Jackson Bay and Rob Roy Glacier

Ed and I set out on two day trips from Wanaka in two days; the hours in the car went quickly because the scenery was beautiful. Mostly pictures below, as they'll tell the story better than I ever could.

Jackson Bay

This spot on the west coast of New Zealand is a great spot to see penguins! Or so we were told. The drive was about 2.5 hours each way, which is a bit much, but Eliot told us about the Blue Pools about an hour into the drive that we just had to see. Figuring this would break things up and make it twice as worth the trip, we set off early in the morning. The walk to the Blue Pools took about 15 minutes from the main road. We'd been driving through hills covered with dry, brown grass but the moment we stepped onto the trail (or "track" as it is called here) we were transported into what felt more like a jungle. Moss-covered tree trunks protruded from a sea of ferns. 

We crossed a rather wobbly suspension bridge over a river that gave us a sneak peek at the color of the water that would be in the pools. Thanks to sediment from glaciers, the shade of blue is spectacular. 

It was still early enough to be chilly by the time we got to the pools. Ed estimates the temperature of the water was in the 50's. So we banished any thoughts of swimming and just enjoyed the scenery.

Lots of people had left their mark in the schist field to one side of the biggest pool. While the towers of rocks were kind of cool, I prefer nature to look a little more, well, natural. 

We climbed back into the car after our little respite and kept driving toward the coast. The sign below seemed promising:

We walked through the "town" in about 90 seconds. The track to the beach was a little longer, and I was glad because it was quite beautiful. Ferns and lush greenery surrounded us on all sides, and we spotted tiny fish in the creek next to the path. Birds entertained us with their antics (something birds seem to be pretty into doing here in New Zealand). But when we got to the beach, its most notable attribute was its lack of penguins. 

This is pretty much the whole beach.

At least I thought that was its most notable attribute. Ed thought its most notable attribute was swarms of sandflies. I'd never heard of these before coming here. If you haven't, be grateful, because they are an absolute menace. Though foiled by long sleeves and pants, there isn't much else that thwarts them. Instead of drinking the blood of their victims through a sharp proboscis, the method used by sophisticated insects like mosquitoes, sandflies, as Eliot explained, "hack away at your skin with tiny knives, spread anti-coagulant saliva over the gash, then slurp away."I, in long, protective clothing, scrambled along the boulders out to the point to see whether a colony of penguins lay just beyond our view. Ed provided a buffet for the sandflies. Eventually, disappointed (me) and bleeding (Ed), we trekked back to the town to the Craw Pot, a restaurant the very size and shape of a train car (a comparison which may explain its origin) for some truly exceptional fish and chips and something called a mussel fritter, which is a fried patty of chopped up mussels and seasonings.

We learned from a placard in town that penguins typically molt on the beach between January and February. By about March, they head out to sea and are gone for a few months, so we suspect that's why we didn't see any. But it all turned out pretty well, actually, because if we had seen penguins I probably wouldn't have been scanning the beach so carefully as we drove away. Through the window of the car, I saw what seemed to be small black heads poking out of the water, only to disappear a moment later. We pulled over and walked out to the beach, where we saw that what I'd thought were heads were, in fact, fins. They looked like dorsal fins because of the way they were emerging, then vanishing, but they were rounded. And there was too much reflection on the water to tell what they were. But then there was a slightly larger wave and we realized what we were seeing. They were dolphins.

I did NOT take this picture, and we did not see them out of the water. But this will give you an idea, since you've probably never heard of or seen this kind of dolphin.

Based on the way they were swimming all over the place close to the surface, we guessed that the dolphins were probably eating. But every now and then a few of them would take a break to surf toward the shore on a wave. I saw lots of individual fins and lots of pairs of fins, too. It was fantastic - I could have watched them all day. Ed, however, who had discovered that this beach also played host to its own sandflies, was soon ready to go.

We learned later that this particular breed is called Hector's dolphin. They are very small, have rounded dorsal fins, and are found only in this part of the world. They are known for being very playful, and their babies are born in January, which may explain why I saw so many fin pairings: I'll bet they were mothers and little ones. We drove back through more lovely scenery, and I thought the hours on the road were well worth it.

Rob Roy Glacier

The following day, our target was much closer. Rob Roy Glacier is only about an hour and twenty minutes from Wanaka. It's actually closer than that drive time indicates, but the last third of the drive follows a dirt road punctuated by many, many "fords" that forced us to drive through at a snail's pace for fear of getting stuck in the water. There were lots of skinny waterfalls pouring down out of nowhere, thanks to the glacier fields that are all over the tops of the mountains in this part of the country.

The hike to the viewing area--this is not a glacier one would want to walk on because it's covered with crevasses and rather unstable--took us a little less than 90 minutes (including lots of stops for photos and gazing around). There were quite a few wildflowers and for a while everything was lush, green, and tropical rather than Arctic. But then, suddenly, I spotted the glacier looming above is through a break in the foliage. 

The river we walked alongside for much of the hike was the expected vivid blue of a river fed by glacial melt. The whole thing was lovely, though a bit steep for my recovering hip... I was glad to have brought my trekking poles!

We waited for a bit at the upper viewing area hoping to see an icefall, but nothing happened and so, having rested a bit, we headed back down and were treated to more sweeping views of the valley carved by the paths of previous glaciers. 

Akaroa

Akaroa (ah-kuh-RO-uh) is a one of the larger tiny towns along one of the many bays that ring the strange little nub that sticks out of the east coast of New Zealand below Christchurch. On the map below, you'll see it on the right side of the largest bay. (Ignore the pin. I did not create this image, but it shows the general area pretty well.)

The drive from Christchurch took about an hour and a half, but, as anyone who has driven much in New Zealand knows, it was a rigorous hour and a half. Unlike the United States, which has long stretches of straight highway that hardly require you to steer, every road we've driven on in New Zealand twists and turns on its way up and down hills. There is no downtime behind the wheel. I was a bit anxious to travel to this part of New Zealand because there have been terrible fires recently. (Investigations are ongoing, but foul play is suspected.) I wondered if parts of the road would be closed or whether the skies would be filled with smoke. We were surprised, however, to see only one burned spot, and for the most part it seemed that only the grass had burned away. The trees still seemed green and intact. 

If you look very carefully you can just see a plume of smoke in the very center of this picture. A singed hillside lies to its right. Fires were mostly contained by the time we drove by, though we did see a helicopter toting a large bucket of fire-retardant. 

We passed through several tiny towns on our winding way toward Akaroa. They often came as surprises because the road carried us up and down so steeply and suddenly that often we couldn't see what was on either side of us. There was little traffic, for which I was very glad because the road was unbelievably narrow, and every bus or truck that roared by left me gasping. Eventually, we worked our way up to Summit Road, which, as you would imagine, traces the apex of a line of hills. We pulled over, captivated by the view that dropped off on either side of us. 

Summit Road

To the right - not a lake but a bay!

To the left - the open ocean

We had a quick lunch, then headed to Le Bons Bay. Eliot recommended this spot for an open-water swim, and it was purported to be both one of the most beautiful bays in the area and to have one of the best beaches. The road, impossibly, grew even narrower as we headed down the hill toward the beach. Lush pastures beckoned on either side of the road, populated by newly shorn sheep and occasional groupings of horses. Flowers--wild roses, lupines, and lots of others I couldn't identify--were in full swing.

The beach proved to be lovely indeed, though very windy. There were hardly any people on it and the sand was soft and fine, albeit covered with piles of some of the heartiest seaweed I've ever seen. Some of it was kelp-like, and other types had tentacles that looked and felt like strips of leather. The water was that unbelievable shade of turquoise I have always associated with the tropics (though, in my opinion, it was pretty darn chilly here).

Ed tested the water. It was shallow for quite a ways out, but it appeared to calm down a bit where it finally got deeper. He donned his wetsuit and headed out but lasted only about 15 minutes. The waves, even where they weren't breaking, were too big to get much of a swim in. 

I occupied myself with beach-combing. I've never been on a beach with more shells. Mostly I found thick, ridged clamshells and mussels, though there were some more exotic snails occasionally and rare pieces of fragile sand dollars. A few days ago we saw some mussels in a grocery store that seemed unbelievably large, but the shells on this beach put them to shame. The largest one I found was about as long as my foot. One would have needed a knife and fork to eat it, and I think I'd only have been able to manage about two. 

This is NOT the largest one I found; the big daddy was about 25% larger. 

From Le Bons, we drove into Akaroa. It is simply lovely. Attractive houses dot the hills and a string of shops and restaurants hugs the waterline. There is a small beach with a sandy area that gives way to rocks on either side, and people swam to and dove from a small floating dock. It was hot. Ed hopped into the bay for a much more successful swim while I explored the town, then we shared a bottle of Sauvingnon Blanc on a pleasant patio that featured a rather grungy-looking but very talented pianist. (The wine, like all Sauvs I've sampled here, was excellent. The winery is called Babydoll because the proprietors, eager for an environmentally sensible and cheap way to control weeds, got the idea of using sheep in their vineyards. Since normal sheep are tall enough to eat the grapes, however, they've opted for a breed called babydoll sheep that grow to be no more than two feet in height.) We very much enjoyed our stopover but were ready to head out the next day. Every storefront was devoted to tourism and the place was packed with other sightseers. While the locale is lovely, I don't recommend spending more time in Akaroa than it takes to soak in the natural beauty.

With a little time to kill before going to the airport, we opted to go to Willowbank Nature Reserve, which is a mere seven minutes from the Christchurch airport. We didn't have time to tour the whole thing, but there is a wonderful section that features animals native to New Zealand that we made our way through. One of the best features of this place is a kiwi house. Kiwi are strange creatures and almost no one gets to see them in the wild because they are nocturnal, shy, and masters of disguise. But the kiwi house is lit by only a few red lights, simulating night, and during daylight hours the kiwi stalk around hunting insects. (During the night, the lights in the house are turned on so that the kiwi will think it's daytime and go to sleep.) We entered the hushed, dark enclosure to find people lining a walkway, peering into the semidarkness to either side. Every now and then, someone would hiss or gesture to a companion and point into the dark borders, and if I strained hard enough I would see the odd, bobbing gait of a kiwi as it moved through the underbrush, probing the ground delicately with its long beak. They make a very soft sound as they hunt and move surprisingly quickly, considering their ungainly style. They were much bigger than I expected them to be.

This guy has nothing to do with our visit to Willowbank, but I'm including this picture so you can see how large kiwi are.

Another exciting encounter starred a bird I'd heard about but not yet seen. Happily, we couldn't have missed this little feathered show-stopper, as he nearly ran right into us! The fantail is larger than a sparrow and smaller than a robin, and its maneuverability is astounding. Fantails eat flying insects and they use their tails, which they can fold into a tight little bundle or spread into a dramatic splay, to help it swoop in tight, vertical trajectories as well as from side to side. The one we spotted was in hot pursuit of a bug flying right in front of us, and after it gave chase for a bit, it settled onto a branch right next to us to let us admire it. Its beak was tiny, but I suppose that's just the thing for catching gnats.

Other notable sights were a baby gibbon being coddled by both parents, a regiment of marching

New Zealand possums

ducks who hoped very much that we had bought bird food for them (we had not), a crested pigeon that looked like a punk rock musician, lots of black swans, kaka and kea birds (like parrots), and the dinosaur-like tuatara lizard. To Ed's disappointment, the ring-tailed lemur didn't show itself. We did, however, meet a native pig whose snout was oriented at such an angle that it's rather amazing it doesn't drown in rainstorms. The placard suggested that it enjoyed a scratch behind the ears, so Ed obliged and was rewarded with a grunt. We had learned that "possums" here are actually cute and cuddly-looking with soft fur (that is made into scarves, hats, and slippers, or spun along with merino wool into yarn for extra-warm sweaters), and we got to see one in the reserve that wasn't smashed in the middle of the road. Don't be fooled by their pretty faces, though. Possums are an invasive species and threaten native birds and mammals.

On our way out, we encountered a rather flustered looking mother with two tiny pairs of feet just visible under her skirts. As we watched, we realized that this was just the tip of the iceberg. Eventually, no fewer than nine little ones emerged. Ed couldn't resist making friends.

As we prepared for our flight back to Queenstown, we learned that we hadn't seen anything yet in terms of lax airport security in New Zealand. When one is scheduled to fly on a turbo prop plane, there is no check at all. We simply marched onto the plane, stowed our bags above our heads, and watched a little sadly as Christchurch fell away below us. 

Christchurch

Beyond a few quick tips thrown at us from Eliot, Ethel, and friends, Ed and I didn't know much about Christchurch. Nevertheless, I was excited to check out a new place. Wanaka is idyllic and wonderful and everyone there seems happy all the time. (Really, they do. It's almost ridiculous how happy everyone is.) But I wondered what a city in New Zealand would be like. Would the pace still be slow? Would people be as quick to smile and chat?

We set off from Wanaka to drive the hour to Queenstown a little early, as we planned to stop in Arrowtown, a tiny settlement just outside Queenstown with a breakfast spot called Chop Shop that, apparently, was not to be missed. Arrowhead was picturesque in a way that seemed too good to be true, with dramatic hillsides and front gardens bursting with flowers. But when we arrived at Chop Shop, a sign told us that the extractor fan was broken and the repairman on the roof confirmed that it was "proper buggered, eh," so we were forced to move on. A little French place with an patio next to a park sufficed.

Properly fueled, our next stop was a road right next to the airport where all the locals park to avoid long-term parking fees. From the spot we found for our car, the walk to the terminal took about four minutes. Security for domestic flights in NZ is wonderfully different from the US. The line was short and moved quickly. We had to take our laptops out of our bags, but our shoes stayed on. When I asked Eliot if we had to be careful about the amount of liquid we had in our carry-ons, he laughed and told us that, if we wanted to, we could take opened bottles of wine onto the plane. As the local saying goes, "Sweet as!"

If you ever fly north out of Queenstown, insist on a window seat on the left side of the airplane. The view of the mountains, aptly named the Remarkables, ain't half bad.

The flight took only about an hour, and in short order we were heading into Christchurch, or ChCh as people here often write it. After Wanaka's rolling hills, it was a little strange to see billboards, but the city itself was still attractive. Our first stop was the Curator's House, a restaurant along one edge of the Botanical Garden. We'd heard the garden was wonderful and hoped to kill two birds with one stone by eating right next to it. The restaurant itself felt like something out of Stratford Upon Avon, and the the views of the garden from all the windows was nothing short of charming. I loved our lunch and loved the garden even more. We found, to our surprise, that admission is free, and spent a (for me) deliriously happy hour strolling lush lawns, admiring the river, and gaping at the riot of color bursting from each flowerbed. I took few pictures, as I knew they couldn't come close to doing the place justice.

The Tudor-style building in the background is the Curator's House restaurant.

I was slightly dismayed to find that our hotel seemed to be in the middle of a construction zone. Ed stayed in the room to rest and I took myself on a walking tour of the city. I was astonished to discover that the construction zone seemed to encompass all of downtown. I'd read little about the 2010 and 2011 earthquakes that devastated Christchurch, but their aftermath is very much apparent even six years later. Research in the room later taught me that ChCh was hit by a seven-point-something earthquake in 2010 at 4:30 A.M., but there were few casualties and not TOO much damage. The second quake in 2011, though, was weaker but closer to the surface and caused catastrophic damage. Buildings that had been weakened by the first quake toppled, and since it was midday this time instead of the middle of the night, 185 people on their lunch breaks or working in tall office buildings were killed.

According to a couple from Denver who started chatting to us in a restaurant (i.e. Take this with a grain of salt), part of the delay in reconstruction was due to the lengthy process of figuring out which buildings were salvageable and which had to be demolished--fair enough--and part of it was political. Based on the architects' renderings on lots of the construction fences, the green walls that have sprung up all over the place, and the abundance of sculptures and whimsical, colorful outdoor furniture arranged in public places, ChCh seems to be committed to rebuilding a fresh and creative city. For now, though, I have to say the walk wasn't very pleasant. Sidewalks were often blocked off by equipment and the noise and dust from construction was everywhere. Few restaurants and shops seemed open for business, and although I saw people in office attire walking purposefully down sidewalks around 5:00, I couldn't imagine where they'd worked all day or where they were going; it felt like a war zone.

The remains of the cathedral

Just about all of downtown looks like this. Closed sidewalks were a particular annoyance, since cars drive on the left here and crossing streets is trickier for me than it is elsewhere in the world. I was never 100% confident that I'd looked where I was supposed to look before stepping into the street, even after glancing over both shoulders several times each.

The exception was reStart, a small collection of shipping containers-turned-retail spaces, in the middle of downtown. This was the first area to reopen after the second earthquake, apparently, and there are shops and several food trucks.

On a very good recommendation from Eliot, Ed and I walked to a part of the city that didn't seem to have sustained much damage to have pre-dinner cocktails at Boo Radley's. I loved the decor and service, and our drinks were top-notch. I recommend the Fig Old-Fashioned. Actually, I recommend two... Spending money in ChCh suddenly took on a new significance and I was glad to be supporting the scrappy, friendly city with our wallets. Our next stop was Strawberry Fare, where we enjoyed a wonderful dinner as the sun set and saved room for our dessert thanks to a well-timed tip from our cocktail waitress.

Although Christchurch is the third-biggest city in NZ (it was second in line until the earthquakes), Ed and I found it easy to walk around the downtown area, and we set out on foot again the next morning to go to C One, another recommendation from Eliot. This wonderful coffee shop has a great, retro vibe, excellent food, and clever touches that keep you entertained as you sip. We walked through a doorway hidden by a bookshelf to find the restroom (inside which a Harry Potter audiobook was playing) and filled our water glasses from an old sewing machine reconfigured into a spigot.

Turn the wheel to turn on the water! (If there hadn't been a slight drip coming from the hidden tap within we'd never have figured it out.)

I really liked Christchurch and recommend a visit there, but I imagine that if one holds out for a few more years it will be be even better. Give the construction teams swarming the city time to finish putting up all the innovative structures that are planned. 

Having gotten a dose of urban life, we got back on the road after polishing off our coffees to head west for a more natural setting.

First Days in NZ and Challenge Wanaka

After a very (very, very, very) long but smooth trip, we landed in Queenstown, rented a car, and drove on the left side of the road through paradise to Wanaka to arrive at Eliot and Ethel's house. Wanaka (pronounced WAN-uh-kuh) is rather like New Zealanders: quite wonderful and filled with spectacular qualities but approachable and warm. Lake Wanaka is large, rather chilly (it's fed by glacier melt) and boasts at least one small island that I've seen so far which has its own lake on it. It's a small town that plays hosts to lots of tourists without feeling like it's lost its character. 

View of the lake from Eliot and Ethel's rented house

Our time here so far has been nothing short of idyllic. We've walked into town for a few meals and cooked a few here at the house as well. Breakfast this morning was pastries that are made by a guy named Matt and are available only once a week at a tiny local market. The weather is delightfully warm and clear and the scenery is spectacular. I've done lots of sitting around and reading, but I've loved the drives we've taken, too. I went for both a walk and a run on my own and felt I could have wandered happily all day, admiring the fields of sheep and thriving plants, flowers, and trees. We're at the height of summer here. Sitting around in the sun is a welcome change from winter in my native hemisphere, but one has to remember to slather on sunscreen before even a brief exposure; the hole in the ozone that I've always associated only with Australia affects New Zealand, too.

One of our first stops was to see the house that Eliot and Ethel are building. It's up in the hills and has a splendid view of the valley below, which is cut through by the bluest river I have ever seen. During the drive there, I sat in the back seat with their American friend Nate who, as luck would have it, is a florist and was able to identify lots of the trees and plants we passed. (Eliot and Ethel, the friendliest and kindest of people, have amassed a huge group of friends who come to visit them in droves, even all the way down here, and they practically run a hostel out of their house.) We also drove by a paddock of deer. As an invasive species with no real predators, the deer were a real problem until some clever Kiwi decided that farming them and selling their meat was easier than trying to eradicate them. Sure enough, while we've seen plenty of wild rabbits around, we haven't seen any wild deer, and normal supermarkets have venison for sale at the meat counter. Put together, New Zealand's two islands are about the size of California, but there are only 4 million people here and 3 million of those live on the north island. (We are on the south.) So there are plenty of wide open spaces.

Ed spent yesterday getting registered and set up for Challenge Wanaka, which is a half-Ironman-distance race that is not run by the Ironman company. The differences were clear before we even arrived; while Ironman has a reputation for being strict and rather overly proud of themselves, Challenge races are friendlier and more laid back. When he tried to register late, Ed was told that it was no problem and that he could just pay them when he got here. Such a thing would be unheard of for Ironman. While in Ironman races an athlete can be disqualified for so much as receiving a tip from a coach or spectator along the course, here family members and friends often join their athletes in the finish chute and cross the line together.

The start of the swim. The men, in yellow caps, have just taken off and the women, in pink caps, are swimming out to line up for their own deep water start. 

The day before the race was HOT and we were a little worried that race day would be pretty miserable. The course is very tough, thanks to roads that are in bad shape (making the bike difficult) and lots of climbing on both the bike and run sections. But today, though sunny, had just enough wispy clouds and breeze to keep things comfortable and Ed had a great time. He finished well despite dropping his bike chain and cramping during the swim and the run portions.

Coming out of the water, heading for transition to hop onto his bike

The finish "chute," which forced the poor runners to make three 90-degree turns!

One of Ed's fellow racers was Scott Molina, an American who lives here in Christchurch. He has won the Ironman championships and is considered one of the best triathletes to have ever competed. He's a little long in the tooth these days, but it was fun to meet him a few nights before the race and cheer for him on the course. The overall winner was a local athlete with a reputation for being blazing fast, and his coach took third place. Each athlete on the podium was given a bottle of champagne, which they promptly shook, sprayed at each other, then toasted with. 

Champs with bubbly

Tomorrow Ed will likely lie around a lot and I plan to go for a run and maybe do a bit more walking by the lake. Monday, we'll drive back to Queenstown to hop a plan for the hour-long flight to Christchurch. It will be interesting to spend time in a larger (albeit not large) city in New Zealand, which as far as we are concerned is composed entirely of sheep pastures and pretty mountain ranges. I'm thrilled that we have more than a week left in this magical country!

...and We're Off!

After a very brief snafu this morning, Ed and I are off for a whirlwind tour of, well, lots of places. 

Last night was spent packing, cleaning out the fridge, frantically slapping stamps on envelopes that had to go out before we left...in short, all the usual things one has to do before leaving town and responsibilities largely behind for just over a month. Mischa's trainer came to pick her up around midday and we tried not to be offended that Mischa happily leapt into her car with hardly a backward glance at us. I subbed, did one last tutoring session, went running, and ran errands. Ed dismantled and thoroughly cleaned his bike, which is necessary because the biological defense force in New Zealand will be strict about letting it in if there are trances of potentially contaminated US soil on it. 

After a (6+ hourlong) stopover in San Francisco, we'll fly the 13 hours to Auckland, New Zealand, then follow that with a much briefer hop (just under two hours) to Queenstown, whereupon we'll drive to Wanaka to meet our dear friends Eliot and Ethel for a two-week stay. Since the roads are oriented differently than we're used to, Eliot has provided the helpful mantra "death comes from the right."

After two weeks there, with jaunts to Christchurch, possibly some glaciers, and lovely hiking trials, we'll stop in Hong Kong for two nights to reunite with my friend Conor the Chef before heading to India for a further two weeks of adventure. 

Of course, a trip like this requires lots of precautions. Ed and I both had to get vaccines and boosters for things like hepatitis and typhoid fever (Ed had a nasty reaction to the latter injection) and collect prescriptions for malaria and stomach bugs. We are armed with insect repellant, bandaids, hand sanitizer, face masks to guard against pollution in the larger cities... I have never traveled with a more thoughtfully stocked first aid kit. We also had to be sure the cats were ready for their cat sitter's daily visits, so Ed picked up an abundance of food for them.

Ed will compete in a half-Ironman-distance race in New Zealand as well as some long rides with Eliot, so he invested in two new cases with which to transport his bike; the wheels go in one bag and the farm goes in the other and he is charged only normal baggage fees instead of an exorbitant price for a large, standard bike bag. In addition, we packed two large bags of clothes, etc. to see us through the trip, necessitating a large cab to the bus station, which never came. Luckily, we had given ourselves plenty of time and ended up driving ourselves. It's a bit of a hassle to have to leave a car in the garage for the month, but at $2 a day we figured we can swing it.

I write this from the Centurion Lounge in SFO. When one has a layover as long as ours, the annual fee for the card seems worth it for a comfy lounge like this, which features relative peace, plentiful armchairs and electrical outlets, a sumptuous buffet, and (really) an open bar. 

We are prepared with movies, books, crossword puzzles, and sleeping pills for the flight and can't wait to see our friends and explore a new continent!

(I apologize for weird formatting in any posts that come from overseas; Blogger and my iPad are not getting along particularly well. Perhaps relations will improve.)

The Lockdown

Yesterday feels as though it can't have really happened. The short version of the story is that I was at a physical therapy appointment at the University of Colorado when a man wielding a machete burst in. Fortunately, everyone on my floor--and in the whole building, as it turns out--was able to lock themselves in until the police came and shot the man. Despite its fortunate outcome, it was a pretty unbelievable experience.

The Champions Center, where everything happened, is on the northeast corner of campus. My surgeon sees patients there a few times a week, and there are lots of facilities for athletes to get physical therapy and do all sorts of performance tests. The university's football program and athletics administrations are housed there, and there's a cafeteria for student athletes and a store to buy Buffs fan apparel. The building backs up against the football stadium. From the parking lot, one goes through glass doors to enter a vestibule with an elevator and access to a stairwell. (All of this description is important - read on!) There's really nothing else on the first floor. On the second floor is a waiting area and a reception desk (below). On one side of the elevator is a hallway, with exam rooms on either side, that opens up to the physical therapy area beyond. On the other side is a hallway that leads outside. I didn't know about this one until after the fact.

The elevator is along the blue wall to the right. Beyond that wall is a hallway, where the stairwell is. The man with the machete would have come in from there, on the right side of this photo, toward the reception desk.

I was there for my third week of physical therapy following a hip surgery in early September. The appointment started at 8:30. Usually, it takes about 45 minutes, and then I stay for another 20 to ride the stationary bike. After my session, which usually involves some "massage" and exercises, I crutched across the room to get on the bike. The physical therapy room is a very large space. There are about twelve therapy tables, lots of weight machines, racks of weights and lots of other equipment along the walls, with open space in the middle to leave room for exercises. I'd guess that it's at least 75 yards long, possibly even longer. Along one wall are two treadmills and two stationary bikes. The other end of the room opens into an area that I'd often seen therapists go into and out of. I'd never been back there.

(Random photo from the internet) On the left side of this picture, you can see one of the bikes against the window. The room extends behind the cameraman's back and is about four times as long as the section shown here.

I'd been on the bike for a few minutes and had written a few emails on my phone. I was about to untangle some earbuds so that I could listen to an audiobook when a sharp voice caught my attention. A blonde trainer, someone I'd seen before but never spoken to, was yelling, "Get off the bike!" Looking up, I noticed that everyone else was moving quickly to the opposite side of the large room. I was the only person left on my half of the room. She was looking at me, which confused me for a second because I didn't know who she was and wasn't sure she was talking to me - why would she be? But it was clear she did mean me because she made eye contact, then resumed shepherding everyone else. (Plus there was no one else there for her to talk to.) I heard the word "lockdown." Oh great, I thought, a drill. What a pain. I glanced down at the control panel on the bike. It had gone to sleep because I'd stopped pedaling and, figuring it would all be over pretty soon and I'd want to finish my allotted time, I pedaled a few more times to wake it up while I put my keys, phone, and earbuds into my pockets. The timer read 4:17. Satisfied that I could go now, I lowered myself off the seat carefully and reached for my crutches behind me.

As I started to make my way across the room, I saw that there was only one person left. He was an employee whose name, I learned later, was Tim. I crutched toward him, going more quickly than usual because I was a little embarrassed about being the only one who hadn't "evacuated" yet. As I approached him, Tim pointed down the hallway just behind us, toward the reception area. "There's a guy with a machete about this long" (he held his hands about 30 inches apart) "right out there," he said in a low voice, moving quickly beside me as we continued to cross the room. I felt an flush of something I can't identify now as heat or cold. I immediately started shaking. For some reason, I said, "You're kidding," and he said something along the lines of, "No, I'm not."

We were moving in the direction that everyone else had gone, when he held up his hand to stop me and looked back in the direction I'd come from. I got even more scared at that point. There is a bathroom off the PT room in that direction, and although I didn't really process the thought completely at the time, I somehow realized that he was worried that there wasn't time for us to get from where we were to where the others had gone and was considering hiding us in another place. This was a terrifying idea. Where was this guy? How close was he? Would he come running at us at any moment? "Where should I go?" I asked, instinctively looking to him for direction. He seemed to know what was going on and I didn't know the space or the protocol. He must have decided that we should make a break for it because we ended up following everyone else--I've never crutched so fast in my life--and ended up going into the area on the other side of the physical therapy room where I'd never been before. We joined a group of about twenty people in a room and closed the door.

There, I learned that Tim, who I assume is a physical therapist because of his clothes, had encountered the man near the reception desk. No one else on the second floor seemed to have seen him. (I learned why later.) The man had brandished the machete and said something along the lines of, "You don't want none of this." At that, Tim must have turned to go down the hall and into the PT room, which is where he waited, unbelievably, to help me get to safety. He didn't seem to have seen which way the man went, and we didn't know where he was.

After a short time in that room, the staff moved us out into the hallway. We started to go toward a door marked "Exit," but then, abruptly, someone decided we shouldn't and we were moved, instead, to another room. It was large room, situated between the hallway and the MRI equipment. A few other people had joined us, one of whom was a man in his sixties who had come out of the therapy pool. He was drenched and wearing only a speedo and goggles. After a while, someone tossed him a hospital gown from a pile on a table, but he still shivered as he dripped on the floor. One of the employees thought to ask if anyone had a pacemaker, which, fortunately, no one did. Apparently you don't want to be near an MRI machine if you have one.

I was dismayed that we were still inside the building. After the shootings in Paris, I read about ways to increase your odds of survival during a terrorist attack. The best thing to do is to get out of the area as quickly as possible. Barricading in a safe place was second on the list, and fighting back--unimaginable--was the third. One thing I read over and over again is that one should always look for secondary exits. If the attacker comes through the main entrance (as ours did), it's best to know another way to get out. I made a habit of doing this scan for a while, but I had no idea how to get out of this rabbit warren of exam rooms, imaging equipment, and hallways. And anyway, it was too late now.

In retrospect, the staff must have moved us to that room for several reasons. One is that the door, unlike many other doors in the building, locked from the inside. Another is that I imagine the walls and door were especially sturdy and possibly reinforced because of the magnetic power of the MRI machine. We stood inside, waiting. Some people cracked jokes, which annoyed me. There were several calls to turn cell phones off so that they wouldn't make noise and alert the man to our presence. (I had done this several minutes before. At least three phones rang during the time that we were in the room, however.)

Trapped in the room, we had no idea what was happening outside, though an authoritative woman who seemed to be in charge assured everyone that the police were there. One guy was determined to find information online and was combing through news websites, which, of course, provided nothing helpful since the event had started only minutes before. He said that he had a police scanner app on his phone but that it wasn't working. Every now and then, there was a knock at the door. The authoritative woman asked each person on the other side to identify themselves, then opened the door to let people in when she recognized their voices. One woman who came in was a doctor. Another was my friend Matt, who works there. I later learned that he and a colleague had locked themselves in a bathroom at first, then poked their heads out to see a policeman with a drawn gun inching down the hallway. He told them that the hall was clear and told them, I assume, to join us. I was very glad to see him, and he checked in with me periodically during the rest of the ordeal.

Later, when I told Ed this part of the story, he was surprised to hear that we opened the door for anyone. He's right; I'd completely forgotten that I learned during school lockdown trainings that you're never supposed to open a door during a lockdown no matter who is on the other side. The attacker could be holding a gun to the person's head, having ordered them to request entry to the room and act as though nothing is amiss. You just never know what's happening on the other side of the door and so it's best to just leave it closed, hard as that might be.

I finally texted Ed, "We are in lockdown. There's a man with a machete on the floor. They don't know where he is. The police are here. I'm in a room with Matt." I heard my phone vibrate several times but I ignored it; I wanted to be alert and not miss anything important. I learned later that Ed, who was at the dog park, tried to call me and then immediately drove toward CU. The parking lot for the Champions Center was blocked off by now, of course, so he parked as close as he could and ran along a bike path until he was denied entry by a security guard who'd been instructed not to let anyone pass. I hadn't answered his call or replied to his texts, which had made him pretty nervous, but there wasn't anything he could do.

The last person who came into the room, another employee, said urgently that shots had been fired on the fourth floor. I figured the police were the ones doing the shooting; no one had seen the man with a gun. That was two floors away, but we all sat on the floor anyway to be as low as possible, just in case. I went toward the back of the room where the space and turned into a short hallway that ended in a doorway, figuring that the extra walls would provide more protection against bullets. Even the joking ceased (thank goodness) while everyone strained to listen. Someone suggested that we move the table in front of the door to make it harder to get open, but it was pointed out that the door was already locked.

Finally, one of the front desk employees, looking at his phone, said that the police had the man in custody. Several other people, also on their phones, repeated this. I texted Ed an update. We stayed seated and relatively quiet. Eventually, the authoritative woman announced that the suspect was definitely in custody--it turned out that he'd actually been killed--and the the upper floors had been given the all-clear, but that we would wait until police arrived. We all agreed with this, and we sat for a few minutes more. Then, someone with authority to make decisions decided that we would open the door. We ventured out, then someone in front decided that was a bad idea after all and we trooped back into the room again. The man with the malfunctioning police scanner app had found an article on the Daily Camera's website (our local paper) and he read it aloud. It said that police had shot the man in a stairwell between the fourth and fifth floors and that no one else had been hurt. It was a short article with little other information. Several minutes later, we were back out. We waited near an administrative desk for a while, then, finally, it was announced that we were allowed to go back into the PT room but that no one could leave the floor or the building until the police had been through.

It was good to get back into that open, sunlit room. I finally called Ed, who told me that he still couldn't get very close to the building. I told him that he should probably just go home; I didn't know how long we were going to be kept there and the emergency seemed to be over. Staff members clustered together, and patients typed or talked into cell phones. I went back to the Daily Camera article to see if there was any new information and was astonished to see that the only person quoted so far in the story was Ed! He told me later that he'd been stopped by a reporter when he tried to get to the Champions Center and that the reporter wanted to talk to me and had given Ed his card. Eventually, I decided I might as well finish my time on the stationary bike. I crutched back to where I'd been when all this had started and my physical therapist followed me to help adjust the seat. She said that she, too, had assumed this was a drill because they were due for one.

I have no idea what kind of gun this is, but it's what most of the policemen who came to check out our floor were carrying when they came through. It was a pretty dramatic sight.

From my seat on the bike, I looked over my shoulder into the bit of the parking lot I could see through the window. It was choked with emergency vehicles and beribboned with police tape. A few minutes later, heavily armed policemen walked through the floor to make sure everything was clear. They were careful about going around corners, pointing their guns into blind spots before they went around themselves, and sort of wished they'd done this kind of sweep before letting us out of that room. It seemed that the danger was past, but geez... I finished biking and sat around some more. At last, we were told that we were allowed to leave but that we would leave as a group. A few more minutes passed and then we walked together out of the PT room, through the waiting area, past the stairwell where the suspect had died two floors up, and out a back entrance that I didn't know existed. Another hallway I had not investigated. It smelled, inexplicably, like french fries. I expressed surprise to the student receptionist who was walking next to me and she shrugged. "Maybe that's what gunpowder smells like," she said.

I took this on the way out of the Champions Center. It's tough to appreciate how many emergency vehicles there were because most of the ones in the frame are in the shadow to the right. They extended about 150 yards along the entryway all the way to the street. On the left of the screen, just behind the red tape, is poor Hester, who had to spend the night in the parking lot. Happily, she was unscathed.

One of the trainers helped me get under a ribbon of police tape. Once in front of the building, I had more waiting to do, however, because the police wanted to collect everyone's contact information and find out whether we had heard or seen anything. I was glad I hadn't because those who had were told to go down the hill to board one of two buses that was waiting to take them to the station for further questioning. Even people who had simply heard the gunshots but nothing more had to go. I waited in line for about ten minutes before being interviewed by a bald, beefy plainclothes cop who actually wrote my information down in one of those flippable notebooks detectives use on TV. My car was parked behind a line of tape and I was told I couldn't drive it out (I don't know how I'd have gotten past all the police vans and squad cars anyway) or even get my wallet out of the console. I crutched down the hill to the nearest intersection where Ed picked me a up a few minutes later.

Once home, I called the reporter, figuring that by then he'd have interviewed quite a few other people with more solid information and would no longer be interested in my statement. On the contrary, he said he hadn't talked to anyone inside the building and was eager to interview me. He asked me a few questions and I could hear him typing furiously in the background as I answered them.

Pieces of the story began to fall into place in the hours that followed, some from the newspaper but mostly from Matt. Apparently the man with the machete had been in the parking lot writing "sinner" on cars. (I'm not sure what he was writing with.) A patient who had arrived for an appointment saw him and confronted him about it, and the man brandished the machete at him. The patient fled into the nearest building, which was the Champions Center, and ran up the stairs to the second floor since the Champion Center doesn't have any personnel or facilities on the first floor - just empty space in front of the elevator. He yelled that someone should call 911 because there was a man in the parking lot with a machete. One of the students at the front desk called, but the line just rang. Another used her cell phone to call and was able to get through. Meanwhile, the staff was gathering all the people in the waiting area and moving them toward the back of the floor. The man must have followed the patient, because he showed up on the second floor but no one was there to see him except Tim. After the confrontation, Tim must have come down the hallway back to the PT room, which is where I saw him and he helped me get back to where everyone else was. I don't know if the man with the machete was right down the hall from as I crutched across the PT room or whether he'd gone back toward the stairwell to try other floors. There's every reason to think that he didn't wait around, but it's also entirely possible that if I'd turned my head to the right to look down the hallway as I passed it I'd have seen him at the other end. I'm very glad I didn't.

Someone (it hasn't been disclosed who) heard him muttering about "finding sinners" and quoting the Ten Commandments. The only information released about him is that he was white and may have been an ex-Marine. It doesn't appear that he was targeting a specific person or the Champions Center; if I had to guess, I'd say that he started where he did is because the building is right on the edge of campus, and that the only reason he came into that particular building and not any of the others he might have entered is that he was following the patient who confronted him in the parking lot. Who knows where he would have gone or what would have happened if no one had confronted him there? He could easily have wandered elsewhere and I wouldn't have been involved in this at all.

The 911 call was placed at 9:15. By 9:28, the man was dead. I was astonished to learn that the entire event lasted less than 15 minutes (though, of course, we weren't allowed to leave for another hour).

The Daily Camera article, which has continued to evolve, still quotes both Ed and me, as well as one of my MRI roommates who I suspect was the guy who was searching the internet for information. I'm not sure how they found him to interview him, but they were probably glad they did because they got some colorful stuff. He told the reporter that he was relieved the guy had only a machete because he was confident he could handle a machete blow and still defend his son, who was also in the room. I, too, was glad he had a machete instead of a gun, though I felt, and still feel, much less cavalier about the effects of a machete blow. Luckily, no one had to learn firsthand how that would have turned out.

People who experience these kinds of events often say that the whole thing was surreal. I feel differently. While it was happening, it was very, very real. I was keenly aware that this was the first time I'd been in such a potentially dangerous situation and was interested in sort of a detached way to note that I didn't freeze, as some people do. I tried to be very aware of my surroundings and responses and to remember the things I'd learned about surviving a situation like this. Some things I was pleased about, like my instinct to look for an exit, to turn off my phone's ringer, and shelter in the most protected part of the room. Others I'm ashamed to admit I didn't think of. It didn't occur to me to barricade the door (even though it was locked, I still should have thought of it), to sit down when we heard that there were shots (though I did go toward a more protected area), or to protest when the door was opened again and again. I thought about Orlando and wondered if this was how people hiding in the bathroom must have felt in the minutes before the shooter came in. My mind felt pretty clear, surprisingly, and the only time I got teary was when I texted Ed. Oddly, though, parts of my memory are really fuzzy only about 24 hours later. I can't remember exactly what was said to me when the room was being evacuated, and I can't picture the first room we hid in at all. I don't think I'd recognize it if I were to go back there again.

It's difficult to believe that all of that actually happened to me, of all people. This stuff happens in other places and I can accept that without stretching my credibility in the least, but the "surreal" part of this kicks in when I remind myself that I was there this time. I retrieved my car (which, to my relief, did not have "sinner" scratched into the paint) this morning and everything is completely normal again. The surreal feeling didn't happen during the actual event, but it settled in nearly the moment I got home. I'll never know how close I was to actually being hurt by this guy, but I think we are all profoundly lucky that things happened the way they did.

Late Spring Update

I'm back in Boulder, and a lot is happening! Instead of typing thousands of words, I'll let these pictures tell some of the story: 

It's spring! This time of year, I can't think of a better place to be than Boulder. Thanks to all the rain we've had, everything is green and there are blooms everywhere you look. 

I bought some beautiful, healthy tomato plants from the sale at the community garden, just down the street. Today they went into pots, and I can't wait to start enjoying fresh, vine-ripened tomatoes. 

Work on our house design is going very well, and we're having lots of fun going over the plans and working with our team.

It's popsicle season, and I'm excited about my new rocket-shaped molds. I can't wait until these bad boys are frozen enough to eat. 

Ed took second place in a very competitive field at his first triathlon of the year!

He was cheered on by two special guests: his mother, and Mischa. Here, both ladies enjoy the lake while waiting for him to return from the bike segment of the race. Mischa had a wonderful time chasing the waves.