April 9-10 Te Anau and Milford Sound

And so we bid a teary Kia ora to Queenstown. Kia ora is Maori salutation that means "be well". It can be used for both hello and goodbye. And though we were saying goodbye in Maori to one gorgeous part of the country, in just four hours time we would be saying hello to Te Anau our launching off point for Milford Sound, a UNESCO world heritage sight and arguably one of the most beautiful places on the planet. It looked like we might get over Queenstown.

Getting there wasn't going to be too shabby either. We pointed our trusty mini-van due south and followed the southern expanse of Lake Wakatipu toward the town of Kingston at its very southern end. It's a big lake, one of the biggest in the country, and the drive along it's eastern shore rivals the Great Ocean Road - at least for hairiness - if not for the view as well. The rating check for nausea levels was in full use for all passengers.

The weird thing about Milford Sound is that, as the crow flies, it's really quite close to Queenstown. However, there is the small or very large matter of a mountain range or two that stand in the way. As a result, you are forced to drive far to the south, following the lake until you have gone far enough to swing north again and drive back up the adjacent valley. In fact, you could easily drive to Milford Sound in an hour if not for those pesky mountains! Sheesh!

Te Anau is a pretty town that was bigger than I expected and seems to claim tourism as its main industry. With very few places to stay in Milford Sound, it's the perfect spot to rest and relax before your trip up the valley. A highlight of our time in Te Anau was a gluten-free pizzeria where Pat could finally enjoy some very good pizza and the mood was fun and festive as we all tucked in to one of our best meals of the trip.

In the morning we were up and at it early because we had a 11:00 am boat to catch in Milford Sound. With a two hour drive ahead of us and not knowing how many photo or nausea stops would be required, we loaded up the lattes and headed out. The first hour of the drive was stunning but relatively flat. The fields were covered with frost and the clouds were hanging low in the valley giving one that sense that we were headed for somewhere truly magical.

After about 1.5 hours, a few 'interesting" bits of road, and two stunning photo ops we came to a traffic light and a traffic jam. Well, not really but traffic was stopped dead. We had arrived at the Homer tunnel, a 1.3 km underground road that burrows straight through the side of a mountain and is the only way "down" to the Sound. A wonder of engineering, it took over 20 years to build with WW 2 getting in the way. It's only really got one lane, hence the traffic light, and within ten minutes it was our turn.

The rest of the road winds its way down to the Sound through a series of switchbacks and before we knew it we were pulling into a very large and very full parking lot close to a very functional visitors centre. I'm always amazed that you can travel so far and still find a latte and fresh croissant just when you need one. No, I guess we weren't exactly "roughing it in the bush" like good Canadians. On the shuttle to the boat docks we detoured by the busy airport where a fleet of helicopters had just brought in some hunters from a week's worth of killing. The freshly harvested deer antlers were a fascination for the boys who I don't think had ever seen the remnants of such a large, living dead thing.

Then, it was over to the wharf where we boarded our Red Boat Cruises boat and got comfy for a three hour tour... a three hour tour...any Gilligan fans? Well, this place, this unbelievable place is at once gorgeous and disarming all at the same time. Just as you think your mind knows what it is looking at, a huge boat appears no bigger than a speck against sheer cliff walls. They say that mountains do funny things to one's perspective of distance and size and I have never been in a place that toyed with that fact so wonderfully. Just as you were awed by the scale of one view, another appeared around the corner ready to take your breath away.


Highlights had to be the seals we trolled up to, basking on the only rock for miles and the waterfall the captain expertly stuck the bow of the boat into. Said to be twice the height of Niagara Falls, it sounded like we were standing beside a jet engine as the spray and mist covered our faces. It was a fun, awe-inspiring, crazy, once-in-a-lifetime moment and one that seems even more poignant when I think back upon it now. I hope the boys aren't becoming blase about all of the incredible things we are doing. I don't think they are. Our trip to Milford Sound and all of its tunnels, antlers, mountains and waterfalls will linger in their minds longest while all the other stuff fades....won't it? I don't see how it can't.

April 8-9 Queenstown

Queenstown is my kinda town. Not that I'm the bungee jumping type, but I am the outdoorsy, fleece-wearing, latte-slurping type and Queenstown's got all that and more. It reminded my very much of Whistler but with even more going on - if that's possible. Oh, and did I also mention the stunning scenery, world-class skiing, great shopping, killer restaurants, 5 star accommodations and wicked dance parties? It's got it all...but more on the dance parties later.

With the weather continuing to be wintery, our extreme sports window was appearing to be quite limited. I was immediately disappointed that the low cloud cover would postpone my paragliding lesson, but with steely resolve I...Not! There would be no paragliding, ever, but after a coolish swim and a slightly warmer sauna, we decided to scale the local gondola - straight up the side of Mt. Crumpet - or something like that, to take in the view and perhaps a little concrete luging.

Even on this cold and cloudy day Queenstown was hopping. I would need my most aggressive parallel parking tactics just to snag a spot remotely close to the gondola. Actually, the gondola is more like an elevator and my mind played "Spot the engineering fault" all the way up. Just as we miraculously neared the top, we whizzed past the AJ Hackett Bungee Jumping thingy and our/my hearts/heart lept at the mere thought of being on the same mountain as that obvious suicide machine. I don't know what my price is to bungee jump, but on this day a million dollars didn't seem to be nearly enough.

The luge is this very unique and way cool combination of toboggan, water slide, go kart and bicycle and its very addictive. You sit in a sort of sled-like thing holding onto a bike handle bar contraption, using it to break and turn. It is a tonne of fun and after Lint had pealed Alex off the wall in Turn 2, you couldn't wipe the smile off his face. After we all went once, with Bill leading the way, the boys and I "had" to go three more times, just because. If my helmet had even come close to fitting I might have agreed to a fifth run.

Extreme gondolaing and mountain luge were deemed to be enough wild activity for one day, so we headed back to our condo for a little grub and a dance party. We have this family tradition that every once in awhile we turn up the music and jump around the house. For whatever reason the boys were set on working up a few numbers on this night. Thankfully, the back-up dancers (aka parents and grandparents) were relegated to the role of spectator and we sat back to watch, giggle and drink wine as the boys performed 7-8 dances complete with costume changes and lighting effects. Sometimes the best moments are on top of a mountain and other times they are right in your living room.

In the morning we bade goodbye to our spacious accommodations and incredible view, caught a latte at the local Starbucks and got in the queue for our next big adventure - jet boating! All for the low, low price of a year's tuition we had booked tickets on the Shotover jet boats that run mere minutes outside Queenstown. Maybe the best known company in the country and with 2.5 million satisfied and still living customers in the last 35 years, we figured we were in good hands. And as we were soon to find out, we would want expert hands on that steering wheel!

While we had all planned to go, Pat decided that with a rough water warning, the river would do her back no favours. So, it was with heavy hearts we boarded our boat, met our driver "Telly", took a few snaps, and were gone. Two things that struck me immediately were how comfortable I was with padded seat and warm handrail and how friggin' close Telly could get us to the walls of the canyon. Of course, I kept saying, he's done this a million times but still...With incredible skill he slung and flung this boat up and down the river with 20 screaming passengers aboard. We did at least 3 full 360 spins without ever coming off plane and many times Lint, on the port side, could have easily touched rock. The boys were in heaven, including Grandpa Bill who had the front seat, and we all agreed, through wide perma-grins, that this once-in-a-lifetime treat came too quickly to an end.

And with that, we had officially "done" Queenstown. Not in a really extreme, risk-your-life-on-a-dare way, but still, in a kid, grandparent and family friendly way that we will all remember for a very long time. I was sad to leave and I guess the paragliders will have to wait for my return...

April 8 - Franz Josef to Queenstown

The van was still there in the morning, but not for a lack of trying on the weather's part. Man, this country is wet. The 12 year drought back in Australia seemed to be just a distant memory.

Today was glacier day but we would first need some serious parting of the heavens before the Franz Josef or Fox glaciers would come into view. After breky we optimistically set out in search of a glacier, choosing to park and walk to the nearest viewing platform for the Franz Josef, only ten minutes from our hotel. Thankfully, the rain let up (a bit) as the clouds moved higher up the mountains affording us a good view of what looked to be a glacier in a state of serious recession. I was amazed to see a sign on our drive in that indicated the glacier had been a full kilometre further down the valley a mere 20 years ago.

No longer content with staring at a bunch of ice and snow that wasn't really doing much, the boys indicated it was time to go. Alex, however, thought we were going to climb the thing and needed some serious "talking down" to get him back to the parking lot. Back on the road we decided one glacier was not enough, and with the Fox glacier only 20 minutes down the road, we made a quick detour to check it out. This was a real Chevy Chase at the Grand Canyon moment, as we hurriedly jumped out of the van, peered through some trees, took a few snaps and were then back on our way. Or maybe it was our version of the Amazing Race, and having conquered the detour, we were still ahead of "The Blondes" and the quirky, gay couple...

Whatever it was, our constant companions on this leg would be the winding roads, the rain, and the amazing number of single lane bridges. Like Aussie round-abouts, these babies take a little getting used to as you slow down (just enough) to figure out who's coming the other way. If it's clear then you swing onto the bridge and make your merry way across. It actually works quite well until you find yourself face to face with a semi half way across. Which we didn't. But I can't imagine having to back up, in the dark, over some raging river. I also wondered if single lane bridges were a purely economic decision or more a matter of rugged geography. Hitting one every 10 kms or so certainly gave one enough opportunity to wonder what the Kiwis have against building a bridge with two lanes.

We were now on our way to Queenstown on the shores of Lake Wakatipu - where they never have troubles, at least very few. En route we made a very buggy stop to take a pic at beautiful Ships Creek beach. Within seconds of exposing my pasty bare legs to the elements, these little buggers were onto me like flies on you know what. Like a black fly with a bigger bite, they must have smelled fresh meat and we were only to happy leave them to the German tourists just pulling in. Lunch would be in Haast at a popular diner that again featured fried food and more deeply fried food. When road tripping, like hang overs, grease seems to be all that you crave and I was quite content with my jumbo spring rolls and a few filched french fries.

The afternoon drive saw us climb up around some gorgeous inland lakes, surrounded by an endless display of mountain ranges. We were now in an area of the country that is a mecca for extreme sports enthusiasts from bungee jumping to jet boats and from paragliding to white water rafting. Passing through the outskirts of Wanaka, a smaller version of Queenstown, we decided to take a less major but more direct route along the Cardona Highway. It was a decision we will never regret. This was a road that needs chains in the winter and is touted as New Zealand's highest sealed road. There didn't seem to be one turn where one of us wouldn't gasp at the view, the road, or the drop off below. We stopped for a photo op at the heighest point of the pass and got a gorgeous glimpse of Queenstown far, far off in the distant valley. From here it was only another 45 windy and windswept minutes to our hotel.

Only now, it occurs to me, the beautiful serendipity of this experience. If we had listened to Mapquest or followed the obvious choice, we would have missed this gem and never been the wiser. Instead, we took a risk, tried something a bit different, and with apologies to Mr. Frost...that made all the difference.

April 6-7 - Christchurch to Franz Josef Glacier

I am tempted to let the pictures do the talking because if ever there was a country that truly befitted that statement - New Zealand is it. But now that I've gotten quite used to the idea of writing my own quirky interpretations of the scenes out the windscreen, I can't quite bring myself to leave well enough - and stunning scenery - alone. Let's just say, in another appropriate cliche, that words cannot describe the things we saw today.

Heading west from Christchurch we were quickly driving in the shadows of the Southern Alps. While the view in the distance was incredible, I was fixated on my more immediate surroundings. The Sheffield Pie shop adverstised some of the best pies in the country and so, quite happily, after only an hour and a bit of driving, we stopped for pies. Back in the van and accompanied by the warm and wonderful waft of a chicken vegetable country pie we once again put our heads down for the hills.

Just before a place called Castle Hill Village we came upon on a very unique rock outcropping. Well, they were more like boulders really, but the size of houses and apartment buildings. They were all stacked and scattered about as if some magic giant had simply emptied them from his enormous pocket. From a distance they didn't look like much, but when you placed a human beside one, the scale of their size and the surrounding hills was chin-dropping. The maori name is Kura Tawhiti and having never seen anything quite like them in my life, it was easy to see how this place could take on an sort of mystical importance. The kids seemed to pick up on the mystery of the place and didn't want to leave.

Soon after our clamber in Castle Hill we were climbing over a very rainy Arthur's Pass in the middle of the Southern Alps. Prior to the actual pass we spent a long time following what seemed to be an ancient flood plain as it flowed through an endless series of bordering peaks. This was my first sense of the place as it looks in Lord of the Rings. Once in the actual pass, it reminded us of Roger's or Crowsnest Pass in the rockies with steep cliffs, deep valleys and roads and bridges inexplicably stuck to the sides of it all. Unfazed by the constant switchbacks, slick road and one particular corner called Death's Turn - or something like that - we slipped out the other end of this impressive drive keen to find some lunch.

Unfortunately, for our stomachs anyway, we were in the middle of nowhere. The first few villages we came across were grey and uninviting with "hotels" that looked like the kind of place the Eagles were singing about - "You can check out anytime you like, but you may never leave". So we pushed on - finally coming to a halt outside a vacant looking milk bar run by a bit of a vacant looking local in a place called Kumara. She was quite nice actually, though the way she looked at us you would have thought we had just flown in from the moon. However, her fryers were shut down and with no more than a few crisps and lollies on offer we were forced to move on again. A few short klics down the road, we saddled up to a very good lunch, all things considered, in another very vacant but decidedly more friendly-looking roadhouse - the highlight of which was the kids platter pictured. Yum! And so good for you, too! I didn't know whether to have the Chips and chips or the Chips with a small side of chips.

Back on the road with bellies bursting, we turned onto Highway 6 and began the Southwest run along the coast toward Franz Josef. We still had some serious ground to cover but with the Tasman Sea now outside our starboard window, we had a different type of gorgeous scenery at which to gander. Throughout the trip I was struck several times by the quality of the air in this country. There is a smell to it that reminded me of walking in the forests of BC. It's a moist, rich smell that I can only describe as air that smells full of fresh, new life. It's one of the best and cleanest smells in the world. Perhaps as a direct complement to that observation, is the fact that we saw so few people, anywhere. As we passed hour after hour without seeing much more than a few sheep and the odd caravan, the more mundane of thoughts that continued to play about in my head was "Where would you buy groceries?"

As night began to fall I nudged the van through the pelting rain and on into the village of Franz Josef. We were here to see a glacier but with rain that was descending in unrelenting, almost deafening torrents, we would be lucky if our van didn't simply float away. However, the glacier and the floods would have to wait for tomorrow; for the rest of this night would be spent with family, good food and a wickedly fun hot tub before bed. Despite the day's turn at communing with this remote and rugged country, we were still quite content to bask in a few of our favourite creature comforts like good wine and warm, pulsating water!

April 4-5 Christchurch, New Zealand

About 2.5 hours out of Melbourne, our plane crossed the west coast of New Zealand. Trapped in the aisle seat, I had to crane my neck over the large bodies of the people beside me to catch a glimpse of what this new place looked like. When I did manage to steal a glimpse over the breasts and under the chin of the woman beside me, what I saw amazed and surprised me. There was nothing but mountains as far as the eye could see. The tallest were snow-capped, but the majority were dark, grey and forboding. They seemed to go on forever. I guess I had envisioned green, lush forests and valleys where Frodo and Sam frolicked in the shire, but it looked like we were flying over the moon. This would be the first of many wonderful surprises the land of the kiwi would have in store for us.

As we began our descent into Christchurch, I was again surprised by what my sore neck could discern out the starboard window. After flying for no more than 30 minutes past the west coast of the country we were now approaching its eastern shores. I don't know why - but it never occured to me that we were going to be touring a country that was not only more remote but also so much smaller than the monoliths of Australia or Canada. I wasn't even off the plane and the enlightenment that comes with travel had already begun.

Christchurch is a city of about 300 000 people situated midway along the east coast of the South Island. It sits right on top of an ancient volcano and is surrounded by low lying mountains with the larger peaks of the Southern Alps glimmering in the west. Said to be the most 'English" of New Zealand's major cities, the views coming in from the airport evoked Vancouver or Victoria with lush parks and comfortable looking homes lining the streets. It also didn't take us long to see our first rugby game, a school-boy tournament in a local park, reminding me just how rugby crazy this country is -the legendary All Blacks are one of their proudest achievements and exports.

Our journey was starting in Christchurch as we waited a day to meet up with Pat and Bill who had flown in to Auckland a few days before. From here we were going to spend ten days driving and touring the South Island while catching up on missed face-time over the last nine months. Our itinerary - expertly crafted by Lint - would take us to the west coast and the Franz Josef Glacier, down to Queenstown, further down to Te Anau and Milford Sound then over to Dunedin and back up to Christchurch to fly 'home" to Melbourne.

Not content to sit in our hotel all day, though the Heritage was palatial enough to offer that luxury, we scarfed down a sketchy but economically satisfying Subway sub and caught a bus to a local cable car. En route we sat near some ridiculously profane teenage girls who made me a little sad and reminded me that people can be rude in any country. Once at the cable car kiosk I was also reminded about the "island-time" mentality that exists here and in Oz. While empty cable cars headed up the mountain one after the other, the ticket guy was kibitzing with the customer in front of us for what seemed like hours. I had to breathe deeply and relax. What was my hurry? Where did I need to go but up the mountain? Still, I couldn't resist tap-dancing my credit card on his oh, so laid back counter top.

Finally, we were on our way up amidst the sheep and the sunshine. And what a view! After a brief and mildy informative "journey through time" ride we ran about the giant ski lodge-like building loving the 360 degree view, some ice-cream, and the courage of a couple of paragliders who nonchalantly jumped off the cliff in front of us. A brief but bloody brawl between the two boys that left Colin with a nice bite-welt in his back brought the fun to a halt, but not before Lint managed to take advantage of an excellent exchange rate in the gift shop.

A spa and a swim and a few cocoa puffs the next morning were all that separated us from re-uniting with Pat and Bill. They were a teary-sight for our long away eyes and we celebrated with some local grub in a pub. That night we attended quite a good Maori dinner-show-zoo thingy where we were introduced to Maori culture, real kiwis and took at turn at the traditional Maori Haka. It's the dance the All Blacks do before each game and involves a lot of foot stomping, thigh slapping, eyebrow raising and tongue-sticking-outing. The boys and I distinguished ourselves nicely.

The next morning we loaded up the mini-van and headed for the hills, literally. Our destination was the Franz Josef Glacier on a route that would take us into the Southern Alps. It was 4-5 hours of driving but with the momentum of memories from Christchurch also packed in our heads we were keen to see just how else New Zealand might amaze and surprise us.

The Burden of Learnin'!

Library books are heavy. I know this because I have been recently lugging several of them back and forth between school and our house. I'm right in the middle of several essays and while last semester I seemed to be able to get away with using online journals, cd-roms and e-journals, I am now finding myself cruising the stacks for some hidden but heavy gems of insight. By sheer weight and volume alone I could listen to a good argument for reading more online. But maybe, in order to flex my mind muscle, I need to pump a few paperbacks as well. Regardless, all of this heavy toteing has got me doing some heavy thinking about - the burden of learnin'!

Within a fit of writer's block and while walking among the many weighty and mostly dusty tomes filling the uni's libraries, I was thinking about the thousands upon thousands, millions probably, of writers and academics who have passed this way before. Where did these people find the time to research, write, edit and publish the incredible volume of work littering the shelves? How is it possible to know what you need to know to write something like the Complete History of the Great War and have a life at the same time? Is all of this writing, that looks so impressive, actually any good? I am currently labouring under the weight of my own expectations with respect to writing a few short essays and the "stress" of getting it right and achieving a decent grade at the same time is palpable. If this was my life's work or I was trying to meet my editor's deadline, I'm not sure this hack could hack it.

The other day in my web education class we were talking about the idea that "no thought goes unblogged" and I am certainly living proof of that. So while the academic prose does not flow quite as readily, technology has allowed this amateur writer to step up to the keyboard and instantly capture my apparently unique take on life. It's now, maybe more than ever, a publish or perish lifestyle we lead and my need to blog has become a cheap, cathartic form of therapy - without the couch. But is it good writing or good thought and does it matter? Should my sounding off into the ether bear the burden of proof in terms of actually being able to turn a phrase? And how will I learn to be better when technology makes it so easy to be an expert?

In my diverse learners course we were reading a journal written by an impressive sounding group of academics; future professors, Phds, authors and experts - and I found it to be drivel. It told me things I already knew with data which was largely unimpressive and inconclusive. Published in the Journal of Thinking, Winking and Nod, it came across as being important, but in the end was forgettable. And it reminded me that even for my own high school students, I need to break down the "packaging" that wraps so much of "good writing" in a pristine and irreproachable outer shell. Otherwise they will learn whatever the programmers, publishers, or teachers are selling. The ability to learn through critical analysis and discovery does not come without the burden of learning not just what to lift but how and why.

And speaking of why - last night I was helping Colin with his homework. This is a nightly dance that is often a struggle for both of us. I think he should embrace it and he thinks he should avoid it. For him, it gets in the way of everything and anything he would rather be doing. When I point out small errors, he gets upset. When he makes simple mistakes, I get upset. And as I continue to press him to do a job "he can be proud of", I am constantly trying to remember if I did even half the homework he does at his age...I'm sure I didn't. It makes me wonder if we haven't already got our kids on the treadmill toward Harvard before even knowing who they are or what they might be happier doing. For our kids, school remains fun, but homework has become a learnin' burden.

On still another note and another kid, Alex suffered under his own little burden of learnin' the other day. You see, for whatever reason that seemed logical in the mind of a six year old at the time, Alex decided to cut his hair -with scissors and at school. This might not have been so bad except that he hacked a sizeable chunk out of his bangs and took it right "down to the wood". It looked kind of like someone forgot to replace their hair divot on his forehead. Anyway he was a bit upset and embarrassed about the whole thing and though we were mildly sympathetic, there is of course nothing a parent can do. Nor should we. A great article I just read about children and technology says this - "At the heart of a child's relationship with technology is a paradox—that the more external power children have at their disposal, the more difficult it will be for them to
develop the inner capacities to use that power wisely." I see Allie's haircutting incident as part of the same burden we all take on in learning life's lessons around using the power that we have wisely. Unlike a video game, our actions "in the real world" do have outcomes that we or others might not like. And in life and haircuts, there are very few "Undo" buttons.

And finally there's me and this whole Master's abroad thing. I believe that I have thrown myself into it quite nicely. And I guess I better have. We've spent a ton of money to get here. But as I read and read and read some more, I do wonder what I am expected to do with all of this knowledge. Is it okay to keep it stored away in my brain? Should I use it to better myself, my career, the world? If I don't actually produce anything with it apart from a few essays, what have I really gained? Is higher education there to enhance one's ability to work and think or is it just a way of learning more about the things other people have already thought about - but on a deeper level? What is the point of cramming one's brain or library shelves with "learning"? Do we collect this stuff as a way of validating our intellectual prowess by adding a few more letters after our name?

From my backpack to the library shelves and the from the e-journals to the essays, I continue to wonder aloud and online about why so many of us continue in our attempts to climb higher? Cramming our bags and our brains with more knowledge, do we do it simply because it is there? Or have we been programmed from a young age, sitting around the dining room table after dinner while our ne'er-do-well friends played on into the twilight, that homework and learnin' were the hallmarks of a necessary success? I really don't know - but if the hours spent at the library or dining room table don't result in the desired outcome - is that still okay? Is learning allowed to be just that or must there always be a finished product - like another degree, a lousy essay or even a bad haircut - attached?