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.

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?