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.  

Trout, Beaches and Lovers

 

            Happy spring break.  While you folks were lounging in warmer pastures, consuming potato sacks full of Irish booze, and giving into the March Madness coma, I was hooking into my first Kiwi trout. 

            Last Saturday, I went fishing with my buddy Evan at a reservoir about a half hour from town.  We worked the water for a while with no success.  Finally, I threw my slob choker near a small stream that fed into the reservoir.  Before I knew it, I was wrestling a nasty guy out of his afternoon hole.  As I was bringing him out of the water, he threw the hook – unfortunately no pictures.  But by Mike Funk standards, it was a fish in the creel.  Evan and I agreed that he was about a three-pound rainbow – average by New Zealand standards but a slob in Wisconsin.  It was pure joy.

            I chased a morning of fishing with a night of camping on the beach.  I met up with a group of friends at Boulder Beach on the Otago Peninsula.  We spent the night huddled around a few bottles of wine, hoping a tsunami didn’t take us into the darkness. 

            Now the lovers (Tris and Jack) have arrived.  We are renting a car and heading up the coast for the weekend.  The promise of tropical north, along with orange and blond hair flying free from open windows is making school go down a little easier this week. 

            So, my flower babies.  Strip off your parkas and listen to the snow dripping.  Spring is just around the corner.

Silence in Dunedin and Adventure in Queenstown

            Dunedin is finally quiet.  Every young thrill seeker has left for the Wildfoods Festival in Hokitika, where they will pay real money to chase breakfast maggots with shots of horse semen (not a joke).  Now don’t get me wrong, I’m as intrigued by horse semen as the next fella.  But I could do a shot of that for a lot less money back in Wisconsin.  Granted it would probably be cow semen, but what’s the difference? … Anyway, I decided to stay home.  Rest up.  Prepare for whatever’s next.  Now I have time to update all my folks, who I expect are staring at bare trees from frosted windows, waiting for a single bud to appear.

            Here the trees have leaves but school keeps me inside.  I could go through my whole schedule, but who really cares about school?  We all have to sit in class sometimes.  So, I’ll focus on my weekend in Queenstown – the adventure capital of the world.  A couple buddies were planning a trip.  I snagged an open seat and went along for the ride. 

            Normally youths go to Queenstown to bungee jump, skydive, jet boat, or some other kind of dangerous nonsense.  I went to Queenstown for mountains and trails.  When all my friends were doing the second highest bungee jump in the world, I climbed Queenstown Hill outside of the city center.  On top I found an old dirt bike track through a mountain pass.   The highland pass was arid – desert brown rather than the typical New Zealand green.  On either side were two mountain ranges with frosted peaks.  Clouds passed over the summits, casting shadows and changing colors.   I walked the track for five hours, taking time to sit and watch the land move around me. When the sun began to fall, I found my way back into town.  

            I don’t regret choosing not to bungee jump.  The adventure I’m looking for happens on back country trails that few know.  So all things considered, I found my adventure in Queenstown. 

Is My Tent Leaking?

 

            A few days ago I bought a $25 tent from K Mart and recruited two like-minded REI dividend recipients, Steve and Lexi, to join me for a weekend on the Otago Peninsula.  Our plan was to see everything and sleep where we could.  We accomplished both.  Covering 20 kilometers a day, we saw beaches, mountain tops, cliffs, seals, wild flowers, and many sassy sheep. 

            But I won’t map the whole peninsula.  There is too much to write about.  Instead I’ll focus on our last evening.   

             A couple friends told us about the perfect campsite right off a trail leading to Boulder Beach.  Boulder Beach had been closed the last two months for penguin mating season – insert joke here – so nobody was on the trail.  We hiked down to a patch of trees between the road and the beach.  In the small tree line we found the only flat area on the peninsula, sheltered by a dense canopy of moss-covered trees.  Next to the tree fort was a bubbling stream.  Beyond it, a view of the Pacific.  We made camp, ate dinner, then took a sunset walk to the end of the trail.

            The three of us cleared the trees and stopped.  Everything was in front of us -- the sun sliding behind ocean cliffs, the beach in constant motion, sand changing from light to dark with each wave, rock formations resisting the tide. No one said anything.  We just watched until the sun was gone.  Then we slept. 

            The best days I’ve had here are unplanned.  I’m out there doing something and all the sudden I find the sun setting over the Pacific.  No trail, lookout, or guided tour can compare.  

            On a different note, I’ve heard whispers of blizzards and protests back home.  So my slushie friends find the nearest electric blanket or a willing friend to keep you warm.  All winters come to an end. And keep pounding on the capital door.  With enough noise, it will open eventually.   

New Zealand -- Say Yes To Everything

 A few days ago I was standing on top of a cliff an hour west of Rotorua.  Thirty feet below was a lake – blue, clean, perfect.  Between the water and me were two trees, which I would have to clear to avoid spending the rest of the week in a New Zealand hospital.  I said to my buddy Michael, “Man I don’t think I can do this.  I’m too old for this shit.”  Mike smiled and said, “Pete, say yes to everything.”  Then he jumped. Who am I to argue with logic like that?  I followed him over the edge of the cliff, landing safely for my first New Zealand swim. 

Mike’s words became true north for orientation.  Raft class five rapids?  Yes.  Crawl through coffin sized caves a hundred meters below the ground? Yes.  Show my new friends how Aquinas boys shake it at Rotorua’s hottest dance club?  Absolutely.  To make a long week short, orientation was non-stop and amazing. 

Now I have arrived in Dunedin.  I live in a flat with both international students and Kiwis.  Dunedin is a college town.  It’s crazy.  The University of Otago makes Eau Claire look like a Mormon ice cream social.  It is not an easy village for an elderly man to call home.  But I’ll try my best.  Yesterday we went to the beach -- swam in the ocean, napped in the sand, and burned away winter skin.  Here is a photo to let my snow babies know what they’re missing.  

Remember, it doesn’t matter what side of the Pacific your on, keep saying yes. 

Sayonara Nerds

            I leave tomorrow my packer babies.  I got 33 hours of traveling, and I want to lay departing words on all the great Midwestern metropolises where my friends and family till soil.

Eau Claire Boys – Remember, no one said the road to liver cirrhosis would be easy.  But I believe in you.   Keep working hard.   You’ll get there one day.  When the ole’ Chippewa thaws, grab a bag of funyuns, the nearest life raft and think of me.  I’ll be floating with you soon enough.

Madison – You guys have educated me in the ways of hip shaking tunes and Thursday night drink specials.  Whether you are dancing under black lights or bar lamps, you’ll be out later than my wrinkled eyelids can handle.  But don’t be afraid to sit still on a Saturday night and listen to a fella play guitar.  You’ll feel better in the morning.  I’ll make my way back to your deceptive liquor bottles and potluck bars in a few short months. 

Minneapolis – Friends, I’ll dream in four-part harmony.  Every weekend I will picture you folks up top the lighthouse, elastic waistbands cradling your hips with instruments in hand.  Perhaps if Mick has his way, you’ll spend a few nights nursing cotton candy homebrews, while looking up Grupon specials.  But don’t be afraid to get a little crazy after dark.  Go to a tavern.  Maybe walk up to the Witch’s Hat Tower.  Who knows?  The world is yours for one last semester.  

            Family, I wish you the best of luck in all hypothetical skiing goals, hunters’ safety classes and hopes of Minneapolis doggie stardom.  Zula bug, I know you can read this. Uncie will miss you the most.  Keep Gus in line. 

La Crosse – Mom and Dad, thank you for everything.  You guys are the reason I am able to go to New Zealand.  I can’t express how much your love and generosity means to me. Again, Thank you. 

            So with the packers in their rightful place as world champions and the prospect of two more months of winter bearing down on the Midwest, it is time for me to say sayonara nerds.  I’ll return when the trout are rising in Vernon County.  I love you and will miss you all.