Over the next three weeks SK and I alternated between doing yard work for his parents in an effort to remind our banks we had accounts and going on various ventures around Nelson. Skipping stories of clearing bush: SK, his parents, myself, and a woman I will term “Mountain Lady” spent a day hiking nearby Mount Arthur.
As we headed on the road around 6:30am, Mountain Lady, who had arrived that morning in a cute colourful skirt, regaled us with tales of hiking Mt. Arthur in the middle of winter with her skis. After watching the sunrise (yes, that means she hiked in the snow, in the dark) she and her partner skied around the summit and watched the snow for booby-trapping sinkholes and ambushing avalanches: like most of us do on the weekend.
Winding our way up to the parking lot of Mt. Arthur, the road gave way to gravel and dropped sharply down a cliff to one side. It was rather treacherous and had only recently reopened after a landslide tore away an entire section of the road. In one particularly steep part, the DOC (Department of Conservation) thoughtfully laid two strips of concrete so our car wouldn’t lose traction and slide backwards. With average statistical likelihood, we parked our car without event.
Our hike began in the familiar-looking, moss covered scene of a beech forest and my eyes peered around for any Orcs Peter Jackson might have left behind. While I’m pretty sure no filming took place in this area, the forest evoked every fantastical thought I had ever had. If the world has a last unicorn, it is residing somewhere in the South Island of NZ.
During our hike I became more familiar with SK’s parents, although I still struggled with the vocal variation between the US and NZ. In NZ they speak about a third as loudly as Americans do– the stereotype “Loud Americans” is not just a stereotype. And it was a little difficult at first to hear anyone as my ears were not accustomed to ever having to work.
I discovered Sk’s Mom and Dad had attempted hiking Mt. Arthur before, but were unable because the wind nearly blew them off the ridge line. In NZ weather frequently changes from one extreme to its antithesis within an hour and can do so repeatedly in a day: it makes Vermont weather look reliable. But we broke away from trees and once there was no need to worry for wind– I forgot about everything – except for mountains, and distant views, and fresh air loud with silence singing in my ears: delighted to be without mechanical rivals. I was filled with such euphoria I had not felt since I had walked in the treeless slopes of the Himalayas. And breathe and breathe in and breathe in and try to capture joy in an iphone movie, which seems so inadequate hours later. I was skipping and running around with abandon and SK laughed both at me and with me. But who cares which when you’re so in love with the world?
Having danced the way to the summit, and avoided sinkholes, we all were kissed by the universe with a whole hour of clear sky. As SK’s Dad pointed out for me different landmarks and distinguishable mountain tops, the scale I mentally mapped for New Zealand was both expansive yet compact: so much to explore and all of it feasibly accessible. We could see Tasman Bay stretching towards Nelson, Mt. Owen where SK and I would be backpacking the following weekend, perhaps we saw Mt. Cook (an anticipated stop on our road trip), and to the West stretched the wild coast where SK and I planned to end our South Island adventure: a teaser of things to come.
By the time we reached the car park, the top which had been so clear a few hours before, was shrouded in thick, woolen clouds.
In celebration of our feat, the next day SK’s parents took us on a wine tasting tour. NZ is famous for its white wines, but my preference for reds was far from disappointed as our tour included the less advertised, ruddy side of the Moutere Valley. At this point, I was relatively comfortable around SK’s parents. According to SK, his parents thought I was lovely and really liked me. I, however, was unaccustomed to the reserved way Kiwis show their affection and was mildly unconvinced. (While in the States I had previously been praised with: “Oh, she is such a darling, smart, beautiful girl!” In NZ the equivalent seemed to be “She’s a good one.” They do not throw their superlatives with the same exuberant frequency as Americans.) So disregarding general prudency, there is nothing like a little tannin courage to help ease shyness.
The Woollaston Winery [if this winery were a person it would be: the trust fund hippie] is nestled in its own piece of France with a background of New Zealand’s jagged mountains. Its vineyards stretch in immaculate rows along gently swelling ground and its new gravity-flow winery and wine shop are tastefully modern, smartly sustainable and designed by an Architect from Oregon (it’s nice, but obviously LineSync Architecture would have done a better job). We had brought along a picnic and while SK’s Mom set the spread on the back patio SK, his Dad and I commenced my first ever on-the-vineyard wine tasting. Although I was semi convinced I wouldn’t be able to discern the differences between the wines, the people behind the counter kindly unveiled the various tastes of our sips. By the time we took our chosen wine to our table, I could recognize the “butter,” “oak,” “fruit,” “tannin,” and distinguish between a light and heavy finish: there is hope for me to turn bourge!
The second winery was about as opposite from the gleaming Woollaston as one could get. Glover’s Vineyard [the insouciant individualist] is haphazardly disorganized and Glover is renowned for his tongue-shriveling reds. The tasting wines have no labels and Glover quickly recognizes the wine by the shape of its bottle. His indifference for appearance revealed his own passion and enjoyment of making wine. He makes what he likes to drink: if you like it too, you’re welcome to buy some!
Our third visit was a boutique winery called Himmelsfeld, Vineyard of the Four Seasons [the Jackie Kennedy, the Lady Diana]. Here sheep wander amongst the vines providing natural grooming and pruning of the property. Beth Eggers, the founder and owner, believes strongly in the “bond between land and farmer” and keeps her vineyard small enough to manage with her own hands. You can truly taste her time and tending in the light, buttery finishes of her exquisite chardonnay.
Finally, Neudorf [the poised nepotist – the wine you give your boss whom you’re not friends with… yet]. The setting is perfect, with cookbooks by prestigious chefs and a small gallery containing local NZ amusants. The patio is roofed in vines while antiquity inspired frescos rhythm and jive beside you.
Overall, I decided first and foremost that I could definitely get used to a life that included leisurely wine tastings bookending various mountaineering adventures. Second, I am completely fascinated and disgusted with the spitting bowl and the whole idea of one continues to confound me. After getting over my initial response of wanting to drop a coin to watch it spiral down, it simply seems like a glorified spittoon (call to mind unshaven, unshowered, groady, chewing cowboys). Furthermore: why, in god’s name, would you ever waste good wine?
SK and I picking some plumbs. His parents gardens are amazing and productive: plums, kiwi (fruit), lemons, apples, grapes, berries, figs, lettuce, spring onions, herbs, tomatoes, KALE, basil, rhubarb, bok choi, swiss chard, etc…
Orc’s Native Habitat
I was taking a picture of the pretty moss and the tiny little beech leaves, when this little robin jumped into the center of my photo’s frame! The birds here are extremely friendly.
SK and his Dad enjoying the hike up Mt. Arthur (summit behind them). Notice the crystal clear skies! A rarity, especially in NZ summer! (SK’s Mom and Mountain Lady in the back ground).
SK hanging out next to a sinkhole. As far as my understanding goes, Mt. Arthur is part of the Southern Hemisphere’s largest cave network.
Beautiful views of Tasman Bay and Nelson.
At the summit, enjoying a nice lunch!
Views from Mt. Arthur
Mt. Owen, where SK and I would be backpacking the following weekend. The cave network under Mount Arthur connects to the cave network under Mt. Owen.
SK’s Mom and Dad.
Mountain Lady taking a sip of water from a perfectly naturally filtered resource on top of Mt. Arthur.
In the middle of our hike down (about an hour or so later) this is what the top looked like.
Vineyards of NZ!
Woollaston’s gravity-fed winery.
SK’s family and I sitting in France… I mean New Zealand. Enjoying a lovely lunch of antipastos!
Mingling with the locals at Himmelsfeld Vinyard.
“In France” again at the Neudorf Vineyard.
Neudorf’s patio. You can also BYO picnic here as well!
SK and me, prepping for the lifestyle of the bourgeoisie.
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