Fireworks

Well it's official now. I'm back in the US safe and sound and ready for a proper American homecoming. 4th of July is tommorow, or today, actually. I'm a kiwi, officially, nocturnal and confused. It's 5 AM, again. Sleep isn't coming easily. My internal clock has been readjusting and readjusted too many times in the past couple of months, from the eternal forwardness of being in Auckland to the non-time they call Fiji time and back in the states LA-time, Eastern Standard Time has proven to be completely elusive. Aside from the jetlag, I've had no problems getting used to my surroundings back in All-American Allendale. It isn't weird, doesn't even feel like I left. It's sort of as if I stayed in the same place, never really left, like it wasn't me traveling it was the globe shifting under my feet. Or maybe it was like I grew so big I could be in two places at the same time.

My voyage home was a prolonged vacation actually. For 5 days we spent time under the sun on Malolo Island, an island situated in the Mamanuca chain of the Fiji Islands. It was an isolated oasis and the perfect place to deconstruct my previous surroundings in order to make my move to the next easier. It was a perfect limbo, but definitely not purgatory. This place was absolute heaven, with clear blue skies, clearer water and a crystal clear purpose: shake off nerves and relax every bone, muscle and capillary in your body.


It wasn't all relaxation until we got to our little island, though. The way from Port Denarau on the main island (Viti Levu) to Malolo was not at all what I expected. We took a Ferry boat out, everything as planned. Our boat then stopped in the middle of the ocean, waves crashing against it's stern. A dinghy was sent out, and like pirates trading down, we switched our comfortable seats on the ferry for the hard wooden and wet benches of the dinghy. It was the only boat scheduled to arrive directly at Malolo Island. With each of our 40+ kilos of luggage we hopped aboard knowing for sure all the contents of our luggage would end up swallowed by the ocean. The good part was that the ocean was so clear we'd be able to know exactly who's it was and what was what down there.

Our resort on Malolo was built on a coral reef beach. The water surrounding it was thus very shallow, and the reef could do considerable damage to a large ship (as it did on our way back), thus the dinghy's were sent out to pick us up. We stopped at 3 other resorts along the way, not because people had to get off there, but because we needed to drop luggage off. This is the kind of what-the-hell-do-we-do-now? philosophy that worried me at every stop. It seemed appropriate to actually have planned for many visitors with lots of luggage, but the resort obviously hadn't given it a thought. I'm sure they never do. But, miraculously, our luggage appeared not long after our arrival at the resort. It wasn't even wet.

The way home was worse, to sum it up--they needed 8 dinghys. It was an en masse exodus. 8 dinghys made it appear as though they were prepared, but wait, the large ferry brokedown on a coral reef two days prior. So this meant we were picked up in the middle of the ocean by a smaller ferry, one which had room only for the people and not for our baggage. So one giant pizza and 3 hours later, our luggage arrived at the Port so we could move on to the airport. No worries. Fiji time.

Fiji time was what the whole trip was about, so I took my watch off the second I got my first "bula!" greeting from a Fijian on the resort. Bula literally means "life", it's the greeting you get from just about every Fijian you meet from the second you get out of the plane. Fiji time is no time. It means whatever 'time' you're talking about doesn't really exist. It means you will wait for your meal and you better steal some bread or dessert while you waiting on the line. It means don't ask when anything is going to happen, because the only answer is "Fiji time" and that means it's just going to happen when it's going to happen. It's the kind of thing that's perfect for vacation. The trip was all about unwinding, and the only thing I judged the time by was where the sun was in the sky. Anything as exact as an hour or minute was far too much information, they were unnecessary complications.

The beach was the same every day, picture: A palm tree lined beach, coconuts hanging sturdy to the base of the fronds but threatening every hammock-goer nonetheless. A beach with fine sand, hard to the touch because the reefs being so near. The water so shallow and green at high tide you could walk 50 feet out and still be able to see your feet. I had never seen water so clear. This turned out to be more than just beautiful, but also a great way to see some fish. They'd swim along in the shallow water, but to get a better view I went snorkeling several times. The channel, where small boats came in, was situated directly on the reef and was about 10 feet from the shore. Under the water there was an incredible amount of fish, hundreds visible at any given moment. Most varying colors and sizes. In some places the fish were so dense that paddling around in the water almost definitely meant smacking to the side a couple of fish in the way. If only I had an underwater camera to show you exactly what it looked like there, because everything on Malolo Island was amazing above ground, but under the water was like a completely different, marvelous world.

We took kayaks out as well and explored a shipwreck that was close to the island's shore and then paddled around during sunset to cool down from soaking rays on the beach. The rest of the time there was that: sunning in the sun, absorbing every inch of things that were pristine and untouched before flying through the cloud of smog that greeted us in LA. Fiji was fantastic. It was cool. Way better than the water bottles give it credit for. The water there was undrinkable, however. Ice was brought daily from the main island in order to provide drinking water. And yes, Fiji water seemed to have a bit of a monopoly in the country it was named for. The bottle isn't so off, the image imprinted on the inside of the bottle is reminiscent of a snow globe, and although snow has no right being mentioned in the same breath as Fiji, being enclosed in a glass case does. The place belongs in a museum showcase, protected from harm and the global slide to catastrophe Krushil Watene warned our class about in Environmental Ethics at UNI.


I guess I never really addressed the whole 'school' experience, but there isn't much to say. I did it and it's done, it was good and it was different. It was a great excuse for being abroad but it's really not what the adventure's about.

Anyway, no time for digressions caused by last minute entry-regret. Fiji was incredible, it's a place that exudes relaxation which far surpasses anything you can swallow in pill form.

Tonight I'll be at the fireworks display, another world away from Auckland, my home for almost 5 months. They won't be able to see roman candles bursting in Auckland, not even if they flew as high as the stars. The sky is different. But I'd like to send one up anyway, a message to everyone under their sky: "CHEERS. Stay perfect. No worries. You know how to live." That'd be a lot of chemicals in the sky, they won't see it, maybe it's a little impractical. A man-made constellation then?

It's bitter, but when I look at the sky tonight, the fireworks will blast high to the stars leaving only their smoky skeletons to linger. In whatever chemical reactions have to occur in order to produce the fiery and colorful display, I see magic. It's what I saw daily in New Zealand. It's exactly what made everything seem so surreal. All that magic must meet up somewhere. On some level they share an element and it is the fabric of what I'll remember. It makes everything real. It makes memories physically exist at certain moments. It'll link spotting the red, white and blue atop the Empire State Building with the silver shining heights of the SkyTower; the taste of home-cooked fillet with the comfort provided by friends; and it'll link the sight of the Atlantic with the misty Tasman Sea. With mosquito's stealthily buzzing in the dark night, loud booms will pierce the audiences ears. The magical display will light up the sky so it's alive and glowing. And if those smoky skeletons can linger, just forever, well that would be perfect.

Untitled #1

Malolo Island.
That's where we're headed.
It's a dot on the map.
I wanted to make a post on all things amazing about our upcoming trip to Fiji.
I wanted to summarize and highlight and make more lists about New Zealand.
I wanted more pictures.
I wanted to talk about getting back home and reuniting.
I waited too long, swamped with finals and packing and trying to memorize each road and tree and wave and face of this place by heart.
In just over 12 hours I will be on my way to Auckland International, and maybe then I'll be ready to go.

Far enough behind to be ahead.

So goes Waiheke Island's who gives a damn if it makes sense travel slogan. This island, the second largest in the Hauraki Gulf which shelters Auckland from the Pacific, is a prime example of effective backwardness. O, contraire it is to have such a beautiful and sprawling island, stuck pioneering East for at least another decade, a mere 35 minute ferry ride from the downtown bustle of Auckland City.



The island is filled on the West end, large and elegant homes built into vineyards along the entirely hilly landscape that makes up the island. The East end of the Island is largely uninhabited, having served as Stony Batter, a WWII fort that is now a scenic reserve populated by giant boulders stopped mid-tumble on green hills. Along the North and South are beaches, some big, some small, all a great place to soak up sun and dip into the surf on a warm New Zealand day. Too bad the warmth of the summer sun seems to have been soaked up in the gales of rain and winter we're now entrenched in. Relatively speaking, 50-55 degrees is about the norm. So is rain for at least part of the day. We had as good a day as you could expect for Waiheke--clear, dry, not cold--unfortunately not beach warm though.

We woke up and got to the Ferry Building in time to catch an early ferry over to Waiheke. The ferry ride took us past Rangitoto, the familiar hazy volcano always on the horizon. Pulling into the port in Waiheke, we could see wineries at the top of hills of vineyards, along with several sailboats in the harbour.



We had planned on renting scooters for the 5 of us, prepared to act as the tourist version of Hell's Angels if need be. Unfortunately we had somehow all forgotten that renting age here is 21, or were under the illusion that scooters were child's toys and were on a set of different terms. We got a car instead, with Drew as the elder scooting behind us. We decided we would tour the beaches, scope them out, maybe get some feet in and hopefully check out the wineries which Waiheke prides itself on.

Winding around on the side of the road we are now used to, we finally came to our first stop at Onetangi Beach. This was by far the largest beach we saw on the Island, and was bookmarked on either side by high hills of dense foliage. We stopped on our walk to the water and spotted several giant starfish in our area of the beach. The surf rolled far on to the relatively flat beach and was slightly warmer than I had expected. For 5 minutes I contemplated jumping in, before realizing jumping in just mildly cold water in 50 degree weather with no towel in the car to dry me was not the type of thing you contemplate before doing. It's the kind of thing you just do. And I didn't.


Not that it wasn't inviting though. Our hunger set in and we voyaged around town looking for a cafe that was actually open. For some reason this was a lot harder than we expected. We found one and ate a good lunch, then set out for Palm Beach. This beach was smaller, but as the name suggests, did have some dense brush on the outside of it including palm trees. Steph and I went exploring the rocky end of the coast, where we had thought penguin hunting would be optimal. Although my Antarctica professor swears to it, I have yet to see a living blue penguin in the Hauraki Gulf.

The terrain was rocky but we ventured out to the tip of it, spotting only tiny fish in clear blue tidepools of water. We then set out to destroy all oysters in our general vicinity in search for a pearl. Our attempts at penguin hunting and pearl harvesting were futile, yet fun. We walked back and got into the car to head into the village of Oneroa, the only real village on the 12 mile long island. There was a small shopping area, mostly surf stores and souvenir shops. We perused briefly and made our way back to the car rental place where we split paths, some opting to return back to the city while Steph and I remained on the island to check out attractions beyond beaches.

This resulted in discovering quite possibly the most unique (as in good unique, not Ripley's Believe it or Not unique) tourist venue in existence--Whittaker's Musical Experience. I had wanted to visit the place when I started looking at things to do on Waiheke, basically because it looked strange and impressive. It boasts the oldest collection of musical instruments in NZ, including a grand piano that Paderewski, Polish pianist and Prime Minister, had brought with him on a tour of NZ and had sold in 1904 upon departure.

It was those strings of the grand piano I heard as we walked up the hill back into the village. The closer we got the more you could hear the keyboard alive, played by someone with genuine musical talent. We stepped into the museum and were delighted to be greeted by Lloyd Whittaker himself, owner, showman, and entrepeuner. It was the offseason, and though the museum rarely operated in the offseason, it seemed as though he was anticipating visitors. We were the only people in the place, aside from him, his wife, and the pianist. Him and his wife explained to us first about the piano we were hearing, then about the skilled man behind it. We learned that this Bechstein piano, though old, was well maintained and among the best of the region. The man playing it so effortlessly was a concert pianist--Auckland's best (according to Lloyd and Joan)--practicing for an upcoming concert.

As we listened to his lenos and fortissimos, they took us around on a free tour of their collection. The old mouth organs were cool, like a miniature trumpet with a keyboard in the middle. They were similar to the kind Ben Folds used on his later tracks on "Whatever and Ever Amen"--the kind I had onced searched for on E-bay because I have a weird knack for weird things. All the items in the collection were restored and working, and though we saw about 20 different kinds of pianos, organs, and pianolas, each had its own use and its own story. How do you walk out of a concert pianist's performance? Even on a practice run? And the Whittaker's? Well they went back to their tea and crackers, and we walked out the the way we came in, in hopes to find a winery still open so late in the day.

The Mudbrick was the most popular winery on the island. We went late in the day and were lucky to have a private tasting with a man who seemed like an aficianado to me. We climbed up a hill in a taxivan in order to reach the top of the vineyard and were instantly impressed when we stepped out. On the right Rangitoto stands in the foreground, as Auckland on the left is more hazy in the distance.

We steeped ourself in wine, attempting to teach ourselves the finer parts of life which only true sophisticates could understand. Us philistines were so used to just drinking the wine that the whole tasting seemed like a tease. But the wine man spoke about all of the different pallettes, recognizing us as beginners and wanting to give us a crash course in bubbly booze fanship. I don't know how it worked for me, after a while of him listing all the different things you can taste I started to pick up on what he was saying--an epiphany. I still prefer my wine boxed, cheap, and potent.

We sat on that porch and waited for the cab to come take us away, down the hill, to the port where we boarded a boat back to the city. The island was full of cornered beaches and precious real estate lived in by some well-ahead Aucklanders, who commute daily because at the end of the day, Waiheke is where they want to be. The vineyards sprawled over the hills in the style of sheep in the South Island. There were those too--sheep--of course, but not as many. Little harbours at every turn of the island, with not a single flat acre or straight coast. An art gallery serves as the center of town, next to an art supply store bigger than the Waiheke library and post office combined; and the concert pianist plays on, delighting his crowd of two aged experts.

Ahead, yes. Behind, I guess.

A couple of things you should know.

1 (one) list compiled in my mind periodically. Sporadically truthful, often guesstimations on the brink of truth or a valid attempt thereof. 100% Natural & Pure Brokedown Snapshot of a Day in the Queen's City.

37 late-night McDonald's trips.
10 people kicked out of bars one or more times.
8 times I've asked for a White Lady t-shirt (an infamous burger stand) and got shut down.
149 pictures taken of John dancing.
3 times Drew has sworn off Loyola girls forever.

5 times I've signed my life away.

3.9 million people live in New Zealand.
47.2 million sheep live in New Zealand.
1 blue starfish Ryan attempted to consume.
3 bucks for a bottle of Heineken at Provedor on Thursdays.
7 times I've passed people dressed in medieval garb and fighting with broadswords and spears on my way to class.
3 harnesses worn.
1,097 miles driven in a camper in the South Island.
9 stores we went searching in for Solo cups before finally getting them imported.
24 iced coffees I've purchased from Mascot Cafe.
4 Media Studies lectures I've attended.
10 weeks Garry went without shaving.
12,133 feet of freefalls.
4 more finals and
20 more days in Auckland.

Getting back down the AGGRO CRAG.

This past Friday, with two visitors in tow, we finally got out canyoning. After seeing the brutalized but awestruck faces of people who have gone before us, we had decided we needed to do this a long time ago. Canyoning is incredible--all the fun of a water park with all the danger of Action Park, and the roughing it factor of a Barry Crump novel. It clearly was invented by a Peter Pan type, who after spending his childhood wading in knee deep creeks under waterfalls and climbing through crevasses decided he could make a living off guiding people through this sort of thing.

[Invoke dreamlike childhood sequence]
To me, it was exactly what I've wanted to do since I was 8 and roaming through the backcountry of Allendale, NJ. Of course, in Allendale, this type of thing is difficult to find, and thus we always settled on a small, rocky stream that would dry up every other week due to a lack of rain. Later on, I scoured the Celery Farm, a regional landmark, which wound around an open lake. It wasn't until I really started hanging around Crestwood Lake, exploring the area over by the Red Barn, that I found what I was looking for--A waterfall. Unfortunately, it poured out of what was believed to be a sewage reservoir (or at other times, molton lava) and then into the brook which ran parallel to my middle school. Getting wet was never an option, it was something so unbelievably awful that whenever I sunk so much as the toe of my shoes into the water my day would be ruined. I don't know why it was such an issue for me--but walking back home in wet shoes was a failure. The point was to stay OUT of the water.

I usually had issues with this sort of thing now that I think about it. I just didn't want to get messed up; couldn't stand soaking and absorbing events I had never planned for.

I can actually remember breaking this trend. I was in a bathing suit and crabbing in Seabrook Island with my Dad and Uncle sometime around the 5th grade. I was no older than 12. It was sweltering hot and we were in a marsh which intensified the heat tenfold. The water below the dock was like a warm soup with tall fronds of grass tipping downward as if the noodles bowed to the heaty froth it was served in. I was termed the netter--while the crabbers hooked the crab I was responsible for netting it and bringing it into our bucket. It was low tide though, and the dock we were on was a solid 9 feet from the ground, making the netting task nearly impossible. We needed a 9 foot net, and the length of the one I was holding, including my short armspan, was about 3.5 feet. Against my will, I was forced below the dock, onto a muddy enclave splattered by the tides. It wasn't stable at all, and after about 30 seconds I was about knee deep and commiserating with the small sand crabs around me. In order to net though, I had to get even dirtier, even closer to the water where the mud was even softer. That's where I lost my care to be clean--the effort was obviously futile--and began netting. Our success rate increased drastically, and the amount of crabs in the bucket outweighed any of my cares about being covered head to toe in slop.

Canyoning, in relation, used the same carefree faculties I learned that long ago. It was a willing submersion. It was a mess and we got dirty.


Canyoning was a chance to get wet, explore waterfalls, canyons, streams and rocks in a way that I really hadn't been prepared for. At least we appeared to be prepared, Me, Ryan, John, Shannon, Garry and Meg, with out wetsuits on, harnesses strapped up, and helmets fit securely on our heads. The whole suit was incredibly uncomfortable. It was the type of thing that makes nudists turn nudist. We were constricted in just about every way, and the hike to where the canyoning really began was pretty much unpleasant despite the untouched green forest we were walking through. We had a very brief primer on how to abseil (or repel, as it is commonly referred to in the States) and then jumped straight into the water.

Our tour guide, Cam, was an experienced adventurer, having worked as a guide for whitewater rafting and scuba diving as well as canyoning. He offered us choices along the trail, usually either to jump or to abseil. The water we waded in was mostly shallow, except for certain points that he knew would be deep enough to jump in. The water was also home to eels of many sizes, however they never really got in the way. We only saw them while we were out of the water and eating lunch. They like tomatoes.

The first abseil was a bit of a beginner drop, 18m, and marked the first time abseiling for all of us. You are basically hooked on to the rope by a carabiner and control how quickly you go down. Keeping your left hand on the rope in front of you for balance, and the right hand on the rope behind you for control, you manuever your way down the cliff keeping your feet spread wide on the rocks. You control the slack by moving your right hand to your side for more, and behind you to stop completely. We usually ran two ropes at a time, meaning the first two people down acted as belayers in case of emergency. We all got down from the first cliff no problem.

We swam around in the freezing cold water that the waterfall spilled into and then moved forward through the creek, encountering yet another abseil. This one was the largest of them all and only our second abseil ever. It was a 50m straight down, and directly next to a giant waterfall (the one pictured above). Their was a pretty intense crack you could end up in, which gave you pretty much no footing on the way down. All of us seemed to get lost in it except the girls. Shannon managed to escape it entirely on the left and Meg mastered it by going right into it and putting her feet down. Both are in stark contrast to John, who desperately tried to avoid it by pushing off the rocks like starting blocks and launching himself away from the crack only to uncontrollably sway back into it like a pendulum.

Our last abseil was unlike the others. Rather than trying to avoid the waterfall, we plunged directly into it. The opening was very narrow, and we could only fit one person down at a time. I went down first and was responsible for getting set up at the bottom and belaying two people down. As I went down, I became entirely engulfed by the roaring water around me. The farther down I got, the more impossible it was to hear or see anything. I reached my legs down to where I'd finally hit the pond which marked the end of the abseil.

We all got down safely and started slithering around the stream, climbing on top of giant boulders like contestants in GUTS. Cam finally pointed to an area where we could cliff jump and we went for it. Because we are already soaking wet, the moment of impact was a flash flood of cold and felt rigid rather than smooth. We continued climbing around and jumping off certain ledges where it was possible. Each one seemed to be getting higher.

At other points we were told to squeeze ourself through small caves and between rocks. I believe there was always an alternate route, even when abseiling. But choosing not to do those sorts of things would be like playing beer pong with 7up. Canyoning is meant for those who want to experience it.

After a series of caves and jumps, we walked our way through the stream back to the car. We derobed in a motor lodge bathroom and brought our wetsuits back to the garage we picked them up in. We were back at Railway about 45 minutes later, all with aching joints and eyes worn but wide.

Surf n' Turf

My picture book continues.
So damn far behind, I hate to consolidate two posts in one. Especially with locations being such polar opposites as Piha Beach and Tongariro Crossing. But haste is necessary, and local diametricity is the norm here in New Zealand.

Example A) Piha Beach
Piha is a rugged west-coast town. Dark beach sands and nasty rip and surf. It's known as a particularly great surf spot, along with Raglan which is farther south down the coast. The location is actually a mere 40-minute drive from downtown Auckland. Like most beaches in New Zealand, the drive curves through varying amounts of rainforest and mountain ranges, until you finally peek around a corner and spot the ocean. Lion Rock, front and center in the shot, is Piha's most recognizable landmark. The surf at Piha is known as being incredibly dangerous, especially for novice surfers or daring swimmers. The beach is also unpatrolled, adding to it's risk.


Example B) Tongariro Crossing
This is the area known internationally as Mordor. To the left, Mt. Ngauruhoe stands as the real life Mt. Doom. It is one of the most mountainous regions of the North Island, with three of the largest peaks in the country. Mt. Tongariro, Ngauruhhoe, and Ruapehu are all active volcanoes, with Ruapehu being the tallest of the three, doubling as the country's largest ski field. This is the view looking west towards Mt. Taranaki on the west coast. The other side is the Rangipo Desert. The entire area is at a relatively high altitude and is particularly barren on all sides, with a large amount of thermal activity. On the North end of the crossing, it is possible to view Lake Taupo, the largest lake in New Zealand.

Piha was our first destination. It had been a long time since we've seen a clear day in Auckland, with record amounts of rainfall coming down since our semester break. With the outbreak of sun and the arrival of a new visitor in town, we hopped in a rental car and headed west to Piha. The drive was brief, and not long after curving through the Kaiteriteri ranges we spotted the rough surf. Our rental car, the Sprinter, headed straight for the beach. We parked and got onto the wet dark sand. It's been a while since anyone had been on a beach, so we dabbled for a while, scouring the sand for weird objects such as the odd embyonic type object to the right. Even more fun were the tentacly palm fronds that were littered all over the beach. When kicked, they flew through the air like flailing octopus legs. The beach was also littered with dogs, alive and kicking, playing fetch with their owners. As such domestic creatures are rare sights for college students, particularly students abroad, it was exciting to see the dogs in action.



Maybe even more amusing to watch was Piha's lone surfer that day. I don't know much about surfing but I could tell this guy knew what he was doing. He was jumping from wave to wave like he was playing hopscotch.

Then we turned our eyes to Piha's finest landmark--Lion Rock. It is a natural rock formation standing smack in the middle of the beach. I believe it's also been recognised as a war memorial as their was a plaque at the base with a roll of honour. (Ah--I'm starting to spell like them. All these NZ English academic papers. Z's replaced with S's, unnecessary U's. I can barely recognise myself anymore. Anyway...)


We climbed up Lion Rock. That's what we do here. Broken down real simple: we climb and we jump. We left jumping out this trip, since we've already done our share of expensive jumping. (Suprisingly, climbing seems to be the cheaper option)

There was a trail on the way up, but it was a pretty steep incline. The trail was made of dirt and rocks which were a little bit slippery and seemed to be falling out. When a sign prohibited us from going any further, we stopped for a little and took in the scenery. From either side you could see well down the coast. I figure if you look in the direction Lion Rock is facing you'd be able to see Australia.


Then we continued going further into the bush, past where the sign and the wood gate blocked us off. We were dedicated to getting to the summit, as any ultimate traveler would and should be. Bernie, Garry and I unfortunately had to settle for getting as close as physically possible, due to the route being completely impassable. I guess the danger sign was right. We turned back and started our descent down to the bottom. We all piled into the Sprinter and vamoosed back to Auckland packed like walrii in a clown car.



A couple days later...
The climb up Lion Rock proved to be the equivalent of speed bump in the landscape of New Zealand. We climbed into yet another Sprinter (apparently the only rental vehicle this side of Queen St.) and journeyed southward, past the bustle of Hamilton and then around Lake Taupo. Pulled into Turangi, our overnight shelter at around 10 PM, ready to rest up for the early hike in the morning.

We arrived, circa 7 AM, circa 20 degrees fahrenheit, at this:The flat looking path didn't last for long. The Tongariro Crossing, our full day hike, was my personal first foray into serious tramping in New Zealand. The crossing was graded as "challenging", and about a 17 km and 8 hour hike through the most active volcanic areas of Tongariro National Park. The entire track was elevated, starting at a base of 1150m, ascending to 1886m, then downward spiraling to 700m. We geared up, renting hiking boots and packing backpacks full of hats, gloves, extra socks, liters of water and PB&J sandwiches. It was an intensely clear day, but we had been told the weather was unpredictable at some of the higher altitudes, and sunny skies could easily turn into all out blizzard-like conditions in minutes. We were adequately prepared.


We began our walk on the flat path pictured, yet within minutes we began our ascent and left flat walking ground for higher peaks. We were winded early, hiking at a steady pace and wishing we could borrow a marathon runner's gaunt frame and swollen lungs for just the day. We looked ahead of us and saw "The Devil's Staircase", the part of track which caught the steepest incline between Mt. Tongariro and Mt. Ngauruhoe. Once climbing up the nearly 90 degree incline, while slipping on tumbling dirt and rock, the name seemed to make sense and didn't. The track was obviously created by some kind of evil, however a staircase it was most definitely not. It was just dirt and rock. No sight of stairs anywhere in sight. Using our hands for stablity and sometimes upward mobility, we sledged up the "staircase".

It was about 45 minutes to the top, and we stopped occasionally to check our view from the higher altitudes. It was actually so clear that from the centrally located park, we could see Mt. Taranaki all the way out on the west coast. The peak had been featured as Mt. Fuji in "The Last Samurai". Getting to the top of the staircase was by far the most strenuous exercise of our trip, however it granted us an extremely priviliged vantage point at basically the summit of Tongariro, extremely close to the summit of Ngaurahoe. The Ngaurahoe side track had been closed off for the winter, yet several groups equipped with crampons and ice picks chose to attack that track as well. I looked for Garth the glacier man but didn't find him. It was a nearly vertical climb to the top of the perfecly conular summit.

The three of us: Ryan, Drew and I, rested and ate an early lunch at the spot, enjoying the sustenance of peanut butter and raspberry jelly while meeting up with a couple of other students staying in Railway. At this point, we were barely 1/3 through the journey, but already us three Sir Edmund Hillary's felt like we achieved something of interplanetary excellence. And damn, the view from excellence is superb.
In the opposite direction--a giant crater.

We continued, walking around the edge of the crater and eventually slicing directly through it. It was extremely snowy, and thus very slippery. At one part there was a steep decline on ice, so I put my recently purchased waterproof pants to work, sat on my ass, and slid for as long as I could. To the right was a giant red crater--The Rangipo desert. This area looked like miles of barren red turf. It was, in fact, the last leg of Frodo's journey in Mordor, Mt. Ngaurahoe serving as Mt. Doom. After watching the movie, the area is quite obviously Mordor, however it shows the incredible amount of digital retouching that must have gone into the films. The volcano itself, well it's a volcano. It could easily be believed to be Mt. Doom, when it isn't the winter and isn't covered in snow. Peter Jackson felt the need to stretch it a little taller, make it a little less of a perfect cone, and billow hot reds and oranges out the top of it. The real life Mt. Doom does have a small cloud of smoke coming out the top of it since it is an active volcano. Continuing on the track we came to two perfectly emerald thermal hot pools, with ice surrounding the edges and steam oozing from the surface. The green of the lakes was pretty much the only green we had seen in the barren area we were walking on. Once went down the hill towards the pools we cut across the crater and began climbing up towards the larger blue pool that was at the top of Mt.Tongariro.
From there, we started a slow and long descent from the high crater. Falling from such great heights was painful, as there were several parts with large stairs 1-2 feet high that we seemed to be sprinting down. The snow began to vanish and slowly lakes popped out of the distance. But it was still a long downhill walk before we got to the end of Tongariro Crossing.

The last leg of the walk was through the Ketetahi Hot Springs, a private area that was granted to the government with limitations on access. This point, as a landmark on the end of the journey, was such a welcome sight, and an excellent place to stop to snap some shots. We crossed a stream and kept walking, down more dirt stairs. The stairs felt endless, the backpacks grew heavier on our shoulders, and knowing that this difficult part of the journey would only lead us to a parking lot was less motivational. We made it down the stairs on the mountain, ended up on stairs in the rainforest for a while, found flat ground and walked to the opening in the dense green brush.

Pictures

Technical Disturbances

I've relocated, for reasons various and unamusing.
Inknoise, my previous provider has cut me off from the mother wolf's teet.
Perhaps I've gone over my free-account storage limit?
Or is it Inknoise being shaky again, dealing with it's own "dos-attack" issues?
I'm hoping the issue is resolved soon so I can get back on it, but as for now this substitute is the quick and easy answer.

I've been gone long--not solely due to Inknoise.
The brunt of responsiblity lies with my failing Toshiba Satellite Laptop and inadequacies of kiwi computer repairmen named Merritt.
Since I'm incapable of expressing the complexities of my feelings in this brief post, I've broke them down into a simple 3-line haiku:

Computer Graveyard
Red keys, burnt hard drives and you
Among the wreckage

Powerful stuff.
I think I got the guy working on my computer fired.
That's what happens when you spend 6 weeks and bill 400 dollars for a simple manuever (reformatting the hard drive) that should cost nothing and take no more than 4 hours.

I've got a paper to write, so I must bid adieu.
In the meantime, look forward to posts on previous happenings, such as our tramp/climb through Tongariro Crossing and our road trip to Piha beach.
I've got loads of catching up to do, thank you Toshiba, Merritt, Inknoise and Schoolwork.

Webshots up soon.