Reason To Wander

No. 194

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sat, 13 Mar 2010 15:49:00 +0000

New Zealand: Really this should be called driving New Zealand because we spent more time inside a car or campervan than outside it on this month-long tour. On the one hand that’s a small tragedy, because it violates our number one important (and number one most difficult) self-imposed travel rule: Don’t try to do too much. But the reality is that when you’re confronted with a map of this place, or a guidebook stuffed with superlatives or, finally, the incredible view that’s around every bend in the two-lane road, you can’t help yourself.

And all the while we’re thinking, “this looks really familiar,” because all these little bits of wonder strung together on our asphalt necklace remind us of places we’ve been. Mongolia. Ireland. Oregon. And then a little bird that looks like a dinosaur struts out of some bushes that aren’t actually bushes at all, but giant ferns that grow like palm trees. And I spit out a mouth full of half chewed Jaffas to proclaim that even though this strange land may be populated by familiar people and sheep, it isn’t like anyplace else on earth because there’s just so much of it packed into such a small space. And so we keep driving.

Our campervan plan was a fine one, until the summer weather proved so fickle that we craved a real roof, some indoor legroom and big picture window to sit behind with a glass of duty free brown to just watch the sheets of summer rain wash over the glow green landscape. Pity the livestock but not us, because we found some luxurious comfort in the last quarter of the trip that made this feel like a real honeymoon. Then the honeymoon was over. I’ve always wanted to use that phrase literally!

The funny thing is that now that we’re home I’m enjoying New Zealand even more. I almost like it better in retrospect, because I’m not gripping the wheel to pass another truck or fretting about gathering storm clouds but remembering when the sun was out, hot on my face while I eased into a camp chair plopped in a field of purple foxglove, riven by the babbling blue water of glaciers. I’m thinking about it a lot lately, because New Zealand keeps finding me. When I see something familiar like a snow capped peak in Oregon, or a video of shepherding in Ireland, or a photo I took of an amber field of late summer grass in Mongolia, I don’t think of those places as much as I think of New Zealand. And of how amazing that it can be like everyplace and noplace at all.

No. 193

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 06:14:00 +0000

World Buskers Festival, Christchurch: By very happy coincidence, we ended our honeymoon trip in Christchurch during the ten-day run of the annual World Buskers Festival. Fifty or so highly skilled street performers, along with abut 300,000 tourists, invade the south island’s most populous city and the central squares of this leafy burg are transformed into surreal carnival scenes. Jugglers are tossing everything they can get their hands on, living statues are freaking out your elders, fire dancers are wiggling to world music and a peppy little guy with washboard abs is killing with off-color Jesus jokes from atop a wobbly 15-foot pole. Many of the buskers come to NZ with one-way tickets, hoping to earn enough in the hat to get home, or at least to Australia where they can continue the summer street show circuit. This event is one of those world travel checklist items that shows up on all sorts of cable shows and I’ve probably seen it featured a half dozen times, never expecting to experience it in person. But tight pants, back flips and the constant threat of embarrassing audience participation here we are, loving every minute of it.

No. 192

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 06:29:00 +0000

Taking in a Little "Old" Zealand: Lots of jokes are made at the expense of New Zealand’s ever present retro flavor and one previous visitor gave me a warning of sorts before I arrived. “It’s like the 1950s over there, except with lots of Japanese cars,” he said. I would actually say it’s a little more like the 1970s but with more microbreweries and German tourists. Either way, one of the most enjoyable remnants of days past are the bevy of quaint, family owned and operated roadside attractions that dot the sweeping emerald countryside. We took in a few of these along the way, refreshingly intimate, affordable and mostly void of the boundaries (and safety regulations) of corporate or government-operated attractions. Two south island favorites were the nearly guardrail free tour of Ngarua Caves beneath the limestone and marble mass of Takaka Hill and a sheep shearing demonstration on the windy Kaikoura Peninsula; the former included several spots for stalactite “touchies,” off color commentary about various anatomical shapes and a steep ladder climb of an exit, the latter included a peek in an old school shearing shed and a chance to hold a lamb named Christmas.

No. 191

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 04:21:00 +0000

Water Taxis and Abel Tasman National Park: I suppose the other sure way to know that you’ve arrived in a remarkable place is when you immediately have the feeling that you didn’t book enough nights. So it was when we rolled up to our hillside chalet in Marahau, tucked into the lush foothills of Abel Tasman and within a t-shirt cannon shot of the golden sand bays that dot the coast here.

Abel Tasman the man was a Dutch captain, the first European to spot these shores and receive a bloody reception from the Maori, who killed some of his crew before he sailed home without ever setting foot on the shore. Colonization fail. Abel Tasman the park however, and in particular the 51km track traversing the coastline, is a sight to behold; a string of gasp-worthy vistas across perfect lagoons that beg (chilly) swims, dense patches of rainforest where tree ferns grow tall and lean like palm trees and clouds like phosphorescent cotton roiling on the horizon. Kayaking and walking the coast track are what everyone comes for, and while this Great Walk has been well and truly discovered by Kiwis and Canadians alike, we managed a spectacular day hike between two bays – Bark Bay and Torrent Bay – that was peaceful and interrupted only by those million dollar views. Those views were entertaining enough, but almost equally delightful was the clever water taxi system that shuttled us to and from the town of Marahau, regardless of the dramatic changes in tide. And while the weather has been unseasonably hit or miss, we gathered enough sun break evidence of the Abel Tasman area to easily make it one of our favorite places in the world.

Photos, left to right: Sunset, nasi goreng and a screw-top Marlborough Pinot Noir from the deck of our chalet; swing bridge over Falls River; a water taxi pickup at Torrent Bay

No. 190

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 01:50:00 +0000

Getting Baked in Nelson: No not that kind of baked, rather the kind where Amy lays in a bikini on the beach, uncovered for about five glorious minutes and then spends the next two hours covered in towels, sheets, sand, hats, books, pieces of driftwood, flotsam, jetsam, basically anything that blocks her fair skin from the sun. I’ve said this a bunch already, but the sun really is incredibly hot on the skin here. I was startled at sunrise a few days ago in Punakaiki when I went from cool to sweltering/burning in about 30 seconds. Now that we’re back and cooking in this double sun, it feels a bit silly to have complained about not having it around for a week.

But there it was in Nelson and oh how we basked in it. Tahunanui beach on the outskirts of town has every trapping of a Kiwi beach afternoon – a couple kilometers of golden soft sand, swimmable waters, a vintage playground with dangerous fun rides, free parking and a Mr. Whippy soft serve van cranking out the double dips. Mmmm, double dip. I took my own double dip in the turquoise bay and it was the first time I’ve been swimming in this country without the numbing creep of hypothermia in my toes. Not sure what the actual temperature was, but I did try to get an answer on that from a salty old timer who’d just ambled over the dunes from the water.

Me: How’s the water?
Him: Fine, nice swim today.
Me: What do you suppose the temperature is?
Him: Oh I don’t know, I just get in it (squints up at my “Monday Night Football” visor) You here on holiday then?

Yeah, we’re here on holiday. And back floats and sunburns in sunny Nelson make it feel like the real deal.

Photos from Nelson, left to right: Family vacation; space age thrills; queued up for Mr. Whippy; inside the gorgeous Christ Church cathedral; button-cute cottages in the South District; Amy plays it safe.

No. 189

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 02:29:00 +0000

Lynton Lodge Motel, Nelson: There is one sure way I know I've arrived at a remarkable hotel, and it has nothing to do with HBO or a continental breakfast in the lobby. I know I'm in a special place when I spend the first hour doing nothing but taking photographs of it. So it was with this time capsule guesthouse in sunny seaside Nelson, perched on a hillside overlooking the grand central cathedral and a pocketful of adorable small town cafes and shops. But lovely as Nelson is I could hardly pry myself away from the unpretentiously retro apartment we rented, a self-contained cocoon of orange curtains, impeccable lino, space age browns, about twelve different kinds of wall covering and those Miami-grandma perfect louvered windows with garden views. It's also got the kind of civilized host who doesn't ask for any money at check-in, but instead hands you a small jar of milk (choose whole or lite) for your afternoon tea. Far out. Super duper highly recommended.

No. 188

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 02:26:00 +0000

Unfamiliar Groceries: We didn't do much self-catering in Asia, because amazing meals out were pennies a serving and markets were mostly for gawking ("they want how much for a sack of purple frogs?"). But the cost of living has taken us a little by surprise in NZ and meals out tend to be exorbitantly priced in local dollars, save for the shared portions of fush n chups we've enjoyed by many a seaside. So what that means is lots of time spent in Woolworths and New Worlds and Countdowns and our favorite, Pack n Saves, where you do literally pack (your own groceries) and save (lots of coins with little birds on them). Not surprisingly, foreign groceries double as a source of cheap entertainment, an easy kind of culture shock that lets you giggle and wonder at your own pace. Pop quiz: What's the difference between chow chow and picalilli? We're still scratching our heads on that one, never mind the fact that they're both types of relish with American-ish origins that neither of us had heard of until we strolled into a Plimmerton bodega. There's the bizarre selection of breads, divisible by kinds specifically labeled for "toast" and those for "sandwich," which is a mistake you only make once. Unrefrigerated eggs are the norm, nearly every brand being free range, some manner of organically fed and packed in cartons that often still have feathers in them. The obligatory stack of unusual candy bars always rounds out the checkout experience (Picnic bar anyone?) and then there's the staggering variety of common items rendered unusual by new brands and cuts; in New Zealand this is mostly true when wandering the dairy and meat sections. I lost my mind in the bacon case, which features:

1) middle bacon
2) middle eye bacon
3) streaky bacon
4) rindless streaky bacon
5) shoulder bacon
6) gammon/leg bacon
7) green bacon
8) middle rashers
9) rindless middle rashers
10) short cuts

Now some of these refer to the same thing, but the sheer number of different packagings make it seem like we live in a pathetically under served world of American strip bacon with that stupid little window cut in the back for viewing fat content. Anyway more proof that bacon makes everything better, even shopping in New Zealand.

No. 187

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 02:21:00 +0000

Discovering Jumping Pillows: Every now and then the guidebook makes a curious reference to an amenity – mostly at RV holiday parks – called a jumping pillow. Maybe you’ve seen Flight of The Concords and you know that they have a funny way of calling things down here, as evidenced by the chilly bin we’re storing our cold foods in. That’s an ice chest to us Yanks, so we just assumed that "jumping pillow" was a funny way of saying "trampoline." Then we pulled into the Greymouth Top 10 Holiday Park where, positioned next to a perfectly good trampoline, there was a 25 foot long inflated canvas bag surrounded by super soft sand. A jumping pillow. I had to nearly drag Amy kicking and screaming away from this thing. And who could blame her? No age restrictions (at least not signposted), just a short walk from our camper spot and an even shorter walk from a pebble strewn, black sand beach with tip top summer sunsets. Sweet as, eh?

No. 186

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 21:40:00 +0000

Taking the Slow Road to Two Glaciers: The one great thing about leaving Queenstown is that there’s no unspectacular road out of it, and the one we chose may have been the grandest; a few hundred kilometers skirting between two grand lakes at the foot of Mt. Aspiring before topping the heavenly Haast Pass and turning north up the sublimely sunny West Coast. And at the end of this two day slow poke was a honey pot of New Zealand glaciers, where we had our first experience (ever) approaching a glacier on foot and then just a couple hours later, did it again at a second glacier. It’s taken us a couple of weeks to really figure this out, but here’s what New Zealand is all about: Repeatedly outdoing itself.

Time and again we find ourselves on a scenic roller coaster drive, itself worthy of a slow day’s exploration, only to be dropped at some world wonder sight that is nearly always approachable via a neatly groomed footpath. So it was with the Fox and Franz Joseph (above) glaciers, those sluggishly contorted rivers of ice inching their way towards the sea. To stand at the foot of these creeping giants and feel the cool rush of arctic air is humbling. To learn that the behavior of the glaciers today is a result of the weather activity five years ago is incredible. And to squint a bit and realize that the minuscule speck of Gore-Tex slowly traversing the surface is a human wielding an ice axe is mind-boggling. Good show, mate.

Photos, left to right: Mt. Aspiring; First glimpse of the coast beyond Haast Junction; the blue pools of Haast; sunrise view from a fine campsite at Lake Paringa; Fox Glacier's terminal edge; trampers at Franz Joseph.

No. 185

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 18:47:00 +0000

Blue Skies in Queenstown: About five days after we arrived in New Zealand, the weather took a turn. An unsignaled left turn into Lousytown. It started when we hit windy Wellie, where we departed the North Island on one of the most harrowing high-wind-and-screaming-baby plane takeoffs I’ve ever experienced. It was pleasant enough when we touched down in Christchurch, but within 24 hours of picking up the camper and barreling into this country’s “summer,” the bone chilling wind and rain began. At first we laughed it off with local weather jokes, like the one that goes “Yeah sure we’ve got four seasons in New Zealand. And you’ll get all four in one day.” We also remembered our Auckland taxi driver’s ominous comments on the subject.

Amy: So what’s the weather going to be like this month?
Driver: Ah, now there’s one.
Amy: One what?
Diver: An impossible question. Don’t bother with the weather reports on television either, because they’ll just say, “It’s going to be fine today, except for the rain.”

So we shivered. Morning, midday, midnight. I wrestled to keep the van on the road in sideways rain and gale winds in the Southland and we lamented briefly – oh how we lamented – our choice of New Zealand for our honeymoon. There was dashboard pounding, gloomy sleep-ins and plenty of talk about Fiji. Then about four soggy days later, we pulled into Queenstown.

Queenstown is a curious place where it apparently only rains paragliders, because while we saw no signs of foul weather, we could lay hazily on the lawn beside the camper and count dozens of spiraling fabric sails like sheep over our heads. This place is a classic flagstone chalet, mountain ringed ski town that, in the summer, is inundated with goggle-tanned adrenaline junkies. And there’s a seemingly endlessly supply of companies here who’ll take you jet boating, hang gliding, paragliding, parasailing, skydiving, heli-skiing, heli-biking and heli-jet-boating. Ok I made that last one up, but it is the sort of town where you start to feel naked if you’re not at all times carrying some kind of gear or at the very least, a Frisbee.

Amy: If we’re gonna stay here more than one night we’ll need some gear.
Me: Yes! What kind of gear will you get?
Amy: Crampons probably.
Me: I’m getting a helmet!

In the end, we spent all our gear money on the best hamburger in New Zealand, a Fergburger (available in NZ beef, lamb or venison) after doing worthy time in a line that snaked down the block. And while we took a pass on anything para or heli-related, we did greatly enjoy many sedentary hours on Queenstown’s gorgeous waterfront, counting the broken arms and legs (13 in two days) and soaked up enough Vitamin D for about three honeymoons. Must be that extra big hole in the ozone. Take that, Fiji.

Photos, left to right: A fine day for a Fergburger with edan; a fine day for lawn bowling at the Queenstown bowling club; a fine day for walking in Queenstown Gardens.

No. 184

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 05:54:00 +0000

Fiordland National Park: There’s something to be said about a place that looks amazing when it's rendered as patches of green and brown in your road atlas, before you’ve ever skidded to a stop at the first gravel turnout to bolt from your car and bask in its awesomeness. The Fiordlands of Southern New Zealand are that place, crooked fingers of the Tasman Sea reaching inland through snow capped peaks, thick with the remnants of the ice age glaciers that first carved the landscape. It’s the kind of thing we’re not used to seeing on maps, sounds next to inlets next to lakes next to islands next to rivers next to peaks with names like “Mt. Inaccessible” and “The Stopper.” On a related note, the parties responsible for naming most of New Zealand’s natural features had a fair and simple sense of humor, writing this as I am from the shadow of another mountain range called simply, “The Remarkables.” But back to the Fiordlands – It’s really impossible to know what you’re about to drive into, especially if you’ve successfully averted your eyes from every postcard or travel poster printed on behalf of this place.

And then you round the first big corner. The Fiordlands are spellbinding and we barely scratched the surface on the three hour drive into Milford Sound, a drive that passes in what feels like minutes and alternates between carnival ride and the floating sensation that accompanies those long sweeping establishing shots in Lord of the Rings. And then of course when you reach the end of the road - in this case Milford Sound - there is a Thing which you and every other slack jawed tourist is compelled to do, because you’ve just spent half a day on this road where every 30 seconds one of you says OH MY GOD PULL OVER and now you find yourself at a small cruise terminal that’s offering to take you even further, but with clean bathrooms, free hot tea and a tour guide who’ll make folksy local jokes and perhaps an uncomfortably terse statement about how the darling fur seals you’re photographing are ruining the livelihood of his fishing mates. Yes, we took that boat ride. And I’m happy to suggest that the rippling green blob hanging on the far southwest corner of your map of New Zealand is a place you might make an effort to see, while your heart is still strong.

Photos, left to right: Our first camping spot in the Fiordlands and a couple of Kiwis who kindly got us drunk; sheep being driven past us on Highway 94; Amy gets small; a fine lunch spot; fur seals; raisins, whisky and bad posture at a crackerjack camping spot on Cascade Creek.

No. 183

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 19:35:00 +0000

Getting Back in a Campervan: We're several days into our drive around the South Island and the campervan we rented has been a mixed blessing - not through any fault of its own, but rather because the weather in the far south of the South has been cool, blustery and drizzly. This country as it turns out, long and narrow, no bulkier than Colorado and just a stone's throw from Antarctica, is a bit unpredictable in the weather department.

We spent our first night deep in the folds of the southern alps, on a pretty little lake called McGregor in the shadow of Mt. Cook, where Sir Edmund Hilary trained for his ascent of Everest. With all the makings of a perfect summer camping stop, we were as surprised as the inhabitants of this backbush fishing camp when the winds picked up and dropped the temperatures to near freezing. We high tailed it to warmer but wetter news on the east coast, where I was back in short pants and falling asleep to the rat-a-tat downpour on our tin can roof. It's easy to start feeling hemmed in when the weather doesn't allow you to get out and stretch, so we took our third night in the South in a hostel in Dunedin where we both immediately missed the just-so arrangement and peacefulness inside the van. Nothing makes me crave solitude like a bedroom window that opens directly above a hostel hot tub, a chatty soup of European twentysomethings telling epic broken-English tales of food poisoning and "making some sexy times."

So we're learning again. Learning where to store the silverware, so Amy can easily get to a knife when the clock strikes PB&J and I'm careening around hairpin country lanes. Learning which rattle is the whisky bottle that we forgot to put away ("We should stop and fix that") and which rattle is the fire extinguisher that keeps falling out of its holster ("We should really just get rid of that thing"). And we're learning to let go of the creature comforts and discomforts of cheap hotels in favor of a bouncy little breadbox that may not have a shower or some guy practicing Redemption Song in the common room, but will take us nearly anywhere we want to go.

Photos, left to right: First camping stop on the South Island; fuzzy dice from the dollar store, for blending in; our kind of town, a Kiwi fly fishing camp on Lake Alexandrina.

No. 182

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 07:13:00 +0000

Giving New Zealand’s North Island a Chance: With every previous visitor we know telling us to skip the North Island and dive into the blinding natural glory of the South, we were easily swayed to plan most of our time that way. But could we come all this way and not see any goings on in the North? No, and while five days driving down the middle left out the shimmering tropical bays of the far north and all the coastline of the east and west, we still got a healthy whiff of the geothermal highway and all the sputtering volcanic mud puddles we could manage. And staying in a gaseous town like Rotorura does have its advantages when dressing for dinner.

Amy: Does my hair look ok?
Me: Yes, great.
Amy: Should I put on flats or sneakers? What kind of place are we eating in?
Me: Amy this whole town smells like rotten eggs, no one’s going to notice your footwear.

Volcanic trappings aside, most of the drive from Auckland to Taupo was uninspired (save for a roadside feud sign erected by a farmer which read, "Greg Fosters owes me $300. Pay up Greg!") and we were happy for the dramatic shift beyond Tongariro. Here the scenery turns blindingly green and sheep-speckled, so reminiscent of the rolling farm country of Ireland that we found ourselves craving a pint of Guinness but settling happily for Tui ale, smooth as a shearling.

We also got a chance to start honing our road trip repartee and old habits quickly resurfaced. Signage tends to be poor, roads are narrow and fast and everything seems to happens backwards on account of the driving on the left. It’s good that we’re working out the kinks now with our wee Hyundai rental car before we pick up the camper van full of pots and pans to rattle through the Fiordlands. Still, five days of practice is no help with the tongue twisting Maori names for everything in this country, like Karangahake, Paraparaumu and Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateaturipukakapikimaungahoronukupo-kaiwhenuakitanatahu. That last one is real, Google it. Anyway, all I'm saying is that navigating with Amy sure would be easier if there were clear signs for things and every town was named something like “Jeff,” or “New Jeff.”

And then finally, one last stop before the South Island in windy Wellington, smack dab in the roaring forties and surrounded by whitecaps and storm clouds. We only had time for lunch in town and a free tour of Parliament, opting to stay instead in the coastal suburb of Plimmerton, where we found a private hostel room with a view and free Chinese takeout left in the free section of the communal fridge. Thanks North Island!

Photos left to right, top to bottom: Hot pies and souvenirs at Huka Falls; bungy spectators at Gravity Canyon; terrific hostel room with a view in Plimmerton; classic Kiwi camper; road sign; Craters of the Moon geothermal park; hot pools in Rotorua; corrugated sheep head; pedestrians on Wellington's Cuba Street; our North Island chariot/Hyundai; a dire warning in Rotorua; Huka Falls before the fall.

No. 181

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 04:19:00 +0000

Plimmerton Fish Supply: The no-nonsense Greek couple who run the Plimmerton Fish Supply company in the Wellington seaside suburb of Plimmerton looked at me like I was from another planet when I asked the difference between "crumbed filet" and "breaded filet." She fumbled for the words to answer a question she'd clearly never been asked because everyone else in the world, or at least everyone in Plimmerton, just knows. After I made my order (crumbed), she gave me a wry smile and asked, "Where are you from?" not in the manner of a passing traveler's curiosity, but more like "where are you from, spaceman." We all had a good laugh about this and then our jaws hit the floor in awe after the first bite of these pillowy cod fillets and perfect chips. Double points for eating it within view of the ocean.

No. 180

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 04:00:00 +0000

Sportsman’s Lodge, Turangi: I was going to just roll this place into something about the whole of the North Island but I’m so enamored with it that I wanted to call it out. Amy likes it too, she’s just not as moved by wood paneling, fly rods on the walls, old timey photos of bugling elk, hooks outside your door for your waders and a really nice fish cleaning station. But while this is indeed a place for sportsmen, backing up to the rush of the trouty Tongariro river, it’s also the perfect place to wax nostalgic about a life you’d like to have. I’ve never been a hunter or a serious fisherman, but my grandfather was and maybe this place brings me back to the happy chaos of his trailer, where I slept on a cot beneath petrified trophy bass and stacks of shotgun shells. Or maybe it’s because on the lodge’s bookshelf, I found and read cover to cover an amazing relic called “Rex Forrester’s True Hunting Adentures,” the cover photo of which features a shaggy headed, suede boot-clad Kiwi Rex hanging from the strap of a helicopter while brandishing his Remington 742 rifle. The only real way to sum up the awesomeness of this book is to list its chapter titles, which I will do right now:

1. Buffalo Hunt in Montana
2. Wapiti Hunting against the Clock
3. The Memorable Old .303 Rifle
4. Hunting the Mountain King--Tahr
5. Voodoo Hunt in the Snows of Aorangi
6. The “Big Three” Marathons
7. Teach a Boy Hunting
8. Slaughter in the Clouds
9. Bring ‘em Back Alive
10. Hunt the Tenacious Sika Deer
11. Adventure with the “River Rats”
12. Hunting the Mountain Antelope—Chamois
13. Chopper Hunt in the Crags
14. Hunting the “Royal” Reds
15. The Challenging Roar of the Stag
16. The Stag’s Sabre-like Weapons
17. Hunting Fallow, the Timid Deer
18. Last-chance Fallow Stag
19. Rifles I’ve used in the Mountains
20. People Kill—Guns Don’t
21. Jetboats for Adventure

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, “what’ve jetboats got to do with anything?” I thought the same thing too, until I saw the photo of Barry Caruthers leaping from a jetboat in an attempt to kill a wild pig with his bare hands. Anyway, Betty and Doug's Sportsman’s Lodge in Turangi: Recommended.

Photos left to right: The river wild, just out the back gate; father and son; Barry Caruthers prepares to "bulldog" a wild boar.

No. 179

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 03:24:00 +0000

The Tongariro Alpine Crossing: Reputed to be the best day hike in New Zealand, we couldn’t resist the braggy allure of an overly ambitious hiking trip just four days into our trip. Have you seen the part in Lord of the Rings where Frodo is dragging himself, crazy eyed and scabby, through a desolate land of black volcanic rocks, dark clouds and hordes of Australian and British tourists? Well this is where they filmed that scene. Mt. Doom and all.

And it is a spectacular apocalyptic landscape, volcano after volcano arranged in a disorganized jumble, exploding out of each other in every direction, glowing green lakes and lichens the color of a Mexican wrestling outfit. for those of you in Oregon, Amy describes this place as if Crater Lake and the Steens Mountains had a baby, which then exploded several hundred times. The trail rises and falls 1,886 meters in elevation over 19.5 kilometers and I’m no commie so don’t ask me what those measurements mean in American. Hang on, my iPhone says that’s 3,700 feet, 12 miles and about 7 hours, which I suppose explains why it kicked our asses. Smartly, we arranged a morning shuttle option that meant when we arrived at the finish line all dusty and wobbly, our rental car was waiting to whisk us away to the thermal hot pools in nearby Tokaanu. Nine kiwi dollars to soak au naturale in a private mineral pool and talk about how awesome we are for doing that thing we just did? Yes please.

Not just our first real tramp in NZ, the Tongariro crossing was also our first shot at a segment of one of the country’s “Great Walks,” the trophy case of jaw dropping hikes through impossibly beautiful countryside. It’s the height of the summer holiday season here and that meant that this walk was bursting with day hikers and although we didn’t notice them much amidst the huff and puff on the way up, the walk down was a somewhat annoying 3.5 hour single file march with nothing to look at but the slippery shale underfoot and the endless line of hiking butts in front. I’m not sure if this is status quo for the Great Walks this time of year, but if so, we might forgo the parade routine in favor of some lesser-traveled but still rewarding tramps once we reach the South Island. On the other hand, it’s tough to turn down scenery like this, even if you have to walk in a line to get to it. Buffaloed.

Photos left to right, top to bottom: The shuttle to the start; Mt. Doom enshrouded in morning clouds; managing a controlled slide down the slippery bit; Amy on top; resting at Ketetahi Hut; thermal pools in Tokaanu.

No. 178

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 05:37:00 +0000

Kiwis on the Beach: With one full day in Auckland to shake the intercontinental jet lag, we bought a sack of kiwi fruit from the Countdown Foodmarket and picked a random day trip in the Hauraki Gulf, reachable via the spider's web of ferry routes departing from downtown. Where we landed was a delightful little island called Motuihe, ringed with sand and sailboats and water as cold and clear as any Oregon alpine lake. I swam (rather, gasped), we inhaled spectacular fresh golden kiwi fruit and then dozed in a cove shaded by strong stand of norfolk pines. As promised, the sun is incredibly hot on the skin here so we worked a stop at the floppy hat and swimsuit shop into our morning commute. Nothing really says "vacation" like ducking into a sketchy bathroom somewhere to rip the price tag off of and change into some clearance sale swim trunks.

Back on the mainland for dinner, the office towers are looming a little too large over us. We're ready to ease into some of that famous middle earth scenery, so tomorrow we'll gather our rental car and start a short tour of the pretty but passable north island, a kind of striptease leading up to the main attractions of the south island. This island though, she's no plain and tall. All dressed in green and jeweled with hot springs and Indian takeout shops, we're eager to see a little more before we join the throngs of south island apostles who say, "The north is nice, but the south? Well you'll see." Soon enough.

More photos from sunny Motuihe island:

No. 177

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 08:27:00 +0000

Flying Into The Future: In Los Angeles yesterday, we boarded two time machines. The first was the crumbly and worn Spaceship Restaurant in the middle of LAX, the subject of unending, well-meant attempts to restore it to its “former glory.” Thus allowing it to reclaim its rightful spot in the world pantheon of circular restaurants on stilts. I had a spaceburger with spaceacodo and space bacon and Amy had mushroom ravioli that was swimming in some kind of salty spacesauce. Not recommended.

The other time machine was the Virgin Australia flight that left LAX at December 30 and somehow landed 14 hours later on New Years Day in Sydney. Where did New Years Eve go, you ask? I wish I could tell you because we were feeling a little cheated until we realized that - to hell with the champagne – we’ll be the first people we know to watch the sun rise on 2010. Sore necks and swollen ankles seem a small price to pay.

And so it was that a travel day that had begun in 2009 with us dragging our luggage through Portland's slushy streets, skittered to an end in 2010 on the emerald green runways of New Zealand. It’s strictly shorts and sun tan lotion here today, with lots of people reminding us that New Zealand’s got the highest rate of skin cancer in the world on account of that unfortunately situated ozone hole, “so yeed betta get ah floppy hat straight away.” Point taken. Although not quite today as we wandered unprotected around Auckland’s summery streets, enjoying the honeymoon of our honeymoon, that marvelous vacation space where there are no consequences and our return flight is forever away. Shimmering bays, leafy parks and meat pies everywhere; Auckland I'm afraid we’ll barely notice you, but Happy New Year all the same.

No. 176

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 03:52:00 +0000

Pre-Flight Drama: There's really nothing quite like a little local chaos to get the blood pumping before a long haul trip. We're staring down something like 30 hours of travel from Portland to Auckland starting tomorrow - twenty of those hours in the air. We have bags to stuff, prescriptions to chase down, iPods to load and, of course, new summer gear to model. Because we're about to fly into summer down under, suckers.

Amy: Look at these shorts I got!
Me: I don't think I've ever seen you wear shorts.
Amy: I know, I never wear shorts.
Me: Well we're married now so I guess there's gonna be a lot of changes.

But bare winter legs and terrifically nonsensical new TSA regulations aren't the only things in the air tonight, because at about 3pm this afternoon it started snowing. Big downy flakes that have Oregonians wandering the streets like honey-drunk sun bears, saying things that make Midwestern transplants cringe. "Now it feels like winter for real! I wish it was like this every day!"

But as always happens when snow falls on our leafy little flannelopolis: Snowtastrophe. By 5pm the city was predictably paralyzed. There are no plows, no salt, not even a gravel truck to be mobilized on short notice. Traffic was at a complete standstill. Buses seemed to vanish all together, stranding hundreds downtown. The trains were slow to come and when they did finally arrive, there was shoving and needling for scarce inches on board. I waited 45 minutes for a train, then another hour on the train as it crawled through the crush of bad decisions clogging every intersection. When I finally stepped off the train at my stop, my foot and heart sank into about four inches of flight delaying powder.

But now things are looking up again. Suitcases are filling, iPods are humming and a friendly man with tight curly hair is talking on the television about how the rain will melt the snow tonight and make our trip to the airport tomorrow a breeze. "You've got nothing to worry about," he says directly to me. "West winds, high pressure, red arrows, rising thermometer graphic and bingo, you're on your way to New Zealand." Hey thanks, Matt Zafino. We couldn't have done it without you.

No. 1

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 00:56:00 +0000

Living Under a Bridge: The 1977 VW Camper Bus that will take us from Portland to Florida, hopefully in time for Thanksgiving. While we are intrigued by this offer from Wal Mart to camp for free in any of their parking lots, we are more at home under a bridge, tree or the shadow of a Mack truck in a State Rest Area. With mixed feelings and no regrets, we leave Portland on Monday, November 6.

No. 175

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 01:28:00 +0000

Getting Back to Normal: As if we needed another major milestone to prove that you can quit your life for a while, travel the world, and come back to a better deal. As if getting engaged wasn’t enough. Or good new jobs. Or a really nice homecoming party. So today we bought a house.

Less than three months after returning home from seventeen months of homeless wandering, we have walls and a roof, a mortgage, something called a “drip irrigation system,” and even a tenant renting a basement apartment from us. We had every honest intention of renting an apartment for the next year, saving money and watching the market, but have you tried finding a reasonable one-bedroom in a nice location that allows pets, recently? It’s a nightmare. So we bypassed renting and bought a nice little three bedroom house that’s two blocks away from my favorite buffalo wing joint and four blocks away from my second favorite tiki karaoke bar. The irony of this entire process was that the apartment management companies we dealt with were far more suspicious of the gap in our employment and housing histories than the mortgage lenders. Everything has changed in the housing market. Nothing has changed in the housing market.

Normalcy has its divine moments. When we’re having brunch in the kitchen of sweet friends. When we’re walking hand-in-hand on sunny, familiar streets. Or when we want to drink water straight from the tap. But even in those best moments our minds wander. Little things bring memories flooding back. We were walking the other day and came across a local Chinese restaurant that had in its front window, a giant photo of the proprietor shaking hands with the Oregon governor when he once visited the restaurant. If you’ve been to China, you know to recognize each and every shop that Chairman Mao visited in his lifetime in this same way – a giant, near billboard-sized photo blow-up of an ecstatic tea shop owner shaking hands with a jowly Mao Zedong.

So now we dream again. We escape into our memories when deadlines get us down. We fantasize about long-term travel, like everyone else. But maybe not like everyone else, because we know how possible it is – dare I say how easy it is – to come home again and find nothing but good news.

No. 174

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 18:15:00 +0000

New Trips In An Old Car, Part 3: There are lots of things I’m looking forward to in Oregon. Good old friends, the fresh smell of fir forests, and favorite Thai restaurants all await our arrival, as does a healthy VW support network and my most trusted mechanic. But there’s one thing about Oregon that I’ve not been looking forward to while driving these 5,000 miles across eleven states. That thing is the state law that prohibits motorists from pumping their own gasoline.
Read more at Cars That Matter

No. 173

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 18:00:00 +0000

A Story For Grandchildren: A boy wrote to a girl on the Internet and they decided to meet for a drink. This sort of thing happens all the time now, but in the wild free-for-all that was 2005, it probably happened ten percent less frequently.

At first the girl wasn’t interested in the boy, she thought he was just square. Mostly because he tucked in his shirt on their first date. He just wanted to be tidy. She just wanted to date bike messengers.

The boy was persistent! And the girl kept him around, because she thought he might know interesting people. “Let’s be friends.” So the boy and the girl spend more time together. There is whiskey. And cheap sushi that does not smell fresh, like the tide. The Fourth of July. Something happens. The girl starts to have feelings for the boy. The boy is not surprised.

Things get serious.

There is some travel of course, mostly road trips. California is one. The desert is another. A wedding. New York. Things go well on these trips. Things go well generally, in the way that makes more seem possible. So the boy and girl try more. Not with a toe in cold water but a cannonball into a summer lake. They say they’ll be gone traveling for a year but the year takes seventeen months.

In these months they see sixteen American states and eleven different countries. Even China. It turns out that Chinese New Year isn’t much fun if you don’t get invited home by a Chinese family.

When it’s time for the boy and girl to return home, they are understandably nervous. Things feel different. Colors, smells, sounds, even 7 Eleven signs remind them of new things. Everything about the world looks different to them now. Everything except each other.

The last night of their trip is longer than expected. Hours usually pass quickly in a nice hotel, but these hours are slow. Luxurious. Important. The boy says some things that are unrehearsed. The girl is flush, she replies that she wants a good story to tell her grandchildren. This is the story, he says.

One knee, the boy is on one knee!

Then they are crying.

Then, they are engaged to be married.

No. 172

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 16:51:00 +0000

Valley of Fire: It always seems so unlikely that you can find gorgeous feats of nature just outside of big, nasty cities. As it is with the Catskills outside of NYC and the Jundu Mountains outside of Beijing, so it is with the Valley of Fire outside of Las Vegas. On a whiskey whim, we fled the stale air of Vegas after only one night, for this place that we knew only by name on the map.

Me: “Valley of Fire.” That sounds fun.
Amy: Sounds hot.
Me: But it’s March.
Amy: Do they have showers there?

They did have showers, it turned out, in addition to miles of incredible petrified sand dunes and volcanic remnants colored every shade of fire but blue. Brittle to the touch, the rocks are sculpted by wind and infrequent rain into every manner of animal and swiss cheese shape and decoding them was easier than finding shapes in clouds. This was also another amazing campground, the kind that lets you nestle into nooks of old rock with no other campers in sight. We did happen across another VW camper that was a near mirror image of our own – same color, same year, same interior but with a middle aged driver and passenger – but that bizarro-world encounter was the most hubbub we experienced in three days there. The rest was petroglyph spotting, quiet walks on sand-bottomed canyons and stars, stars, stars at night. Without the buzz of neon for miles.

Photos: Indian petroglyphs up high; a walk in the valley and; swiss cheese.

No. 171

noreply@blogger.com (Sloan) — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 01:54:00 +0000

Having One Hell of a Big Day: Contrary to the nice n’ easy philosophy that’s governed most of our cross country schedule, sometimes we like to treat ourselves to the “holy crap” high earned by hustling some extra sights. So on the day we left the Grand Canyon, we also browsed along the longest remaining stretch of Historic Route 66, nodded politely throughout the Hoover Dam tour and then stayed up all night in Vegas, managing to lose only one dollar. Holy craps.

The living ghost town of Seligman, Arizona marks the start of a very satisfying length of Route 66, the American highway hogging a disproportionate share of the asphalt nostalgia market. Correct me if I’m wrong, but no one’s selling snow globes to commemorate a safe ride on the Northeast Extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. But then, Jack Kerouac never wrote a book about hitchin’ and screwin’ his way along that highway. And there’s no song about it either, get your kicks and so on. I’ve always been curious about the obsession with Route 66, because I myself feel drawn to it without really knowing why. After driving the near 200 miles of this neglected Arizona asphalt, rough and stubbly like an unshaven grandpa, miles that roll and wind through the tumbleweed plains and red rock canyons between Seligman and Oatman, I get it. Route 66 is about what road trips used to mean to Americans. Slow driving, occasionally making good time, but making more time to stop at every roadside wonder and car hop diner with a respectable neon sign. This is exactly the kind of road trip we like to take in 2008, so the relics on Route 66 were a gold mine.

And then on to the Hoover Dam - engineering marvel, vertigo-inducing views, unlikely monument to Art Deco style and creepy, overpriced propaganda machine on the value of dams as saviors of humankind. The old Colorado River, pre-dam, is repeatedly referred to as untamed, dangerous and “good for nothing.” The new dammed Colorado, however, is celebrated as being useful, a friend of man, now that it has been harnessed for electricity, irrigation water and “great jet skiing on Lake Mead.” Despite the pinko willies we got from all that nonsense, the underground power plant tour was pretty neat. And not just because I got to see Amy in action, latching as she does to tour guides and beating them down with the provocative questions.

Amy: How many people died making this thing?
Guide: Well there’s an official count and an unofficial count.
Amy: Mmm hmm. Have there been any earthquakes here?
Guide: Two.
Amy: Any damage?
Guide: None.
Amy: How long have you worked here?

He answered these questions but refused a few others, citing “post 9-11 safety concerns." We moved on.

Back up the hill and then down again into the hazy valley of Las Vegas. Beautiful at sunset, this city will rob you blind after dark and give you tremendous regret when you see it again in the light of day. We were lucky enough to find a parking spot at the only RV park on the strip, a little slab of concrete jackpot wedged between the back of the Circus Circus casino and I-15 Northbound. We put it in park, showered for the first time in two days, devoured a couple of PB & J sandwiches and then caught the double decker public party bus that shuttles numb gamblers and lookey-lous up and down the strip. Something magically disastrous happens to time and discretion when you’re wandering around this place; even though you’ve only been out for an hour, it’s somehow three in the morning, there are four empty one-shot liquor bottles in your purse and someone is following you three blocks while soliciting you in Spanish to hire a prostitute. It was all worth it, except for the next morning’s fallout that meant a lot of unhelpful lolling around, a late checkout and great confusion about where to spend the next night. Welcome To Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada.

Photos: Seligman, Arizona diner; Drought-time water levels on the Lake Mead side of the Hoover Dam and; "Camping" in Vegas.