 | A couple of years ago I went on a road trip with Dr Jo through Central Otago, inland from the coast on which we both reside and right into the midst of the strange lakes and arid mountains of that massively scenic region. It was late autumn. 'Central' is very sparsely populated, a happy circumstance for any contemplative invert; in fact, it is beyond lonely, its prevailing character (to me) being one of ambient spookiness. I find Lake Wanaka (left) particularly haunting and don't care to spend much time staring into its endless blue volumes for a variety of reasons. It is a hungry place to me, latent and sinister, both passive and aggressive. It's photogenic enough though, as is its smaller neighbour, Lake Hawea, which also features here. Strangely this latter body possesses none of Wanaka's negativity despite lying less than a click distant and sharing its geological features. Why do expanses of water seemingly accrue their own character and energy? Perhaps they are a lens for the forces that surround them. Maybe it's just my anthropomorphic bullshit. |
^ A steep ridge stationed over Lake Hawea. The slender aluvial fans by the shore provide grazing for cattle (below) but the ground is generally spent and dry in autumn. These last vestiges of green were contained on the (I think) western shore by the deserted camping ground. These exposures are quite representative; the enclosing geology mutes and moderates the otherwise bone-searing daylight, filtering it through a hat of downy cloud and bouncing it off the cracked, striated slate of the surrounding hillsides. The geology has a history of extreme violence, lying adjacent to the magnificent Alpine Fault which will likely express itself with another of its regularly-scheduled magnitude 8 quakes in the near future. I don't say that lightly, but what can you do?
 |  |
^ Those really are power lines. There are wire-swagged pylons everywhere you go in NZ, regardless of the value of the surrounding landscape. They photoshop them out of the brochures, which always makes me smile.
There was a stretch of mixed exotic and nature forest behind the camping ground, grading up into the hill above. It had been partially burnt out and was full of the sour dark colours and smells of dead vegetation, a blanket of damp charcoal collapsing underfoot as we walked through it. There is something intensely pathetic about blackened trees, their tilted, twisted forms sagging and capitulating while their surviving neighbours divide their decaying substance between themselves and enjoy the sunlight admitted by their demise. All kinds of unfamiliar fungi were emerging; porcelain white and gleaming caviar-coloured mycena, chrome-yellow amanitas and dour, spongey boletus.
There was a stretch of mixed exotic and nature forest behind the camping ground, grading up into the hill above. It had been partially burnt out and was full of the sour dark colours and smells of dead vegetation, a blanket of damp charcoal collapsing underfoot as we walked through it. There is something intensely pathetic about blackened trees, their tilted, twisted forms sagging and capitulating while their surviving neighbours divide their decaying substance between themselves and enjoy the sunlight admitted by their demise. All kinds of unfamiliar fungi were emerging; porcelain white and gleaming caviar-coloured mycena, chrome-yellow amanitas and dour, spongey boletus.
Below: Lake Wanaka, silent and eyeless and yet somehow perceptive of the observer. In summer it is beset by a surfeit of picnicking douchebags and power boats and pissy trout fishermen but they are fairweather types and typically scatter toward the end of the 'good' weather. There was nobody there when we were. Nobody.
The wind has a singular smell in the mountains of Central, almost like dried blood. It's laden with powdery, pale grey moraine dust and settles in the back of your throat, emerging every time you cough or spit. Your lips crack quickly when it's cold like this and your hair becomes animalic, slightly matted and beaten-looking.
Looking over these images strengthens my previously-stated (in the Glacier post) conviction that mountains are a universal thing; these scenes could be virtually anywhere on the planet. They could be Kashmir or British Colombia or Bolivia. Pas d'importance. They'll all be called something else in due course.
Looking over these images strengthens my previously-stated (in the Glacier post) conviction that mountains are a universal thing; these scenes could be virtually anywhere on the planet. They could be Kashmir or British Colombia or Bolivia. Pas d'importance. They'll all be called something else in due course.
Fresh snow has a deliciously fatty visual quality, as though it were the blessed excess sucked from the backside of some celestial being and smeared all over the schist. It always makes me think of muttonfat jade. Or marzipan.
We don't associate snow with xmas down here; it's a June/July/August thing for us.
We don't associate snow with xmas down here; it's a June/July/August thing for us.
We stayed at Makarora which is at the western end of Wanaka and took a few trips down the Haast highway.
I'll post some images from those sorties next time.
I'll post some images from those sorties next time.
RSS Feed
