It is hard to convey how it feels, physically, to come back to the South Island from the North. It’s like falling in love…all over again. I have been giddy and honestly have known – like when I notice how blue the sky is – that I am, in that moment, the luckiest person on earth. While I wouldn’t have skipped the Tongariro Crossing, Coromandel Peninsula, or the Bay of Islands, as soon as we landed in Nelson, I knew I could live here. There’s something magical on the South Island, and everyone feels it. Nelson, NZ, is “The Good Place.” What do you imagine the weather will be like in heaven – always pleasant? Just warm enough? And the streets will be clean, not a shred of trash anywhere. Will there be cars? Maybe, but not too many, certainly none that are flashy, and while we’re at it, let’s replace traffic lights with traffic circles. Why should anyone have to wait? And if you take a taxi, maybe the driver decides that what the meter says is too much.  This happened in Nelson, where Don was told, “Just give me $25” for the $29 ride. Don was holding a $20 and a $5, but didn’t want to short the driver, so he replied, “can you give me change for $40?” Don got back $15 on $40.

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Lest you think you’d have to sacrifice letting the good times roll for this dreamy, decent life, I will point out that Don and I were “entertained” late into the night by a wedding reception taking place just down the hall at the Trailways Inn. Backing up, we had eaten dinner at a hip restaurant, one “Urban Oyster:”marinated fish with crispy rice, braised lamb shoulder, spicy stuffed peppers, and cardamom ice cream with chocolate mousse and bits of toffee.

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The Abel Tasman Walk, northwest tip of the South Island: Just a few days ago, Don was able to book us on a second Great Walk, this one unguided, through Abel Tasman National Park. The story behind this park is intriguing. Ornithologist Perrine Moncrieff (who would go on to serve on the Park board from 1943-1973) lobbied the government to reserve the land. Existing homes were grandfathered in; some are now used as overnight huts for hikers; others are still privately owned. An occasion was needed, so they decided to celebrate the tricentennial of the 1642 landing of Abel Tasman, the Dutch sailing captain who beat a fast retreat back to Holland when his party was repelled on the beach by the Maori. In tribute, they named Wilhelmina, the queen of the Netherlands at the time, as Patron. Tasman did not get NZ for the Dutch, but he did have a sea (Tasman) and an island state (Tasmania) named after him.

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There were a few famous settlers. In 1856, the first European landowner, William Gibbs, arrived in Totaranui Bay (Maori had lived there for 500 years already and were still in occupation). Gibbs created a “model” farm on over 7000 acres, planted a tree-lined avenue, and even opened two holiday cottages for rent to “holiday makers.” His dairy farm supplied milk to Nelson. Gibbs sold Totaranui to William Henry Pratt, whose son Bert brought his newly wed wife over in 1914, and built a home in the “very modern” California bungalow style. The property went through a couple of other hands, but was eventually purchased by the Crown in 1948. By that time the original Gibbs homestead (1878) had burned down, but Bert and Martha Pratt’s house was still standing and is now a private cottage. I can’t imagine the kind of people who would do this. Was there nowhere to put a dairy farm in England? This place is so remote. The first day I was here, I kept remembering “The Piano.” The scene where they drop off Holly Hunter’s piano and drag it across the sand could have been filmed here. The high winds and crashing waves on the beach, same. The trekking through the jungle palms, ferns, beeches, and huge rata trees – but minus the tattooed Maori warrior – same.

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Abel Tasman is the smallest national park (at 92 sq. miles, 59,000 acres) but with a ton of coastline snaking in and out of bays (similar to Maine).  Squinting at the map, Don judged this 40-mile walk an “easy” one. Two days in, we have been reminded that lines close together mean elevation. But the hiking is grand. We climb steep, but short hills to walk the ridgeline between bays. Day 2, we kept our eye on time, because we knew from Wally (more on him below) that if we didn’t make it to a mile-long stretch of beach during low tide, we were SOL. Don the Intrepid has just now told me that after our “easy” day today (12k and 4 hours), we have an 8-hour day tomorrow (24k). At our national parks, “8 hours” usually means something considerably less; here, not so much. Update: Incredible Day! But yes, we just hiked 17 miles, with a dunk into “Cleopatra’s Pool” and even time for a nap in the sun on the beach while we waited for the Aqua Taxi.

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You’ve just got to love the “common-sense” contract between us independent hikers and the guides who point us where we need to go. Day 1, we were dropped off on a deserted beach and told to go “that way.” For 13 miles, we walked “the path less travelled” at the northern end of the park, which is only accessed by aqua taxi or on foot. (If you sign up for this walk, make sure and do the 4-day; otherwise you will not see the northern part). In this world of lodge keepers, van drivers, and guides, everybody knows everybody else. “Wally” greeted us with big smiles and excitement to tell us all about the walk; all day long, we’d recall the tips he’d hastily given us while pointing at the map: “eat lunch at Mutton Point, don’t go down the steep steps to Separation Point, you’re going to think you’ve gotten to the top of Whangarara Point but keep climbing.” Wally handed us lunches made by “Deb” (we would open them to find thick slices of ham and cheese spread with mayo and seeded mustard between fresh bread), handed us off to “Jack” the aqua taxi driver who just knew he has the best job in the world, and insisted that we eat the 3-course dinner at “Steve’s.” I think: How can we come halfway around the world and feel like we’re already a part of this close-knit, happy community?

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In my opinion, this walk is every bit as glorious as the Milford Trek, but for different reasons. Rather than bond with the group, we’ve made friends all along the way. Yesterday morning, our innkeeper Steve drove to pick up our overnight bags and six hours later, met us across the island literally two minutes after we had finished our hike. After he opened the hatch for our backpacks, he asked if I was thirsty, to which I replied: “Yes, but I’ve got some more water.” “Would you like a beer?” After a day of serendipity (which, of course, only means that the random parts fall into a happy pattern), I just knew that there’d be a bathrobe in the room full of antiques that Steve’s partner Pete decorated. Hmmm, no luck with the back of the bathroom door, try the wardrobe. Of course! They have created an oasis here, with flowers blooming and a hot tub to sit in. After our amazing dinner and sweet little breakfast at a table set with silver and those old-fashioned delicate linens, Steve handed us our bag lunches for the day, there were hugs all around, and we were off. There’s something about someone making your lunch for you, especially a sandwich, where the meat and cheese and fillings have been layered and apportioned just so. I almost expected to find a lunchbox note: “I hope you liked the red onions and bell peppers.”

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Meg asked us an interesting question before she left, really a “c’mon, what’s it like being together day in and day out?” question that came out: “what do you guys talk about?” A bit defensively, I (at least) scrambled to come up with interesting things. But the truth is, Don and I are often quiet. On our walks, we laugh a lot (usually at each other or ourselves), but we cherish the silent stretches where we can feel the beauty and stillness take hold. I get to put my mind in a space where a thought can actually happen.

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An example: The extraordinary nature of this trek means that we are walking for hours on end, alone on a trail, with no sounds other than the waves crashing and the birds chattering. I especially love the trees and can’t get enough of their various postures and gestures. I look at them and see dancers waving their arms, old warriors sprouting bromeliads, homes for the Swiss family Robinson, and intimately entwined partners. On their bark and in their root systems is inscribed a record of time passing, of growth and branching out, of storms and erosion. When you spend time in a place like this, you realize that we humans cannot improve upon nature. We can bend it to our uses, but we simply cannot make it more beautiful. Isn’t this where art begins? Artists (simply, the inspired) either try to imitate nature or express the way that natural forms and shapes and processes make them feel. From art comes culture and eventually, machines that mimic organic structures or movement.

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So, a long-winded answer to Meg’s question. But there are other reasons why Don and I love just walking. A brief example may suffice to illustrate:

Three-quarters of the way through our hike yesterday, we get a text from Meg that she has arrived safely in Seattle and is back at home. The text reads: “Yah, I’m home, but Janice’s whole family is here. Ha ha. It’s okay though.“ Janice is the latest of Nick’s friends who has enjoyed the comforts of our home. If we’ve been away almost 3 months now, well then, that means that Janice (a college friend) has been at our house for almost 3 months now. The Janice part is not alarming, though it has been hard to nail down when Janice might be moving on with our living-at-home child Nick. As a parent of three twenty-somethings, we still fumble when it comes to text messages. Above, the “ha ha” from Meg could mean, I’m just kidding. Alternately, it could mean “ha ha,” I’m awkwardly laughing because I know that what I just said might send up some red flags. I kind of wish I could untype it, but I’m going to just steam right ahead. Spot on, Meg. So Don texts Meg back: “are you kidding? Or for real?” As I unravel the possible meanings of this exchange, I envision “Janice” being visited by her parents in Seattle. Two minutes later, I find out I am only partially right when we receive Meg’s next text: “For real. I think her brother’s looking at colleges.” So let me get this straight. Not only are both parents there, but there’s a younger sibling. Any more children that couldn’t be left at home? All of a sudden, I am jerked out of my NZ reverie, counting the bedrooms in my house, and hoping that Janice and her family will not be in “my” house when I get back just over three weeks from now. Nobody’s perfect, certainly not me. But Nick could have at least told us that 1500 18^th Ave East is now a lodge. Now you have a taste of how blessed it is to walk softly on God’s green earth a million (well, several thousand) miles “away.”