White Water Kayaking

Attention synchronized swimmers: being upside-down in the water in a pool during a routine is an entirely different thing from being upside-down in a kayak in a river.

Somehow I was under the impression that this wasn’t the case. Somehow I thought that since I had spent hours of my life under water doing hybrids and figures (while wearing googles and a nose clip in a completely calm and clear body of water) I would be perfectly suited to kick ass at white water kayaking.

It turns out that being trapped under freezing water in a small plastic vessel moving through rapids is MASSIVELY UNPLEASANT.

Surprising.

I know many of you have done sea kayaking at least once in your life, so you’re probably thinking “So what? It’s not like you capsize often, that’s really hard to do.” WRONG. Sea kayaks are like extremely vain cats. They can swim if they want to, but damned if they’re going to get their pretty faces wet. Kayaks intended for rapids, however, are like malicious dolphins with a slight mental impairment. Whenever I entered water that moved faster than glacial ice, my kayak was like “HURR I’MA GO ROUND IN CIRCLES THEN ROLL OVER, KAY?

As a beginner, when you capsize the boat the best thing to do is stay under and beat the top of the kayak until someone comes to turn you over. If you run out of breath, you can pull off your spray deck and push yourself out of the kayak. One time I swallowed approximately 80 liters of water as I went under, so I had to carefully weigh my options: I could stay in my kayak and possibly drown, or I could claw myself the hell out of my little death boat. With a swift “fuck this,” I concluded that it would be best to take a swim. When I exited my kayak, however, I was greeted by angry cold water that tried to bludgeon me to death with its rage. It felt like a python made of ice had just wrapped itself around my entire body and was about to have dinner.

When you’re out of your kayak, you also get a new respect for moving water. I’m usually pretty blasé about the idea of drowning because I’ve considered myself a really strong swimmer since the age of two. But the one time I bailed, I honestly had to wonder if I would have been able to escape the rapids if someone had not come to tow me out.

In many ways, the trip was a very humbling experience. I’m use to catching on to new things very quickly, which did not happen in this situation at all. I’m also not use to being freaked out so easily. I pride myself on always being the tough girl and not letting anything get to me (or at least not admitting it if it does). But I was all kinds of afraid on this trip and though I mostly laughed and smiled the whole way through, I think my instructors knew I was scared shitless. Probably because whenever we approached rapids I would start babbling about the muffins and the apocalypse.

At some point on the second day, I finally got impatient with myself. After not dying yet again on a set of rapids, I thought to myself “OK, how about you stop being a pussy and start being a badass. See how that works out for you.”  Now, when I say badass I solely mean it in terms of attitude. I do not mean I became a competent kayaker, especially considering how much time I spent flipped over like a frustrated turtle with Parkinson’s Disease. But the change in attitude helped, and while the rest of the rapids were not super magically fun all of a sudden, I stopped being afraid of them.

In between periods of terror on the trip, I was happy to soak in all the good things. We spent two days on a beautiful river flowing through a tropical-looking forest with mountains all around us. I was in the company of some of the most likable people I’d met in Wellington so far. We all spent Saturday evening under a shelter cooking hash browns and sausages under a rain shelter. One of the guys had brought his guitar and we sang through some of my favorite camping songs. When the rain started coming down horizontally, we moved into a tent and spent hours talking, drinking and eating huge chocolate bars. 

Camp

Foods

I should also mention how incredibly kind everyone was to me. They were super understanding and happy to reassure me time and time again that nothing bad would happen because they were looking after me.

So as much as I despised being the damsel in distress on that trip, it was also one of the coolest things I’ve done in New Zealand. I’m sure if I could learn how to roll myself back up without having to wait for a rescue, white water kayaking could be my new favorite thing. So I’ve decided to join the club and show up to their pool night on Thursday. I think they will be quite surprised to see me back.

Mount Cook

This is what I get for hubris. I repeat this to myself over and over as I climb up Sealy Tarns track, one of the most grueling day hikes I have experienced.

My hauteur originated from how easily I had managed the Tongariro crossing last week. It was a 20 kilometer trek, 1,800 meters in altitude, and I positively ate it for breakfast. I finished it feeling energized and ready to hike it again that instant. I walked around for days feeling like God’s gift to day hikes. So when receptionist at my youth hostel told me that the Sealy Tarns track was hard, I smiled like the badass I knew I was and exclaimed “Oh good! I love hard hikes.” It’s great that the guiding forces in my life have a keen fucking sense of irony.

When I checked in at the information desk that morning, the ranger showed me a map of the hike. She pointed to a part in the beginning and said “it’s probably steepest here.” I think she actually meant to say “the entire fucking trail is the steepest part of the trail.”

The track is actually less of a trail and more of a never ending staircase from hell. Every time we get to the top, the clouds peel back to reveal another layer of hill. We’ve been climbing for about an hour and a half and already I feel like my heart is about to explode out of my lungs. As luck would have it, I’m hiking with a German guy on his gap year after college who is a complete machine. I stop to rest, looking at Franz who is, as usual, ten meters above me. He walks at a pace four shades faster than mine and he has not stopped to rest once. I feel like a shameful cripple in his wake.

The worst part is the clouds. Everyone kept telling me that the hike is worth doing for the view. Unluckily, the clouds that have been shrouding the mountains since this morning haven’t lifted yet. I stare out into space, wondering what panoramic marvel is sitting just out of my sight. I can see about ten feet in front of me. The rest is white.

No, actually the worst part was the Miley Cirus song going through my head the entire time. In between hurling curses at the clouds and the mountain, the only thing I hear Miley’s voice belting out “It’s not about how fast I get there! It’s not about what’s waiting on the other siiiiiiide! It’s the CLLIIIIIIIMB!”

I wont bore you with the rest of the ascent. Just know that it was made of 100% pain.

Somehow we manage to get to the top just as the clouds are clearing. I turn to my right and am shocked to see a snow-peaked mountain looming out of the white haze. We are right up in this mountain’s face. I’ve never seen anything like it.

It started out like this, then suddenly...

It becomes this!

As we take pictures excitedly, the air behind us clears to reveal the grandest mountain scape I’ve seen. It all feels somewhat surreal, like I’m on a gigantic movie set.  

Franz and I sit on the top of the tarns for two hours taking in the view, goofing off and taking pictures. Franz is fun to hang around. I love the way he snorts when he laughs, like what you said is just that funny. 

This is Franz.

We find a large patch of snow on the west end our mountain. It looks shallow at first but then we realize it’s an entire meter thick (remember, it’s summer here)! So naturally, we make a snowman. 

When we finally head back down, we can actually see our surroundings. I feel like I’m in Lord of the Rings.

You better believe the LOTR theme song was going through my head the ENTIRE time.

The next day, Franz leaves to hitch-hike his way to Lake Tekapu. I stay back at the hostel to nurture my aching muscles with peanut butter and cereal, which happen to be the only food I have left. My trip to New Zealand is basically complete. I could go home five and a half months early and still be satisfied.

Wanaka and thoughts on travel

I am currently in Wanaka. My bad.

For some reason, I was certain that I could get from Wanaka to Mt Cook. I triple checked, I was 100% sure that the InterCity Coachline went straight from here to where I wanted to be. Too bad the internet lied to me. This means I have to spend most of tomorrow in Wanaka, then drive to Queenstown, spend the night there, then take the bus to Mt Cook the next day.

Though I had been looking forward to Mt Cook more than anything, I feel OK with this new development. I think this is because I have a superior philosophy on travel. People say that good travelers don’t sweat the small stuff and aren’t too fussed about arriving to their destination. I take this one step further. For the past two weeks, my mantra has been this: If I don’t die on this trip, then it will have been a success. So far I’ve been doing a pretty good job.

This travel tagline works wonders when my plans go wrong. Every time I end up somewhere I didn’t mean to be or get stranded an extra night, I ask myself, am I dying? The answer is usually no. 

For now, I am nearly pleased that I ended up in Wanaka even though I apparently have no good reason to be here. I’m surrounded by beautiful yellow-tinted mountains and sunshine, which is a welcome change from the rainforest where I’d been. The town is set on a mass of water that has achieved a much higher standard of size and beauty than I usually expect from lakes. After dinner I walk across a park to reach the shore, the cold wind from the lake whipping my hair into a frenzy. The mountains are giant and hang leisurely on all sides of my vision. I feel like I could drink them up just like a milkshake. Chilly and delicious.

I climb up a willow tree growing on the pebbled beach. From there I can look across the lake through the branches and watch the sun set over the mountains. Tomorrow, I think, I’ll rent a kayak. Or just sit by the water and read.

Am I dying? No. Check ✓.

Not a bad island to be marooned upon.

In front of Lake Wanaka. New Zealand is a windy mofo.

The town, as seen from Mt Iron

Chilling in a willow tree

From Auckland to Whitianga (1/31/11)

I’ve stopped taking pictures at this point. It’s absolutely useless. I’m on a bus from Auckland to Whitianga, a small town on the east coast. For the last hour I’ve been glued to my window, watching in wonder.

As we drove out of Auckland, we passed through farmland that honestly reminded me of English countryside. Except the hills are much bigger and constantly speckled with cows or sheep. Sort of like stubborn, furry acne.  Something about the hills bother me until realize that they are actually mountains. The trees have been shorn away to make room for livestock. You can see forests in the distance, where the farmers finally got tired of battling nature. Alongside the road the mountains stand there naked, like bashful teenagers in grassy underwear.

At the moment I’m going through larger mountains on a rickety old bus. We’re careening at lightening speed down the small winding road. Usually I enjoy a bumpy ride, but I’m actually forming contingency plans in case I throw up.  

I’m distracted from my car sickness, however, by the unbelievable flora we’re passing. I see plants that have absolutely no business growing alongside each other. One minute we pass through a tropical rainforest with heavy hanging moss. Next minute, we’re passing an open field of shrubs that look like they belong on a high-altitude artic plateau. Two seconds later: We’re in the middle of a boreal forest. In Florida. During the Jurassic. There are pine trees, palm trees, and ferns the size of my torso. Then, we pass ferns that are actually the size of trees. Nothing I knew about plants makes sense anymore. 

Just when I give up trying to predict what I’ll see next, we round the corner to a patch of small coniferous trees, every one of them flicking me off with hundreds of arms. At least that’s what it looks like. At the end of each branch, there are tufts of smaller needles that resemble a clenched fist. The middle cluster protrudes far outwards. I get such a strong impression that the trees are flipping me the bird with all their might that I avert my eyes, worried that I have offended them. 

Then I laugh. Every thing about this place is a trip.

1/2/11

I’m standing on a path bathed in heat and dust, looking at one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my life. I came to Whitianga, a small town on the Coromandel Peninsula, to see Cathedral Coves. Unfortunately, due to numerous other excursions today and a poorly timed shuttle back to the ferry, we only have one hour left. So we’ve been running down the path with our sandy socks and salt-caked hair, but when I see the cove in the distance I stop in my tracks.

The cove is tucked inside an ocean that for all practical purposes looks like the Mediterranean. The water is brilliant blue and there is a smattering of islands visible across the expanse. The water in the cove, however, is pure green. I’m hesitant to even post a picture because I cannot possibly capture this scene. There is no way a photo can do justice to the way the white cliff juts out from the coastline like a jagged tooth. There is no way a photo could convey the way the water sparkles in the sunlight, like golden diamonds on a bed of jade. 

I stand watching a while and snap a few pictures, but then am hurried onwards. My companion for the day, a thirty-something optician from Switzerland, is in front of me picking her way through caution tape. When we first arrived, we were told that Cathedral Cove was temporarily closed because the stairs had washed away due to heavy rain. But I’d have none of that. This was near the top of my list of things to see in New Zealand and the sole reason I have come to the Coromandel Peninsula. My Swiss friend Daniella seems game for it, so we cut around fences, cross through a field of sheep, and pass through more caution tape than is really necessary to keep people away. 

Too many sheep for my taste

I take a minute to absorb my surroundings. This island can’t decide what it is— desert or tropical paradise? Let’s throw in features and flora from both! I’m standing next to palm trees and ferns the size of my arm, yet I hear cicadas screaming in the distance and feel dry caked dirt under my feet.

I hear a squeal and look down. We’ve reached the final cliff where the stairs have washed out, and Daniella has begun the descent. She is now thigh deep in mud. This ought to be fun.

After a few minutes of careful climbing, we make it down to the beach. I immediately see a waterfall sparkling a way across the shore. The water lapping at the sand is the brightest midnight blue that ever graced an ocean. To my left is a white cliff with a giant cathedral shaped opening carved through by the water. I can see through the arched shadow to a sandy beach with pale blue water on the other side. 

We walk through the opening (ignoring the “DANGER: FALLING ROCKS!” sign) out onto another beach. Here, there is a giant pointed boulder that is worn away at the bottom by the water. The whole thing is bigger than my house.

We walk around for a bit, but Daniella is anxious to get back. If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the shuttle and have to hitch a ride back to the ferry. This doesn’t bother me in the slightest, but she seems slightly annoyed by my lingering. We head back, but I change my mind. I run back to the huge boulder, shedding my clothing as I go (don’t worry, I’m wearing a bikini). I’ve seen pictures of this boulder so many times before. I have to touch it, just to say that I did.

I wade out and realize the boulder is more worn away at the bottom than it looks from a distance. I’m out over my head, and I choke on brine as I leap up and slap the face of the rock with my hand. Success.