Topic: TN: Fumo fumo est proxima (New Zealand, pt. 19, long, many images)
Author: Thor Iverson (Boston, MA)
Date: 20031112224302

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Los Angeles

Darth Vader and the pelvis

New Zealand

Waiheke and the malbec fetish Five wines with penguin All in the family Heaven at the Green Dragon Inn High, fast, and stupid The glacial pillow Training day Kiwi rugby & the undecanted aria Boxers and pinot These mist-covered mountains Blonde at Brun A Cloudy day The road, taken South, north, east and west Syrah noir Flamma fumo est proxima Complexing the pinot

True lava

We've seen glaciers sweating with rivulets of the purest mountain water. Craggy peaks ranging from dusty, sun-roasted brown to brilliant, reflective white. Slender waterfalls cascading over impossible cliffs. Riotous tangles of towering ferns crowded against the thick overgrowth of ancient trees, then sunk into a tropical, swampy wonderland. Wind-battered beaches in three flavors: black, golden, and razor-edged rock. We've seen the sea and the ocean, the inquisitive parrot and the indifferent sheep, the glintingly sleek steel and the weather-beaten wood of city and town.

And now, we're in the desert.

Scrub brush dots a desolate, dark brown landscape broken only by the rolling rise and fall of an endlessly straight road and a weather-hewn line of fence posts. The distant horizons, east and west, are broken by the ragged edge of far-off mountain ranges, but on all sides there is flatness, desolation, desiccation. With three exceptions.

Soaring into the sky, their ice-covered peaks necklaced with clouds, are the trio of active volcanoes that mark this entire region, a reminder that everything in sight is forever transitory. Ngauruhoe, Tongariro, and towering Ruapehu, a trinity of majestic, beautiful death rearing over the barren issue of their fury.

I'm suddenly overcome by thirst.

Cascade failure

Don't annoy the giant flightless bird, dear

But, we're running late, and have no time for roadside quenching. The long drive from Martinborough to in the churning, unsettled volcanic center of New Zealand's north island, is even longer than we anticipate. Gentle grassland northwest of Martinborough is pockmarked by a series of towns both tiny and less tiny – even the regional center Palmerston North is but a brief blip on the radar – and as the miles roll by, my mind is lulled into the gentle dreamstate of long drives. And yet, the clock continues to tick, and by the time we arrive the sandy chasms that border the Rangipo Desert, the first dramatic scenery in hours, time has become more than an idle datum. I press the accelerator with a bit more firmness.

Without warning, the desert screeches to a halt at a series of lakefront villages. Boats fill bays, RVs crowd up against the boats, and the twisty pillars of a hundred outdoor grills surround the RVs, filling the sky with hazy blue-grey columns. The road bends and winds along Lake Taupo – less a lake than a giant, water-filled volcanic crater surrounded by millions of pumice stones – and the jackknifing rise and fall of the shoreline drive (déjà vu after our drives along Lake Wakatipu) leads smoothly into the slopeside sprawl of Taupo, extending its vacation-rental arms around the northeast corner of the lake.

Our arrival at Cascades, our final accommodation for this trip, is as rushed as it is anticlimactic. Nicely-situated on the windy shores of the lake, with a small heated pool in its interior courtyards, it is nevertheless oddly-angled and a bit cramped, and the in-room "kitchen" would be jealous of a coat closet. After a long series of outstanding lodgings, it's a little disappointing, though in other circumstances it would be perfectly enjoyable. But we note this only in passing while rushing out the door, very nearly late for a dinner reservation.

I don't know where I'm a'gonna go…

Warm fusion

Taupo's downtown is defined by a right-angled pair of "major" roads; one bisecting a long stretch of lakefront hotels and houses climbing up the side of the crater, the other perpendicular to a laddered series of parallel streets busy with crowded storefronts. But while the storefronts may be crowded, the sidewalks are not; we're virtually alone as we hunt for our dining destination.

Despite the general abandonment of the town's byways, Villino is bustling with noisy activity, packed to the gills with diners (many of whom seem to know each other). We're led to a more sedate table nearer the back of the restaurant. The atmosphere is convivial, relaxing and smile-inducing, and we instantly fall in love with the place. And the food is just the thing after a long, hungry (and thirsty) drive: fried squid are served with an anchovy/garlic mayonnaise and a sweet salsa, and excellent, rare venison is in perfect counterpoint with wine-soaked braised cabbage and herbed spätzle. It's Italian, it's Kiwi, it's German…whatever sort of sensibly mild fusion they're practicing here, it works.

The wine list is short but clever, and a new friend is the obvious choice:

Schubert 2000 Syrah (New Zealand) – Tight at first, then revealing smoked black pepper, black cherry, and ripe yet chewy tannin. Still very primary, but structured and balanced for the long haul. A very, very good wine; our waitress shares our enthusiasm for what is apparently an unusual selection, as she has also recently met the exuberant winemaker.

Dessert is a lovely citrus tart with manuka honey ice cream, after which we relax over a terrific espresso (almost routine at this point; would that American coffee was even half this reliable) and a glass of Glenmorangie 18 Single-Malt Scotch (Highland), sweet but slightly faded caramel that lingers long into the night.

Which way to Barad-dûr, please?

The fume, the proud

The clarinet cacophony wakes us up early, and it's so gloomy and dark outside that it's tough to get out of bed. Ominous clouds billow ever closer to the ground. But for us, it's time to see vaporous plumes going the other direction.

Just on the northern outskirts of Taupo is our first destination, as we ease into the bizarre world of thermal adventure slowly and gingerly. But the Craters of the Moon are an enjoyable, diverting walk among the misty vomit of Mordor, the sulfurous steam and bubbling black muck obscuring nearly everything but the walkway under our feet. It really is otherworldly. Suddenly, Theresa leaps sideways.

"Ouch!"

"What?"

A stray vent has opened immediately underneath the wooden path, and while the wood hasn't quite turned to charcoal, it's hot enough to be smoking a bit. Theresa's wearing sandals, and her toe slipped off the side and touched the searingly-hot wood. It's a good reminder for someone who doesn't always look where she's walking.

Orakei Karako provides the setting for a rather bizarre lunchtime picnic, as earth-upchucked chemicals ooze down a silica terrace into a lake that steams, bubbles, and complains about the intrusion. With various cured meats, cheeses, and leftovers from Marlborough, I open an appropriately local wine:

Seresin 2001 Sauvignon Blanc "Márama" (Marlborough) – Leesy light vanilla, grass, and humid hay. Smooth and balanced, but it needs time to integrate its wood, and it's a touch heavy.

Bellies full of oaky white Bordeaux-style blend, meat, and cheese, we cross the lake in a rickety ferry to see the Emerald Terrace, the largest surviving silica terrace since the volcanic destruction of the world-famous Pink and White Terraces. And, well…it's not very emerald, though everything is obscured by the thick steam rising from a million little vents, cracks, and pools. It's raining, it's a cold rain, and the resultant steam means it's probably not a great day to try to see these sorts of things. But we press on, and between spurting poisonous geysers and wild riots of paisley, chemical-altered algae floating on pools of bilious muck, we manage to take in a long succession of truly unbelievable sights.

Scenes from Orakei Korako

A pounding rain soaks us to the bone and beyond, and the water-slicked descent to the silent, contemplative Ruatapu Cave and its warm thermal pool is probably unwise. But we can't help but satisfy our exploratory urges. To say that we've never seen anything like this area would be a vast understatement; it's unreality taken to the ultimate extreme, a landscape co-created by Dante and Dalí. One is left speechless, head-shaking and bewildered, and with one burning yet unanswered question: why would anyone live here? Not because it's unpleasant – it's not, despite the omnipresent matchstick stink – but because it's quite literally a bubbling time bomb.

Hunky Dory

Back to the hotel for a drying-off session we go, after which we set off in search of victuals. Trout, the fish for which Lake Taupo is famous, cannot be purchased – it must be fished, and we've canceled our fishing plans in the face of the torrents – and so we "settle" for a flavorful slab of John Dory sourced from a fishmonger at the top of the Taupo’s commercial district. There's a greengrocer next door, who supplies some excellent salad ingredients, and dinner will be a good one; the John Dory slowly poached in saffron and barely-pasteurized butter.

On the way back to Cascades, however, we have one more stop to make. We've heard about Scenic Cellars from people all over the world – "a must stop," they've all said – and it lives up to the considerable hype. Upstairs is rather unassuming, just a room packed with all the latest releases from New Zealand and Australia, with an overflowing bar on the deck above. But it is the cellar, to which one must request access, that defies imagination. This is the biggest wine store I've ever seen, by far. Want a wine? They have a vertical of it, in case lots. Every important and unimportant Kiwi or Aussie wine, all the significant wines of the world, they're all here…though many of them are absolutely unobtainable at U.S. retail. The only things that keep us from a small orgy of oenophilic acquisition are the prices (which are not low) and our bulging, straining wine shippers. They even claim to be one store that gets Dry River's wines without being on the mailing list.

Warm and dry at last, back at the hotel, we slowly fork flaky, butter-soaked bits of John Dory accompanied by the leftovers of several bottles opened earlier on the trip, going backwards through the wine regions we've visited. It's like a little retrospective of our journey northward, and it brings nothing but wonderful memories:

Seresin 2002 Pinot Gris (Marlborough) – Vivid pear, intense, viscous and rich but simplistic, with a hot nose. Too alcoholic, and I fear for its future, but it's a decent drop now.

Voss 2002 Riesling (Martinborough) – From Vynfields' fruit. Lemon, grapefruit, and lime with a piercing, crystalline acidic structure. Excellent fruit-driven riesling, though I'd personally prefer more minerality.

Gibbston Valley 2001 Pinot Noir (Central Otago) – Plum and mixed cherries with what I'm coming to find is a ubiquitous Central Otago signature of orange rind supported by earth. Big and strong, and dominated by its fruit right now, but this will age in a balanced and satisfying way.

Between the day's hiking, the food, the wine, and the gentle drumming of rain on the roof, sleep comes easily and quickly. And for the first time since we've arrived, we don't even notice the pungent sting of sulfur.

Though the room does smell like fish.

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