Ever since we saw Peter Jackson's first"Lord of the Rings" movie, we had wanted to see the land where it was filmed--the islands farther south than Australia, where Penguins migrate from their Antarctic home, glacial mountains keep their snow, and jungles stay green year-round.

Then we met Liz and her family at Carlsbad, who invited us to stay with them in Wellington. So we called up our timeshare company and amazingly got two weeks at Lake Taupo.

The scorching California summer heat, drought, and bark beetles had caused the pine trees on our mountain to die and become towers of brown kindling. The mountains reached 100 degrees, and the valley smog levels rose. Fire warnings and evacuation plans filled the newspaper where I had got a part-time job. The governor declared our mountains a disaster zone and sought state and federal aid to cut down the dead trees.

It was winter in New Zealand. There was plenty of rain, lakes, rivers, and green trees. The islands beckoned to us. I never thought I would be glad to leave my beloved mountains. On August 1st, friends from Calvary Chapel drove us to the airport.

Edd, Jessica, Jonathan, and I endured a 13-hour flight which took us 10,500 kilometers and crossed the Equator and International Date Line. We arrived at Auckland in the middle of the night, stunned, disoriented, exhausted, but excited over the new land that lay before us, ready for exploration.

We had come to Middle-earth, On the Trail of the Ring, but we found much more than we expected.

Immediately we realized we had too much luggage as we waited in the long Customs line where a beagle dog sniffed suitcases for food or honey. A guard checked the bottoms of my hiking boots to make sure I wasn't bringing in biological items like grass, twigs, or dirt. A clerk stamped our blue American passports, and we were free to explore the airport and haggle with the rental car attendant.

The first moment we stepped through the glass doors towards a lawn by the parking lot, a bird's song filled the night air. The song, one I had never heard before, lilted up and down and clearly called,

"Tui, Tui!"

as a welcome to us.

I could not see the bird in the branches of the strange, bushy tree. Edd called me forward as I paused to stare up at dark leaves. A few steps later I paused again to look up at the clear night sky full of unfamiliar stars. The Southern Cross hovered at the Zenith like God's blessing on the land.

That is when I first began to lose my heart . . .

Jessica and Jonathan, behind me, asked what the stars meant. I told them they formed a cross and added,

"You can see them only from beneath the Equator."

We smelled salt air from the nearby sea. Even though we were near a large city, this was probably the freshest air we had ever breathed.

We found our small, expensive rental car and piled our luggage in. After we all got our seatbelts on, Edd announced, "I don't know how to turn the headlights on." I went to ask a taxi driver for help, and the Tui bird sang again.

Edd remembered how to drive on the left side of the road and through Roundabouts, as he had done on our visit to England before the children were born. I tried to figure out the map, and we got to the nearby motel at 1:00 in the morning New Zealand time (6:00 in the morning California time, on the previous day). The modest motel (which I found through www.hotels.com) had an office, a lawn, some trees, and glass all along the front of our room, Polynesian-style.

Edd hauled in the necessary luggage, and we fell asleep only to awaken to a very bright sun--too late for visiting Calvary Chapel of Auckland.

The room had a small kitchen with a mini fridge and a little carton of milk for the teabags and coffee spread out for us. We used the electric tea kettle to make our hot drinks and sat around a small round table, munching on health bars I had carried in my laptop case (yes, I had declared them at Customs).

Nothing ever tasted as good as that tea.

Then we got to take a shower. The knobs were backwards, and even the water swirled in the opposite direction down the drain. But the warm water felt wonderful after the cramped, stale, sweaty airplane. After we were all dressed and packed again, I got out our map. We stared at it and thought,

Where do we go first?

The North and South Islands, filled with unfamiliar names (both Maori and English), spread out before us in blue and green and black.

"Let's go straight to Taupo," Edd decided. "It's only about four hours South, and our timeshare room is waiting for us."

We all agreed, packed up, and turned in the expensive rental car for a cheaper one through a local company.

"No worries," the cheerful attendant told us as she gave us more maps and helped us load our luggage. "This will do you fine."

We headed for Highway One, South toward Hamilton, deciding not to go north into Auckland city. Only a few minutes from the airport the landscaped changed from suburban houses and shopping centers to emerald green hills and farmland. At every new vista of sweeping pastures I wanted to yell,

"Stop here! We're in The Shire! Let me unpack Jonathan's Frodo costume, his ring, and his plastic sword! Let me dress him up and take his photo in front of those hills!"

But I knew there would be a month of opportunities, so I stayed silent, the map on my knees as Edd drove along the Waikato River to a little town called Huntly where we stopped for shopping and lunch.

We took our first photo there, on the grassy banks of the wide river, near willow trees, black swans, yellow flowers, and a hawk. We ate our first minced meat pies with chips and pots of strong tea. We shopped for postcards of mountains, lakes, jungles, volcanoes, and seashores. We bought blue-green paua shells; a stuffed Kiwi bird; and black t-shirts embroidered with the Silver Fern. We touched smooth Maori artwork--bone or jade carved into oval pendants.

Everyone we met was polite, with a lilting accent and cheerful tone. They seemed interested in where we were from and what stories we could tell them. I told complete strangers I was a cancer survivor, gave them my business card, and asked them to check out my website. I even gave away copies of my books (that had taken up one whole suitcase, much to Edd's annoyance).

After lunch, we turned west and drove through higher hills covered with thick evergreen forests. Deep shade lurked under thick boughs, beckoning us to stop and explore their paths.

"Mommie, there are huge ferns under those trees," Jessica observed, pointing. "I want to get out and touch them."

I agreed with her, glimpsing green fronds caught by the afternoon sun as we sped past. Our two-lane highway was well paved but had no center divider or shoulder rails, so we couldn't drive past 100 kilometers per hour.

The hills became more rugged--cliffs topped by jagged rocks which could have been the setting for Weathertop in The Fellowship of the Ring. We passed lakes and rivers, their water glistening in sunlight--clear, unpolluted, flowing over mossy stones.

"When will we be there?" Jonathan asked from his little spot in the back seat where suitcases and winter coats surrounded him.

"Soon," Edd replied, his face stuck ahead on the road as the yellow divider lines swept past.
We had packed for a cold, snowy winter and wore our sheepskin boots, wool traveling pants, and hooded jackets. But so far the air felt refreshingly cool, and we rolled the car windows down to let it bathe our faces. We saw no snow as we traveled south toward Lake Taupo.

We passed a Maori village surrounded by steaming hot springs and bubbling pools, where I wanted to stop and explore, but Edd urged us onward, wanting to get to Taupo before dark. We passed geothermal plants with steam rising in great plumes out of the volcanic earth. Then we came to a hilltop that overlooked Lake Taupo. We got out and marveled at the size of the lake--at least 50 miles long. At the far end rose the volcanic mountains of Tongariro National Park, covered with snow and clouds.

"Ooooh!" I exclaimed, almost jumping in excitement as I lifted my arms to stretch.

Edd easily found the Taupo Ika Nui, our timeshare resort. Right across from the lake, it had a garden filled with native New Zealand plants. After we checked in at the office, we found a little sign the gardener had painted:

"If you're lonesome for your own garden, please pick the odd weed."

I never was good with gardens. My garden is a California National Forest. But I thought, maybe I could grow something in a place like this.

We unloaded the whole car and filled the little one-bedroom condo with our many suitcases and winter coats.

"I knew I shouldn't have brought this guitar," Edd grumbled as he leaned it against a wall. But later he took it out and serenaded us all to sleep as the Southern Cross shone in the pure dark sky above.

The next two weeks, with Taupo as our base, we explored as much of the North Island as our energy and time allowed.

We watched boats take tourists out for "a spot of trout fishing" on the lake (this being the trout capital of the world). We looked through brochures, watched the New Zealand news, and ate good chocolate. We shopped in town, exploring stores full of treasures like native wood carved into fish shapes by Maori craftsmen, who add pieces of bluegreen paua (abalone shell) to represent bright eyes. We went to a bakery where they cut the loaf you order and bought fresh vegetables at a store called Pumpkin Planet, across from the park which had a huge public bathroom called The Super Loo, that had lockers, showers, and a children's room.

We chatted with shop owners who had been Orcs in "The Lord of the Rings" films. We made friends with the managers of the Taupo Ika Nui (who kept giving us toilet paper and coffee packets). We met a family in a condo near ours, whose children Jonathan played with in the courtyard. Tim had been a Rider of Rohan, and he liked to sit on his balcony and watch Lake Taupo through binoculars. His wife Terri invited me up on the balcony for tea, and I gave her a copy of my chemo book.

"We're from Hastings, near Napier," Tim told me. "I like to play Rugby."

"And I'm a full-time mum," Terri added, picking up my book to glance at the cover.

We found a little cafe with no name, where you could pick your minced meat pie or shepherd's pie or toasted sandwiches and eat them (with cafe latte or pots of tea) while sitting in green canvas chairs at round tables on the sidewalk. We chatted with Jodie the Maori waitress from Auckland who had just moved to Taupo.

"I am so glad to get out of the city," she confided. "I love this little town in the country. Have you seen The Hidden Valley?"

"Not yet," Edd replied.

"No worries," she said with a smile. "I'll give you a map. There's a lovely fern grotto there, and a lake by some hot springs. The ferryman takes you across."

That sounded interesting, so we spent an afternoon looking for The Hidden Valley, finding it along an old logging road, and relaxing on the dock by the large clear lake surrounded by hills. Jessica and Jonathan oohed and aaahed over the huge rainbow trout that swam in clear water right up to the dock. Then Jessica showed us the black swans in the shallows by willow trees, their black feathers arched up along their backs and their red beaks parting to sing their low, sad song.

Another day, we hiked along the steaming mineral springs that flow into the Waikato River. I snapped a photo of a tree with steam drifting up through its branches while sunlight shone down, lighting each leaf, clearly etching it against the white mist. We walked further, pausing to dip our feet into the hot water that bubbles down a waterfall into a pool where hikers bathe. We walked through thermal Craters of the Moon where active volcanic steam rushes out of the earth in pillars of sulfur. Nothing grows at the hottest parts of those craters, which plunge many feet into the earth. The mud along the bottom boils noisily, reminding you to stay upon the path. Along the edges of the craters, hardy moss and ferns somehow thrive in the acidic soil.

This would be a geologist or a botanist's dreamland.

Edd humored me as I finally got to dress Jonathan up in his green Frodo cape with its gold oakleaf clasp. I snapped his photo in front of a farmer's hilly field which we found on our way to the west coast. The setting transformed Jonathan from an eight-year-old American boy into Little Frodo. Sunlight shone down upon him, highlighting his little hand that held a gold-hilt sword; his ring; his beautiful face with blue eyes and curly hair--the face that looked as serious as a hobbit bound to carry the Ring of Doom.

"Maybe you're overdoing this a bit," Edd suggested. "We don't want the child to have nightmares."

I thought about his observation and took the ring off the chain Jonathan wore around his neck. I replaced it with a pewter shield that had a cross on one side and a verse on the other: "Be strong and of good courage; do not be afraid, not be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go."

"That's better," I admitted as I unhooked the green cape and put Jonathan's red jacket back on.

But I knew I would like that photo I had taken, and I would use my new white Macintosh iBook laptop computer to email it, along with the story of our New Zealand trip, to my editor back in the California mountains. I did that on a rainy night in Taupo, with the help of an Internet Cafe and a very patient Kiwi computer whiz.

One day, Jessica and I left Edd and Jonathan in the condo where they were content to listen to music CDs and play the guitar. We went horseback riding through an ancient forest filled with evergreens, big-leaved plants, and ferns (New Zealand has so many different ferns that they require a separate nature book). The winter air felt chilly, it rained a little, and there weren't many flowers in bloom. But everything looked green and alive--like Middle-earth should be. Jessica felt like Arwin the Elf Princess while she galloped through a clearing, the fresh air in her face as she urged her horse faster.

A couple of hours after that, Jess and I went kayaking on the Waikato River. Our guide, The River Man, knew the Waikato well and told us stories of how you can paddle all the way to the sea. He avoided Huka Falls, telling us that a kayaker would not survive its rocky rapids. He showed us the tree swing you could climb to from the bank and launch over the river, to let go and plunge your body into the refreshing current. He showed us the bungie jumpers on cliffs high above, elastic ropes tied to their ankles as they dove down to where even their heads went underwater and people in boats had to haul them out. He let us beach the boats and soak in the hot spring waterfalls next to a footpath. When we climbed back into the kayaks, I felt like Galadriel in a graceful Elvish boat as I paddled with the current, treeboughs overhanging both banks of the river and the water making graceful elvish swirls around me.

One day, Edd decided to check out the East Coast. We drove through forest lands along Highway 5 to Napier, a coastal city that was destroyed by an earthquake in the 1930s and rebuilt Art Deco style. We walked on a black-pebbled beach while fierce green breakers crashed behind us. We drove by the Sea Aquarium then headed back toward Hawke's Bay which is bordered by hilly farmland and vineyards. I snapped a photo of the eastern farmland panorama with a river gorge in the background. Jessica and Jonathan were glad to get out of the car to wander in a farmer's high pasture, the green turf so thick they could bounce on it.

"I want to go for a walk," Jess pleaded.

"Another time," Edd said.

And I remembered England, when I took Kristen and Ryan to North Yorkshire. They were about the same ages as Jessica and Jonathan--and we tramped across the moors all day.

We climbed back into the car, ate cookies, chocolate, and cheese--and continued driving up Highway 5. I got the brilliant idea to return on Route 38 westward, not realizing that the dirt road was remote, narrow, and wet. It rose high above Lake Waikaremoana where there were no guardrails to keep one from plummeting down steep cliffs. It wound through a jungle, by flooding rivers, and past an occasional cow that strayed into the road. Darkness fell before we reached the paved highway, and Edd swore he would not take another shortcut even though I used my green laser light to mark the way ahead.

Edd broke his rule a few days later when we went to the West Coast. At least the road was paved. It wound past woods where the tall, native trees called Rimu rose above the others, their peeling silvery trunks glistening in the sun. Herds of wooly sheep dotted hilly green farmland (there are seven sheep for every person in New Zealand). We found another lake with cliffs towering above it, a little town called Bennydale, and the famous limestone caves of Waitomo where we examined stalactites and stalagmites in one cave and glowworms above an underground river in another. The glowworms lit up the dark rock ceiling with tiny blue lights in their tails, attracting prey to their dangling "feeder lines." Even Edd was impressed as our boat glided silently beneath the starry sight.
A high, narrow road led through more sheepland to the little village of Marokopa on the wild Western Coast. Here the tempestuous Tasman Sea separates New Zealand from Australia. We walked on magnetic black sand, along the banks of a river that flowed into breaking ocean waves. Lava rocks and limestone cliffs rose as shoreline behind us, and the sun set in a blaze of pink and orange over a dark-blue sea.

When we drove back after dark, the Silver Fern lined the high-banked road. Its underside caught the car's headlamps in a band of silver light as if to guide us. The Maori people bend the dark green fern so that its silver underside glows in the moonlight, and the fernpoints mark a path through the forest.

As we headed back to Taupo through silent hills, the moon shone full above us. Mars, at its closest point to earth, glowed red beneath the moon. I thought about J.R.R. Tolkien, the English professor of ancient languages who never journeyed to the South Pacific. He imagined an elvish forest with trees lit up by silver lights and called it Lothlorian.

You can find it in New Zealand.

A few days later, we journeyed south of Taupo to Tongariro National Park and its snowy volcanic mountains that we had seen from the other side of the lake.

We drove past evergreen forests, rivers, and a strange, orange-brown grassland cut through with jagged black volcanic rocks--a fitting scene for Mordor.

We drove to to highest peak, Mount Ruapehu. An active volcano, it rises 8000 feet above Lake Taupo and is joined by the two other mountains of Tongariro National Park. We could see steam rising from their slopes. Hot springs and eerie milk-blue lakes hide in their heights.

We passed The Grand Chalet, an old-style hotel surrounded by grassland, streams, and hiking trails. A few kilometers up another road brought us to the Whakapapa Ski Fields.

We arrived on a sunny day and found our first snow of New Zealand. The children looked like Polar bears in their matching silver parkas and snow boots as they stomped in drifts and threw snowballs. We breathed in the brisk, cold air and took more photos. Edd bought lift tickets, and we rode to the top, wondering how the people below us could navigate among sharp rocks and cliffs.

We changed from the Centennial to the Waterfall Express which took us close to the Summit, where skiers catch the T-bar to the highest runs. We explored the cafe and shop, then watched the skiers and snowboarders through plate-glass windows as we sipped hot tea. One plucky girl in pink, about 10 years old, kept going down the most difficult run.

"If you can ski Ruapehu, you can ski any mountain in the world," a Kiwi grandma at the next table told us. "I learned to ski at 58."

We began to understand why New Zealand is known for its extreme sports.

As we rode down the lift, the mountains and valley spread out below us in a panorama dotted by clouds. Jonathan, sitting next to me, gripped the metal safety bar with both hands and said,

"I'm not afraid anymore. I want to learn to ski."

Jessica, who sat in the front chair with Edd, screamed with joy and terror as we skimmed above black crags, level with a harrier hawk and the snowy crater top.

After two weeks in Taupo, we drove down to visit my friend Liz in Wellington. The day started out cool and rainy, and because of an accident on Highway 1, we had to loop around Tongariro National Park where we glimpsed Mount Ruapehu from all angles. We drove through farmland, river gorges, coastal towns, and old villages before arriving just before dark. When we pulled up to Liz's nice suburban home in the hills north of Wellington, we were greeted by her shy smile as she emerged from her doorway.

Liz reminded me so much of myself: shoulder-length blonde hair, blue eyes, and a habit of wearing silver pendants on green sweaters, over black pants and sheepskin boots. Liz was an English major in college, read my favorite books, and even used the same face soap. I joked that she was my New Zealand twin (more reserved, of course).

Her daughters Johanna and Olivia were as cute as ever with their brown shy eyes and bobbed brunette hair. Andrew was away on a business trip to Washington D.C. for the first day, so Liz helped us get settled in her spare room. We had a little time before dark to admire her garden that was already blooming with yellow flowers from the native Kowhai tree.

Unlike me, Liz liked to cook. I was impressed by her kitchen and New Zealand ingenuity--that Americans could learn from. Liz had an oven with a setting for convection, where fans made the heat more efficient so that meals cooked quicker. Her double dishwasher could be set for two separate loads at different times (and, of course, used less water and electricity than American dishwashers). The cheese cutter was long and white, with two sides like a double-edged sword. The electric plastic teakettle made water boil faster than a metal one heated on a stovetop. I watched, fascinated, as Liz cooked.

She served dinner in her formal dining room complete with place settings that had different photos of New Zealand on them. She made a typical Kiwi meal: roast lamb on a platter with yams, potatoes, and carrots; peas; salad; and Pavlova for desert (Pavlova is baked meringue topped with whipped cream and kiwi fruit). After dinner we chatted and watched the All Blacks rugby team beat Australia. The big, rough players wore black shorts and shirts--with the silver fern emblazoned on their hearts.

The next morning we had a typical New Zealand breakfast of cereal and fruit, then took the soggy green footpath to Liz's neighborhood Anglican church. We immediately felt at home with the calvary-chapel-style music (guitars and praise songs). The friendly people greeted us curiously (not seeing many Americans in their church service) and passed around a book for us to write prayer requests in.

"We could tell you were Americans before you said a thing," one woman told me. "Because of your foot gear."

I looked down at our feet and chuckled because we were all wearing winter boots, and they were wearing dress shoes or sandals.

We took our seats, and Pastor Danny, who was half Maori, spoke with the enthusiasm of a man dedicated to the Lord and to his community.

"Only 10 percent of New Zealanders go to church," he said. "What an opportunity to reach out to the other 90 percent!"

After his sermon, he and the altar boys shared Communion with us, stopping before each of us to say with meaning,

"The blood of Christ which was shed for you."

After the service Liz went to her prayer group while the children played outside. Edd and I lingered to speak with Pastor Danny and his wife Linda. Danny told us how he gave up a lucrative engineering career to become a minister. Edd shared how he led worship at our Calvary Chapel back home.

"We really love New Zealand," I said as I handed Pastor Danny my card.

Andrew, a tall, quiet man with brown hair and glasses, had arrived home from his long flight but was too tired to accompany us on a tour of Wellington (he works for a navigation software company that is way ahead of America). So, after lunch, the rest of us piled into Liz's van and visited the seaside area where Peter Jackson has a home near The Chocolate Fish Cafe. We stopped at the overcrowded landmark for coffee and little chocolate fish filled with green marshmallow. Then we walked down the street to Jackson's house, feeling a little stupid, and peered over the brick wall. Good thing nobody was home. We saw kids' bicycles and other toys laying in the yard, and a lonely dog brought a stick for us to play with.

Liz showed us the elementary school that Peter Jackson's kids attend and the seaside bluff which was the setting for the town of Bree. One rainy night, the hobbits fled the ringwraiths there and found refuge in The Prancing Pony Inn, where they first met the hooded Aragorn. Who would have thought that the dark, walled town was so close to the sea!

We got out near Bree and walked by the beach while the four children romped on a playground. Then Liz drove us up foresty Mount Victoria, a large park in the middle of Wellington, where some of the first film scenes were shot. We climbed to the top and looked all around at seaports, skyscrapers, bays, the airport, and seaside villages. The children climbed an old cannon for a photo, and Liz drove us down into the city which was full of one-way streets, tall buildings, and interesting shops. We saw the official Lord of the Rings bookstore (where they sell action figures) and Te Papa, the National Museum, where you can buy a replica of the leaf pin the Lothlorian elves gave to the Fellowship of Nine.

Liz ended our excursion with a ride of the cable car which ended on a hill topped with gardens.

"You'd make a good tour guide," I told her as we drove back to her house after dark.

She only smiled at me, and I wondered what she thought of brash Californians.

Liz and Andrew spent the evening looking at digital photos on my laptop computer while the children played "Zoo Tycoon" software on the corner desktop. Andrew downloaded some of my digital photos, then he and Edd watched the video of the previous night's All Blacks game. Andrew explained the meaning of the "huka" Maori wardance the team performs before each game (complete with grunts, yells, and mean faces). Somehow Andrew (who is an electrical engineer) made time to help Johanna and Jonathan build a Morris Code telegraph machine with an electrical kit. Liz served tea again, and we adults chatted until bedtime while the children took care of their virtual zoo.

"Did you know that in New Zealand many of the public schools still allow prayer and Bible classes?" Liz asked.

"That's true especially on the South Island," Andrew added. "It depends upon the district and who's in charge."

Edd and I found this information amazing. Maybe I wouldn't Homeschool if we lived in New Zealand.

We said goodnight to a tired Liz and Andrew and took the kids upstairs to bed.

Monday morning Liz had a full schedule with her children and household duties, and Andrew had to go to work for a meeting. We helped ourselves to breakfast, then barely saw Liz enough to thank her before heading to catch the Blue Bridge ship to The South Island.

I didn't feel ready to leave, because we had no idea where we would be staying, and we would be driving from place to place like gypsies. But the restful 3 1/2 hours on an ocean liner (with a cafe, observation room, open decks, and our own private stateroom complete with beds and sink) gave us a chance to nap before discovering the most beautiful parts of New Zealand.

How do I begin describing the South Island? The locals say it is more beautiful the further south you go. But the top of the island was breathtaking, with long fingers of forested land cut by water channels. When we docked at Picton, the man who helped unload our luggage remarked,

"Where is the kitchen sink?"

and we wished again we had brought half the stuff.

We drove south along the east coast as evening fell, along wave-beaten stretches of rocky beach with snowy mountains above them. We ended our drive in Kaikoura, where the rental car lady had recommended a clean new cottage near the beach. An American, Suzi from Oregon, ran the cottage with her Kiwi husband. She showed us the beautiful house with two bedrooms, a large kitchen, living room, dining room, and shiny wood floors. Exhausted from the sea voyage and four-hour drive, we did not hesitate to say we would stay for three nights (for which she gave us a discount).

The next morning, sunlight illumined the long stretch of curving beach and the white mountains behind it. The children hunted for smooth rocks and seashells, and we went into town to discover the essentials: the fish 'n chips shop, the pharmacy, the market, the bakery, and the bank. We would have plenty of time to explore the tourist gift and jewelry shops later. The village was one long strip next to the beach and reminded us of some old California beachtowns.

While we were in Kaikoura, Jessica wanted me to take her horseback riding again. This time it would be a two-hour trek along a river. I agreed, and we left Jonathan safely with Edd while we drove toward the green hills that backed up to the snowy mountains.

Our guide, Pete, was dressed like an American cowboy--complete with white felt hat, boots, a handlebar mustache, and a sheathed knife clipped to a leather belt with a large silver buckle. Pete, who was probably in his late 50s but as fit as a much younger man, greeted us with a broad Kiwi drawl and the first of many funny stories. He gave us horses to ride (not ponies)--very tall horses that used to race, with English hunter-style saddles. I could barely pull myself into the saddle of my horse, and then I had to hold onto it because the horse kept wanting to canter at a very face pace, though Pete (enjoying my plight) would yell back at me:

"Keep your reins up! Hands off the saddle! Where did you learn how to ride? You had better give up working with computers all day; they'll kill you."

We crossed the shallow, rocky river and rode along a trail bordered by bushes (not many ferns in the South Island). Pete gave us a good lesson on English riding, especially how to hold our thumbs over the reins.

"Two things are important in riding," he lectured. "How you hold the reins and how you keep your balance in the saddle."

I noticed that he had a large Western-style saddle with stirrups much easier to keep one's boots in.
When we pulled the horses up to the river for a photo shot, he asked what the "Crimson Mercy" emblem on my jacket meant. I told him that it was a Christian rock band.

"I didn't know those two words could go together," he replied.

I tried to explain all about Calvary Chapel worship music, and he replied,

"Our national religion is rugby."

I spent the rest of the ride trying not to fall off my horse. Jessie did very well, straight in her saddle like an expert, her long braid hanging down her back.

From Kaikoura, we took day trips inland toward those beckoning mountains. We followed a road that went through more rolling green hills (covered with sheep and cows) to the foot of Mount Lyford, where we stopped at a big wooden lodge. The lodge had a high fireplace, and I made Jonathan wear his Frodo costume for a picture in front of its flame (thought he got so hot he frowned in the picture). The bartender was sniffling and admitted to us that he had drunk too much Steinlager the night before, and nothing tasted good.

"Besides, I'm getting a cold," he whined.

I stared at the whisky behind him, poured in different-shaped and colored bottles that made them look inviting. One bottle was a bright blue color, like whiskey from another planet. All along another side of the bar were taps for ales and beers, and green and gold beer bottles lined one shelf against a mirror.

How easily we are hooked in . . .

"Drink some hot tea with lemon and honey," I suggested, pointing to a steel teapot. I wondered why the boss would hire an alcoholic as a bartender. "And stop drinking that other stuff. It will kill you. It killed both my parents."

He stared at me, and I explained to him about Christ's death and resurrection to save us, telling a little of my own story.

"You need to give your life to the Lord. Is there a church around here?" I asked, surprising myself because I am not usually that bold with strangers.

"I think there's one in the next village," he replied with a sniffle.

"Well, here's my card. You could visit my website and read the rest of my story. There are lots of nice photos, too," I suggested, handing him the small invitation.

He stared at the photo on it (Kristen dressed up as Miranda, the future teenager from "Like a Tree Planted," her hands entwined in a eucalyptus tree).

"Maybe I will."

As if to offer something in return for the advice, the bartender sold us muffins and tea at half price. When we left, he still looked miserable, haunched over the bar, his eyes and nose red, and his skin pallid.

We drove on down the lonely road and passed that village. The church was an old stone one with a scary-looking English-style graveyard around it (the kind with big headstones covered with lichen and tilting to one side). That church looked like it hadn't been used in awhile, except for funerals. I imagined it filled with Christian rock music, sunlight, and people overflowing onto its old stone steps.

Edd was sick of driving, but I convinced him to go the distance to Hamner Springs, since Liz had recommend it. So we went up a high mountain bridge (where people were bungie-jumping), past a rushing river that offered white water rafting and jet boating, and through a wide valley to an area of natural hot springs where, for a small fee, we could use the various mineral spas or a swimming pool with giant waterslides (which the kids had fun on).

Our swimsuits came in handy after all, but we didn't need to bring that snorkle gear.

From Kaikoura we drove south down a stormy coast. At one bend the the road I saw a flock of penguins standing together on a small beach that was surrounded by black rocks.

"Look!" I said, but we drove by too fast for anyone else to see them.

We avoided Christchurch (not wanting to stay in a city) and headed to the Inland Canterbury area, landing in a pretty little town by a river. Built by the English in the 1800s, it reflected an English village complete with flowering trees and gardens winding. We ate dinner at the old hotel, which had high carved ceilings, chandeliers, dormer windows, and plush red carpet like some places I remember in Yorkshire. We got good deals in the local crafters' shop, buying watercolors of the nearby mountains--including one of Mount Sunday where Edoras, the walled city of Rohan, was built.

We spent the next day driving along the Scenic Route of Highway 72, next to the Rangitata River Gorge and a snowy mountain range, looking for Mount Sunday. The site of Edoras turned out to be a heap of red rocks at the end of a long gravely road. How Peter Jackson got all his equipment and crew down that road amazed me, since our car barely made it.

Tired of driving on muddy, rutted roads, we ended up in Methven, at the foot of Mount Hutt (a well-known ski area). The town looked deserted though it wasn't very late, and we ended up in a cheerful old yellow pub where we were the only customers. The barmaid, a young skier from Australia, informed us that Mount Hutt was really called Mount Shut because it was closed more than it was open (due to windy conditions, too little, or too much snow). She brought us some hot soup and sandwiches, then went to clean the bar until more customers entered, sat down, and ordered drinks. She brought out a whole tray of glasses and dropped it. All the thick mugs shattered on the stone floor.

Embarrassed, she cleaned up the mess while the people who had ordered the drinks watched her silently. Later, I walked over to the shiny wood bar with its array of unbroken glasses on the wall behind it, and tried to console her by mentioning what a klutz I am and how I try to stay out of kitchens.

"I've been here all winter, working the bar more than skiing," she confided, close to tears. "But maybe things will change, and the mountain will open up."

"No worries," I said, handing her my card with a smile and inviting her to visit my website.

Tired of the relatively high accommodation prices we were paying in the English-like village, we drove southwest, on a narrow road through sheepland, forests, and mountains. We stopped in a farming town in a wide valley that was surrounded by green hills with higher snowy peaks behind them. The town was one long road of wooden shops and hotels, with a golf course and park at one end and a war memorial on the other. The nearby mountains had ski fields, but we didn't see many skiers.

"Let's check the Tourist Information Bureau for a place to stay," Edd suggested, stopping out front of the brick building. It was a library turned into a pub and part-time Information Center.

I ran in and asked the barmaid for help, and she directed me to the back wall where brochures were stacked and posters hung by locals who rented out a room or cottage. There on the wall was a sign for "Possum Cottage," on a nearby sheep farm. The rates were reasonable, so I called the name on the poster, and a friendly-sounding woman said that we could rent the cottage for a few days--just give her time to clean it up after the previous occupants.

Late afternoon, we drove down a long dirt road to the very end where green pastures rose into snow-dusted hills. We parked the car and admired the large, modern farmhouse with its skylights and high wood ceilings (made with wood from their own land). A wide porch spread around the house, and near the front door lay muddy coats and boots. To the right, the computer room blazed with light as a girl about Jessica's age sat at a monitor and keyboard. We knocked on the big wooden door, and Sonia, the farmer's wife, met us.

A muscular-looking woman about my age, she had short brown hair streaked with blonde, pronounced cheekbones, green eyes, and a shy smile. She handed us an old-fashioned key (which we really didn't need) and walked with us down the path, past the toolshed and garage, to Possum Cottage. It was the original old farmhouse and had a fence around it, a lawn with bushes and trees, a carport, shed, and a back gate that led to streams and footpaths.

Inside, the cottage had a charming old kitchen filled with mismatched china and odds and ends of food left by travelers. The dining room windows overlooked the eastern fields and had an old formica table and chairs out of the 1950s. The master bedroom had windows all around it and a hardwood floor with a sheepskin to sink one's feet in. There were wooden shelves with various knickknacks like miniature animals and teacups. Two other bedrooms, with several twin-sized beds, could accommodate two large families. The living room had a fireplace and a painted wood mantel adorned by candles; a bookshelf; and comfy warm sofas with big pillows.

Edd quickly started a fire, since it was rainy and cold (and the fireplace also warmed the water heater). I wanted to take a bath in the large old bathtub (most of our New Zealand bathrooms had only showers). We turned the electric heater on in the kids' room (the old-fashioned type like my grandmother used to have--large white tubes once run by steam). The farmer's teenage son brought us a bottle of propane for the portable gas heater. After unpacking and sitting by the fire and drinking hot tea, we felt warm again.

The rain had stopped, and there was still light enough in the sky to see the green pastures that rose behind Possum Cottage, so the kids and I pulled on our snowboots and went for a twilight walk. We carefully shut the gate behind us and walked across an old, slippery bridge above a running stream that had its source in the snowy hills above. We slipped on the muddy path, glad for once that we brought those boots. We climbed higher, toward a lone cabbage tree that stood in the middle of a high field. After examining that tree (which was surrounded by rocks so that the sheep wouldn't eat it), we climbed higher, through taller grass toward a line of evergreens and the top gate that led to the snowy part of the hills, next to a tree-lined ravine cut by the stream.

"We could hike right into the snow," I said, pausing with my hand on the gatelatch.

"But it's getting dark," Jessica replied in a worried voice.

"Let's keep going!" Jonathan urged.

I looked back the way we had come. It seemed steeper going down. All around us was the vast valley, cut by rivers and lakes, lined by pastures and hills. To the north and west the high mountains showed off their deep drifts of snow against the dark sky in which stars had begun to shine.

Jessica had pinned her sapphire light to her belt, so she shined a blue path for us down the hillside. As the three of us bounced down toward Possum Cottage, where light blazed out the windows and Edd waited by the fire, I thought again of England. Kristen and Ryan were Jessica and Jonathan's age when I took them to North Yorkshire where we explored the open moors together.

When we got back to the farm, I stopped and said,

"Listen."

We were among a double row of trees that looked like a mix of eucalyptus and firs. They were filled with unseen birds that sang the closing of the day. As we stood still, we were surrounded by a symphony of music--the magpie with her flute-like melody, the Tui bird calling its name, sparrows with their simple notes, and many other birds we did not know.

In the failing light I could see the children's faces glowing, their eyes lit with wonder at the New Zealand countryside, and their mouths curved into smiles of simple joy.

Our days in Possum cottage were the best of our entire month in New Zealand.

Our second day there was sunny, and Jessica and Jonathan explored the farm. They saw a giant pink pig, baby ducklings, chickens, sheep, deer, and a newborn calf which Jessica named "Star" for the white spot on his forehead. Jessie even got to feed the calf with a large bottle of warm milk. She felt his large rough tongue tickle her hand and decided she'd become a vet for big farm animals.

Sonia's teenage daughters took Jonathan for a ride on their mini-tractor, and even let him drive. He touched the metal shepherd's crook used for the sheep and wished to be a farmer. It would soon be lambing season, and Sonia told me about the hard work of lambing and the possible hazards if the weather turned cold.

"Sometimes a ewe carries a rotten lamb, and it's born dead," Sonia said. "Though we scan the sheep (with ultrasound) and separate the ones with twins for special feeding, we cannot tell if the lambs will turn out right. Sometimes the sheep have trouble giving birth because the lamb is turned the wrong way. And if the lambs are born before winter is truly over, a sudden cold spell will kill them. It's sad to see mounds of dead lambs in the middle of the pastures."

For a moment I thought of my own lost babies . . .

As appealing as South Island farming life seemed, it had its long work hours and its own grief. Sonia looked tired as we chatted while she hung her clean clothes on the line. Her back yard, which was bordered by the stream and cedar trees, had a nice lawn and herb garden. Jessie and Jonathan had met her youngest child, ten-year-old Jessica, and the three of them were jumping on the large trampoline set into the ground.

I looked at Sonia and noticed the fine lines at the corner of her eyes. She rose early and worked late, tending the sheep and her children, and cooking her meals from scratch.

Every morning at 8:30 we could hear her husband Ian starting up the big tractor to bring hay to the animals in the far pastures. For a few days we didn't even meet Ian, but we heard his voice yelling at the barking sheepdogs (their kennels were near our cottage). One evening I called to him across the farmyard, seeing his silhouette in the semidarkness as I asked him to send the children home from the trampoline. He called back to me that he would, and when he went to fetch them, he said,

"Your Mum wants you for tea."

Jessica and Jonathan looked perplexed, not realizing that "tea" could also mean the evening meal.
"We don't have tea very much," Jessica said.

"But our Mom does," Jonathan added.

Then Ian looked perplexed.

When we did finally meet Ian in daylight, he was a tall man of Irish descent, with blondish hair, thick eyebrows, and blue eyes. His face was a little wrinkled around the edges, from many hours in the wind, snow, and sun.

One afternoon Edd almost drove over a tall rock that had a brass plate on it, and we later found out that was Ian's father's headstone, newly made by Ian himself. Ian had lost his father within the year, and Sonia's father had died of cancer not long before.

Strange how, even in the vast middle of New Zealand's South Island, where you can drive on open roads for hours and not see another car, and where the great lakes and mountains have no cities built upon them, you can come across cancer.

We drove west across snowy Burkes Pass where there was a graveyard for the district founders and those killed climbing Mount Cook. We kept driving, past more snowy mountains, to Lake Tekapo. Its water was a glacial whitish blue, and it was surrounded by forests and the snowy Southern Alps. A tourist village was built on the end by the dam, and we got out to shop and find hot tea (as usual, we had brought our own snacks with us). We took the path to the lake and found a statue dedicated to sheepdogs, which Jonathan promptly climbed. Then we spied the little stone Church of the Good Shepherd, where a Scottish wedding was taking place. I snapped a photo of a man in a kilt, standing in front of the church.

We drove further westward, through miles of brown high desert, amazed at how quickly the scenery changed. Finally we came to Lake Pukake, the most beautiful lake we had ever seen. It was larger than Lake Tekapo, a deeper blue, and surrounded by the glacial mountains that led to the highest one in New Zealand, Mount Cook.

We stopped at Lake Pukake, which had very rocky shores and no village. The day had started out clear, and we could see Mount Cook on the far side of the lake. As afternoon came, clouds descended and covered the mountain's face. We went to the small Tourist Information Center and saw a photo of Mount Cook with no clouds covering it--just sunlight shining broadly on its angled peak. We asked a tourist from England to take our family photo on the banks of Lake Pukake, our faces smiling against the incredible background of mountains, trees, water, and stones. We got back in the little white rental car and drove the long road that wound along the western bank of Lake Pukake to Mount Cook.

We passed several streams, forests, and bridges as we climbed higher through a long valley bordered by glacial mountains.

Mount Cook is also called Aoraki, the name of the tallest Maori warrior whose face rises into clouds. Mount Cook is covered by glaciers 100 feet thick, year round, that flow down on all sides to valleys or seashore. People walk on those glaciers with spiked boots, but the danger of an unseen crevasse can kill the most experienced climber. The Maori say that to walk upon the snowy face of Mount Aoraki is to violate his dignity.

The tallest peak in New Zealand, Mount Cook towers 12,000 feet above a valley that is ringed by other members of The Southern Alps. Dozens of glaciers cut through the mountains, moraines line their jagged sides, and streams and rivers pour down to Lake Pukaki, stretching for miles and ringed by mountains on 3 sides.

I had never seen such amazing geology. Edd watched good-humoredly as I snapped photo after photo. At the end of the road was Mount Cook Village were we visited the Tourist Information Center, the Hermitage Hotel, and then hiked toward Kea Point, hoping to see one of the rare alpine parrots we had bought a books and postcards about.

"Keeeaaa!" Jessie called as she held out her arm. I hoped large, green-gray wings centered with orange would descend from the cliffs above us. But Jessie's call only echoed through the gorge. She kept her eyes skyward, searching. Finally she lowered her arm and her gaze. This was our last day in the mountains and our last chance to see a Kea.

"Oh, well," I said, putting my arm across her shoulders. "That means we'll have to come back to New Zealand."

She looked up at me, half hopeful, missing her own little parrot whom we could not bring with us.

Jonathan found a blackbird under a bush, and we saw a hawk in a clearing, eating his dinner. Clouds had already covered all but Mount Cook's lowest cliffs and were heading toward us as a chill wind blew down from the glaciers where--on a clear day--ski planes and helicopters drop off rock climbers, glacier walkers, and brave skiers who glide all the way down to the valley.

After Mount Cook, we drove to Twizel, a desert town near three large brown hills where major battle scenes were filmed for "The Lord of the Rings" movies. The town seemed lonely and abandoned since the film crews left, though the owners of the film shop told us stories about how the actors would walk in looking like wranglers.

"We saw Aragorn," the man behind the counter told us. "Though we didn't know who he was at the time. He looked completely different when he was all dressed up for battle on horseback. You know, they had to take photos of the actors every day and develop them here, to make sure they looked the same for each shooting."

"Too bad you couldn't keep some of that film," I said wistfully. "What a treasure that would have been."

While Edd and the kids shopped at the market, I walked into The National Bank and was amazed to see it all covered with daffodils. Daffodil chains hung beneath the ceiling. Daffodil flowers filled vases, paper daffodils stuck to teller windows, and little bronze daffodil pins lined a black velvet pad. They even had daffodil pinwheel toys for children.

"Why, you're the Daffodil Bank," I announced to the teller.

"Yes, we are one of the big sponsors for Daffodil Day--National Cancer Survivor Day--which is August 29."

"We in America could learn from you. It's not nearly as big a deal over there when the daffodils first bloom in March," I replied.

She smiled and handed me a silk daffodil pin along with the New Zealand money I was exchanging for my travelers' checks.

"Everyone in New Zealand buys daffodil pins on Daffodil Day," she said. "Volunteers get dressed up as Daffodil Fairies and Daffodil Princesses and Daffodil Clowns, and they stand on streetcorners all over the country to help raise an amazing amount of money in one day. It all goes toward cancer research and patient care."

"I'm a cancer survivor and a writer," I informed her, handing her my card.

"Rose over at the Lotto store is our local Cancer Society representative," she informed me. "I'll bet she'd be glad to meet you and get a copy of your book."

"Good idea. Thanks." As I walked out of the bank, I began planning:

Maybe I could go to the National Cancer Society in Auckland when we fly back there before leaving for America, and give them my book . . . (And so I did. Edd drove through harrowing traffic to find the Auckland Domain Cancer Society on August 29, and we got a royal reception. A staff member named Marin showed us the new live-in facility complete with private apartments, community kitchen, library, and rooftop garden--and a shop full of daffodil items, where I would buy a pair of enamel daffodil earrings for $1.00, and we would pose for our family photo, each wearing a daffodil pin . . . )

I went to the car to get one of my little blue books with the photo of me a year after the chemo treatments, when my hair was as short and curly as two-year-old Jonathan's. He clung to my back in a baby pack while Jessie, only five, stood at my side as we paused beside an evergreen tree while hiking in Canada . . .

Rose at the Lotto Store seemed happy to get the book. She smiled and recommended that I check out the Cancer Society in Christchurch too.

"Did you know that a river runs through Christchurch, and it has old buildings and trees like an English university town?" Rose asked. She was an enthusiastic woman with bright red hair and a green sweater.

"I heard it was pretty."

"There are willows and black swans by the river, and you can push a wooden boat on it, and there are stone bridges arcing over it. And in a park by the river stands a twisted piece of metal from The World Trade Center in New York, to remind us of what happened on September 11, 2001."

"Wow!" I replied (since Twizel was not busy, one could carry on long conversations in places of business).

"Also, you could contact the local Cancer Society Representative," Rose added, handing me a card with a woman's name on it.

If only people in America were as enthusiastic about my books . . .

The night before we had to leave Possum Cottage, we took Ian and Sonia out to dinner at the old hotel. We were the only customers there that rainy night, and we ate by the bar near a fireplace and candles. The meal was good--hot fresh fish and beef with roasted potatoes and salads.

"I come from a farm in the next valley," Sonia told us. "My family has been in New Zealand for generations. Ian's father helped him start our present farm, and we had to clear it all of gorse plants. What a work that was, digging out the roots with tractors."

"Aye, our great-grandparents were some of the first settlers in this area," Ian added.

After dinner, I gave Sonia a copy of "Crossing the Chemo Room." Ian remarked that I was a year too late. Edd and I shared our cancer survival story anyway. Sonia and Ian leaned toward us across the table, their faces beautiful in the candlelight as they listened to our words about how Christ's love--The Light of the World--can bring us through the darkest places.

In the long silence that followed, while we ate our dessert, I remembered another kind of darkness when Ian asked,

"What did you think about that house down the valley?"

He was referring to a village we had visited a couple of days ago. We were actually looking at houses for sale in the general area (with the dream of buying one and moving to New Zealand). Albury's prices were cheap, but Ian and Sonia had told us why.

"The village is dying out. Many people have sold their houses and moved, and those who stay and rent are migrant workers passing through," Ian had warned us.

"The shops have closed," Sonia added. "Only the school and pub stay open. And that part of the valley is dark and cold in winter."

We went to the town anyway. It was in a low part of the valley, near a river ford. As we drove past its empty streets, we noticed three old churches--stone, brick, and wood--that were not being used. One was even boarded up. Yet in the pub window was an advertisement for an occult fair at a local farm.

We drove slowly, looking for the listed house which turned out to be a charming white wood place with hedges around a grassy yard. The renters spotted us and walked toward our car.

"What are you doing?" the woman asked.

"Just out looking at houses," Edd replied cheerfully.

"The owner's given us to the end of the month," the woman replied in a scruffy voice. The man only stared.

They were a strange middle-aged couple with the look of drug addicts or alcoholics. Something in their blank eyes seemed menacing as they asked where we were staying. The man had paint smeared on his shirt, and the woman leaned toward me, over the partly-opened car window, her straggly brown-gray hair hanging in her eyes. For a moment I thought of my wild Gypsy heritage and wondered if the woman read people's palms.

"Are you from America?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied, pulling back from the window.

"Well, the owner told us the house has been sold!" she declared.

"Then we'll be going," Edd decided, putting the car in gear.

As we drove back toward the sheepfarm we saw a lone teenage boy walking on the highway, toward the abandoned town. He looked bored and depressed, and we wished one of those churches was playing Christian rock music and blazing with light . . .

"Oh, you were right about that town," Edd replied as he sipped his coffee. "Perhaps you could keep your eyes open for something for sale near here."

Sonia promised she would. Ian offered us a parting drink, and we left the cheerful hotel pub and stepped into the night.

Wind buffeted the car, and rain poured down heavily as Ian drove us back to the farm. He invited us into the farmhouse, and I was amazed at their huge kitchen filled with jars of cooking essentials I probably couldn't put a name to. Sonia offered us tea, but I could tell they were tired, so we declined. But before we left, I took out my green laser light. As we all stood on their porch, I shone it upward through the rain and trees.

"Astronomers use these to point out the stars," I said in a hushed tone.

"Well, look at that!" Ian exclaimed as he watched the bright green laser which seemed to reach for miles, sparkling with raindrops.

We all stood, Kiwis and Americans, children and adults, awed at the simple power of light.

As Edd, the kids, and I walked back toward Possum Cottage with borrowed umbrellas and calls of "good night," I realized I had just impressed a stoic New Zealand farmer.

The next morning, both Ian and Sonia came to the cottage yard to say goodbye.

"When you come back, I'll take you up the River in my jet boat," Ian offered as he leaned on a fencepost.

"That would be great!" I replied.

"And thanks for the dinner and company last night," Sonia added gently. "I will read your book and send you an email."

"Maybe next time I could help around the farm," Edd offered. "I like to chop wood."

"Well, there's always need for that," Ian laughed.

Before we left Possum Cottage to drive to Christchurch and fly back to Auckland, we took special care to leave the cottage in good shape, saving Sonia some work. I matched up all the china, arranged the knickknacks in order, and stacked the books neatly.

As I packed what was left of my books, I thought about the people we had met, to whom I had given my card or a book: the Auckland rental car lady who said "no worries"; the waitress from the Taupo cafe; Terri, the Mum from Hastings; the River Man from the great Waikato; the Internet Cafe computer whiz; the Grandmother skier from Mount Ruapehu; Liz and her daughters from Wellington; Pastor Danny of the Anglican Church; Pete, the South Island Cowboy; the Mountain Bartender with a Hangover; the Australian Barmaid who shattered a tray of glasses; the librarians of several libraries; Rose from The Cancer Society in Twizel; the teller at The Daffodil Bank; and Sonia and Ian, our sheepfarm hosts.

Would we see these people again? Surely they had touched our lives as much as we had touched theirs.

We finished packing our suitcases, filled with New Zealand items like tea, chocolate, honey, postcards, maps, books, and toys. I even had a walking stick made from the Lance tree, which looks like a brace of sharp-edged weapons as a juvenile tree and like a normal tree as an adult. On the top of the walking stick was a two-cent coin, etched with the yellow Kowhai flowers and a fern.

I had finally found my own silver fern pin, like the one Liz wore on the day she took us around Wellington. I wore it on my black sweater in remembrance of our amazing month.

"I want to stay and live here," Jessica announced, looking toward the fields of animals. "I could have my own horse."

"And I could learn to ski," Jonathan added as he stared at the mountains.

"And I could golf and be a farmer," Edd dreamed.

"And I could explore the lakes and glaciers and write about them," I declared.

As we drove down Ian and Sonia's tree-lined driveway, we noticed the daffodils blooming beside the road, against a patch of grass. The first sunlight of spring shone through evergreen boughs and onto the yellow flowers.

And for the rest of our stay in New Zealand and when we returned to California, we told everyone,
"We left our hearts at Possen Cottage."