Change In Plans

Greetings from the Montfort Hut, near Verbier, Switzerland.

Day Two of the Haute Route was nowhere near as difficult or dramatic as Day One We started by skiing out the hut door, and down a glacier, descending about 1,500 feet. The snow was a little crusty, and difficult to turn in, but the sunrise over the high mountains was spectacular. We were a little worried about falling in crevasses, but Rinaldo skied in front of us, and pointed them out. The blue ice of the glacier was beautiful and slightly menacing.

We took off our skis at the base of a steep, short pitch, and scrambled up in our ski boots. From the other side of the couloir, Col des Ecandis, we could see about 6 linear kilometers down a valley called Val d’Arpette. The valley dropped 4,500 feet vertically into a small town called Champex.

The descent took about 90 minutes. For some shady parts, the snow was powdery, and the skiing was out of this world. Most of the way, though, the powder had frozen into a little crust, and it was difficult for me to make turns. With my pack and skis, I weigh about 260 pounds, so it was hard to not break through the crust and catch a ski edge. The better skiers in our group still made it look easy. Mike and Jonathan, carving turns gracefully on their telemark skis, were a skiing vision from a bygone era.

Once we got down below about 7,000 feet, the snow got slushy, and it was fun to ski. We schussed through a pine forest, listening to the birdsong. Finally we made it to the village of Champex, and met up with our taxi.

It was definitely strange to have part of our high mountain adventure assisted by automobile. This is why the Verbier Route is considered “more skier friendly” than the traditional Haute Route.

We drove about 25 minutes, down, down, down to the valley floor. From there, we took a gondola up to the village of Verbier. We had a weird lunch at a surf-themed restaurant, and then rode two gondolas to the top of Montfort Glacier. We skied down a long way on groomed trails in the afternoon sun. We took yet another lift, and then had a final downhill run to the Montfort Hut.

This hut is a considerably more luxurious than last night’s: six bunks per room instead of 26, running water, a nice terrace. Right now, Drew, Jonathan and I are having a three-way backgammon tournament in the early-evening sun.

So today, we had no climbing skins, no crampons, no kick turns, and no rappelling. Rinaldo has assured us that tomorrow will be a much harder day. We will start with a two-hour climb right out the hut door. Not dangerous or steep, but the beginning of a long and interesting day.

Greetings from Cabane du Trient, on the Haute Route. We are about 10,500 feet above sea level. We had an exhausting, exhilarating, amazing first day of ski touring.

We left the hotel in Chamonix on schedule at 8, trying to catch the first lift of the morning at Grands Montet. We took two cable cars in succession, climbing from about 5,000 feet to 11,000 feet in 30 minutes, stopping at the top of Argentiere Glacier. We broke through the cloud cover at about 9,000 feet, and had spectacular views of rocky peaks in all directions.

From the top, we skied downhill for a solid 30 minutes. It was great: fresh powder, blue sky and sun, and a very easy, long descent. As we enjoyed it, one member of our group, Drew, pointed toward a huge face at the other side of the valley - the Col du Chardonnet. I could see tiny ants, 2-3 kilometers off, climbing slowly, slowly.

We put on the climbing skins, switched our bindings over to the touring (unattached heel), and started skiing slowly across the level terrain in the saddle between the two peaks. After an hour, we reached the first steep face, and then the character building began.

Skiing up steep hills requires about 10 meters of trudge, trudge, trudge, up a narrow switchback track, followed by an elaborate maneuver called a kick turn. Then trudge, trudge, trudge in the other direction. The kick turn, incidentally, first requires doing a ballerina’s plie, then a vicious donkey kick with the formerly downhill ski, to get the skis parallel again, but with the tips facing in the opposite direction. When a skilled skier does it, it looks easy and graceful.

We had practiced this technique for about 15 minutes yesterday, on a gentle slope. I felt confident, almost cocky, as we started up the Col du Chardonnet. The fact that people above me on the 40-degree slope were struggling, and sliding back, and swearing in a variety of languages, should have been a hint that this is not so easy. “Amateurs!” I thought.

Of course, our own ascent of the Col du Chardonnet was a complete horror show. No one fell, and no one got hurt, but it was a sweaty, moderately frightening, physically grueling two hours. At one point, Drew said, “You and I are breathing so hard we sound like a gay porno movie.”

Graceful or not, all five of us, plus Rinaldo our guide, eventually made it past the extremely steep initial pitch, through a long sloping meadow, and then up another steep bit to the top.

From there, we had to put on all of our warm gear (suddenly very cold and windy), put on boot crampons, and lash our skis to our packs. Then, one by one, Rinaldo attached a rope to our climbing harnesses, and lowered us down a near-vertical 200-foot cliff, and into Switzerland. Even trusting him, and trusting the equipment, it was intense.

We had another long, spectacularly beautiful, downhill run, and then started another 2-hour trudge, trudge, trudge climb. My “system” was to take 80 strides, then stop and rest for ten deep breaths. Repeat a few hundred times.

The last climb of the day was called Fenetre du Salleina, the window to the Salleina glacier. It was not as long as the Col du Chardonnet, but it was slightly steeper. After making several (slightly improved) kick turns, most of us had to take off our skis, and scramble on hand and foot to the top. I tried not to think about leaning too far backwards, and falling 300 feet.

One member of our group, Jonathan, kept his skis on and kick turned all the way to the top. He is much better at this than I am.

Another hour of skiing from the Fenetre, and we arrived, bone-tired at this hut. We basically hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in the 9 hours since breakfast, so it was a relief to have bottles of mineral water, and a huge spaghetti dinner.

The hut is very rustic: four bunk rooms with 25 beds each, no washing facilities, chemical toilets, limited electricity. But it’s home for now, and a welcome home at that.

Today was the longest and toughest day of the trip (I think). The Haute Route is definitely living up to its reputation for beauty and for physical challenge. Onward and upward.

Greetings from Chamonix, France! Our Haute Route ski group has been here for three days now, gearing up, acclimatizing, and getting ready for our five-day ski trek.

On Saturday morning we got up early, and took the ski bus over to Argentiere, one of the ski areas just outside of Chamonix. We had a French guide named Damian (’demm-ee-EHN’) for the morning. We rode a seemingly endless series of gondolas, telecabines, and chairlifts up into the treeless, windblown terrain at the top of the mountain.

As long as we stayed on the groomed trails, the morning was easy and fun. I really haven’t skied much in recent years, but it was kind of coming back to me. Going off piste, into the crusty, unpacked snow was more challenging, but OK.

After a couple of hours, a huge weather front moved in, and it started to snow heavily. The change in air temperature and humidity also plunged the middle two thirds of the mountain into a dense fog whiteout. At its worst, visibility dropped to less than 10 feet. We skied in a line, following Damian. It was completely surreal and disorienting, and sort of hard to have fun.

We broke for lunch at a small cabin-type restaurant, hidden in the woods midslope. The restaurant was called “La Cremerie,” and it basically only served melted-cheese dishes. It was hearty and festive, as the snow and fog outside turned into rain.

After lunch, a few of us went back up for another long ski run in the mist. It still wasn’t easy to have fun, but I really needed the practice. Most of the time, the visual effect was like a Hollywood interpretation of making a trip to heaven: lots of shadowy figures moving through the mist.

Down in the village, it just poured with rain for the rest of the afternoon.

Last night we met our Haute Route guide, Rinaldo. He is a small, wiry Swiss in his late 40s, who looks like he has spent his entire life in the mountains. He explained the route in detail, told us what to expect, and what his concerns are. Some parts were exciting: “Here is where I will belay you as you rappel 60 meters down a cliff, and into Switzerland.”. Other parts were just intimidating: “We will need to push hard here, probably climbing for 5-6 hours.”

This morning at breakfast, Rinaldo asked us, “So how much ski touring experience do each of you have? You must have done quite a number of smaller trips in the US or Canada, working up to this.” He turned a funny color, and got a concerned expression when he realized that collectively we have practically zero ski touring experience. He asked, incredulously, “And your first trip will be the Haute Route?”

We spent the rest of breakfast, and much of our practice day with Rinaldo trying to alleviate his concerns.

The practice day was actually very practical. We learned how to put the climbing skins and aluminum crampons on our skis, and how to climb with kick turns. We tried on our boot crampons, and learned how to strap our skis to our packs. We practiced avalanche rescue, searching in snow banks for a buried transceiver. Also, we skied for several hours in more mist and falling snow.

By the end of the day, Rinaldo seemed slightly less concerned, but perhaps he was only humoring us. At least the weather is clearing (sun!), and we are all feeling much better prepared.

Tomorrow will be a long day. This should be a big adventure.

Thousands of miles to the south, Zola, Tallulah, and India are having a marvelous time on the North Island, albeit with a lot less gear and no air travel. Kids are in great form, though Lu is a tad confused about where her dad has gone and why. Zola thinks it is cool that his dad is skiing with Wyatt’s dad, but harbors secret worries about avalanches and all sorts of other icy perils.

Yesterday was spent hiking around Kapiti Island, a bird sanctuary and Maori homeland five kilometers off the coast of the mainland. Kids spotted the rare Takahe (only 200 left in the world and 14 on this island) and had a ball playing with two American kids (the lovely Evelyn, age 8 and adorable Isaac, age 5) who are living in Christchurch for the next six months while their dad teaches at the law school there. Both Zola and Lu fell a little bit in love. Lu ran about trying to clutch Isaac’s hand and shrieking with glee. Zola mooned about and tried to look tough as kakas (a brown parrot) landed on his shoulders and head. Zola and Lu said their goodbyes with long faces (and a few tears for Lu.) They are ready for a kid-dominated social life, that’s for sure.

With Ginny here, I have been running lots of the wide, steel grey beaches. It is a beautiful spot, though I have not been burning 5000 calories a day yet. We are on the lookout for a handsome, fit young man for Ginny (not sure a mellow Kiwi holiday with a mom and two kids is the best way to attract one!). We spent today walking around Wellington, exploring the fabulous National Museum (where Lu got her hand stuck in an elevator door but escaped with minor bruising), and climbing Mt. Victoria. Not quite the Alps, but it was a good, brisk, hour and half plus climb up to the lookout. Again, the kids were troopers and we made it all the way down again on our own steam, had dinner by the waterfront, and made it home in one piece. Lu fell asleep standing up next to the bed as soon as we got home, drooling on a stack of her books.

Last night we celebrated Earth Day with a candlelight dinner on the beach and marveled at the stars. The kids were delighted to have a home-cooked meal, chocolate chip cookies straight out of the oven (and a fair amount of cookie dough) and some down time. No requests for TV or the DS until this morning, when Lu spent half an hour watching runway shows on Fashion TV. Not a bad start to our North Island tour. Tomorrow we head north and east, towards Hawkes Bay.

Greetings from Chamonix! I arrived here early this afternoon, following an impossibly long trip from Wellington, New Zealand.

My seatmates on each of the two long-haul flights were interesting from a people-watching perspective.

From Sydney to Bangkok I was flanked by two elderly Australian women, traveling together. They both occupied themselves on the first hour of the flight by solving the Sudoku puzzles in the in-flight magazine. After completing these, one of the women pulled out a tall stack of Sudoku puzzles they had clipped neatly from a newspaper. For the entire eight-hour flight, the Sudoku ladies worked away quite happily on puzzle after puzzle. Occasionally, one would take a short nap, then wake up and start working again. They disembarked in Bangkok, starting a vacation perhaps dedicated to less numerative pleasures.

I spent an hour milling around the Bangkok airport before reboarding. My two new seatmates in Row 62 were a Scottish woman slightly older than me, and a young New Zealander man living in London. Although they did not know each other, both seatmates had traveled extensively, and appeared to be kindred spirits in complaining sharply about every conceivable thing on the planet. It was extraordinary to listen to two people spend hours lamenting, deriding, criticizing, and whining about the flight, the food, the airport, London traffic, Bangkok traffic, Thailand generally, people who drink too much, people who don’t drink enough, the economy, the weather (in multiple geographies), the cost of many things, and the general sorry state of the world. The New Zealander completed each complaint with an emphatic, “I mean, what the f@#k???”

They probably talked for three hours of the twelve-hour flight. Amazing stamina. I preferred the Sudoku ladies.

On the other side of me for both legs was an Australian family traveling with three kids, the older two of whom were roughly Zola’s and Tallulah’s age. I was amazed at how well behaved and cheerful all three of the kids were throughout nearly 20 hours in the air. It made me miss my own family.

After a brief layover in London, a transfer to the very spiff new Terminal 5 at Heathrow, and a short (two-hour) backtrack across Europe, I was finally in Geneva.

Two members of our skiing party had also just arrived, and we shared a bus for the hour-long drive up to Chamonix. As we drove up into the Alps, I have to say that I craned my neck up at the high peaks, and felt intimidated.

A group of five of us, plus a guide, are doing the Haute Route. We will be skiing hut to hut from Chamonix to Zermatt over the course of five days. It is about 150 kilometers, some of which is downhill, and a lot of which requires climbing. It is considered one of the pinnacle skiing activities of a lifetime.

Not being a pinnacle skier I am feeling a little daunted. To be fair, at one time I was a reasonably competent downhill skier. Living in South Africa, having young kids, and having a wife who doesn’t like cold-weather vacations I haven’t in the last several years. It will definitely be a challenge.

When we went to pick up our gear yesterday, I started to get a sense of what we are in for.

Skis, boots, and bindings - all of which are designed to perform like downhill skis until you release the heel of the binding, and you can stride and climb. Very cool.

Climbing skins (for uphill traction on the skis), telescoping ski poles, which can be extended for cross-country or shortened for downhill; ski crampons, to maintain traction when climbing on ice.

Boot crampons, if it is too icy to climb on skis; shovel and probing pole to find someone else after an avalanche; radio-beacon necklace, so they can find me after ana avalanche; an ice axe; a helmet; ropes and harnesses and carabiners, oh my.

Despite (or maybe because of) all this gear, it is actually quite safe. The real challenge, I think will be the physical exertion at altitude. There has been a lot of talk of Iron Man triathlons and burning 5,000 calories per day.

We are getting up in an hour to spend the day skiing, and trying out all of the gear. It will be fun today, and almost all downhill. The plan is to do the same tomorrow, and start the trip proper on Monday morning. The first hut is closed, so we will do the first two days of the standard route in one long push. Should be an adventure.

It sounds as though India and the kids, and our friend Ginny, are having fun in Wellington. It is still very strange to not be with them.

Greetings from Sydney! I have completed the first air leg (Wellington - Sydney) of the long trip that will take me from Abel Tasman National Park in New Zealand to the Hotel Eden in Chamonix, France. More Old Testament references than I had realized. p>

This is the first time that I have been away from India and the kids for more than a few hours since July of last year. It is definitely the first time I have traveled alone since then.

Actually, with the exception of my week-long trip to Turkey in July, we have all been together 24/7 pretty much since late May 2008.

It feels very strange to be traveling alone, and with essentially no luggage. I keep looking around for more things to carry. As I read a book on the flight from Wellington, I was half expecting to be interrupted by a question about World War II, or to look at a picture of a hairy-nosed wombat.

It feels strange to go to the bathroom without accompanying a cheerful small person, usually Tallulah.

As we were landing, the flaps were positioned funny, and the whole plane vibrated loudly for 90 seconds. I missed holding India’s hand and telling her, unhelpfully, that it was absolutely normal, and nothing to worry about.

The irony, of course, is that I used to travel like this - in lowered-head, hand-luggage-only, Economist-reading, silent isolation- every week of my working life. The new normal is always only a few repeated experiences away

The flight from Sydney to London, via Bangkok, is boarding in a few minutes. It is a really, really long way. Initially, I had been frustrated by having to backtrack from London to Geneva, but that is a rounding error in the overall scheme of these vast distances.

News flash: traveler discovers that world is big.

I may not feel so chipper on the other end. In the meantime, I am thinking about all of the fun we have had, traveling as a family for the last year. I miss them.

Greetings from Abel Tasman National Park, New Zealand!  This short post is about our last full day in the park, and the last day of this part of our family trip.  Tomorrow India and the kids meet our friend Ginny in Wellington, and I fly to Switzerland for a week on my own.

The main event of the day was a long hike (13 kilometers) from Bark Bay back to the Awaroa Lodge.  To our surprise, between the two days of hiking we covered nearly two thirds of the Abel Tasman track.

Like yesterday, we boarded a water taxi to take us to the start of the hike.  Unlike yesterday, we were actually down on the beach on time for the taxi: yesterday we were late, and they had raised the gangplank and turned around the boat when Zola ran screaming onto the beach, “Wait! Wait!”

The water taxi took us two stops south, to a beach landing called Bark Bay.  Once again, we found no signs or clear indication of how to find the track.  It is a do-it-yourself country.  After stumbling around for 10 minutes in a lagoon, we found what we hoped to be the trail, and headed north toward the lodge, with confidence.

We are approaching a big transition tomorrow, with me leaving the family to go off to Switzerland to go skiing.  When I get back to New Zealand, after a quick stop in Istanbul for a meeting, we will be very near the end of our planned trip together.  I start working in New York on April 20th.  Big changes are looming for our comfortable NeverNever Land of family travel.

For the last couple of days, all of us have been a little irritable and easily frustrated.  Tallulah has had two long periods of inconsolable crying for no apparent reason.  Usually this would indicate constipation, but this time we think it is reflective of our broader unsettled feelings and “what’s next?” apprehension.  

With foul moods, but remarkably fair weather, we set out for the 4-5 hour hike from Bark Bay to Awaroa.  As we walked, Tallulah on my shoulders, I realized that this last hike is a good metaphor for our entire time in Australia and New Zealand:

• India leading the way most of the time, confident and happy to be out in nature
• Lots of scenic beauty, and ridiculously few people
• A few sharp words between us, but many more laughs
• An incredible amount of Zola monologue about Pokemon and Star Wars
• In-depth discussion of a terminal illness -tuberculosis, in this case-, and the reasons that Zola is unlikely to contract it, despite his concerns

The biggest similarity between the hike and the Australia/NZ portion of the trip, maybe between the hike and the whole year of traveling: it was over before we knew it.  Shortly after Lu lost the batteries to her toy Japanese Barbie cell phone, we realized we were back at the lodge.  The 4-5 hour hike was over in just under 3 hours.

Tomorrow will be a complicated and sad day.  We have a charter water taxi picking us up on the beach at 8 am.  When we get back to Marahau at 8:45 (no seal watching or Split Apple commentary this time), we need to race back to Nelson for an 11 am flight to Wellington.  In Wellington, we meet our  dear friend Ginny, who will undoubtedly be more fun than I have been.  She and India and the kids drive into Wellington to a rented house.  

I get on a plane for Sydney, transfer to BA flight to Bangkok, where I transfer to a flight to London, where I transfer to a flight to Geneva.  In Geneva I take a bus to Chamonix, where the Haute Route adventure starts.  I think I am in transit for about 35 hours.

This time together has been fun.  As soon as I say goodbye, and board the plane for my lonely trip, I know I will miss my family a lot.  I’m glad we will have 10 days together in New Zealand when I get back, to bring some sense of closure to it all.

Greeting from Abel Tasman National Park in New Zealand!  We are at the northern end of the South Island. This short post is about our trip up here from Blenheim, and our first full day at the Awaroa Lodge.  Unfortunately, the internet connection is too slow to add pictures to the post.

Our initial plan had been to fly form Christchurch to Nelson, and then to take a charter plane across to the Awaroa Lodge.  We decided to drive, which is how we ended up in (slightly dreary) Blenheim on Monday night.

Thinking that we only had to drive up to Nelson, roughly 100 kilometers, we were a little slow in getting out of Blenheim on Tuesday morning.  As we drove, I called the water taxi company.  The conversation went something like:

Peter: “Hi, can you tell me where we go in Nelson to take the water taxi, and what times you have boats for Awaroa?”

AquaTaxi Lady: “Sir, we are not in Nelson.  We are in Marahau.”

P: “How far is that from Nelson?”

ATL: “About three hours.”

P: “That’s not good.  Well, we are actually in Blenheim, how far are you from here?”

ATL: “At least four hours, I would say.”

P: “That’s really not good.  Well, when do you have boats leaving for Awaroa?”

ATL: “Our last boat for the day leaves at 1:30 pm.”

P: “Well, it’s 10:30 now.  You are saying that we have to make a four-hour drive in under three hours, or we are stuck in someplace called Marahau for the night.”

ATL: “That’s right.  Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Bad planning on my part.  Fortunately, as we have realized, New Zealanders are very conservative in estimating driving times.  By putting a moratorium on pee breaks, and driving a little fast on the flat parts, we made it in just over two and a half hours.  When I met AquaTaxi Lady in person, I asked her about her estimate.  she said, “I assumed you would want to stop for a wee lunch break, traveling with kids and all.”  

Our AquaTaxi was a 30-foot motor launch, sitting on a trailer, attached to a farm tractor.  We loaded the luggage, put on life jackets, walked up the gangplank, and got a safety briefing from our Jimmy Bufett-lookalike captain, all sitting surreally on dry land in the parking lot.  The tractor driver towed us down the road, and out about 300 meters across the wet sand to the low-tide waterline. He backed us into the water, and away we went. 

Jimmy Buffett somehow stretched the 40-minute taxi ride up the coast into a 90-minute aquatic scenery event.  We saw the Split Apple Rock, and heard the Maori legend about how it got split.  We chased a huge sting ray around in shallow waters near Tonga Bay beach.  We crept up on seal pups playing in the cove of an off-shore island.   More fun than most taxi rides, I think.

Eventually, we got to the Awaroa.  The lodge is situated 300 meters back from the water, directly on the famous Abel Tasman track.  This track is iconic, sort of like a shortened New Zealand version of the Appalachian Trail.  There are loads of people hiking and kayaking from hut to hut, and a lot of the lodge’s business is in selling them drinks and good food as they pass.  There is no way to drive in or out of here.  Many parts of the track are only passable at low tide, so there is a good excuse to sit in the lodge’s beer garden for six hours of a pleasant afternoon, before heading on down the trail.

The Abel Tasman park is justifiably famous for being beautiful: clear blue waters, gentle deep-green hillsides, golden beaches.  For the first time in New Zealand, we have even had sunny weather.  One thing we are struggling with is complete lack of signs and maps.  New Zealand is a “do it yourself” country, for sure.

During the high-tide part of our first day, India and I each went out for a run.  I guess I did not pay close enough attention when she gave me a suggested route, because I got comically lost, and had a series of mildly unfortunate events.  Basically, she had told me to look for a short boardwalk through a marsh, and then a swinging bridge and a steep hill.  

I ran back and forth aimlessly around the lodge’s airstrip, looking for the path into the woods.   I found a small trail, that led up a steep hill (good sign), but strangely found myself in the front yard of a farmhouse.  A dog barked twice, then growled deeply, and started chasing me back down the steep hill.  As I turned to see whether I had lost him, I slipped on the muddy path, and did a complete face plant.  Fortunately, the dog had given up the chase.

Slightly bloody, and very muddy, I asked a farmer to direct me.  He seemed confused by my question (not reassuring), but pointed toward a trail across a flooded tidal creek.  Despite my best efforts to cross the creek on a slippery log, I ended up wet to the knees, and squished off into the woods.  I crossed a little footbridge (good sign), and then followed several false trails into the rain forest.  Eventually, I decided to stay on the main path and hope for the best.  This is when a bee stung me on the forearm.

Not my proudest moment, but I eventually made it onto the right trail, up behind the lodge.  As with all things in New Zealand, very beautiful.

At the low-tide part of the day, we took another AquaTaxi up the coast to Totaranui, planning to hike back.  We had a beautiful two-hour walk, mostly looking out over the water from the cliffs above.  Just before we got back to the lodge, we crossed a huge (nearly kilometer wide) tidal flat, which made it clear why that particular route is impassable at high tide.  Even with the low water, I ended up carrying Zola, Tallulah and India (individually) through deep water in a few places.  Again, getting there is half the fun.

Tomorrow we have another, longer hike planned.  The lodge’s kayaking guide “already buggered off for the season,” so that activity will have to wait for our next visit.   

ZOLA LEARNING THE DARK ARTS OF SHEEP SHEARING

Greetings from Blenheim, New Zealand! We are near the northern tip of the South Island.

The original plan was for us to fly from Christchurch to Nelson this morning, and then to take a puddle hopper from Nelson to our lodge in Abel Tasman National Park.

Last night, we decided to drive 450 kilometers to Nelson instead, and to take a water taxi.  India was happy to reduce the total number of flights taken.  All of us have found that we kind of like being in the car together.  Seeing the scenery was a bonus.  A few phone calls, and our plans were changed.

Our second breakfast at the bed and breakfast was not as dramatic as the first (i.e., I managed to not spill any coffee, we limited our kids’ access to the toaster).  Still, we were happy to get out and on the road.

The first 200 kilometers or so was attractive, but not particularly interesting.  Once we reached Kaikoura, where the movie “Whale Rider” was filmed, we were dazzled by the scenery.  Pale blue water, huge waves crashing over black beaches, green mountains rising behind.  It definitely made he drive worthwhile.

life is beautiful movies

thor divx

KAIKOURA

We went for a walk around a seal colony which was right on the beach in Kaikoura.  There were many signs saying “Seals will bite you.  Stay at least 10 metres away.”  Maybe because the big guys appeared to be asleep, or maybe because they are cuddly (although as big as WWE wrestlers), a lot of people were moving right in for close-up photos.  My guess is that the Kaikoura hospital treats a few seal bites every month.

The main attraction in Kaikoura is a sheep-shearing demonstration, which we stayed around to watch.  The shearer, Peter Smith, was very entertaining.  He let the audience feed a giant ram, named Ram Man, and introduced his sheep dog, Jed, before getting down to business.  Holding her in a Heimlich-maneuver position, Peter dragged a young ewe in for her first-ever shearing.  The sheep looked resigned, but not unhappy, as Peter guided the electric shearers over her legs, belly, head and back.  The pile of wool that came off was surprisingly big, weighing about 3 kilograms.

It took Peter about 4 minutes to shear the sheep.  The world record for an 8-hour day of shearing is 831 sheep, which works out to about 38 seconds per sheep.  An amazing feat of athleticism and endurance.  Hard on the back too.

From Peter’s running commentary, we learned more about sheep and wool then we ever could have hoped to.  A good time was had by all (possibly including the sheep).

From Kaikoura we drove another hour up to Blenheim, where we are spending the night.  Blenheim is pretty undistinguished, but convenient to the rest of the trip.  Tomorrow we will get to the water taxi in the late morning, and go across to Abel Tasman.

A LAUGH A MINUTE IN THE SHEARING SHED

Three good quotes from this week:

Zola, as we walked in the rain in Akaroa,
“You know what I find attractive? Girls with pigtails. Very attractive.”

Tallulah, as she admired herself in the mirror, wearing a new princess outfit,
“I’m as cute as a … as a … I’m as cute as a duck!”

Scott, our glamorous new friend and father of four boys from Orange County, on his philosophy as a father and husband,
“If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”

Words to live by, all.