Change In Plans

Note: this was written a few days ago.

Down in New Zealand, we are glad we are reading about Peter’s trek and the perils of the route after he is safely down and knocking back beers with South African mercenaries. Somehow the conversations we had over crackling cell phone connections did not mention much of the danger. While he was scaling cliff faces and getting frostbite, we are coming to a better understanding of what makes New Zealanders love living on the edge of the world.

On Monday, we moved to the Beach House, a fabulous understated house steps away from a kilometers long beach. It is in a tiny surfing village called Waimarama (could be a boy band) with only a small cafe and a shop selling cool drinks and tinned goods. While we are only 25 kilometers from the house in the wine estate, it feels like an entirely different place. The beach and the incredibly good weather have improved our moods dramatically and we are slowly understanding why people fall in love with New Zealand. It has been a gradual affair for us, but we are coming to appreciate the quiet beauty of this far away country and the modest courage of its people.

Two days ago the kids and I ventured out for what we thought would be a short horseback ride. As we are in the middle of farmland, we were told to look for someone on horseback about 20 kilometers north of here to guide us to the track. I was not expecting the handsome man who greeted us, holding a gorgeous baby atop his horse. He smiled warmly and we followed him up a hillside to where an equally beautiful, petite woman was waiting with four saddled horses. We all hopped out and were soon headed up the mountain. It was an exquisite fall day - brilliant blue skies, some of the trees turning golden already - perfect for a ride.

As always, I was a bit nervous with both Lu and Zola on new horses going up an extremely steep incline. My fears were soon alleviated when I discovered that Peter, the handsome Maori man who greeted us, is the Horse Whisperer. None of the horses were using bits in their mouths, and all would stop with a gentle tug and move forward with a slight kick. Not your usual trail horses. Peter told me that he and Colleen, his pretty wife, have 60 horses and six kids (all under age 11). I was genuinely surprised - they look like they are in their 20s and are actually both about 35. They doted on the adorable two-year old, Salem, who went on the ride with us like she was their first-born. As the ride progressed, we all feel a little bit in love with this family.

To Zola’s delight, Peter asked him to take the lead on the way to the top of the mountain. When Zola turned around to ask if he could canter, Peter shouted, “Of course!” Before I could stop him, Zola was running up the narrow ascent, whooping with glee. I quickly followed him and together we raced around the turns. Lu hung back with Colleen, but Peter, holding his tiny daughter with one arm, galloped up behind. We took turns leading the way up and as we rounded a final corner, came upon the perfect picnic setting.

There was a lone picnic table, decked with a white tablecloth, perched on the rocky ledge with 360 degree views looking back over the Tuki Tuki river valley, the wine estates, Te Mata Peak, and the turquoise Pacific ocean. Unexpected and fabulous.

Peter quickly laid out a feast of salmon, New Zealand mussels, cheeses, bread and fruit. The adults and Zola sat talking in the warm sunshine while Lu and Salem built castles out of rocks and took turns peering off the ledge. I could have stayed forever. Peter and his wife Colleen were lovely, entertaining company, the kids were blissfully unaware of time, and the views were spectacular. Finally, however, Zola got to urge to ride fast on his horse again. Before we could stop him, he was back on his horse and raring to go.

Since neither Peter, Colleen, or baby Salem wore helmets, Zola begged to take his off. I relented, partly because I also wanted to feel the sun in my face as we headed back down the mountain but mostly because I felt so safe on these amazing horses. We started our descent and alternated between cantering on the uphills and gawking at the views on the downhills. Lu asked to ride with Peter and before I knew it, she was cantering along beside me and urging him to go faster, faster, faster! It was a joy to be riding on such well-trained horses, out in the mountains, with my kids.

When we got to the bottom, I realized that I needed to go into the nearby village for some cash. Peter quickly jumped in and asked if Zola wanted to stay to ride the horses back up to the paddock. He was in his saddle in an instant. Of course, Lu also wanted to stay and Colleen insisted that it was be just fine for her to continue playing with Salem. I did a quick dash into town for cash and groceries. When I returned, I found two very happy children, covered in mud and horse hair. Zola was washing the horses, his city-boy Vans covered in muck and his face plastered with a grin. Lu was digging in the dirt with Salem, sitting at the top of a small hillock with an amazing view out over the river valley. Peter and Colleen were busy putting saddles away and laughing together. Although they needed to be back in town by 4:30 to pick up their other kids, they seemed to be in no rush. I finally dragged the kids to the car, Lu wailing to stay until she feel asleep exhausted on the drive home.

Throughout the day, Peter and Colleen professed their love for Hawkes Bay (the area where we rode), New Zealand, and their family. Their happiness was contagious and I found myself envious of their contentment with their homeland and their lifestyle. I am sure that it is not all bliss, but on this day, it seemed idyllic.

Yesterday I decided to go for a run along the beach. I had read that at low tide you can get from Waimarama beach to Ocean Beach, 8 kilometers north, along the coast. About 15 minutes into the run, I came to a wide river about two feet deep. I decided to take off my shoes and run barefoot for a while. I ended up running for almost two hours, through the shallow warm water. On one side, there were steep cliffs, on the other, tidal pools and crashing waves. I realized at one point that if a rouge wave took me, or a landslide came crashing down, no one would know where I was or what happened to me. Perhaps not entirely responsible on my part, but it was a fabulous feeling to be so completely free. I could have run for hours (although my shins are paying the price today for running barefoot).

This, I believe, is what people love about New Zealand. Not as dangerous as the Haute Route, but for a brief moment I was living on the edge here.

Our own Peter arrives back today and we have only a week or so before our own search for a home and a place to call our own hits us.

HAPPY EASTER!

Greetings from Waimarama, New Zealand!

After a series of long flights, confusing layovers, and a narrowly missed connection, I am finally back with India, Tallulah and Zola.  We are in Waimarama, on the east coast of New Zealand’s North island.  Waimarama is about a 45-minute drive from Napier, which is an hour flight from Auckland, which (as I found out) is about 30 hours’ travel from Europe.  India continues to seek out the remote and beautiful.  This house, and its beach-side setting, are spectacular.

the bourne ultimatum film divx

watch man on fire online hq

download divx despicable me movie

watch yogi bear the film full version

VIEW FROM THE HOUSE (PLUS KITE SURFER)

It is wonderful to be back in the bosom of my family.  They greeted me at the airport in Napier, and I was very happy and relieved to see all three of them.  Tallulah appears to have grown about three inches in the last two weeks.  India said she has “also grown an attitude to go with her height.”  Zola’s height appears unchanged, but his hair is at least three inches longer.

The kids seemed happy with the gifts and chocolate that I brought back.  Tallulah’s shirt from the Cabane des Vignettes was too big, but she decided it was a dress.  I gave Zola all of the specialized equipment that I bought for the Haute Route, so he spent the evening marching around the house wearing the heavy backpack, gloves and glacier glasses, and holding the clasp knife and water bottle.  It was fun showing the kids my pictures (although I really am a terrible photographer), so they could put names and faces together, and see a little of what my trip was like.  Their main conclusion was that it looked cold, and that the huts were bigger than they expected.

Intellectually I knew that the family traveling group (plus Ginny) has continued to evolve since I left them, but it was still strange to experience how they have changed.  They have been in Waimarama for nearly a week already, and have explored it thoroughly.  Everyone is singing along to a new series of songs -Britney, Pink and Taylor Swift- from a CD that Ginny bought at a petrol station in Wellington.  They all dyed Easter eggs together without me, and they talk about places and people that I don’t know.  I have been hearing a lot, in particular, about the handsome Maori horse trainer who took the family for a ride in the mountains earlier in the week.

India and Ginny are out for a two-hour run, which they timed for low tide, so they could come back along the beach.  Zola and I did on-line math, and Lu and I played Twister together.  Later this morning, Zola and I are going surfing.  Within  a few days, I’m sure I will be back in the swing of family travel.  Unfortunately, a few days after that, we fly back to New York, and start reintegrating into a more normal life.

This has been an amazing year.  We will miss this lifestyle, for sure.

Greetings from Ataturk International Airport, in Istanbul.

As I stood in the “All Other Passports” line at Turkish immigration yesterday, I realized that this may be the most exotic place in the world (or at least the most exotic place that my travels have taken me).

From where I stood, I could see Russian mafiosi (and their spectacular-looking gun molls), burqa-clad Muslim women, a team of black youth soccer players from Flanders, Belgium, migrant laborers from Pakistan or Bangladesh, and doughy Eastern Europeans of all varieties. Life’s rich pageant, for sure.

This impression was strengthened tonight as I waited for the 11:50 pm flight to Singapore, taking me halfway back to my family in New Zealand.

I spent a very entertaining 90 minutes drinking beer with 3 South African mercenaries, They are all ex-SA Defence Force officers, Afrikaners, working security in Iraq.

At first they discouraged me strongly from considering a move to Cape Town. They cited statistics on the relative violence in Baghdad and Johannesburg. They explained that they sleep with their weapons under their pillows in the Free State, but over in the corner in Iraq.

Eventually, one said, “Move. We need white voters.”. In the end, they were very patriotic and proud, and resollutely South African. For what it’s worth, they were not impressed by the US Army (although they respected the Marines), and they were certain that Iraq will explode into civil war, approximately 10 minutes after the Americans “retreat.” They claim that they come under fire - guns, grenades, or IEDs - twelve to fourteen tImes per day when they are on mobile security details. Not in Kansas anymore, dot com.

While we were talking, several dozen white-sheet clad monks, a trio of Mongolian women in traditional dress, two score Japanese tourists, a few Hasidim. and countless proud Turks walked past us. The variety and beauty of the human species could not be more apparent.

The last 10 days have been fun - more than fun- but I am thrilled to be finally on my way back to India and the kids. I miss them terribly, and feel as though I have missed a large piece of their childhood (horse riding, math homework, new friends) in the short time I have been away. It isn’t like being a South African mercenary, gone for months at a time, and exposed to tremendous danger, but it is long enough for me.

Incidentally, the South African mercenaries were not impressed at all with the Haute Route trip. They were interested in the fact that I could speak Afrikaans a little, but ultimately realized I was a chardonnay-swilling brie eater. Tough guys.

Next stop, Singapore!

Note: this post is written in the present tense, but the events described happened several days ago

Greetings from Cabane des Dix, high in the Swiss Alps. Today was the most exhausting day we have had on the Haute Route. As our guide, Rinaldo, said: “You can go big, or go home.” For reasons that seemed sensible at the time, we decided to go big.

This morning we slept in until 7:00 at Hut de Praefleuri, and had the best breakfast of the trip: muesli and Nutella crepes. I started referring to the saintly hutkeeper woman (gardienne de cabane) who was taking care of 80 skiers by herself as “Notre Dame de Petit Dejeuner”

We skied out of the hut at 8:00, virtually the last people to depart. All of the tracks led to the left, but we had agreed with Rinaldo to “go big.” With some trepidation, we skied off to the right.

Going big meant adding a two-hour summit ascent onto the front end of a full day of skiing. We climbed and climbed through untracked snow, watching the sun paint the tops of the mountains that surrounded us on all sides.

After 90 minutes of trudge, trudge, trudge, Rinaldo pointed up to a broad snow field, and a rounded dome summit. When I asked him the name of the mountain, he said “Mont Sans Nom.” Only much later did I realize (to the amusement of my team mates, I suspect), that Rinaldo had dubbed the summit “Mount No Name.”

As we approached the top, the clouds closed in on us for the first time in the week. Rinaldo got concerned about the weather, and hustled us off the summit as quickly as he could. We have learned that when he says, “Let’s go!” he means now. None of us dallied.

The 30-minute descent (on basically the same terrain we had just climbed) was close to heavenly: light, soft, untracked powder. Jonathan and Drew, in particular, looked absolutely poetic as they carved perfect turns down the slope. I probably looked more like an atonal opera than a poem, but the skiing was amazing.

Halfway down, a minor catastrophe was narrowly avoided. When we stopped to catch our collective breath, I planted my right ski pole, and buried it up to the grip in the deep powder. Somehow the basket at the bottom had come off. With five hours (and three days) of ski touring ahead, skiing with only one functional pole would be practically impossible. While I dug futilely with my avalanche shovel, and Rinaldo grimaced (realizing he would have to lend me his pole, or I wouldn’t make it), Jonathan turned on his skis and started climbing back up the slope, and along a ridge line.

After 10 minutes, Rinaldo, who was still concerned about the weather, said, “Let’s go,” and he started shouting for Jonathan. There was no response. After another anxious five minutes or so, Jonathan returned. He was out of breath, covered in snow, and holding my lost pole basket triumphantly. He had climbed 100 meters through the deep powder in his boots, because he “saw something black in the snow, and what else could it have been?”

As Rinaldo reattached the pole basket, and checked all of my other equipment, he kept saying “On-bee-leevable” over and over. It really was a remarkable rescue effort by Jonathan.

As we continued the descent, Mike casually told me that in the Marines, someone who can’t keep their gear together is referred to as a “soup sandwich.”  I was clearly the soup sandwich of the day

We rejoined the tracks of the other Haute Route skiers on a narrow ledge above a large frozen lake. Rinaldo had mentioned that there was a long traverse before the next climb, and he was right. For four kilometers we skied down the narrow, gently sloping track. My right (uphill) thigh burned, and I tried to maintain concentration, so I didn’t face plant my way off the track and onto the frozen lake below. Several times the track flattened out, and we sweatily double poled, skated, and herringboned our way along. That sounds like more fun than it was. Later, we couldn’t agree whether this was “the traverse from hell,” or “the traverse to hell.” It was definitely a traverse, though, and hell was involved.

We put the climbing skins back on our skis near a pretty waterfall, and started a long gentle ascent. In one of his very few noticeable mistakes, Rinaldo promised a break after 20 minutes of climbing. He must have forgotten, or really been worried about the worsening weather, because we went for two straight hours. Trudge, trudge, trudge.

Even though it was overcast, and snowing, it was very warm. I took off my jacket, my sweater, and my gloves, and skied along in my long-underwear top. We all got a much-needed laugh when Jonathan went one better, and skied for an hour with no shirt on at all.

At long last, Rinaldo paused and pointed out Cabane des Dix, where we would be staying. It was just after 3 pm, and we had been on our skis for over 7 hours. To my great, exhausted, chagrin, the hut was at the top of a steep 150-meter hillock, jutting out of the valley. Collectively we groaned, and started up the hill.

As we saw how the trail climbed upward, Drew shouted, “Kick turn!” in the same tone of voice that a surfer would yell “Shark!”  Zephyr, Drew, and I, the inexperienced ski tourers in the group, steeled ourselves for risk and humiliation on the steep kick turns to come.

As Drew navigated the steepest kick turn on the hill, just ahead of me on the track, his downhill ski started to slip. I shuffled forward, and planted my ski pole to brace him. In my brain-fogged state, I said with alarm, “Your boot is out of your binding. Do you want me to fix it?” In extremis, he had the presence of mind to say, “Of course it is out of the binding. We are ski touring.” To his credit, he did not add the words, “You idiot.” In extremis

, all I could think to say in response was, “Duh!”

Very, very tired, we stumbled into the hut and took off our ski boots. Our day of going big was over.

Although we were too late for lunch, Drew somehow convinced the hutkeeper to make us a plate of rosti. We presented the meal of cheese and potatoes to Jonathan, in appreciation of his ski-pole-basket rescue.

“On-bee-leevable” Rinaldo repeated.

Greetings from Zermatt, Switzerland! Today we had the final, and most satisfying day on the Haute Route: the 8-hour trek from Cabane des Vignettes to Zermatt. I will fill in some description of days 4 and 5 in later posts, and will add some pictures once I get back to New Zealand.

This morning we woke up at 5:15 in Cabane des Vignettes. This hut was positioned most dramatically, atop a rock needle, with roughly thousand-foot drops on three sides.

Before sunrise we skied down a narrow track next to a sheer drop off (the only time I have been nervous the entire week), and then down into a giant bowl.

By 6:45 am, we had put climbing skins on our skis, and were starting the long ascent toward the first of three high-mountain saddles. Just before we started our climb, a Slovenian group who we had been skiing near, and sharing huts with each night, skied up to us. With our ski poles, we created an “arch of honor,” and chanted “Slovenia! Slovenia!” as they skied past. Just a little gesture toward international skiing friendship and collaboration.

We climbed steadily for about two and a half hours, all of us in line behind Rinaldo, matching his steady, relentless pace. We reached the first saddle next to a giant peak completely covered in snow. It looked like a white sand dune.

We skied down for about 20 minutes, then put skins on again for the second climb. After about 60 minutes of gentle incline, we reached a very steep pitch. Rinaldo suggested that I take off my skis, and hike up in the deep snow. I asked whether I could try to ski up. To my surprise, and great satisfaction, I skied all the way to the top (as did Jonathan). It was probably the biggest feeling of athletic accomplishment since I finished the Comrades Marathon with India in 1998. . Maybe the altitude was getting to me, because I don’t really think this was such a big deal by absolute standards.

After another short downhill, we put the skins on for the final time. The final climb was almost 2 hours, gentle but long. At the top we celebrated briefly, and started the long descent into Zermatt.

We skied in heavy powder for nearly an hour. Some parts were great, some were very difficult. I fell several times, including my only binding release of the trip. . For much of the way, a wide giant slalom track through the slush had been carved by previous skiers, so the trick was to maintain control while sliding through the pre-selected turns.

We skied down 2,000 meters, over a distance of more than 10 kilometers. There was a lot of traversing. Eventually we had to take off our skis, and walk up a muddy access road, before we made it onto the groomed slopes of Zermatt.

We rejoined civilization (and the Zermatt trail system) at a mid-slope restaurant. Dozens of people were relaxing in the afternoon sun, listening to a guitarist perform Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.”. Amidst the neatly groomed day skiers we felt wild and rough.

After another 30 minutes of trail skiing, we found ourselves in the center of Zermatt.

The Haute Route trip had come to an end. A safe, happy, exhausted end. After a celebratory Italian dinner, we said goodnight. For many of us, this is also goodbye.

Tomorrow morning, I take a 6:15 am train (with Drew and Jonathan) down to Geneva airport. I am flying to Istanbul for a meeting, and should be there in time for dinner tomorrow night.

The Haute Route has been exhilarating, exhausting, and fun. I don’t know when India and I will get to undertake a similar challenge, but I look forward to that. For now, I am too tired to write any more. I will add detail and color in future postings.

For all those dedicated readers waiting on tenderhooks for Peter’s next blog, he will be back on line soon. He is deep in the snow and mountains of Switzerland and misses you as much as you miss him! Much adventure to recount when he gets back online.

Down in NZ, kids and India are exhausting all kid and adventure-related activities on the North Island. Lu has been chased by a pink sheep, Zola has been head-butted by a Scottish bull (not sure why he is in NZ), and our friend Ginny has jumped from a plane at 15,000 feet (Peter was at the same altitude yesterday somewhere in the Alps). Zola begged to jump as well (minimum age in NZ is 8 years old!) but decided to wait until Dad returns. India would have jumped, but Lu clutched her hand and physically restrained her. Think she is still traumatized by the bungy jumps a couple of weeks ago! We have decided that Kiwis (the people) jump off cliffs and out of airplanes from time to time to prevent permanent narcolepsy. It is not a fast-paced society, though it is a gentle one full of hardy, tough people. The search for adventure continues tomorrow, as does the online search for flights to grandmother’s houses, apartments in New York, and other realities of our return to life in the States.

Note: this was written two days ago (April 1), but only posted on April 3. Pictures will follow later.

Greetings from Cabane de Prafleuri, about 10,000 feet up in the Swiss Alps.

Day 3 of the Haute Route ski tour was flat-out awesome. It had everything: a long climb, a beautiful high-mountain summit, and some of the best powder skiing ever.

We were up at 6 am. All of us slept much better than we had the previous night. Being in a room with six beds instead of 26 made a difference. Plus, I think we are all getting acclimatized to the altitude.

After a basic breakfast of bread and coffee, Rinaldo had us out the door before 7. He played an April Fool’s joke by telling each of us that it was raining outside when it was too dark to see (he said “It’s pooking.”) We actually had to stand around for a few minutes on our skis, with climbing skins on, until it got light enough to move safely. The sunlight brushing the tops of the mountains was very pretty.

We climbed continuously for almost five hours. Rinaldo’s skiing style is to move with relentless, metronomic regularity. Every 90 minutes he allows us a 10-minute break, but aside from that, he just keeps moving.

All of us have learned to do what Rinaldo does, and say what Rinaldo says. We followed him closely, like a line of ducklings making their way down to the water. In this case, though, we were making our way up about 800 meters, to the summit of a mountain called Rosablanche.

My French is poor, but I think the mountain’s name translates to ‘white rose’. From the valley at Rosablanche’s base, the snow and the jagged rocks did look a little like a flower’s bloom, so I guess that makes sense.

The ascent never got particularly steep, so there were few opportunities to practice our kick turns. After lots of head-down, trudge, trudge, trudge, though, we were suddenly almost as high as we could go.

We took off our skis and packs, grabbed our ice axes, and scrambled up the last 15 meters to the summit. Just to our left were a group of very unsteady looking cornices - big snow drifts hanging over a several-hundred-foot drop. From above they looked invitingly like secure footing. We stayed on the rocks as much as possible, heeding Rinaldo’s words, “If you are on the cornice when it falls, c’est finis.”

After a few minutes on top of the world, we climbed down (slightly hairier), and put on our skis.  We had a spectacular downhill run through untracked powder. We skied for almost 45 minutes, in snow conditions and terrain that are literally about as good as they can be.

Finally, we reached the hut at about 2:30 in the afternoon. A long and amazing day of skiing.
We have gotten the basic hut routine down. First we all take off skis and boots, and leave boot liners out to dry. Then we put our ice axes into a special holder outside the door. Apparently, it is a big etiquette faux pas

 to bring an ice axe into the mountain hut. We go up to our bunk room, put on dry clothes, and go out to sit in the sunshine. After a round of waters, usually someone buys a few cans of beer, and we play cards or backgammon, or read. It is a very civilized end to the skiing day.

This hut, Praefleuri, is unusual, because there is only one person working here. A woman slightly older than me, cooking dinner for 80 people, serving snacks and drinks all afternoon, and checking guests into their rooms. She seems to be a miracle worker. Theoretically, she runs the hut with her husband, but he must be off somewhere.

It has been very strange to have this adventure with a group of people who I didn’t know well at the start. As you would expect, we have gotten to know each other a little, and are having an intense shared experience. India and the kids and I have been having an intense, shared experience for the last year (and a wonderful and happy normal life outside of that time). While I am here, they are in New Zealand doing things without me.

There is no way, physically, that we could be having this experience as a family. India, of course, could crush all of us (except Mike the personal trainer), in physical fitness, but she doesn’t like to ski. The whole trip would be inconceivable for small kids.

That said, I continue to feel like they should be here. I miss them. We have been able to talk almost every day, and I have been hearing about their adventures in New Zealand. But I’m far, far away, and they are doing their own thing.

I am very glad that this separation is temporary. I won’t live a life apart from them again, as I did for many years, until May 2008.

Tomorrow will be another big day. We are all feeling good, and have decided to add more climbing and skiing to the route. If tomorrow is even half as good as today, it will be amazing.