Browse Tag

travelogues

The highs & lows of salad greens (New Zealand, pt. 20)

[Chard Farm]The Farm on the hill

It’s not often one has to teeter on the edge of a disintegrating cliff just to taste a few mediocre wines. But that’s the inevitable amuse bouche at Chard Farm, and while the entrance is heart-stopping in its precariousness (and, it is to be admitted, beauty), the driveway and its vistas are by far the best thing about a visit.

The Kawarau River, in its gorge far below, fairly glows in opaque yet brilliant turquoise. And from the steep slopes of the vineyards surrounding the winery, it is indeed a beautiful sight. It’s not so beautiful, however, on the twisty little goat path protected from the cliff above by…well, nothing…and the river below by a precarious few inches of dirt. Beyond all reason, this was – at one thankfully long-passed time – the major eastern road to Queenstown. Somehow, I don’t think it would be quite the tourist center it is were that still the case. Either that, or a shocking number of visitors would fail to arrive.

The winery’s tasting room is, as last time, dark and a little gloomy, and not quite set up to handle more than four visitors at a time without elbow-bumping chaos…though it fairly steadily hosts more than that during our visit. Still, it’s got undeniable character, and the behind-the-counter staff knows their stuff. Too bad there’s not that much to say. Chard Farm produces a decent range of wines centered around a mix of site-specific and blended pinots, though the full range of the latter are never on general offer, and while the results are interesting from the perspective of terroir, as wines they’re just not that exciting.

(Continued here, with tasting notes included…)

How static is my valley? (New Zealand, pt. 19)

A hardy laurel

Paradigm-defining winery or tourist trap? Neither? Or maybe a little bit of both? That’s the operative question at Gibbston Valley, one of those rare wineries pioneering and privileged enough to share its name with its location, and an unquestioned catalyst for the explosion of Central Otago wines onto the international scene. As with virtually all other wineries in this area, their reputation is derived from pinot noir; their version has been a muscular, forceful wine (especially in the guise of the “Reserve”) with unquestioned aging potential.

However, that’s just part of the Gibbston Valley equation. There’s a heavily-staffed and immense tasting bar, a largish gift shop, an excellent and very busy restaurant, a cheesery, guided tours of the cave…all it needs is some sort of adventure ride. It’s a sort of wine country “lifestyle theme park” that one finds in California’s trendier appellations, and it’s ideally located to suck up busload after busload of tourists from Queenstown and surrounding locales.

The problem, of course, is that the support of a full-fledged tourism industry can be distracting when it comes time to actually make the wine that is the property’s “raisin d’être”. Not every winery can handle an operation of this scope and remain committed to top-quality product. Furthermore, the buzz in New Zealand wine circles is definitely trending towards the negative; laurel-resting is one of the more charitable characterizations I’ve heard, and some of the talk has been much more critical than that. The pervading feeling is that Gibbston Valley has remained motionless while watching producers old and new make qualitative leaps beyond its best efforts. And while a sum total of two visits (one on our previous visit to the area, and now this one) is no way to offer adjudication of the debate, it is perhaps another datum to add to the cauldron of opinion.

(Continued here, with tasting notes included…)

Friendly fields (New Zealand, pt. 18)

[Amisfield winery]We need a drink

With ten days ahead of us, and a nicely-equipped kitchen here in our Queenstown vacation rental, we’ve got certain needs. Travel essentials and food will come later. Right now, however, we’re in search of something even more fundamental: something to drink. With wineries just down the road, there’s no better time than now…and no better way to shop than to taste before buying, hopefully learning something along the way.

Five definitions of central

Of all the wine regions of New Zealand, the Central Otago is the source of the highest hype to output ratio. This is not to suggest that the area’s exploding reputation is built on a pile of horse manure, but rather to note that, 1) there’s just not that much wine, 2) what wine there is, is produced in fairly small quantities, 3) quality wines and producers make up a typically small percentage of the overall total, and 4) the entire region is very, very young.

Throughout the length and breadth of the Central Otago, freshly-tilled fields and new plantings are spreading like kudzu across often-difficult hillsides and slopes. This means that quantitative issues are being addressed as rapidly as possible, but it doesn’t necessarily say much about quality. Especially given that the reputation of the region is based almost entirely on the massively fickle pinot noir grape, the road ahead is going to be much like the road today: filled with eager but insufficient young contenders and a growing sense of entitlement-without-justification. The wines may sell themselves to the curious, but they won’t do so forever. The Central Otago does show many signs of becoming one of the world’s great pinot noir regions, but it is not there yet, and only a continued commitment to quality over commercialism will allow it to achieve the status it may well deserve.

Adding to the confusion is the geographical haphazardness of the vignoble. “The Central Otago” is actually somewhere between four and seven distinct regions, depending on how one wants to classify vineyards, and they are not close to one another. Cromwell, an historic mining town turned agricultural center thanks to a highly-reputed fruit industry, is slowly finding its niche as the geographical “center” of the area’s disparate vineyards, but unfortunately the town itself doesn’t possess immense tourist appeal, and many visitors to the area will instead choose to stay in Queenstown, at one extreme end of the region and necessitating a lot of long and twisty drives to reach most worthwhile wineries.

Local vineyards are probably most sensibly grouped by their terroir (which is how one gets to the number seven), but in such a young region with a barely emergent wine culture, it’s far too early to make definitive statements thereto, except in the most preliminary sort of fashion. Thus, I prefer to group the vineyards in terms of geography for the time being, especially as this is how most visitors will experience them. Five distinct locales form the basis of a complete tour of the Central Otago: Gibbston, Wanaka, Cromwell, Bendigo, and Alexandra. This classification, I should add, rests on the following caveats: 1) Wanaka has very few vineyards, 2) technically, the Cromwell Basin comprises Cromwell and Bendigo, and the latter has only vineyards…no wineries, 3) Alexandra could perhaps more properly be called Clyde/Alexandra, as most of the vineyards are closer to the former than the latter, and 4) the Cromwell area is, by experienced local growers and winemakers, the site where further subdivisions are most often made, leading to distinct identifiers that include Lowburn, Bannockburn, Pisa Range and Pisa Flats.

Hayes & vines

We start our winery tour in Gibbston, which can easily be split into two sub-regions: Gibbston itself, about a half-hour’s winding drive from Queenstown, and – closer to town, at an intersection that takes one to the charming old gold-mining center of Arrowtown – Lake Hayes. Overall, the area gets more rain, and much cooler temperatures, than most of the rest of the Central Otago sub-regions, and it is primarily for this reason that a lot of blending from other areas goes on. Sometimes it’s quite open, other times it is not. But all those undesignated grapes up in warmer and dryer Bendigo are going somewhere…

(Continued here…)

Good morning, Fiordland (New Zealand, pt. 17)

[submerged Lake Hauroko dock]Chased by dinner

Teeming fleets of titi (last night’s dinner) surround our ferry, winning the speed contest and then either skidding to a stop on the waters of the Foveaux Strait or circling back for another go. No wonder they’re so chewy. Our captain explains that they’re after their sole meal: the fish churned up in our catamaran’s wake.

No wonder they’re so fishy.

A stunningly beautiful, sunny, and warm morning heralds our departure from Stewart Island, with the low fire of the sun blazing a sizzling gold across the remarkably still waters of the Strait. Long black strips of muttonbirds upon the water bracket our passage, and we receive occasional visits from one of the smaller cousins of the albatross family. The morning is as peaceful as it is nostalgic, and under clear skies, we can see Mt. Anglem – Stewart Island’s tallest peak – jutting towards the northwest with a necklace of cloud, and to its north the rough and rocky southern coast that is our destination.

Back in Bluff, our rental car roused from its rest and our bags once more stowed in the trunk, we shake off rusty driving muscles and begin a dreary drive northward towards Invercargill. The city itself is rather architecturally shiny, with a clean glow of urban renewal that kicks the sand of modernity into the face of its remoteness from…well, just about everywhere. I’m not sure it’s fooling anyone, though. It looks well worth a stroll, but we’ve got many long miles ahead of us today, and we – somewhat regretfully – leave the visit for another time.

The depths of higher ground

Route 99 starts just north of Invercargill, and describes a beautiful and – for New Zealand – surprisingly uncomplicated and drivable arc around the southwestern corner of the South Island, hugging the ocean for the greater majority of its length. We stop when the mood strikes us – a stroll to admire the perfect roundness of wave-eroded stones at Colac Bay and Pahia Beach, an overlook to admire the surprisingly nearby spur of Mt. Anglem and the low expanse of the uninhabited mass of Stewart Island, a pause to appreciate the endless sapphire of the sun-glinted ocean and the infinite sky reflected in it – and drive with contemplative speed in between. At Te Waewae the road turns decisively north, leaving the ocean for a drive full of solitude and growing majesty, the unapproachable peaks of Fiordland to the west and a less forbidding ebb and flow of mountain and farmland plain to the east.

The gentle breezes of the oceanside morning are gone, replaced by a variably gusty wind that is, at times, difficult to handle on particularly exposed stretches of road. We take a short, restorative break at Clifden, admiring the rough-hewn span of an historic bridge crossing the power-generating Waiau River (here little more than a wide, gentle stream), then turn down a dirt road for a half-hour westward diversion into Fiordland National Park and to a likely picnic spot.

Lake Hauroko is the deepest lake in New Zealand. It is unquestionably one of the prettiest we’ve ever seen, with unbelievably clear waters flawlessly reflecting the surrounding forest of peaks, yet transparent below the surface to the very limits of sight. We dine on a half-submerged dock, finishing odds and ends from our island sojourn with a little bit of wine from much earlier in the trip.

Kennedy Point 2004 Sauvignon Blanc (Waiheke Island) – Shy, with gooseberry and grapefruit but showing decidedly less vivid than either the version tasted at the winery or a previous bottle. I’m not sure what’s up here. Low-level taint would be the natural suspect, but this wine’s under screwcap. Multiple bottlings? Another sort of taint? Barometric pressure? Gremlins?

North of the lake, winds pick up strength as the landscape becomes more recognizable as that of Fiordland: distant snow-capped peaks framing impossibly steep glacial lakes, and all around hilly, rocky fields good for nothing except meager grazing. At Blackmount, the wind is so strong that we can’t even open our car doors without a careful realignment of the automobile. A looming sense of altitude grows to the west, and begins rising in the north and east as well. Sudden emergence into the sparse civilization of Manapouri allows us a much-needed refueling break, and we rest by the cool waters of the town’s namesake lake – one with which we’ll become much better-acquainted in a few days – for a few minutes, enjoying the bizarre juxtaposition of icy mountaintops and waving palm-like fronds on the lakeshore. There are even a few intrepid beachgoers today, though the beach itself is an uncomfortable jumble of ground-up glacial rocks.

Primed for the last stretch, we slowly drive the few kilometers north to Te Anau, completing a full circuit of the Southern Scenic Route that was begun four days ago in Dunedin. From there, the roads are familiar, as we turn eastward through the semi-mystical un-town known as The Key, then turn northward again at Mossburn. It is, after all, the only road. Here, lofty green and brown waves of grassland are consumed in neck-stretching wonder, first by the vertiginous skyscrapers of the Eyre Mountains to the west, and then the aptly-named Remarkables on the east, as the mountainous slopes plummet at last towards the icy mirror of southern Lake Wakatipu.

Our road winds and twists, as difficult for its death-defying drops and turns as for its breathtaking scenery, and we stop as frequently as possible to admire views that are becoming increasingly familiar as we snake northward. And finally, around one last gut-churning bend, we see the growing sprawl of Queenstown, nestled against its protective hillside. We are, at long last, here.

(Continued here…)

Birdies (New Zealand, pt. 16)

[kaka eating]The care & feeding of kaka

A steady rain drums against the window. It encourages us to roll over and go back to sleep – one of the lesser-known benefits of vacation rain – refreshing our tired and weta-troubled minds. Eventually, Ernie comes downstairs to do some laundry, and we emerge from hiding just in time to greet some new visitors.

On the patio, perched first on a chair and later on the end of a nearby picnic table, are a quartet of inquisitive kaka; big, brown and a little bit shiny, with colorful streaks visible each time they spread their wings.. They’re clearly no strangers to our lodge, and Ernie encourages us to offer them some food. Their fierce-looking, sharply curved beaks give pause, but as I hold out a morsel of bread, I realize there’s little cause to worry; the boldest of the four sidles towards me and gently plucks the food from my fingers with the most painstaking delicacy. He then grabs the bread with one claw, nibbling in approval.

We retreat to the kitchen and return with more options. An apple proves unpopular, and a bit of garlic- and rosemary-infused ciabatta leads to one bird taking an exploratory nibble, dropping the rest on the ground, and noisily squawking about the insufficiency of our cuisine. Eventually, however, the food leads to inter-avian squabbling, and we retreat inside while the now-angry birds chase each other around the surrounding trees.

Bivalves and beer

We waste a bit more time, waiting for the rain to let up (which it eventually does), then stroll back into town for lunch at one of the two Stewart Island establishments that could legitimately be called restaurants. The South Sea Hotel, however, is not just a restaurant and lodging, but also a (or rather, the) pub, an all-encompassing booking agency for many of the island’s activities, and an oft-identified meeting place for those activities. In our three days, we’ll see most of the island’s inhabitants here again and again, enjoying a brew and bantering in a vaguely Scottish-influenced patois that’s virtually indecipherable to outsiders.

Service in the hotel’s casual dining room, separated from the occasionally noisy bar by a series of open and swinging doorways, is rushed and casual, but the food is as good as it is simple; no pretense, no adornment, just (mostly) local ingredients and a few basic techniques. A bowl of seafood chowder is rich with mussels and fragrant lemongrass, while a plate of terrific fries accompany some Stewart Island oysters…a bit out of season, but worth the experience nonetheless: light, creamy, and more texturally akin to oyster-flavored marshmallows than to any other oyster within my experience. The wine list is OK, but the only by-the-glass options are from the lower end of the Montana stable, and so I ask our harried waitress to choose a beer for me. She returns with a pint of Tui, a North Island brew that is unquestionably the darkest IPA I’ve ever seen (they do know what “pale” means, right?), with an apple-y, almost sweet taste. It’s good, despite a slightly thin finish, but there’s an illicit cider pregnancy somewhere in its ancestry.

Mail-only golf

If the South Sea Hotel is a multi-service establishment, the Stewart Island Post Office is practically a self-contained town. It’s got mail, a check-in desk for the island’s remote airport (a shuttle runs between the two) that recycles a scale they’d otherwise use for packages, a storage area for backpackers, a miniature book store, a few shelves of local food products, and the facility in which we’re interested: greens fee collection and club/ball rental for the local golf course. We stuff a few choices from a rather motley and battered selection of clubs into some rather tattered and moldy bags, and begin our hike.

(Continued here…)

Murder, mayhem, pigeons & cod (New Zealand, pt. 15)

[New Zealand pigeon]Murder in the night

Somewhere around midnight, I feel the bed shake.

In a half-conscious state, abruptly yanked from REM sleep but with my eyes still closed, I attempt to make sense of the situation. Theresa’s moving around, somewhat jerkily. I appear to have an upset stomach, and a bit of a headache as well. Maybe a bad mussel, maybe a chill from yesterday’s rain-enhanced cold, maybe just crankiness from being woken up. I choose to ignore the shaking, and go back to sleep.

Somewhere around one a.m., I feel the bed shake.

It’s Theresa again…or at least it appears to be…as she makes what, in my sleepy state, seem like unconscionably violent movements. I’m getting crankier, and wonder if this is going to go on all night. Finally she stands up, heading for the bathroom. I turn around, attempting to go back to sleep.

At two a.m., I snap awake. Again in the middle of REM, but something’s different this time. I actually open my eyes. Theresa is sitting up in bed, twitching her head around like an agitated bird.

“Are you OK?,” I mumble, still sleepy. I figure she’s had a bad dream of some sort.

“There’s a big bug in here.”

(We’ve been down this road before. Theresa hollers from the kitchen, “there’s a huge bug in here!” I stop what I’m doing, enter the kitchen, and find some tiny crawling thing, or a completely average-sized spider, and sometimes an ant. I kill it…danger averted…and go back to work.)

“Probably one of those sand flies.”

“No, I’m serious. There’s something really big in here. It keeps landing on me.”

“Uh-huh.”

But…I’ve been married long enough to know that going back to sleep isn’t going to satisfy anyone. So I get up, turn on the bedside lamp, and gaze blearily around the room. Theresa slips from the bed and tiptoes across the room, sees some fleeting shadow (probably me in the way of the lamp), and lets out a yelp. She is seriously freaked out. Really, though, how big could this thing be? I feel ridiculous, standing here in my boxers and still half-asleep, looking for some no-doubt tiny phantom menace that’s haunting Theresa’s dreams. If it’s not a fly, it’s probably drifting lint or something.

I see nothing. “What bug?”

“I thought I felt a bug on me earlier tonight, and I just brushed it off. Then I felt it again. It felt…it felt like it was covering the entire right side of my face. I could feel it touching my neck, and at the same time my cheek right below my eye.” She demonstrates with her hand, fingers on each named location. OK, that would be a big bug. But there’s no way there’s something like that in here. We’re not in the Amazon rainforest. “The last time I felt it, I brushed it away, and I heard a ‘thump’ as it hit the floor.”

“Sure you did,” I think to myself, looking around again.

Something catches my eye. I stop, retreat, look at the curtain that covers the window nearest her side of the bed. I pause.

“Oh. That bug.”

(Continued here…)

To the ends of the earth (New Zealand, pt. 14)

[Nugget Point rocks]Signs, signs, everywhere a sign

It would be a peaceful, remote beach lapped by cold southern waters, its beauty preserved by its very remoteness. It would, but it’s not, because the town and its beach are littered with agitation. “No reserve!” is the slogan repeated on signs, placards, graffiti on dozens of walls and houses…we’ve waded into some sort of simmering anger, but we’re completely oblivious as to the cause. Yet here in Port Molyneux, they’re certainly exercised about something.

We’d arisen early enough, but last-minute packing, cleaning, and more lengthy reminiscence and chit-chat from host Bill led us to depart from the Otago Peninsula little later than we’d intended. Today’s voyage is one of the chanciest of the entire vacation, because its success or failure depends largely on the quality of Southland’s highly unpredictable weather. Plus, time is also a looming concern. If it rains, it’s a quick but disappointing trip to our next bed. If it doesn’t, we’ve got to pick and choose from among far too many enticing options, lest we miss dinner at the other end. But a passage of the ultra-remote Catlins, unquestionably one of those paths less-trodden (which, for an already remote area, is saying something) by tourists, is something we must at least attempt.

Much is made, by Kiwis, of the potential dangers of the road. Twisty and often unpopulated by cars, it is unsealed for a few dozen kilometers (though the government is in the process of rectifying this), but I grew up on gravel roads and am not much intimidated by rocks under my wheels. And, truth be told, one can easily proceed through the Catlins without ever really experiencing true remoteness and anything wilder than the road; towns, at least on the eastern half of the drive, are pretty common and easily accessed, services are abundant, and there’s no real lack of infrastructure. But traveling the Catlins that way would be a mistake, one we’re determined to avoid. As long as the weather cooperates.

(Continued here…)

Birds, not of a feather (New Zealand, pt. 13)

[Sandfly Bay from Sandymount]A man’s home…

Of all the things and places toured by visitors to New Zealand, a castle is one of the most unlikely. This is a country of natural wonders, of breathtaking scenery, of environments so unique they can never be truly captured by word or image. Castles…well, Europe is stuffed to the gills with ’em, and some pretty damned impressive ones as well. What could this far-flung corner of a far-flung country possibly offer in comparison?

A long, tragic, and occasionally scandalous history, for one thing…which is appropriate enough. Larnach Castle isn’t going to make anyone forget, say, Warwick, but it’s a pleasant enough diversion for a morning’s visit. The rooms are nicely restored, showing a level of historic extravagance that seems even more out of place (given its remote location, far from what would have passed for “civilization” in those days) than does the castle itself, and there are some entertaining decorative details: “sans peur (without fear),” the original owner’s family motto, is paired on an elaborate stained glass window with…those with an affection for puns can see it coming…several cats. Lodging and meals are available, though one has to book far in advance.

However, it’s the grounds that are the real draw here. Not only is the castle itself situated in a high point of the Otago Peninsula, providing (especially from its upper turret) wonderful panoramic views of the peninsula’s hills and harbor, but careful work has been done to make the grounds a showpiece for local plants and flowers. Neither Theresa nor myself have ever been particularly moved by matters botanical, but between yesterday’s hike and this morning’s excursion, we’re developing more interest than we’d ever imagined. In one especially artful corner of the grounds, with sheep covering the far-below valley floor like little maggots or grains of wiggling rice, a massive stump has sprouted a cleverly-carved door; something straight out of (or to) Narnia. (Unfortunately, the magical aura is a bit dampened when one peers behind the door; it turns out that it’s just a storage closet for gardening supplies. Mr. Tumnus is nowhere to be found.)

[Sandfly Bay from Sandymount]…is around his neck

We partake of a latish lunch, feasting from yesterday’s leftovers, including the Kennedy Point 2004 Sauvignon Blanc (Marlborough), which is greener and leaner than it was the day before, showing more lemongrass, lime, and lemon thyme than the tropical notes it had sported previously. It’s still quite fun, though.

Driving east along the harbor, we pass an abandoned whaling station, a series of picturesque huts on elevated piers, and the rather depressed Maori settlement of Otakau (after which the peninsula is named), before climbing up the steep promontory at the end of the peninsula to Taiaroa Head. Far below us, waves thunder against ocean-etched cliff walls, with tangled colonies of bull kelp oscillating in the water’s relentless approach and retreat. A lonely lighthouse dots the tip of the peninsula, but what we’re here for is just a little bit inland.

On the rocky shore known as Pilots Beach, people congregate around a wretched stench. Blending into the rock are several dozen sea lions…many behind a protective fence, but some unconcernedly napping just a few feet from a curious public. They’re adorable, but wow does their waste smell horrible. And all around them, no doubt adding to the stench, are the crushed and rotted carcasses of unwary seagulls. We do spend some close-up time with these blubbery snoozers, but eventually the stench overwhelms us, and we scale a long path to a rather crowded car park. Anyway, it’s time.

(Continued here…)

Livin’ large with Marge (California, pt. 6 & end)

15 November 2005 – Palo Alto, California

Lavanda – Searching for a place with good food that would allow some recalcitrant wine geeks to B a little of their O, I finally settled on this upscale establishment at one end of Palo Alto’s main drag. I’m a little early, and so I wander the streets for a while, finally entering to find that John DeFiore is equally early, and enjoying a drink at the bar. I wish I’d thought of that.

Lavanda has the usual California mix of suit-and-tie folk mixed in with casual, jeans-wearing students. It’s a restaurant that attempts to be formal, but is a little noisy and frenetic to really achieve it, with high quality but occasionally uneven food; order wisely. My meal is very nice, except for a buttery dish of truffled pasta in which they’ve severely overcooked said pasta, but my fellow diners seem well-pleased with their meals. The wine list is long and extremely interesting, and if one isn’t bringing wine there’s no lack of solid options. Service depends on who you have; one waiter is dismissive and cold, others – including, at one point, one of the owners – are warm and welcoming.

The highlight of the night, however, is supplied by Bill Futornick…in the form of his mother, Marge. She’s about fifteen pounds and four feet of pure sarcastic energy, and an absolutely hilarious dining companion. An example of her repartee:

“Winemakers always say to me ‘every wine is different because their soul is in it.’ That’s crap.”

She keeps us laughing late into the night.

Couly-Dutheil 1996 Chinon Les Chanteaux Blanc (Loire) – Beeswax and candle wax with lavender, white flowers, light oxidation and high acid. It seems quite faded, yet every once in a while there’s a surge of aromatics. Perhaps, rather than too old, it’s actually too young. That would be expected for chenin, but I’ve no experience with aged Chinon blanc.

Graillot 2001 Crozes-Hermitage La Guiraude (Rhône) – Leather and smoked nuts with dried berry skins, evaporations of sweaty horse, salted pork and some of that classic Northern Rhône meat liqueur. Soft and fading, then re-energized, then well-knit; a very good wine in the variable throes of adolescence.

Verset 1997 Cornas (Rhône) – Animalistic and sweaty more than actually funky (though there’s a bit of Bootsy Collins as well), showing firm but roughly-hewn and earthy blackberry, graphite and leather. Significant, but not unpleasant, tannin provides backbone. Impressive.

Baumard 1995 Côteaux-du-Layon “la queue de Paon” (Loire) – Beautiful, silken-textured sweet chenin cream, with lovely balance. There’s fruitspice and pungent, chalky apricot, but ultimately this marvelous beverage is all about its gorgeous texture.

16 November 2005 – Menlo Park, California

Sharon Heights Golf & Country Club – As a golfer, one doesn’t pass up invitations like this. The course itself is nice, pleasant, and not all that difficult (though it’s very much the off-season for me, and I don’t play that well), but the awe-inspiring clubhouse and the general amiability of the people makes for a most enjoyable afternoon. My host’s locker is right next that of Jerry Rice (“serious about golf, but not that good”), and during the round we cross paths with Bill Walsh, which completes a year of unexpected celebrity sightings…for whatever that’s worth.

Bovine beach blues (New Zealand, pt. 12)

[net on Okia Beach]The road not taken

Commitments are a strange thing. “Next time we’re in New Zealand, we’re going to do some hikes,” we’d agreed in the rosy afterglow of our 2002 trip, and at the time we’d fervently meant it. New Zealand’s incomparable natural beauty is, despite a general lack of roads, surprisingly accessible…but then there’s much more that’s not, unless one is willing to get out of the car, train, boat or tour bus and walk a bit. It was, at the time, a firm commitment to an ideal.

Of course, the strange thing about commitments and ideals is how they crumble in the face of reality. Neither of us much likes camping (Theresa’s just not into the hassles, while any affection I once had was thoroughly destroyed by the Boy Scouts, especially our northern Minnesota winter excursions – 30ºF below zero, all day and night – and their mosquito-ridden summer equivalents), Theresa has a downhill ski racing-damaged ankle and two similarly-damaged knees that ache to the point of immobility on extended downslopes, and, to be honest, neither of us have entered this vacation in the best of shape. An exploratory early-evening stroll around our villa on Waiheke Island drove this point home with accompanying dismay, when after a mere fifteen minutes of low-impact and low-speed walking we were sweaty, tired, and eager to sit down for dinner.

Nonetheless, surrounded by the natural majesty of the Otago Peninsula, we’re determined to overcome our self-induced obstacles. Not being fools, we’ve chosen to start our walking adventures on a flat track and in the cool of the early morning. Bill, our host at the Fern Grove Garden, delivers our breakfast – enough for three starving lumberjacks: fresh fruit, organic eggs, milk, bread, butter, and a rather frightening quantity of muesli – and serves of a side of some experienced advice on which tracks might suit our needs.

Basalt, salt, and the roar of the lion

A short while later, we’re in a dusty car park (really just a flat circle of gravel) with a field full of placidly munching cows gazing lazily over a long wooden fence at these interesting new intruders. We can hear the gentle scrape of the ocean beyond the horizonless pasture, but much walking lies between us and it. To our left, gentle hills turn steeper, full of grassy and fern-covered tumult. We open a gate next to a sign that announces the beginning of our journey – the Okia Track – and start down a rutted tractor path.

Ten minutes later, we’re back at the gate. It turns out that we’re on the wrong side of a fence. The commitment is strong, perhaps, but the skill may be lacking.

(Continued here…)