Sunday in Queenstown: Much better than Saturday.

I rose about 8:30 this morning, dressed, and packed all my things to go. Kendall, Kim and I slid together under the 10 AM checkout time, then stuffed our luggage back in the car and split up. Kendall went to find a cafe and study, Kim to catch the gondola, and I made for the Queenstown Hill trailhead. Despite signage almost as confusing as Saturday's (Sign at X: "Go to Y." Sign at Y: "Go to X.") I found the trailhead and started to climb. Well, continued really -- the track begins at some 50 m of altitude above the lake,, and it's all uphill from there.

The vast majority of the climb took me through exotic vegetation--cathedral-forests of wilding Douglas firs, solemn and elegant especially since virtually nothing grew beneath them. According to the signs, their symbiotic mycorrhiza are horribly allelopathic (translation: they have fungi on their roots that kill anything that isn't a Douglas fir). As I plodded upwards I paused here and there to read interpretive signs on Queenstown history (and scoff at the image of Maori tribes in perfect harmony with nature; where do they think the moa went?), to cheer on and examine the few scraggly native plants in the understory, to uproot pine seedlings, or just to catch my breath and take in the solemn atmosphere. Yesterday's snow filtered in pinheads and droplets through the branches above, adorning shafts of sunlight with transient jewels.

A third of the way up, the trail passed through something marked on the map as a "Time Gate". This turned out to be an elegant wrought-iron gate, two meters tall and adorned with native life. A tui and a kererū faced off and fluttered under a stylized sun; beneath a fern frond swam eels and a kokopu, weaving under Mt. Cook buttercups and above another sun. It bore a ten-year patina of rust as well as if it were made for it. Inscriptions in verse on a stone just ahead of the gate, dated 2000, prayed guidance from the past and wisdom for the future. I stood admiring the artistry long enough to catch my breath (and wish again that I hadn't forgotten my camera!), then lifted the gate's latch and slipped through.

Above were more wilding pines: as the canopy closed in, the monoculture deepened. Farther up, I paused to take in the view from a clifftop side trail. An arm of Lake Wakatipu, another buff-burnished hil, the razor-backed Remarkables, distant plains and ridges of Otago... it was beautiful. The apparently-local couple who stopped by as I sat and munched a granola bar, though, commented that the view had been better ten years ago, before the pines cut it to 40 degrees from 240. I never thought I'd find myself considering the virtues of clear-cutting.

Ten minutes above the lookout, I saw the first tussocks and bracken. Five minutes after that, the pines fell away entirely and I stood on the open grasslands near the hilltop. Shallow ponds dotted a pale gold landscape of small (obviously grazed) snow tussocks and tough, dense shrubs. With the treeline still close below, the views could definitely improve; so I elected to go on, climbing the last 15 minutes of farm road to the hill's summit, 500 m above the trailhead.

It was cold up there--the wind had teeth, and yesterday's snow lay 2 cm thick and crusted on the ground. Oh, was it worth it! Sapphire lake to the north and west, with the mountains shouldering inexorably out of its shores; peaks wearing fresh snow like winter silks; rolling near-tundra away to the east, mottled white and tawny gold. I sheltered behind a caird to eat my lunch, then braved the wind to explore awhile. When the cushion plants beside the trail proved with tiny, waxy flowers that they were definitely not mosses, I could no longer resist snipping off a few minute samples for later identification. (It was grazed land, so I could justify it...) You know you're developing biologist reflexes when forgetting the sample bag doesn't stop you -- I just tucked them into my sunglasses-case.

Eventually, of course, the view and the sense of place became less important than my freezing ears, and I headed back down. The other arm of the loop proved shorter and more open, which was nice (less pines). As usual, the way down was less work but more painful -- my ankles aren't going to let me forget for a few days that I descended 550 m on them -- but the smug satisfaction of looking down at the top of the gondola was worth it, to say nothing of the grasslands and the view.

At the bottom, back in town, I was surprised to discover that I had a few hours left til the gang met up again. For a little while I basked in the sun on the tiny village green, then headed back to the chocolate-cafe for round two of tea and views. This time I got up the courage to try the "Kawakawa Fire" blend, which was -- as promised -- unusual. The taste reminded me of lemongrass and cayenne pepper. It'd be great for a cold day... I should find out where they got the stuff. (After-the-fact edit: Kawakawa is a native plant, Macropiper excelsum, otherwise known as pepper tree. The name fits!)

One savored teapot later, I headed back for the car and met Kim on the way. We chatted awhile, talking of our day's adventures and of ourselves, until Steph came. Then the three of us began the awkward dance of meeting everyone up. Eventually we, our gear, and our assorted dinners all made it to the car at the same time: we stuffed ourselves in and were off. Naps, studying for the Plant Ecology lab exam, carsickness... We made it to Dunedin about 10:00, just as the last of the light drained from the sky and left me contemplating moon-worship. All in all, rather a good weekend!