Next we hit the Wild West Coast, which was this prehistoric mashup of ferns and native palm trees and rivers flowing down lush green mountains, and walked along dark beaches strewn with driftwood, beaten by the raging azure sea, a blue so brilliant it hurt my eyes. There’s not much to do there but take in the sights, so we looked at strange rock formations called the “pancake rocks,” ate something called whitebait (it tastes better than it sounds), and watched as a dumpy weka bird waddled up to Amber and stole her sandwich.
The highlight, though, was yesterday when we went glacier hiking. I had to put up with all the snarky questions, like, “But you’re from Canada, don’t you have to glacier-hike to get to work?” to which I said it rarely snows where I live. (Hello, don’t you remember the Vancouver Olympics when we had to truck in snow for our mountains?) But aside from that, it was a fucking trip.
We had to get up at the ass-crack of dawn and make our way to the glacial center in the middle of the small but touristy village of Franz Josef. Nick really wanted to do the helicopter tour version but none of us could really spare the expense, so he went off and did that on his own while we did the cheaper version. I could tell Gemma was pretty pissed off about that.
The tour was pretty straightforward. Walk for what seemed like forever across the alluvial plain, crisscrossed with streams of melting glacial water (hey, geography was my best subject in high school after art), the imposing face of Franz Josef glacier slowly getting closer and closer. On either side, waterfalls spilled down in thin ribbons from forested cliffs and the clouds clung to the edges, obscuring the peaks in mist.
Finally we were up close to the giant wall of blue and gray ice towering above us, and the only way through was up. You have to climb up steps your guide carves out of the snow, everyone in single file, with only metal-spiked hiking poles for stability.
I brought up the rear of the group, with Gemma in front of me, and I had this incredible view of everyone walking along the ice like a row of ants. We walked across planks over aqua-tinged crevices that seemed to cut straight into the earth, made our way through caves and holes cut right through the ice, and moved up and down passageways that were so high on either side that the glacier was the only thing we could see. It was pretty unbelievable, and at one point I had to stop and take it all in with my eyes. I knew my photos wouldn’t even do it justice.
“What are you doing?” Gemma asked. I guess I did look strange, standing there, pole in hand, staring wildly at everything around me. In the distance the group was getting farther and farther away, heading back down the glacier now.
“I’m trying to remember this,” I told her. “I’m afraid my photos will lie and I’ll forget.”
I could feel her eyes searching mine for a moment and I turned to take her in. She looked so fresh, so beautiful, her eyes and hair so dark against all the white, the tan of her skin glowing. There was something else, too, something in her expression that made me want to stare at her longer. What was it? Longing? Yearning?
For what?
She gave me a quick smile, as if realizing she’d been found out, and then said, “Are you going to try and paint this as soon as we get back?”
I nodded. “I’ll try. That’s why I’m hoping I can remember this sight just so.” But now she would be in the picture, her curious face standing out amid the white ice and green mountains. I was suddenly aware of how small, tiny, and helpless the both of us were on this cold mass of advancing history.
“Do you ever paint?” I asked her. I wasn’t sure why, she just always seemed so interested in my art, asking to look at my sketchbook every day. I’d been more than happy to show it to her. Her expression turned to fear. I couldn’t figure out what I said wrong.
Then it hit me. “Oh,” I quickly said, feeling like an idiot. “Sorry, Gemma. I forgot that your father was an artist. That must be a question you hear all the time.”
She looked away, a cold breeze sweeping silky chocolate strands across her face. “No, it’s okay.” She rubbed her lips together for a few long beats. Somewhere above us, hidden in the clouds, a helicopter whirred. “I did used to paint, actually,” she admitted. “I was pretty good. My paintings were being shown alongside my dad’s the night he . . . the night of the accident. But I didn’t paint after that.”
“Why not?”
Her eyes blazed as she glanced at me. I was sure she was going to tell me to fuck off with the constant questions but she didn’t. She took in a deep breath and composed herself. “Because of my hand. I loved the landscapes, just like my father, but my thing, what made me special, was being extremely detailed. My canvases were small and my subjects were smaller. I loved just spending hours and hours and days working one dot, one stroke at a time. It took me away some place, all that concentration, you know?”
I nodded. I knew very well. Life would pass you by while you were in that world, but it was the only world I needed.
She sighed. “But I can barely write my name neatly now and so I certainly can’t fucking paint the way I used to. If I try and do anything with my left hand that requires too much precision, I get the shakes. And though I guess you could say I’m ambidextrous now, I can’t get that same exactness again. The details are all lost and it looks like mush . . .” She trailed off and looked away, her focus on the group that had just disappeared over a mound of ice. She blinked a few times and I was certain she was about to cry. “I just can’t paint.”