Not all who wander are lost... but sometimes we
were.
Figuratively, in the scenery, pretty much all day, every day, for two weeks straight.
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At a loss, when our 90's Nissan Sunny (who shall from now on be called "Stinky") protested a steep descent with stinking brakes and acrid smoke. We didn't even have a tape to listen to in the tape deck while we waited for it to cool down so we could coast back to our hotel.
Potentially lost, as we wove through the Catlins, bombing down back roads in search of the sights, all the while trying to outrun the rain.
Lost in the music on New Year's Eve, as we grooved to live tunes while the dying embers of a giant bonfire
sizzled in the mist.
Maybe lost in the woods off the Milford Road,
when we set off down a side trail, after passing through mossy woods and gazing
over a crystal-clear lake. Luckily, Shannon's sense of direction didn't fail
us, and we emerged, unscathed and only slightly muddy, exactly where we needed
to be.
Losing our stress at Otago wineries, twisting down the valley away from the hustle and bustle of Queenstown.
Lost in the countless cracks and crevasses of Franz Joseph Glacier.
Literally lost, on the streets of Greymouth, strangely deserted on the shores of the Tasman Sea, salted by the mist brought in by the stiff sea breeze.
Lost in the rhythm of our strokes as we paddled Queen Charlotte Sound, outrunning the rain once again and making the most of our last few days.
I would say I've lost the words to describe this incredibly beautiful place, but I'm not convinced there are words in existence that would capture the experience.
