This feeling of being an adult who’s somehow missed the path is exactly what Neil Hayward expresses in his unintentional memoir, Lost Among The Birds. Anyone who hopes to find themselves this year should read his book.
“How confident do you mean when you say ‘confident swimmer?'” I challenged our guide for the second time that morning. Only two things could cancel the trip up Guanapo Gorge: afternoon storms and our own insecurities.
For the last 455 days, one very settled position (we bought a house!) offered unexpected views, and a brand new perspective on what I’d previously considered familiar scenery. . .
I imagine giants above us, and stare up the narrow cliff sides as if up their bare legs; for the mountains of rock debris could be some fantastical gate destroyed by enormous hands.
Queenstown’s aluminum roofs shrink to bread boxes, then postcards, as we gain height; at 4,500 feet, it’s a crumb-sized civilization clinging to Lake Wakatipu’s eastern shore…
Lost means little when you’re halfway up a rock face, wedged furtively between towers of stone. Every surface looks the same from this angle; no map promises us stable footing.
My partner and I are chasing cairns to the top of Mount Parsons.
But my boyfriend, Hadyn, feels about fishing as I feel about traveling: that it is an act of passion, of reverence, which must be practiced as often as possible in order to feel a legendary moment of aliveness. Both activities share a pull that only the dedicated will ever understand.
