A Gallivanting: Nelson and Rocks Hut

After the Queen Charlotte track was finished I hitched to Picton. The ferry ride back to Picton was $45 and much too rich for my blood.  I asked around for a ride to town and was met with reluctance to help from the few who were actually heading that way.  One person said "good luck hitching, there are very few cars this time of day."  I greeted his negativity with a smile and said, "It's okay, I brought a tent and I have nowhere to be."  I shot him a smile and meandered down the road, sunscreening myself as I walked, preparing for a roadside sleep.

  It wasn't long before a DOC truck pulled over to give me a lift. Not a common occurrence, and the fellows who gave me a lift were still working, but it just so happened they were heading back to Picton for the end of their day. I asked if they often gave rides to hitching trampers and they said no. The only reason they were giving me one was because I had seen them working on the trail the last two days and actually stopped to talk to them, and they recognized me.  I took a photo of them, but have since lost my phone. Sadly I have no record of their helping faces.  All the same, much obliged gentlemen!

  I made it back to Picton by way of hitch faster than I would have even been picked up by the water taxi at the end of the track. Forward positive thinking, a stingy wallet, and stubbornness prevail!  The gentlemen let me out, in the heart of town, maybe 5 blocks from a hostel I was going to visit.  Now after walking as far as I have, and being as clumsy as I am, I have not at all been surprised from the trips, slides, falls, slips, etc. that come along with the territory of tramping.  I should, however, with a life-time of sidewalk practicing, be able to carry on down a well-paved street unscathed. Well, this is apparently too much to ask for!  Not one minute after I got out of their truck, the tread toward the toe of my left boot caught the loop of my right shoelace and I went down heavy and hard like a sack of potatoes (see how I slipped an Idaho expression in there?). Better yet, a sack of potatoes carrying a small house on it's back.  My walking sticks went flying and before I even realized what had happened, before I had a moment to register how embarrassing this could be in the off chance someone actually had the pleasure of witnessing such slap stick hilarity, a nearby woman asked if I was okay. I pushed my self up into a seated position, which is a feat in itself with a pack on, and assured her through her many concerns that i was absolutely fine and had just suffered a slightly bruised ego. Once she was convinced I was fine and had turned back down the street toward the rest of her day, I checked to see the damage.  

  Blood from knee to ankle. Well done Saratops!  It has been so many years since i have scraped up a knee like that. Not to mention the hands, which weren't bleeding, but felt like they may as well have been. How strange to feel the nostalgia of childhood by way of pain.  It took a couple weeks to heal, and has left a scar, but in a way I was thankful to have it.  It was like smelling that smell that reminds you of your grandmother. That scraped knee was a closet full of memories.

  So, one night at a hostel, clean, refreshed, and ready for the next adventure. This is where I had planned to part from the trail. A lost wanderer with nowhere to be and an island at her feet. let the journey begin! And we are off to Nelson!

Welcome to Nelson, where even the trees extend themselves to you. A proper cradling.

  I had arrived in Nelson on a Friday, where I found the universe providing for me once again. Nelson is known for its abundance of artists and from Nelson up through the Golden Bay is known widely as an "alternative" area, by which they mean it's full of hippies.  I cannot tell you how many people told me to go to this area because I would love it. The word alternative was used often when describing why I would like it.  Throw a lot of piercings and tattoos on a chic, let her tramp around for a few months, house on back, and hair a constant battleground for dreadlocks, and these people automatically think they know what I like! How dare they be so right!?  I had arrived just in time for Nelson's annual busking festival!  For those who don't know what busking is, it's live street performance, generally in exchange for gratuities.  The entire weekend was a frenzy of creativity and street markets.

I watched this woman play for about half an hour. She was one of my 3 favorites.

It has been discovered that Nelson is where the overly-endowed mannequins are employed.  Um...

   So I spent a few days gallivanting the streets of a city which reminded me a lot of home.  Being surrounded by such creativity left my cheeks strained from all the smiling :)
  My friend Manu (French), who I had been trekking with since day one on Twilight Beach, did not have the amount of time available to finish the trek, and was heading out of the Richmond Mountains, back to Nelson.
  It's a strange thing leaving the trail.  It's, in all truth and actuality, an extremely depressing separation.  You hear people talk about being sad to leave a trail and have to go back to their home and jobs, and you think, well ya sure, of course you're sad, who wants to go back to work?  It's so much more encompassing than that.  Out in the bush everything is different.  Social norms are different or better yet, completely thrown out the window.
  When you travel with a group, at the end of the day when you get to camp and have set everything up this beautiful dance occurs.  This collection of people scatter, without having to say a word, and do whatever it is they need to do to feel comfortable.  And you think, well ya, so?  The key lies within the silence of the communication.  There are no questions or expectations, other than the fact that you all happen to be traveling the same route. Don't get me wrong, you are certainly friends and comrades of the trail, but at the end of the day everyone understands that there are innumerable avenues with which to process experiences.  So, after tents are erected, food is prepared. Some eat in a group. Some eat in the vestibule of their tent. Some go to bed immediately. Some find a vantage point to watch the setting sun. Some listen to music in their tent and you can hear them singing bits out loud, giving you a game of finding out which song they are singing to. Some retire to their tent, lights on, and write.  The point is, all these movements go unquestioned. No one is upset if you don't stay up and talk. Solitude is greatly respected, nothing is expected and all are left to their own accord.  This group is a collection of individuals, and space is always given, and very seldom are things taken personally out here.
  The social norms are just different. Everything has become survival, and I say that without the pressure of dramatics, it's just a fact. When tramping or backpacking you are giving way to the earth and all the possibilities of her great power, form the beautiful nature of the sunset, to the terrifying magnitude of her winds and earthquakes.  So as one might imagine, the frivolities of many social norms take too much time, and let's face it, are just stupid. When you have to pee, you pee. When you have to fart, you politely position yourself downwind.  When you hike for hours, and days on end, it's understood that you smell like you have been hiking for days on end. You get rashes. You get acne in places you may never have had it before. You are covered in sand fly bites, and mosquito bites. You are covered in bruises. Your body has been transformed into a shape it has never been before. You get use to cutting through thick accents during conversation. The topics of which span, music to poetry to the deepest matters of the heart. Even the conversations seem more raw out here. There is nothing to hide so it all comes out.
  In meeting all these wonderful people, and listening to their stories in between the questioning and telling of my own, I would say it is safe to say the vast majority of people I have met on the trail are searching for answers within themselves, spurred by a hugely life altering event.  Most of these people have wounds so deep it takes giving up everything, even if just for a short while, to find the truths they hold within.  To find the constants within their character which may have dimmed, or been pushed aside long ago.  To erase all distraction, save for the beautiful distraction of sweet sweet nature, and ask themselves who am I, why am I this, who do I want to be, and how do I become that person?
  So, you can understand, why leaving the trail is so overwhelmingly sad.  It's like meeting a person you feel like you have known your whole life (yourself), then knowing you have to part ways. And the promises of keeping in touch are well and truly intended, but you fear time will play her nasty tricks, and the closeness will begin to fade again.  And you find yourself grasping at every moment, begging to hold on to the memory and feelings. Knowing right now it is all so real and soon it will just be a story and a collection of photos that do it no justice.
  I was relieved to have my friend Manu back at my side to be there while I was going through this transition. He was going through the same.  So we decided to hike back into the Richmond Mountain Range up to Rock's Hut and spend a few beautiful days saying our long goodbye.
  Here are photos of the hike. 3 days, 2 nights.

Slayer! Even metal heads like tramping.

My five legged stick bug friend.

I found this dried out caterpillar. Manu thought I was playing with bird poop! 

You haven't seen much of him, but this is Pestion. He is my one armed traveling companion and confidante.

The water tank and sink outside the hut. 

The dining area. This was actually a very large hut. It sleeps 16.

4 bunks, per quadrant.

Trail Slayer

 After having to explain the English word slayer to Manu I thought it appropriate to call him that for the day. Especially after we hiked up to a lookout and he brought a saw to cut firewood.  Truthfully though, his trail name is The White rabbit, because of his fascination with time.

I call this "The Saddest Fence"

This section of the trail was very thoroughly marked.

Still a dork. Some things never change.

Manu and I decided to hike to the top of the lookout and prepare dinner to watch our last trail sunset.

It's in our souls

Looking back toward Nelson.

The pile of wood Manu left for the next hut users.

And back down through the haze

A Ferry to Picton: The Queen Charlotte Track

Welcome to Picton

I took the early morning ferry to the south island. An exciting bitter-sweet goodbye to the north island as I watched it slowly float away, a place of struggles and memories.  I was anxious to see what lied ahead. All anyone ever says here is "wait 'til you get to the south island..." What could that possibly mean, when the north had held so much beauty and wonder already?

  As the ferry engines pushed closer to shore it was becoming more apparent what all the fuss was about.  From what I had been told, it gets more beautiful the further you move south, so if this was how things would begin, well lets just say, if ever there were a land to remind adults to once again believe in unicorns and fearies, this would be that place.  To set the record straight, I have never put either of those beautiful creatures out of my mind.
  I stayed in Picton one night and took a water taxi to the start of the Queen Charlotte track which runs through the small fjordic islands at the northern stretch of the island.  The Queen Charlotte Track is the 2nd of the two Great Walks included in the Te Araroa, the other being the Whanganui River (which is technically a kayak rather than walk), and along with being a walk, is a popular mountain bike trail during the summer season.  It is probably the easiest of the Great Walks with a wide well established trail offering multiple accommodation options en route ranging from camp sites to 5 star hotels.  I would say it's the perfect setting to introduce children to the idea of tramping without throwing them into it too hard and potentially scarring them for life, and actually I saw several families doing just that.

"To this cove Captain Cook made five visits while navigating the globe.  On this reach he erected tents for his invalid sailors and from this stream he watered his vessels."

Welcome to the start of the Queen Charlotte Track!  Beautiful beaches, a well groomed trail, cloudy lurking weather systems, historical references, and the sweet sound of incessantly chirping cicadas. This sound will take over your brain!!!

One, in an audio army of millions

    It took a good twelve hours of me fighting the screaming presence of these exoskeletal orchestras to finally relax them into the pores of my grey matter and begin to enjoy them.  Even then, there were sections of the forests so encapsulated with their songs that the sheer volume of their audio union made me consider stopping to put earplugs in, at least to muffle their high pitched frequencies in an attempt to keep my brain from being permanently scrambled.  Auditory brain mashers!!!  I grew to love them so much, when I found silence, I also found myself missing their serenades.
  

I named her "Majesty"... may she shed forever.

  The first day's walk was an easy 13 kilometers. I had pushed past the DOC campsite to stay at a site just slightly further down the trail, in an effort to avoid the masses.  After being in the bush for so long, you become very sensitive to the presence of others, and I found myself searching for solitude more and more.
  Not half a kilometer past the DOC campsite the clouds changed from a beautiful presence to a practical one, and they did what they do best. They let go the rain, and they did it with serious intent! By the time I had finished the debate with myself to put my rainpants on it was too late, they were already soaked, so I carried on with my upper half and my bag protected from the elements in their rain gear, but from the waste down, I may as well have walked through a lake.  It would take three days for the insoles of my boots to dry. Three days of pure sunshine and setting them out each day, for hours to dry. True story.
  I got to camp and set my tent up as quickly as possible, but in the 3 minutes it takes to set up, before the rainfly goes on, the awesomeness of Big Agnes' waterproof capabilities had turned her from a haven away from the elements into a swimming pool. She retained every drop of water collected. I spent the next 20 minutes drying her out with my washcloth, one ringing at a time.  Which would have been great, but as I was drying her out a small stream was forming beneath. So after all that, I had to move locations.  Round two  of emptying the swimming pool and I was finally set to situate the rest of my gear.
  Ding Ding Ding!!! The winner of Round 1: The elements!
  It was late afternoon, and what better to do than to take a small nap while forced to stay indoors.  Oh sweet slumber how I love you.  Nature's wake up call today is brought to you by gale force winds! Ripping out two tent stakes, bending the main pole of the tent down to the ground, encapsulating me in a forced cocoon of fear, and what's that!? Literally lifting my legs off the ground!!!
  My imagination kicks into overdrive once again and I begin the immediate search for my knife.  Preparing for the moment I am sure to be lofted off the edge of this hillside, out over the trees which live on the slope beneath, and into the sea, where I will have to cut myself free and dramatically escape a near drowning.  Once the knife is found I jump out, re-stake the corners that had been dislodged, and jump back into my tent, this time taking the backpack inside the actual housing unit, not just within the vestibule, so I can use it's extra weight to hold the foot of the tent down. Fingers crossed it works.  In the mountain ranges before Wellington my friend Ami was telling me she started a days hike at 5AM after having been literally lifted off the ground and moved around the mountainside by the wind, and finding herself, not surprising, having a hard time convincing herself to go back to sleep.  It's not often that I find myself trying to will more weight into my body, but I was willing as desperately as I could.
  By the next morning the sun was shining, and laughing at me. "Good morning sunshine, how glad I am to see you!"
  I had started the track on my own, having left Wellington a day before a few of my friends, but I was taking my time knowing it wouldn't be long before they would catch me. I had made a joke with Ami that I would try to leave her a sign along the trail so we could find each other and hike together a bit.  So I literally left her a note with her name on it, at the camp's sign, in hopes she would see it. Which she did!!!  And once again we were off!

See tiny note in top corner of sign.

  We camped at Endeavor Inlet, which actually had a bar on the beach not far from where we were. So...I mean, how could you not oblige a beverage!?

A weka is a flightless bird I hadn't encountered until I got to the South Island.  They look like kiwis, but their beaks are different. They wail in the night like banshees.  A warning, don't be fooled by their cuteness, they are thieving bastards and from personal experience I can say, they are not shy about it.  One literally stole part of my lunch right out of my hand. 

Mushrooms!

  Now calm down...I did not actually eat the mushroom. It's just for photo fun.

  The next day we hiked 24 kilometers to Cowshed Bay where I spent a couple days focused on art projects and letting my eyes bask in the glory of the scenery at hand.

Nature's goblet!

Just taking it in.

Finding your bearing

Snail chain reaction?

untitled

Suunto

 Another day of hiking 27 kilometers, while the sun sang songs of warmth on my skin, the cicadas sang songs of the trees, and the scenery sang songs of eye candy.

And so went the Queen Charlotte Track.

Windy Wonderful Wellington!!!

 I trained it to Wellington and listened to my favorite metal band Wolvserpent as the scenery floated by.    I was glad to have my music collection at my fingertips, and resonating sweet nothings in my ears again. Thank you to my sister for shipping me my iPod. What was I thinking by trying to go without it!? I listen to music when I sculpt generally and was feeling its absence harder and harder these days.
  I would spend the next week in Wellington. This is the longest stretch of time I have stayed in one place since setting foot in New Zealand.  It wasn't the original plan, but what was anymore?  Since my arrival to this country I have been harassing foundries as I worked my way south, to try and get a tour. However, if they responded at all, it was with a polite decline.  I understand their decision, because foundries are quite dangerous, but I was hopeful.  Wellington's foundries were no different. However, I did email an artist whose work I admire and whose work i am sure you are all familiar with regardless of consciously knowing it.  Greg Broadmore is an illustrator, comic book artist, and concept designer who works for Weta in Wellington.  Weta is a film production studio where special effects, miniatures, costumes, concept design, and you name what else, is made for movies.  King Kong, District 9, Lord of the Rings, Meet the Feebles, Dead Alive, the list could go on for days, were all in part fabricated here.  So I embraced my new mantra for the year, "Why not!?" and sent Greg an email telling him I was a fan of his work and asked if he could spare some time to meet me.
  It took him two days to respond because he was busy out of the country, but he said he could meet me the upcoming Thursday after he got back into the country and had finished setting up his next gallery show in Christchurch.  If you could have seen me. Picture a star struck nerd in a candy shop. I read the email three times to make sure my wishful thinking hadn't played tricks on my eyes. I would stay a full week for the opportunity to meet someone so dedicated to the art world. Absolutely!!!
  In the meantime there was a beautiful city to see.  And now begins the inundation of images.

Someone who likes fun put bubbles in the fountain.

The phonebooth

 
  There were so many wonderful art pieces to enjoy, not to mention the Te Papa art museum which housed New Zealand's popular World of Wearable Art exhibit, that I could easily get carried away with posting photos, but I suppose I should save something for the book.
  One of the days in Wellington I finished the Te Araroa trail on the north island with Celine, one of the  french women I had met on my very first day on the trail at Twilight Beach.  We had sunshine and clear skies, but as is mentioned in the title Wellington is a windy city! We fought 70+km winds that day and had our faces thoroughly exfoliated by the sand on the beach where we finished the trail.

Keep a wide stance for balance in those winds!!

Wind, providing the hairstyles of the future!!

  Let's see, what else happened that week? Oh ya, there was kind of a huge earthquake!!  During an afternoon I had gone to my dorm room for a nap. It had been a while since I had a solid night's rest, and I thought perhaps I could calm my mind enough to sleep a bit.  It's hard to convince yourself to slow down and rest when you know there is a new country outside the door to explore.
  I had just roused from a restless slumber, still in that half asleep state where the world still exists, but the boundaries of possibilities have faded and imagination  runs wild.  The bed moved slightly and I though to myself "Oh man, they (meaning a dormmate) were quiet when they came in."  I thought someone had come into the room while I was sleeping and took their position on the top bunk.  It took absolutely no time for me to understand what was really happening.  It's funny how never having heard it before, that I recognized the rumble of the earth beneath me as a quake. Nothing else, but Mother Earth herself could create such a sound that you feel it in your soul.
  I jumped from the bed thinking "Is this really happening or am I still dreaming?"  I have been known to sleep walk and talk.  It's a blurred line to reality.  Now, when I should have been doing something sensible like getting to a door frame instead I found myself frozen, which isn't generally my reaction during times of emergency, usually I am cool as a cucumber. Now please know i was absolutely terrified and you can be damn sure my heart rate went through the roof, but I was stuck in an internal  conversation.  As I stood there I grabbed the bunk bed for support and quickly let go, as if I had touched something hot.  There was zero solace in holding onto that metal pole because it was shaking back and forth more than I was on my own. So I widened my stance and surfed the floor in its smooth  fluid waves of terror as I mulled over my situation.
  During the ten seconds of floor surfing my discussion with myself went a little like this:
"Is this happening?
Is this for real?
This cannot be happening.
I don't die like this.
Not me.
This is not where my story ends.
I suppose in case I do die I should take a moment to be thankful.
I have been so blessed.
But I don't die here.
I would be okay with dying in Wellington, on the trip, in an earthquake...
but NOT here! I DO NOT die in a HOSTEL!!!"
  It was at this point my body began to respond to my situation. I sat down, strapped my boots onto my feet so fast I swear I saw smoke rising out of them, grabbed my coat,  my backpack, and made way for the stairs. By now the rumble and the shaking had subsided and I began to question once again if what just happened had been a dream until I met a woman in the hall who asked if I "felt that."  Felt it? It owned me!  I speedily went down 4 flights of stairs, made my way to the wharf, passing by calm demeanored, un-phased faces and spent the rest of the day outside.  A 6.2 earthquake.  I slept very little in Wellington after that. Every time my dorm mate above on the top bunk so much as rolled over, slightly jarring the bed, I was readily planning my escape.
  I later joked that if I were in fact to die at some point in Wellington, and my final moment was spent being crushed between beds that I would appreciate it if my tombstone would please read "Death by bunk smash." Which incidentally would be a great name for a band.
  Wednesday of this week was a day to be remembered.  Ami, one of the trampers, had coordinated a party in Wellington, inviting all the trampers on the Facebook page to join in if they happened to be in the area. A celebration of completing the north island, and for several people a celebration of the end of the trek. Some were injured, and others just simply didn't have the time allotted to finalize the trail.  And I used it as an excuse to buy a dress, and feel like a lady for a night.  $8 thrift store score, tights and some hiking boots!!!  That's as close to a lady as I could get at the moment, but it was enough. Let the fun begin!!

Merry Trampers Unite!

  We spent the evening trading stories, getting the low-down from Pat Beath, (the bearded man in the front who had already finished the whole trail for the season as a fundraiser for local children), drinking and then getting down low on the dance floor!
  You didn't actually think I would post those photos did you!? Ha!! I will keep those for myself thank you :)
  The next day I took the bus to the Weta Workshop and met Greg Broadmore, who is utterly awesome!!!  We talked for about an hour, then when he had to return to work he walked me back to the Weta Cave.  I asked for a photo with him, and he did so much better than just that.  He took the display vintage ray guns which he designed and published into a book titled Doctor Grordbort's Contrapulatronic Dingus Directory, (later to be sculpted out of solid cast metal and put on display for sale), out of their cases and let me hold one of them while we took a photo. Heavy buggers!

"Why not!?"

  Many many thanks to Greg for taking the time to meet a stranger, and a big fan.
Also at the Weta...

I narrowly escaped the clutches of trolls.

   And just like that, it was over...

Stonehenge Aotearoa

After my time in Palmerston North I collected myself and headed for my first adventure off trail since my realizations of having to alter the plan.  I bussed to Carterton with plans to see the Stonehenge Aotearoa.
  Stonehenge Aotearoa is a modern, and fully functioning solar circle.  It is not a replica of the Stonehenge ruins of the Salisbury Plain of England, but rather a modern adaptation designed to demonstrate how the ancient people of the world, (because solar circles are in fact found world wide), understood astronomy by the movement and seasons of the sun.
  I asked a woman after getting off the bus if she could point me in the direction of cheap lodging, because even though there was a holiday park in town, they charged more to pitch my tent on a piece of grass, than most hostels do, so I was trying to optimize my options.  She suggested we pop into the local pub, which is where she was heading anyway to ask the bartender, and the next thing I know, after going over all the options, she offered for me to stay in the spare room at her house.  She made sure to ask me first if I was an axe murderer.  I said no, and asked her the same. She also said no. Yay! We were off to a great start!
  She introduced me to the locals at the bar, a scene reminiscent of the opening scene in Cheers, but this town is so small everyone knows everyone's name.  I answered a lot of questions of my travels, intentions, and Idaho.  Shockingly many of them already knew Idaho was famous for potatoes and the Rockies.  Nothing will make you want to bone up on your geography like traveling.  Or increase the desire to learn more languages for that matter.  I have a lot of homework when I get home!
  I spent the evening in wonderful company. Michelle and her partner Jamie were fantastic hosts and I have been instructed to inform you all that the best of Kiwi hospitality is found in Carterton, and I must say after the next 24 hours, it's hard to argue.  The house sat amidst well loved and tended flower, herb, and food gardens.  I had a tour of the town, and they cooked an amazingly beautiful seafood dinner for me.  They were ever so gracious in unecessarily tending to my diet.  They gave me a beer!!! And over dinner, while they entertained guests who had also come to their home from the pub, they all took part in explaining to me the game of cricket, which I now can safely say I have a vague understanding for.
  The following morning the spoiling continued as Jamie took a break from work to give me a ride out to the Stonehenge. It was far out in the middle of typical New Zealand rolling hillsides, and would for sure have taken me a majority of the day to get to by foot.  I waited around for about 15 minutes for a tour to start.  It was by far the best tour I have had in years!  Worth every penny! So if you find yourself out Carterton way, take the 90 minutes to be inundated and amazed by science, Greek, Roman, and Maori legends as only the stars can tell them.
 The henge contains 24 pillars capped with lintels making the structure 4 meters high. It is 30 meters in diameter and has a 5 meter tall obelisk marking the center and also turning the henge into a Polynesian star compass.

Maori legends tells a story with the two pillars in the forefront, representing the two wives of the god in the sky. He is the sun and moves from one to the next as the seasons change.

At high noon, the tip of the obelisk's shadow falls on the tiled platform, marking by its position on the figure 8, the date and zodiac sign in power.

When standing on this center marking, the acoustics are unbelievable.  Sounds from everywhere within the circle resonate in your ear as if they are all up close. So mind the gossip!

The angle of the hole in this obelisk points toward  the south celestial pole when lined up to reveal a full circle.

The seven sisters

Now to top the wonderful day off, I saw a ghost house atop the adjacent hill!

Not scared!!

Then I was given a ride back to town by the published astronomer himself, who had given such a wonderful tour.  I sat, ate lunch, walked tot he train station, took a small nap under a few trees at the station, and boarded a train to Wellington.

Palmerston North, Round 2! A resurrection.

 After Whanganui I ventured back to Palmerston North, where if you remember, I had spent an unexpected Christmas in a hostel rather than house sitting for a friend.  The key was at the post this time, and even better, a few of my friends would roll through town throughout the series of days I would spend there.

  The injuries persisted, but I was still up in the air about what to do.  I realize that certain things are beyond our control, and as I told a good friend of mine recently, our reaction to life is the only thing we truly have control over. What is that saying? "Life is what happens while we are busy making plans?"  There is truth in this.  I had been fighting injuries consistently since the first full week of the trail.  I am aware I am quite stubborn, and often to a detrimental point, so the debates in my head were raging. At what point do I give into the physical ailments?  And even worse, how could I possibly break the news to everyone?

  I was feeling like I had failed. I had set out to accomplish this goal and was terrified of the thought of it going unfinished. More so, I was afraid of letting someone down.  So many people have put their faith in my abilities and idea, for whatever myriad of reasons, and I find it difficult to believe that even if I told them every day for the rest of their lives the magnanimous effect it had on me, they couldn't possibly understand. And more so, they would probably get annoyed by my broken record of thank yous.
  The Tongariro Crossing was my last test.  If I could manage to pass through unscathed I could probably go on to finish the rest of the trail.  This would be an easy reintroduction test... again.  It was only 19km and I had the advantage of being able to leave my backpack at the hostel in National Park, "slack packing" with just a day pack of food, water and sunscreen.  What I didn't mention in the Tongariro blog is that I did in fact have issues in my feet and various leg joints and found myself once again limping after only 11km.  I won't go too far into details, but the pain was obvious and the trail was too much for me to handle.  I have officially been bested. There you go, I said it.  

  Te Araroa you kicked my ass like I did not see coming and I humbly bow down to you, a respected adversary and friend.  I find disappointment in the unrelenting set backs of my physical abilities holding me torturously just out of reach from my aspirations.  After taking the last couple of weeks to face this straight-on I offer reluctant acceptance, and I think I have finally found the level of grace I needed to say "thank you."
  Don't you think for one second that this means I am finished!!  I am still producing art and have hiked a substantial amount since then, though at slower speeds and smaller more manageable intervals.  The limits in my physical abilities have expanded the depths of my heart and mind. I am not the same as when I started, and so begins the healing.
  I stayed with a friend for 5 days in Palmerston North catching up on the last blogs and deciphering my next motives.  I found his house and company an oasis of insight in the deserts of my struggles.  When we are children our minds are like sponges soaking up knowledge and the wonderment of all the possibilities this world has to offer, but as we grow we are taught limits.  We meander through blockades of "no's" and "good luck with that's," hidden behind a veil of fear and pessimism.  We are taught to question, but with limits. We are taught to wonder, but within the confines of our cultures. We are taught to wander, but not too far.  Change is scary.  In Palmerston North I found a gem disguised as a man who still questions, wonders, and wanders through life in a state of awe, disguising his observations in clever cynical word play, (a living Monty Python character), bending the walls in this maze through life and allowing himself to be marveled by it.  To say anything further of what was discussed would be to put a stain on the sanctity of the flow and destinations of the conversations held.  Some things you must be present for.  But the lessons learned, and the new tilt of the angle through which I see the world will hopefully subtly translate itself through the next series of writings.  At best, I can give you what was passed along to me in the form of a poem by the Bulgarian poet Blaga Dimitrova (1922-present).

Deserts

I was born for love

to give and to receive it

yet my life has passed

almost without loving

  So I've learned forgiving

Even the deserts I have crossed

I feel no scorn for

I just ask them with astonishing eyes

What gardens were you born for?

Countless thanks to you Grant.

Carnivorous Snails