Michigan lake

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“Hey, do you think there would be a lake house somewhere near Chicago where we could go for a week?”  We were in the planning phase of our trip, trying to figure out a Hub Harro, and come up with a vacation plan that would be fun for all involved.

“Chicago is on Lake Michigan, honey,” my mom reminded me.

In the end my parents found a house to rent on Diamond Lake, about an hour southwest of Kalamazoo, not the big water of Lake Michigan but a warmer, tamer lake surrounded by vacation homes.  My three sisters made arrangements to come, and my uncle, aunt, and cousin from Chicago came for the weekend as well. A regular family reunion!

The house was a sprawling lake cottage, built in the 1800s and added on to ever since, a comfortable wood-paneled abode (with wifi and Netflix!), with nooks and crannies for everyone.

A short walk down the road was the shared beach, warm and safe for kids.

We had told Milo not to bring his soccer ball to America, that surely Aunt Becky would have one, so imagine the dismay when we woke up on our first morning in warm summery America and we couldn’t find a ball to kick around. Easy fix for that, suburbia has plentiful shopping. The Diamond Lake house had a generous expanse of grass for lawn games.

Big Lake Michigan was less than an hour away, so we took a couple day trips there. I love the sand dunes near the lake. I have great memories of jumping down sand dunes in my younger years, and though my back wasn’t giving me leeway to do much besides hobble, I still like the mountains of sand we had to slog through to get to the water.

The Harro family always pockets a ball to toss on the beach, a tradition I need to rekindle with our little family. “Woof!”

Hugs from Abi!

Down there at the end of the table is my uncle Ted, Aunt Gretchen, and cousin Duncan. They treated us all to lunch at this fantastic little cafe, after our play at Lake Michigan. We used to call Uncle Ted “Uncle Visa.” In my younger years, he was one of the uncles who would splurge for treats, and pay with his credit card. Those were the days when my parents, ever slow to adopt technology, still budgeted in cash, and we assumed paying with plastic was reckless. I have this distinct childhood memory of going with him to the grocery store to buy ice cream, analyzing the prices for half gallons, and advising him which was the cheapest. “Yes, but this one is the BEST,” he said, reaching for some fancy creation in a round pint container, and flashing his Visa at the cashier.  Quality matters.  Good life lesson, Uncle Ted, thanks!

The day after our Lake Michigan trip Uncle Ted rented a party boat on Diamond Lake–it fit all of us simultaneously! Captain and first mate there.

Lounging on the boat!
There’s Milo, cousin Duncan, Aunt Gretchen, Dara (Aunt Susanna’s partner), Aunt Susanna, and Omi.  

There was a shallow section of the lake where boats anchored and swimmers jumped out into the warm water. Naomi fell in love with Aunt Kelsey’s sun glasses.

Milo turned out to be quite the tepid swimmer. He complained of being hot when we first arrived in America (head plus humidity is something new to him), then had no tolerance of even mild water chilliness. So he lounged on deck, surveying the rabble below.

After that first sunny weekend we had quite a fair bit of rain while we were there. Warm rain, gentle with no wind, very different than we get in New Zealand.

We did puzzles, read books, and watched DVD’s of James Herriot, TV shows from the 1980s. We all knew the stories and how they were going to end, as we’ve read the books and seen the shows countless times before, but that doesn’t diminish our enjoyment….another peculiarity of the Harro clan.

Aunt Rebecca and Aunt Kelsey played kids’ Cranium several dozen times, until Milo declared himself the master of the frog jumping challenge.  

One morning Rebecca and I took the kids to a little local playground, dodging the rain drops.

Those grain elevators make a bit of an unusual backdrop for a playground.

Every American summer vacation includes s’mores!

S’mores in all their gooey glory.

We had a couple beer tasting opportunities, much to Jeremiah’s delight. The craft brewery scene seems to be doing well in the States.

Our 12th anniversary rolled around while we were there, and we went to Bell Brewery in Kalamazoo to try a flight of their beer.

The owner of Bell Brewery has collected paraphernalia from all over the world to decorate the pub. That Wedding Ale was one of my favorites–it had honey in it and you actually tasted the honey in every sip.

We went to Lake Michigan another afternoon, this time to a town beach (hence the crowds). It was the strangest weather I’ve ever seen–fog off the lake, but very hot out. Almost like steam. It was bizarre.

There’s a carousel at this beach, and ice cream stores…and we visited both.

There are few things that I miss about America, besides family. On this trip I was reminded about fireflies. They’re fantastic. This picture doesn’t do them justice, of course, but imagine a grassy field at dusk alive with gently fluorescing dots gently streaking around. And that’s completely normal, a part of every warm summer evening. Sorry NZ glow worms, you’re out-shone.

Chicago Harro Highlights

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I felt like gripping Jeremiah by the shoulders, staring him in the eyes, and declaring “THIS is why I’m the way I am.  See?  I’m NOT weird.  For my family, this is NORMAL.”

Jeremiah and I are from the same town.  I could have seen his family home across the river if the trees weren’t so thick.  We’re both Americans, similar socio-economic class, each with two parents playing basically traditional roles in the household.  Yet sometimes my “normal” seems so different from his “normal” that I wonder how cross-cultural marriages ever survive.  The family of origin sets our expectation of how a spouse is “supposed” to act and react.  And there’s nothing like a family vacation to pull that into focus.

Our parents and siblings used to all live in upstate NY, and visiting the families was relatively straight-forward.  But now that the kids have grown, both our parents have gotten rid of the big family houses.  Jeremiah’s folks have moved up to a cabin in the Adirondack mountains, and mine have moved to a little two bedroom in Chicago near my mom’s parents.  Our siblings are scattered hither and yon.  This family get-together was going to take more effort than in previous years.

We opted to try and create a “hub” for each family, and have the remaining family members come to us.  The first two weeks of our trip we spent with the Harro family.  We started out in a suburb of Chicago with my parents, then went to a lake house in Michigan that my parent had rented for a week, where my sisters living in Pennsylvania and Massachusetts came to meet us.  Hub Harro.  

Chicago is a big city. The greater metropolitan area has 9.5 million people,the third largest city in the USA. That’s more than twice the population of whole of New Zealand. My parents live an hour train ride from the downtown area, and one of the first evenings after we arrived, my sister Rebecca, Jeremiah and I took the train down town to a food festival called Taste of Chicago. We hit the city right at pedestrian rush hour. The gleaming sky scrapers towering over the hurrying suits and ties certainly reminded me that we weren’t in friendly little NZ anymore.

At Taste of Chicago we promptly lost (or had stolen off us) a strip of food tickets, but we did enjoy the best people watching of the whole trip. Inner city folks are just so colorful, and my plain jane brown hair with unfashionable shorts and sandals don’t hold a candle to the creative decor the locals flaunt. I was too scared to ask anyone to actually pose for us, so unfortunately I haven’t got photo examples of what I mean.

I did, however, get a portrait of these two dudes, who were casually hanging out in the park eyeing up the crowds. I even had the nerve ask them who the heck they were, and why they were carrying all the military gear. Apparently they’re part of the Chicago police force, just there in case any terrorist decides to try something. “If you see us running, you just run the opposite way,” they advised us. Yes sir.

The food festival was set up in a park on the Lake Michigan shore, with big impressive buildings being engulfed by big impressive clouds. Also a novelty, the summer evening stayed warm. I had told kiwi friends before we left that I was looking forward to being WARM, and the Chicago summer didn’t let me down.

This is my mother’s garden, with their cozy house beyond. They live around the corner from my grandparents, and visit them daily.

Naomi admired the garden, and so did dozens of folks that came through on a garden tour. My mom has kept a pretty flower garden for as long as I can remember, and my dad appreciates it as well. It’s not the English formal garden style that many Kiwis favor, more the whimsical cottage garden that I grew up loving.  And with the heat of a Chicago summer, stuff was growing FAST.

We were back in Chicago for a couple days after the Michigan lake house, and spent another day in the city, this time with the kids. Lucky chicky, getting a ride from Abi.

Maggie Daley park in down town Chicago is similar to Margaret Mahey playground in Christchurch, but bigger. I was glad we had a high adult-to-child ratio here, seems like it would be an easy place to lose a kid in all the fantastic tunnels and towers and slides.

Trump Tower. It’s real. It’s gleaming. And it’s sitting proudly along the picturesque Chicago Sanitary Canal that was so polluted that its direction of flow was reversed so that it no longer enters Lake Michigan. Hum. Neither  of our families talk much about politics, so we actually heard far less about Trump and his tweetings while in America than we do while in New Zealand.  It was a refreshing break.  

Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream for all. Do you know that they don’t sell kiddy cones or even single scoops? If I had been smart I would have paid for a double but asked for just a single for the kids. But maybe the realization that one CAN have too much ice cream to eat is a healthy thing for kids.

Back in suburbia we went to spray parks (Aunt Becky loves spray parks).

And we went to playgrounds (Aunt Becky loves playgrounds too).

Aunt Kelsey baked with the chillens.

And bought them cool sunnies.

We ate family dinners (those are Harro-sized portions, most definitely).

And generally enjoyed being a family unit. Grandparents rock.

 

 

 

Flying with kids

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“Oh, you’ve just been back to America–how did the kids do with the travel?”  It’s been the most common question since we returned to NZ from our one month trip to the States.

I have to admit, flights with the kids are easy now that they are both enthralled with screens. While watching they will proclaim neither hunger nor fatigue. They will watch like zombies to the exclusion of all else. It’s magic.

Our flight from Christchurch to Auckland was mid afternoon, and rather than sit around the airport for six hours waiting for our evening flight to Los Angeles, Jeremiah organized a bus into Auckland. We hit up a couple playgrounds for the kids.

This one had an under-water theme.

The Sky Tower in Auckland (designed by BECA, the company Jeremiah works for) is an iconic landmark.  Naomi insisted on wearing that faerie skirt for the trip!

We purchased our first ever airline upgrade for the overnight flight to California–the “sky couch.” Little flaps under the seat snap up and make a sleeping platform, a concession for my bad back, but the kids liked it too. It’s still in “cattle class,” but it revolutionizes the overnight trip.  Of course, the kids only slept once we turned off their personal movie screens.

We sent my mom a heads up on the quantity of luggage we were toting by way of a photo of our car on the way to the airport. I like the idea of traveling light….but I also like the idea of bringing presents back to family and friends, and then returning with new clothes from America. We were definitely NOT traveling light.

We certainly felt like we were traveling heavy when we got to Los Angeles and the walk from terminal 1 to terminal 7 was approximately 1.2 miles. Actually I have no idea how far it was, but it was long enough for us to appreciate that we were not in little NZ anymore.

“Welcome” and “US Customs and Border Protection” don’t normally go hand in hand, and the friendly verbage lost a little of its bounce as we descended the one-way escalator to the LONG winding line with attendants shouting “keep moving, don’t stop!”
We joined the queue of babbling humanity awaiting entrance to the USA, and at long last, as we are neither terrorists nor illegal immigrants, we made our way through and on to our last plane to Chicago.  

What happened to June?

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It’s been a long time since we hiked with our friends to Rod Donald Hut.  What happened to June?

It rained.  It was cold.  My back turned bad again, suddenly and for no reason.  We prepared for our month-long trip to the states.

This is what Zealandia Horticulture looks like on a foggy winter’s morning. I puzzled my boss by quoting the old nursery rhyme that seemed appropriate to the day: “One misty moisty morning, when cloudy was the weather, I chanced to meet and old man, all dressed in leather. All dressed in leather, with hair upon his chin. “How do you do?” “How do you do?” “How do you do again?”
The grow lights for the hydroponic plants look cozy, which is not an empty promise. The biomass boiler keeps that part of the greenhouse at a comfy 18 C.

Other parts of the greenhouse are unheated, and the frost decorates the glass. A frosty morning promises that a good sunny day will follow, far better than a slightly warmer but grey day.

Winter is a good time for fire-building. One of the hunting brotherhood set this competition up–because what is a gathering of guys without a competition? They had identical lathe-smoothed logs to start with, which they reduced to piles of kindling with axes. Fires were to be started with flint, and the winner was the first one to burn through their string. Jeremiah won. It’s good to be married to a pyromaniac.

The last of the leaves fell from our Japanese maple trees. I procrastinated raking them, and in the end the wind blew them off the grass and into the nooks and crannies of the porch.

Milo had rugby practice at 4:00 every Wednesday. Look at that, there WERE a few sunny days in the mix, as documented by photography.

Luckily for little siblings, there is a playground near the rugby field. Naomi is fearless in her climbing. Fortunately, she’s also quite capable.

Luckily for little siblings, there is a playground near the rugby field. This picture was taken on the winter solstice. I guess winter is not so bad after all.

This is the classic Kiwi way to spend the winter, in full puffy attire sucking on hot drinks INDOORS. We’ve been shopping hard for a house that we can buy and make warm, but haven’t succeeded yet.

Speaking of Naomi, we celebrated a major accomplishment with a flower-topped cafe treat–the end of night time diapers. Hurray! No nostalgia over the diaper phase.

Naomi has started the birthday party circuit–this one was princess themed. Parents were encouraged to dress the part as well, but I didn’t see any other dresses among the adults. My garb wasn’t queenly enough to be blatantly a dress up, so I spent the party feeling awkwardly unfashionable for either group.

Even Milo got into the dress-up mode. This will be a good picture to pull out on his 21st birthday.

Here’s Milo in his normal clothes, proudly bringing his school classroom’s tuatara on a trip to the grocery store.

A week before our flight to the USA my back got all tight, and I spent a couple days laying on the couch hoping it would resolve itself peacefully. It didn’t, and instead developed into the same squashed-nerve pain as last year. Jenny cat appreciated the quiet day I had at home, the first time I’ve ever sent the kids to school and stayed home myself.

It was an interesting experience, staying home without the kids. Milo walked home himself at 3:00, and Naomi even got the preschool bus home at 4:15. I’ve craved alone time without the kids home for ages, but when it actually came down to it, I didn’t like it. Not that laying-on-the-couch time is that desirable…but it was a good reminder that I do like the kids and their company after all, and I should cherish the last year+ that I have Naomi home before she starts school.

A tramp with our Weatherproof Brits

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“I know a really great hut, up on the Banks Peninsula, an easy walk in for kids–want to book it for a weekend with the families?” It was probably three months ago that Ian suggested the plan. This particular DOC hut is so enormously popular that it has a booking system, so you must lock in a weekend trip well in advance, and you can’t reschedule in the event of rain. Good thing we were going with the Weatherproof Brits. Come rain, hail, cloud or shine, they will cheerfully follow through with the plan.

First off, one must wear one’s best pink attire for hiking. Fashion makes for happiness.

It doesn’t matter that the pink gets covered up in red wet weather gear–it’s what’s on the inside that counts.
These totara trees aren’t flexibly blowing in the wind. They are permanently deformed, buffeted by near constant wind until only the shoots that emerge on the leeward side survive.

It was only an hour’s walk to the hut, but the blustery sky was starting to glower and spit, and it was good to duck inside–still warm from the previous residents.

The kids carried in fire wood and we stoked the pot belly stove all afternoon, watching clouds envelope the hut until it felt truly remote.

It turns out that logs make good fort building materials, and the kids contentedly set up shop. Adults drank coffee, I knitted on a hat.

I baked rolls for dinner. I like the Pittsburgh stove, a little reminder of home, and warm winter houses. I like New Zealand, really I do, but the home heating is furnaceless, mired in the dark ages of single pane windows,and uninsulated floors.. It was a treat to make a room warm enough to comfortably wear short sleeves.  The windows in the hut are better than those in our house.

Jeremiah baked ziti for dinner. Our English friends had to google ziti during our email planning to figure out what it was. “Lazy man’s lasagna,” we described it. It was yummy, again done on the Pittsburgh stove.

The composting toilet was very civilized, and didn’t smell, despite heavy usage. The only improvement I’d suggest would be to turn the window to the view side.

Bed time for Bonzo. We put the younger kids to bed in the top bunks and took out a deck of Quiddler and a bottle of beer for the evening.

Emma said we were the noisiest family she has ever shared a room with. Jeremiah snores (clearly), and apparently Naomi and Milo talk in their sleep. I slept through nearly all of it.

The stars came out during the night and the next day “dawned clear and fresh as could be, blue sky and never a cloud, with the sun dancing on the water.” Now we could fully appreciate the view from the hut windows.

A short walk into the hut means we can really go luxurious with the breakfast. Sausages and eggs with cinnamon rolls (again, complements of the wood stove).

Here’s the whole gang, ready to roll out in the morning.

A family weekend, enhanced all-round by the company of friends.

Capable kids

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It’s fun when your kids are good at stuff.  I mean, I spend so much energy worrying about how my kids are BAD at stuff (manners principally) that it’s a relief to be happy about something.  Proud of something, even….though I know that their skills have little to do with my influence.

Still, I’m proud that our kids are damn good bikers.

Naomi is 3.  Three!  Plenty of her peers are wobbling around on training wheels.  She’s negotiating hills and turns for 10 kilometers of trails around McClean’s Island bike trails, out by the Waimakariri River.  Milo made it an extra 5 kilometers.  I think we’ll be doing some multi day family bike trips next summer.

I’m also proud of Milo and his rugby.

I complained bitterly (in my head) about the start of the sports era.  “I’m NOT a soccer mom!  I’m not a good cheer leader.  I don’t want every Saturday consumed with sports.  I don’t bring orange slices and granola bars to practices.  THIS IS NOT MY ZONE!”

But actually, it has not been all that bad.  I’ve met a mom that I can exchange a few pleasantries with on the side lines.  I’ve even enjoyed watching the kids run around the field.  They’re funny.  They sometimes run the wrong way.  Do you know how confusing it is to switch end zones half way through the game??

And it turns out that Milo’s good at rugby. He’s focused. He’s competitive. He’s coordinated. And at this age, that makes him good.  He won Player of the Day after one game, and Player of the Month last month.  

Go kiddo.

Chill out, Mom

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The sound of heavy items being dragged over the wooden floor made a small blip on my consciousness, but no big waves.  The kids must be getting into something.  What’s new?  One thing was for sure, emerging from my warm cocoon of down bedding was not going to improve my peace of mind.  I stayed put.

Eventually little giggles were heard at my door, then the bandits broke into my sanctuary.  “Let’s jump on her feet!” Milo suggested gleefully.

“No!  DON’T get on my bed!” I commanded, kicking my feet vigorously under the covers to discourage boarders.

“Come see what we’ve done!  We’re really strong!” Milo boasted.

“Yeah, we’re really strong,” Naomi echoed.

I pulled on my pants and made the bed before leaving my room.  It sounded like it might be a while before I was finished “admiring” their handiwork.  Thankfully my door opens inwards, because the hall way was choked with dining room chairs.  I clambered over the green stuffed chair to reach the bathroom door.  The dining room table sat squarely in the kitchen, blocking the way to the kettle.  I sighed.  Then I thought of Kyla.

We define normal by what is familiar.  Not what is good by some higher standard of truth, but just what we have experienced.  That’s one of the things I find the hardest about parenting.  How do I know if I’m doing it right?  Whether I’ve been strict enough, or too lenient….the very subjectivity makes I impossible to be sure my approach is good.  The second-guessing and uncertainty is draining.  And besides, I don’t often get the chance to watch other parenting styles in action.

“Hi Molly.  Just wondering if you would like to come to ours for a playdate this arvo.”  Kyla had texted me one Thursday morning inviting Naomi over to play with her preschool friend Summer.

“Sure, we’d love to, what time suits?” I had responded.  I was interested in Kyla.  She had had her children a bit later in life than I had mine, and she genuinely seemed to enjoy them.  Before kids she had been quite athletic with tennis and biking, but seemed unembittered that those days were over.  Despite her career being put on hold with the advent of the kids, she didn’t seem to be resentful.  So different from myself.

When we arrived the girls had quickly disappeared into Summer’s bedroom, and I waited for them to emerge dressed to the nines in pink and sparkles.  Kyla and I sat sipping some tea, talking about work, our families, and what to make with minced turkey for dinner.  Faint noises could be heard from Summer’s room; no squabbling, so things must be going well.  A few gentle bumps indicated some activity or another.  “I might just go check on the girls,” Kyla murmured, tipping her ear towards the rustling.

She didn’t come back immediately.  I glanced around the living room; it was a sparsely decorated house, new and modern with neutral colors.  Not very interesting.  I decided to go see what was up.

Kyla was just gathering an empty laundry basket and a cardboard box, and heading out the back door.  I followed her around the side of the house to a giant pile of bedroom debris heaped under the open window.  Blankets and pillows, infant clothes and socks, puzzle pieces and picture books all in a giant mound.  Kyla calmly started gathering up handfuls, pushing the bigger items back through the window and scooping the smaller ones into the boxes.  I followed suit.  “Come on girls, let’s get these things picked up,” she said.  The girls just stood there and tittered, obviously revelling in the mess they’d made.

“Naomi, here!” I thrust a pillow into her arms.  “Bring that back to Summer’s room…”  “…Please.”  I added, as an afterthought.

Kyla proceeded without hurry and without any visible annoyance.  I glanced at her.  Was she on extra good mommy behavior because we were present?  Or was she genuinely not incensed that the girls had purposely emptied the entire contents of Summer’s closet out the bedroom window into the rain?  I certainly couldn’t get growly with Naomi in the presence of a saint, so I bit my tongue and in pretend calm sorted out at least 10 separate puzzles whose pieces had all been mixed.

The clean-up took the remainder of our visit time, and it was with relief that we departed to collect Milo from school.  I needed some time to think.

If Naomi and Milo had pulled that stunt at my house, they would have been told in no uncertain terms how disgusted I was with their behaviour.  Every item tossed through the window would have been confiscated, even if it meant that they slept with no pillows or blankets for the next week.  There would have been tears and gashing of teeth, because that’s what remorse for such a sinful act should entail….right?

Or did Kyla have it right?

Who was enjoying their motherhood experience more?

Kyla, obviously.

Then whose parenting technique was working better?

Perhaps I had better work on chilling out.

“How did the play date with Summer go?” Suzie asked at preschool the next day.  It’s one of the fantastic things about the little Montessori preschool the kids attend; the teachers are so good at remembering details.

“Good,” I said automatically, then my memory caught up.  “Actually,” I said, conspiratorially, “Naomi and Summer were super naughty.  They emptied every item they could reach out of Summer’s closet and dumped it through the window onto the ground outside!  They even shook the puzzles out of the boxes!”  Suzie’s eyes widened and she drew in her breath.  Gemma paused to get an earful of the juicy story.  “Kyla didn’t even bat an eye!” I continued, betraying the debate that had been fermenting in my mind.  “She just calmly gathered up all the stuff into boxes!  If Naomi had done that at MY house I’d have been LIVID!  I would have said “NAOMI!” “  I smacked my palms together, indicating vindictive action.  Then I asked the snoopy question that had been on my mind: “Is Kyla really that chill?”

“Kyla is the most chilled out person I know,” Suzie admitted.  “But don’t feel bad, I would have been as angry as you.”  That’s some consolation, I thought.  Suzie is still a good preschool teacher.

“Yes, we can’t be who we aren’t,” Gemma added.  Not such good consolation.  We all have room for improvement.  We can reframe our “normal.”  Maybe my normal should be more relaxed, slower to anger, quicker to see the humor in a situation.  Maybe I’d be happier that way.

“Thanks for the idea of turkey pumpkin soup.  It was delicious.  Kids loved it J” Kyla texted later that evening.

“Yay, good for you!” I texted back.  “Thanks for having us over today, and I’m sorry for the naughtiness the girls got into.  That was likely a Naomi move.”

“No worries at all.  They are just being kids.  Pretty funny.  Totally should have taken a photo J”

Yeah…I need to chill out.

So this morning when faced with a tangle of chairs baring my way to the toilet and the teapot, do you know what I did?  I chilled out.

“That’s quite a project you’ve been doing, Milo,” I observed.  “Why are the chairs in the hallway?”

“We wanted the dining room to be empty so we could play round and round,” he informed me.

“Well, did you find that missing game piece under the rug when you moved it?” I asked, hopefully.

“What game piece?” Milo said.  “We were really strong to move all that stuff, weren’t we?”

“Yes, you sure were,” I agreed.  “While the floor is clear maybe I’ll vacuum, and we could take the opportunity to rearrange the furniture.  But we have to do it before you go to school.”

“Alright, the chairs feel even easier to move on the way back because I’m getting stronger!” Milo announced, all confidence.

The chairs, tables and rugs were moved back with no tears. No gnashing of teeth.  No punishments.  I still got a cup of tea, and I never sit down to eat my breakfast anyway.  Maybe there’s something in this chilled out thing after all.

Alpine again: Hawdon to Edwards

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“We could walk in to Hawdon hut Friday night,” Jeremiah suggested early in the week.  I recoiled.  It’s autumn now, and nights are Cold.  And Dark.  River crossings would be in the cold dark….  Late entry to a cold, dark hut….  Ug.

“Um, that doesn’t sound like very much fun to me,” I grimaced.

“Ok then,” Jeremiah acquiesced, raising his eyebrows.  “But if you want to do that hike, it might be worth the three hour walk in the dark.”

And I really did want to do that hike.  I’ve been eyeing it for a couple years now, ever since I walked in to the hut by myself one warm summer evening and peaked up over the edge of the trees to the alpine meadow beyond.  It had been sunny and calm, idyllic conditions that rarely happen in the mountains, and the little tarn with the path wending through the tussocks had been so inviting….  The book said the route continued over a couple mountain passes and then down into a valley beyond.  It would entail two nights out and lots of climbing, and a hitch hike at the end.  It would be a good one to do with a capable mountain man like Jeremiah.

“Well, maybe if the weather for the next two days is perfect, then it would be worth the wretched Friday night walk in,” I consented.

We planned two other less ambitious routes, and I waited until Wednesday to look at the weekend forecast.  I was shocked to see a big fat high pressure system sitting over the whole of the Southern Alps.  Sunny and calm for three days straight.  Probably worth that three hour walk in the dark!

Jeremiah’s frozen breath shown in a ragged cloud in my head lamp. Cold dew drops sparkled on the grass, and the riverbed rocks clattered under our feet. We were looking for the four-wheel-drive track up the river bed, but more often than not we lost it. Not that it mattered….the hut was three hours up the river. We turned off our lights and the moon lit the world in silver and black. We tromped through the water, then turned and splashed through the winding river again. We heard a noise and stopped to listen. It was the chirpy chortle of a kiwi bird. “I’ve never heard one in the wild before!” I exclaimed.

“I smell smoke! The hut must be close!” Walking in the dark had been a lot more pleasant than I expected, but I was still ready to shuck the wet boots, and smoke held the promise of a warm hut. We clomped up the steps and a startled face peered out the window. Poor guy. It’s disconcerting to have newcomers show up during the night when you have been sound asleep. We apologized and moved our stuff quickly to the adjoining bunk room. It was cold, and I snuggled into my sleeping bag fully dressed, a wooly cap on my head.

The next morning we slept in until 7:30, cooked our oatmeal, and slid our feet into our wet boots. Just as the sun reached the hut, we set off.

Selfie! Jeremiah and Molly were here, Hawdon Hut, May 5th, 2017.

We climbed in the dappled sun through the beech trees until we reached the alpine zone. The hut would be somewhere on the right of the valley there.

It was frosty in the shadow of the mountain when we turned on to the alpine meadow this time, and the icy rocks were slippery.  We passed a couple picturesque tarns, but they were NOT enticing for a swim. This one had its first delicate coat of ice crusting the top.

We waited until rounding the next bend before we stopped to admire this view and have our morning tea (or morning hot tang, as Jeremiah chose), airing our damp socks in the sun.

It’s a good thing that the man has a sense of humor. He almost “stepped in a puddle up to his middle and never was seen again!” Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, but the patch of mud that looked solid turned out deeper than expected, and I couldn’t stop giggling. I never have
been a very sympathetic soul.

Soon after that the trail took a turn up another shady valley with a steep rocky stream, crisp with frost. We did eventually pop out into another alpine platueau, Walker’s Pass, where Jeremiah spotted the second chamois of the day.

What better thing to do in a pristine alpine meadow than a head stand? Well, a cart wheel would be better, but I’m rubbish at those. Those tough little mountain plants may look soft and inviting, but they’re actually quite prickly on the scalp.

At the end of the meadow the trail drops off abruptly to this massive scree field below. This is on the Divide, the watershed between the east coast and the west coast, and also the location of the biggest fault line in New Zealand. The scree slope we slid down is in front of the appropriately named Falling Mountain. The landscape is bizarre, like a gigantic pile of rubble in a war zone or maybe Mars. Not a lot of stability in the environment here.  It is ridiculously fun to slide/walk DOWN a scree slope, but punishing to traverse.  Thankfully, our route went down.

We paused for lunch out of the rock fall zone (we hoped), realizing that it would be an unfortunate place to be should another earthquake happen. The low autumn sun tucked behind the surrounding mountain peaks, and we spent the next two hours in the shade, poking around for the trail under overgrown tussocks and crossing the river repeatedly.

A cloud pushed ominously down the valley behind us as we walked.

Finally we saw trees ahead, and the hut just beyond some wonderfully constructed over-marsh walkways. There was smoke coming from the chimney–the promise of warmth.

That cloud never did extend all the way down the valley to the Edwards Hut where we spent the night, and the next morning was again blue sky. The hut was inhabited by two Frenchmen and an Irishman, all working in Christchurch. I like the company in the huts; it often has an international flavor, and the accents are as colorful as the opinions.

My phone battery died in the cold of the night, so I have no photos of the walk out down the Edwards valley.  It’s a shame, because the beech forest was green and inviting, and at the bottom we rounded a bend into an eerily frosted section of the river that never sees the sun at this time of the year.  A mist hung over the frozen rocks and I half expected to come across a kea picking at a dead deer or something even less savory and more haunting.  I was glad when we finally turned the last corner back into the sun and I could shake off the spooks.

The guys we had spent the night with at the hut had a car at the Edwards Valley end, and they generously offered to give us a lift back down to the Hawden.  No need to even hitch a ride.

We picked up the kids at Emma and Ian’s house, and it turns out that they had enjoyed their weekend in town as much as we had enjoyed ours in the mountains. Check out this cake decorating! Milo had picked up a book from the library all about elaborate Christmas cake designs with reign deer made from frosting and other such horrors. I advised him that I’m not good at cake decorating, least of all Christmas cake decorating, and he would have to consult with Emma for that skill. Thanks heaps, Emma!

 

The world keeps turning, turning

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School holidays have once again come and gone. I coped better this time. Other moms talk about the relaxation of the school holidays, a break from the scheduled life, contented home days….it all sounds so nice. Except that it doesn’t work for Milo. And what doesn’t work for Milo won’t work for me either. You see, a bored Milo very quickly becomes an incredibly naughty Milo. And a mother beset by a tyrannically rude six year old quickly reaches the end of her tether. This time I made a plan for every day that he and I were home together. We were lucky that the weather cooperated, so our plans involved some nice outtings.

This was our Hagley Park day, with friend Stella (and her little sister Nina). The leaves were perfect, sun dappled and dry.  The girls hatched out of their egg nest repeatedly.

Japanese maple, in fall glory. I once when I was in college I sent a pressed Japanese maple leaf to my grandmother, and she wrote back wondering if I had sent her a marijuana leaf. The subsequent letter included both a maple leaf and a marijuana leaf (it doesn’t take much figuring to guess which classmates to ask for said leaf). I still giggle every time I admire these frilly maples.

Naomi and Stella tucked themselves away in the tree crevice to hide. The botanical garden has some great specimens.

We basically spent the whole day roving from one climbing tree to the next, occasionally adding to our collection of pretty feathers and leaves and petals while stopping frequently to eat peanut-butter-honey sandwiches.
As we were heading at last to our car we passed an elderly couple strolling along. “Four?” the old lady asked. “Yes, but two are mine and two belong to a friend,” I responded. “Oh, that’s easy,” she gloated. “I had five.” I smiled and nodded, but inwardly fumed. What was that snide comment meant to accomplish? Does it make her feel more respected to make me feel less so?

One day we met friends down at the water-side walk near Govenor’s Bay. Low tide exposed the rocks, and Milo turned those rocks to expose hundreds of little crabs. Imagine the six-year-old’s joy in terrorizing the hapless critters, listening to their frantic scuttling to safety every time he lifted off their roof.

I’m sure we have posted a picture of this rock before, an ancient specimen from the time that the Lyttelton harbor was the center of an active volcano.

We splurged on treats from She Chocolate after our walk, always a nice ending to the morning. The only problem is that it leaves an electronic banking trail betraying to Jeremiah that we’ve been having decadent sweets.

We did get a tour of Daddy’s office recently, and learned that he has a machine that can make him hot chocolates or barista coffees any time he wants at the touch of a button. There are some perks to being an engineer, apparently.

Naomi and I crowned the holiday with a trip to the cushion theater (Oz was playing). Milo was a bit sad to miss out on the theater trip, but he was busy earning player of the day at his ripper rugby match, which brought him great satisfaction as well.

Actually, the real crowning of the holiday was the last rainy Sunday afternoon where I set the kids up with paper mache on the bit of lino that we keep under our dining table, then left to do a bit of shopping.  When I came back the lino had been rinsed but the carpet around it bore loads of gluey flour footprints.  I knew I should have waited for an outside day to do paper mache.  The kids were sent to a much needed early bed.

Exercising the Little Trampers

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After WEEKS of rain, the weekend forecast looked spectacular.  By spectacular I mean sunny, 18 C, and still.  Not windy, even in the mountains.  It was NOT a weekend to stay in the city.

We packed up the kids Saturday morning, stopped for some pies at the Sheffield pie shop, got some candy bribery at the gas station, and drove up to Porter’s Pass through the Torlesse Range.  It’s a lowish pass on the dry side (our side) of the mountains leading up to Arthur’s Pass where a couple trails lead off into the hills.  Trig Peak was our goal, an achievable 350 meter climb starting right off the highway.

The first hurdle was the shoes. Naomi would have to wear the perfectly functional hiking boots that Milo had grown out of a few months ago. She put up a noisy rejection, which I was temped to squash with a swift “don’t be ridiculous, you’re wearing these because we have them” Mother Statement…which would have been completely ineffectual. Instead I resorted to compromise, and suggested adding some decorations. We raided my sewing box.
It took about 10 minutes to sew on a red felt flower, three purple flowers, an orange sparkly ribbon and a pink bead. The mood changed immediately. Compromise was much easier than unbending practicality after all.

Bling bling shoes not withstanding, 50 meters from the car Naomi declared that her legs were tired. “We’re not carrying you,” Jeremiah reassured her, unsympathetically. I had stashed the old Ergo carrier in my backpack just in case, but was glad Jeremiah was along to brazen it out. Milo ran ahead and hid along the trail (yes, lower down some of the bushes were big enough to conceal a small boy), and we were off on the hunt.

Mid way up the hill there was a pile of rocks. No pile of rocks will be left to molder in peace when a 6 year old boy could action them!

The walking poles don’t actually propel small bodies forward and upward, but they provide a welcomed distraction. You can see the road to the wet coast below.

Trig peak! Everyone reached the top on their own two legs! Milo made sure that he got to the very top of the old survey marker. The dog (named Fish….um, yeah….no, he’s not ours) looked on quizzically.

More rocks! These ones he built into a wind shelter. There was hardly any breeze, but the shelter was still a good idea….most days it would be welcomed. As it was, we were able to linger on the exposed top enjoying the view with our lunch. Both kids pooped in a tussock. Necessities don’t wait.

Milo uncovered a Weta, a special Kiwi bug (wait, that sounds funny….a NZ bug) that I’ve never seen in the wild before. It had these four very neat little palpae that looked like they were tasting the ground as it went along.

I can’t finish an alpine hike without a tribute to the tough plants that live up there. “It’s a nice day today,” I told Milo, “but tonight these plants are going to freeze, and last week they were whipped around by the wind, then they get baked dry by the blistering sun.” This one is a little coprosma, believe, and with the alpine form all the branches are hidden under a tight mass of leaves, making it look like a moss with pearls.

Treats back at the car, followed by a nap on the way home. Well done, kids.