Maybe I Don't Know

My mind felt so clear the whole afternoon despite the incessant heat. We had driven into the park just past noon and the sun was already ruthless. This was the last day of our trip so I was re-wearing black shorts and a small black tee with a loose button-down on top; definitely not the wisest color choice.

I had spent the last 4 months in Sydney, “studying” abroad with my best friends and our time was ending. Attempting to make the most of the weeks remaining, we made a hasty decision and bought plane tickets to New Zealand’s South Island for the week before my family was supposed to arrive in Sydney. As Ignacio drove our rented car down the country’s only eastern highway, we were nearly bursting with anticipation. Our friends had visited Queenstown’s a couple of weeks prior and had filled our heads with images of crystalline waterfalls and intimidating mountains, warm cider, and local markets. The highway was a straight shot to Dunedin, from where a short 3.5-hour drive would take us to our destination. Our ambitious plan was put to the test when the truck driver in front of us explained that the only bridge crossing a nearby river had been completely flooded in the previous nights’ rain. We had slept through the South Island’s biggest downpour in decades. Our heavy disappointment and ludicrous ideas about how to get around the flood eventually led to major alterations in the itinerary to explore the north of the South Island, with Christchurch as our final stop.

The day before our flight we had run out of ideas and Google’s suggested Christchurch tourist attractions were less than appealing. We decided to visit a state park with a hiking trail that someone in our hostel had given mediocre reviews about. Ten minutes into the hike I realized that they were wrong. Though I could feel the touch of the sun’s vicious rays on my skin, the strong wind kept the sweat off my eyes. The Pacific Ocean extended beyond the horizon. I stared at the baby blue water realizing I had now seen the waves from both the East and West sides of the ocean. The sky was a dissimilar continuation of blue as scattered clouds interrupted its purity. My body was tired from the late nights, early mornings, and multi-hour drives of the past days but my head felt fresh. We walked in silence. Our steps led us across a low mountain and past an unimpressive World War II memorial. Ignacio, much more interested in history and better apt at remembering facts than me, commented on the frequency of war memorials. I was not intrigued by the iron cannons, the soft slope of the desolate mountain in the background stole my attention. Its neighboring peaks were steeper and housed even fewer trees but together they created a zig-zag of green and brown life. 

We followed the path around the edge of the field and were now in front of the peaks. The conversation had shifted from war memorials to: “Do you think we’re in a simulation right now?” By the end of our hike, we would cover our hypothesis of why populist leaders became dictators, reminisce on foolish high school stories, and argue over club recruitment. I found it comforting that we did not, however, push for conversation when the tread of our talk died. This allowed me to appreciate the beauty around me. Those peaks were by far not the tallest mountains I had seen but they were the most imposing. It was as if that day I understood what all the yoga instructors meant when they guide their students to connect the soles of their feet to the Earth. I imagined the violent process of tectonic plates shaking and pushing the mountains into existence. The eternal and hopeful way pioneer species begin to spread life across the soil. Hundreds of years of being before that day that I stood to admire them and hundreds more after I am gone.