So long, Australia! This shot overlooks Canberra and Lake Burley Griffin.

A few weeks ago I wrote a post about “how to plan a year-long family itinerary” as though I were some kind of expert on the topic. But far from being experts, Morgan and I are learning as we go — with mixed success. As soon as I published that post, we made the big, difficult decision to tear apart and rebuild the last leg of our itinerary.

The rebuilding part has been rather stressful and time consuming, with thousands of dollars and our last month of travel at stake. We ate up much of our limited WiFi access during the last few weeks researching where to go, how to get there, how much it’ll cost and where to stay. As is often the case with travel planning, these issues are maddeningly interrelated.

So here’s the scoop: We pulled the plug on visiting Turkey and the Greek Islands and will drive a big loop around Switzerland instead.

The new plan began to take shape as we puzzled over the Greek Islands. We were having a terrible time figuring out which island(s) to go to and how to get there — and then how we’d get to and from Turkey — without spending too much time on a boat or incurring too much extra cost by flying. And Turkey wasn’t falling into place, either. We wanted to go to both Ephesus and Istanbul, but to get from one to the other involved an extra flight or long drive that we didn’t want to pay for or do. We felt we were belatedly and awkwardly grafting an expanded Turkey itinerary onto our ill-conceived Greek plans.

I listened to an inner voice say, “Admit it, you’re trying to jam a square peg in a round hole … you’re not excited about going to someplace everyone says you should feel excited about … this has started to feel like more trouble than it’s worth.” Morgan admitted he was having the same thoughts. He also kept saying, “I want to go up to see the Matterhorn and be in the Alps … we’re going to be right there at the edge in Italy, and we’re happiest when we’re in mountains and around lakes …”

We therefore dove into a new round of research as though cramming for a geography exam. The more we did, the more excited we got about heading to Switzerland after Italy. We eventually settled on a route from Lugano to Zermatt, then Lausanne, followed by a small village near Interlaken and Lucern.

The crazy thing is we’ll still spend a couple of days in the one Greek place we’ve heard repeatedly is a dirty and crowded disappointment: Athens. And it may be that we find widespread strikes and depression once we get there as the country reckons with its austerity plan. But our tickets are set to fly out of there, and we didn’t want to cut it out because the kids — who turned into fans of Greek mythology, fueled in part by the popular Percy Jackson book series — genuinely want to see the Acropolis, and I want to help make Colly’s Ancient History textbook come to life.

Then we’ll spend our final week in a place we love: England (likely in the southeast coastal area, but those details are still TBD). We also resolved to go to Turkey when we can “do it right”; that is, when we can make it a dedicated trip, not hemmed in by our existing itinerary and the restrictions on our One World airline tickets.

Somewhere in here, perhaps, is a lesson about being flexible and open to change. Either that, or about the importance of researching and planning travel details earlier!

This also serves as a roundabout excuse for why I haven’t blogged as frequently or as well as I’d like about our recent destinations. We’re headed to Hong Kong today, where I resolve to write about our highlights from our final week in New South Wales and Canberra.

Related posts:

1. Halfway There Together: Surprises and Changes So Far
2. How To Plan A Year-Long Family Travel Itinerary
3. When It Rains…

We’ve seen way too many pirate-themed mini golf courses around the southeast coast of Australia.

“Oh no,” Morgan said in a voice suppressing deep, demented giggles. We had just checked into a “deluxe cabin” at the Anchor Belle Caravan Park on Phillip Island and were thumbing through visitors’ brochures. “It says here that Phillip Island has so much to offer, it’s worth a whole day!” He unleashed his manic laughter. “Good thing we’re spending FIVE days here!”

We’re getting punchy on this swing through Australia. Perhaps we’ve spent too much time at mini golf courses and RV parks. Perhaps we’ve had too many budget meals at surf shacks with names like Doctor Food (where Morgan ate a half-cooked burger, dramatically clutched his stomach and said, “Call the doctor — I just ate at Doctor Food!”). Perhaps it’s because all the gum trees and little coastal towns inhabited by white retirees look so similar that we feel we’re driving in circles rather than northward.

The other day we were driving from a town called Lakes Entrance to our current spot, Batemans Bay, in torrential rain. A gummy gray gum tree forest dominated the so-called scenic coastal route. We pulled over to a picnic spot in the squall, where one sad, wet table stood surrounded by endless eucalyptus, and I announced, “Lunchtime!” Then I pulled out our picnic of P&Js and hard-boiled eggs. We all knew without saying that it was too wet to get outside, so we unwrapped our sandwiches and carefully peeled our eggs in baggies while sitting strapped in the car seats.

The four of us sat quietly chewing until Morgan, in the driver’s seat, choked down a bite and broke the silence to declare, “Well, this is fun.” My shoulders started to shake as I looked over and saw that he was overcome by another fit of laughter as well. The kids, observing from the backseat, concluded that their parents were lost in more ways than one.

But back to Phillip Island — in my last post I went into great detail (more than anyone probably cared to know) about why we thought the Phillip Island Penguin Parade bordered on the absurd. I feel compelled to balance that cranky essay with descriptions of a couple of places that were worth the high price of admission.

Kyle (seen here with a ranger) got to milk a cow and learned about 19th-century farm life at Churchill Island.

We thought a visit to Churchill Island would be a bit of a snooze, but it turned out to be more fun and interesting than most of the museums and interactive centers we’ve visited in Australia. This tiny island, sitting across a bridge from Phillip Island, is preserved as a “heritage farm,” which means it’s a working farm and history center operating much as it did in its late 19th/early 20th century heyday. The displays in the restored cottages and barns are really well done — everything from baking to blacksmithing — and who knew we’d get to milk a cow?

We also wrongly assumed that the Phillip Island Wildlife Park would be a rinky-dink petting zoo, based on the appearance of its entranceway. But it, too, was fun and educational — and a bit hairy at times. Try standing in an open pasture filled with kangaroos and emus. You want to give a handful of food to the wizened old roos because they’re so humble and patient, but every time you reach for your pocket, an evil-eyed emu who meets you at eye level zooms up and invades your personal space. You take the handful of food and fling it away so the emu will back off, and the diversion works for ten seconds so you can slip the roo some food, but then the emu is back in your face demanding more and making you back away.

Every time we tried to feed the kangaroos, the emus moved in to get a bite.

Emus like to get waaaaaaayyyyy too close!

We saw a fantastic array of animals, birds and reptiles there, including Australia’s other large, flightless bird, the cassowary, which Colly accurately said looks like “a dinosaur turkey.”

One of the "dinosaur turkeys" (a cassowary).

And of course there were hordes of the roos’ relatives — the sweet wallabys and the smaller pademelons.

These wallabys were so sweet, they reminded us a little of our dog back home.

If you crossed a kangaroo with a rat, you'd probably get one of these: a pademelon.

We liked the Wildlife Park more than the soporific Koala Conservation Centre located nearby. After strolling around the koala center, straining to spot the bears that blend into the trees, we all felt a bit stupefied and left yawning.

A "two-fur"! This is the most alert koala we saw at the Koala Conservation Centre; most were dozing like the one underneath the one that's climbing.

After wandering through the Koala Conservation Centre, the kids were ready to take a nap.

And finally, I’d recommend the place we stayed, the Anchor Belle Holiday Park — it’s nicer than some of the RV campgrounds (what Kiwis call “holiday parks” and Aussies call “caravan parks”) that we’ve stayed in. All of these parks rent cabins as well as RV hookups, and they’re a good deal for the money — we get a stand-alone unit with two bedrooms and a kitchen on or near the beach for about US$135/night, less than most motel rooms around here, and generally they cater to families with kids so it’s safe for Colly and Kyle to run around. The Anchor Belle, near Cowes, had an indoor pool, gas stove, real synthetic wood floors and carpeting, and relatively new linens. (One learns not to take these things for granted.)

Our cabin at the campervan park near Cowes on Phillip Island.

These Down Under digs have turned Morgan and me into quasi experts on the plastic-walled construction and fixtures featured in mobile estates. Did you know that only the best come with a built-in clock radio in the master suite? These radios are all identical and all have knobs and buttons that were state-of-the-art when I was in preschool. It’s as though they were mass-produced for storm shelters, held in a warehouse for twenty-five years, and then sold at a discount to Jayco, the leading manufacturer of recreational vehicles and deluxe cabins across this continent. Morgan and I spent the better part of one evening imaging the sales pitches used to offload these units and their radios: “Buy this home now for no money down, and we’ll even include a custom clock radio!”

Morgan expresses amazement at the custom clock radios in the finer master bedrooms of campervan cabins throughout Australia.

Clearly we’ve been deprived of regular conversation with other adults for too long. We’re in our last week here and then it’s off to Hong Kong, where I’m sure we’ll feel completely at home and normal again.

Related posts:

1. The Phillip Island Penguin Charade
2. The Wild, Wild West Coast
3. Finding the Best and Worst in Daylesford

A couple of penguins on parade at Phillip Island (photo courtesy of wikimedia).

I told my family we should drive to the bottom of Australia and spend several days on Phillip Island mainly because of its star attraction: the Penguin Parade. I had this idea that we would stroll along a beach at sunset and watch waves of hundreds of penguins waddle up to burrow with their babies in the sand in quite possibly the most adorable display of loyalty and domesticity.

Predictably, Colly and Kyle said, “That’s sooooooooo cute!”

So we drove 90 minutes south of Melbourne, crossed a causeway and discovered an island about 16 miles long and 6 miles wide. It’s covered with grassy pastures, gum tree stands, a lot of roads used for racing, and a couple of villages with shops and restaurants overlooking the beach. The island has been a tourist getaway for over a century, and for at least half that time it’s been famous for grand prix car and motorcycle races. (Since we arrived only days before the Superbike World Championship, we saw and heard many men wearing padded leather pants who gunned their bullet bikes after every intersection.)

We got our first lesson on the penguins as soon as we checked into a cabin near the town of Cowes. The manager asked if we wanted to buy the 3-Park Pass at a discount. The what? The pass that gets you into the Penguin Parade, Koala Conservation Centre and Churchill Island. I had never heard of Churchill Island and wanted to say, “But I just got to this island; why would I want a ticket to another one?” Instead, Morgan and I quickly researched the price of the Penguin Parade as the reality sunk in we were foolish to think a well-publicized encounter with nature would be free.

We could get tickets to a Penguin Plus Viewing Platform, which includes access to “a high penguin traffic area” plus a drink voucher; a Penguin Sky Box so we could be in an elevated tower and avoid the sand altogether; or an Ultimate Penguin Tour so we could go farther down the beach and talk to a ranger. In the end, we chose the 3-Park Pass Family Discount ($105.75), which included the Penguin Basic Package: access to a concrete amphitheater on the beach from which we could watch the penguins — but no walking around or picture taking allowed.

On the night we decided to view the Penguin Parade, we rushed dinner and headed to the beach because the instructions said we needed to arrive an hour before the penguins’ arrival — which is at sunset, right? — and we wanted to secure a prime viewing spot. We followed the “This Way to the World-Famous Penguin Parade” signs posted at virtually every intersection and arrived at a sprawling visitors’ complex with tour buses parked outside.

The first penguins we saw at the Phillip Island Penguin Parade.

The visitors’ center was a holding cell devoted more to hawking merchandise and fast food than to environmental education about the penguins. I wasn’t surprised to see T-shirts and stuffed penguins for sale — but why were so many people lined up to get their picture taken in front of a green screen? It turned out to be a photo opportunity to get their face superimposed on a picture of the penguins.

Finally, a ranger unlocked a giant doorway to the tiered concrete seats facing the beach. At this point it was around 7:35 p.m. and we heard the ranger tell another family that the first penguins should show “in about an hour,” after darkness had fallen.

What happened over the next hour and a half could have been filmed as a remake of Waiting for Godot. Everyone watched the sunset with impatience more than appreciation and talked about the penguins as if we knew and cared about them even though we had never seen them. Everyone watched a flock of seagulls playfully chase the waves but didn’t care because we had come to watch the penguins chase the waves. Everyone stared at the sand and water as though in a museum and obeyed the “you can look but don’t touch” rule.

An iPhone snapshot of the crowd waiting for the penguins, about an hour before they showed up.

I felt a grudging admiration for the marketing genius who had figured out a way to make hundreds of people show up every night and pay to enter a visitors’ center, where they spend more money, and then to sit on a cordoned-off stretch of beach when miles of coastline are free and open on either side — all to observe the behavior of flightless birds that are admittedly remarkable, but really, what makes the penguins more remarkable and more adorable than the other spectacular species of waterfowl and marine mammals we’ve seen along the coast? If the penguins lost their status as a five-star tourist attraction and we couldn’t buy a ticket to see them or the souvenirs to remember them, how many of us would care to make this pilgrimage?

Accepting the absurdity of the situation and my role in it helped me warm up to it, even though I was shivering from the cold. Colly and Kyle were freezing, so they let me cradle them in my arms and rub their legs. “I’m miserable!!!” Colly moaned, but she was half-laughing as she said it.

Cradling Colly on the beach while waiting for the parade to start.

When the beach grew dark at around 8:30, giant floodlights came on to spotlight the sand and waves. Still no penguins.  Then, around 8:50, a gasp went up and fingers pointed toward the water — there was one! A barely discernible penguin washed ashore, stood and looked straight at the audience, then flipped around and disappeared into the waves. Hmm, I thought, would you call that flipping the bird?

More minutes passed. Then a second penguin came on shore, took a few tentative steps and also ran back into the water.

I optimistically told the kids that the penguins would come the way popcorn pops — a few at first, then all at once. But it never happened like that. Instead, they came in a trickle: a group of five or ten would gather together, get the gumption to get out of the water, and then walk across the sand to the bushy area where they burrow.

Morgan and I simultaneously decided it was time to go. We told the kids in our most upbeat voice, “Okay! There they are! Show’s over!” Colly and Kyle, sleepy and cold, were eager to leave. We spotted several penguins near the path on the walk back to the visitors’ center, which gave us the best view of their behavior and was a treat to see, but I kept hearing a little voice in my head that said, Seen one penguin, seen ’em all.

But that wasn’t the end of it. The kicker is that a day or two later, we had a much better penguin encounter at another Phillip Island attraction called The Nobbies, which is a point of coastline where waves crash against rocks.

The Nobbies off Phillip Island

The Nobbies area is pretty, to be sure, but there’s nothing particularly unusual about it. It pales in comparison to any slice of New Zealand’s West Coast. You might conclude from the soaring Nobbies visitors’ center perched at the trailhead, however, that we were about to encounter something as spellbinding as Ayers Rock.

I surveyed the tour buses, the stuffed animals and ice creams for sale, and the inevitable pressed-penny machine and asked Morgan, “What’s with the need to commercialize nature and put a giant visitors’ center at the entrance to anything remotely scenic?”

“Well you know,” he said, “it must not be worth visiting if there’s not a visitors’ center.”

We took a short hike to admire the coastline and began to notice some telltale burrows of little penguins.  I began feeling less jaded and more genuinely impressed when I realized that many of the penguins choose to come ashore not on the beach where the audience waits with bated breath, but all the way up on these remote rocky cliffs.

I felt a new respect for the little boogers — they can’t fly, but they sure can hike! What’s more, they discovered an ideal place to shelter, as if to play a joke on us tourists: under the walkway, out of sight.

We got on our bellies to peer under and found a family of penguins huddled peacefully together, all snuggly and fluffy from molting. I admit, they were darn cute, and I felt a little guilty for invading their space. We let them be and thoroughly enjoyed watching the sunset.

We got on our bellies and found a cache of penguins in this unexpected place.

There’s more to tell from Phillip Island, and I promise the next post will describe some of what’s sweet there as well as what’s sour.

One of the penguins that skipped the parade and went to The Nobbies instead.

Related posts:

1. Cracking Up On the Coast from Victoria to NSW
2. Finding the Best and Worst in Daylesford
3. Sydney Wet and Wild

Now Daylesford is making a concerted effort to broaden its economic base by marketing itself as “an outdoor adventure destination” for mountain bikers, campers and trekkers — which is what lured our family to spend four nights there.  We took part in a trail run/mountain bike/triathlon “dirt fest” in Wombat State Forest, on the edge of town, and you can read the details and see pics from it on my running blog.

It’s remarkable that Daylesford is still standing, given the deadly bushfires that swept the state of Victoria in February 2009. The fire came dangerously close to town and burned the forest where the dirt fest was held. Morgan and I expected to find a wasteland of blackened tree stumps and ash, but it was amazing — and beautiful — to see how much the forest had regenerated in just a year. The burned bark of the eucalyptus trees is peeling off like a layer of skin, revealing strips of new, light-colored bark sprouting little branches with tufts of leaves.

We had a couple of great meals in Daylesford at La Finca tapas bar and Frangos & Frangos wood-fired pizza café, both on Vincent Street, but we spent almost all our time at the Jubilee Lake Holiday Park (where the dirt fest was held) and consequently don’t have photos to show from town — except for a couple below, which show the worst, not the best, that Daylesford has to offer.

Aussies must love mini golf because every town we visit has a course, but Daylesford’s tourist guide boasts “the only Australian-themed mini golf course” with each hole designed around an Australian icon (e.g. the outback, the Opera House, sharks, the Great Barrier Reef). We decided to treat the kids to a round, thinking it would be a silly and fun way to get an overview of the country. What a mistake! We found ourselves in the most decrepit and depressing excuse for a tourist attraction we have encountered yet. We were the only ones there, and the place felt haunted by a Waltzing Matilda soundtrack and the numerous faded dime-store mannequins propped up to illustrate the Down Under displays. Worst of all, the warped mini golf tracks had us hopelessly frustrated by the third hole.

Bottom line: Daylesford is delightful — just skip the mini golf!

Morgan on the fourth mini-golf hole: "Get me out of here!"

The Australian-themed mini golf even featured a family flying on Qantas. We fit right in!

Related posts:

1. The Phillip Island Penguin Charade
2. Cracking Up On the Coast from Victoria to NSW
3. Playing Around Rotorua

The cliff faces and canyons give the Blue Mountains their beauty.

We met a family from Sydney who lowered our expectations of the Blue Mountains National Park when they heard we were spending several days there. I can’t recall their exact words, but they sounded apologetic — something along the lines of, “Don’t be surprised to find they’re not really mountains” and, “at least the cliff faces are rather nice.” They also expressed surprise that we wanted to spend more than a day or two there.

Then Morgan and I began to notice that whenever we saw brochures promoting the Blue Mountains, they featured the same photo of the famous Three Sisters rock formation, as if that’s the only thing in the whole national park worth seeing.

Uh-oh, we thought — why did we plan to spend a whole five nights at an eco lodge there? Then we experienced the upside of lowered expectations: We were pleasantly surprised.

True, Australia’s signature “mountains” look pretty humble in comparison to any foothill in the Rockies, the Andes or New Zealand’s Southern Alps. But that’s because they’re not really mountains; they’re uplifted plateaus with rivers crisscrossing vast forested canyons below. They’re located about an hour away from Sydney and take their name from the bluish-gray haze that hangs in the valley from light reflecting off particles in the air. Seemingly endless escarpments and crevices reveal waterfalls and sandstone sculptures. The tabletop mountains reminded me of Mesa Verde National Park in Colorado, while some of the rock formations evoke Sedona.

I wouldn’t necessarily recommend five days in the region unless you want to do what we did: unplug in a remote spot to spend quiet days running, hiking and homeschooling in between exploring the region’s highlights. But the Blue Mountains are definitely worth more than a day.

Here are some of Morgan’s photos showing reasons to venture beyond the Three Sisters Rock overlook at Echo Point (where all the tour buses stop).

Scenic World:

This is one tourist trap worth the price of admission. Scenic World in Katoomba takes visitors across the Jamison Valley and down below. Even though I’m normally nervous about heights, I loved the views that this glass box revealed as it floated across from one cliff to another:

The Scenic Skyway in Katoomba is a tourist trap but worth the ride.

Kyle and Colly loved the Skyway's illusion of floating through the air and seeing the views below ...

... such as this view from the Skyway of Katoomba Falls.

It’s worth going down as well as across the canyon to explore the walkway through the forest below. Take the cable car down:

Scenic World's super-steep cable car ride down to the valley feels like a slo-mo coaster going down. Colly and Kyle loved grabbing the front seat!

Then explore the walkway through the forest to learn about the valley’s physical features and history of coal mining:

We all loved the dense, tangled forest around the walkway.

Wentworth Falls:

Even prettier than Katoomba Falls, Wentworth Falls (located next to the town of the same name) reveals itself best from a short hike from the town’s main trail head.

Wentworth Falls is a splayed-out, multi-level cascade that's among the prettiest falls we've ever seen.

We discovered this curtain of water near Wentworth Falls.

Evan’s Lookout to Govett’s Leap Lookout:

Our lodge in the town of Blackheath was right next to Evan’s Lookout, a point I found more visually alluring than the heavily visited Echo Point in Katoomba. The cliff track from there to Govett’s Leap is only a few kilometers long but challenging due to its series of stairs. Morgan and I had a great run/hike along here and discovered more waterfalls along the way:

A scene from the clifftop trail connecting Evan's Lookout to Govett's Leap.

Katoomba, Blackheath and Leura:

Unfortunately we didn’t take photos to show them off, but take my word for it: the towns of Blackheath, Katoomba and Leura are hip hideaways with great cafes and cool shops tucked into 90-year-old buildings decked out in art deco details. Katoomba is the main destination for day-trippers, but if I had to choose one for dining and shopping, I’d pick Leura.

Wild parrots in a rainbow of colors call the Blue Mountains home. This is one of many that visited our front porch in Blackheath.

Related posts:

1. How To Plan A Year-Long Family Travel Itinerary
2. Sydney Wet and Wild
3. Halfway There Together: Surprises and Changes So Far

The lookout next to our lodge in the Blue Mountains (click to enlarge).

The alternative title for this post could be, “How We Ended Up Off A Beaten Path Near The Blue Mountains.”

Our home for the week is at the end of a road in a thick, misty gum tree forest where wild parrots fly overhead and the cliffs of the Blue Mountains plunge into a forested canyon. In the mornings, the parrots flock for a feast of birdseed offered up by Colly and Kyle’s outstretched hands.

"A bird in the hand is worth a loo in the bush" -- the parrots make up for some of the inconvenient aspects of this eco lodge.

We’re exploring nearby trails, enjoying the offbeat towns of Blackheath and Katoomba, and unplugging at a cabin at the Jemby-Rinjah Eco Lodge, which is deep in the woods with no traffic noise, no Internet access and very few other guests. I love the simple, natural way of life — but I admit I was shocked to discover that the cabin’s toilet lacks what we all take for granted: running water and a flusher. It’s just a seat above a pit, a.k.a. “a roto loo composting system.”  At least I have good reason now to argue that the others should put the lid down when they’re done!

Whenever we find ourselves in a weird and wild place like this, I think to myself, We’re a long way from Piedmont — how did we get here? The simple answer is that we reserved this cabin about two months ago. We figured we wanted a rustic setting after two weeks in Sydney, but didn’t want to drive too far or spend money on a flight to elsewhere in Australia. The Blue Mountains National Park seemed like a no-brainer. Our research turned up a New York Times article recommending this affordable eco-lodge, and that was enough to convince us to book it.

As the above example suggests, planning an itinerary is a very unscientific and subjective process that involves looking inward at values and priorities as well as looking outward at the world of possibilities. It’s always a balancing act between dreams and reality — that is, limitless interests versus limited time and resources. Sometimes it’s fascinating, but just as often it’s frustrating.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the process not only because we’re in the throes of researching the final leg of our trip, but also because we spent a lovely half-day with a family in Sydney who invited us over to get advice on how they should plan their year-long trip around the world. Our conversation brought back so many memories of how bewildered we felt one year ago when we stared at the map on the One World airline website and tried to figure out which continents — let alone which countries and cities — we should visit, and how to make the route work out.

We’re less methodical and less organized than some traveling families we know who plan and budget every detail far in advance of departure. If Morgan and I were traveling without kids, we’d probably plan even less and be more like the backpackers we were on our college trip overseas. But the reality is that traveling with two kids means we can’t just “wing it”; we have to book places in advance so we’re assured we have a relatively affordable and pleasant place to sleep and to minimize the stress of getting from one point to another. Long-term family travel differs significantly from single or couple’s travel in part because we need apartment-style lodging that can sleep all four of us and has a kitchen for cooking meals, which usually takes more work to find than a standard hotel room.

Our cabin here has the kind of cozy kitchen we seek when researching rentals.

The problem with travel planning is it can turn into a giant time suck. We could easily spend eight hours a day on the Internet reading about destinations, debating one over the other, comparing lodging options, and then trading emails with apartment managers and arranging overseas wire transfers to those who won’t take credit cards. We have spent days like that, and it’s no fun. Rather than searching for “the best” deal in “the best” place, we found it’s better to research just enough to feel that a choice seems pretty darn good, and then go for it.

Over the past year, we’ve developed these guiding principles to plan our itinerary, and I hope they might help other families contemplating a far-flung, months-long journey:

Less is more. The biggest mistake any family can make in planning an itinerary is trying to go to too many places and do too much. Packing, checking out of a place, driving or flying, and then checking in and settling into somewhere new is stressful on the kids and kills the better part of a day. We’ve discovered we’re happiest when we go for depth over breadth; this is, we move around less and settle into a community for a couple of weeks. During two months in New Zealand, we experienced both road-tripping — sleeping in a new town almost every night — and two-week stays at a couple of main destinations (Nelson and Queenstown). It was exciting to see so much, but overall we had a more satisfying time at the two-week spots, where we could really get to know the community and establish normal family routines such as planning meals and doing schoolwork.

A year ago, we considered choosing one major destination per month and renting an apartment there for four weeks. That would have been a cheaper way to go — the more you move around, the more money you’re likely to spend on lodging and everything else — but in hindsight I’m glad we didn’t do that; we probably would start to feel restless after a couple of weeks, and we don’t want to sacrifice too many opportunities to explore different places. For whatever reason, one to two weeks feels like the optimal amount of time to spend in any one location.

Accept the fact you can’t see every “must-see.” While we were in Argentina, we agonized over whether we should buy plane tickets and take a few days to see Iguazu Falls. Now we’re in Australia, and people are telling us we’re crazy to miss the Great Barrier Reef. I feel certain, however, that we’ve done the right thing by skipping both those destinations because of the time, money and effort it would take to get there. We’ve got enough “must-sees” on our calendar. Plus, some of the most interesting travel times happen outside of typical tourist destinations, in ordinary towns where real people really live.

Book far in advance for holiday seasons, but otherwise it’s okay to fill in the details as you go. There is no way we could have planned everything before we left home — it would have taken too much time, and we were preoccupied with packing and moving out. All we did was determine the outline of the itinerary so we could purchase the One World tickets (and even then we changed dates and destinations along the way), and we found apartments in our first two major destinations. We also found a special place to stay during the week of Christmas. Otherwise, we’ve been ironing out the details and booking lodging approximately two months in advance of where we’ll be. It has worked out well, although we learned the hard way that we should have booked earlier for the holiday season Down Under (mid-December through January) because some places we wanted to stay were already full. Similarly, if we were going to be in Europe over summer, we would have to book much farther in advance.

One advantage to staggering the process and letting the itinerary evolve more organically (for lack of a better word) is we’re more open to change. For example, we initially planned to go to Athens and a still-to-be-determined Greek Island, with a side trip to Ephesus, Turkey, to see the Roman ruins there. Then, about three months ago, we started hearing a steady drumbeat of Istanbul, Istanbul, Istanbul. An article here, a friend’s recommendation there — it was strange how we seemed to be receiving signals to go there. We resisted because getting there seems expensive, complicated and culturally too confusing. But then a couple of others whose opinions I respect mentioned something out of the blue about how they loved Istanbul. Meanwhile, the more we heard about Athens, the less alluring it seemed. The upshot is we’re going to change things around to go to Istanbul and spend more time in Turkey, less in mainland Greece.

Our front porch this week leads to a dense gum tree forest. Our kids are always happier in settings like this (and by extension, so are we), where they can wander outside and play, than in big cities.

Limit time in big cities, or at least balance it with time in the countryside. If we go to Istanbul, it’ll be for a week at most. We’ve found that big cities have two main drawbacks: they’re expensive, and they’re stressful on the kids. Colly and Kyle enjoy the city sites for a few days, but then the noise, the crowds, and the inability to go outside the front door and play freely starts to wear on them.

Plan around a hobby. For some, this might be art history or regional cuisine or mountain climbing. For Morgan and me, it’s trail running. We picked destinations with scenic trails and are taking detours to trail running events, which is why a campground in Daylesford, outside of Melbourne, is on our itinerary next weekend — it’s the site of a “dirt fest” with trail running, mountain biking and events for kids. I’m sure there are at least a hundred other destinations in Southern Australia that are more attractive and culturally significant than Daylesford, but we figure we’ll have fun connecting with other families and doing something we enjoy there. We never would have discovered the West Coast of New Zealand if not for the trail running event that prompted us to go there.

Morgan during a run/hike on a cliffside trail in the Blue Mountain range.

Don’t be shy — hook up with locals even if you barely know them. Tap into networks such as alumni groups, Facebook and friends-of-friends in order to meet people in your destinations, especially if those locals have kids that your kids can play with. In New Zealand, we met up with a friend-of-a-friend via Facebook and ended up having a magical day touring an area that only a local would know, and through this person we met a wonderful family who gave us the use of their house. Then we connected with really old friends who have kids our kids’ ages and spent a blissful two weeks in their home. I look forward to returning the favor to the family from Sydney when they swing through Northern California. Meeting new people and forming relationships is part of the joy of traveling — of life, really.

Use tried-and-true websites. We cast a wide net on the web when we research but return repeatedly to these sites: Trip Advisor, Lonely Planet and The NY Times Travel section. Morgan also is a master at using Google Earth and Google Maps to “see” a place in advance. We’ve actually decided against certain apartments because the street view on Google reveals they’re in a place that looks particularly shabby or inconvenient. We also rely on other traveling families’ blogs for recommendations (such as those listed on the right hand column of our blog). We don’t carry many guidebooks because we don’t want the weight; we read a few select books mainly to get an overview on a country or region, rather than specific recommendations.

Remember, “Wherever you go, there you are.” I start feeling flutters of anxiety about the big gaps in our itinerary that we still need to fill for April and May, but then the Jon Kabat-Zinn title Wherever You Go, There You Are pops in my head and helps me relax, having faith that we can make the best of wherever we end up if we have the right attitude. Whether we have a positive experience traveling depends less on the destinations themselves and more on what we do as a family — how we interact with each other, and with other people and the surroundings — wherever we go.

You can stand at the edge of the Grand Canyon and have a pretty lousy time if you’re annoyed by other tourists, pissed off at your spouse and frustrated that your kids don’t feel like hiking. Or, you can find yourself in a remote corner of Patagonia, smelling of carsickness after a difficult drive, and laugh uncontrollably upon discovering that your lodge lacks a view but has a bizarre collection of gnome figurines. As Morgan put it, “You can end up in some pretty weird places, but they can be a lot of fun.”

This is the iconic Blue Mountains shot: the legendary Three Sisters rock, which all the tour buses stop by to see. It's pretty, but ...

... we had a better time discovering this out-of-the-way waterfall on the other side of the canyon than staring at the Three Sisters.

Related posts:

1. Byways by the Blue Mountains
2. Halfway There Together: Surprises and Changes So Far
3. Changes Ahead

Kyle and Colly steppin' out to see Sydney's production of the musical Wicked.

When we got to Sydney, our friend Cheryl said she had heard that “Australia is the LA and New Zealand is the SF,” and she wanted to know if it’s true. My answer, based on seeing only Sydney so far, is yes — to a point. Sydney, with its string of famous beaches, has a surf culture that mirrors Santa Monica and a sense of style that channels Hollywood. Whereas Kiwi fashion looks earthy and understated, lots of people here dress as though they’re going clubbing — circa 1985. Morgan, who arrived here before me, emailed me on his first day in Sydney: “Make sure to bring high heels, tube tops and tight clothes since it seems to be what lots of other women are wearing. Sort of reminds me of the Aussie girlfriend in Spinal Tap.”

But the LA-SF analogy falls apart when I realize that many of Sydney’s loveliest parts evoke San Francisco. In Sydney’s central business and shopping district, grandly refurbished and ornately detailed Victorian and Edwardian buildings stand next to sleek modern high-rises. Along the bustling waterfront, shops, exhibits, restaurants and, of course, boats are everywhere, as though San Francisco’s stretched-out Embarcadero had been compressed into a few distinct harbor areas.

Sydney also feels like San Francisco because of its large Asian population. But the demographic diversity doesn’t stretch much beyond Chinese, Japanese, Southeast Asian and Indian. We can buy egg rolls, sushi and curry on every block, but burrito places are few and far between. I can count on one hand the number of black people I’ve seen so far, and the only Latin American I’ve noticed is the wizened old street musician with the rainbow serape who seems to play the pan flute in every major city we visit. And the only Aboriginal I’ve seen yet is on a postcard.

As for the weather, it doesn’t match either city. You could call it “hog” — humid fog. It’s been overcast and rainy most of the time, but sticky hot, and then the sun broke out and it was scorching!

In spite of less-than-perfect weather and a high price tag on everything, we have grown very fond of this city. It’s urban yet easy to get around, flashy yet laid back. Of all the big cities we’ve visited, this is one of the most kid friendly. We’re staying in a high-rise apartment building in the central business district, next to Darling Harbour, where there’s a sprawling playground and easy ferry access. Catching ferries the way you catch cabs or subways in other cities is one of Sydney’s charms.

Here are highlights and recommendations for anyone visiting Sydney:

Two of the many creatures at the Taronga Zoo with a great view of the Sydney skyline.

Wildlife (and I don’t mean the kind of wildlife with open containers in our elevator every night):

• Go to the Royal Botanic Gardens next to the Opera House, look up at the trees and be prepared to gasp at the site of thousands of fruit bats the size of small dogs hanging upside down and flying around. They’re also known as “flying foxes,” and they took up residence in the gardens when much of their forest habitat was lost to farming. At dusk the city sky is full of them flying by, along with native white cockatoos. I have never seen anything like it — so many really big bats spreading their wings and flexing the bones in them like fingers — and they’re strangely beautiful and downright cute. (Having read the children’s picture book Stellaluna innumerable times undoubtedly colors my view.)
  

  They're not coconuts, they're "flying foxes"!

  

  Some of the fruit bats spreading their wings above the Royal Botanic Gardens.

• The sprawling Taronga Zoo is on par with the San Diego Zoo — one of the best we’ve ever seen — and its 2,660 animals look extremely well cared for. Kyle can’t stop talking about the Komodo dragon.
  

  Kyle's favorite creature at the zoo, the Komodo, was about the same size as he is.

Beaches:

• Bondi: We walked to Sydney’s most famous beach from the neighborhood of Coogee, about three miles south of Bondi. The coast walk was hard on the kids because of the heat and hills, but Morgan and I loved seeing the waves crashing against the cliffs.
  

  The surf on along the walk from Coogee to Bondi.

  Bondi beach lived up to its reputation as a grown-up playground crowded with beautiful bodies sunbathing, surfing and partying. The kids reveled in the rough surf, and we watched them like their lives depended on it (which they actually did, given the notoriously dangerous currents here, not to mention the underwater things that can sting and bite — though this generally is a “safe” swimming beach).

  

  Colly with Bondi's waves behind her.

• Manly: One of the area’s prettiest suburbs, Manly, is 30 minutes north by ferry from central Sydney, and the beach is spectacular, with water as clear and blue as Hawaii. The currents here are crazy, creating multiple sets of waves in multiple directions. We saw something we’d never seen before: waves that run sideways like a zipper opening, parallel to the shore, and often there’s another sideways wave going the opposite direction on the same line, and they meet and crash midway. It’s the wave pattern you’d see if two people held two ends of a rope and jerked the ends at the same time. The kids thought this surf was even better than Bondi. We felt some relief that lifeguards were patrolling the waters, and they were strict about keeping swimmers between two flags marking a relatively small area. They had a warning sign for “blue bottle” jellyfish, aka a Portuguese Man of War, and both kids got stung at the end of the day. “It felt like a thousand bee stings at first,” said Colly. “It felt like a stinging whip had curled around my leg,” said Kyle. The medicine — ointment and ice cream — worked wonders.
  

  Surf's up on Manly Beach. From this East Coast, it was hard to imagine the blizzard hitting America's East Coast.

Shopping:

• The QVB: We hate to shop but it proved to be a worthwhile activity on a rainy day when we discovered the Queen Victoria Building. The building itself — not the shops — is what got me excited. It’s a gorgeous pavilion covering a city block at the corner of George and Market streets.
  

  The Queen Victoria Building. (Photo from wikimedia; we would have taken our own, but it was pouring rain!)

  It was built in 1898 in a grand Romanesque Revival style with lots of arches, columns and a giant dome. Inside, two massive mechanical clocks hang from ceiling, in the middle of the open area between the shops, displaying ornate dioramas and figurines that depict moments in Australian history. The kids thought it was “really cool.” The shops are all high-end designer boutiques, so we didn’t buy anything, until we got to the third floor and discovered Hobby Co., one of the best toy shops ever, and Kyle picked out some Legos.

• Kent Street: Sydney’s shopping district is so packed with malls that I assumed it would be easy to find travel- and outdoors-oriented stores with the type of clothing and gear we needed. Not so. After walking in circles (or squares, I guess, is more accurate), block after block, we finally found all the stores that sell outdoor gear and travel clothing clustered together around the 400 block of Kent Street — stores like Trek & Travel and Kathmandu (a brand that’s sort of the Down Under equivalent of REI). I don’t know why they’re all hidden in this corner. There — I’ve done my duty to spread the word to other travelers!

Eating:

• We didn’t eat out much because of the prices and forgettable fare near the waterfront (where the food offerings are a little too much like Fisherman’s Warf). But we had one worthwhile meal with a panoramic view of the Opera House and Harbour Bridge at Cafe Sydney, which is in the rooftop room of the landmark Customs House building in Circular Quay. The Customs House is a neat place to visit because the first floor has a full city model under glass built into the floor, so you actually walk on top of it and peer down at the miniature city. It also features displays about the not-so-proud history of immigration to Australia, where they fess up to the country’s not-so-distant history of racism and exclusion. The restaurant’s food and service were good but not great (I can’t even recall what I ordered), but the view and ambiance made it worth it.
• We found the best Latin American food we’ve tasted since leaving California and Argentina at Cantina Bar & Grill, tucked into a storefront on Oxford Street, which is Sydney’s Castro and has lots of bars and dance clubs with names like The Toolshed. The tapas, grilled meats, Spanish tortilla and churros were among the best I’ve ever tasted and reasonably priced.

Running:

• The most obvious and scenic place to run is on the quilt of green that covers Hyde Park, The Domain and the Royal Botanic Gardens, skirting the Opera House. But I actually prefer Centennial Park. There’s a two-mile equestrian track where riders exercise their horses and practice dressage routines in the grassy middle area, which of course I loved watching while running the perimeter of the track.
  

  The Harbour Bridge and Opera House as seen from the Royal Botanic Gardens.

Museum for Kids Who Are Sick of Museums:

• The Powerhouse Museum of Science and Design, Sydney’s largest museum, is housed in an old powerhouse and is full of interactive displays on engineering, design, technology and pop culture. It seemed fitting, given the fashion we’d seen on the street, that they had a special exhibit called “The 80s Are Back” that spotlights all the styles and trends of my teenage years. I liked the fact that the kids left the museum eager to sketch and develop engineering plans for new products they had cooked up in their minds.

Now we’re heading to a rustic lodge in the Blue Mountains, so we’ll say goodbye to city life at week’s end. It doesn’t really feel like urban living, though, because people walk around with beach towels over their shoulders and sand clinging to their calves, and amazing animals and plants thrive in various corners of the city. It’s been great to soak up these sights along with the rain.

Morgan tried to find shelter in this fern during a downpour.

We saw spiders like this all over the Botanic Gardens and on a trail near Manly.

The bats and bugs in Sydney's Royal Botanic Garden left us open-mouthed.

Phew -- the rain stopped and nothing bit me!

Related posts:

1. Halfway There Together: Surprises and Changes So Far
2. The Wild, Wild West Coast
3. How To Plan A Year-Long Family Travel Itinerary

The Sydney skyline as seen from a ferry.

As you can guess from the photo, we’ve started the five-week Australian leg of our journey! This past week was a blur as I left Morgan and the kids for a short trip back to California. The three of them transitioned from New Zealand to here, and I rejoined them midweek.

I felt the way this guy looks after I crossed the date line twice in a week. Morgan and the kids saw this koala at the Sydney Zoo.

At first I felt as bushed as a koala who looks drunk on eucalyptus midday. (Little-known fact from Friends of the Koalas: “Contrary to popular belief, eucalyptus leaves do not make koalas drunk. Koalas appear drunk or lazy because they have developed a low-energy lifestyle to compensate for their extremely low-energy diet.” What a bummer to discover — I liked the idea that this lovable species had evolved to be fat, lazy and perpetually buzzed.)

In the midst of the past week, each of us took time to mark the halfway point in our journey by doing the following exercise: write a letter to ourselves and the other family members. Reflect on the trip so far, making note of what memories stand out and our feelings about the past six months. Then imagine the second half of the journey (when we’ll go from Australia to Hong Kong, Spain, Italy, Greece and Turkey) and write down some hopes and expectations for those months. Don’t share the letter with anyone yet; seal it up and set it aside. Then, on the last night before returning home, open and take turns reading them to one another and reflecting further — not only about where we went and what we did, but also why we did it, how it affected us and what we’ll do next.

I have my friend Carolyn to thank (the one who hosted us in Queenstown, who’s an accomplished educator and world traveler) for suggesting this exercise, because it prompted me to think more deeply about how this trip has changed and surprised us. There’s no way I can fit all those ideas into a blog post, but I’d like to share some.

Here, then, are some surprises and revelations  in no particular order:

I really like my family. This wasn’t obvious to me before. Of course I love them — but did I like their company so much that I could spend all day, every day with them? As we planned this trip in early 2009, I seriously worried we would get sick of each other. I braced for the inevitability that we would bicker and get in one another’s way. What happened instead is they became my closest friends. We do bicker (that really is inevitable), but nonetheless I am happiest when we are sharing small spaces, such as a car or a hotel room, and when they are in sight or earshot. This is one reason I don’t miss our big house with its separate areas. Back home I occasionally found myself thinking “I need my space” or “my kids are driving me crazy,” but those thoughts don’t enter my head now.

Colly and Kyle are de facto BFFs. They’re reluctant to admit it, but the kids have developed a bond and have more fun together than ever before (see the earlier post on how long-term travel affects play and sibling relationships).

We don’t need much stuff. Traveling has made us less materialistic, less cluttered and more frugal. We have pared down to the essentials, and we value every item in our bags. I swear to God, nobody needs more than three pairs of shoes (sandals, running shoes, and close-toed leather shoes that are dressy but still good for walking around). We have purchased almost nothing as souvenirs, preferring to spend money on experiences and eating rather than on stuff. I look at price tags like never before and try to take home leftovers to make two meals out of one. We have to shop here in Sydney to replace some worn-out grubbies and to get some decent outfits for places like Barcelona and Rome, and the trip to the mall looms like a chore on our to-do list.

Kyle soaks in the Sydney Harbour scene. He's not the only one who's overdue for a haircut!

Related to the point above: We really don’t need all those toiletries and expensive skin and hair care products. I packed a mini-pharmacy when we left and discovered we didn’t need half the things we brought, and if we did need something, then we could buy a comparable product wherever we are. Brand loyalty faded quickly. My must-have conditioner from a salon ran out, and I replaced it with a product I had never heard of, at a mini-mart in Mendoza, for about one-tenth the cost, and my hair looked and felt pretty much the same. The idea of spending money to get my eyebrows and toenails done monthly now seems crazy. I recently wrote to a friend that these months of roadtripping have revived a latent hippie streak in Morgan and me, and we’re all overdue for haircuts.

I’m bigger. I weighed myself for the first time in months, and the scale confirmed what my tighter clothes and mirror told me: I’m enjoying the regional cuisine a little too much. I’ve got saddlebags that look well stocked for the long ride ahead. Lo que sea (whatever).

Long-term travel has leveled the playing field in our marriage. Morgan and I have a twenty-five year relationship with all the peaks, valleys and rocky terrain of a good trail run. These months away have helped our marriage in ways I didn’t expect, mainly because we’re more collaborative and united — we have to be, because we’re stuck together and need each other in these utterly foreign environments. We now work together on the essential things that often determine the (im)balance of power in a marriage, such as who controls the money, who cares for the house and who keeps the all-important calendar. The kids now look to their dad for answers and direction every bit as much or more than they come to me.  (One small example: Last night Colly asked me a question about makeup but went to Morgan for help with her hair.) Of course there’s still some division of labor — e.g. I do more than half of the homeschooling, he does more than half of the travel planning — but we trust one other to swap roles far more than we did before.

This notion hit me when I left them for my solo trip last week. I did not make multiple lists with endless reminders for Morgan about what he should do in my absence, and when he and the kids Skyped or emailed me details about their day, I did not second guess what they had or hadn’t done. I did not interrogate them about whether they were using sunscreen and flossing. I just felt happy for them and missed them. I trusted Morgan and respected him to a degree I know I wouldn’t have six months ago.

Morgan reading his Kindle in our Sydney apartment.

We’re reading books instead of the news. I’m guilty of political apathy. I’m not reading past many headlines. But I am reading — novels, memoirs, travel blogs — and savoring literature in a way I didn’t back home, where I had to deliberately make time to read just one book a month and my attention span shortened to article length. Morgan is reading about twice as much as I am, going off at least once during the day to read on his Kindle. And Colly and Kyle have become bookworms — they wander off and read, sometimes surreptitiously because they don’t want me to tell them to put away their books and get something else done. I truly doubt they would have discovered reading for pleasure back home, where reading is lumped together with homework and their time is so sliced and diced.

We’re not doing a lot of things we thought we’d do. Before we left, I had noble plans for various things we’d accomplish. I wanted to make a commitment to “voluntourism” — i.e., to volunteer for a worthy cause in each of our major destinations. I had images of the four of us pulling weeds in an organic farm in the countryside or handing out food at a soup kitchen in a city. None of that panned out. Volunteering takes time to set up, and takes time away from sightseeing, and quite frankly we have enough logistical wrinkles to iron out on a daily and weekly basis, so I let it go. I also wanted to attend a local church at least once a month, thinking it would be a good way to get a sense of the community we’re in, but we haven’t set foot in a church since we left the Bay Area (except to view the architecture). Like voluntourism, going to church felt like something we “should” do rather than really wanted to, so we let it go. Ditto with learning Italian (we started a “daily phrase” program but it petered out; I lost interest because it’s hard enough to study Spanish occasionally). And what about my fledgling career as a travel writer? Oh, yeah, I meant to get to that — I have all my notes from last year’s multimedia and travel writing seminars somewhere, along with ideas of stories to pitch to various websites and publications, and … well, this blog is about as far as I’ve gotten.

So far, no regrets. I wasn’t at all sure this trip would live up to the “no regrets” phrase in the blog’s tagline. The risks were huge: We jeopardized a career, strained relationships, risked our kids’ education and raided our savings. What if it all turned out to be a colossal mistake? What if we spent 11 months drifting around feeling homesick and anxious? What if we spent the whole time fighting? We had a long list of reasons not to leave home and go out on this longest of limbs. One thing that helped us make it happen was a refrain we heard from others who had taken time as a family for a similar trip: “It’s the best thing we ever did.” We heard it over and over, and now I’d say the same: It’s the best thing we ever did.

My favorite picture of the Sydney Opera House, courtesy of Colly.

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3. Sydney Wet and Wild

On the road between Queenstown and Glenorchy (click to enlarge).

On a run with Morgan this morning, I wistfully said goodbye to New Zealand and its intoxicating, idyllic landscape. We headed out from our friends’ home near Queenstown, where we stayed for over a week, and took a trail that showcased so much of what I’ll miss about New Zealand: ragged peaks that rise up sharply to cut the sky, and blue lakes that spread out to make the mountains appear even larger. Soft pastures and tangled bushland that reflect so many shades of green, and trails that lead past communal huts and over bridges carefully covered with a no-skid surface. New Zealand apparently decided early on in its short history as a country to make hiking (or “tramping,” as it’s called here) a national priority.

This trail leads to our friends' home at Closeburn Station.

And the sheep — it wouldn’t be New Zealand without them. We inadvertently cornered a big flock against a gate and had no choice but to run right through. What a sendoff: a chorus of sheep at my feet, a group of alpacas to our left, and three fat and sassy horses to our right. This isn’t the Queenstown most people know — the Queenstown of bungy jumps, ski slopes and the famous Shotover Jet — but I highly recommend a taste of life on a station (what Kiwis call sheep or cattle ranches).

Here are a few other recommendations and final reflections from New Zealand to frame Morgan’s photographs:

As we transitioned from the South Island’s West Coast to Queenstown, ever more big and beautiful mountains and lakes kept bursting into view like the grand finale in a fireworks show.

Mount Cook, NZ's tallest mountain (3754m or 12,316ft), as seen on our drive next to the brilliantly blue Lake Tekapo.

The rivers flowing on the Southern Alps, like this one on Arthur's Pass, have the color and clarity reminiscent of a gemstone.

Before we left the West Coast, we stopped at Pancake Rocks in Punakaiki (between Westport and Greymouth). The “pancake” stacks are columns of limestone with almost perfectly thin, horizontal layers fantastically carved by the wind and sea, which rushes into the columns and spews through blowholes.

One of the Pancake Rocks blowholes that fills up and churns like a giant washer.

One of the water- and wind-sculpted figures at Pancake Rocks.

Turning east and quickly gaining altitude, we drove over Arthur’s Pass and found ourselves gazing at mountains above timberline on a road barely clinging to the shale sides and flanked by steep drop-offs. It reminded me of the San Juan Skyway in Southwestern Colorado, and it felt as though we had driven from Big Sur to the Rockies in only an hour or so.

Along Arthur’s Pass, we spent a couple of nights at Flock Hill Lodge, a beautifully landscaped retreat with comfortable cabins and a tasty restaurant on the edge of seemingly endless open space. Rock outcroppings on the green mountainsides look so magical that filmmakers decided to shoot The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe near here a few years ago. We headed out on a trail called “The Narnia Track” and saw why this area is a mecca for mountain bikers and trampers.

The view out our window at Flock Hill.

Colly and Kyle pretended they were characters from The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe as we hiked toward the film location.

Kyle got a spring in his step when he found a fossil toward the end of our Flock Hill hike.

Then we bombed down to Queenstown, the home of our high school friends The Kirkpatricks (the same family we kayaked with). Entering town, I suddenly felt as though we were back in the Patagonia Lake District, but the lakes and sky reflected a brighter, clearer blue. Lake Wakatipu, shaped like a lightening bolt, zigzags through craggy glacial peaks aptly named The Remarkables. If you look in the sky almost anytime, any day, you’ll see splashes of color from adventure seekers in parachutes swooping around and wafting down.

There's always someone floating overhead above Queenstown.

Colly struck a pose on the chairlift to the luge overlooking Queenstown.

There is so much to do in Queenstown — it’s a playground of adventure sports, similar to Rotorua in the North Island, plus a winter ski destination — but we didn’t do anything notable in town except swoosh down the luge. All we really wanted to do was soak up the pleasures of country living. Ahhh … the joys of being in a real home, with a real kitchen and washing machine and two wonderful boys to play with our two kids. Who needs TV or a Wii when you’ve got “chooks” (Kiwi for “chickens”) to care for? Long-term family travel really benefits from built-in downtime like we had last week, preferably at the beautiful ranch home of a dear friend. Being on the road for months heightens appreciation for and pleasure in the opportunity to do ordinary things, such as baking pumpkin pie, playing marathon Monopoly games and finding a dentist to clean our teeth.

We had dinner and spent a night with our friends in a communally owned "hut" (a small, rustic house) near Moke Lake outside of Queenstown.

Since I’ve been going on and on about New Zealand’s natural environment, I’ve neglected to say much about the people and customs I’ll miss as well. People who call ice cream cups “pottles” and breakfast “brekkie,” who wear wellies (rubber boots) with skirts or shorts, who still dry their clothes on a clothesline, and who sometimes say “hooray” or “cheerio” for “goodbye” seem predisposed to be extra nice and welcoming. This is a country that still relates in an old-fashioned, Midwestern way: telephoning with impromptu invitations, ringing the doorbell to chat, smiling and wishing strangers “g’day.”

Another thing about New Zealand: flashy cars are few and far between. We fit in with our third-rate, 12-year-old rented station wagon. I’m actually going to miss that car, because of all the time we spent in it and the places it took us — even though it made one of my biceps ache whenever I drove because the wheels are so out of alignment that I had to grip the steering wheel to keep us going straight. We named the car Dink because its license plate letters are DNK, and we laughed about how we’ve managed to turn the DINK acronym (Double Income No Kids) on its head (double kids, no income).

Goodbye, Dink!

So cheerio, New Zealand, and thanks to our friends and hosts from the past two months. Your country is brilliant and we’ll miss it heaps.

Want to see more photos? We finally updated the gallery with additional South Island shots.

Related posts:

1. Christmas in a Manger at Nelson, New Zealand
2. The Wild, Wild West Coast
3. In the Backwoods of Blackball, Not Your Typical Hilton

A recent 24-hour period gave us that kind of experience in a remote corner of the South Island’s West Coast region — in part because I was gullible enough to fall for a joke.

A vintage advertisement for The Blackball Hilton, "Cheapest In the West" (click to enlarge).

Many months ago, when I was mostly ignorant about New Zealand and starting to plan our itinerary here, Morgan and I heard of a mountainous trail race that finished at The Blackball Hilton and decided to sign up. The Hilton was part of the draw. What a treat it would be, I thought, to stay at an upscale, familiar hotel chain after so many budget motels and campgrounds — and convenient, too, since it would be right at the finish line. I can still recall the mental picture I had of a typically plush Hilton lounge and lobby.

Only after we registered for the January 16 race did I google Blackball and discover the “Hilton” is a creaky Victorian inn and pub built in 1909, located way off the main road in a dying mining town with only one general store and a couple hundred residents.

“I would never stay here again,” shouted out one TripAdvisor.com reivew. “The rooms had layers of dust and dirty carpets.” Another detailed, “There are many quirky things about this hotel — the dolls staring at you as you turn round a corner upstairs. The poetry in the toilets and washrooms. The gallery in the middle of the upstairs with the drawings and paintings of ladies of the night. The monkeys looking in at you as you sit on the loo.”

In 1992, the Hilton Corp.’s lawyers demanded that the hotel drop the trademarked Hilton name, and the rebellious innkeepers responded by changing the official name to “Formerly The Blackball Hilton,” which it  has been ever since.

Hmmm, I pondered, more curious than appalled — maybe it was meant to be that we stayed there. Perhaps part of the adventure of running the remote race would be staying in a historic hole in the wall. I contacted the owners, Chris and Viv, about our babysitting quandary (initially I erroneously assumed “the Hilton” would have a kids’ club or childcare to supervise Colly and Kyle while we ran the race), and they told me no worries, they’d keep an eye on the kids and let them have the run of the pub. I took a deep breath and had faith it’d all work out.

One of the dilapidated buildings on Blackball's main street, with the mountain range in the background that our January 16 trail race traversed.

Driving to Blackball is like driving back in time to the early 1900s, to the kind of one-store mining towns you can still find on back roads of Colorado. There is no cell phone coverage, no Wi-Fi. The Blackball Hilton looks as though it was lifted straight from an old Western flick. When I first looked up at the second-story balcony, I half expected to see a floozy lady of ill repute looking busty in an off-the-shoulder pioneer dress.

Instead, I saw a mix of fit-looking runners and working-class barflies milling about. Newspaper clippings and old photos hung on the walls, detailing Blackball’s colorful history as the proud birthplace of New Zealand’s Labour Party. Coal miners went on a three-month strike here in 1908 for a half-hour lunch break and ultimately prevailed.

Morgan on the balconey of the Blackball Hilton.

Kyle takes notes on the Blackball Hilton's role in the mining town's history as the cradle of the country's Labour Movement.

The Blackball Hilton today is a cross between a museum and vintage boarding house, each room sporting a different color theme and wall paintings that look inspired by Romper Room. When I crawled into the creaky, collapsed bed and stepped on the spongy floorboards near the communtal shower and toilet down the hall, I tried not to think about all the people over all all the decades who had used them before me.

I checked out our room (lucky number 13) and tried to make sense of the sponge-painting art, which resembled mold. "We're sleeping here?"

One of the fanciful dorm-style rooms at The Blackball Hilton. Notice how some are old hospital beds.

Overall, though, it wasn’t so bad. We had a great meal (veggie lentil burger for me, chicken curry for Morgan, burgers for the kids — yum) with friendly service, and we got to chat with some of the other visitors from throughout New Zealand who were there for the trail run. The kids thought it was cool and made themselves at home. The following morning, while we gutted out the trail run, they played in the pub and garden with other kids hanging out at the finish line.

The Blackball Hilton's pub is rarely empty like this. Each piece of memorabilia on the walls has a story behind it.

As for the race? Well, we survived and my time was a PW, which is short for “personal worst.” I wrote a race report for my running blog with details. (Here’s an excerpt: “That’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, no question about it,” Morgan said matter-of-factly as we shuffled along. His eyes looked sunken, and dried sweat and sunscreen gave his face a ghostly pallor. Did my husband really age 20 years in about four hours?)

Most people reading this will never find themselves near Blackball, off of Highway 7 on the South Island, and I wouldn’t recommend an overnight there — though it is worth a stop for lunch or dinner. What I do recommend, though, is seizing opportunities to stay in unexpected, unfamiliar and even uncomfortable surroundings. Our overnight at The Blackball Hilton, coupled with the strenuous trail race, goes down as one of the strangest and most challenging days of this trip. Getting to know this weirdly wonderful and gritty corner of New Zealand definitely deepened our understanding of the region and its people, and it made us more seasoned as travelers.

I’ll never stay in a real Hilton without remembering the one in Blackball and reminding myself that creature comforts are luxuries, not essentials, and sometimes the most memorable learning and living takes place when stripped of them.

Related posts:

1. The Wild, Wild West Coast
2. When It Rains…
3. Cheerio, New Zealand

Trails like this (which is part of the Oparara Valley Track) crisscross the wet and wild West Coast.

I knew very little about the West Coast region of the South Island before we spent a week here, except for its reputation as rainy, buggy and rural. The average rainfall is 2575 mm (8.4 feet), and a sign at Abel Tasman National Park said, “You think the sand flies are bad here? Wait ’til you get to the West Coast!”

“At least you’ll miss the crowds over there,” a tour-guide type mentioned in a look-on-the-bright-side tone.

We detoured to the West Coast to participate in a low-profile trail running event (which I’ll write about next time), and we’re so glad we did. We have been blown away by the West Coast’s landscape — and not just ’cause it’s windy. This swath of New Zealand is gorgeous, authentic, unspoiled … and, yes, wet. Perhaps nowhere is New Zealand’s remarkable commitment to preserve open space and make it accessible with well-maintained trails more concentrated than in this region, which has five national parks and more “tracks” (what Kiwis call trails) than I could keep track of. For trail runners like us, it’s paradise.

The West Coast region covers some 375 miles of coastline, and its biggest district, Greymouth, has a population of less than 14,000. Almost half the West Coast residents live in and around Greymouth, while the others live in a sprinkling of sneeze-and-you’ll-miss-it towns populated mainly by coal miners, pub owners and shopkeepers. Imagine if you drove from Los Angeles to Santa Cruz and the biggest town were about the size of my hometown of Piedmont, and you begin to sense how sparsely populated the region is. Here are highlights from our far-flung tour:

Karamea

Oparara Arch, a 200m-long limestone tunnel carved over eons by the river, is one reason to visit Karamea.

Way, way out there, at the north end of the West Coast’s main road, is the funky farming community of Karamea, famous for caves in the Oparara Basin and gateway to the Kahurangi National Park and its 78K Heaphy Track (the longest of New Zealand’s amazing Great Walks). We drove up on a rainy day that obscured the views, wondering where the hell we were and what we were doing, and checked into The Last Resort motel, where the decor is dorm-room-circa-1985. (The lounge and restaurant are quite nice though, with a woodsy Big Sur kind of vibe.) The next day we put on our windbreakers and drove up a 10-mile dirt road with not another car in sight. The slick mud made the car fishtail, and again we wondered where the hell we were and nervously joked that it looked like we found ourselves in the place where Jurassic Park was filmed.

Finally we reached a trailhead with a brand-new picnic area surrounded by museum-quality informational boards describing the colorful history of logging and mining here. It also explained the science behind the cave and arch formation, and answered perplexing questions such as, Why is the river here the color of an amber ale? (Answer: tannins from the foliage stain the water, as though all the water were passing through a giant teabag.)

The river runs reddish-brown near Karamea, stained by tannins in the forest.

The kids took it all in and enthusiastically set off on a hike among fuzzy-green trees that Colly said looked Seussical. We all marveled at the porous mountain that drips like a sponge and the natural arches that sprout stalactites and stalagmites. (Roadschooling doesn’t get much better than this.)

One of the "Seussical" trees along the trail.

We had to crane our necks all the way back and look straight up to get this view of a natural limestone bridge over the trail.

Morgan and I didn’t make it onto the Heaphy Track, but we took turns running through rain forests and over bouncy suspension bridges along the 8-mile Oparara Valley Track, which opened in late 2008 after years of work and fundraising by local volunteers. I actually got teary eyed when I reached a hut in the woods midway on the trail, which the volunteers built as shelter for hikers and adorned with informational boards showing pictures of the crew building the track and camping in the woods. Someone had taken the time to carve a chair and matching ottoman out of a giant stump. The hut was so special and so secluded, so lovingly constructed, that it struck me as an unintended monument to Thoreau in that it invited anyone who had the spirit to delve into the woods to sit back and spend as long as possible contemplating Nature.

Charming Creek and Granity

Colly and Kyle learned about coal mining history along the 10K Charming Creek Track, which follows an old railroad bed through tunnels and past waterfalls. Rusted mining equipment is left along the way.

We stopped for a few nights in a place about an hour south of Karamea that’s a speck on the map, Ngakawau, which is next to Granity (which isn’t saying much). Our little inn, the Charming Creek B&B, was a great spot to stay — right across the street from a blustery beach — but only if you don’t mind being in an isolated area (we didn’t). We spent the days homeschooling and hiking along the beach and the Charming Creek Track, which follows the roaring Ngakawau River.

A piece of old iron along the Charming Creek trail by Mangatini Falls.

The West Coast tracks feature numerous suspension bridges like this one over the Ngakawau River. I found them scary, but Kyle and Colly loved bouncing across them.

The Charming Creek railroad tracks, which transported coal and logs for decades, now make a path for hikers and runners.

Westport

Cape Foulwind next to Westport (click to enlarge), as seen from The Bay House restaurant.

Westport is the only “big town” (pop. approx. 3000) in the north half of the West Coast. It’s a working-class community with the basics we needed (market, laundromat) but not much to offer in town itself. Outside of town, however, are more natural playgrounds.

We checked into a forgettable motel and then drove toward Cape Foulwind (which doesn’t actually smell bad) and stumbled upon the surprisingly sophisticated, Thai-influenced Bay House restaurant with an incredible view of waves crashing against the rocks at sunset. Anyone who’s anywhere near Westport should have a meal and walk around here.

The Bay House restaurant behind the big rock the kids climbed.

Westport sits at the base of the Buller Gorge, a spectacular river valley. (I know I’m overusing superlatives in this post, but I can’t help it!) We got up close to the river on horseback during a two-hour ride with Buller Adventure Tours. Having suffered through numerous nose-to-tail guided rides on bomb-proof horses, I was pleasantly surprised to find rental horses in good condition with high-quality tack and a guide who let us trot and canter. At one point, we forged a sizable creek (not Buller River itself, which is much bigger than the stream in these photos).

Kyle manage to ride English by himself and guide his reluctant pony through the creek.

Colly took her horse through the deepest part and got her jeans soaked!

Now we’re headed to the southern half of the West Coast — between Westport and Greymouth — to explore places like Pancake Rocks and the Croesus Crossing before heading over Arthur’s Pass to Queenstown. Today marks the five-month day of our journey, approximately the halfway mark of our trip if we return in June as planned, and I can’t believe how far we’ve come.

Thanks to Morgan for taking these great photos ...

... and thanks to the kids for being great hikers!

Related posts:

1. In the Backwoods of Blackball, Not Your Typical Hilton
2. Cheerio, New Zealand
3. Tips for Touring Abel Tasman National Park

Click here to view the embedded video.

Abel Tasman National Park seems so vast and alluring, with its craggy coves and dense vegetation, that it’s hard to believe it’s the country’s smallest national park (about 57,000 acres). For anyone planning a visit there, I offer these tips and recommendations:

Where to Stay and Eat:

The rustic village of Marahau is the starting point for most visitors to the park. Fill up on gas and groceries at one of the larger towns along Highway 60, because Marahau has just one small general store with mostly non-perishable food.

When we weren’t camping, we slept at The Barn and Abel Tasman Marahau Lodge. The Barn is a campground and hostel with guests who looked half our age and probably attend Burning Man when they’re not backpacking around the world. We stayed in one of the cabins, which are like storage sheds containing beds and nothing else. It was a kick to stay there and plenty comfortable, but we didn’t really enjoy sharing just two toilets and two sinks with about 40 others.

By contrast, Abel Tasman Marahau Lodge really rises above the level of a typical country motel and has good value even at peak season prices. We loved our room, which had a kitchenette and patio overlooking gardens and a pasture. (Keep in mind that both The Barn and A.T. Marahau Lodge were fully booked months in advance, as are most placed during this peak holiday season.)

The Paradise Cafe right next to the A.T. Coast Track trailhead is the most popular spot to eat and one of only a couple of restaurants in Marahau. We had a good breakfast and dinner there and enjoyed the casual vibe and outdoor seating. Go there with patience, because as the owner of the lodge said about the servers, “If they were any more laid back, they’d fall over.”

Where to go:

I highly recommend Abel Tasman Kayaks for a kayaking trip, but truthfully, my favorite, most fulfilling times at the park were running and hiking on the Coast Track.

All signs point to the Coast Track for good reason: It’s an awe-inspiring, well-maintained trail approximately 30 miles long that hugs the coast and cuts through the dense, jungle-like forest. I ran different stretches of it at different times and discovered that, not surprisingly, it’s less difficult and more crowded near the Marahau trailhead. To experience the more remote parts, catch a ride from Abel Tasman AquaTaxi and go part or all the way up the coast, and then return on your own feet.

Here are a few more of Morgan’s pics from the park to supplement the ones from last week and the stills in the video:

Boats at low tide.

The water as seen from the Coast Track.

The green and damp Coast Track.

Morgan snapped this shot of me while we were camping at Abel Tasman's Bark Bay.

Related posts:

1. Our 3-Day Kayak Adventure Around NZ’s Abel Tasman Park
2. Happy Campers Touring North NZ by RV
3. The Wild, Wild West Coast

A slice of beach and blue around Abel Tasman National Park.

New Zealanders use the term “adventure” loosely to market pretty much any activity under the sun. I was skeptical we’d experience a true  adventure here, especially if it were safe enough to involve the kids, but then my lifelong friend Carolyn, who moved to the South Island two years ago, booked a three-day kayak trip for our two families along the coast of Abel Tasman National Park. I had never kayaked before (unless you count an hour in a hotel lagoon in Hawaii), but how hard could it be? I had visions of paddling on glassy blue water and sipping wine with old friends while our kids played on a beach. Besides, we’re all old pros at camping. We were game.

Three days at sea and camping in the forest together seemed like a reunion too perfect to be true. We arranged to meet them on the Sunday after New Year’s.

Day One: “I’ve made a bit of a boo-boo …”

We drive from Nelson an hour and a half north to the tiny town of Marahau, at the gateway to the national park, and arrive at Abel Tasman Kayaks before 9 a.m. The sky is gray and the forecast calls for wind and rain, but we’re optimistic. It’s like Hawaii, right? The weather always changes and never gets too cold.

Carolyn and her husband Doug drive up shortly after, and Kyle, Colin, Liam and even Colly start goofing around (Colly’s wariness of playing with boys quickly evaporates). I’ve known Carolyn since preschool and Doug since high school, so seeing them feels like reuniting with extended family. We meet our guide and busy ourselves with gear.

Our friends the Kirkpatricks -- Liam (11), Carolyn, Colin (9) and Doug -- meet us at Abel Tasman Kayaks and start getting gear ready.

The kids immediately find ways to have fun.

Our 25-year-old guide is named Chee and strikes us right away as friendly and competent, but a tad quiet. “Have you heard the forecast?” he asks. We shrug and look hopeful, as if to say, how bad could it be? He says something about “25 to 30 knots” which translates to about 30 mph.  I also notice he looks a bit surprised but keeps his cool when he realizes that four of his eight clients appear under 5 feet tall and younger than 12.

Pretty soon a supervisor — a bronzed woman with muscled arms, an over-sized straw visor and a squawking walkie-talkie — comes to us with a big smile but a serious message. “So here’s the thing,” she says, “your children are much, much littler than we expected.” Carolyn reminds her that she informed the kayak company that the youngest are 8 and 9, and we got the go-ahead. “Yes, but …” the woman says, “ordinarily we would not take children this size out on the kayaks.”

Clearly there has been some confusion, but it’s not clear why or what we should do. Chee tells us later that they book family groups with teenagers but have never had kids this young go out, especially not for a multi-day trip. The woman just wants us to be clear about the risks and aware that Chee may determine that it’s not safe enough for us to be on the water, which we’d have to respect. Of course, we say. We figure that if worse comes to worst with the ocean conditions, then we’d stick to hiking and get a ride back with a water taxi.

With that sobering message and clouds gathering overhead, we proceed to pack all the gear we’ll need into dry bags and load the kayaks to go to the water taxi station. As I try to budge one of these kayaks, which I guess are 15 feet long and take four strong adults to lift when loaded with gear, I get an inkling of why it may be a problem to have a novice adult and child navigating it. Imagine a beginner cyclist and child on a tandem bike fully loaded with panniers, then put them on a rough coastal route with headwinds and tell them to bike for several hours straight for three days. The child realizes he or she doesn’t need to pedal if Mom or Dad is doing most of the work. Mom and Dad realize they’re in for quite a ride.

Morgan, Colly, Kyle and I are packed and ready to head up the coast to start the three-day trip.

Chee makes his first call: No way we’re going on the water in these conditions. We’ll set up camp, hike and attempt to kayak tomorrow. Sounds good to us.

A slice of the Abel Tasman coast as seen from the Coast Track.

We squeeze into a water taxi with our kayaks stacked high and piles of gear at our feet. “First day on the job!” announces the skipper, and I’m not sure if he’s boasting or warning us. He zooms northward into the ocean and brings the coastline into view.

The Abel Tasman park (named after the mid-17th-century explorer who was the first European to site New Zealand) crowns the top of the South Island with lush green mountainsides that sprout tree ferns everywhere. Its coastline curves out and in around points and bays, protruding like gnarled knuckles on a fist, and several islands with seal colonies rise up in tree- and rock-covered humps.

I only catch glimpses, however, because I’m gripping the speedboat’s side as it cuts through waves, rising up and slamming down with a force that sprays water over the sides and compresses every disc in my spine. About a half hour later, the boat finally slows and pulls into Onetahuti Beach, where the kids hop out and begin exploring caves and tidal pools. We set up camp quickly to pitch the four two-person tents before rain hits, and Chee makes a roof over the picnic table by suspending a large tarp with ropes and two upright paddles.

Then it’s time for a hike along a couple of miles of the Abel Tasman Coast Track, and Chee, who’s of Maori descent, describes natural history and Maori legends along the way. The kids tramp along, genuinely impressed by the aquamarine color of the water and rope-like black vines that hang and tangle around the shafts of giant ferns called mamaku.

We hike through intense green ...

... and meet a seal too.

We stop at a beach along the way where a fat seal scratches himself, indifferent to his visitors, and the kids explore more caves carved by waves. No one minds that we’re on the land rather than kayaking at sea.

The kids keep going butts-up to dig whenever we hit sand.

The wind is gusting and rain starts to sprinkle by the time we get back to camp. We’re all hungry and eager to help Chee cook dinner, but first he asks us to gather around for an announcement.

“I’ve made a bit of a boo-boo,” he says. It seems he didn’t notice that the cooking gas was not packed, so we’ll be having dinner a bit late. But he has a plan: radio the water taxi to catch a ride to another camp about 15K (9 to 10 miles) down the coast, where a canister of gas is stored in case of such emergency. The water taxi, done for the day, will not return him to our camp, but no worries, he says — he’ll run back on the trail (in Keen sandals, his only shoes).

Morgan, who hasn’t run in a couple of days, eagerly volunteers to go with him. It’s about 5:30 when they depart, and we estimate they should be back before 7:30. We huddle over the picnic table with little to do but play cards and eat snacks. Carolyn and I, ever so slightly tense about the weather and the unexpected turn of events, decide it’s time for wine.  Doug sticks to beer, and soon “remember when” stories from the mid-1980s start to flow too.

Two hours, one bottle of wine, one bag of corn chips and a couple of cans of beer later, we’re looking at our watches and speculating about where Morgan and Chee might be. The rain goes from steady drizzle to sideways-blown downpour, and we grip the upright paddles that hold up the tarp each time a gust hits. Damp clothing and towels we hung on a tree branch to dry are fully soaked, as are most of the supplies piled on the ground.

The kids manage to entertain themselves no matter what the weather.

I’m amazed that the four kids, fully bundled, don’t seem to mind the circumstances much — they’re happy enough sitting around, talking and eating — so I take inspiration from them and act like everything’s fine. Carolyn and I let off nervous laughter as we swap stories about the crazy things our parents did when we were growing up together. I try not to dwell on the distinct possibility that Morgan and Chee discovered the gas isn’t there and are stuck struggling to come up with a Plan B (or would that be Plan C?), or that one of them fell while running back on the slick trail. And what if they fell while clutching gas canisters? Ka-boom!

Chee and Morgan make it back from their epic rainy run.

Finally, around 7:45, Chee and Morgan burst out of the forest panting and drenched, as wild-eyed and triumphant as hunters returning with fresh kill. I guessed right: There was no gas canister waiting for them; they somehow borrowed a couple of small ones from somewhere else, but those lacked the attachment valves they needed, so they had to borrow the other parts from who-knows-where. (None of this ever made any sense to me.) Late hitting the trail, they ran the hilly 15K as fast as they could.

Morgan is high on adrenaline and endorphins, and Chee casually admits it’s the farthest he has ever run. This calls for a drink! We open another while the rain starts coming down in sheets. Chee fires up the stove burners and whips up some chicken and vegetables over rice. We don’t have much appetite after all the snacking and drinking, but the hot food tastes good and we eat quickly so we can get the kids and ourselves into sleeping bags and pass out as soon as possible.

The photos get increasingly blury as the crazy rainy night wears on ...

Day Two: “Turn back!”

Our campsite dries out in the early morning of Day Two.

I wake to the sound of birds, not rain, and peak out at sunshine. Everything around me is damp and fresh, but I’m dehydrated and heavy headed. I grope around for clothes to run in, force my feet into wet shoes and sneak out of the tent around 6, before Morgan and the kids wake up. I run for over an hour along the Coast Track while the sun rises. I’m dazzled by the water’s color, the varied shades of green in the forest and the waterfall that gushes over moss-covered rocks at the turn-around point.

Another bend in a remote stretch of the Abel Tasman Coast Track.

It’s all business back at camp as we pack everything up and load the boats. Chee gives us a quick lesson in kayaking essentials: how to paddle, how to put the rudder down and use the foot pedals to work it, how to attach the spray skirt to form a tight lid between our waists and the boat’s opening, and — most important — how to detach the skirt if we capsize so we can swim free. We should remember to face waves head on, not sideways, and if a wave hits the kayak parallel instead of perpendicular, then lean into it.

I hop in a kayak with Kyle, and Morgan sets off with Colly. All the grownups sit in the back of the two-person boats so we can work the pedals that control the rudder. (Chee is in a one-person kayak, darting between us and showing us the way.)

Kyle and I launch our kayak for the first time.

Morgan and Colly make a good team.

We all get the hang of it pretty quickly. Kyle looks so cute sitting in front of me, his body dwarfed by a big floppy hat and life vest, his little hands clutching a big paddle that barely skims the water. It doesn’t take him long to figure out the kayak will keep going whether he paddles or not.

Twenty minutes into it, I realize that this is a workout — I’m putting muscle into every stroke — but we keep at it and get into a rhythm until arriving at a beach about an hour and a half later called Bark Bay. We’re all relieved to have that first leg behind us, so we enjoy a feast of a picnic and try not to worry as the wind picks up.

Colin and Doug cruise through the calm waters of a lagoon near the lunch break.

Chee gathers us around for another announcement, map in hand. We’ll need to get around a couple of windy points to reach our campsite at a beach called Anchorage. The wind itself isn’t a problem as much as its direction. A pressure system has cooked up an atypical swath of south-westerlies, which means wind will hit us head on and blow us away from the coast. Stay near the coast, he warns us — but watch out for rocky reefs. Suddenly the lunch in my stomach doesn’t feel so good.

We say goodbye to Bark Bay and paddle through a lagoon that in just a couple of hours will be completely empty because of the dramatic ebb and flow of the tides. Morgan and I switch kids, so now I have Colly seated in front of me.

Colly paddling up front (seen here on the glassy waters of a lagoon. The sea was never this smooth).

Having her as a partner makes my job easier, since she paddles more than Kyle and her heavier weight balances the boat better. (Later — belatedly — we realize we need to store heavy gear at Kyle’s feet so his boat is properly balanced.) Out we go, heading south to get around the next point, when slam! the wind hits our face with a blast that makes us feel as though we’re paddling upriver.

“Colly, I’m gonna need you,” I tell her, and she gamely starts paddling as hard as she can. The waves pick up, too, so we’re bouncing up and down as much as gliding forward. The swerving up-down rocking motion reminds me of the time I rode a mechanical bucking bull at the county fair. I focus on a point in the distance and muscle forward as best I can, trying to use the rudder to keep our nose pointed into waves, which are looking big enough to body surf. I don’t want to lose my concentration by looking around, but I’m concerned that our group has spread out. I shout at Colly so she can hear me over the wind, “Honey, please look back and tell me where your dad is.”

“He’s way far back!”

I look over my shoulder and catch site of both Morgan and Kyle paddling rapidly while their kayak’s nose points upward and starts to spin like a weather vane. A wave hits them on the side and tilts them to a 45-degree angle. But I can’t keep watching because I’m feeling our kayak turn beneath us, too. I step on the rudder’s right pedal and paddle only with my left to get it back around clockwise, facing the direction we need to go in. “Colly, paddle right!” I yell, meaning left, but my right foot is on the pedal so I have my directions mixed up. She starts to paddle on the right side and I scream, “No, other side!” She doesn’t know what to do and pretty soon I’m yelling at her to lean right, lean into the waves, and just when I wonder what else could go wrong, my hat blows off and the strap strangles my neck.

“Turn back!” I hear someone call over the wind. Morgan can’t turn his boat around and neither can I; we’re pointed back toward the bay where we had lunch. “Morgan, paddle!” Chee suddenly calls out, raising his voice to a commanding tone we haven’t heard yet, and we realize that a good-sized wave is cresting over the back of Morgan’s boat. He paddles ahead just enough so the wave doesn’t break over his body.

A classic line from Scooby-Doo comes to me and I shout it out loud: “Yikes, let’s get out of here!”

We all paddle away from the point and back toward Bark Bay, our job now easier with the wind on our backs but the ride still rollicking from all the waves. I finally catch up to Morgan and Kyle, who have caught their breath and are reassuring each other that everything’s fine, everything’s fine, good job, good job. I don’t know what to say to them or Carolyn and Doug, except for, “I think Bark Bay sounds like a great place to camp tonight!”

Liam and Carolyn take a breather near Bark Bay. We're relieved to spend the second night there even though it's a fairly long way away from the intended destination.

Chee agrees, “Yes, that’s what we’ll do.” We’re not getting around that point in these conditions.

Bark Bay is a beautiful, peaceful place to spend the afternoon and evening, even with the wind. It feels luxurious to set up camp in dry weather, to play by the beach and to eat burritos. The kids hole up in a tent and play Uno for two hours. We go to bed early, warned by Chee that we have to wake early to beat the wind and paddle extra long to make up for today’s shorter leg.

Plus, to make it home tomorrow, we have to get through the roughest stretch of coastline: the Mad Mile.

Day Three: “We’re making great time”

A British twentysomething camper near our group feels the need to chop wood at 5:30 a.m. and in so doing wakes us all up. My back, shoulders and arms ache, and my hands look puffy and sport blisters at the base of each thumb. Thankfully, Chee is up already and has coffee made for us. The kids get moving and help break down tents and pack dry bags, their experience and helpfulness seemingly doubled in a day.

We’re all spooked by the wind and eager to paddle past the point that got the better of us yesterday. But our departure is slightly delayed by low tide; we have to heave all the really heavy kayaks at least a hundred meters to where the water starts. Then we’re in and begin paddling at 8:50 a.m.

The sea has a sunnier personality today and welcomes us to and through the windy point, but I keep my guard up because the Mad Mile — the stretch we heard other campers comment on being so rough — looms ahead. Chee directs us toward an island on the way so we can admire the seals, but while the others ooh and ahh, I’m thinking seals, schmeals — I just want to keep moving forward.

The Mad Mile gets its reputation for risk from wind patterns, ocean currents and a lack of beaches at which to seek safe haven. But there’s nothing mad about it this morning. I keep expecting waves and wind, but I begin to feel cautiously optimistic that this mile is downright mild. It seems we got lucky for once and paddled through during an hour of optimal conditions. I let myself look around and absorb details of the sculpted rock formations protruding from the coast. The landscape’s beauty has so much depth and mystery, with so many crevices carved by the elements and colors that change with the light.

Carolyn, Doug and I linger over our break, not wanting the trip to end too soon.

“We’re making great time,” Chee calls out — so much so that we need to pace ourselves or else we’ll get back too early. We stop for a snack and time to play on the beach, followed by lunch not long after. The home base of Marahau comes into view and we linger at lunch across the bay, surprised to be done sooner and easier than expected and not wanting the trip to end. The kids play an impromptu game of cricket with some other kids on the beach, and pretty soon the guys join in.

A couple of hours later at the kayak company’s base, after we’re finally done unloading and saying good-bye to Chee — our superb guide who now feels like a friend — we all head to a funky backpackers’ campground and hostel called The Barn for one last night together.

Our box of a cabin at The Barn.

I feel more beat up and worn out than after any long-distance running race or camping trip I can recall. My hands ache if I try to form a fist, my calves and ankles feel on fire from the itch of some twenty sand fly bites, and my entire upper body feels stiff and out of whack. I watch the four kids amble along together and feel the comfortable, tired silence that Morgan, Doug, Carolyn and I share, and I look at the tip of the Abel Tasman coastline and marvel at how far we came.

Was it worth it? Definitely.

We did it! And we'd gladly do it again.

p.s. Morgan has additional landscape photos of Abel Tasman and I shot footage for a mini movie. We’ll try to post them in a few days when we have better online access. We’re headed to the West Coast for the coming week.

Related posts:

1. Tips for Touring Abel Tasman National Park
2. Playing Around Rotorua
3. Christmas in a Manger at Nelson, New Zealand

The garden setting of The Jester House Cafe near Nelson, where the great food isn't the main attraction.

A man I met in Auckland gave me this tip when he learned we’re visiting his home town, Nelson: “You really must go to The Jester, about 40 minutes away, because it’s the best cafe. Worth the drive. Terrific breakfast, heaping portions. And eels — the children will love them!”

He made it sound as though eels were on the children’s menu — a kind of kiddie sushi, perhaps — but a check of The Jester House website revealed live freshwater “tame eels” as a main attraction. It seemed as odd as a B&B advertising pet snakes along with delicious scones.

We put it on our must-do list and found ourselves driving up the Coastal Highway a few days after Christmas to find out if tame eels were an oxymoron or some kind of joke at this place called The Jester.

It definitely was worth the drive — a tour that revealed why some compare the Nelson area to a mix of Napa, Santa Barbara and Santa Cruz. The brilliant blue of Tasman Bay, visible along the waterfront of the Tahunanui District, gives way to green vineyards along a stretch known as the Appleby Highway. Just when you think you may be delightfully lost on a country road bordered by white painted fences, a sign for The Jester House comes into view: “Cafe and Tame Eels!”

We crossed a narrow footbridge and got a glimpse of the slithering, sleek things in the stream below — dozens of them intertwined and flopping about — while several little kids stood on the bank reaching out to them. It was clear the children were more enchanted than grossed out. Colly and Kyle ran to buy a cup of eel food and joined the others while we got a table.

Kyle and Colly meet the eels -- and make some squeals.

The cafe is set in a garden that looks lifted from a children’s story book, with playthings such as an over-sized chessboard and teeter-totters. One table was inlaid with a hand-carved Chutes and Ladders game, but it pictured miniature eels instead of chutes.

Kyle ran up to me, out of breath and eyes big, saying “Mom, you have to come, you have to see the eels. They come out of the water!” I dutifully followed him down a path to the stream and stood mesmerized as he and Colly lured the eels like snake charmers by using food on the end of a stick. Sure enough, these amphibians squirmed out of the water, opening and shutting their silent mouths in a chomping motion. They looked like evil sock puppets dipped in slime.

“Mom, come here — you’ve gotta pet them!” Kyle demanded. As soon as I forced myself to reach down, one suddenly lunged with its mouth open and aimed at my fingers. I made a scaredy-cat shriek of “Ewww!” and ran several steps back to watch from a safe distance. “It’s just like petting a wet bar of soap,” chided Colly.

When it comes to eels, the kids are braver than I!

I was relieved to shift my focus to lunch, which was one of the best — and most reasonably priced — meals we’ve had since coming to Nelson. My veggie burger came on a fresh-baked ciabatta role nearly as big as the plate, layered with greens and marinated red onion.

After lunch, we headed to Rabbit Island, which locals say is the area’s best beach. It’s located between The Jester House and Nelson, from Redwood Road off the Coastal Highway. The entire island (accessible by a causeway) is forested with pine planted decades ago, and the beach stretches unbroken for about eight miles, with relatively warm and safe surf that the kids dove right in.

Colly and Kyle take a break from the surf to dig for treasure.

Morgan's favorite view of the beach on Rabbit Island.

Seifried Estates Winery and Restaurant is close by Rabbit Island, on Redwood Road, and also worth a stop. We went there a few days prior to the eel outing, and the kids, who were dreading a fancy meal and boring tour, were relieved to discover that we could eat outside — next to a play structure! I love how the concept of play structures at restaurants has spread beyond McDonald’s in New Zealand.

At Seifried Winery, I enjoyed the wine while the kids monkeyed around on the play structure.

I’m grateful the guy in Auckland gave me The Jester tip and in doing so gave us more reasons to explore the Tasman Bay coastline; otherwise, we might not have felt motivated to go beyond Nelson, because it’s such an intoxicatingly comfortable town. Along Nelson’s main street, Trafalgar, flower baskets overflow with impatiens and lobelia, and walking paths branch out toward the beach and hills. Part of me wants to stay right here forever.

But the other part of me looks forward to leaving in a few days because we’re heading north to explore the Nelson area’s biggest attraction: Abel Tasman National Park. We’ll unplug from the laptops, stick our stuff in storage and hook up with another family (Kiwi transplants and friends from our Ojai high school days, The Kirkpatricks) for a three-day kayak trip.

Old friends, new adventures — I’m looking forward to the new year!

The sun sets over Tasman Bay and the town of Nelson, a place that epitomizes beauty and tranquility.

Related posts:

1. Christmas in a Manger at Nelson, New Zealand
2. Tips for Touring Abel Tasman National Park
3. Our 3-Day Kayak Adventure Around NZ’s Abel Tasman Park

The view of Nelson from Harris Hill (click to enlarge).

Sarah writes: We just wrapped up our most unusual and special Christmas ever, which we celebrated at a rental cottage in Nelson, New Zealand. Ending the year here and being on this journey together is the ultimate “gift that keeps on giving.” Since my 8-year-old son Kyle spent part of his homeschooling week writing about this place, and Morgan took terrific photos, I decided to hand this blog post over to them. I hope you enjoy Kyle’s very own blog post and movie!

Mom and me homeschooling on our deck.

Right now I’m at Harris Hill. It is in Nelson, N.Z., which is at the top part of the South Island. It is at a farm with animals like a hairy pig, goats, sheep, calves/cows/bulls, dogs, ponies, horses, llamas and chickens. It has a view of the blue bay, and since we’re near the ocean, it’s windy! The wind makes the grass look like waves.

When we’re inside we hear the sheep and listen to the birds cheep. We’re staying in a cozy cabin. The best part of it is we get our own rooms! We’ve had to share our rooms the last four months.

The farm is like a petting zoo to me. I love the animals. The one I love the most is the hairy pig. We call him Hairy Porker. We feed him food like fruit, vegetables and leftover meals.

Hairy Porker begging for food.

Me with the pesky goats.

We're at a giant hill overlooking the sea.

The weird thing is, we have fruit like strawberries and cherries in December because we’re near the summer solstice. Christmas is weird because it’s cold where we usually live and warm in New Zealand. It’s also different because we made decorations, and I made a popcorn string for the tree. My grandparents also sent me a lot of yarn to make decorations with.

We decorated a small pine tree that is still growing.

Today we had Christmas with our small pine tree. We woke up with our shoes as stockings and found candy in them. (That’s what they do in Holland, and Santa puts candy in there. We didn’t have stockings so we put our shoes by the front door.) I woke up my family to see the presents. My favorite was my IPod Touch! I also got three books that I’m excited to read, and I got two decks of cards from my grandparents. They also gave me instructions on how to play poker because they think it’s time for me to learn how. Then Colly opened her box. It was a computer (laptop)! It was a special Christmas for our family because we’ve never had a Christmas like this.

My dad made this card for our family and friends.

Harris Hill makes me feel like I’m at home. It will feel great to end the year here.

Here is my video of Harris Hill.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Related posts:

1. Cheerio, New Zealand
2. Playing Around Rotorua
3. Meals with Eels and Other Nelson Must-Do’s

Click here to view the embedded video.

The Rotorua Tourism Board will probably be upset to hear me say these activities generally seem overrated and overpriced. Our best times around Rotorua involved spending free time for free. We rented a low-cost cabin outside of town at one of the best “holiday parks” we’ve come across yet (a glorified RV park and campground), on the edge of Blue Lake by a vast forest preserve, and passed the time reading, homeschooling, running, researching, cooking and playing with the kids. Morgan and I took turns doing long solo runs through the Whakarewarewa forest, aka The Redwoods, which seemed like a fairy-tale hybrid of Hawaii and California because it had the ferns, dampness and fragrance of an island rain forest amidst groves of century-old redwoods.

Then we experienced Kiwi hospitality firsthand when a mutual friend of some Northern California runners, Paul Charteris, invited us to his hometown of Kawerau near Rotorua and took us on a hike to Tarawera falls.

Tarawera Falls near Rotorua, where we hiked and picnicked.

The double-barreled waterfall shoots out of the middle of the volcanic mountain, from a fissure created by lava, rather than cascading over a cliff. The kids didn’t mind hiking uphill for an hour because the reward was so great: first the falls, then a sky-blue swimming hole with rope swings.

Colly and Kyle couldn't get enough of this rope swing at the Tarawera swimming hole.

Paul then hooked us up with his friends, Mike and Sarah van der Boom and their two school-age girls, in the beautiful Bay of Plenty beach town of Whakatane. Their family hosted us for a couple of nights, gave us a barbecue and took us trail running. Believe what you hear: New Zealanders really are that nice!

At our hosts' house, the kids just played and played.

Morgan and me on a run above Whakatane in the Bay of Plenty with Sarah van der Boom, who took this picture.

All of this — not just our time in New Zealand, but the ways in which our lives have changed through travel –  has made me think more about the subject of play and the choices we make about how to spend time and money, particularly as a parent. Forgive me as I digress and risk sounding simplistic or superficial as I try to condense a big topic into a blog post.

We’ve been away from home for four months now, and I’ve noticed that Colly and Kyle are playing more than they have since preschool, which has been a profound and unforeseen benefit of this long-term travel. By “play” I mean filling their time imaginatively and physically, making use of whatever is around them. After we’re done schooling or sightseeing, they still have hours of unscheduled free time to fill up, and TV or the Internet are limited because of our circumstances (few TV channels, shared computers and limited WiFi). So they wander outside, often to a play structure or trampoline, but they don’t just swing or bounce. They make up a game or start playing characters. They get in arguments, work it out or forget about it, and then start something new on their own, or they might meet other kids from other countries and start talking to them. And they constantly are together, so much so that they joked they’re developing twin telepathy.

The kids keep exploring and trying new things together.

I really didn’t appreciate how much our family life has changed until the other day when I opened my calendar from seven months ago and literally shuddered when I saw the lines and lines of daily scheduled activities and obligations, much of which involved the kids. Well-intentioned parents (like me) sign children up for sports and recreational programs because we don’t want them to “miss out.” We want them to have fun and develop their hobbies (and to be honest, we want them to stand out as stars on the stage or on the field), and we want someone to watch them and keep them safe while we go about our lives during the day. We also are susceptible to the marketing of many extracurricular “enrichment programs,” believing our kids need the help of tutors and other professionals so they can reach their potential. Ironically, all this scheduling and transporting kids to programs often makes families more stressed, more financially stretched and less available to spend time together.

Kids become so accustomed to being told what to do, and when and how to do it, that they complain about being bored if they suddenly find themselves with free time. Parents admit to looking forward to summer or winter holidays ending so they can get their kids back on a schedule and in those programs.

That was how our family was before this year away — and it may be us again when we get back. I hope not, because we were not a terribly happy bunch back then, but those real-world dynamics of our community and demographic are incredibly hard to resist. Of course we’ll plug back in to it all on some level, but I’m already trying to envision a middle ground that will preserve the kind of play and togetherness we’re rediscovering.

Before this trip, I was familiar with  studies touting the importance of play and warning about the downside of kids’ over-scheduled, over-hurried lifestyles — but it took a genuine change of circumstances and simplifying of our lives (what travel blogger Christine Gilbert has called a lifestyle redesign) to make me fully appreciate the importance of free time and family time.

This is us on an impromptu roadside hike.

I watch Colly in particular as she revels in being a kid. Yesterday she spent most of the afternoon with Kyle doing nothing more important than digging in beach sand to build castles, and when we went inside she became absorbed in a book. Her sixth-grade friends back home, meanwhile, are managing a mountain of homework and other responsibilities while preoccupied about their appearance, friendships and who’s dating whom.

What a gift, I realize with gratitude, that this year away has extended her childhood by a year, and given us more time to enjoy her — and really get to know her — as a goofy girl who’s content to play with her little brother. It may be we’re just delaying the inevitable and that she’ll turn into a teen overnight as soon as she’s sucked into the vortex of seventh grade. I hope, however, she’ll be better equipped to navigate the pressure of adolescence fortified by this year — a year of living more simply and becoming more self-reliant while seeing how people in other parts of the world make do with less; a year of  just being herself and being incredibly close to her family.

The same could be said for all four of us: I sincerely hope we will re-enter life back home permanently changed and fortified by this year.

Sometimes you just gotta let go and go for it.

Related posts:

1. When It Rains…
2. Our 3-Day Kayak Adventure Around NZ’s Abel Tasman Park
3. Happy Campers Touring North NZ by RV

Now I feel like someone should pinch me, because I can’t believe the four of us are driving, cooking, eating and sleeping in a magnificent four-berth camper that seems perfect in every way. I probably should be writing about the scenery — the lush vegetation and sweeping beaches of this swath of Northern New Zealand called the Bay of Islands — but I can’t get over the fact that the RV’s pots and dishes fit so neatly and securely in cabinets under a real working gas stove, and the table and benches fold and fit like puzzle pieces to make a comfy queen-size bed, and the bathroom sink flips up over the toilet. While the kids run along the beach and Morgan reads at a picnic table, I’m content to sit in this parked RV for hours and enjoy the view out the back window.

Morgan watches the tides roll out behind our RV spot in Waiwera, north of Auckland. Meanwhile ...

... I'm happy to stay inside the RV and cook!

Morgan begrudgingly agreed to rent an RV for six days in New Zealand. He wasn’t crazy about the cost (it’s definitely not a bargain), and he didn’t relish the thought of driving a 20-foot vehicle with a manual transmission and mastering the mechanics of a dump station. But it was 3 against 1, because the kids wanted it as much as I did.

He got on board with the idea when he realized that New Zealand is uniquely set up for camping in recreational vehicles or tents. There are hundreds of clean, well-equipped campgrounds called “holiday parks” along the countryside. We rearranged our itinerary and got the RV from Kea Campers as soon as we left Auckland in order to rent it before the rest of the country goes on holiday and the rates shoot up and campsites get crowded. New Zealand’s summer holiday runs from about Dec. 18 through January, and during that time the rate for our camper jumps from $212 per day (NZ$) to $350 per day.

The kids enjoy playing cards on the loft in the RV ...

... or playing on the picture-perfect beach.

We hit the road and started discovering the fun of no-frills holiday parks, where the vibe is like one big front porch and the back yard is endless. Conversations start around a shared outdoor kitchen facility called the “ablution block,” where campers gather to wash dishes or clean fish. Kids roam about (they tend to be from families of foreign tourists like us, since New Zealand schools are still in session), and Colly and Kyle wander off to explore the tides. Warbling birds and someone’s acoustic guitar add to the ambient noise.

Apart from the campgrounds, we’re experiencing the joy and liberty of exploring any side road that beckons, as happened when we approached the town of Kawakawa, “famous throughout New Zealand for its public toilets, which were designed by Austrian artist/sculptor Friedensreich Hundertwasser,” according to the breathlessly overwritten prose of our Explore New Zealand Holiday Park Guide. “The Hundertwasser Toilets are Number 95 of the 101 Must-Dos for Kiwis.” Well, if it ranks 95 out of 101, it must be worthwhile! Besides, we needed a bathroom break.

Hence, we found ourselves on the main street of an old coal town called Kawakawa looking at a public toilet stall decorated with fanciful mosaic tiles and learning more about this “internationally regarded architect” and misunderstood artist, Freidrich Hundertwasser, who came to New Zealand in the early 1970s and was commissioned in 1997 to build a public bathroom for the town.

“He was no stranger to the rejection of his offers to design flags, buildings and stamps and must have been delighted by the invitation, so much so that he emerged from his reclusive lifestyle to oversee the project,” reads the short history. “Kawakawa today (pop. 1300) is still a service and supply center; however, in recent years, urban drift and the restructuring of industry has affected the local economy. The Hundertwasser toilets and Hundertwasser’s overall philosophy have contributed new life in the town and inspired the local community to work together toward a vibrant future.”

To think, a public commode can do all that!

The history concludes wistfully, “Freidrich Hundertwasser died in February 2000 at the age of 71. The Kawakawa toilets were thus his final creation and are seen as an important memorial to him.”

Kyle was not very impressed by the famous Hundertwasser Toilets.

Part of the memorial to Freidrich Hundertwasser.

Fascinated by this tale of derring-loo and by the list of 101 Kiwi Must-Dos, Morgan took it upon himself to find out which attractions rank 96 through 101, below the Hundertwasser toilets. Among his findings: #96: “Wellington Writers’ Walk: See 11 poems by some of New Zealand’s well-known writers” (imagine how you’d feel being one of those writers who came in behind the public toilets); #98: “Stonehenge Aotearoa: A full-scale, modern adaptation of the famous Stonehenge on Salisbury Plains”; and our favorite, #100: “Beehive and Parliament Buildings.” No description, just an address to visit the seat of government in Wellington, which perhaps resembles a beehive. It’s wonderful to be in a country that believes it’s more worthwhile to visit a public toilet than to visit the government’s headquarters.

Kidding aside, we’ve seen some truly worthwhile sights, which we’ll try to detail later. Suffice to say that exploring New Zealand by RV should rank near the top of the Kiwi 101 Must-Do list.

It's not an obscene gesture, it's Morgan and Kyle doing a Maori cultural dance during our visit to the Waitangi Treaty Grounds.

Related posts:

1. Playing Around Rotorua
2. Tips for Touring Abel Tasman National Park
3. In the Backwoods of Blackball, Not Your Typical Hilton

Our first tour of Auckland after an all-night flight.

We woke up in Auckland and watched Auckland wake itself up at around 5:30 a.m. Wednesday after an all-night flight from Santiago. Killing time until we could check into an apartment, we walked all around a virtually empty harbor and central business district.

Looking over the water, the sunrise in a gray sky revealed a historic sailing ship and massive cruise line that were docked near a beautifully preserved Edwardian-era ferry building. Looking back at the city, the cluster of high rises showcased a neon-lit space needle that stood out like a spiky Christmas tree topper.

I felt disoriented not just by the time change but also by a bit of déjà vu, as though I had spent time in this area or somewhere just like it before. Then I got it: Auckland didn’t feel like the hub of a foreign country as much as it felt like a hybrid of San Francisco and Seattle.

The Auckland Ferry Building, seen while strolling on a walkway not unlike San Francisco's Embarcadero.

Auckland's version of the Space Needle is called the Sky Tower.

We said a bittersweet adios to Latin America last Monday, excited to head Down Under but truly sad to leave the landscape and culture of Patagonia. The plane left at close to midnight and we lost Tuesday by crossing the date line, so we all felt a bit out of sorts when we landed in New Zealand before the crack of dawn on Wednesday. It didn’t help that every time a voice in the airport announced “Auckland,” it sounded exactly like “Oakland”! I managed to thoroughly confuse the kids by telling them that their friends in California were “three hours ahead but yesterday,” but they finally understood the time change when I clarified that New Zealand is 21 hours ahead of California.

Kyle and Colly with their luggage at the Santiago airport. (I'm so glad they can carry all their own luggage!)

When we reached the lobby of the apartment high rise where we’re spending four nights, we suddenly felt assaulted by Christmas as we confronted a gaudy display of seasonal decor and piped-in carols. We all felt taken aback by the in-your-face signs Christmas and consumerism, since we hadn’t seen much evidence of the approaching holiday in Argentina and Chile, and we certainly didn’t feel it, given the early-summer weather and the long distance from our church.

Goodbye empanadas, hello meat pies!

Then it was time to hit the streets and get to know the city. We ducked into a cafe as soon as we found one open and let Kyle sample the country’s quintessential dish: meat pie. Then we found a mini mart to buy a jar of peanut butter (which was impossible to find in Latin America) and other groceries. As high-end shops and coffee bars began to open, I couldn’t ignore the similarities to the Bay Area. Cafés served precious salads with ingredients like roasted beets and goat cheese, and trendy Thai, sushi and even Mexican eateries were everywhere. Shoppers could take their pick of designer labels and aromatherapy products.

Later, when we found ourselves sipping Starbucks and waiting to see a movie in the ultramodern Sky Tower Center, which has a rocket-shaped elevator that makes it feel like Tomorrowland, I reflected on how we had come half a world away to feel like we were in San Francisco’s Metreon. It wasn’t really what I expected — or wanted.

But once we discovered the city’s gorgeous park, called the Auckland Domain, and its treasure chest, the Auckland Museum, we started to feel more connected to — and interested in — our new destination. The museum provides a fantastic introduction to the country’s natural history and Maori culture. The next day we were impressed by the handcrafted Maori and British sailing vessels in the Maritime Museum.

Where the Wild Things Are: A closeup of a Maori carving at the Auckland Museum. (Notice the resemblance to Sendak's creatures?)

A closeup from the Maritime Museum. We were all impressed by the craftsmanship.

For the most part, however, we haven’t found Auckland terribly inspiring, and we’re eager to get in our rental RV tomorrow morning and hit the road for a week. We’re heading up north to the Bay of Islands area to explore beaches, small towns and a place we’ve heard is New Zealand’s most fascinating historical and cultural site: the  Waitangi Treaty Ground, where in 1840 the Maori and British agreed to give the British Crown control.

Don’t get me wrong — after we got over the jet lag, we enjoyed these days in Auckland. There’s no denying this city is thoroughly pleasant, clean and livable, and quite a nice gateway to all that New Zealand has to offer.

I just can’t imagine Auckland would rank high as a destination in its own right.  Some might even say it’s a nice place to live but you wouldn’t want to visit there.

The kids are getting to know the kiwi!

Auckland at night, as seen from our balconey.

Related posts:

1. Happy Campers Touring North NZ by RV
2. Christmas in a Manger at Nelson, New Zealand
3. Playing Around Rotorua

We gave the kids an art lesson in Santiago's sculpture garden, one of several well-kept parks in Chile's capital city.

On Day 2 of our short visit to Santiago, Chile, Morgan and I talked about how stupid we felt for having lumped Chile with Argentina and assuming they’d be the same. Our knowledge of Chile was based on college courses in the late 1980s that revealed the brutality of General Pinochet and the CIA’s role in the coup that put him in power from 1973 to 1990. With our minds stuck on “Third World” stereotypes of Latin American dictatorships and human rights abuses, we expected Santiago to be like Buenos Aires, but not necessarily as nice. Clearly, we hadn’t paid attention to news from Chile for the past twenty years.

We discovered a city with a canopy of trees and impeccably landscaped medians lining its major boulevards, walking paths and gardens fronting its river, and a culinary scene more creative and sophisticated than anything we’ve tasted since leaving Northern California. A metropolitan park with a peak called San Cristóbal is full of trails, a zoo and picnic areas, and it looks better maintained than Golden Gate Park. Exquisite old neighborhoods skirt the park with streets mostly free of graffiti, and drivers drive larger, newer cars than in Argentina and stop for pedestrians.

One of the prettiest neighborhood streets we ran on: Pedro de Valdivia near the entrance to Parque Metropolitano de Santiago.

We’re here as an afterthought; our November 30 flight to Auckland leaves from Santiago, so we figured we might as well spend a few days here. We’ve spent the past 72 hours trying to soak up as much as we can of all the city has to offer — which means lots of walking and lots of eating. After two months of a diet heavy on beef and potatoes, we’re gorging ourselves on fresh fruit and seafood — cherries, strawberries and avocados (12 for $1) are at the peak of the season, and crab and lobster are on menus everywhere. Lobster empanadas — now there’s something I can’t get enough of!

A view of some of the countless Andes peaks we saw from the bus ride through the border.

We came here from Mendoza via bus through the Andes, a jaw-dropping route I’ll always remember for two things: the peaks around Aconcagua, and the customs office. Chile’s security apparatus leaves nothing to chance, and at customs they’re on the lookout not only for explosives and contraband, but also for produce that could transport pests that threaten the country’s agriculture. (This morning we met a man from Florida who said he was detained for a couple of hours in Santiago’s airport, during which he had to fill out paperwork and pay a $200 fine because he had an apple in his backpack.)

We were waiting in line at the customs terminal, which straddles the Andes range seemingly in the middle of nowhere, when we noticed some officials looking for the owners of a locked blue backpack that I recognized as Kyle’s. It turns out they were alarmed by a suspicious round object shown in the X-ray. Could it be a bomb — or an orange? I nervously stepped forward, unlocked the pack and winced as they rifled through all of Kyle’s stuff until they pulled out the offending object: his baseball! They ran the baseball through the X-ray one more time before allowing us to proceed.

At long last, following a crazy rush-hour cab drive with our packs roped to the top of the roof, we reached our destination: a well-priced boutique hotel called Meridiano Sur in a great location, just off the very happening scene on Avenida Providencia and near the river and parks.

Colly outside our hotel, next to a bougainvillea in bloom.

The scene on Avenida Providencia, near our hotel.

Our first full day coincided with Thanksgiving, during which we made little effort to maintain holiday traditions except for expressions of gratitude (roast turkey was nowhere to be found or cooked). The warm spring air had us all in short sleeves and shorts. We got a tour of the vibrant Providencia district by walking a few kilometers on clean sidewalks and cobblestone streets, past cafes and well-maintained century-old architecture, to a graduate school of orthodontics where we had set up an appointment for Colly to repair a loose brace.

A stock image from Wikimedia of the skyline in "Sanhattan."

That evening, for our Thanksgiving meal, we chose Nolita restaurant for its well-reviewed seafood and Italian fare. The meal was superb — but the setting was not at all what we expected. The restaurant is located in the booming financial district nicknamed “Sanhattan” because of its gleaming new skyscrapers and malls decked out with costly landscaping and chrome. American restaurant franchises and American companies have mushroomed there, which left a bad taste in my mouth. It felt as though we were in some of the most upscale parts of West LA — not that I dislike West LA; it’s just not what I wanted to experience in South America. It’s also unpleasant to contemplate how this economic boom got its start in the darkest periods of the country’s modern history, when Pinochet forced privatization and other free-market reforms (while also overseeing censorship, torture and the disappearance of thousands). It’s interesting to see the city spangled with hundreds of political posters plastered everywhere with faces of different candidates all promising “el cambio” (change) — and to think that any type of political advertising was banned until 1988, when Chile began its transition back to democracy.

Morgan snapped this shot of me during our run to the top of San Cristobal, where the Virgin Mary statue watches over Santiago.

Throughout this century of change in Chile, the Virgin Mary herself has kept watch over Santiago in the form of a giant statue on the summit of San Cristóbal. It was erected in 1908, about ten years before the gorgeous park was established and all the vegetation was planted around it. Shortly thereafter, a tramway called the Funicular was built to transport visitors up the steep hill.

The Funicular still runs daily and is a must-do for any visitor. We took it to the top, and the kids kept exclaiming, “This is fun!” and each time they said “fun,” we automatically replied, “-icular!” From the tram’s upper station it’s 207 steps (yes, we counted) to the base of the statue, where you can see the city spread out and the Andes as the backdrop. It was so pretty — but again, a bit much like LA. A smoggy haze obscured the view, and the sprawl in the outlying valley had an uncanny resemblance to Glendale and Burbank.

The 1925 tram to the top of the park is called the Funicular. It is fun! (-icular!)

We shouldn’t pass any strong judgments on this city, though, because we barely got to know it. Like the Chilean version of Spanish that my ear can barely decipher — a rapid mumbling full of unfamiliar vocabulary — I’m just starting to figure it out, and now it’s time to go.

Santiago looking down from the peak of San Cristobal.

Another shot from our time in the sculpture garden.

Our non-traditional Thanksgiving dinner started with a platter of raw shellfish, followed by taking turns saying thanks. We are immensely grateful for this experience, and for our family, friends and health.

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The kids were troopers as we waited for a cab that never came and then walked a long way back carrying the groceries.

My first impressions generally hold true, but it turns out I got off on the wrong foot while getting to know Chacras de Coria, the town where we spent the past eight days. A week ago, Morgan and I briefly considered leaving here early; now, on our last day, we don’t want to depart.

This suburb of Mendoza has been described as “tranquil” and a “gourmet ghetto” of restaurants, but our introduction to the town goes down as one of our more stressful days of travel.

We came to Mendoza to see the wine region and stay at the highly rated Casa Glebinias — an enchanting collection of casitas in a garden setting. Exhausted and stiff from a 17-hour overnight bus ride (read Colly’s post for details) and lacking a rental car, we decided to walk the three kilometers to the main square in search of groceries rather than call a cab.

The first thing we noticed were high walls, bars and razor wire encasing each property. Graffiti and litter covered much of the streetscape, as though little care is given to the world beyond each person’s guarded property line.

Home, safe home: Driveways like this are typical around Mendoza.

Walking to town turned out to feel riskier than crossing eight lanes of traffic in Buenos Aires. Most of Chacras’s narrow streets are lined by two-foot-wide open irrigation ditches called acequias that are part of Mendoza’s historic and ingenious system for watering its bodegas. Morgan, the kids and I carefully walked single file between the ditch and the street, trying not to fall into the murky water or get hit by cars that graze the shoulder as they impatiently pass each other. We frequently were startled and inadvertently jumped sideways as barking Dobermans and other ferocious-looking guard dogs rushed at us from behind cyclone fencing.

Irrigation ditches on virtually every street in the Mendoza region capture runoff from the Andes and transport the water to the bodegas (wineries).

When we reached the center of town, we realized we had made the mistake of coming mid-afternoon, when everything shuts down for siesta. Virtually every business opens from about 9 to 1 or 2, then closes until 5 and reopens until 8. Restaurants generally serve lunch from 1 to 3:30, when families eat a large meal and then nap. People return home from work after 8 and start dinner around 9:30 or 10.

We arrived to the center of Chacras around 3:30 and found the business district eerily deserted, every store locked and barred. We killed time exploring until the market reopened. (The kids periodically asked, “Where are we going?” and wilted each time we answered, “Not sure.”) After we bought groceries, we asked a nice clerk to call us a cab — and waited, and waited. Eventually, we shouldered the groceries and began a long march back. The kids were silent and stony faced, having crossed over to that point everyone periodically reaches during travel, when exhaustion, disorientation and over-stimulation push the body and mind into an autopilot mode of endurance.

The back door of our casita -- the one the dogs know how to open -- leads to the garden.

It was one bad afternoon — that’s all, and it was soon to be erased by the rejuvenation we discovered at Casa Glebinias, where we’re renting a two-bedroom casa.

The gate to this property, which sits on one of the town’s cleanest and quietest streets, opens to nearly two acres of garden in full bloom. Some fifty trees — including different types of conifers, maples and citrus — surround and dot the property. Roses, azaleas, lavender and blooming vines climb and color every wall. The perfumed 80-degree warm air is filled with the sound of songbirds and two honking peacocks.

Colly gasped when she saw it and said, “This is just like The Secret Garden!” She’s right — it’s a hidden garden paradise.

Colly and Kyle were thrilled to discover their "secret garden" includes a play structure.

This view of the other side of the play structure shows the owner's house in the background.

A retired couple named Alberto and Maria Gracia tend the garden and host the guests. He worked as a scientist and she was an art historian before they became full-time innkeepers. They built their home here twenty-five years ago, and only three years ago built the casitas for rentals. Alberto recycled and restored much of the building materials — including tall, century-old doors with intricate moldings and antique hardware — so the guest houses look as though they were designed in the early 20th century.

In stark contrast to the angry guard dogs that scared us elsewhere in the neighborhood, Alberto’s three dogs — two shepherds and a black Lab mix — adopted us as soon as we moved in.  The black one stands on his hind legs and uses a front paw to work our door knob (we don’t have the heart to lock him out), and he and his two friends freely enter our house and lay at our feet throughout the day.

I'll miss working in this spot! We had a lot of good meals and homeschooling sessions around this table.

These are two of the three pooches who were by our sides all week long.

Turned off by Chacras on our first day, and lacking transportation, I decided I’d be content to stay ensconced in our secret garden compound. Gradually, though, we ventured out, each time warming up to the neighborhood and its people. The restaurants, which seemed so off-putting when we first saw them darkened and locked behind bars during the day, transformed themselves after dark into lively hubs that revealed large back yards with outdoor seating. Everyone was so friendly when we met them. One of our favorites, Las Negras, warmly welcomed us on a night when power was lost in a wind storm. They stayed open for business by the light of dozens of candles. Every bottle of Mendoza malbec we tried there and elsewhere lived up to its reputation, always superior to the white wines we tasted.

This restaurant made do during a power outage with dozens of candles, and we had an unforgettable meal.

After a few days, which included an unforgettable excursion on horseback, we felt overdue to explore the city center of Mendoza. We expected a smaller version of Buenos Aires with high rises, traffic and noise, but instead found a leafy city with stores and sidewalk cafes reminiscent of Santa Barbara.

We started by walking around Plaza Independencia and noticed groups of teenagers and adults, probably at least 300 total, parading with banners and colorful flags in preparation for some kind of performance. The banners revealed that they were choral groups from all over Argentina celebrating an annual gathering. We stood among them and watched curiously as they divided into roughly four big groups, grew quiet, and then followed a conductor’s instructions to break into a chorus of Handel’s Messiah. As the familiar English lyrics and brilliant four-part harmony hit my ears, I felt tears spring to my eyes and goosebumps on my arms — that was not what I expected to hear on that random afternoon in Mendoza!

Choral groups from around Argentina filled Mendoza's Plaza Independencia with song during our visit there.

We returned the next day, this time in running gear, and headed for the vast Parque San Martin, which is about as big as Central Park and houses a decent zoo. The park was designed 100 years ago by a famous French-Argentine named Carlos Thays who also designed the glorious 3 de Febrero park in Buenos Aires. Morgan and I took turns touring the zoo with the kids (who were enchanted by all the springtime baby animals, especially the baboons) while the other one of us ran around the park.

The gothic gates to Mendoza's Parque San Martin.

Morgan and I keep puzzling about how our feelings toward the town of Chacras and the greater Mendoza area evolved over a mere week. We’ve grown accustomed to the feel of the place; as we walk to and from town for errands, we overlook or shrug off the crumbing infrastructure and graffiti and instead focus on the trees, the interesting hand-lettered signs and the textured color washes of paint. Many of the security details — the bars, wire mesh and fences — appear on closer inspection to have decorative touches. How can someplace that at first seemed rather intimidating and unattractive now seem so comfortable and quaint? I’m sure there’s a lesson about traveling to be spelled out from that, but for now I’ll just accept it with gratitude and leave with a more open mind.

Goodbye, rock and corner that felt like home after a week. (That's me in blue in the background.) This is a well-known landmark in Chacras; if I told any cab driver to turn right at "la piedra pintada," they knew where to go.

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