dream, discover, write ...

Gallery: Coral Bay

liluella — Sun, 14 Jan 2007 11:30:00 GMT

Treble Cone

liluella — Wed, 16 Nov 2005 13:14:00 GMT

7:00 am

Darkness is like a cocoon over the silent town. The air is like a freezer, still and cold. When the wind gusts it is like a sheet of ice whistling through the air. Frost bathes the grass, the waning moon illuminating it like a thousand jewels.

Huddled figures stand on the kerb, hidden under layers of wool and down. From gaping yawns puffs of air condense like smoke. Feet stamp in sleepy impatience.

A soft purr is heard through the inky darkness. Ears prick up and white faces turn towards the welcoming sound. The purr becomes a growl and then in a roar of noise and diesel fumes a convoy of Landrover troopies appear. Figures clamber into the cars and are instantly gratified by the blast of hot air from the heaters. Mumbled introductions are made then each person retreats back into their jackets, seeking solace in the darkness.

And then light! A fiery explosion of gold and persimmon appears from the west. It is like the depths of Mordor have been lit as the colours intensify and brighten. The sun rises over the jagged mountain range sending unnatural light across the land. Lethargic figures fumble for their sunglasses, retreating deeper into their jackets trying to escape the harshness.

As the Landrover comes to the bottom of the access road, a transformation comes over its passengers. The sun seems to give the power of speech, and after hesitant introductions there is laughter and story telling.

I sit with twelve other people from around the world, brought here by one thing. Snow. As we drive round the final bend of the access road there is a collective silence. Within the blanket of whiteness, lights twinkle from the base lodge. The six seater lift, silent and motionless, leads the eye some two thousand metres above sea level to the top of the mountain range. Black jagged rocks line the peaks like teeth.

This is Treble Cone, our very own playground for the 2005 winter season.

The Bight

liluella — Tue, 19 Oct 2004 12:43:00 GMT

I open my eyes. Sunspots scatter my vision like burnt poppies.

Here on this dry plateau the only sound to be heard is the rasping breath of wind. Her icy fingers lash at my hair. She screams in my ears, her voice only to be lost to the caverns of space. Withered leaves are cascaded over brittle rocks. Dust devils scoot past and disappear into the glare of the sun.

I stand on the edge of a limestone cliff. A tower of rock, carved by wind and sea. Bleached by sun and salt. Its sheer face is a mosaic of earthen colour. Pearly whites fade through to honeycomb and a deep russet red. Below me is the beaten silver sheet of the Southern Ocean. The water ripples like folds of satin, receding into a pastel horizon of baby blue. Waves of turquoise heave themselves onto the stained rocks at the cliff's base.

Suddenly a sound breaks the silence. A giant breath and whoosh of air strikes to the core of my heart. V-shaped spouts billow from the water's surface, droplets of water cascading like diamonds. The winds icy fingers disperse the spray of water into arcs of fine mist. Dark shapes glide underneath the surface. And then they are everywhere, giant noses breaking the surface, tail flukes slapping the water like the crack of a stockman's whip.

To be so close and to hear the breath of giants. To see immense bodies gliding throught the water. One of nature's finest gifts.

Mt Abrupt

liluella — Sat, 21 Aug 2004 13:09:00 GMT

The flies are everywhere. Multitudes of tiny feet tickle every piece of exposed skin as my arms swat in desperation. A cocktail of sweat and dust cakes my face. I lick my lips and glance up at the path before me. It is barely discernible from the tangle of bush around me. Stringybarks hang their textured limbs in every direction. Grevilleas, orchids, wattles and banksias carpet the ground underneath the flaccid arms of the giant Grampian gum.

I heave my water bottle from my pack and guzzle down a mouthful of sweet refreshing liquid. It is mid morning and my partner and I have been climbing steadily upwards. The track is uneven and overgrown. Around every corner nasty little rocks jump out and bite unsuspecting toes. Thin branches have left red welts upon my arms like the mark of a swinging whip. I glance up at the path before me. My partner is disappearing into the maze of khaki coloured leaves and branches. I grit my teeth and once again begin to climb the steep slope.

The path curls up the mountainside like a stream of pipe smoke. As we near the first ridge the swaying gums thin out, to be replaced by large boulders and rocky cliff faces. We pass through a deep chasm, formed by two huge slabs of lichen covered rock. In the cool shadows intricate ferns and moss languish in tiny crevices.

As we come out onto the first ridge, the mountain’s peak continues to tower over us. It taunts us to climb further. Huge slabs of rock cover the mountain like plate covered armour. Tiny gum trees and bushes struggle to get their roots through the fissures that splinter in every direction.

Now on an uneven surface of granite, we push ourselves to the summit. An hour later, two red faces covered in sweat but lit with grins of accomplishment reach the top of Mount Abrupt. It is one of the tallest mountains in this range and towers over the southern reaches of the Grampians. The view takes our breath away. Green extends to the horizon, only broken by the patchwork of straw-coloured paddocks to the south. The main road through the Grampians is like a tiny grey cord snaking through the velvety green carpet.

We lay on our backs and close our eyes. The only sound to be heard is the whistling of wind and the occasional melody of small birds that dart over us. I open my eyes to the azure sky. Puffs of whiteness are like tiny sheep in the giant paddock of blue. Small dots become larger, transforming into three graceful eagles. They soar above us, their golden feathers seemingly weightless on the air currents.

With great regret we leave the peace of Mount Abrupt. The sun lowers on the horizon sending streaks of apricot across the sky. Though it had taken us most of the day to climb the mountain, we had not seen a soul. Definitely an experience off the beaten track …

A Living Green Canvas

liluella — Wed, 5 Nov 2003 12:52:00 GMT

Sensory overload. The azure blue sky momentarily blinds me. The wintry breeze tugs at my hair and creeps through layers of clothes. Blinking I stumble down the steps and out of the plane.

The smell immediately hits me. Not a sweet fragrance or an intoxicating perfume; instead, a pure smell. I breathe in deeply. It is the essence of the earth, fresh and crisp. It is the smell of mud and sedge and grassland after a deluge, almost as if I had stepped into a giant puddle, or a marshy green paddock. Come to think of it, I quite literally had.

For three long hours I had flown through puffy whiteness, the deep blue shimmering beneath. The first glimpse of my destination was a long white cloud stretching its gull-grey fingers across the sea to distant mountains. Underbellies fat with rain touched the verdant hills. Silvery threads of water snaked in every direction. Welcome to Aotearoa – land of the long white cloud.

Ka ao, ka ao, ka awatea … te take. It is dawn, it is dawn, it is daylight … the beginning.

Darkness wraps its arms around me as the coach winds its way down the road. Headlight beams flash in and out of consciousness. Shadowy shapes envelop the endless white line, which takes me into the dark hours of early morning. As the sun creeps up over the horizon, reality slowly comes in focus. Shapes become gnarled trees, dripping with shades of tea green moss and orange lichen.

Around the next corner the coastal capital of New Zealand spreads out before me. Wellington, which sits on the southern tip of the North Island, basks in the early morning glow. The creaking docks are covered with seabirds, preening their waterlogged feathers. Beaks are upturned to the warmth of the sun. The water glimmers like an intricate diamond, every facet sparkling with colour and vitality.

I board Arahura, a huge InterIslander ferry. The smell of the sea lingers in the rows of salt-encrusted seats lining the deck. As the ferry noses forward across the Cook Strait toward the South Island, Wellington fades into a dream. The bow of the Arahura cuts through the cobalt blue waves and sends salty spray across the deck. As the sea fog lifts, the long arms of the Marlborough Sounds reach out toward me. Their crowns are sprinkled with dense green undergrowth, whilst their rocky bottoms wrinkle and fold into the sea.

My journey on the South Island begins with the drive westward from Picton to Nelson. The emerald blue inlets of the Sounds constantly dip in and out of sight. Fern fronds sweep the road and mask dense layers of jungle. At Havelock I head inland. Impenetrable rainforest swallows the road as I descend into shadowy valleys. The temperature rapidly drops as the sun lowers herself behind the mountains.

I start the next day with an early morning drive through Buller Gorge. The bony shoulders of Old Man Mountain hunch over the road, clouds hanging ominously over them like smoke curling from a pipe. Primeval ferns and cabbage trees cling to the steep cliffs of the gorge. The tall native grass, toi toi, flanks the road and seems to wave me along.

At the northern plains of Westport I turn south and begin the drive along the West Coast. Distant mountains slowly hem me in toward the beaten silver sheet of the Tasman Sea. The first straight road of the trip becomes a mere garden path. It corkscrews along the precipitous mountain cliffs, virtually hanging over nothing. The invention of guardrails is forgotten here and I crawl along at snails pace. Fallen rocks hinder my path and I shy away from the road’s crumbling edge. The waves below constantly pummel the rocky coastline.

The beauty and ruggedness of the West Coast is incredible. In parts the greenery is so dense I cannot see past the first layers of ferns. Around every corner, waterfalls splash their way down over moss-covered boulders. Sea mist enshrouds the continuous line of breakers. Islands of stone capped in green dot the coastline like unwanted pieces discarded by the mountains.

A unique geological formation appears. Punakaiki Rocks are layers of ‘pancake’ shaped rocks eroded by the elements. They stand proudly over the ocean looking like a miniature version of the Bungle Bungle Ranges from Australia. With a whoosh a giant blowhole erupts and sends a shower of fine mist across my face.

As night falls I detour off the main road and make my way to Okarito, a small coastal village. Thick sea mist drapes itself over the land. House lights are like wavering ghosts in the darkness. A hand-painted sign resting in the gutter on the side of the road is my last resort for accommodation. At sixty dollars a night, this self-contained cottage is like a rose among thorns. It is beautifully fitted out in stone and wood, and scattered throughout are torn maps, yellowing magazines and ageing souvenirs. It has the feel of being just lived in and I instantly feel at home.

Morning comes. Hidden by darkness the previous night, Okarito is awash in colour. The cottage and surrounds are bathed in crystalline frost. From the mossy back veranda, the shadowy blanket of green reaches toward the distant peaks of the Southern Alps. Their rocky shoulders are swathed in white. Shafts of golden light edging over the horizon gild their pearly ice caps and transform them into shades of peach and rose. Tangles of sub-alpine scrub give way to luxuriant rainforest below. Melodies from the bellbird and kea drift through the fernery. Blossoming in the morning glow, the brilliant rata tree is like a splash of crimson paint against the living green canvas.

The land stretches and yawns. I leave Okarito to the silken mist rising from the valleys and continue south. I stop for coffee just past the small town of Franz Josef. Before me, cascading down the large bedrock steps to the valley floor, is the Franz Josef Glacier. It glitters in the early sunlight. Over seven thousand years, ice has carved the glacial valley and in its path has left a long rocky scar. Over this I clamber, reaching the glacier’s base in just over an hour. The solid twelve-kilometre arm hugs the mountain valley in a frozen embrace and stretches to the serrated peaks above. Blocks of ice litter its base like abandoned toys. A milky blue glacial torrent tumbles toward the nearby coast. I listen carefully and can almost hear the glacier creaking and cracking its seven thousand-year old bones. Alive and breathing …

The lonesome windswept coastline of the West Coast recedes into the sea mist as I turn towards the Southern Alps. The road twists and turns before me as it climbs steadily into the stony high country. The embankment on my left falls away to the Haast River, which races its way through the wilderness seeking escape into the sea. Dripping green rainforest wraps the slopes of Mount Aspiring, standing thousands of metres above sea level. Ancient trees stretch their limbs skyward, adding centuries to their lives. Straight from the snow peaks above, icy-cold waterfalls are cascades of clear jewels sparkling behind dark green shadows. Boulder-filled pools yawn open to welcome them as intricate ferns kiss the swirling sapphire water. This is a land of hidden beauty around every corner and under every frond.

The road climbs toward Haast Pass and I imagine myself entering the dark realms of Tolkien’s Middle Earth. Rainforest gives way to small winter bellflowers, which crouch amongst bleached grass. The frigid air seems to splinter with every breath. Remnants of snow lazily cling to the muddy edges of the road. Small springs edge their way out of rock crevices, only to be frozen in time as ornate crystal sculptures. The alpine scrub shivers as the frosty caress of wind swirls around the Alps.

I break free from the wintry embrace of Haast Pass. The land around me changes anew. Like sugar icing, snow dusts the alpine peaks, which flank the road before me. Mirrored lakes lap at their rocky haunches and reflect the dark tumultuous clouds above. Mountains wear shades of rowan, cinnamon and mahogany. Gnarled fingers of hundred-year-old twisted trunk clutch the barren slopes, their bare limbs covered with frost. The sun gradually disappears behind the steel-grey clouds that cloak the lofty peaks.

The next morning I open my eyes to the adventure capital of New Zealand. The sky is flushed with pale umber, rouge and rose madder. Queenstown sits on the edge of Lake Wakatipu and is surrounded by the jagged peaks of the Alps. People live and come here for one reason: to push the boundaries, to ride on fresh powder, to seek the ultimate thrill. The town buzzes with adrenaline. The Remarkables, Coronet Peak, Treble Cone and Cardrona are alive with ski poles, toboggans, beanies and whoops of bliss as the snow is carved to perfection.

In Queenstown my choice of death-defying sports is to skydive. I am told it all depends on the weather and I eagerly await the forecast. My hopes fade with the forbidding clouds of snow and rain, which drive the blue patches of sky behind the mountains. Instead I drive to the snowfields of Coronet Peak. It is like standing on top of the world. The horizon offers a 360-degree view of chiselled peaks, laced in wispy trails of white. Snow flurries through the air and crunches like salt underneath my feet.

As the sun sets, the delicate light of a silver moon illuminates Middle Earth. The Misty Mountains protrude their gaping teeth over Queenstown, mist curling round them like dragon’s smoke. The air is still, the faint smell of burning pine lingering in the air. In the cool quiet the creatures of Middle Earth awaken; the faint patter of hobbit’s feet on the pine needles the only sound to be heard …

I dream. I dream of shadowy mountains, which wrap around the depths of Middle Earth. I dream of the glint of metal glancing off a silver sword. The metallic sound as it is drawn from an intricate sheath. The hiss as it slices the night air. I dream of giant beasts galloping through the night, hooves ringing out on dusty cobblestones. The snuffling and snorting and occasional whinnies as they draw near. I dream of leaves dancing through the air, twirling their way through shafts of golden light in the forests of Lothlorien. I dream of feasting then slumber under knotted trees, head resting on a cushion of grass.

When I awaken condensation beads the windows of the hotel room. Silver rivulets slide and drop into the carpet. The light of dawn is weak and struggles to find its way over the silhouettes of the mountains. Leaden clouds mutter between themselves and drape their bodies over the land. The alpine air is six degrees. Donning my beanie, scarf, thermals, gloves, and at least three jumpers I set out.

I leave Middle Earth and its ragged peaks to the gathering pink and gold smudges of daybreak. The road stretches into the barren foothills of Central Otago, a rugged and dry plateau sheltered by the Southern Alps. The Kawarau River carves its way through the brown land, twisting and looping around the spindly trees, which claw for the grumbling sky. Aging fences hem paddocks of sheep, huddling for warmth and scouring the ground for slivers of grass. Along the edge of the road piles of rocks have been left to delight and confuse passing travellers. They are like sculptured masterpieces left by an invisible artist to slowly erode into the dust.

The small town of Omarama provides the first coffee stop of the day. The town has a huge souvenir store in the centre of town. Inside, shelves are crowded with furs and fleeces, skeins of wool and possum fur socks. Leather hats are draped with silk scarves. Postcards warp on metal racks. The smell of coffee drifts from a small café camouflaged by shelves of greenstone and paua jewellery. Busloads of tourists maintain a steady flow through its glass doors.

Tired of souvenirs, I walk into the adjacent public toilets. Sitting between the cracked mirrors atop the hand-dryer is a teenage romance novel. I pick it up, wondering who had left it, and why. A slip of paper tells its story. It is a BookCrossing book, left by a member of an international network who leave books behind in the hope they will be captured, read and released. I capture the book for a bit of a laugh and keep it to release into the wild of Australia when I return home.

I leave Omarama laden with souvenirs and unnecessary trinkets. The road returns to the undulating haze of olive green hills, which fade into distant brown peaks. Houses are few and far between, and the car seems to crawl through the silent landscape.

Bumps on the horizon gradually unfold into steep hills, and a yellow sandstone cliff juts from one plateau. I leave the car and climb to a sweeping view. Windswept paddocks and stunted trees cling to the edges of mountains, shoulders bared to the heavens. The cool caress of wind whispers in my ears, bringing the smell of mustiness from the pockmarked cliffs. In the dark overhangs, Maori rock-paintings of red ochre twist and weave a story of ancient origins. Intricate nests of mud and straw are sculpted onto the wall. Tiny rock wrens babble incessantly, flitting in and out of the cool shadows.

The mountains of Central Otago gradually recede into the horizon as the road descends into the farming country of the Waitaki district. A rural patchwork quilt of green and gold is stitched together with velvet pines and russet farm buildings. I sense the coast is near when the tangy sea air drifts through the vents.

I reach the coast at Oamaru. It is famous for its blue penguin colony and its collection of historic commercial buildings. I immediately get lost in the wide rambling streets. I find myself in what looks like a London street from the 1950s. Huge whitestone buildings in a mosaic of Gothic styles watch over the thrum of activity in the small cobblestone alleyways. Old cars and bicycles haphazardly clutter the curbs.

Oamaru’s Harbour-Tyne Street precinct is a maze of wooden floored rooms, high ceilings and creaking staircases. There is an art gallery, bookstore and even an antique bookbinder. Fuzzy grey-haired ladies sell knitted scarves, toys and old wares at the weekend markets. From across the dusty street a bakery lures me inside with delicious aromas of pastry and freshly baked bread. Walnut biscuits, almond bread, cream puffs and crusty loaves of rye and Vienna are decadently piled underneath polished glass.

I continue down to the waterfront and its creaking jetties. Rusted boats are being tossed on the icy-grey waters of Oamaru Harbour. I find the penguin colony and sit on the viewing platform, feasting on my indulgent purchases. Breakers crash over the Macendrew Wharf, sending plumes of spray metres into the air. Though it is the wrong time of day for penguins, I breathe in an air smelling of brine and musty penguin feathers. The sea air is freezing and I leave rosy-cheeked, invigorated and grinning from ear to ear.

On the drive north to Christchurch night soon sends the country into slumber. Lights wink on and cast a glow over the road. The shapes of steeples are ghostly silhouettes on the horizon. It is late at night and I check into a small hotel. I set my alarm for a 5:30 flight the next morning and soon fall asleep.

Engines roar. Eyes blink away sleep and glaze over glossy in-flight magazines. The roar reaches its crescendo and with a sudden shuddering movement bodies are pinned back into cushioned seats. Ears pop. Hearts pound. And then … a feeling of weightlessness. The plane begins its ascent into the early morning darkness.

The winking lights of Christchurch soon become distant constellations against the darkened land. As the ball of fire slowly climbs the sky, vivid hues of pineapple, peach and tangelo push the moon’s soft cream face behind the horizon. Shafts of light illuminate the clouds, overshadowing the land beneath and enveloping the small plane like folds of soft skin. Through the occasional misty gap, a steady transformation of colour takes place; stormy indigo and deep teal turns to a palette of pastel.

Two hours later the plane touches down in Auckland. First impressions are of towering buildings of asphalt and steel, dominating the inner city skyline like jagged teeth. The thousands of windows are like eyes, mirroring the golden glow cast by the sun. It is Monday morning rush hour and crowds of people and cars swarm over the streets at the blink of a traffic light. There is a constant sound of busy feet and blaring horns. Puddles are miniature oceans on every pavement, soaking those who are careless and rushing along. The air smells of car fumes, the sea and recent rains.

Auckland is a waterside city, wrapped by a silken blue sheet and punctuated by some forty-eight volcanic hills. Famous for being the City of Sails, boats dot the harbour like white daisies scattered amongst a field of blue cornflowers. Squawking gulls are like ribbons in the sky. Wavelets drum on hulls of bleached wood and fibreglass.

At 328 metres, the Skytower is a slender fang on the skyline. It is the tallest building in the Southern Hemisphere and takes only forty seconds by lift to ascend its hollow shell. I step out onto the viewing deck with a complete view of Auckland, a solid glass floor of thirty-two centimetres beneath my feet. Yachts are triangular specks leaving silvery trails on the glittering blue sea. People are grains of sand being blown across the streets. Cars and trucks are like toys banked up on the intersections.

West of Auckland out of suburbia is an area famous for its dramatic ruggedness, iron-sand beaches and pounding surf. My destination is Piha Beach, popular for both locals and tourists. The road winds its way around massive ferns and gradually descends the hills to the coast. Getting out the car, I am blasted with crisp squalls coming off the six-foot breakers. The sea is a tangle of foam, rising swells and wave tops being whipped by the wind. Lion’s Head, an imposing figure of rock with a mane of sage-coloured bushes, stares moodily out to sea. I walk along the beach, the stained black sands soft underfoot. Like brightly coloured flowers, paragliders glide lazily on warm air currents above the headland.

On the weekend I leave the frantic pace of Auckland and head south to Coromandel Peninsula. Eight-lane motorways soon become small winding roads, which curl around lush paddocks. The peninsula is a thin extended spine of volcanic hills, blanketed by the Coromandel Forest Park. Tree ferns and black birches are like raised hackles on its back. Tucked away from the road, wooden shacks have fences adorned with yellow buoys and knotted pieces of rope. The shallow waters of the Firth of Thames lap its western shores.

The gateway to the Coromandel is a small town called Thames. I stop briefly in the Main Street at the local markets. Organic produce of every description is scattered atop wooden trestle tables; kiwi fruit, kumaras, persimmons, feijoas, freshly baked ciabattas and selections of creamy blue and goat’s cheese. There are stalls with hand-carved wooden boxes, glass-blown ornaments and intricate dream catchers. Local musicians serenade the shoppers.

I head north onto the Peninsula itself. The road snakes its way around secluded inlets and the scattered fishing villages of Tararu, Ruamahunga and Kereta. At Coromandel Town, a road finally heads east over the peninsula’s steep grade. At its peak I can appreciate the natural beauty of Coromandel Harbour and the small islands dotting its waters. A sprawl of mangroves and marshy green paddocks fringe its edges.

It is here on Coromandel Peninsula where some of the last remaining Kauri stands. Famous for its beautiful copper coloured wood, Kauri trees were almost logged to extinction in years past. Tucked away from the road is the twin Kauri trees, possibly thousands of years old. They hold absolute power and beauty over the landscape. Leafy tips brush the pearly undersides of the heavens. Textured bark is a mosaic of peppercorn and oregano. Dark olive lichens cling to their massive trunks. Moss covers the ground and squelches underfoot. The silver undersides of tiny ferns seem to glow from the cool shadows. A tiny spring dribbles its way through smooth khaki coloured rocks. Only the tui’s tinkling voice pierces the absolute silence.

I continue to drive south along the eastern coast of the North Island and turn inland at the Bay of Plenty. The late afternoon sun glances across the windscreen. As it retires over the horizon, the land is enveloped in a blush of crimson. Distant pine trees become notched outlines. Headlights flick on, their wavering glow revealing darkened stands of pine and scarred mountainsides. Clouds of steam seep in puffs from the ground like dragon’s smoke. The sulphurous smell of rotten egg pervades my senses. I have arrived at last to Rotoroa, New Zealand’s famous thermal area.

The stars glitter against the smoky darkness. A canopy of rhino-grey needles forms an intricate roof. Flaming torches below illuminate pockmarked boughs. Surrounding the sandy arena is a palisade of wooden defensive paths and sharpened spears. Pointed tips jaggedly defy the branches above. Totem poles stand guard, their white painted eyes glinting from the flickering shadows. And then come the voices. Louder and louder, they echo across the arena. Ghostly figures appear out of the shadows and down the wooden walkways. Their feet stamp rhythmically, raising dust into the air. Beaded skirts swish around solid hips. A lone man steps into the arena, his hand clutching a long stick. He bangs it on the ground. A carved greenstone pendant hangs from his neck. An ebony tattoo braids over his face, sweat beading on his forehead.

The warrior stops before the group. Stops before me. ‘Haere mai. Welcome to Tamaki Maori Village.’

Tamaki is one of many places in the Rotoroa area, which open its doors to a Maori experience of past and present aspects of culture and life. The tour winds its way through a pre-European Maori village, and ends up in a marae, or meeting place. It is here where Maori men, women and children give insight into their culture through song and story. Women swing red and white poi, balls on string, and the men perform the haka, war dance. The tour ends with a hangi, a feast of meat and vegetables slowly cooked in a traditional steam pit.

It is late at night when I leave and I pitch camp in Waikite Valley, a short distance from Tamaki Maori Village. The land is black velvet, the moon radiating her soft ghostly light over undulating hills of forest. Clouds of steam merge with fingers of mist and stretch lazily through the valley. I close my eyes and snuggle deeper into my sleeping bag.

When I awaken frost carpets the ground. Beside the campground a white haze billows from a gurgling stream. I follow the steaming river to its source. Amongst the moss-covered rocks and draping fern fronds, a mineral spring boils up from the depths of the earth. Much of its water is curbed into Waikite Valley Thermal Pools, which adjoin the campground. I don my bathers for the first time in New Zealand. The water is so warm I become oblivious to time and several hours later I get out, my fingers and toes like wrinkled jellyfish. My skin feels clean and rejuvenated.

Just out of Waikite Valley are the rangy pines of Kaingaroa Forest, which hide the colourful volcanic area of Wai-O-Tapu Thermal Wonderland. The first sign of volcanic activity are the bubbling mud pools, tiny concentric circles forming on its slate surface. Surrounding pines are like bony skeletons, splashed with dried pewter-coloured mud. Further into the park, chemical reactions deep beneath the earth have left fluorescent yellow tags on the beige ground. Sickly yellow-green pools simmer and fester. Sulphurous smells drift throughout the park. The Lady Knox Geyser spurts foul water and steam into the air. Occupying a seventy-metre wide explosion crater, Champagne Springs is a pool of hazardous chemicals bubbling at over seven hundred degrees. The effervescent jade water is ringed with a ferocious looking orange and crystalline white. Evil smells create the feeling of stepping onto another planet.

I leave Wai-O-Tapu and drive westward to Huka Falls, known as Hukanui in Maori, or ‘Great Body of Spray’. The might of the Waikato River is squeezed through a narrow fissure in the rock, becoming giant turquoise rapids. Torrents of water smash their frothy heads against the moss-stained walls of rock and erupt from the other side in a huge fall of water. The crashing water reverberates through the ground.

Lake Taupo, ten kilometres away from Huka Falls, is the size of Singapore. It is like a giant unblinking eye in the centre of the North Island. Sailing boats are painted upon its surface of ruffled silk. Distant mountains to the south are capped in snow.

It is here where I let go of my fears, follow my dreams and do the unthinkable – skydive. At ten thousand feet, my legs hang out the side of the plane. There is nothing below but air. Straps are my safety net attaching me to my instructor. My head is thrust back onto his shoulder. I close my eyes for an instant.

Suddenly, I am dropping through the air at two hundred kilometres per hour. The thin air is hard to breathe and I gasp like a drowning fish. I open my eyes to the most magical view. The land is like a patchwork bubble of green, clouds like fingers of dust. Silvery threads of water snake in all directions. Lake Taupo is like a giant mirror. Ten seconds of free fall and the pink parachute is released with a snap. Then I am gliding through the air, the land slowly becoming bigger. It is so still and silent I feel like I am stuck on slow motion. When I land on the ground I am a rag doll, dizzy with euphoria. It is an experience I will never forget.

I drive back to Auckland for my eight o’clock flight back to Australia. I am still buzzing with adrenaline. Once again the paintbox of colour disappears into inky darkness. I store away the memories of the colourful landscape of Aotearoa. I have only seen a small glimpse of this diverse land but I know I will one day return to see more.

Summer Storms at Uluru

liluella — Thu, 20 Feb 2003 12:38:00 GMT

We walk along the dusty track, the humidity suffocating our every step. Flies feast on bare skin, the sweat and dust are caked on our bodies. The huge brown monolith of Uluru towers above us, making us feel as small and insignificant as the bull ants that dance around our feet. The deep silence, broken only by the occasional bird song, reminds us of the spiritual aura of the site that we are traversing around.

The heat becomes more and more oppressive, marking our every step. Storm clouds gather overhead, dark and ominous, taunting us with relief that we can only dream of.

And then!

Cool drops begin to slide down the nape of our necks. Faces turn up toward the overhanging dark purple sky and the rain starts to peel away the sweat and dust. The scent of cool rain on the hot earth tantalises our nostrils. Hands are outstretched and faces’ wondrous as we welcome the rain with open arms, believing this is only mild a respite to the never-ending heat.

As the rain gets heavier and heavier, becoming a deluge, our faces are jubilant in the realisation that it isn’t the Gods teasing us from the humidity and the dust. Instead, this is a downpour, cleansing our faces and the dry earth that encompasses us.

The rain saturates everything in this harsh landscape. Our hair and clothes cling to our skin but spirits are high; nothing can dampen what lies before us. Faces are now reverential; the rock in all its spiritual splendour has turned black. Mist blankets its peak and silver rivulets snake their way down the uneven fissures. These quickly become torrential waterfalls, filling our ears with the most unlikely sound to be heard in the desert. Awed silence is now a cacophony of noise, striking deep into our hearts.

The once dusty track is now a turbid river with mud squelching between our toes. The flies are no more and everything is fresh, languishing in this rare inundation.

As quickly as it came, the rain abates, and all that is left are the dwindling waterfalls and dissipating mist. The land sparkles with renewed life and energy. But there is a memory imprinted forever in our minds. Silver cascading down a black rock, embedded in red earth and purple skies.

El Questro

liluella — Thu, 26 Sep 2002 12:46:00 GMT

The sun dances and gleams behind closed eyelids. Opening them I am momentarily blinded. Leafy gums swirl across my vision, encased in a brilliant blue sky. And the sound of thunder…

Shaking off the remnants of a dream I sit up slowly and take in my surroundings. Massive river red gums tower above me. A sparkle of turquoise water flashes through the undergrowth. Birds are screeching and flitting through the greenery. And the sound of thunder grows louder…

I turn around. A band of white, black, rowan and piebald colour suddenly pours into the paddock twenty metres away. Like something out of a movie, a herd of horses thunder past, kicking up dust with their hooves, eyes wide. My jaw drops. I turn to my mum and brother wordlessly mouthing admiration. Wheeling around with fluid grace, the magnificent animals come to a halt, pawing the ground and snorting softly. Cattle dogs yap at their feet and a stockman on his horse appears out of the herd. Everything is bathed in the early morning glow.

I smiled. This was going to be an interesting holiday…

We had driven from Alice Springs in Central Australia across a very flat and very hot Tanami Desert. For two long days shimmering horizons, stunted trees and little dust devils were all that filled our sights. We were physically and mentally exhausted. The claws were out and tempers were flaring. Arriving last night, our destination was cloaked in a thick, sooty darkness. Shadowy shapes of jagged ranges and ghost gums were all that our tired eyes noticed.

Looking around now, the land was teeming with colour and movement. A blanket of green enveloped the glowing red ranges that peeked above us on the horizon. The calls of unseen birds pierced the absolute silence. The land was shimmering with freshness and colour.

Our destination you ask?

El Questro – situated on the southern edge of the Kimberley region in Western Australia. One million acres of pristine wilderness waiting to be discovered. Once serving as a cattle station, current owners Will and Celia Burrell have transformed it into one of the worlds most unique tourist destinations. The name El Questro means absolutely nothing. But as a holiday location, the park attracts thousands of tourists every year.

Originally we were planning to travel to the sandy beaches of Broome. Surfing the Net instead we had come across the website www.elquestro.com.au . There were pictures of rugged ranges surrounded by pockets of lush tropical vegetation. Hidden gorges showing off cascading waterfalls. Cool freshwater swimming holes contrasted by bubbling thermal springs. It instantly sold us.

So waking up that morning to perfect weather and a herd of galloping giants set the scene for one of my best holidays to date.

The ‘dry’ season of Northern Australia is the busiest time of the year, and we woke up on the edge of a very busy main campground. But we were in luck. An individual camping spot had just been vacated. Always the one looking for a more secluded experience we jumped at the chance.

Packing our bags and loading them up on the beaten 4WD that mum called her car we set out. Ten minutes along a sandy track, we turned down our ‘driveway’ and headed towards our new and very own camping spot, Osprey.

Sparkling clear water peeked through dense vegetation and suddenly we were upon it. White sand faded down to a serene river edge. Palm fronds kissed the water as dragonflies skimmed across the surface.

For the next four days we sank into a blissful heaven. We were woken up early to the sounds of multi-coloured parrot’s raucously screeching. Alarmed kangaroos leaped through the trees. The weather was perfect. Clear blue skies, warm sun and just the hint of a fresh breeze to keep us in reality.

At El Questro there were thousands of activities to fill the day. The cheapest and most exhilarating thrill is to explore parts of the region by foot. Tracks are well signposted and easy to follow. They range from short thirty-minute tramps to all day hikes. Senses are stimulated and rewarded with the amazing work of Mother Nature at her finest.

The shortest and most popular walk was to Zebedee Springs. Half an hour through towering gums and Livistona palms and the sounds of bubbling water soon fills the air. Lush vegetation and sheer sandstone cliffs surround a permanent thermal spring. The water temperature averages twenty-eight to thirty-two degrees Celsius all year round. Zebedee soon became out favourite place to relax.

As well as the main Station Homestead and the camping grounds, El Questro offers a unique style of accommodation. Tented cabins equipped with all the modern amenities are in complete harmony with the surrounding landscape. The highlight of this resort is the walk that goes right into Emma Gorge.

Sheer quartz-sandstone cliffs hem in savanna woodland and massive rippled boulders. Kimberley rainforest gradually replaces the vegetation and an hour walk reveals the first glints of turquoise water. Glowing with unnatural brilliance the halfway pool provides a beautiful spot to cool off before the last leg. A short walk later and El Questro’s best kept secret appears through the trees.

Crystal clear droplets descend two hundred metres into an enormous cobalt blue pool. Shafts of sunlights give the area a surreal ambience. Wild figs and mossy lichens cling to the cliff faces. A thermal spring bubbles up from a crack at the base of the cliff. Butterflies flit through the still air. Absolute magic to soak in and relax.

Another popular retreat is Chamberlain Gorge, which can only be accessed by boat. Looking for a bit of a buzz we hired a little tinny and spent half a day puttering down the wide river. Breathtaking ochre cliffs towered either side of us. Blue winged kookaburras, azure kingfishers and crimson finches darted through the shadows. Rock wallabies peeked out of their holes in the cliff face. Sleek barramundi moved gracefully underneath the surface. We moored the boat at the end of the gorge and viewed a magnificent display of ancient Indigenous art.

El Questro have every activity for the discerning traveller. Horse treks, accompanied by a ranger are an excellent way to sneak up on Kimberley wildlife. Frilled neck lizards sun themselves, the jabiru stalks incessant insects and the saltwater crocodile wallows in the shallows of the major rivers. Or you can just listen to the extraordinary tales of this special place.

El Questro is fast becoming a place sought after by sports fishermen. Travelling by helicopter is search of the elusive barramundi offers a scenic flight through country that is rarely seen by human eyes. The five thousand heads of cattle that the park maintains can also be spotted, grazing on the saltpans and in pindan country.

This is not only a place for the adventurous spirit, it is also a place to relax. To sit under a boab tree, soaking up the magic. Listening to the beautiful sounds of nature and breathing the worlds cleanest air. The intoxicating sun can do nothing but soothe and relax…

The delicious smell of spinifex grass warming in the sun permeates my nostrils. Melodious warbling spills down from the treetops. I savoured the quiet moment, wishing it would never end.

The day had finally come to leave. Driving out of El Questro I stared wistfully out the window. Hazy memories of the last four days drifted past my eyes. Turning round I took one last glance. The dusty track snaked back through the valley. Once again the early morning sun bathed the land in a golden glow. I could still hear the distant sounds of hooves, a high pitched whinny and the yaps of a cattle dog...