Site search
sponsored by
Home
News
ENLARGE
Photographer Rick Gunn's bike rests on a bridge as steam rises in Rotorua on New Zealand's North Island.
|
ENLARGE
|
The view of Coromandel Town from above.
|
|
ENLARGE
|
Steam rises from one of the geothermal areas in Rotorua.
|
<i>Editor's note: This is one in a series of journal entries from Rick Gunn, a South Lake Tahoe photographer, detailing his three-year bicycle journey around the world. Along the way, he is soliciting donations for The Make-A-Wish Foundation. To donate, go to wish.org. To read his complete "Wish Tour" journal, go to rickgunnphotography.com.</i>
Alone and naked, I stood in the rain.
Engulfed by the solitude of the surrounding forest, the river before me flowed like translucent tea. Entranced by the rain that danced upon its surface, the patterns it formed mimicked life itself - concentric circles arising, myriad forms, radiating outward, dissolving downstream.
A teardrop fell - water into water - unifying with source.
This before I bent, drew my breath and plunged. Alive and awakened beneath these cool, silent waters, I arced through the depths in suspended animation. Here, I recalled the events surrounding my arrival to New Zealand.
My mind harkened back to a tiny, makeshift office, the roar of the ocean, a cottage beside the sea. In the other room were my hosts, Bob and Karen Ostrow, two seventysomething-year-olds, heroes of mine whom I knew from back home.
The two long since had traded their winters for endless summers, traveling between their two small homes in Lake Tahoe and Whaihi Beach on New Zealand's North Island. Transforming their retirement into something of an art form, they are artists, athletes, intellectuals - gently-aged gypsies.
Alone and naked, I stood in the rain.
Engulfed by the solitude of the surrounding forest, the river before me flowed like translucent tea. Entranced by the rain that danced upon its surface, the patterns it formed mimicked life itself - concentric circles arising, myriad forms, radiating outward, dissolving downstream.
A teardrop fell - water into water - unifying with source.
This before I bent, drew my breath and plunged. Alive and awakened beneath these cool, silent waters, I arced through the depths in suspended animation. Here, I recalled the events surrounding my arrival to New Zealand.
My mind harkened back to a tiny, makeshift office, the roar of the ocean, a cottage beside the sea. In the other room were my hosts, Bob and Karen Ostrow, two seventysomething-year-olds, heroes of mine whom I knew from back home.
The two long since had traded their winters for endless summers, traveling between their two small homes in Lake Tahoe and Whaihi Beach on New Zealand's North Island. Transforming their retirement into something of an art form, they are artists, athletes, intellectuals - gently-aged gypsies.
With sweaty palms, I picked up their phone and nervously dialed a number. As I waited for an answer, I studied the whirl of color of the surrounding decor - red, yellow, blue, green - Picasso vs. Dali in a paint fight to the death.
"Hello?" a woman's voice finally answered.
"Oh, hello," I said sitting upright in the chair, "is this Mrs. Hillary?"
"Yes," the woman replied. "May I ask whom I'm speaking with?"
"My name is Rick Gunn; I believe the local paper just phoned to inform you that I'd be calling."
"Are you the one riding the bicycle around the world?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied, somewhat relieved. "Yes, I am. New Zealand is the last of 32 countries for me," I said, "and I was hoping to end the journey with a brief visit with your husband."
Suddenly, there was silence. This followed by a tone of increased seriousness. "I'm sorry, that will not be possible," she said. "Sir Edmund is simply out of circulation now."
Another, more awkward silence passed. Instinctively, I knew I had only one chance at this. "I understand, Mrs. Hillary," I continued, "but I could come to the house there in Auckland - it would only be for the briefest moment."
The tone in her voice assumed that of a tigress, ferociously protective of the one she loved most. "I'm sorry," she returned adamantly, "that is just not possible."
"I see," I said, defeated. "Please give your husband my regards; he has always been one of my heroes," I said in a sinking tone, adding, "I wish the two of you all the best."
"Thank you, I will," she replied, then abruptly hung up the phone. Still holding the receiver in my hand, I gazed out the window at the falling rain. A voice welled from within. It whispered, "You were not worthy ..."
<center>* * * * *</center>
A week later, as rain fell in sheets, I had left Whaihi and cycled halfway around a loop of the North Island's Coromandel Peninsula. Hydroplaning across the landscape with hydraulic halos orbiting my tires, I slashed like a madman through a dazzle of forested coastal hamlets.
Just after Whangapoua, the road climbed just short of a nosebleed. Tipping over the top, I ripped down the other side, blasting down the pavement into the happenin' town of Coromandel.
Eclectic, green, cool and funky, Coromandel had just about everything a cycle-tourist could want: a pleasant campground, freshly smoked seafood, an organic vegetable market, a bakery, pottery and art galleries, good coffee, extra-crunchy peanut butter and one sweet outdoor lap pool.
It was here I met Glen Whittington, a cycle-tourist from Sussex, England. Glen's bicycle tour of New Zealand had ended abruptly after he had been run off the road by a careless driver; his bike broke in half after landing in a ditch.
"Hello?" a woman's voice finally answered.
"Oh, hello," I said sitting upright in the chair, "is this Mrs. Hillary?"
"Yes," the woman replied. "May I ask whom I'm speaking with?"
"My name is Rick Gunn; I believe the local paper just phoned to inform you that I'd be calling."
"Are you the one riding the bicycle around the world?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied, somewhat relieved. "Yes, I am. New Zealand is the last of 32 countries for me," I said, "and I was hoping to end the journey with a brief visit with your husband."
Suddenly, there was silence. This followed by a tone of increased seriousness. "I'm sorry, that will not be possible," she said. "Sir Edmund is simply out of circulation now."
Another, more awkward silence passed. Instinctively, I knew I had only one chance at this. "I understand, Mrs. Hillary," I continued, "but I could come to the house there in Auckland - it would only be for the briefest moment."
The tone in her voice assumed that of a tigress, ferociously protective of the one she loved most. "I'm sorry," she returned adamantly, "that is just not possible."
"I see," I said, defeated. "Please give your husband my regards; he has always been one of my heroes," I said in a sinking tone, adding, "I wish the two of you all the best."
"Thank you, I will," she replied, then abruptly hung up the phone. Still holding the receiver in my hand, I gazed out the window at the falling rain. A voice welled from within. It whispered, "You were not worthy ..."
<center>* * * * *</center>
A week later, as rain fell in sheets, I had left Whaihi and cycled halfway around a loop of the North Island's Coromandel Peninsula. Hydroplaning across the landscape with hydraulic halos orbiting my tires, I slashed like a madman through a dazzle of forested coastal hamlets.
Just after Whangapoua, the road climbed just short of a nosebleed. Tipping over the top, I ripped down the other side, blasting down the pavement into the happenin' town of Coromandel.
Eclectic, green, cool and funky, Coromandel had just about everything a cycle-tourist could want: a pleasant campground, freshly smoked seafood, an organic vegetable market, a bakery, pottery and art galleries, good coffee, extra-crunchy peanut butter and one sweet outdoor lap pool.
It was here I met Glen Whittington, a cycle-tourist from Sussex, England. Glen's bicycle tour of New Zealand had ended abruptly after he had been run off the road by a careless driver; his bike broke in half after landing in a ditch.
Journal 52
<b>Dates:</b> Dec. 1, 2007-Jan. 30, 2008
<b>Mileage log:</b> 22,200-23,200 <b>Elevation:</b> Sea level-4,000 feet <b>Visited:</b> New Zealand's North Island - Hamilton, Waihi Beach, Whangamata, Tairua, Hahei Beach, Whangapoua, Coramandel, Mackaytown, Tauranga, Rotorua, Taupo Lake, Rangipo, Taihape, Bulls, Paekakariki, Wellington |
This is when I came to recognize one of New Zealand's weak spots: drivers. Make no mistake, when it comes to hospitality, the Kiwis are tops. Almost everywhere I went they were welcoming, polite - spectacularly friendly. But when they stepped behind the wheel, they drove like James Brown on a bender.
In fact, in the short time I was there, motorists had killed two cyclists, broke another's spine - even plowed into an 80-year-old woman in an electric wheelchair. Personally, I was swerved at, sworn at, then pelted - twice - with bottles.
After Glen and I discussed the subject for a bit, we decided to venture into town for a brew at the nearby Star and Garter Hotel. We had scarcely taken a seat in the pub, when a young woman walked up, eyed us up and down, then asked, "Where you two from?"
"California," I said.
"England," Glen followed.
The woman smiled. After we conversed for few moments, our attention turned to a woman with one leg in a long dress, flowing from table to table on a pair of black spray-painted crutches.
"That's my mom," the young woman informed us with a smile. "She's flirting for free drinks."
"So what are you two doing here?" she asked, turning her attention back toward the two of us.
"Were both cyclists," Glen replied. The young woman's eyes widened.
In fact, in the short time I was there, motorists had killed two cyclists, broke another's spine - even plowed into an 80-year-old woman in an electric wheelchair. Personally, I was swerved at, sworn at, then pelted - twice - with bottles.
After Glen and I discussed the subject for a bit, we decided to venture into town for a brew at the nearby Star and Garter Hotel. We had scarcely taken a seat in the pub, when a young woman walked up, eyed us up and down, then asked, "Where you two from?"
"California," I said.
"England," Glen followed.
The woman smiled. After we conversed for few moments, our attention turned to a woman with one leg in a long dress, flowing from table to table on a pair of black spray-painted crutches.
"That's my mom," the young woman informed us with a smile. "She's flirting for free drinks."
"So what are you two doing here?" she asked, turning her attention back toward the two of us.
"Were both cyclists," Glen replied. The young woman's eyes widened.
Just then, her mother hobbled up. "Mom ... guess what these guys are?" the young woman said.
The one-legged woman shrugged. "I'll give you a hint: It's something we hate," her daughter added.
"Germans?" the mother replied.
"No."
"Italians?"
"No."
"Gays?"
"Worse. They're cyclists!"
Mom's face wrenched. "We hate cyclists," she hissed with disgust, before the two of them walked away.
Glen and I looked at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter. No sooner had our laughter stopped when a large shadow loomed across the table.
It was cast by a plus-sized Maori woman who wobbled up, then plopped down in the seat in front of us. As she looked at us, her eyes seemed to rattle in her head like one of those kitty-cat wall clocks.
"Heeni," she said, extending her sizable hand.
Speaking in a series of vowel movements, Heeni blurted out sentence fragments like McDonald's produced hamburgers; swaying back and forth all the while, as if on a boat in high seas. Every once in a while, her eyes would roll from the back of her head, into focus - then uncomfortably transfix on me. I felt like a giant doughnut.
The one-legged woman shrugged. "I'll give you a hint: It's something we hate," her daughter added.
"Germans?" the mother replied.
"No."
"Italians?"
"No."
"Gays?"
"Worse. They're cyclists!"
Mom's face wrenched. "We hate cyclists," she hissed with disgust, before the two of them walked away.
Glen and I looked at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter. No sooner had our laughter stopped when a large shadow loomed across the table.
It was cast by a plus-sized Maori woman who wobbled up, then plopped down in the seat in front of us. As she looked at us, her eyes seemed to rattle in her head like one of those kitty-cat wall clocks.
"Heeni," she said, extending her sizable hand.
Speaking in a series of vowel movements, Heeni blurted out sentence fragments like McDonald's produced hamburgers; swaying back and forth all the while, as if on a boat in high seas. Every once in a while, her eyes would roll from the back of her head, into focus - then uncomfortably transfix on me. I felt like a giant doughnut.
"Heeni," she'd say, introducing herself again, only this time fluttering her eyelashes.
Hours went by as Glen and I watched Heeni throw back drinks, drop her cigarettes, her wallet ... her train of thought. All the while, she spoke in a strange tongue.
"I don't understand Maori," I repeated to her time and again.
"That's not Maori," a man walking by interjected. "She's just drunk."
Sometime around the end of the evening, after Glen had slipped away to use the toilet, Heeni leaned in close, her head wobbling like a poorly spinning planet. "Am I ever going to see you again?" she asked.
I paused for a moment, then asked her the more obvious question: "Can you see me right now ...?"
<center>* * * * *</center>
By the next afternoon, I had completed my loop around the Coromandel. From there, I cycled southwest; over the central foothills, to the geothermal hot spots, and traditional Maori enclaves of Rotorua and Lake Taupo.
Through it all came the wind and the rain, until everything I owned - my tent, my clothes, my socks, my shoes - became wet. Though intuitively I sensed the beauty that surrounded me, most of it remained hidden to my eyes behind rainclouds and mist. I tried my best to remain positive, but after nearly 29 days of continual rain, my disposition began to sag like wet cardboard.
Then, one morning, there was something new and amazing: the sun.
Crawling from my tent after a long night of rain, I slipped on my shoes and jumped to my feet. There, beneath a bright, blue sky, beyond the tussock grass and pine forests of the Great Desert Road, soared two crystalline peaks: Mount Tongariro and Mount Ruapehu. It was here, in 1935, on a school trip to Mount Ruapehu, that young Edmund Hillary first was introduced to the mountains.
His childhood had been difficult. His father, I had learned, had been badly wounded after returning from the battle of Gallipoli. In a series of interviews, Hillary would reveal a pattern of abuse, stating that as a boy, he constantly was hauled out to the woodshed for a good "thrashing," often for the smallest offenses.
His words conjured my own childhood suffering: my own small offenses; my own painful memories of my mother standing over me; the sting of a wire coat hanger being whipped across my face. Though I once looked upon these memories as something of a curse, I now looked upon them for what they truly are: another chance at release; another chance to forgive - another chance to truly live.
Hours went by as Glen and I watched Heeni throw back drinks, drop her cigarettes, her wallet ... her train of thought. All the while, she spoke in a strange tongue.
"I don't understand Maori," I repeated to her time and again.
"That's not Maori," a man walking by interjected. "She's just drunk."
Sometime around the end of the evening, after Glen had slipped away to use the toilet, Heeni leaned in close, her head wobbling like a poorly spinning planet. "Am I ever going to see you again?" she asked.
I paused for a moment, then asked her the more obvious question: "Can you see me right now ...?"
<center>* * * * *</center>
By the next afternoon, I had completed my loop around the Coromandel. From there, I cycled southwest; over the central foothills, to the geothermal hot spots, and traditional Maori enclaves of Rotorua and Lake Taupo.
Through it all came the wind and the rain, until everything I owned - my tent, my clothes, my socks, my shoes - became wet. Though intuitively I sensed the beauty that surrounded me, most of it remained hidden to my eyes behind rainclouds and mist. I tried my best to remain positive, but after nearly 29 days of continual rain, my disposition began to sag like wet cardboard.
Then, one morning, there was something new and amazing: the sun.
Crawling from my tent after a long night of rain, I slipped on my shoes and jumped to my feet. There, beneath a bright, blue sky, beyond the tussock grass and pine forests of the Great Desert Road, soared two crystalline peaks: Mount Tongariro and Mount Ruapehu. It was here, in 1935, on a school trip to Mount Ruapehu, that young Edmund Hillary first was introduced to the mountains.
His childhood had been difficult. His father, I had learned, had been badly wounded after returning from the battle of Gallipoli. In a series of interviews, Hillary would reveal a pattern of abuse, stating that as a boy, he constantly was hauled out to the woodshed for a good "thrashing," often for the smallest offenses.
His words conjured my own childhood suffering: my own small offenses; my own painful memories of my mother standing over me; the sting of a wire coat hanger being whipped across my face. Though I once looked upon these memories as something of a curse, I now looked upon them for what they truly are: another chance at release; another chance to forgive - another chance to truly live.
A lonely boy with few friends, young Edmund suffered in school. During another interview, he recalled that a bullying grammar-school gym teacher "was very, very critical of me, saying just about everything was wrong with me that was possible." During that same interview, some 50 years after the fact, Hillary admitted, "I still have that same feeling."
But mountaineering had liberated him, freed him momentarily from his loneliness, torment and self-doubt.
<center>* * * * *</center>
Two weeks later, after I had finished my tour of the North Island, I was well into my ride of the South Island when I stopped at a small roadside pub to fill my water bottles. There, an image on a television caught my attention.
It was an image of a large, elderly man, his face vaguely familiar. I watched as he moved slowly, his skin looking frail as tissue paper. Then the image flashed to that of a younger man, lanky and smiling, standing tall and confident in the heart of the Himalaya. Just below the image, text scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
It read: "Sir Edmund Hillary has passed away at the age of 88."
Almost instantly came a familiar sense - the recognition of something deeply lost, something deeply gained. The tears that followed came quickly, sincerely.
News of Hillary's death echoed in headlines around the world. Their words described a life fully lived. Words like courage, strength, humility, compassion, inspiration.
From Nepal came the news that the Sherpa people had gathered en masse to prepare a ceremony - not so much to celebrate the first man to have climbed their highest mountain, but to show their love for the man whose Himalayan Trust had built them countless schools, hospitals and clinics.
Back in New Zealand, thousands turned out around the country, gathering in public places to celebrate the life of their most cherished citizen. In Auckland's Hillary Square, Sir Edmund's bronze statue was said to be draped with flowers and garlands. At its base were placed hundreds of condolence cards.
The Sunday Times Star described one of those cards written by two small children. It read: "To Sir Ed, you were a good man who did good things for New Zealand and other people. Now is your time to rest, goodbye."
Those words brought the end of a memory, and my emergence from the surface of a tea-colored river. Climbing from that river, I stood at its banks, the drops of rain drawing me in again.
In my mind's eye, I imagined Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, the two of them smiling atop the summit of Mount Everest - their lives arising, myriad forms, radiating outward, dissolving downstream.
But mountaineering had liberated him, freed him momentarily from his loneliness, torment and self-doubt.
<center>* * * * *</center>
Two weeks later, after I had finished my tour of the North Island, I was well into my ride of the South Island when I stopped at a small roadside pub to fill my water bottles. There, an image on a television caught my attention.
It was an image of a large, elderly man, his face vaguely familiar. I watched as he moved slowly, his skin looking frail as tissue paper. Then the image flashed to that of a younger man, lanky and smiling, standing tall and confident in the heart of the Himalaya. Just below the image, text scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
It read: "Sir Edmund Hillary has passed away at the age of 88."
Almost instantly came a familiar sense - the recognition of something deeply lost, something deeply gained. The tears that followed came quickly, sincerely.
News of Hillary's death echoed in headlines around the world. Their words described a life fully lived. Words like courage, strength, humility, compassion, inspiration.
From Nepal came the news that the Sherpa people had gathered en masse to prepare a ceremony - not so much to celebrate the first man to have climbed their highest mountain, but to show their love for the man whose Himalayan Trust had built them countless schools, hospitals and clinics.
Back in New Zealand, thousands turned out around the country, gathering in public places to celebrate the life of their most cherished citizen. In Auckland's Hillary Square, Sir Edmund's bronze statue was said to be draped with flowers and garlands. At its base were placed hundreds of condolence cards.
The Sunday Times Star described one of those cards written by two small children. It read: "To Sir Ed, you were a good man who did good things for New Zealand and other people. Now is your time to rest, goodbye."
Those words brought the end of a memory, and my emergence from the surface of a tea-colored river. Climbing from that river, I stood at its banks, the drops of rain drawing me in again.
In my mind's eye, I imagined Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, the two of them smiling atop the summit of Mount Everest - their lives arising, myriad forms, radiating outward, dissolving downstream.
