Resurgence

Te Anau, New Zealand
​Dunedin
Aoraki
​​Arthur's Pass
​Maruia Springs
​Kaikoura
​Blenheim
​Palmerston North
​Hamilton

December 20-24, 2020
December 24-28
​December 28-29
​December 29-30
December 30-January 1, 2021
​January 1-2
January 2-3
​January 3-4
​January 4-5

Backdrop

There was...more.

The more apparent purpose of any journey is often to seek answers to questions, particularly questions that cannot be answered from within the confines of a life beset by routines, distractions, and expectations. Once the body and mind are released by the pilgrimage, those questions can be answered. 

In the wake of 10 days riding and 5 days trekking, I had been reinvigorated in body and mind, discarding former routines and distractions and renewing my fealty to process over expectations, over outcome. Although a part of me had already known the answers to these questions prior to the journey, a true awareness of any answer can never emerge until the knowing is accompanied by the doing. Deep down, a person may know they need to make a certain change in life, but until they take the time to devote a part of their life to doing so, the knowledge alone means nothing.

Beyond even this, any questions that arise in a person's mind prior to the onset of a quest are limited to the mindset they possessed before said quest began, the same mind that was preoccupied and clouded by burdensome questions that prevented it from roaming to more distant and recondite shores, and it is only once those questions have been cleared out that the less apparent purpose of the journey can emerge. By its very nature, this less apparent purpose lies dormant and concealed. It cannot be anticipated, sought, or forced - it must grow of its own accord. Yet if this can happen, one can discover the answers to questions that were never even asked, but needed to be, which reinvigorates the spirit.

​And so I wondered...what would resurge?

Riding Southwest

Departing Glenorchy, I saw an endless horizon, and soared towards it. I was transitorily accompanied by an enraged maelstrom that threatened to swell over the brims of the surrounding massifs - the very same ones that I had just frequented - but it fell far behind as I circumvented the borders of Lake Wakatipu, and as the rock and water succumbed to more expansive terrain, the celestial mistral propelled me onwards, as it everlastingly does so long as I stay resolved to hearken its call. During the course of my swift glissade to the hallowed canticles of that perennial whirlwind I remained focused on the road ahead, galloping with the clouds, riding for the ride, no longer dashing towards the spurious veneer contrived by a vaticinatory causatum. I was clocking up the distance now, but it's not about how far you travel - it's about what road you're on.

Later in the day I reached the oasis of Te Anau, a laid-back little town juxtaposed alongside the wistful shores of a quiet lake that bears the same namesake. I'd been to this place nearly a decade ago, and from my vantage point not much had changed, which was a good thing. It seemed that most of the cafes and restaurants had withstood the weathering of time, including The Olive Tree Cafe, the memory of which had remained etched into my brain for some odd reason or another; it too was untouched by age. I spent most of my time in Te Anau industriously.

However, mid-way into my layover, there was a calling. I energized Hawk and we rode north, gallivanting along the Milford Road towards a region known as Milford Sound. The highway initially cradled the shoreline of Lake Te Anau, cutting through a gold-green timberland that rained down thousands upon thousands of glittering petals, down upon me, in a reticent symphony of nature. Soon, the road adjoined with the Eglington River, and I followed its vitreous reflection at it coursed through a large valley. The curves and bends were magnificent, presenting me with an ever-appreciated opportunity to work on the proficiency of my cornering. It seemed to me as though the road had been specifically designed for motorcycles.

Suddenly, following a gain in elevation, I gained entrée into a forgotten world, a place truly lost to time. The roadway earnestly lunged into the belly of a mighty cirque encompassed by the precipitous escarpments formed by the surrounding mountains, and I peregrinated along a realm of unnatural eminence and heavenly pulchritude, riding by nomadic streams trickling down azure cliffs, alpine snows gazing upwards at the sky, and pristine cascades vanishing into the ground. The captivating scenery continually threatened to distract me from the ride, obliging me to stop many times over.

Being immersed in such a deistic realm makes it much easier for a person to jettison fabricated notions of who they are - or rather, think they are. The connection with human constructs, things like self, religion, and time, becomes thin, the concepts themselves more transparent as the majesty of creation declares itself. There is no ego-centric, religious, or scientific paradigm that ever has, ever could, or ever will resonate with a higher veracity than the omnipotent yūgen that is our universe, the true God.

Eventually, the heavenly cathedral ended its sacred lesson as the route ended at Milford Sound, a picturesque haven somewhat marred by commercialism. It was no matter; the terminus of the journey was not important compared to the journey itself. Nonetheless, I quickly tired of the charade and returned to rejoin that otherworldly dimension that had captivated my senses and imagination on the way up, and did so again on the way back down.

What need have we to call upon unearthly promised lands when such places already exist right here, on this Earth? A cathedral of nature that can help a person to temporarily obliterate the labels of self-identity, some of which were made by us, others that were thrust upon us...there is joy in that kind of forgetting.
​
​Upon revisiting Te Anau, the fellow I saw in the mirror had become less recognizable, by no means a stranger, perhaps just simpler, more original, less convoluted by routines, distractions, expectations, and certain human constructs. It did not seem a fleeting impression at the time, and indeed I hoped it would stay a while, for the impression was gratifying.

Departing Glenorchy.

Galloping with the clouds.

The wistful shores of Lake Te Anau.

A forgotten world, lost to time.

Nomadic streams trickle down azure cliffs.

Alpine snows gaze upwards at the sky.

Pristine cascades vanish into the ground.

Last coffee and cream at The Olive Tree Cafe.

Riding Southeast

My time in Te Anau came to a close and I rode further south, towards the coast. The clouds remained stalwart in their companionship, but the land itself was relatively barren, virtually devoid of human activity aside from a series of lonesome fields peppered with grass, bush, and the occasional piece of fallen timber. I thoroughly enjoyed the secluded landscape - after a certain point, I find that human interaction becomes exhausting, whereas even the most barren aspects of nature rejuvenate me.

The barrens relented to seashore, which lay assaulted by howling tempests so tenacious that they threatened to tip over the motorcycle, forcing me to compensate for the drafts at every turn. I pulled up to McCracken's Rest, a place of endless prospects, a place I had known well. As the winds shrieked and howled around me and as the waves threw themselves upon the coastline, I contemplated all of the foreseeable alternatives, but there really was only one option, that which was already laid out for me, and all I had to do was stay the course. 

The winds, the ocean, life itself - all of these things are capricious, given to sudden changes in behaviour that threaten to topple our motorcycle, capsize our boat, or ravage our sanity. In those moments, the best thing a person can do is to stay the course, to keep going, for it is a verifiable fact that all storms pass.

I carried on to Riverton, followed by Invercargill, tarrying only briefly in both towns. I stayed as close to the ocean as I could and soon reached The Catlins, a stretch of relatively unspoiled forest and coastline. The road took me inland, up and down circuitous ascents and descents that kept my mind focused on the ride, and I continued to lose track of time, which did not matter at all - all that mattered was the ride. Eventually, the trees acquiesced to a placatory seascape, the apex of which was exemplified by the lofty overview afforded by Florence Hill Lookout.
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The day nearly over, I pushed through to Balclutha and then ​Dunedin, which is named after Dùn Èideann, the old Gaelic name for Edinburgh, capital of Scotland. The architectural styles of this city, from its churches to its public monuments and civic buildings, emanated a decidedly northern European flair; for such a young country, Dunedin had a very old feel, a distinguished air of sophistication lacking in many of the the larger cities in New Zealand.

My abode in Dunedin bequeathed me with a nocturnal sky of moon and stars, the opening actor of which was always the blue supergiant Rigel, which lies 860 light years away from our planet. The radiant light witnessed by me had burst forth from the star's searing furnace in 1160 AD, a time when the Byzantine Empire ruled south-east Europe, when the Khmer Empire ruled south-east Asia, both now dissolved by the aeons...but not Rigel.

On my last day in Dunedin, a chance discovery led me to the steepest street in the world, Baldwin Street. Viewed from below, Baldwin Street appeared as a wall ascending upwards in front of me. I rode up it, not a difficult task given that all I needed to do was stay upright, and yet it must be said that I derived a modicum of satisfaction in riding up the most declivitous avenue on Earth.

Still flying with the clouds.

A lonesome field.

Endless prospects at McCracken's Rest.

Entering The Catlins.

Crescent sands below Florence Hill Lookout.

Dunedin at dusk.

Into The Heart

My stay in Dunedin ended and I rode inland, towards Aoraki, the great mountain that lies near the center of the South Island. The morning challenged me with an array of twists and turns, but as I nimbly swerved around the tight corners I saw that I was taking them more swiftly than before. Maybe the corners were becoming easier, or maybe my riding had improved - it was hard to tell.

The twists and turns merged into a larger highway that headed inland over a dessicant landscape. The climate had turned hot, and dry. I soared by Lake Dunstan, one of many narrow lakes carved out of the earth by primeval glaciers, before arriving at the dazzling sapphire-blue waters of its larger cousin, Lake Pukaki.

Evening approached, and during my ride along the fringes of the lake, Aoraki declared itself. In the Maori language, the name Aoraki loosely translates to "cloud piercer." The mountain thrusts upwards for 3,724 meters (12,218 feet), which makes it the highest pinnacle in the Southern Alps. But despite holding the record, Aoraki strives ever-higher, growing by 7 millimeters every year as it is propelled upwards by the underlying leviathan pressures generated by an eternal conflict of clashing tectonic plates.

The pavement ended at Aoraki Village, a diminutive hamlet surrounded by ivory cordilleras, where I booked into my place for the night, took a shower, and started walking, planning on having dinner, perhaps to get closer to Aoraki in the morning. And yet...the setting sun, that mikado of solace, hinted to me that its evanescent rhumba, its dance of light along the circumforaneous clifftops, may no longer exist the next day, and I saw a better way to spend the eve. Scarcely had I begun my stroll when I turned back, got back on Hawk, and sped towards Aoraki.

I pulled into a camper-laden parking lot from which there was a trail heading towards Aoraki, a 10 kilometer round-trip. The track was laden with people returning from their walk to the mountain, and it was late now; the sun had set, no longer visible over the colossal ridgelines. Fortunately, although not prepared for any kind of trek - I had been on my way to dinner, after all - I still had my backpack, which contained two flashlights, and so darkness did not concern me. However, if I went forth, there was no way I could return to the village in time for dinner - should I go eat, or should I trek into the shadow of Aoraki? 

Over the years, I have realized that most of the instinctive comforts and pleasures of the present are responsible for most of the pains of the future, whereas a willingness to embrace uncertainty and adversity in the now cultivates a more perdurable state of exultation. To deny our carnal appetites, the memories of which fade over time, for a singular event that may bring impermanent discomfort or displeasure or even pain - but will never be forgotten - is the wiser path.

So I sallied forth, down the well-groomed trail towards Aoraki. Distant avalanches rumbled and reverberated off the walls of the pantheon into which I trudged. I crossed slender bridges and flowing streams, the latter of which seemed to glow in the umbrage of the mountains. It was not long until I arrived at the margins of Hooker Lake, which lies in close proximity to the base of Aoraki, hazily casting back its silent majesty from below.

I stayed for some time - I do not know how long - but  the monolith was reticent, refusing to concede any of its secrets, and so I returned to the trail. A contentious kea landed on the path in front of me, squawking its obvious displeasure at this decision; I should have listened, but continued on, for it was getting late. However, after several more minutes of walking, I glanced back at Aoraki, and saw now that the moon had emerged, and it beckoned me back, whispering that an important lesson remained, that I must ricochet back to the lake's shore to learn it, and so I did.

Only two fellows remained at the lake upon my return, but they too departed as blackness approached. I was the last. And as I gave Aoraki my time, as the mighty peak faded into the twilight, losing its chromatic luster, it acknowledged to me that although it climbs higher than any other peak in the land, it still falls far short of the moon, and far, far short of the stars, such as Rigel - who was also there - and as such, Aoraki is not such a glorious success when compared to many of the other palatial works that comprise the shrine of our universe...but, given that Aoraki outshines all other summits, it can never be called a failure.

And so, like all great things, Aoraki, heart of New Zealand, is not a success or a failure - it is both. Like the final stanza in Edgar Allan Poe's poem Eldorado implies, any truly great accomplishment must necessarily involve both success and failure, for one means nothing without the other.

I strolled back along the trail, into the midnight shadows, more aware, carefree, my own light guiding the way.

Heading inland over a dessicant landscape.

Lake Pukaki.

Aoraki declares itself.

Ivory cordilleras.

Crossing over to the lands of Aoraki.

The streams glow in the umbrage of the mountains.

Aoraki casts a shadow over Hooker Lake.

A contentious kea squawks its displeasure at my leaving.

The moon beckons me back.

Return to The North

Morning eventuated, and I hastened over to Twizel for a generous breakfast. I was losing sense of time, and mixing up my one-meal-a-day time and sleeping patterns in my ongoing efforts to erode any semblance of routine. While awaiting my order in a restaurant, I bumped into the fellows I had met at Aoraki the night before, Ricky and Arif from New Zealand, and we spoke affably for a while.

I shot over to Christchurch that same afternoon, passing by innumerable golden plains of farmland. After a short interlude in the city, I abandoned civility to embark on an evening ride towards Arthur's Pass. As dusk approached, a vibrant collage of sierra, woodlands, and prairie unfurled before me, which then reluctantly yielded to a mural of forlorn apogees casting shadows over the lands below. It was near-dark when I arrived at my hotel located near the middle of the pass, and far too late for dinner, which did not concern me given that I was living in the moment. I did not even know what day it was, nor did I care.
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The next morning's ride was swift, and it was evident that my riding prowess was improving, honed by thousands of kilometers of concentrated riding. Deep in flow, I nearly breezed right past The Otira Stage Coach Hotel, a place that turned out to be somewhat pivotal. The place looked peculiar, an idiosyncratic combination of authenticity and tourism that enticed me to investigate.

Crossing the doorway brought me back in history. A well-worn carpet covered the floor, guns and antlers adorned the walls, and there were signs that said, "Cowboys leave your guns at the door" and "Beware pickpockets and loose women," things like that. I was cordially welcomed by the venerable owner of the hotel, Lester. I ordered a couple of steak and eggs along with Lester's own special jamochan brew, and we got to jabbering. I discovered he had owned the place for nearly a decade, and although the summers were good for business, winters were isolating, with only a handful of locals for company, and he summarized for me the challenges he faced in running the hotel.

Following our exchange, Lester whipped me up a coffee on the house, which I sipped as he waded into a discussion with another fellow, a timeworn, elderly man who was clearly a local. Their debate steered towards the topic of gold, which the timeworn man lauded while concurrently denouncing fiat money. As Lester turned away to resume his duties, the man looked straight at me, from halfway across the room, seemingly wanting me to say something. Without blinking, I responded, "Agreed."

With that, he shuffled over to my table and we spoke of many things, or rather he spoke whilst I listened. The man's name was Neville, a former economics professor trained at the London School of Economics, a man who had written for Le Metropole Cafe, a reasonably renowned precious metals investment site, and worked around the world.

Neville had interacted with a number of influential people during his career. He had known the Austrian-British economist and philosopher Friedrich Hayek, who wrote The Road to Serfdom, a book that outlines the advantages of free market economies over those that are regulated, for the latter ultimately lead to a welfare state and "serfdom" for future generations. He had also known the British historian Arnold Toynbee, the man who wrote A Study of History, an influential 12-volume work that outlines the "challenge and response" theory, which states that civilizations only grow by creatively responding to adversity. And he had known the British polymath Bertrand Russell, who espoused the idea that doubt is essential to any real belief, as well as the beginning of true philosophy. 

I asked Neville about the 8 years he spent in Hong Kong during the 1970s, which to my mind would have been remarkable, particularly given his background.
​
I enquired, "What was Hong Kong like?"

To which re replied, "Marvelous - don't know why I left."

However, he did know. He had been living a dream in Hong Kong, but felt time was creeping up on him, and since he wanted a family, decided that it would be better to do so in New Zealand. Thus, he returned. And although I may be mistaken, I believe I saw regret in those bright eyes, for he had allowed time to dictate a major life decision, time, a mere concept that places inordinate emphasis on the years we have remaining, rather than the moment that is right now, a timeless entity that is far more real than any distant past or unwritten future. We cannot allow time to dictate our lives so much...not at the expense of the moment.

Yet I was grateful, for thanks to his decision, here I was, able to learn from a timeworn man, in a remote hotel, on a remote road, in a remote country. I wished Neville well.

Having thought I had learned all that the hotel could offer, I turned to go, but as I did, glimpsed a sign on the wall, tucked away behind various impedimenta, a sign that bore a quote by former American president Theodore Roosevelt, a sign that relayed to me a final reminder of Aoraki's edifying lesson, a lesson I needed to take to heart, though I had not looked for it.

Having spoken to Neville and seen the sign, I was now ready to ride, I was ready to begin the cancer trial.

Golden plains outside Christchurch.

Where sierra, woodlands, and prairie collide.

Quiet pastures.

An evening ride into Arthur's Pass.

Forlorn apogees cast shadows over the lands below.

Bridge over a dried-up river-bed.

The middle of Arthur's Pass.

Steak and eggs at the Otira Stage Coach Hotel.

Final reminder at the hotel.

Farewell to Arthur's Pass.

Last Havens

I left Arthur's Pass, and from that moment on, I do not wholly recollect what happened. I ride for form, not speed, but at that moment I was in flight, no longer myself, simply the rider, transitioning through foliate valleys laden with rugged farmland and verdant forests, immersed deeply within the quickening of the moment.

I came out of flow at Maruia Springs, a timeless place where I spent two nights. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the springs were not crowded, and divulged myself of its hot and cold pools, alternating between 40 and 4 degrees Celsius, forcing my body to adjust, acclimate, and adapt itself to the two extremes of temperature. My lost track of time continued, and I knew not the hour nor the day, nor was I aware of the time when one year passed into the next.

The springs recharged me, and I flew down the Waiau River as it flamboyantly sparkled in the sunlight, onwards towards the coastal town of Kaikouri. As I skirted the seaboard, a place where the bluffs fell into the vast depths of the ocean, the cerulean skies once again greeted me, and so did the clouds, which had remained largely hidden for the past few days.

​Kaikouri itself was nondescript, other than being an ideal haven at which to stay the night. The soothing sounds made by the waves of the sea as they surged against the town's shorefront was mesmerizing, and I dreamed of a strange, chimeric place, a meld of hot springs and maze, with a grey corridor at one end that I dare not go down, with a twilight doorway at its end that I dare not cross, for if I did it felt as though some predatory and horrendous event would be waiting for me behind it.

During my rebound from Kaikoura back to Blenheim, I contemplated that although only a month had passed, it seemed nearly a lifetime ago that I had commenced this journey under Blenheim's sunshine. Truly, a single month of undivided attention to the transcendent aspects of this reality can create a far richer plethora of memories than a full year of routine, distractions, and expectations, for every day will be remembered fully. And truly, the concept of time is nothing but a dim, haggard, and dilapidated mirage compared to a heightened awareness of the now.

After riding a total of 5,311 kilometers, I finally returned to the North Island, where I shall stay as removed as possible from minutiae, emphasize process over expectations, value the defeats as much as the victories, and perpetually deny the self-shackling paramnesia of time through a baptism of awareness into what I am doing, at every moment.

Nothing can stop us now...this is Ricochet.

An empty start for Maruia Springs in the new year.

The Waiau River sparkles in the sunlight.

Bluffs fall into the ocean.

Waves surge against the shores of Kaikouri.

Nothing can stop us now.

Ricochet