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Rick Gunn launches naked off a dock on New Zealand's South Island in celebration after mistakenly believing he's ridden a distance equivalent to the circumference of the Earth. Although the picture was taken at the 24,000-mile mark, he later found out that the planet's circumference actually is 24,902 miles.
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ENLARGE
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Majestic Milford Sound is located on New Zealand's South Island. Backdropped by glaciers and towering peaks, it's a popular attraction for travelers in the country's Alps region.
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ENLARGE
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Rick Gunn admires his feet while maneuvering around the Franz Josef Glacier, which is located in the heart of the New Zealand Alps and is one of Earth's rapidly melting glaciers.
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<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>
It seemed a shame I wasn't arrested that afternoon, flying through the air stark-naked off a public dock, bottle of Champagne in hand. Moments earlier, near the shores of Lake Manapori, I watched with feverish anticipation as my bicycle computer's odometer rolled from 23,999 to 24,000 - the mileage equivalent to the circumference of the Earth. Feeling the need to celebrate, I unclipped my bike bags, unholstered two bottles of bubbly, set my camera timer, stripped to my birthday suit, then launched. As I did, I imagined the headline: "American cycle-tourist arrested wearing nothing but helmet and cleats."
But any thoughts of incarceration that afternoon were pure delusion. This, after all, was New Zealand: two wind-scoured rocks at the ends of the Earth, inhabited by 4.1 million people - less than the Bay Area - and a staggering 40 million sheep.
During my 1,200-mile ride across the dual-island nation, I had come across exactly seven cops. From a purely numerical standpoint, my chances of being incarcerated hovered around .0058 percent. More disturbing, I thought, was the statistical likelihood that I had been seen nude by more than 3,000 sheep.
The entire folly evaporated the next day after I received an e-mail informing me that the exact circumference of the Earth actually was 24,902 miles. I still had 902 miles to go.
It seemed a shame I wasn't arrested that afternoon, flying through the air stark-naked off a public dock, bottle of Champagne in hand. Moments earlier, near the shores of Lake Manapori, I watched with feverish anticipation as my bicycle computer's odometer rolled from 23,999 to 24,000 - the mileage equivalent to the circumference of the Earth. Feeling the need to celebrate, I unclipped my bike bags, unholstered two bottles of bubbly, set my camera timer, stripped to my birthday suit, then launched. As I did, I imagined the headline: "American cycle-tourist arrested wearing nothing but helmet and cleats."
But any thoughts of incarceration that afternoon were pure delusion. This, after all, was New Zealand: two wind-scoured rocks at the ends of the Earth, inhabited by 4.1 million people - less than the Bay Area - and a staggering 40 million sheep.
During my 1,200-mile ride across the dual-island nation, I had come across exactly seven cops. From a purely numerical standpoint, my chances of being incarcerated hovered around .0058 percent. More disturbing, I thought, was the statistical likelihood that I had been seen nude by more than 3,000 sheep.
The entire folly evaporated the next day after I received an e-mail informing me that the exact circumference of the Earth actually was 24,902 miles. I still had 902 miles to go.
The e-mail had been sent by my good friend, South Shore photographer Eric Jarvis. Two days later, he followed it with another. It read: "Anyhow, I'm en route to Nelson, wherever the hell that is. Looking forward to seeing you and the adventure of a lifetime."
A fortnight flashed before I arrived at Nelson's tiny airport. Trying to keep it real, I showed up sporting an ear-wide grin and a cheesy stick-on moustache I had purchased at a local Chinese variety store.
"Dude," Eric greeted me after stepping from the plane.
"Dude," I returned excitedly, then wrapped him in a heartfelt hug.
Several seconds later, his attention finally turned to my upper lip. "What is that?" he queried after our conversational catch-up.
"It's the Scoundrel," I said, pulling the label from my pocket. "I bought you the Bandito," I added, handing him his small strip of fur.
He looked at me as if I were insane, then shoved it into his pocket, never to be seen again.
It had been a year since "Jarv" and I ripped the lid off Laos. We blasted off rope swings and trekked through remote mountain villages. Basically, we were two camera nerds with an itch to travel, wreaking photographic havoc across a foreign land. New Zealand would prove no different.
A fortnight flashed before I arrived at Nelson's tiny airport. Trying to keep it real, I showed up sporting an ear-wide grin and a cheesy stick-on moustache I had purchased at a local Chinese variety store.
"Dude," Eric greeted me after stepping from the plane.
"Dude," I returned excitedly, then wrapped him in a heartfelt hug.
Several seconds later, his attention finally turned to my upper lip. "What is that?" he queried after our conversational catch-up.
"It's the Scoundrel," I said, pulling the label from my pocket. "I bought you the Bandito," I added, handing him his small strip of fur.
He looked at me as if I were insane, then shoved it into his pocket, never to be seen again.
It had been a year since "Jarv" and I ripped the lid off Laos. We blasted off rope swings and trekked through remote mountain villages. Basically, we were two camera nerds with an itch to travel, wreaking photographic havoc across a foreign land. New Zealand would prove no different.
Journal 53
New Zealand's South Island
<b>Dates:</b> Feb. 1-29, 2008 <b>Mileage log:</b> 23,200-24,000 <b>Elevation:</b> Sea level-3,000 feet |
Our adventure began curbside, about an hour outside of Nelson, standing with our thumbs out, lumping two oversized backpacks, a scatter of bags near our feet. In them were bread, fruit, peanut butter, pasta, a 3-liter box of wine and a Frisbee emblazoned with a flaming-orange kiwi.
Jarv was the brains of the outfit. As we waited, I could almost see his mind working, diligently evaluating the logistics of the trip. I made myself useful by doing handstands in the middle of the road.
Jarv was the brains of the outfit. As we waited, I could almost see his mind working, diligently evaluating the logistics of the trip. I made myself useful by doing handstands in the middle of the road.
"Where you two headed?" a driver asked after pulling to the side of the road.
"Marahau," Jarv replied.
"Trekking?" the man asked.
"Kayaking," we said.
"Hop in," he said as he popped his trunk.
Winding our way over a mountain road, the man went out of his way to drop us off at our campground. The next morning, after we stowed the last of our gear into the sleek hull of a two-man sea kayak, the two of us stood beneath an impossibly blue sky on a two-mile crescent of golden sand.
Staring out at the calm, glimmering sea, we took a moment to eye our destination of Abel Tasman National Park. A forested plot of wild coastlands located on the northern tip of the South Island, Abel Tasman is New Zealand's smallest national park at 139 square miles. But as we soon would discover, good things come in small packages.
Minutes later, self-propelled across a vast, shimmering seascape, our paddles swirled rhythmically through the blue-green waters. Carving a liquid trail out of Sandy Bay, we paddled along a string of remote beaches, where sculpted granite cliffs tumbled into cerulean blue bays. Seal colonies splashed beneath towering sea spires, while a group of islands flanked us.
That afternoon, we spent our time exploring, nosing in and out of sea caves, then rotated our paddles toward our designated camping spot. After lifting rudder, we built camp within the tiny cove of Te Pukatea.
That night, as we exchanged stories above the blue-flamed hiss of our camp stoves, storm clouds stretched across the sky. Long after we tucked into our tents, the sky billowed into fists and began hammering down rain that would last for nearly two days.
"Marahau," Jarv replied.
"Trekking?" the man asked.
"Kayaking," we said.
"Hop in," he said as he popped his trunk.
Winding our way over a mountain road, the man went out of his way to drop us off at our campground. The next morning, after we stowed the last of our gear into the sleek hull of a two-man sea kayak, the two of us stood beneath an impossibly blue sky on a two-mile crescent of golden sand.
Staring out at the calm, glimmering sea, we took a moment to eye our destination of Abel Tasman National Park. A forested plot of wild coastlands located on the northern tip of the South Island, Abel Tasman is New Zealand's smallest national park at 139 square miles. But as we soon would discover, good things come in small packages.
Minutes later, self-propelled across a vast, shimmering seascape, our paddles swirled rhythmically through the blue-green waters. Carving a liquid trail out of Sandy Bay, we paddled along a string of remote beaches, where sculpted granite cliffs tumbled into cerulean blue bays. Seal colonies splashed beneath towering sea spires, while a group of islands flanked us.
That afternoon, we spent our time exploring, nosing in and out of sea caves, then rotated our paddles toward our designated camping spot. After lifting rudder, we built camp within the tiny cove of Te Pukatea.
That night, as we exchanged stories above the blue-flamed hiss of our camp stoves, storm clouds stretched across the sky. Long after we tucked into our tents, the sky billowed into fists and began hammering down rain that would last for nearly two days.
The next morning, I crawled from my tent into a torrential downpour. Jarv was making tea. After watching for a minute as the raindrops bounced off his Gore-Tex, he turned and smiled, as if to say, "Rain? What rain?"
That attitude was not only brilliant, but also contagious, and it soon would pay off. An hour later, after we had muscled across a stretch of windblown chop, Eric pointed out the mouth of Bark Bay's tidal lagoon.
"We're in," he said after negotiating the wicked threat of currents ripping between tidewater and slack.
It was there, upon that simple body of water, that Abel Tasman National Park unveiled its magic. Calm, protected, dancing with raindrops, we followed that interior waterway as it doglegged into forests bursting with waterfalls.
Floating, photographing, astounded by its raw beauty, we plied those placid waters until we took our fill. Building our tents that night on the edge of that lagoon, we sipped boxed wine and talked until late.
After three days of kayaking in Abel Tasman National Park, we traded our paddles for a set of wheels. Rambling across the landscape like Kerouac and Ginsberg in a late-model rental car, we pointed those wheels south down New Zealand's wild west coast.
Blazing a ribbon of pavement from St. Arnaud to Hokatika, we continued into the heart of New Zealand's southern Alps. This continued until the two of us stood crampon-clad, craning our necks at the immense mouth of the Franz Josef Glacier.
After a short briefing about safety and etiquette, our guide, Johnny Rutkowski, informed us about the monolithic river of ice that stood before us. Most alarming was how far it had receded in the last century. Once stretching all the way to the Tasman Sea, the Franz Josef Glacier is just one of several thousands of shrinking glaciers on the planet.
We started single-file up an eight-hour climb on what seemed like an ice-carved stairway to heaven. Ascending first upon ice, then rock and sand, Johnny explained the physics behind the glacier, how it moved an untold mass of rock from mountain to mouth, like some monstrous, geologic conveyor belt.
Several hours later, after a series of climbs and dips, our efforts delivered us beneath a blinding white icefall, where office-sized ice-blocks appeared frozen in midavalanche. It was here that I became increasingly convinced that we had entered what looked to be some sort of ice-sculpting studio of the gods.
That attitude was not only brilliant, but also contagious, and it soon would pay off. An hour later, after we had muscled across a stretch of windblown chop, Eric pointed out the mouth of Bark Bay's tidal lagoon.
"We're in," he said after negotiating the wicked threat of currents ripping between tidewater and slack.
It was there, upon that simple body of water, that Abel Tasman National Park unveiled its magic. Calm, protected, dancing with raindrops, we followed that interior waterway as it doglegged into forests bursting with waterfalls.
Floating, photographing, astounded by its raw beauty, we plied those placid waters until we took our fill. Building our tents that night on the edge of that lagoon, we sipped boxed wine and talked until late.
After three days of kayaking in Abel Tasman National Park, we traded our paddles for a set of wheels. Rambling across the landscape like Kerouac and Ginsberg in a late-model rental car, we pointed those wheels south down New Zealand's wild west coast.
Blazing a ribbon of pavement from St. Arnaud to Hokatika, we continued into the heart of New Zealand's southern Alps. This continued until the two of us stood crampon-clad, craning our necks at the immense mouth of the Franz Josef Glacier.
After a short briefing about safety and etiquette, our guide, Johnny Rutkowski, informed us about the monolithic river of ice that stood before us. Most alarming was how far it had receded in the last century. Once stretching all the way to the Tasman Sea, the Franz Josef Glacier is just one of several thousands of shrinking glaciers on the planet.
We started single-file up an eight-hour climb on what seemed like an ice-carved stairway to heaven. Ascending first upon ice, then rock and sand, Johnny explained the physics behind the glacier, how it moved an untold mass of rock from mountain to mouth, like some monstrous, geologic conveyor belt.
Several hours later, after a series of climbs and dips, our efforts delivered us beneath a blinding white icefall, where office-sized ice-blocks appeared frozen in midavalanche. It was here that I became increasingly convinced that we had entered what looked to be some sort of ice-sculpting studio of the gods.
Suddenly, we were skirting deep-chasmed crevasses and scrambling between the spires of immense towering seracs. It was like some frozen version of "Alice in Wonderland," where all our surroundings coiled and morphed into a mind-bending array of icy shapes.
We quickly descended from the towers through a magical succession of caves, cavernous yawns of ice that glimmered in symphonic refractions of varying blue light. Four hours passed in a flash as we scrambled, snaked and ducked.
Our last adventure took place on the outskirts of Queenstown as we edged into a river like wetsuited lemmings. Wriggling into the frigid waters atop a well-worn boogie board, I ignored a direct order by my guide not to pee in my wetsuit.
Sporting fins, helmets and extremely dorky looks, Jarv and I flutter-kicked into an explosion of Class III rapids. For an hour, we practiced drowning, one set of rapids at a time, using our faces to brake against waves.
When we were done, I was ready to empty the fish from my head when we were shown our reward: a 70-foot cliff, where we were gently encouraged each other to huck ourselves off like a pair of crash-test dummies, so we did - again and again.
One of our last nights of the trip was spent atop a rocky bluff capturing photos of Curio Bay, a dramatic coastal landscape near the southernmost tip of New Zealand. After the last light bled from the sky, we turned to pack our gear.
As we sat that night and ate a simple meal, it occurred to me that our journey was nearing an end. It came to me that I had connected with Eric on many levels - and how lucky I was to call him my friend. A silence soon filled a natural pause in the conversation, and as it did, my vision was captured by a strange glow in the distance. It was a transcendent, show-stopping full moon. Rising, widening, shimmering, glowing, it crept above the horizon like some mad, ethereal headlight.
"Dude!" I shouted to Jarv before we grabbed our camera gear and ran back to the bluff. Smiling with satisfaction after a series of photos, Jarv turned and said, "A perfect night with one of my best friends."
With that, I left Eric to his craft, then meandered to a cliffside perch, where I silently took a seat. Listening to the contemplative crashing of the waves, I strained my vision toward the southernmost horizon.
Beyond my vision stood the icy shores of Antarctica, a mere 1,000 miles to the south. I had reached the ends of the Earth. With that, a smile grew within, radiating outward through every cell of my body.
After 2 1/2 years and more than 24,000 miles of cycling through 32 countries, I finally was heading home. My next stop was the United States of America.
We quickly descended from the towers through a magical succession of caves, cavernous yawns of ice that glimmered in symphonic refractions of varying blue light. Four hours passed in a flash as we scrambled, snaked and ducked.
Our last adventure took place on the outskirts of Queenstown as we edged into a river like wetsuited lemmings. Wriggling into the frigid waters atop a well-worn boogie board, I ignored a direct order by my guide not to pee in my wetsuit.
Sporting fins, helmets and extremely dorky looks, Jarv and I flutter-kicked into an explosion of Class III rapids. For an hour, we practiced drowning, one set of rapids at a time, using our faces to brake against waves.
When we were done, I was ready to empty the fish from my head when we were shown our reward: a 70-foot cliff, where we were gently encouraged each other to huck ourselves off like a pair of crash-test dummies, so we did - again and again.
One of our last nights of the trip was spent atop a rocky bluff capturing photos of Curio Bay, a dramatic coastal landscape near the southernmost tip of New Zealand. After the last light bled from the sky, we turned to pack our gear.
As we sat that night and ate a simple meal, it occurred to me that our journey was nearing an end. It came to me that I had connected with Eric on many levels - and how lucky I was to call him my friend. A silence soon filled a natural pause in the conversation, and as it did, my vision was captured by a strange glow in the distance. It was a transcendent, show-stopping full moon. Rising, widening, shimmering, glowing, it crept above the horizon like some mad, ethereal headlight.
"Dude!" I shouted to Jarv before we grabbed our camera gear and ran back to the bluff. Smiling with satisfaction after a series of photos, Jarv turned and said, "A perfect night with one of my best friends."
With that, I left Eric to his craft, then meandered to a cliffside perch, where I silently took a seat. Listening to the contemplative crashing of the waves, I strained my vision toward the southernmost horizon.
Beyond my vision stood the icy shores of Antarctica, a mere 1,000 miles to the south. I had reached the ends of the Earth. With that, a smile grew within, radiating outward through every cell of my body.
After 2 1/2 years and more than 24,000 miles of cycling through 32 countries, I finally was heading home. My next stop was the United States of America.
