Reacquaintance with New Zealand

I got into Christchurch from Sydney close to midnight. Seeing the lights of town from the plane was just as cathartic as leaving Sydney. There was instant recognition of areas previously frequented but about which I had not thought for months. It was like a welcome into a friend's home.

After eventually being allowed to pass through customs after my mountain bike got the glove test, Walter was there to meet me depite the grumblings of the late hour on the night before our trip. Nowhere is far from anywhere in Christchurch at those hours, so we were to his house before we had even had a chance to catch up. Agnieszka stayed up to greet me and, gracious hostess that she invariably is, poured nightcaps for all of us. It was a welcome into a friend's home.

The next four days were a fantastic trek to some of the best mountain biking sites in a country that is one of the best in the world for that sort of thing. I was hanging out with a good friend but at the same time on a guided tour. Great fun, great scenery, and the sense of that last hoorah.

The New Zealand "mainland" once again did not disappoint, as I hope the photos attest. We spent the first night in Naseby, an OLD town if measured on the scale that Americans , Kiwis and Aussies would be used to. It was established in the gold rush days, a time that paralleled ours in the states, and it looks like it hasn't changed much. A high mountain town, it must be pretty harsh in the winter. Heck it was brisk in summer, so I would think harsh understates it. It now caters less to goldminers and more to tourists, mountain bikers, and hikers, as it is nestled into national forest land. From the center of town it is only a couple of city blocks to trails. A couple of neat, cozy taverns survive to feed the population, a blend of the locals and the passers-through. We attended one of them after a ride that evening, then more thoroughly explored the trails the next morning after coffees and breakfast and the best-- okay only, but still quite good-- coffee house. We were intending to meet up with the owner of the one bike shop in town as we had arranged when we ran into him at the tavern, but he had managed to cut his foot on the walk home late that night (as he told us later), so he passed on being a guide. My donation to his imbibement may have been a contribution to his deliquency. So sans local navigator we struck out on our own and covered almost all of the area, to the point that we felt we had pretty much mastered the best of it. Some wicked roller-coaster runs just kept getting more fun as we got to know them better, and there were some long uphill grunts, but they always led to long fun downhill trails. A genuine hoot. As hooked down the open trails and then the roads down into town, we were followed by a pickup. As he pulled alongside, I recognized the park ranger emblem on the truck door. The driver kindly hollered that the park was closed that day due to the high fire risk. Struggling to imagine a spark from a mountain bike starting a blaze, I affirmed that we would not re-enter the forest, and he went on his way.

Around midday we loaded up and drove across town-- I don't think the engine got warm-- to the nation's headquarter for curling. The other pride of the town, it is the premier spot for the sport, and apparently popular. After seeing only a single additional car on the road as we negotiated through the sleepy town, Walter and I were both taken aback to find a couple dozen cars outside this aluminum-sided building that lay outside of town past a couple of pastures. Inside it was very professional. Both being rookies, we watched a short introductory video, got some additional tips from the lady who was running the establishment, then took our turns on the lane. Next to us the national team, in their matching gear, practiced, not in the serious, brow-furrowed, sweat-dripping manner of other sports, rather in a jocular, elbow-chumming way that I think must be more common, certainly more befitting, curling. We recognized the captain of the team from his autographed poster in the cafe where we had eaten. His mother was the barista.

Another aspect of Naseby mastered, we still made it about an hour down the road to Alexandra and take in a ride. Remember, nothing is far from anything in this land. Our trail ran alongside a river and by Naseby standards was much less traveled. But is was a good time. With the sun out till 10:30 at night, it was too easy to stay out past dinner time. By the time we got back near town I was famished. We barely made it to a resaurant before they closed. I devoured a big Thai dish until I made myself ill.

Next stop was Queenstown. There must be entire books written about this area, so suffice it to say this was the highlight of the trip. Two days of riding-- one on a designed playground for moutain bikes throughout a forest on the edge of Lake Wakatipu, the second an epic ride through a couple of sheep and cattle stations around the back of a mountain (read huge climb into mountain pass) and past a couple of lakes, less than coincidentally ending up at the aforementioned playground to make a few more passes. We got back to town just in time for me to rent a car, then kicked back at a lakeside cafe with a view of the mountains to take it all in and recuperate. That evening I headed west to Te Anau, while Walter, having to work the day after next, took my bike with his and logged a few kilometers on his journey back to Christchurch, making for an easy drive the following day.

The next morning I was up early--not before the sun, mind you, as it came up around 5:30, but I only missed it by a couple of minutes-- to join a few others to be picked up by our guide and transported about 90 minutes and through an OLD 1.2 km tunnel into Milford Sound. Though the motorized boat cruise is much more popular, I elected for a kayaking trip. Peaceful and more in touch with the sounds and scenes than a yacht, in retrospect it was a great choice. We paddled up to the foot of one of three waterfalls that pour into this very tranquil body of water, then further along to a small rocky beach for lunch. Fur seals, once near extinction, occasionally can be seen basking on rocks along the shore, and that day was no exception; we paddled within a few feet of a couple of them. Apparently they were males exiled from the colony that now flourished near the mouth of the sound, biding time until they were old and strong enough to contend for some of the females.

We had chosen a good day. The sites were amazing, and despite being the second wettest place on the planet, there was minimal rain AND minimal wind, another rarity. The sun shone on the snow-covered moutaintops and the paddling was easy.

The next day was just a trip back to Christchurch, a fun solitary cruise with stops for photos and one for a compound just outside of Wanaka dedicated to puzzles. The predominant amount of space went to a lifesize maze, the original structure there. It reportedly takes 60-90 minutes to complete, more than I had to offer, so I milled among the books, smaller puzzles, and optical illusions for just a bit. I was back to Christchurch in plenty of time to join Agnieszka and Walter for a nice dinner out in Sumner.

The next morning it was packing, goodbyes, and departure. A sort of microchosm of the trip in general. And the mind started to switch to winter, short days, family, and home.

Photos:

1. Where are the 2014 winter olympics held?

2. Walter in Seven-Mile moutain Bike Park

3. The end of the epic ride, Lake Wakatipu behind.

4. Early on the Queenstown epic ride

5. Queenstown wrap-up

6. Kayaking Milford Sound

7. On the road back to Te Anau

8. The kayaking crew. Oh, what a fiordland!

9. Roman bath house: doing number II?

10. Magestic Mt. Cook over Lake Pukake

I have decided. Having arrived at home and with so many changes and a new year, everything indicates a new chapter. A new blog.

Getting back in touch

Ah, decisions, decisions. Does one start a new blog at the end of a chapter, or just consider it the end of the chapter, change the title, and move forward?

I wanted to write a couple of weeks ago, but the closer I got to the end of the fellowship, the faster things moved, and the more things entered into the to-do list, each also moving quickly. The conference and presentation, the last of data collection for research, the weekend on call the last weekend in Sydney, the packing, the goodbyes. Ooft.

Might I add that I brought a bit of it on myself, planning my departure flight the evening of my last day at work. Fridays are usually at the children's hospital-- on the other side of the city. Not a problem, since I could just take my bags with me, something I had done when flying out before. I just hadn't taken into account turning in the keys for the apartment, which could only be done after inspection, which requires the cleaners to do a spotless job, not easily done with furniture in place. So all of that would best be done on Friday.

The good thing is that someone usually stays behind to mind the fort-- admissions, discharges, emergency surgeries-- at our regular hospital, Royal North Shore. In fact, we recently modified it so that two of us stay back, the orthopedic registrar and the on-call person. Unfortunately, the ortho reg was out of the country that week, and none of the others felt any inclination to stay behind. I was clearly needing to be one of them to stay behind, but being solo stretched it kind of tight.

Fortunately, things worked out so that if I ran in high gear, I could hold it together. The guys who claimed the last of the furniture came over midmorning. The cleaners were on time. There was no time to allow a couple of small surgeries that were in the queue to go until the afternoon. So I hauled borrowed golf clubs and several bottles of wine up the hill to the consultants clinic, rounded on patients, cleared the ER of consultations, said goodbyes to friends along the way, and ran back and forth to the apartment to meet with aforementioned parties. Every time I entered a stairwell or an elevator, my loss of phone reception would result in beeps about five seconds after emerging telling me I had missed a couple of calls. Needless to say, when I hauled my bags to through three train stations and an airport, I must have been a deodorant poster-child.

The hustle behind me, leaving Sydney was one of those cathartic experiences worth noting. Starting right after the conference up in Port Macquarie, I began to get that subconscience change of mindset. I really wanted to recognize it as it occurred since it is a rare sensation. I suppose it is also necessary, as it keeps your mind on the imperitive preparations. Whenever at rest, my mind shifted from habitually thinking about hand surgery or errands or projects to the packing, family, trip logistics, what it must be like at that moment on Louisville. It it truly an odd sensation to feel the shift. It also causes a change in the emotions and perspective when looking at things. Will Mason had commented on the same thing, in a way, six months ago when his fellowship was ending. He noted how he looked at the harbor differently, how he wanted to get down to The Rocks district near the CBD one more time, even though he had been there plenty in the past. Unfortunately, with a lack of time, I never made it down there to say goodbye to the city, so to speak. I didn't get to take that last run through the streets, get a last cup of coffee from the best cafe, or one more bike ride over to Crows Nest, the adjacent suburb with the huge selection of restaurants and shops. Granted, the last time I had done them became the last time, but without the ceremony of consciously taking it in as the last time, the experiences felt shortchanged as I sat on the plane. I find the value of that farewell experience ineffible, but the value is still there. As if the coffee would have tasted better, the water would have looked bluer, if seen through farewell eyes.

Looking out of the plane at the disappearing cityscape, once again picking out my suburb more easily than the last time, I corrected myself-- my former suburb. Yes, I began to miss the city and realized that most of those friends I will never see again. It is a gorgeous city, and though it took a long time to find the networks and right contacts, there is a lot to do there. But I was really excited to get back to New Zealand, hang out with Walter, and see the most picturesque parts of what I already considered the most beautiful country. Moreover, it was a huge step toward getting home. From this point forward, I was going to be living out of a suitcase, more like a vacation than living elsewhere.

The home stretch

There has been a good bit going on, but I have clearly lapsed on the blogging. I even let a full week of vacation go by without a single entry. So I suspect going into this one that I will have to keep it to summaries. Should some need more fleshing out, then let me know, I will go back with a finer brush.

Things I have to include:

• Uluru
• The trip home
• The contract
• The gestation
• Progress in the fellowship
• Thinking about the move home

But I have to get it in now, because Squid will be here next weekend for the MotoGP race (Think Formula 1 of motorcycles.) down near Melbourne. I hope there is plenty to write about from that trip, and I don't want to fall further behind.

The return from the Whitsundays was merely a layover in the trip from Airlie Beach to Uluru. Since there was no direct flight, we either had to go through Brisbane or Sydney. Since one of them had no hotel bills...

Home late one night. Back to the airport early the next morning. Unfortunately, it still takes most of the day to get to the geographic center of nowhere, but we made it well before sundown, checked into the hotel, and still had time to go to the Sounds of Silence dinner. If you ever make it there, the trip would not be nearly as fulfilling without this event. Great food and bottomless wine glasses followed champagne-- all out in the sands away from the largest thing resembling a town, namely the hotel village. Mind you it costs a good deal, but to get good cooking with quality foods in an area so remote that it took until about a quarter-century ago to form any settlement there, I would think that it would cost a fair bit of investment. But to sit under heaters, talking with folks from all over the world while watching the sun go down and the stars emerge, then hearing brief talks about the history and constellations made for a fantastic evening. I think all four of us found it very enjoyable.

After milling about on the hilltop about ten minutes outside of the hotel village, sipping champagne and nibbling on hors d'oeuvres, we were escorted down to tables of ten or twelve settings each. We sat at a table with two other parties, one from Melbourne, as I recall, the other group from Italy. We chatted and snapped plenty of photos of Uluru and the Olgas while the sunset made them more and more picturesque. The nearby campfire helped with the warmth, and all three of us began stacking on the layers of clothes we had been advised to bring as the thermometer plummeted. We were anticipating incredible views of countless stars but had not taken into account the perfectly full moon, one of the really bright ones that casts shadows. It bleached out most of the stars but left us with the major constellations. We learned several of them from the storyteller and lecturer, most importantly the Southern Cross, the symbol on both the Kiwi and Aussie flags. A couple of large telescopes were provided for us to check out the stars and the moon. We could easily make out one of Jupiter's moons, as well, but our moon through the telescope initially was blinding!

It was a wonderful evening, and the spirits provided some great quotes, the topper of which was from Amenia to acquaintances she talked with during the bus ride back. As they were left off at their hotel, she bid them goodnight with, "Have fun being a cop!" The quizzical looks on their faces, or rather, Amenia's jovial and sincere face surrounded by our quizzical ones, was priceless.

The next morning, I got up early and headed out to the rock. With the City to Surf race only a couple of days away and of the same distance, more or less, as the circumference of Ayers Rock, I thought it a great way to get some exercise and a feel for the sacred rock. I pulled into the first parking lot that I came to, the headlights pointing at the base of the gargantuan single piece of stone. I had about twenty minutes before the sun began to come up, so I took my time and stretched in the chilly air. A rare bus toodled past, carrying passengers to the east side of the rock, about ninety degrees from where I was, but I was alone in this area. I headed off down the natural cinder path as light was emerging on the horizon. It was silent except for the rhythmic crunching of cinder under my shoes. Amazing, I thought, that such a world landmark could still afford such solitude. I felt it was just me and the rock.

I could not have left at a better time. The sun came up as I rounded the northeastern bend and struck the rock with brilliant colors. The shadows in the crooks of stone at that angle made it even better. It turns out that the red color is due to oxidized iron on the surface-- rusting rock. And while deviating from the topic, I will give you another tidbit, mainly because it is the only one that I picked up from one of the park rangers: geologists have figured out that this monolith is actually tipped on its side. While standing more than 11oo feet tall, it extends about 5 times as deep. As one of the Australian websites sites states:

Uluru is not a giant isolated boulder, partly-buried in the desert sand. Instead, it's part of a huge mostly-underground rock formation, that's 100-or-so kilometres wide, and perhaps 5 kilometres thick. The only three parts visible above the ground are Uluru, the magnificent domes of Kata Tjuta (formerly known as the Olgas) and the forgotten mountain, Mount Connor.

Fantastic.

As I ran, I paused now and again to snap a photo. I am so glad I did; it turned out to be one of my more memorable runs.

The farther I got around the rock, the more frequently I came across other people, the deposits of the aforementioned buses. Initially only one or two, or a group of four taking pictures of each other with the wonderful backdrop. For as ideal a setting as it was, I was surprised that I came across no other runners until the very end of the run, three of them heading out as I finished at the parking lot.

As I got back around to the west side, more than half an hour later, I re-entered the shade, and the path again reapproximated the rock, as it had worked it way to a distance of a couple hundred yards from the edge at other points. In the distance I could now see Kata Tjuta (the Olgas), a rock collection about 30 km away. This side was much less accessible as the roads veered away toward the main roads through here, so I was again relatively alone. Wonderful solace.

Next thing I know I see a couple of people up on the rock, about 100 feet up, standing as silhouettes with the sun shining more toward me. I continued around to where they were to see a throng--a large throng, as groups in the middle of nowhere go-- of people milling about a car park, snapping countless photos of more people up on the rock. Some just went up twenty or thirty yards to pose, others were working their way up a linear path straight up the side of this large rock. With their numbers, and the relative size of the rock, the image of ants seemed very similar. They climbers were following only a set of posts with a chain running about two feet off the ground. I couldn't help but imagine a scene of confusion caused by removal of a single section of chain, just as ants would do if you removed a leaf they had all been climbing over.

I looked around to see a parking lot FULL of cars, scarcely a spot left. A majority of them white Mitsubishis and Toyotas, not unlike our rental. In fact, wondering how much farther I had to run, and not wanting to repeat my loop, I hit the door lock on the keychain remote, and sure enough one of the cars blinked its parking lights at me! My lonely parking lot from an hour earlier was now quite the popular scene! I had unknowingly parked right in front of the climbing route in the predawn. In recollection, I had seen a ranger vehicle drive over to perimeter fencing in the dark, but I only then realized that he had been opening the gate to the ascent.

And so ended one of my favorite runs.

Later that morning we drove back to the mighty rock with intentions of climbing it, only to find a posting at the park entrance stating that the climb was closed due to high winds at the summit. With a quick shift to plan B, we headed over to Kata Tjuta and hiked into a crevasse between two of the half-dozen or so rocks. For all being members of a giant sheet, as mentioned on that website I quoted, they are a very different formation, looking more like dribble castles of sand than the single layered sheet that is Uluru. Within the gap of these rocks was a space of ground that remained well shaded much of the day and had become a little oasis. In spots the trees and brush grew thick, and populations of birds and other fauna flourished, quite a contrast to the harsh desert beyond the rocks' edges. There were a couple of pools of water that looked like they held water more often than not.

But we saved time in the afternoon to climb Uluru should it be reopened. Our timing was great, as it had only recently been reopened. We parked in the same lot, craning our necks to see the steepness through the windshield. After significant debate regarding our courage, the possible need versus the burden of toting water, and the arguable sacredness of the climb, Amenia, Hud, and I set off. Joey opted to remain at the bottom.

Again our timing was good, as we had enough time to get to the peak and back without a rush. But the steepness and the lack of safeguards put the fear in us big-time. It would only take a misstep to tumble all the way to the bottom. If you stopped it would be due to the friction of the harsh rock surface against your skin, but that would only be after you tumbled off of the narrow path worn smooth by the many footsteps, which only made it easier to slip. You see the cycle of thoughts that raced through my head.

And as we got farther up, the winds picked up and the cars below got smaller. And the distance we could fall increased. I began to ponder the guilt I would have either of my companions fell, a twelve year-old and my good friend from high school, two of the people you would rather not lose. But heck, we had already begun and had set this as an achievement.

We had to take frequent breaks, every minute or so, due to the steepness and in order to stick together. We white-knuckled the chain, only to be shocked by its termination. Well before the peak! In someone's mind, the worst of the climb was behind us. I assure you that was not the case. Chains had been replaced by the safety of stripes of white paint. Marvelous. The sections that were ahead did include sections where you could stand upright, even walk at a near normal pace, but other points, as we crossed the ridged of rock layers now turned on edge, were steep rollercoasters of uphills and downhills of about ten or fifteen altitude. Now I wondered how difficult a quarter mile of elevation would be over rock with a twisted ankle or bleeding cuts.

Then there was the thirst. Mind you, we had opted against the water. Heck it was the middle of winter and the warmest part of the day was behind us. As it turns out, a dome-shaped rock hides most of its altitude beyond your line of sight when you are at its base. It's also the bloody desert, that dry heat. So we were panting and not even half-way up. We were extremely grateful to a descending climber--who looked all to fresh-- when he gave us the remainder of his second large bottle of water.

Thirst resolved and cooled by the wind gusts that attempted to make us the 37th-39th deaths on the rock, we reached the metal disc that identified the distant points on the horizon and the fact that we had reached the peak. The obligatory group photos were well earned. And after a good break and taking it all in, trying to memorize the scale by which the cars below had shrunk, we set off along the undulating stripes of paint, proud of our achievement of cheating death, realizing there was no option but to accept double-or-nothing in order to reach the bottom.

My expression of fear is no exaggeration, but it was apparently not unanimous. The fact that only 36 people have died, only about one every three years or so, is astounding. When you consider the number of yahoos in the world-- a fair proportion, it seems-- then add it non-gravitational causes of death, namely myocardial infarct, it does seem a low figure. I also have to add that we were passed by a nine year-old on the way up. Shortly followed by his seven year-old brother. And on the way down we were passed by a few Aussie mates who clearly had made the climb several times before and seemed to be doing it again simply because there seemed to be nothing on the tele. They strolled down the slope a couple of strides lateral to the chain (i.e., well out of arms reach) with the absolute calm you might see as they walked down a boatramp. The image was solidified by their shorts and flip-flops! This only made me feel that my death, which I was no less convinced was still coming for me, was also going to be embarrassing and underappreciated.

There were several other great moments in the trip, including the camel ride at dawn the next day, and the blitz to reach the plane on time. Again with the timing, and in the rush I am sure that the teamwork was not fully witnessed by any of us, we pulled off a feat that could not have been done in an airport any larger or more stringent on rules. Imagine, if you will in slow-motion, the blasting open of all four doors of a sedan as it comes to an abrupt halt in the gravel parking lot-- all four rows of it. The woman bee-lines for the entrance while the three guys grasp for bags in the trunk. Plumes of dust are kicked up by the furiously spinning little wheels on the suitcases. Inside we split up as I take the keys to the rental desk and the other two convince joined said woman at the check-in to take our bags.

This is where Amenia's brilliance shined. Mind you, it is not a great distance from car rental desk past baggage carrousel (singular) to the baggage check-in, but in the time it took me to join them, Amenia had charmed her way to the front of the line with amazing dispatch. Our fame must have preceded us, as the folks at the desk seemed to already know who we were. She spoke into her walkie-talkie, "Hold the door, those last four are here."

It turned out to be not such a big deal. We didn't hold up the plane a bit. In fact we joined the back of the line before the last of them had started climbing the stairs off the tarmac onto the plane. We were seated before my sweat had had time to dry (no small feat in the desert air), and off we went for Sydney.

The Munns still had several days to spend in Sydney with me, though I had to head back to work the next day. We had a great time, eating out at great places each night. Hats off to Hudson for being so willing to try new foods and take in the multiculturalism that is Sydney. But I think for all of us the best was the bridge climb. What amazing views and dusk, as the downtown city lights emerge and sailboats pass beneath. And the heights? I don't think we even batted an eye.

And after all that, I go back to my checklist.

• Uluru
• The trip home
• The contract
• The gestation
• Progress in the fellowship
• Thinking about the move home

Well, we can check off the first one.

Photos:

1. Dinner time at Sounds of Silence
2. Sunset first night
3. Joey by the campfire with Kata Tjuta in background
4. U.S. missile target
5. Some of Uluru during morning jog
6. Uluru (aka Ayers Rock)
7. Ants
8. Kata Tjuta (fka the Olgas)
   
9. An oasis in the Olgas
10. Death grip
11. View from the summit of Uluru, 1141 feet up.
12. Kata Tjuta from camelback at dawn
13. Uluru from camelback
14. ...please.
15. The galah, of the famed expression, "that bloody galah", meaning fool, idiot.
16. Bridge climb
    

Sailing Day 3

Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Today we did the least traveling but the most activity, by far. We started with another great breakfast from our chef, who hasn’t let us down once in any of the seven meals he has prepared yet. I have yet to leave a morsel and have often devoured the remainders of Hudson’s plate. After the eggs benedict, we had our first dive.
I was surprised how little preparation was required. We honestly spent about five minutes in chest deep water learning how to rid the mask of water, how to equilibrate pressure in the ears, and how to use the regulators. Then off we went on the dive. After hearing so much about the process of getting certified diving, I was impressed how easy it was to do an introductory dive. Granted they watched us like hawks and didn’t make the student:teacher ratio greater than 2:1, and they knew their stuff. I didn’t feel like I was taking a risk. In fact, I think it is a fabulous way to test the waters, if you will. And of all the places, the thought of having been out here without seeing the things that we saw; well, it would have been criminal.
The real experience was in the sensation of being in another world, however. To be totally removed from what was going on at the surface, and to realize, from the flip perspective, that all of this lies beneath and is going on as we float above. All this life, coral and fish, all of it in great colors and patterns, there all the time. Not just an event, but a continuous part of life that I have never seen, and most people never do see. But being down in it is quite different than even snorkeling. The latter is a far cry better than looking through aquarium glass, but there is a sense that you can only penetrate that environment a bit even snorkeling. When you are at the same depth of the fish, mixing among them at their more comfortable depth, you actually are interacting with them in their environment, not just spectating.
I did have some problems with the second dive, which was this afternoon in Butterfly Bay. I had much more difficulty getting the pain of pressure off of my ears. I really had to force the Eustachian tubes to open, more than I felt comfortable using. It detracted from the dive, providing a preoccupation from the views and the other SCUBA nuances. I eventually got down to the 8.5 meter mark, about the same as the first dive, but it took numerous equilibrations. I attribute the problems to swelling accompanying the sinus drainage that I have had the past couple of days. Future dives will tell.
I did snorkel a couple of times today as well, once before and once after lunch, and I have to say there is much less stress with cruising this way. I saw most of the same critters, though from limited perspective. And several of the species were curious, gregarious, or hungry. They would occasionally follow you, keenly watching. Several times I would pause to look around, only to see the same school of fish close behind. There were also a few larger fish that liked to mingle amongst the divers. These included a hump headed Maori wrasse, which weighs in at about 60 kg; and a giant travelly which reportedly can outrun a shark. I haven’t—and desire never to have—seen a shark in pursuit—of anything, but I believe this big fella could give a shark a run for his money. He slowly mosied around Joey and me while we did our afternoon snorkel, then he would slowly curve down and around some coral, maybe wander off for a minute, only to return and see what progress we had made—an insignificant distance in each case, I assure you. Then, without hesitation, he darted off. He was gone in an instant. I would have been more impressed if I hadn’t immediately pondered his motivation. Turns out it was nothing, either fun or a false alarm, but Joey missed his hyperwarp entirely by just looking away for a moment, even though the fish had been only about five feet below him.
Other things I have seen here: a green turtle, many sulfur-crested cockatoos, a sea eagle, and a dolphin that came around the boat tonight while we were all awaiting dessert in the dining area. We got to see the dolphin as he came to the surface several times while hunting the squid and small fish that dance in the fringes of the light emitted from the boat. It was peaceful, delightful.
Tomorrow we head to shore, take a rental car about three hours north back to Townsville, then fly back to Sydney. Thursday we depart for Uluru!

Sailing day 2

Monday, August 03, 2009
First let me say that I believe that I come from a long line of landlubbers. I do not have great sea-legs by any stretch. I seem to be able to handle what moderately sized lakes have to offer, but this application of medium-sized vessels (in this case a 32’, 250 ton ship, technically speaking) on open water is beyond the abilities of my middle ears. The trip out to Hook Island from Airlie Beach was over rough water with fairly strong winds. I fortunately did not have too full a stomach, and all stayed within the GI tract, but the impulse was there. At one point I felt the masseter muscles start to tighten up. That was my first clue to get above board and affix my eyes on the horizon. I also consumed a couple of lollies of crystallized ginger, these chewable, sugar-coated candies. I can see why they may not be the most desired sweets in the candy store, but they undoubtedly helped.
Today was a little bit better. Perhaps due to prophylactic ginger; perhaps by staying on the upper decks with large views, near the midportion of the boat; I managed to stay a touch more in control of the nausea. Much of the time we were working with the wind, so that the chop was less. Even though we were working against the tide, the pitching and yawing were less.
Unbelievable that many a person was at work today. Amongst our activities was, with Hudon at the helm, a trip into Tongue Bay, folowed by a dinghy ride to shore and a hike over to Whitehaven Beach. Apparently a fixture among these tours, it is a well known beach, and rightfully so. First are the spectacular views from the beach, and even moreso from the lookout points along the ridge halfway along the hike. The inlet has beautiful blue water streaking back and forth along the inlet amongst white sand. And that sand is just as wonderful tactilely as visually. It turns out that is because it has very fine grains and minimal organic pollutants. It is 98% silica, the highest in the world. As is everything along the Great Barrier Reef, it is illegal to take any of this sand, but the one exception has been the donation of some for the creation of the lens in the Hubble Telescope. Interesting stuff.
Down in the pools that form with the changes in the tide, there are multitudes of manta rays. It is rumored to also have plenty of baby sharks, though none of these materialized to anyone in our group of eighteen during our visit. The rays were abundant however, and in the warm shallow water, it was a delight to walk among them and see them glide slowly away, like gently repelled magnets. You could also see them well, numbering a couple of dozens, from the lookout points high above.
We had our first snorkeling experience after lunch, on the edge of Border Island. The current was running strongly out to sea along the steep shore, but if we continued to swim toward shore at a good clip, we could slowly make our way along the reef that snuggled the rock wall. The water was a bit clouded due to the turbulence, but I reckon we could see a good ten meters below in spots, enough that I could make out the four divers and two instructors from our boat. I saw a loggerhead turtle, a school of Dori fish (Funny how a cartoon can change their perception.), but otherwise only the occasional loner fish feeding on a relatively grey reef.
We are currently parked in a bay on the northwest end of Hook Island. We got a spot at one of only a handful of moorings that have been placed in the region. They are posts that the government has placed in inlets layered with thick coral. It was a surprise to the captain to find one free, so there was a change of plans, resulting in an extra site for us to dive. So tomorrow we just plunge off the ship itself and take in the sites before proceeding around to Butterfly Bay, our intended endpoint for today. I have high expectations, having seen a batfish just while we were mooring, and having heard the description of fish in this cove with “laborador-like” behavior, calleed hump-headed Maori wrasse. Sounded cute until the captain described their 60 kg stature. Sweet dreams tonight…

Photos by Joey:

1. We stopped to watch some harvesting of sugar cane, transported into town in the bins shown on small rails.
2. One of the best shots of the Whitehaven Beach
3. Hud at the helm
4. Joey and I go diving
5. Down time out on the back deck
   

The Vacation Part

We are now back from vacation. The Munns having been here for two great weeks, they have recently returned stateside. We all traveled to the islands of Queensland and then to "the Red Centre" over the first week, then I returned to work while they saw Sydney for a week. It was great.

Somehow I lost internet service on the open water and amongst the islands. Who knew? The blogs have had to be stored until we got back on land, and when I had time to catch my breath. Those Munns ran like mad. I hope they got to sleep on the plane!

I have a few entries, entered while holed up in my below-deck cabin, listening to the waves gently slosh against the boat. I will spread them out over a couple of days.

Sunday, August 02, 2009

It is the end of the first day of our three-day, three-night sailing adventure amongst the Whitsundays, and by we I mean Amenia, Joey, Hudson, and myself.

Yesterday we caught an early flight out of Sydney to Townsville then drove down to Airlie Beach, where we stayed at the Whitsunday Lodge Bed and Breakfast. After a little shopping, returning the rental car, and providing some medical care to a trauma patient, we hiked over to Abell Point to ship out for an evening sail out to Hook Island, where we are currently anchored and bobbing, much to the chagrin of my inner ear.

The trauma patient was an interesting one. You just never know when these moments will arise. I was milling about the central shopping area of Airlie Beach, buying some swimming shorts, checking out T-shirts as the Munns were returning from Abell Point when, as I crossed the street and stepped onto the sidewalk, I heard a rather large thud, as though someone had dropped something onto the concrete. In actuality, they had, but what this 17 year-old had dropped was his head! He had fallen from standing height off the curb into the street, striking the back of his head with significant force. He then seized for about 30 seconds, was out of it for about another 90, then gradually came around while brewing a fair subdermal hematoma, though he did donate a bit to his hair and forehead. The ambulance pulled up quickly enough, and he was off, though I was concerned for the level of care provided in these parts.

It turns out that he had a vasovagal response about 5 minutes after having his tongue pierced.

As for the trip, I think we have been really fortunate, for the most part. The B&B was in itself nothing spectacular, breakfast mediocre, but the people were great, the setting was nice, quite green, and well off the beaten path. Furthermore, Mother Nature has played along well, and the weather here in Queensland quite agreeable to both the Texans in their reprieve from summer and myself enjoying a bit of warmth.

The boat has been a good find, though this seems to have been due to luck. The husband of the woman who runs the B&B is a city manager and thereby indirectly oversees the health department, so he spoke with knowledge when he confirmed that we had chosen one of the better boats, and more importantly, one of the more reliable crews. On the flip side however, somewhere along the line some errors were made in the choosing of the cabins. I had intended for us to have the nicest cabin for Amenia and Joey, and a pair of bunkbeds for Hud and myself. Instead, we got the second best cabin, then the tiniest of double beds—better dubbed a generous single—down in the tail end of the bottom deck of the boat. Now the first I can live with, but the second was a rather poor result. Bed is fair sized, bathroom just next door and for only this cabin, though the entry is out in the hall. But we are here for the adventures, not as much for the sleeping arrangements, so I expect that this will still be a great trip. Hudson is currently collapsed upstairs with his parents, barely able to make it through the main course of dinner. Nothing to do witht he cabins, mind you, just that the time change still has him by the pituitary. For a single person, this cabin is not too bad.

Explanation of photos:

1. Boarding the Pacific Sunrise, the largest wooden vessel built in the southern hemisphere, they say. Darn good food and a fun crew.

2. The four of us above Whitehaven Beach, a gorgeous and large bunch of sand with the purest concentration of silica, 98%. Hence the only permitted removal has been for the construction of the Hubble telescope's lens.

3. Abandonment or a Jimmy Buffett album cover? Actually, Tim was leaving us at the shore for the above hike to Whitehaven Beach.

4. These crew members get to seet this stuff on a regular basis! Unfortunately this stuff includes gulls, Tim's nemesis, as their loitering results in dinghy dung.

5. Best three sunsets I can recall: off the shore of Baja California on the bike ride, bridge climb this week (saved for a later blog), and this photo.

The silver lining

Which feels better, the appearance of a silver lining from a dark cloud or the bright sunshine in a cloudless sky?

We have now crossed the halfway point of the year in several respects. The winter solstice was a couple of weeks ago and the days are finally starting to get longer. The calendar also supports of the notion; the seventh month has begun. In about two more weeks I will have completed three of the scheduled six two-month rotations of this fellowship. But it looks now that I will only be completing five of them, owed to the gestation of kid three (as opposed to kid Three, the beloved Trey), and owed to the increasing probability that there will be a job out there ready for me before January (Yeah, put your hands up in the aiyurr!). If it winds up that I only do five rotations, then the midpoint of this fellowship passed me by a couple of weeks ago!

So that puts us in the mindset of looking forward. Hmmm, the next six months: warmer weather, longer days, dining out on the patios of restaurants; and because it is on my mind due to planning vacation time, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and hopefully being back stateside for both. I excited by the prospect, but it looks like I will only have a week, maybe two, then a couple of long weekends free to see this huge country. If I don’t get to see much more than that, then the benefit of being here becomes only the hand fellowship. As a result, my dedication to get the most education out of each day is increased. Part of the reason the frequency of blogs has dropped off, for which I apologize… or take praise, however you see it.

Both days this weekend I got the chance to see parts of the city I had not gotten to before. Yesterday there was a workshop on dealing with fractures held at the University of New South Wales, located on the south side of the city. I decided to take the bicycle so that I could see more of the suburbs in between and to get some exercise, being that it has been a rather sedentary week. When you add in the time getting lost, it was about a 50 minute ride out, a little shorter coming back.

Thankfully, it has remained a beautiful weekend, despite what the weather reports had said earlier in the week, so the prospect of staying inside all day today was appalling. I got out for a run in the afternoon, heading out to the south toward the harbor. I headed down to an area west of the bridge that I have tended to overlook since it is separated from major routes by the railway, and it is out of the way for getting to any point B from point A. That and the fact that it is called Balls Head. But in its favor the nearby neighborhood looked pretty attractive through the glimpses from the train (on said railway), and the recent observation from a friend that it is probably the ideal location to take in the harbor, since the lookouts are directed east-southeast toward the Opera House, visible beneath the bridge. The sun is also more or less behind you in the evening, as it was when I was there, casting a fantastic golden light on the view.

I got down there and intended to hang out long enough to catch my breath and take in the view. It turned out that those two times weren’t compatible. I recuperated well before I had seen all that I wanted to see. The view was from about thirty feet above the shore and was quite serene, since much of the entire peninsula was free of construction. As sections of it still are, I suspect that it was used for government purposes even before a park was there. Additionally, both sides have coves consumed by marinas rather than residences. The result is solace, with heaps of greenery and a limited selection of sounds from the harbor—little waves lapping the shore; boats, but only those closeby; a few birds. And there were multiple levels in the rock for lookouts, picnic tables on the grassy flat spots, or just ledges for sitting.

For a while I watched all of the cheerful business on the water, thinking about Sydney from the perspective that it wouldn’t be long until I had moved back, but that all of this quotidian activity would continue, the sea planes giving tourists views of the harbors, the ferries quietly shuttling people from one pier to another, the jet boat giving thrill rides in the more open waters, water taxis taking those unwilling to take ferries to more specific destinations, the private yachts—with or without sails—intermingling, the cruise ships sitting at dock in Circular Quay or in Darling Harbor, like the one there today. All of this activity that of course I could have hypothesized going on, and in fact you might have felt something amiss had those things not been going on, but it is a more real event when you have witnessed it. I thought about Will Mason and his family, as he completed his fellowship just this week. While he is still in the country, seeing the sights here and there for about a month, he no longer lives in Sydney. This must have been what he was talking about when he started to miss the city even a couple of days before he was done.

Before I had a chance to consider heading back, or wanted to take advantage of it, I noticed that the behemoth of a cruise ship had begun to move away from the dock. Now I sat at a coffee shop at the dock in England and watched, I think, this very ship depart from Auckland back in January (when I was there picking up the work visa from the Australian embassy), and it is neither a speedy nor easy task to set that ship in motion

I am sure there is a reason for each time they blare their horn on this ship, much like there is a pattern and timing to those on a train, but I have never heard what it is for a ship, so from my ignorant perspective, it is entertaining to imagine what impulse this patient captain of the ship has to reach for the handle. I can understand giving it a blast 30 and maybe 10 minutes before departure: y’all best get your butts on board, lest I leave’em here! Not too different from the indications used by soccer moms. But as he had been pulled/pushed away from the dock (I couldn’t see what was going on at sea level due to the intervening little Berry Island.), he gave another long blast, an impressive sound that was not harsh on the ears, but suddenly made the entire city seem much smaller, as they all must have heard it. In fact, I have never heard an echo last so long, perhaps twice as long as the blast itself, as if the sound waves had been stacking up on each other and just took that much longer to settle back down. It could have been fair warning to all those little or even moderately-sized boats in his blind spots that he had completed his twenty-minute u-turn and was now moving forward. Or it could have been sheer exhilaration that he had beaten Christmas!

I began to think that this horn was the captains toy, his one-note musical instrument when he let it resound about five minutes later. Earlier, as he had been making his turns, I realized that that boat might reach halfway up to the bottom of the Harbour Bridge. As he slowly—and I mean slowly—gained momentum, working his way out of Darling Harbour into the main body and toward the bridge, the margins began to disappear, to the point that, as the nose was likely going under the bridge, a handful of us gathered on the shaded lookout were held in suspense. You knew that the thing had to make it under; the captain must know these things everywhere he goes, and, heck, he had gotten in there so he must be able to get out. But it just didn’t look like he was going to make it, like the rotating antenna might smack it, or like the chimney stacks might collect some dents as they scraped underneath. What if they had let off a bunch of obese folks and taken on some skinnier ones? I couldn’t help but interrupt our collective silence with, “Donk!”

Now I don’t know if the captain was signaling to a water taxi that had moved into his blind spot, or if he was just announcing his presence to all of those who hadn’t realized that he had been hiding on the other side of the Central Business District, but I heard the mariners’ equivalent of a trumpeting elephant that traipsed off into the jungle, out of sight. I could also picture the captain reaching impulsively for the handle of that horn, sounding the triumph in cruiseship limbo.

I headed back up toward St. Leonards, wondering if they would have changed the name of Balls Head had people been allowed to live there. But as for the first question, I think that the answer is the silver lining rather than the sunshine. Everything feels better, and that is better than when things feel good but you don’t realize it. It’s just that it takes you to the ugly conclusion that you need the clouds now and again.

As for the photos, I included these from a flight back to NZ in November, showing the harbor from above at about the right angle, just set back a few dozen kilometers; and the last demonstrating how much worse the view of the bridge and opera house is from the east.

Hunter and Upper Hunter Valleys

30 May 2009

I sit in the end room of a hotel that, by other standards, would be a motel. The difference being that we are in wine country. It is only my second venture out of Sydney, the first overnighter, and I see that I have been missing out. It ain’t New Zealand, but then it ain’t Sydney either. I have driven a couple of hours north into the Hunter Valley, the east coast’s wine country. There is some production in the south, and a very well known region south of Perth on the west coast, the Margaret River region. I haven’t gotten out to sense the desolation and sparsity of people that the vast majority of the country is, but this is countryside, and the towns are just a couple thousand people. The largest that I came to after leaving the suburbs was 22,000. Some would scarcely count as a town at all.
This is a chance to take a deep breath. I just don’t think that I am a city boy. I do enjoy the convenience that comes from being close to so many things. I revel in getting so many things done in daily life without starting a car. And there is a constant feeling that you are in a place where so many other people want to be. So city residence must be a good choice.

It may be. But it isn’t mine. I love the feeling that comes over me when I step out of that setting. I remember the same feeling when I drove north out of Madrid after being there a few months straight; I stopped the car a couple of hours after sunset just to look at all the stars, hear the masses of crickets. Today it was rolling down the window of the rental car and smelling grass, that Aspergillus smell when the grass gets some rain. And later in the day, even the smell of the weeds (milkweed?) was pleasant when I stopped to take pictures from the end of a dirt road on a hilltop overlooking the Hunter Valley around sunset.

Now, a couple of things I know are true. I would not appreciate it to the same degree if I lived out here. But is that to say that I wouldn’t enjoy it at all? Or, more importantly, that I wouldn’t enjoy it more than the city? I am pretty sure of the answer.

The other truth is that it is probably not feasible for me to live in the country. How miserable it would be to have to make a long drive to a hospital in the middle of the night. I stew over the frustration during those drives, so it is probably healthier to minimize the time spent doing it.

So I guess the point is—the points are—that, firstly, I am glad that I have family living in the country so that there is somewhere to go; and secondly, that a more moderately-sized city is a good compromise for my uptown girl and myself.

An overlooked criterion for choosing a place to live: wineries. The more of them that you cluster together, the better the restaurants will be. Santa Maria, where else can you find such secluded, truly quaint restaurants serving such high quality food? I am stunned by how good dinner was and yet how many other places there are around very similar. And no golden arches or DQ’s here. In other settings the diner linked to the motel should by all rights be a dive, where some of the gravy has dribbled off the side of the plate when splashed on the roast. But here are cloth napkin, low-lighting, swank joints where half the words on the menu are esoteric, French, or both. Some wear jeans, but only in the fashionable sense with an expensive shirt and a lot of hair gel. (Except for that one bloke that wore his with a hoodie whom I noticed when he went out to sit at a table on the deck to have a smoke in near freezing cold. ‘Nough said.). But it is not just the food that takes a step up; where there is good wine, there is good culture. Concerts, festivals, and the like abound here.

Just a thought: gaps in knowledge can be quite subtle and understated. I have seen this in surgery, albeit the place I focus most of my attention when comes to assuring these holes are minimized. But I came across one tonight while starting a new book, Down Under by Bill Bryson. Isn’t New Zealand part of the Australian continent? I have looked at the maps that include the continental shelves (okay, Google), and they seem to lie on the same one. They are very close to each other relative to any other bodies. Antarctica is close, but I don’t think either wants to claim association; and besides, we know that Australia and Antarctica are two continents. I just remember learning that Australia was the only continent that was a single country, and the only country that was a continent. Bryson said the same. But where does that leave the Kiwis?

The second day, following a great breakfast, was a departure from Hunter Valley to… Upper Hunter Valley. Out of the wineries, into thoroughbred country. Like the wineries, there are a couple of other clusters of farms, but this is one of the big ones, if not the big one, a claim fortified by the recent influx of international neighbors, particularly Sheikhs Hamdan and Makhtoum (sp?), big purchasers at the sales in Lexington and elsewhere around the world. It is not as continuous a collection as you see in Kentucky. Instead it intermingles with cattle ranches and small homes. All of the sudden amongst the barbed wire fences will be fancier fence railing, a big stone entrance with security cameras, intercoms, etc. A very pretty area with a more relaxed feel, and a bit of oddity and you really see them try to create luxury in the midst of nature.

The clouds rolled in not long after noon, of course just as I drove the rental car up onto a ridge for the best scenery. So the remainder of the trip was a splash through desolate dirt roads. Thank goodness for GPS systems and rental cars. I stopped once for a lone kangaroo up in the high altitudes, grazing in the cold mist. I just never thought of them as cold weather critters, but this fellow seemed pretty content.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Yesterday I returned from a second trip up to Hunter Valley. Joao Panattoni, a friend from the hand surgery fellowship in Kentucky, flew over from Singapore for the week and wanted to take in the same scenery. It was a great trip. We saw a lot more kangaroos and mingled among a small mob of them, who seemed plenty alert but none too worried by our presence. We were never close enough to touch/get pummeled by any of them, but we got some good photos. Tasted some wine as well and got some education on the Australian viticulture.