Boogie Back to Texas

As we walked off the plane in Austin, I experienced that odd combination of surprise and familiarity. There, across from the gate was Salt Lick Barbecue. A neon sign above read “Asleep at the Wheel” (my favorite Texas music group) and the shop next door sold tee-shirts in UT orange that blared “Don’t Mess with Texas” (for those who don’t know, this was a litter campaign slogan started by the Department of Transportation decades ago). It made my head spin with culture shock. Downstairs I felt like a stranger in my own homeland. My yoga top and pants – my standard travel uniform – seemed out of place midst the jeans, tee-shirts and boots. Outside gigantor pick-up trucks claimed happy travelers.

We had our own gigantor pick-up truck to claim us. George was waiting outside in his new Dodge Ram pick-up with the extended cab and full-sized bed. It was huge! We saw him approaching with my mother’s tiny head just visible above the dash. We felt like locals as we stowed all the luggage in the bed of the truck and piled into the cab. Off we went for the familiar drive home to Smithville. But first, I had a very important date.

We stopped for lunch in Bastrop at Guadalajara. We barely sat down before chips and salsa appeared. Perfect. Next was a Texas-sized glass of iced tea. Perfect. A long-awaited lunch of TexMex followed. Even more perfect. Over the course of five days, my dear husband humored me. He ate tacos at four different Mexican restaurants, sometimes having Mexican food for both lunch and dinner. He was lucky to be spared breakfast. I had enchiladas, tacos, tamales, rice and refried beans (cooked in bacon fat). Yuuuuum! And, of course, we had barbecue beef and sausage, too, from Zimmerhanzel’s. My mother hadn’t been feeling well and lost too much weight so I sacrificed myself by accompanying her to Diary Queen where we split milkshakes or ice cream.

With all this food, I looked forward to running through town. Smithville is small (about 3500) and is laid out in a grid, making it easy to run up and down the tree-shaded streets where I refreshed my memory of the houses, yards and, well, life. The wood-frame houses with big porches and rocking chairs are painted in sherbet colors or deep mossy greens. Many have tin roofs that make the most comforting sound in the rain. Pecan trees were budding and red bud trees were just showing their pink blooms. Blue bonnets were beginning to blanket the roadsides. As I ran, glimpses of life poked its head out. There were two little boys in their pajamas throwing paper airplanes in the yard. A woman’s voice behind a picket fence called out, “Ready or not, here I come!” Birds chirped and chortled outside our window. Trying to be helpful, I decided it was time to remove the Christmas wreath from my mother’s front porch. Its red balls, bows and festive bird nest seemed a little out of place in March. But, when I reached to grab it, the tiny brown bird in the nest moved! The nest, it seems, was not part of the decoration but had been carefully built inside the wreath as a new home. The wreath will have to stay on the wall a little longer.

One of the best things about being home in Smithville is seeing friends and running into all the people I know. It’s like – well – coming home. The day we arrived I bumped into Lynn Doty at the grocery store. As usually happens to me, there is an instant recognition but delay while my brain catches up trying to come up with name, context and history. In Smithville, the context is always about where this person was in relation to me in school. In Lynn’s case, she was several years older and she reminded me that she babysat me and my sister. I barely remember that but I do remember Lynn from when she was in high school and I was a grader schooler looking with envy at the grown-up high school kids. Some seemed aloof and untouchable, but not Lynn. I remember her as pretty, friendly and always smiling. She’s still like that. While we were in Smithville, I ran into familiar faces at the Post Office, the liquor store, the barbecue place, the Mexican restaurant, and shopping in Bastrop. The world keeps getting smaller but Smithville is smaller still.

A trip to Smithville wouldn’t be complete without visiting Bobbie Sue and Robert. After our wonderful time together in France enjoying French food, Robert wanted to cook for us – Texas style. Wow – it was wonderful! As we admired their recently renovated home, we munched on two types of venison sausage, as well as, javelina sausage from game shot by their son, Derek. There were kabobs with veggies, shrimp and venison (that Bobbie shot) – and those were only the appetizers! Dinner was homemade mashed potatoes, broccoli casserole, pinto beans, and salad. Then Robert grilled T-bone steaks and more venison sausage. All washed down with Bobbie’s famous margaritas, and finished off with her homemade lemon meringue pie. They outdid themselves!

It’s funny – being in Smithville again with lifelong friends after a year away brings up confused feelings. With no effort, I drop back into life here. It’s like there’s a slot in my soul where Texas just fits – or maybe, I just fit into Texas’ soul. Either way, there’s deep-seated comfort being in a place that is so familiar and with people who know me, know my family, and with whom I share a history. I open my mouth and am astonished to here myself say, “How’r yu?” I can go along any street and know something about someone who lives or lived along that street. Layers of memories flood back when I’m with my mother’s friends like Joyce, Jeannette or Silky. There’s never been a time that I didn’t know them as a part of my life. I become that little girl from Smithville again – for better or worse – in her jeans and tee-shirt. But, at the same time, I’m that woman in the little, black dress and pearls enjoying the opera at La Scala in Milan, Italy – and, here’s the miracle, it doesn’t feel like pretending. Sometimes, I relish this diversity that lives inside me. Other times, it feels schizophrenic. Which life is the real one? Wouldn’t life be simpler to be one or the other? As many times as I’ve asked myself that question, there’s never an answer. I’ll just have to live with one foot in boots and the other in high heels.

The main event was a joint 80th birthday party for my mother and George. Mother and George have known each other every day for those 80 years. I love listening to them tell stories of growing up on farms during the Depression. After raising their separate families and suffering through the death of spouses, they have shared the last several years together. George is the best thing that’s happened to all of us in a very long time even though our families couldn’t be more different. George’s is large – both in number and in size. He had five kids all of whom I’ve known forever, and his extended family seems to encompass most of Smithville. While they are many, we are few. We could have used Alison's husband, Jerry, to boost our numbers, but he was not able to make it. And then there’s scale. All of George’s kids are tall – and that’s putting it mildly. I barely come up to Bubba, Andy or Stewart’s chest. I have to look up to talk to their arm pit! They may all be tall, but they and their families have embraced my teeny, tiny mother into their family. George’s great grand children – Ryan and Will – run to her and crawl into her lap as she walks in the door (Six year old Ryan stayed with us the following evening. He and Mike bonded over shared interests like watching ghost stories on TV.).





The birthday party was held at George’s grand daughter’s house. Kristin, Allison and Katelyn made all the arrangements; Stewart, Shawn and friends cooked. This was another feast – fried fish, fried onion rings, fried fritters, fired poppers, fried mozzarella sticks, and fried potatoes (and there was grilled fish, salsa, and pinto beans, too). We opted not to fry the birthday cake or ice cream! Mother and George received lots of nice gifts but the best gift was to be surrounded by family and close friends who represent a life time of togetherness. (As an added treat, George presented his grandson, Jarold, with his acceptance letter to law school.) When the time came to go home, we all laughed as Mother, Jeannette and George’s sister, Irene, grabbed their walking canes and were individually escorted to the car and carefully loaded inside. It was quite a procession! Smiling and laughing, Jeannette said, “That’s okay! Y’all be old someday, too.” I sure hope so.

By the way, as we were leaving for the birthday party, Bobbie called to say, "There's a huge forest fire between Smithville and Bastrop, and it's all your fault!" Our reputation for leaving a trail of mayhem and destruction is following us!

All too quickly, George’s truck unloaded us and our mountain of luggage at the Austin airport. With reluctance and a few tears, I said good-bye to my mother and promised that I’d be back in a couple of months. In the words of Asleep at the Wheel, I’ll “Boogie back to Texas; Back to my hometown.” I can’t wait, y’all.

Back in the USA

We’re back. I can no long ignore that fact. Technically, we were in the US once we landed in Hawaii. But Hawaii has that delightful otherworldly feel. I’m always surprised they accept US currency. And so it was that landing in LA that brought our return to my attention with brut force. Tears filled my eyes when we touched down. I’m not quite ready to be back.

Don’t get me wrong, seeing Linnea arrive to pick us up was a wonderful sight. Now we’re on our way to Texas to see my mother and George and friends. That’s all good. I can’t wait to see our dear friends in Annapolis. I missed the people who fill our life but I’m starting to mourn the end of the experience we’ve been enjoying.

We’ve both noticed little things that were common before but now strike us as unusual. For example, we keep waiting to go through passport control. At the LA airport it felt odd that we could just walk off the plane into the city. Didn’t anyone want to check us out? Guess not. Linnea whisked us off to our hotel although “whisked” may be a slight overstatement as we traveled a ten-lane freeway for the first time in ages. All around were enormous cars and trucks. They seem huge by the rest of the world’s standards. What is it that we need to put in all this space that others don’t have? Our car which seemed large in Europe now looks like a compact.

As I stood in line at a fast food restaurant for the first time in months, I fumbled with my US bills. How odd it felt to hold this money and realize that it felt strange. Plus, all the bills are the same color and size. That now seems like a rather inefficient system. Once I finished staring at my money, I handed it to the impatient, near-comatose fast food worker in front of me who reluctantly answered my questions. I was one of those pesky customers. It’s not like there wasn’t bad service in France, but, honestly, it happened rarely. As my French teacher explained, sometimes it’s less a difference between the US and France but more a difference between city and country living. I think, in many cases, that she’s right. In Cotignac, we knew the butcher, the café owner, the family who ran the grocery store and our favorite market vendors – and fast food literally didn’t exist. I’m still adjusting to the timing of meals. Mike keeps reminding me that we no longer need to allot one and half to two hours to eat out for lunch.

We stayed at a charming hotel in Santa Monica that was facing the ocean. It was beautiful. In the mornings, we could look out over the beach and ocean. I watched several groups of 20 to 30 runners jogging on the path. No more was I the unusual one who got up early to run. I had company!

Our hotel, The Georgian, reminded us of our hotel facing the Mediterranean in Nice where we stayed on our last night in France. Here in Santa Monica, however, there were no little sidewalk cafes to walk to. How odd to drive everywhere instead of walking along charming, narrow streets. As we went from one fabulous restaurant to another over the weekend, I noticed that I felt distracted by conversations at adjacent tables. Everyone was speaking the same language and I understood what they said! That was new and different. Then there was the constant presence of Blackberries. Everyone was spinning that little ball, punching on teeny keyboards, or talking (sometimes far too loudly) into little microphones dangling from their ear. It’s not like we didn’t see cell phones and such in France but it didn’t seem so pervasive. And you would never interrupt something as sacred as a meal with a cell phone or Blackberry.

We’re also back in the land of super air conditioning. It seems that the US is the place where indoor temperatures need to be – at least for me – freezing! I don’t know whether it’s that the people in Europe are generally small, but I never felt too cold until we arrived back in the US.

There are also more processed foods here. They were overseas as well but not as prevalent. I had to laugh at the “healthy” snack bar we were given on the plane (yes, a snack on a US airline!). The wrapper, covered with photos of fruit, read, “natural flavors with other natural flavors.”

Mike finished reading the sports pages to discover that they were filled with basketball and baseball. Soccer was relegated to a portion of the last page and rugby and cricket had been thoughtlessly omitted all together. Imagine!

I’m sure I’ll adjust and it’ll all seem normal again although I’m not sure that I want some of this to be “normal.” We’ve flown over the Alps, the Mediterranean, the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, the coast of Australia and New Zealand, and the Pacific Ocean. From the plane, I look below as Arizona and New Mexico pass by and Texas looms ahead. I know I’m home. I know I’ll be glad. I know I’ll love being with friends again. It will just take a little time to adjust to this now foreign country. For now, I look forward to iced tea, TexMex, and barbeque. I just hope our passports work in Texas.

Rainbows and a Tsunami

Hawaii. I had forgotten how beautiful it is. It’s been almost 30 years since either Mike or I were here. Tall rugged mountains covered with lush, dense, tropical vegetation dropped precipitously to white, sand beaches fringed by palm trees. There the beach met a tapestry of blue waters. Mike laughed at me as I turned first one way and then the other uttering, “Stunning. Simply stunning.” And it was. My friend, Barbara, has lived here for the last sixteen years. She was the perfect reason to stop over for a few days. And we’re glad we did, in spite of the tsunami. Yes – of course, we were there for the tsunami. We hope this is it for disasters.





But first, more about Hawaii. I’m thrilled to say that we were on Oahu for five days and spent no time in Honolulu. Barb lives on the North Shore near Haleiwa in a charming cottage by the water. From her back porch, we could see the mouth of Waimea Bay with the sea crashing into rocks. Her neighbor was kind enough to let us sit on his porch for an unobstructed view of the sunset. What could be better?

While some may be disappointed in us, we enjoyed doing absolutely nothing – no tours, no sightseeing, no Pearl Harbor, no luau. We explored the North Shore and came to love its casual charm, character and relaxed atmosphere. Kamehameha Highway runs along the coast next to the water. White sand beaches, including famous ones like Sunset and Pipeline, are lined up every half mile or so. Big waves crash to shore while surfers bob in the water waiting for the perfect opportunity.

There is a bike path between the road and the beach. It was my running route each morning. From the path, I saw life on the North Shore unfold. There were young mothers walking their toddlers in the sand; young men biked to the beaches with their surf boards tucked under their arm; old VW buses held surf boards and fit, tan young men with sun-bleached hair; teenage girls walked casually to the beach in skimpy bikinis. Along the roadside, hand-painted vans that had seen better days sold shrimp, fresh fish, fruit, smoothies or shave ice. It was all part of the live-and-let-live lifestyle.

And it rained a little each day – sometimes a light sprinkle and other times a downpour. Neither lasted long. We learned to continue doing what we were doing rain or shine. With all the rain, rainbows are common. They may be common but they are still a treat. One day we saw six rainbows. Another morning, while running (in the rain), I saw a startling rainbow that was completely visible over the ocean. Its colors were vibrant and lively. People were pulling their cars over to photograph it or simply stand and stare.

With all the rain, there are also waterfalls. Barb lives a stone’s throw from Waimea Valley, so we walked over, through the lush gardens and to the falls. It’s funny. We’ve seen so many waterfalls that the Waimea Falls – while lovely – looked quaint after the gushing cascades of New Zealand.

We drove to Kaena Point and watched kite surfers being pulled by parachutes over the waves – jumping, twisting, and flying along the water. It looked like great fun. I know it’s sacrilegious, but we never got in the water. I know…. We were just tired from all the travel, and didn’t have the energy to deal with sand and surf. Plus, I could watch the water and waves all day and be happy. The waves are so peaceful. I honestly felt no need to be in the water when all I wanted was to watch the water. One morning while watching the water, I saw a whale as it stuck its head up, blew a spout of water, and seemed to stand on its head flapping its tail in the surf. Fun.

We did go for a nice walk on the beach. We thought we would be walking through the woods but the trail led onto the beach. With shoes filled with sand, there was nothing to do but give into it; take off the shoes and step into the warm sand. I sunk up to my ankles. The sand felt wonderful; both gritty and soft. Funny how it can be both at the same time. With a light breeze blowing, and the sound of the surf and waves, it was an ideal walk.

Another day we set off for a 2.5 mile loop trail on the windward side of the island. We found the trail and started climbing up the hillside. After coming off of the rain and snow of the Routeburn Trek, I thought this would be a piece of cake. Wrong. With the recent rain, the trail was muddy and slippery. Roots and moss-covered rocks made the walking slow and tricky. But it was beautiful. We walked through a forest of Norfolk pines with their fingers of needles in tiers all the way up the tall trunks. My dad was in Hawaii with the Air Force years and years ago. I remember him talking about the Norfolk pines. He loved them so much that he bought a small one that my mother tried desperately to keep alive in a pot in our den. I understand why he loved them and I also understand why that little tree wasn’t going to like central Texas. The wind was wonderful through these trees. It was so different from the wind in the pines of Cotignac. This was a deeper, roaring sound as the big heavy trees swayed. There were also ironwood or Australian Pines with droopy, 8” long needles. They looked like a pine tree version of a willow tree. While we walked, we were caught in a heavy downpour that made the already slick trail even more slick. We headed back for the car with a little protection under the trees. Between steps, we tried to appreciate the rain in the forest. Those 8” long needles captured the rain so that a small drop hung on the tip of each needle and sparkled in the light. It was like a pine tree chandelier. It was lovely until you walked into it and all those drops dumped on head, shoulders, or back. We were drenched by the time we returned.

Our last day, we drove around the island, past the volcanoes of Koko, Diamond Head and Punchbowl to our hotel by the airport. Due to our early morning flight to LA we chose to stay nearby that night and it was a very good decision. Thankfully, Mike turned on the news after dinner to learn of the huge earthquake that struck in the waters off the coast of Japan. The footage of the tsunami that hit Japan in the quake’s aftermath was unbelievable. And – the tsunami was making its way through the Pacific with Hawaii in its path. (Let me just pause to say – I am done with disasters – government overthrows, earthquakes and now a tsunami. Done.) So, we watched the news for hours. A six foot sustained wave of water was predicted for all of the Hawaiian Islands. It was expected to hit at 3AM. In the meantime, the tsunami warning sirens were sounded every hour starting at 10PM until 2:40AM. People in low lying areas designated as evacuation zones were to leave immediately for higher ground. Unable to access the evacuation zone maps with the hotel's slow internet connection, Mike asked the hotel staff. Thankfully, we were not in an evacuation area, plus we were on the fourth floor. Nonetheless, we were a half mile from the airport which is directly on the coast. All was probably fine, but, once again, it was unnerving. Just as I would fall asleep – with our clothes lying at the end of the bed – the siren would go off with a loud wail. The road in front of the hotel was closed to all traffic, the Governor was on the TV from the emergency management center, and the spokesperson from the Pacific Tsunami Warning Center was giving updates every half hour. So, another sleepless night. At 3AM, we watched the camera for Waikiki Beach that was broadcast from the traffic management center. And, we saw….nothing. There was a bit of water rise but that’s all. There was still danger as the energy from the tsunami was not fully dissipated, but it wasn’t to be the big event as predicted. Thankfully, particularly after seeing the devastation in Japan. (FYI. Barb’s house was in an evacuation area. We called but couldn’t reach her; however, she’d told us about the previous tsunami warning last year. She evacuated to high ground then so we were confident she did the same this time. I talked to her yesterday and she and her house are fine, although she had a stressful night.)

The next morning we flew to LA for the weekend with Linnea. We had a wonderful time with her, got much needed sleep, ate great food, and – there were no earthquakes!

Blue Skies – Undoubtedly!

The natural beauty of New Zealand is astonishing. We saw vistas across the South island from Mt. Cook, The Remarkables in Queenstown, and Doubtful Sound. Each place had its own beauty. I found myself wondering, how can a place like this exist, and why aren’t we all there?

Mt. Cook was our first stop after leaving Christchurch and the trauma of the earthquake. We took a bus for the four hour ride from the plains of Christchurch to the mountains surrounding Mt. Cook, the highest point in the South island. The peaks of the mountains were obscured by clouds as we arrived so that could only imagine the view. I went for a walk to the valley to stretch my legs and was greeted by tall, purple lupine which remind me of Texas bluebonnets. The valley floor was covered with scrubby golden grasses that whispered in the breeze. There were large boulders sprinkled about that had been carelessly dropped by the glacier as it went through thousands of years before. The mountains rose up in the distance. I walked across glacial fed streams with waters gushing past, filled with fine silt from the melting ice. The water, minus the silt, was 99% pure. We would hear that again and again across New Zealand as we drank water directly from mountain streams.

Our room faced Mt. Cook – or so we were told. It would be a stunning view if only we could see the mountain (The Maori word for Mt. Cook translates as "cloud piercer." It is only visible one out of three days). And, next morning, there it was. I woke to sunlight streaming into the room and clear, blue sky out the window. It took a minute to register that there was a soaring mountain peak directly out the window. Beautiful. I photographed it every few minutes as the light changed against the snow-covered peak. Clouds roll in quickly so we soaked up the view for as long as we could. The peak would be invisible by noon. But, the weather was beautiful for our boat excursion to the Tasman Glacier. After a walk through an adjacent valley, we came to the lake that was created – only 30+ years ago – by the retreating glacier. The water was the same murky gray from silt as the streams. But we were in luck. When the earthquake rocked Christchurch the tremors also shook loose a chunk of the glacier. In fact, 30 million tons of ice calved that day and all of it was floating in the lake. It was the perfect time to see Mother Nature up close. Our guide took us through the small pieces of floating ice – like giant slush – so we could pry off an ice crystal to taste the perfectly pure water that was 300 years old. She took us as to the new, large icebergs as was safe as they were still fragile and unpredictable. These fresh bergs were turquoise blue from the densely compacted water. It was remarkable.

And speaking of remarkable, we left that afternoon for a five hour bus ride into Queenstown. Queenstown – a charming small city – is the epicenter for outdoor activities in New Zealand. It is situated on a large, deep blue lake and ringing by The Remarkables. The Remarkables are a range of mountains that seem to form a ragged, green wall protecting the lake and Queenstown. I look forward to hiking in those mountains on my next visit. This time, we were content to watch as the light and clouds changed them from green to blue to purple. However, we also enjoyed a boat ride on a 100 year old steam ship, TSS Earnslaw. We watched them shovel coal below decks as we motored along the blue water with mountains on all sides.

One of the excursions we were particularly excited about was an overnight boat trip to Doubtful Sound in Fjordland National Park. We held our breath for good weather as it is notoriously changeable in the fjords. Weather karma struck again and we were greeted with blue sky and puffy clouds when we arrived (a 2 hour bus trip this time) at the lake and village of Te Anau. Milford Sound is the best known of the tourist destinations in the Park, consequently, it is packed with bus-loads of tourists and airplanes doing scenic flights. We opted for the less trafficked Doubtful Sound. There’s a reason it has fewer tourists. Just to get there entailed a 55 minute ferry ride and a 40 minute drive over a pass on a steep, narrow, gravel road to arrive at the boat dock. Already, the scenery was stunning. Mountains shot up from the lake and lush vegetation blanketed the slopes.

Our boat had been custom-made for this tour and had sleeping berths for six couples plus the crew (captain and first mate). We boarded about noon and set up through the Sound. Doubtful Sound is actually a fjord, we learned, as fjords are carved by glaciers. The day was stunning and our first treat was the pod of dolphins playing with the boat. They jumped and spurted water so close that we could hear them breath – an inhale and sharp exhale that shot water into the air. They rolled around under the bow eyeing us as cameras snapped frantically.

Then we were off again. The vistas were ever changing as we motored though narrow passages with valleys cutting dramatically into the water. After lunch of fresh crayfish (they looked like large lobster) caught from the Sound, we sat back and enjoyed the ride. We went all the way to where the Sound opens to the Tasman Sea. When we arrived, giant albatross (we think they were really Mallymawk) swooped and soared behind the boat. They had round, compact bodies attached to long, slender wings and bright orange striped beaks. It was fascinating to watch them shift their bodies into a graceful turn. We had a close up view from the back of the boat.










As we turned back into the Sound, I overheard Captain Chris talking on the radio to another boat captain. Chris remarked on what a beautiful day it was to which the other captain exclaimed, “It’s a cracka of a day.” I couldn’t have said it better! Eventually, Captain Chris got out the fishing gear and Mike was in heaven. He caught fish after fish including some that we had for dinner that evening. A young man from Germany was traveling with us who had never fished before, so Mike successfully taught him. He caught the biggest fish of the trip.

While Mike fished, I kayaked. The kayaking was so peaceful. The only sounds were the splash of the paddles and the drip of water running down my arms. Every now and again a bird would chirp from the dense trees and ferns. The sun was warm and I felt like I could float there all day. But I was missing all the excitement of Mike’s fish!

With a glass of wine and a seat on the back deck, we watched the water and the mountains turn dusty colors as the sun dropped. Dinner was fresh fish and venison along with a variety of vegetables. As good as it was the main event was to follow. We all stayed awake until after 10PM to watch the darkening sky play host to the Milky Way. There are few things as astounding as a sky full of stars. It reminded me of being a little girl and standing in the back yard as my dad showed me that same vast swath of tiny lights. And there we all stood on the upper deck of the boat, barely able to make out each other in the blackness. We ohhed and ahhed at the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere: the Southern Cross and the upside down zodiac configurations. Orion, standing on his head, was the only one I could grasp.

I wish I could say we had a restful night, but we didn’t. The berths are not the most comfortable. But we woke in the middle of the Sound – fabulous. Chris started our trip back to the dock in the early morning hours. But this day was not full of blue sky. Rain sprinkled down as we traveled, and we were all thankful for the perfect day before. Chris returned us to the ferry dock and waved good bye as his next guests arrived. They, unfortunately, would spend their day fishing in the rain.

Doubtful Sound was all we could have hoped for, and, as for New Zealand, well, it’s a cracka!

Tramping Through Gales, Mountains, and Mud

The Routeburn Trek in Fjordland National Park is considered one of the “Great Walks” of New Zealand. It involves three days and two nights on the trail. Mike and I walked it as part of a guided tour with Ultimate Hikes. The scenery was spectacular and we had spectacularly bad weather. We walked – or tramped, as the Kiwis say – through rain, snow, hail and gale force winds. And it was still stunning.

We showed up at the Ultimate Hikes Center in Queenstown for our pre-trek briefing and listened with increasingly sweaty palms as a perky, young woman told us how much we were going to enjoy the trek – even in the bad weather that was forecast. Prepare for the rain and cold, she advised. Hmmmm. It was the middle of the summer in New Zealand and the day had been beautiful and sunny. It couldn’t be THAT bad – could it?

With borrowed backpacks and rain slickers, we showed up at the crack of dawn the next day. We met the others we’d be hiking with – 24 in all – and boarded the bus to the starting point of the trek outside of Te Anau. Buckled up and strapped into our backpacks that suddenly felt heavier than they had the night before, Mike and I dropped into line behind the guides – Hillary, Gina and Masa (our Japanese speaking guide), and off we went. This would be Mike’s first overnight hike carrying a backpack – and he was doing it through the mountains of New Zealand. Lucky guy….although I’m not sure he always saw it that way even though he never once complained!

The entire first day, we hiked, gradually climbing, through mountain rainforests. A light mist hung in the air and the sky was overcast. There would be no mountain views that day, but it was okay as the trees stole the show. The trees – small and huge – were completely encased in green moss and lichens. Rocks were blanketed with green and the ground between the trees was a mass of ferns. One of the women said it was like walking inside a terrarium. For me, it felt like fairy land. Any moment, I expected to round a bend and surprise a flock of fairies (do fairies run in flocks?) hovering in the ferns and moss. Once we left the roadway behind, the forest was surprisingly quiet. Every so often, the chirp or twitter of a bird would sparkle in the distance. New Zealand is working to rejuvenate its native bird population which was decimated by non-native predators like cats and stoats (small, vicious weasel-like animals). Consequently, there is not an abundance of birds. Each sighting was a highlight. We walked along trying to take it all in. Photos don’t come close to capturing the moist, magical greenness that was everywhere. The air was so refreshing that I simply wanted to breathe deeply and clean out all the staleness inside. We walked past small waterfalls that had sprung up with the recent rains, and we scampered through the spray of a large waterfall tumbling down the mountainside. The only sounds were of hiking poles clicking against rocks, the distance rush of falling water, and the occasional drip of water dropping from moss and fern. It was beautiful, the pack was heavy and we were excited to see the lodge late that afternoon.

That’s when we discovered one of the big benefits of a guided hike. The tour company provided and staffed the lodge with two happy people who welcomed us to the glass-fronted lodge with drinks and snacks. We were assigned a room with a Japanese couple who were part of the Japanese tour group that was hiking with us. They were nice and unbelievably quiet. There was not a lot of pillow talk that night or the next! The lodge had hand washing facilities and even a drying room so that our hiking clothes were refreshed the next morning. A hot shower did wonders, not to mention the glass of wine. Dinner was hot – baked chicken and veggies – and freshly prepared. Food and supplies are flown in by helicopter. After dinner, the guides prepared us for the next day. We gave them our food order for breakfast. Everyone but the Australians had to translate. The first breakfast option was porridge. Mike and I exchanged puzzled looks until we realized that porridge was oatmeal. The next option was Eggs Benedict. We all laughed as we watched Masa explain Eggs Benedict to the Japanese group. He held out his hand and pantomimed an English muffin with a flurry of Japanese in between. After that, the guides gave a presentation on the next day’s hike. Despite their best attempts to assure us how great it would be in any weather, there was bad news. The weather was getting worse. Already rain was starting to fall and the wind was picking up. I confess to feeling some trepidation. Those feelings didn’t let up as the wind howled ferociously throughout the night. In fact, the guides delayed our start the next morning due to high winds. But, finally, it was time to set off. Mike read the weather forecast before we left. It read, “Heavy rain, hail, snow at lower altitudes, periodic gale force winds; becoming fine.” Becoming fine?



With all of our layers of clothes on (I felt like I was wearing everything but my PJs), rain coat and hood in place, rain cover on the backpack, and gloves, we started on our all day hike along a high mountain ridge. Walking in the rain, we climbed rocky boulders through the rain forest until we cleared the tree line to emerge on the mountain side covered with low, golden grasses. The views were obscured by clouds so we pressed on. The rain continued as we climbed making the trail like a river coursing around slivered blue rocks that glistened in the rain. I was hiking in my trail running shoes which are mostly mesh. Consequently, I was stepping stone to stone along the trail as though it were a stream crossing. Nonetheless, it wasn’t long before my feet were soaked through. We climbed slowly and the rain became slush and then snow and hail. Mike was such a trooper. He kept hiking as the wind blew the hail into our face with stinging, prickly barbs. I was fighting the hood on my raincoat to keep it in place but still be able to see out. We kept looking at the sky watching for it to “become fine.” Most of the group was ahead of us and we found ourselves alone on the mountain side. A stiff wind blew up that tried to toss my backpack around. The trail was exposed with ghosts of distant mountains visible across the valley. Even so – they were beautiful, high peaks. Finally, we reached the hut where the rest of the group was already gathered for a very welcome lunch. The afternoon was more of the same as we cleared the highest point on the trail at about 4000'. The clouds lifted a little as the hail became a fine mist. Waterfalls, mountain lakes, and newly snow-dusted peaks made us pause and stare – even if the rain was pelting and water running over already wet feet. The weather still was not becoming fine. Hillary pointed out tiny carnivorous plants with sticky finger to catch bugs – their only source of nourishment in this harsh, mountain environment. We finally made it to the next lodge where the operators handed us a warm towel. It was a very welcome gift! We were told later that this weather was the worse they had experienced since Christmas. But, Hillary added, if you’re going to have bad weather it’s better to have “proper” bad weather than just a mist. She agreed that we’d had “properly” bad weather.

Another warm shower, washed clothes and glass of wine made the wet, cold day take on a remarkable shimmer of accomplishment. The difficulties were quickly forgotten. Dinner was great – grilled salmon – and dessert was pancakes. The pancakes had history. The original owner of the hiking company and the man who first built a lodge at this site apparently became frustrated with unruly hikers who impatiently wanted their pancakes. Out of frustration, he threw the pancakes at them. The tradition continues today. The guides made pancakes and while still hot in the skillet threw them overhead to a hiker with a plate. The trick was to catch the pancake without dropping it. Shockingly, I caught my pancake between my plate and my shoulder. Mike, however, was not so lucky. He jumped and dodged but missed the pancake. No worries – he ate it anyway – with the assortment of toppings (peaches, bananas, whipped crème, chocolate, and syrup) provided.

The last day was still drizzling but it seemed to be becoming fine. The day was spent hiking downhill over rocks and along an easy gravel path through more forests. Birds flitted past too quickly to identify. It was a pleasant walk and the heavy trees kept the rain off so that we no longer needed hoods and heavy clothes. Thankfully. By noon, the final hut was in view. With a tremendous sigh of relief, the backpack was removed. It is amazing how good that feels. We sat in the sun – (it had finally become fine) – and ate our sandwiches. As we ate the Japanese group walked up the trail to the hut. Our roomies came rushing forward repeating – “roommates!” They wanted their picture with us! It was so cute.

We snoozed on the bus back into town with a short stop in Glenorchy for a celebratory drink, French fries, and presentation of certificates. It was a festive time in a country pub, but everyone was ready to be back and take a shower. We met so many nice people in our group. Kathy and Erik from Minnesota were the only other Americans. There was a group from Australia, the tour group from Japan, and a couple of blokes, Mick and Peter, who were sheep and dairy ranchers in Australia. We shared good laughs with them and swapped sheep stories – now that we were experience sheep shearers!

I loved the peace and quiet of the mountains and the stunning scenery along the Routeburn Track. I’m glad to have the chance to experience the wildness of New Zealand, the magic of the rainforest, and the craggy mountain tops. And I’m glad to have done it with Michael. We’ll always have this memory together as our last event before returning to the U.S. Now, we turn our attention toward home with mixed emotions. But, you know - it’s becoming fine.