It’s My Birthday, And I’ll Fly If I Want To

Today is my birthday, or, at least, I think it is. My Northern hemisphere birthday. Since I am spending my birthday in New Zealand, my Southern hemisphere birthday was yesterday. And since it is almost midnight here, and it’s already tomorrow back home, my birthday post is late. Since I am on vacation, and don’t really care what day it is, or what time it is, that’s all okay…

The last two weeks has been a whirlwind of activity and travel. We have come to New Zealand for my son’s wedding, arriving just the day before the event. Post wedding, we have just returned from a few days of travel around the North Island, journeying from the southernmost tip to the northernmost tip, hitting a few highlights in between. Lots of time in the car, lots of togetherness. It has been so nice to road trip with both boys. Ruben has lived in New Zealand for the last four years, so our times together as a family, and road trips as a family, have been few and far between.

I have no great insights to share this birthday, or none that probably matter to anyone but me. A few things that I already sort of knew have become much more clear, and I will need time to think about them, and decide how I can adjust my life to incorporate the things that I am coming to believe are very important to the fulfillment of my true nature, and my future happiness.

One thing I have been reminded of is how much I am affected by daylight, or the shortness thereof. We left Seattle in early December, as the days were getting shorter and shorter, and grayer and grayer. The news blips on my phone informed me that December 20 was the darkest day in Seattle’s recorded history. I am not sorry to have missed it. My weekend adventure excursions had been cut too short in November, as I frequently found myself at destinations with less than an hour or two of daylight left, which frustrated me. I have traveled to tropical locales in the winter before, and while I appreciated the warmer weather, the days were still short. This year, for the first time, I spent the winter solstice in the Southern hemisphere, and here, it is the longest day of the year, instead of the shortest. So not only did my birthday span two days, it was two days that felt twice as long.

One of the days, the day we traveled to Cape Palliser, had to be one of the best afternoons of my life. I have been on lots of scenic drives, and seen many animals from inside the car or boat, but to stand among the wild fur seals was such a thrill. I have yet to go on an African safari, but I imagine it must feel the same…to step into a habitat that is truly owned by the animals, to be allowed to observe as a guest.

We had looked at the map the day before, trying to find a destination that would be in the general direction of Wellington, and within a day’s drive, since we were dropping my niece off at the airport, and we decided that since we were going south, we may as well go all the way south. Marc and I have always been fans of trying to find the farthest point out from anywhere, and seeing a lighthouse is always an added bonus.

Much of New Zealand feels remote anyway, but this drive took us through areas that felt like an uninhabited planet. The road to Cape Palliser winds through what seems like endless miles of landscape, with sheep everywhere: sheep in the pastures, sheep in the hills and valleys, sheep in the road, sheep on the beach. Some sheep inside fences, some sheep outside the fences. We drove through rivers crossing the road, and up a steep detour, literally through someone’s yard, to go around a portion of the road that had been washed out by the high surf. As we approached the Cape, there was a tiny community of houses, clustered against the hill, and on the beach side, boat after boat, lined up on the steep, rocky beach. Each boat was on an extra long boat trailer, looking sturdy enough to haul a small freighter, and each trailer was attached to a tractor. The beach rocks were so large, and the the waves were so huge, we couldn’t imagine launching a boat, regardless of the size, into the surf we were witnessing. It was a reminder of the hardiness factor required to live in such a wild, remote region. A level of hardiness I’m not sure I possess.

As we neared the Cape, we were on the lookout for the fur seal breeding colony, which had been advertised as being among the largest anywhere. We did not have to look far, however, and it wasn’t long before we realized that not running over one was going to be the primary concern. The road had turned to gravel just past the last house, and there were fur seals everywhere: along both sides of the road, in the ditches, next to signs, crossing the road. They were nestled in meadows, under bushes, in muddy tire tracks, on the warm rocks, in the splash zone of the crashing waves. We stopped at one point, where there was a small grass clearing, and counted dozens of seals; big males tousling, females nursing babies, juveniles playing. And through the middle of all of them, a few sheep, just passing through, rabbits running Willy-nilly, and swooping shorebirds. All oblivious to the humans standing a few feet away. It was like nothing I have ever seen.

We drove a little further, to the lighthouse, and climbed the 250 stairs to take in the panoramic view. It was surreal to think that we were looking out into the Southern Ocean, and the next landmass was Antarctica.

At the gravel parking lot for the lighthouse, there was a gate, signaling that we were at the end of the road, at the end of the continent. We backtracked a bit, to a rocky, wild point, and spent more time watching the seals. My family watched for a little while, then waited patiently in the car, while I wandered around among the seals, watching some more. We were miles and hours from civilization, and dinner, but they let me watch as long as I chose to, which was the greatest gift they could give me. I could have actually stayed for days, and it was hard to pull myself away. I had never experienced anything like that, though running into bears while hiking alone a couple of times comes close, as did an encounter with a mother moose and her calf in the woods in Montana, while hiking as a child with my grandmother. All instances of finding myself in the presence of truly wild animals, in their habitat, at their mercy. I have never felt more alive. When we finally drove away, I shed a few tears, overwhelmed by the experience, humbled, and sad that I might never again chance upon something so wonderful.

Having visited the southernmost point of the island, the obvious thing to do next would be to visit the northernmost point, and another lighthouse. This was understandably met with some grumbling by Carter, as it entailed being trapped in the car with his parents for days, but he was willing to be bribed with the promise of a visit to the location of the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings movie set, and so we set off.

The road out to Cape Reinga is as remote as the southern cape, and just as lovely. The parking lot is high above the lighthouse, and the paved trail down to the lighthouse is steep. Halfway down, there is a side trail the goes up to a high lookout, a bluff overlooking the lighthouse, the rocky point jutting out, and the point where the Tasman Sea meets the Pacific Ocean. The boys ran up ahead of me, and were done and on their way back down by the time I made it to the top. For a glorious fifteen minutes, I had the top of the hill to myself, and I slowly turned in circles, admiring the 360 degree view of the oceans, the lighthouse far below, the giant sand dunes in the distance. I could see the ancient tree hanging on the rocks below, a sacred relic in the Maori traditions. I could see my family, tiny specks circling the lighthouse. There were pheasants in the grass around me, the sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the sky was bright blue, and I was in absolute heaven. Only the approach of more tourists, coming up the hill toward me, could entice me to leave.

After the lighthouse trek, we backtracked to the sand dunes. Another surreal experience, and one that convinced me that no matter what they show in the movies, being lost in the sand dunes of Africa or the Middle East would be game over. These dunes were huge. Of course, the boys ran straight up to the top. Marc had given Carter his sunglasses, so the bright sun and blowing sand stopped him short. I wanted to keep going, and when he asked how far I was going to go, I said “As far as my legs will take me.” As it turned out, that wasn’t all that far, but I did make it to the top of the ridge. There, I found deposits of shells, blown in from the beach, hundreds of feet higher than sea level, and a couple of miles inland. I found a plateau, where a few rocky outcroppings sheltered some dune grass. For a few moments, the wind died down, and it was completely silent. I could see Marc far below, loaded down with our shoes and jackets, and I could see the boys on the top of the tallest dune, taking in the view of the sea below, and making preparations to run wildly down the sandy hill. The sand was blowing so hard, it was stinging my legs, and my ears and eyes were filling with sand, so I reluctantly headed back down.

During our road trip, we stayed at a variety of Airbnb’s, but in the Northlands, we chanced upon a gem. “Pipibed” (pipi apparently being a sort of small clam) was a tiny house, surrounded by sprawling lawns and native garden plantings, with a pond, singing birds, and art and sculptures sprinkled throughout. After a few days of rain, the weather had cleared, and it was warm and sunny. That night, the star display was brilliant, and I sat outside with a blanket wrapped around me, watching the constellations. My phone app identified Capricornus, and for the first time, on the cusp on my birthday, I was able to see my sign in the sky. I know very little about astrology, but when I tell more informed people when my birthday is, and they determine I am not a Sagittarius, as might be expected, but a Capricorn on the cusp, they shake their heads knowingly, as if that explains everything. As an extra bonus, when we turned out the lights to go to bed, we discovered that the glass-smooth stone floor that we had admired in the daylight was, in fact, filled with solar stones, and they glowed like stars beneath our feet. Long after everyone else was asleep, I padded around the house in my bare feet, delighted that I could stand at the open door, with stars beneath my feet and stars above my head, and listen to the nightsong of birds that were strangers to me.

It has been a long time since I could afford to spend the time or money to travel to a place so unlike home, and I am reminded of how important travel is to me. I try to make the most of my home state, and am constantly on the move, exploring, but it is not the same as finding yourself in a different place in the world. I need to find a balance between the priorities that make me whole, and the priorities imposed upon me. Maybe this will be the year.

I haven’t seen as much of New Zealand as I would have liked, but what looks like a smallish country on the map is, in fact, huge. I had hoped to get to the South Island, but there just was not enough time to do it all, so we focused our time on one island, and still barely scratched the surface. Still, I have enjoyed every second of it. To see the place my son has chosen to call home, and to meet and become a part of the family that has welcomed him with open arms and loving embraces has made my heart so much bigger. The South Island will have to wait for the next trip. Maybe I will be in better shape then, and have more time, and have brought even more luggage, full of the proper outdoor equipment. My brother-in-law and his family, here for the same wedding, have spent the rest of their time on the South Island. Jeremy, who is in much better shape, has superior snow-navigation skills, and has yet to experience a come-to-Jesus moment big enough to detour him, has spent the last ten days glacier hopping and glissading from peak to peak. I watch his posts with a small twinge of envy, but also with a large dose of determination to come back, better prepared.

I may have not been to the highest peaks, but I have stood under fern trees, crossed swinging foot bridges over rushing rivers, made acquaintance with stick bugs and Bluebottle jellyfish, seen wild horses and wild fur seals, and so many new birds. I have climbed jungle trails, windswept ridges, and epic sand dunes. I have stood on top of a magnificent hill, turning in circles, Julie Andrews-style, no singing, but with my soul full of song. I have beach combed and collected a pile of treasures that will not be allowed home, either by customs or my husband, but the joy in beach combing lies in the beach, the combing, the sun and the wind. I have huddled in Hobbit houses with my boys, and listened to them giggle endlessly in the back seat. I have found joy in all things, even as small as the gnat that has just landed on my hand, as I sit here in the sun, writing. As I went to brush it away, I looked closer, and saw that it was not just an ordinary gnat, but one that sported what looked like a dandelion tuft for a hat, as impressive as a drum major’s plume, held proudly aloft as it parades up and down my arm.

I may not have been to the highest points, but each day, I have traveled as far as my legs will take me. And in quiet moments, I have looked down, and up, and all around, and seen miracles, both large and small. And for that, no travel required.

And therein lies the lesson.