Konichiwa Nerds

            One more.  I wanted to put out some final thoughts as soon as I returned, but I got caught up in home.  Reunions.  Driftless dawns.  Dinners where conversations gather steam around a kitchen table to fade behind the shadows of bar lamps. 

            Before I realized, it was time to travel again.  Nick, Emily and I loaded up the Honda Fit – no Phyllis, but a fine vehicle nonetheless. 

            We drove down to meet Joey, Seth and Ruthie in the Great Smokies.  We were crazy – tubing rivers, jumping off cliffs, slaying slobs, and newtin’. 

            We ended our days around the fire.  The last night, Joey asked us to describe the most beautiful place we had ever seen.  We each took a turn.  Nobody rushed, feeling a responsibility to justify our scene.  As each person spoke, I watched their faces and the fire. Soft slow words pulled me towards their place – reverent to a past I did not know.   

            I felt proud.  Somewhere along the line, something went right.  I chose good people.  Friends who think, share and support, unconditionally.  Individuals who walk you to their sanctuaries as the fire burns out. 

            Now I’m home.  The Smokies was one of many beautiful trips I’ve had the privilege of taking over the past six months.  I wanted to end my writing with a moral I could preach to the babies.  Something to sum up all the travels.  

            But that would be selfish.  You folks have as much to tell me, as I have to tell you.  You’ve met new people and felt new places.  I want to hear it all. 

            So, thank you for reading.  If you’re in La Crosse call me.  We’ll have a beer or three and listen to all we have missed. 

The Sound at the End of the Road

 

            Some roads end with a metal gate.  Approaching where the road ends is isolating.  The hum of the engine drifts away.  The sun falls below the tree line.  No lights hide eyes from the night sky. 

            The road to Milford Sound cuts deep through the Southern Alps, eventually ending in one of the most popular destinations in the country.  In summer, tourists infect the area. They take cruises, rent kayaks and fill the lodge. 

            But now it’s winter.  Blizzards can close the road, making it impossible to get in or out for days.  Not too many travelers are willing to park their rental cars in a snowdrift for the night.  But we got Phyllis.  She is too hard to worry about white outs and road closures. 

            So, we were one of a few in Milford for the weekend.  We saw mile high peaks rise straight from the ocean, disproving any notion I ever had that mountains and oceans should remain separate but equal.  We cheered as some very unmangy dolphins chased our boat.  We hiked up to an alpine lake and spent the night burning wood in a lonely hut at the top of the mountain. 

            As the fire died and I closed my eyes, I felt as if I were at the end of the road.  Just beyond the gate, where everything is worth seeing.  

Big City Living

            I’m sorry about the tardiness, my graduated babies.  Deadlines got the best of me.  Essays and dance rehearsals replaced mornings in front of a blank page.  But I’m back. 

            While you folks were receiving your walking papers and tying up loose ends – packing away the Lighthouse, mapping road trips, hauling out to grad school, applying for summer jobs, wiping the tears and liquor stains from your diplomas – I was sent to the big city.  Two days in Sydney. 

            My hotel was in Chinatown.  I spent the day on the waterfront.  I went to the fish market to watch the fellas fillet the morning catch, asking questions and taking notes.  I saw the opera house, iconic on the storybook harbor.  At night, I ate my way through the city center. 

            I haven’t traveled much in big cities.  I usually pass through on my way to the country.   I thought everything I wanted was in open spaces between the ground and sky. 

            However, with no choice but Sydney, I ate in the cafes, drank in the bars, filled my eyes with the neon lights of Asian markets, and was proven wrong.  Just passing through cities is like only hiking on paved trails – a sin.

            So, now it’s summer.  No matter where you are spending your soppy days – city apartment, country stream, interstate rest stop – be humble. Crawl to what's new on your hands and knees.  With any luck, you’ll be proven wrong.   

Naughty Possums and Warm Endings

            I killed a possum.  The incident happened around 9:00 pm Saturday night on the west coast. 

            I’m driving Phyllis, minding my business, when I see this mangy critter tiptoeing the centerline.   Michael, Steve and Lexi scream ‘Possum’ in unison.  Instinctively, I crank Phyllis’s big hips over the centerline and send that possum straight to hell.  The whole car cheered.

            Now before any of you look down on my intentional slaughtering of an animal I had no intention of eating, remember that possums are little shits.  There are over 70 million of them in New Zealand and only 4 million people.  They kill everything.  One night those little scoundrels tried to steal my salami, which is a capital offence in my book.  No Catholic guilt here.

          Bloodshed aside, break was beautiful.  We drove 2000 kilometers, hiked 80, and kayaked 20.  It was over an hour before it began.

            Speaking of endings, Folk Night is almost finished.  I could write about how perfect every night has been up top the lighthouse.  But you folks know. We created it together.  You listened to all the harmonies, so sweet your eyes closed just to hear a bit better.  As well as the train wrecks – Edmund Fitzgeralds and Men of Constant Sorrow.  You saw lamplight frame pretty faces.  Your fingers felt friendly hands and your cheeks familiar shoulders.  You know. 

            I wish I could be there.  I’m not sure where I’m sleeping this weekend — a coastal cave, mountain pass, rainy fjord, or worst-case scenario, my flat.  But no matter where I close my eyes, I’ll put a beer under my pillow.  When my dreams are warm light and country twang, I’ll wake up, crack it open and say a toast.

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;

the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,

may God hold you in the hollow of His hand.

May you be in heaven a full half hour before the devil knows you are dead.

Happy Birthday

            It’s fall in Dunedin.  Red leaves hide broken glass that once glittered in the summer sun.  Antarctic winds have made beaches a memory.  My favorite season.  But can there be fall without Halloween, hunting, or the Packers?  Could Easter, fall break, and April trout fishing be adequate replacements? Perhaps.    

            As temperatures fall in the south, Mike Funk turns 60 in La Crosse.  Sam and David are flying in from Seattle, and the Kots are piling down from the Cities.  I can only imagine a perfect celebration. A glowing kitchen with open beers and windows.  Zula saying, “I love you Papa,” while her mom picks white frosting from her red hair.  The family laughing late into the night.  Followed by dawn breaking over Vernon County. There is no place better than Wisconsin on the edge of summer. 

            But tomorrow it’s break, which ain’t too bad either.  No school for ten days.  Phyllis and her owners are hauling up to Abel Tasman National Park to dip our toes in white sand and green pools.

            Happy birthday Dad.  I hope it is a good one.  I wish I could wet a line and crack a beer with you.  Miss you.  Love you. 

-- Buddy

Phyllis and A Full Night’s Rest

             So, I bought a car.  Michael, Steve, Lexi and I pooled together our New Zealand monopoly money for a Mitsubishi Diamante. We've been calling her Phyllis.  Along with Clinton’s reelection and the second to last packers super bowl title, Phyllis is another gorgeous child of 1996.  A sexy beige, wheel on the right, owners manual in Japanese, 220,000 kilometers (whatever that means), and a few cuts and bruises, but nothing out of the ordinary for a decade of life. 

            With the pink slip somewhere and a loose form of insurance protecting our names, we filled our baby’s trunk with tents and hit the left side of the road.  Our destination was Wanaka – a mountain town near the west coast.  There we met up with Jack and Tris.  Together we crawled up mountains in the sunshine.  At night we pitched our tents on the shores of Lake Wanaka. 

            I have spent most of my weekends here in a tent.  I love sleeping outside, but in the past it has been hard to find rest.  Nights under canvass roofs seem long.  Dawns refuse to come.  Noises from dark trees cut ribbons through dreams. 

            But lately the ground has been feeling different – warmer, softer, familiar.  My face presses deep into the pad below me, and I wake up at first light.  I don’t stir.  No noise steals my sleep. 

            What more does a man need than a fifteen year old whip and a full night’s rest?

            So let me make a suggestion.  Dust off a tent and head out for the weekend.  Up north perhaps?  It’s the time of the year when we all should be sleeping under the stars.  

My Boys

 

            My boys have left for the weekend.  They found a yoga retreat in the far southwest corner and hitched a ride.  I expect they will spend the weekend perfecting already perfect poses and using blue eyes to charm every yogi in the southern hemisphere.  So now it’s time for me to write about them. 

            For those who don’t know, my boys are Jack and Tristan -- two friends from the Cities.  I’ve known Tristan since freshman year. He started dating Jack about six months ago who we quickly fell in love with as he quoted Liz Lemon while sipping on a Diet Rite and vodka.  Jack has been traveling in Australia and Aotearoa for about two months.   Trissy reunited with him around three weeks ago, and we all finally linked arms in Dunedin.

              Last weekend we rented a car named Dally.  Drove over the Southern Alps, up the west coast, across sunny northland, east, and home.  We breathed it all in – mountain passes, black sand, glaciers, swimming holes, microbrews, late nights, and early mornings.

            After we returned, I thought a lot about this post.  The trip was pure and exhilarating, which isn’t easy to write about.  As usual, I didn’t want to retrace the outline of every vista.  I wanted to describe how it all felt.  How the alpine winds through Dally’s open sunroof casually changed to a cozy coastal breeze as we descended towards the ocean.  The way the boys’ hands slowly slipped towards each other every few minuets, a long time for loving hands to be apart.  How my glass of New Zealand microbrew endured sweating in the noon sun as we passed hours playing cards. The rain testing our tents when we said good night. 

            I guess what I’m getting at is that our destinations weren’t important.  What was pure and exhilarating was that we were with each other.  We saw everything together.  We shared it all.