Monday, February 14, 2005
Wonderful restraint in the naming...
Queenstown. Adventure capital of New Zealand, if not the world. And I have successfully avoided anything even vaguely likely to induce adrenalin rushes.
Unless you count, you know, the fucking scenery!!
The mountains start to really come into their own as you cross Central Otago, as I did when I got the coach from Dunedin to Queenstown yesterday. There are some tell tale signs in the distance, about an hour into the four hour journey, that something tremendous is there, just at the edge of your vision. But it's not until you come out of Roxbury that the mountains really hit their stride. Suddenly, you are surrounded by the bones of the earth, boulders appearing in the sides of hills around you, a ring of darker blue mountains behind those hills, patches of white in the upper reaches that you just now are patches of unmelted snow. Then, there are no hills anymore, but gradually growing mountains ranges all around you, above you, in front of you, towering and magnificent. The valley through which you are travelling is split down the centre by a rushing, dangerous, river - rich, deep, bright green glacial waters. And then, just when you think that the mountains cannot make you heart sing any more than it already is, that your soul could not be elevated any higher, that the tears streaming down your face and the laughter bubbling out of your throat will finally wind down, The Remarkables hove into view.
I don't see how the residents (and visitors) of Queenstown ever get anything mundane done, let alone the adventure sports that everyone comes here to do. I kept tripping over my own feet and swallowing flies today because I was, open mouthed, staring up at the surrounding mountains, mindful only of their overwhelming beauty and grandeur.
I'm going to Milford Sound tomorrow. You may not hear from me again, because if the experience is any more spiritual than that which I had on the approach to, and walking around, Queenstown, I'm booking myself into the next monastic establishment I can find.
Unless you count, you know, the fucking scenery!!
The mountains start to really come into their own as you cross Central Otago, as I did when I got the coach from Dunedin to Queenstown yesterday. There are some tell tale signs in the distance, about an hour into the four hour journey, that something tremendous is there, just at the edge of your vision. But it's not until you come out of Roxbury that the mountains really hit their stride. Suddenly, you are surrounded by the bones of the earth, boulders appearing in the sides of hills around you, a ring of darker blue mountains behind those hills, patches of white in the upper reaches that you just now are patches of unmelted snow. Then, there are no hills anymore, but gradually growing mountains ranges all around you, above you, in front of you, towering and magnificent. The valley through which you are travelling is split down the centre by a rushing, dangerous, river - rich, deep, bright green glacial waters. And then, just when you think that the mountains cannot make you heart sing any more than it already is, that your soul could not be elevated any higher, that the tears streaming down your face and the laughter bubbling out of your throat will finally wind down, The Remarkables hove into view.
I don't see how the residents (and visitors) of Queenstown ever get anything mundane done, let alone the adventure sports that everyone comes here to do. I kept tripping over my own feet and swallowing flies today because I was, open mouthed, staring up at the surrounding mountains, mindful only of their overwhelming beauty and grandeur.
I'm going to Milford Sound tomorrow. You may not hear from me again, because if the experience is any more spiritual than that which I had on the approach to, and walking around, Queenstown, I'm booking myself into the next monastic establishment I can find.
