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.