Come Spring

We had three prime reasons to buy a second home in North Carolina: to be able to ride motorcycles through the winter, to be closer to Randy’s Quilt Shop, the amazing mecca of master quilters where I took monthly master classes and found artistic inspiration, and to be near Victory Junction.

Randy closed the shop last summer, and we aren’t involved with Victory Junction any more, but the riding still rocks. And with the riding comes the new, bonus reason to stay here – we get to have two springs!

After going back to blustery, blizzardy Maine from magical, tropical New Zealand, I couldn’t handle the harsh winter for more than a few days before fleeing south. As in past years, I was surprised and delighted by what I found.

The third week in February, when snow banks in Maine climb a dozen feet into the air and bare ground is a distant memory, it’s already spring in Carolina! Early pansies and snowdrops are blooming, tulips, daffodils and hyacinths are poking buds out of sturdy tall leaf clusters. The air feels like a warm caress.

Out on the bike today, I was assaulted with scents: overpowering fried food fumes as I snaked through town, then mud at the edge of the reservoir in Summerfield, eau de skunk, fertilizer, flat fauna and an indefinable fragrance of new growth everywhere.

It felt like I was slowing way down to take it in, but when I looked, I found I was doing 70 mph! No wonder no one was behind me! Grammie might just get a speeding ticket yet, despite all predictions to the contrary.

The absolute, miraculous, unbelievable gift is that I have TWO springs! This month, March and April, as I return to ride and walk and sew, I’ll soak up the southern warmth with unending gratitude. Then, later in April, through May and into June, I get to do it all over again in Maine. Some of the smells will be different there – clam flats, crashing surf, lilacs, apple blossoms and pine forests, but the joy of new beginning will be the same, even if I have already reveled in it here.

There’s something very right about a life that has five months of spring time.

The Hardest Thing About Quilting

I guess if I've been quilting for 30 years or more, I must still enjoy it. And with all that time, the techniques should be deeply embedded in my fingers. Having started with traditional blocks and methods, I've progressed through several phases, stretching and exploring both design ideas and construction tools.

But one thing doesn't get any easier. If anything, it just gets harder.

Time

Even the little guy above, which measures only three feet by two feet hanging on the wall, took over a week to finish. The larger one below, that I'm working on for my friend, Kaye, started out last May, and it will be at least this May before the final stitch goes into the binding. Yes, other projects come and go, and I might be working on more than one quilt at once, but still, finished is finished.

What's hard is all the quilts flying around in my head and my heart!

Since New Zealand, I've been thinking about a quilt centered around that paradisical place. Early Thursday morning, the design popped into my head. I need to work out the details, but know for the most part how it will look.

But the execution will take months, if not another year. WAH! Yes, I love the process, but I want them done now, I want to see them all, wrap up in them all, give them all away.

So many quilts, so little time.

Life in the Rastro Lane

Stumbling through the door in the middle of the night after two weeks away, I was joyfully assaulted by 98 pounds of red fur, chuffing and woofing and rooing and wagging from head to toe, bashing his head and slapping his great long tongue against any body part he could reach, reassured at last that HIS HUMAN had not, indeed abandoned him to the distant pet sitter for ever and dark eternity. 

No matter how tired, how stressed, how whatever I may be, Rastro's enthusiasm and unfailing love make me laugh. He absolutely hates it when I leave home, and I rarely go anywhere without him. Indeed, while I would have preferred to remain in New Zealand an extra day (ok, week) or two, our yearly trek to Chinook Winter Carnival mandated an early return. After 32 hours on Kelley Drive, it was time to go again.

So reeling with exhaustion and jetlag, horrified by the cold and snow and ice and the destruction of the barn, barely ambulatory from lack of sleep, I packed up the car and the dog and aimed west to New Hampshire for Chinook Winter Carnival.

We have done this trip since the big dog was a squirming puppy, and he loves the chance to visit with his Chinook pals (and girlfriends, truth be told). Earlier years saw us sledding with the children. Later events, as he has graduated to elder statesman status, have found us in the museum for at least part of the day, greeting visitors.

As he grows older, and we grow closer year by year, Rastro keeps teaching me what is important in life. It's about love, and forgiveness, and gentleness, and, yes, unfailing enthusiasm. 

Tamworth was very cold this year, with heaps of snow. The Chinook owner who had for years directed the events from the Remick Farm Museum was gone, and the new people faced many organizational challenges. The Tamworth Inn, Chinook headquarters from the beginning, was shuttered and plowed in, so we were in a different hostel down the road. Tired as I was, with lots of demands on the calendar for the coming week, I found myself rattled at times, working hard at not showing it.

Unfazed, Rastro rolled with each new thing, content to have dozens of children crawling all over him, pulling his tail and ears, "patting" him with a little more energy than he would prefer, asking him to sit and lie down over and over, feeding him treats and wrapping their little arms around his big warm ruff. 

For the last four years, an elderly woman with dementia has accompanied her daughter to the event, and Rastro has taken special care of this precious soul, gently keeping people from crowding her, alerting us when she needed help, offering a warm head on a cold lap. This year, Edith seemed distressed at the changes, and Rastro was especially patient with and solicitous of her. Finally, as her knarled hand stroked his soft ears, we watched her relax.

Over the course of the weekend, we visited with several of his puppies and grand-puppies, and it warmed my heart to see how his generous and joyful personality has passed on to them all, and how happy they have made their people.

What a gift this big red dog has been. Tomorrow he and I head back south to Carolina. Rastro will love the chance to spend time alone with mom, go for long walks on bare roads every day, and hog three-quarters of the king-sized bed. I'm happy to oblige him.

Love at first sight, the day I met Hickory Hill Rastro. 

He crawled up onto my lap and would not be put down. 

The smell of his fur is still my favorite scent on earth.

Welcome Home

The intoxicating joy of life in New Zealand kept me refreshed for most of the 38+ hours it took to get back to Maine, although energy flagged when we got to Bangor shortly before midnight. While David was stressing about getting possum tails and toys through Customs, and about making connections in LAX, I was simply blissing out on the beauty and gift of the trip.

But arrive we did, to weather that seemed the more bitter for our having been in the tropics. When I first found the car, I was tickled to death that it had so little snow on it. We got to work with shovels and scrapers and broom, and had it dug out in a quarter hour. Thanks to the power of German engineering, it started right up. Woo Hoo!

As it turned out, we would have been better off with more snow! It had rained heavily on top of the earlier dumping, and under the car was nothing but glare ice. Cat litter, help from parking lot guys, and many coaxing words would not move it. Can you say, frostbite? A quick call to AAA was in order. I nearly cried when the dispatcher told me it would be 45 minutes or more, and that I'd darned well better have my picture identification ready.

Just a half hour later, as the delightful driver finished his work, I started digging through my purse with frozen fingers, asking him, "ok, so you need my photo i.d. now?"

"I see you," he said, "that's enough."

Those words made me laugh with happiness for so many reasons, all having to do with the journey taken and the one begun.

This morning's email brought a message from Mom that Aunt Marilyn died while we were gone. She must have been about 147 years old, and was failing for some time, but when young, she was quite a powerhouse. The timing of her passage brought home to me the wonder of this trip, and of all the other crazy things I do. I am healthy, I have an adventurous spirit, and the ability to go where curiosity and passion take me. And while those gifts remain in my hands, I will treasure and honor them by using them to the fullest. "Someday" for me is right now.

On the way home, one of those annoying mandatory flight safety videos showed Richard Branson talking about how airplanes can't take off going downwind. They need a headwind before they can fly: "What you push against lifts you up." So Cyclone Wilma, the knife-edge switchbacks with no guardrails, the crosswinds in the plains, the Gulch of Death, the freezing sheet pouring rain, the challenges of a rookie riding with a talented team of motorcyclists... all those things, lifted me up.

Happy to be home, can't wait to go again. 

Grateful Heart

Cook to Christchurch

With every crazy and beautiful surprise this country has had to offer, I guess I shouldn't have been shocked by the magesty of Aoraki, or Mt. Cook as the English called it. From here, Sir Edmund Hillary prepared for his assault on Everest, and a monument along a hiking trail at the mountain's foot testifies to the tragedies of those who were not able to return from their adventures on her slopes.

The roads across the valley heading up to the mountain offered a beautiful album of photos for the mind, as Chris calls them, but one lone motorcycle dude simply demanded that I take his picture. That's another thing about New Zealand that delights me -- art, exuberant and moving, fills the landscape and buildings. The art of the earth, of the Maoris, and of recent dwellers of this paradise testifies to the magic of the place.

Heaing off the mountain in the morning, we crossed the Canterbury Plains, that kind of reminded me of New Mexico in places. Passing through the town of Fairlie, I nearly stopped for a photograph, but had to settle for the mind variety, thinking about all the years I spent in Fairlee, Vermont.

The day's fashion statement was a continuation of the possum theme of the week. As I wrote earlier, my hair is not quite long enough for the hair glove given to me by Lisa, our warrior princess known for her prowess with shape-shifting possum pteradactyls. Yesterday, Hugh gave me a possum tail, and I found that it made a perfect hair extension. Wonder if it will go through Customs.

After Fairlie, the next few hours offered a Maineiac landscape, rolling hills and farms, small towns, hills, orchards, cows, barns and such. Two notable exceptions were the abundance of sheep, and the total lack of frost heaves and potholes! I mean, motorcycle bliss doesn't even begin to describe it. Chris rode with David and me for the whole day, and following this highly skilled and experienced rider taught me heaps about lines, speed, and letting go. It felt like dancing! (or rather, what I imagine dancing would feel like to someone who had a clue and at least a modicum of grace)

The other Maine similarity, at least in summer, was the bugs! To borrow a New Zealand expression, my helmet ended up well and truly buggered.

But all good chapters must close, and Christchurch was at the end of the road for this day and this trip. Sigh. The zucchini made it safe and sound, and we must now turn our thoughts to finding the car in the parking lot at Bangor when we get home. I think if I add it up correctly, there's something like four feet of new snow waiting for us.

New Zealand, this amazing country, has invaded my heart.

One Extreme to Another

There was no way I could miss an opportunity to fly while we're here, so we got up early yesterday to jump into a helicopter headed for the Franz Josef Glacier. Being the first flight of the morning, and being ready early, bought us the chance to get out and walk around on top. Yes, I know I came down here to get away from ice and snow, but oh my. Just five of us went, Yuri, Alexander, Leonid, David and I. How fitting that the only ones to head for the snow were the Maineiacs and the Russians.

Later in the day, we stopped at a national park with hiking trails through the bush, or rain forest, or dense greenery, whatever. Around a corner we came out by a calm reflecting pool, magical in its perfect stillness and beauty. It's a place that will remain in my heart for the rest of my life.

The day wound around rivers and lakes, up and down hills, with a few serious technical bits but mostly just a whole lot of fun and beauty. In Maine, David likes to sigh dramatically, "around every corner..." when we come upon slow drivers. We both tend to have a lead foot there. But here, around every corner is an eyeful of extreme beauty the likes of which defy reality.

For the first time this trip, however, I had to get off the bike in the afternoon. Actually, our guides suggested it, knowing about my irrational terror of heights. So we loaded my beast and I climbed into the van with Chris. Oh. My. Gosh. Was that ever the right call. Switchbacks around knife-edge cliffsides in the wind and it even started to rain.... any one of which would put me into a serious stroke. Even in the van, I had to cover my eyes at times. But beautiful nonetheless. David said even he and John were going around at 5 to 10 kmh in some bits.

Arriving in Queenstown, we found the glowing emerald of Lake Wakatipu and our hotel by the shore.

Just two more days. I'm beginning to miss Rastro and Danny and the Rowdies, although not the snow of course. But it will be so hard to leave here. I'm thinking a return trip is in my future.

More Dramatic at Every Turn

We've been riding down the West Coast of the South Island for a couple of days, sometimes winding through twisties in the mountains and lush rain forests, other times popping out onto dramatic coastline of the Tasman Sea. My speeds through the turns are getting faster and smoother by the day, and I'm not as scared of the technical bits as I was when I got here.

On the way to the place in the above picture, we were all rolling happily along down a beautiful country road, when everyone came to a dead stop. Hundreds of white sheep filled the way in front of us, and a skilled dog worked hard at getting a stray out of a culvert into which it had strayed. Thousands more sheep crowded the meadows on either side. Unfortunately, no one had a camera handy, and it wasn't really safe to stop.

Last night found us in Punakaiki, at a modern resort set amongst the Pancake Rocks. One can walk miles along the Maine-like beach at low tide, and even find millions of mussel beds. The rock formations are easy to climb, and the surf loud and constant. We had our windows wide open all night (no screens, no bugs, no crime) and I woke up at 2:00 a.m. to the sound of howling wind and sheet-pouring rain. There was no way I could stop thinking about what it would be like to ride in those conditions. Fortunately by 4:30, the wind machine turned off and the rain tapered to a drizzle, but much of the day today was in fog. Far from being unpleasant, it only made the rain forest more lush and the coast more dramatic.

Do we really have to return to the land of ice and snow?

Merge Like a Zip

Now that we're getting more comfortable riding on the left side of the road, we're having more fun taking in the signage, like the one coming into the rotary at Taupo. Merge like a zip. Really does make sense, doesn't it? Too bad the Russians couldn't figure it out in time to follow instructions, but no harm done.

Then there are the one-lane bridges. All over the place. Every dozen miles or so. Through a complicated system of street signs involving opposing arrows, and triangles and lines painted in the road, it's very obvious who has the right of way. And in this land of endless twisties, every one is marked with an appropriate speed. Whether you're able to go faster or slower than that, you at least have a clear indication of what's ahead. Learning to trust that signage has enabled me to pick up my speed considerably.

We're having a bunch of fun with the rest of the group as we get to know each other better. One source of amusement and amazement has been the food. Like the ice cream a few days ago, the mussels here are radioactive. Green lipped mussels, however, taste just like the ones at home.

Coffee is an art form, in description and in presentation. If you just order a cup of coffee, you'll get instant. Nuf said. If you're lucky, you'll find filter coffee (like just plain brewed), but more often your choices will be long black, flat white, latte bowl, etc. These are all variations on a very stark espresso. If you get anything with milk in it, you'll be served a beautiful art piece with designs swirled into the foam. Chris says that's a competition here between cafés, to see who can serve the most complicated design. David had a maple leaf yesterday, but he sipped it before I could get a picture.

And then there are the possums. Screaming, tears running down your face, fun every day with these little guys, even the flat fauna variety. A possum here isn't a big ugly rat with a naked tail, but rather a fluffy little beast that looks like a racoon got frisky with a meerkat. Their fur is lovely, soft, and weaveable, and is often combined with merino for heavenly sweaters. I bought one of these yesterday. The Russians bought huge possum blankets, and Warner gave them each a hide with tail. We suspect they're trying to work out a way to hunt them, but the language barrier has its own challenges.

Like the challenge of making my new hair glove stay put. A gift from Warner's wife, Lisa, it's lovely, but I think I'll either have to grow more hair (like another couple months' worth) or cut off a couple inches from the glove. All in good fun.

Today we head over the mountains to Queenstown, where we'll have a day off before the last two days of riding. Do we REALLY have to go back to the land of whiteout?

A Day Off, Most Welcome!

The scheduled day off in Nelson offered several options, including riding up around the coast. We, however, opted for a day on our feet instead, and it felt wonderful to move the lower halves of our bodies for a change. What a beautiful city! The more time we spend in this lovely country, the more time I want to spend. David is looking at real estate ads in every window.

Walking past a row of historical houses on the way to dinner tonight, we passed the strangest tree I've ever seen -- the bark looks like it's wearing military fatigues.

Up the row of cottages, built for workers in the mid-1800s, a black cat with big green eyes came out to say hello. It gave me a long story about how I should bring my black cat and come to live here, offered its ears for a rub, and then said goodnight. So shall we. Back on the bikes tomorrow.

They Say it Gets Better

But I can’t imagine it. After crossing Rimutaka Hill on our way to the ferry at Wellington, we got out of the knife-edge twisties for awhile (today’s came complete with construction, or “road works,” as they say here) we descended into the beautiful bowl of a city with the most amazing cultural museum I’ve ever seen. We only had a couple hours there, so not enough. But we were privileged to see the famous Britten racing bike that won at Daytona in 1994, and some lovely quilts. The one below measures about seven or eight feet square.

Then onto the ferry for the three-hour journey across Cook Straight to the South Island. Oh. My. Gosh. Way too many photographs here, but I couldn’t stop. After the ferry we had another couple hours going through kilometers and kilometers of vineyards (the wine here is beyond excellent by the way) and then back into the hills to our final destination of Nelson, along the shore of Tasman Bay. Chris (below right) lives here in real life, and I can’t imagine why he would ever want to leave.

Still, he says it will get better. And exactly how can that be remotely possible?

You Don't Want to Know

Leaving Rotorua this morning headed for Greytown, we knew it would be a long day. But we had no idea just how long. The first part of the run down to Taupo was a little breezy, but pretty enough, mostly moving right along. As we stopped for coffee at a little café by the lake, we looked to the south and groaned. It was black down there, and that’s where we were going. Rain gear on, off we went, and it didn’t take long to be glad we had it. I had brought the wrong rain pants, and couldn’t use them, but didn’t think it would matter much.

Wrong. Imagine riding under a fire hose for 30 or 40 miles, then turn on the wind machine, and redline it. And when you’re really having fun, throw in a few miles of knife-edge riding along very twisty mountain roads, on the left, mind you, where if those winds took you the wrong way, you’d have a few thousand meters of flight before you hit the rocks at the bottom of the Gulch of Death. Pull into a gas station, that has no gas, and find another one, then try to get off your bike, soaked and frozen to the core.

I love the people I’m riding with. David and I were at the front of the pack, and when the others caught up, everyone dug through their bags and found enough extra clothing to offer that I was able to get back on the bike after lunch.

A brief respite came in the form of the rain finally ending, and a lovely road through hilly sheep farms, with twisties enough to be fun, but not sharp enough to be hard work. At the next turn, however, the wind was back, and I can’t count the times I literally feared being blown off the road. We later learned that it had been clocked at 135 kmh.

At the end of it all, however, we landed at a lovely old hotel with huge rooms and fluffy beds and delicious dinner. The three Russians in our group, Yuri, Leonid and Alexander, decided we all needed a bit more warming up, so they bought a few bottles of vodka for the 12 of us, and shots were consumed. I was so tired I don’t even remember pulling up the covers when we went to bed, and never knew a thing until morning.

By the way, the photograph above is the Huka falls, which are the outflow from Lake Taupo. Not long ago, a famous New Zealand Rugby player was drowned here, when his paramour threw him in. I think there’s a moral in there somewhere.

I Love the Way They Talk Here!

Because we did today’s ride yesterday, which is really today if you’re in Maine, we had a day off in Rotorua. Chris began the day for us with a leisurely ride up to Whakatane, on the eastern shore of the north island. We rode twisties around several lakes, continuing to dodge debris from Cyclone Wilma. But people were swimming! Boating! Sunbathing! I so don’t miss winter.

The most fun part of Whakatane is how it’s pronounced. “Wh” is normally said with an “F” sound in Maori words. So figure it out. It’s almost as much fun to say as, “underpants.” Another new expression today is, “wall to wall bugger all,” meaning “a whole lot of nothing,” and generally referring to Australia. And if you have an Aunt Frances, don’t ever give her the traditional Maine nickname, because that is a BAD WORD in New Zealand, never to be said in public.

After parking the bikes, we went a short way out of town, where bubbling hot springs and geysers coexist with an interactive Maori cultural museum. We hated to leave. The language lesson continued. “Geyser” here is pronounced, “geezer.” So whenever they talked about the boiling geysers, all I could think of was Nick Saum being tossed into a lobster pot.

In the evening, the Maoris entertained us with a Hangi, their traditional meal cooked underground. They also shared with us a moving and dramatic demonstration of war dances, peace rituals, songs, and games, finishing with a walk through the woods in the dark to look at the glow worms in the trees and on the ground. Seriously cool.