South Island we can explore the big and small and find in it and our selves awe inspiring moments. Moments where our mouths hang open from the sheer scope of the beauty we are witnessing or the private moments that only the mind is privy too when a revelation comes that we have changed and are changing and growing and becoming better more complete human beings. At the heart and soul of who I am I will always be me but the rough edges are rounding off and my scope of vision widening. Life is a great learning experience and I am ready to absorb.

Amanda is a woman who loves to have fun and enjoys herself and her company. She is rubbing off on me and everyday gets a little better. Each car picnic is the best ever, every dinner more delicious than the one before and our experiences topped only by the next. What a way to live.

I look forward to advancing onto our next leg of the journey: to the time when we leave our base in Bannockburn to explore the south east side of New Zealand. We are comfortably stagnant for the time being, lazily soaking up the sun’s rays and safe from the blustering winds in our little beach house in the desert.

Driving into Bannockburn there is a welcome sign inviting travelers to enjoy their stay in “the heart of the desert”. We gaze around us and see trees sparsely dotting the landscape, shrubs and California poppies hug the ground while a dry wind whips above, a brilliant aquamarine lake hugs the roadside. Summer has just passed but I wonder how green it grows with spring. This is the kiwi version of a desert: more water than Central California and not a succulent to be found. It is all about perspective.

The dry landscape and cloudless blue sky is a welcome and dramatic change. Driving down we were plagued with dark low clouds and torrents of rain. The Southern Alps hidden behind a blanket of precipitation, their lush green vegetation grey in the dim light.

For one day the sun shone on us. As we headed out from Nelson and down to Hokitika the clouds stayed back allowing us our only outside lunch. We sat down and began a tradition that will continue until the end of this journey. We feasted on cheese and crackers, apples and avocados, seafood and meats. Cucumber and portabella mushrooms spilled from herbed pita bread and we washed it all down with a glass of Nelson Sauvignon Blanc, courtesy of my winemaker and mentor.

We had stopped in Punakaiki the sight of New Zealand’s famous pancake rocks and one of the few blowholes in the world. The sun continued to shine as we poured two more glasses and set off down the trail. Stepping into dense forest vegetation we walked along blinded on all sides by a wall of native bush; shortly it opened up and we cast our eyes on a sparkling blue ocean, deep grey rocks, formed by layers of sediment, with bright green grasses clinging precariously to them.

As the path wound on and our glasses slowly emptied our eyes soaked up deep crevices carved by pounding waves, precipices shaped like animals and tikis, all the while our feet carefully navigated the spray soaked rock pathways, every meter threatening to topple unwary visitors. The air was heavy with the smells of the ocean, the aromas breaking loose with each crashing wave and ascending to reach our senses, mingling with the capsicum and gooseberry floating out of the wine.

*from "Candide" by Voltaire

Moving On Again

Leaving your home feels much the same whether you have been there for years or months, and each time I leave knowing that many I will never see again, though I may want to, but that there will always be more people to meet to become close to and to leave. It is a circle that grows to include those that continue on in my mind, as their presence never fades completely. We touch each other and change one another and move through the world and time hoping to have a profound effect that will not be forgotten in the passage of life.

It is easiest when you are the one doing the leaving. Leading up to my departure from Tahunanui Beach my time was too consumed to allow room for feelings of sadness. I busied myself with parties and dinners. I had a whole room to shove back into a backpack and the prospect of great adventures to look forward to. There were routes to plan and places to contact. I was busy and excited and happy with short tinges of sadness when I had the moment to reflect on the people I now loved who would not travel on with me.

I left Tony and Marcus and Rob and Daniel. I left Lisa and Barry and Carolyn and Ben. I left those I just met and wished I could have spent more time with and those I have seen so much you would think I would be aching for a change, but I wasn’t and I feel their absence when I am still and the old sneaks up behind me.

Already there are more people to keep in contact with, a list of travelers and harvest interns to look up when I am in their corner of the world. It doesn’t matter where you go in New Zealand; at this time of year we are everywhere. Fresh out of the wineries and anxious to see as much as possible before our lives take us from here; there are car loads of us moving up and down both islands. There is a convergence in Queenstown and the scenery changes but the faces are again the same.

You spy gumboots with winery logos in the back of cars and a conversation strikes up. The twenty questions I use to ask fellow travelers have changed to include one more: “Which winery did you work for?” We share horror stories of tanks crushing in because someone forgot to vent the top, of accidental blends and stuck ferments. We brag and share accolades—proud of our hard work and the people we worked under. It does not matter where you go for harvest is done in New Zealand and the hard workers are looking to have a good time and will go anywhere to find it.