Where Sea Meets Sky

She shrugs again, throwing up her hands. “Who knows? Like I said, I don’t know her that well. I think I only know her as much as you do. You guys have talked a lot more during this trip than I have. It’s just what I feel. My father is a shrink, if you can’t tell. I can psychoanalyze the moon.”

In the distance, I can hear the sound of Mr. Orange’s engine. We both turn to see Gemma by the bus, waving us over. “Guess we better go,” I say. “Hey, I’m sorry if last night gave you the wrong idea.”

“It’s okay,” she says quickly. “I wanted to see for myself. You’re a good kisser but I can tell the difference between hormones and passion.”

“And I’ve got hormones.”

“You’re a young dude. I’d be offended if you didn’t,” she says. “Come on, let’s head back. Your not-so-secret secret is safe with me.”

Queenstown is a bit of a clusterfuck. It’s remarkably paint-worthy—the mountains that line the depths of Lake Wakatipu are called The Remarkables—but it’s packed to the gills with tourists. It seems like every adrenaline junkie in the world has descended on this place the same time we have. The restaurants are full, the bars are full, the hostels are full. It’s lucky that we even have a spot for Mr. Orange.

We’re only in Queenstown for one night before we tackle the famed Routeburn Track, a hike that Gemma says she’s been dreaming about for years. I’m not sure what to expect. I’m normally in great shape, and the last few weeks have really got my cardio up, but four days of hiking up and down these mountains have me a bit worried.

But Amber doesn’t seem nervous—at least she isn’t once Gemma assures her there are no predators in New Zealand and we have a zero percent chance of being mauled by a bear—so I man up for the journey.

We wake up early, quickly filling our thermoses with hot water and instant coffee. It’s colder here in the mornings than anywhere else we’ve been, and we’re shivering as Mr. Orange heats up. With Gemma behind the wheel, her brows knitting together in keen determination, her lips wriggling with excitement, we make our way along the long lake toward the settlement of Glenorchy, where one end of the track starts.

I’m living in a postcard. Every day I wake up and I’m part of a scene that steals my breath and brings tears to my eyes. If it’s not Gemma, it’s this goddamned scenery. The sun is just barely rising over the sharp, bare peaks of The Remarkables, bathing the surrounding mountains in shades of gold. The lake is turning from silver to blue. Snow seems to have fallen at night at the upper elevations, making the mountain ranges look like they were dipped in whipped cream.

Even though I easily get car sick, I bring out my sketchbook and try and capture the moment as quickly as I can. When I’m done, my drawing nowhere near as beautiful as the landscape that unfolds before us, I catch Gemma’s eyes in the mirror. She couldn’t look more melancholy if she tried, and once again it breaks me.

Why don’t you just try? I want to say. Forget about your hand, find another way. I would do anything to fill that loss in her heart. I just want to bring her peace.

She looks back to the road, which is good considering it’s growing more narrow by the second and we’re high above a rugged, green drop to the lake. Soon the lake disappears behind us, the mountains come closer, and the road turns to rough gravel.

Mr. Orange slowly, carefully makes his way along the rocks and dust before we finally come to the end of the road. There are a bunch of cars in the car park and a modern-looking shelter composed of wood and glass where a few people are picnicking and studying displays on the walls.

The signs around the car park warn us that it’s unpatrolled and not to leave any valuables in our car, but since we can only carry our backpacks, camping gear, and tents, we have no choice but to leave the majority of our stuff inside Mr. Orange. We’ll be back in four days and apparently there’s a tour that will pick us up from the other side of the track and take us to see the infamous Milford Sound before dropping us off back here.

Gemma locks the doors and pets the spare wheel on the grill. “You stay strong, Mr. Orange,” she says and the sincere look in her eyes as she speaks to the bus is so fucking adorable.

“I thought we were changing his name to Shaggin’ Wagon,” I say as I sling on my backpack.

She glares at me. “Don’t you dare. My uncle is a good man.”

“The best men I know like to jerk it to porn,” Nick says, and for once I find myself laughing with him, not at him.

The trail starts out easy enough and I find myself relaxing when I see families and old people passing us by, coming from the other way. If they can do it, I can do it.

We cross a swing bridge, then meander beside the Routeburn River for some time, a slice of rushing water that is so unbelievably clear and blue it looks like the waters of Tahiti, a striking contrast against the moss-covered rocks it winds around. The trees are beech and some other weird New Zealand kinds that harbor tiny yellow birds and colorful pigeons. The air is filled with bird-song.

“This is so pretty,” Amber whispers from in front of me. “It makes me want to puke.”

The beauty does make you a little sick. It’s too much and it gets worse the higher we climb. Soon we move through tall beeches flanked with bright green lichen and waist-high ferns, the sunlight dappling through the branches at all the right moments. I take picture after picture, hoping they’ll help me to draw the route later on. I was never one to draw or paint landscapes, but now that I’m here it’s all I can do. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">