Marisa Launches Her Business Website

After our flurry of activity this fall (Apr-Jun), winter settled in, my martial arts gym temporarily closed for relocation, and things got really quiet around here. This gave me the perfect opportunity to work on various "business development" activities to expand my fledgling small business. Most notably, I've finally completed a real live website, which I can begin using to advertise.

Click the link below to have a look at the website.

http://otagowriting.com/

Logo designed by my sister, Erin Aulov

Selected Photos by Jeremy

Dunedin Train Station

Viewpoint on Routeburn Track

Lake Ohau

(click for larger view)

Kakas Fighting

Photo Mosaic

How I Spent the Night in a Snow Cave

A few weeks ago, Jeremy joined one of Dunedin's six tramping (hiking) clubs. Now he goes to their Thursday night meetings at the club house, but in order to become a real member, he has to complete two trips with the group. So one Thursday evening, he came home and asked if I'd like to go on a weekend trip to do some caving.

"Caving?" I asked. That sounded interesting. "What are the details?"

"Oh, I don't know," Jeremy answered. "I guess we'll look at some caves and probably sleep in a lodge somewhere." He handed me the flyer.

"Jeremy," I returned, laying aside the flyer in frustration. "This says we're going to build a cave in the snow and then sleep in it."

"Oh, ok. It'll be fun," he said, "We should do it."

I looked at him for a long time.

Two weeks later, I was zipping up my backpack at 7am on a cold and windy Saturday morning. We gathered, in the dark, in front of the club house--twenty people, all with poor judgment in good ways to spend a weekend. After driving a few hours toward the mountains, our caravan turned up a gravel road and wound up and up toward the snow line. Then the vehicles parked, and we prepared to reach our final destination by foot. We had left civilization, and now we were leaving our cars. This was not good.

Already wearing long johns, slacks, and a wool sweater, I donned an assortment of high-tech gear, including a wool hat, rain coat, gloves, waterproof pants, and large zip lock bags under my shoes. Hoisting backpacks and dragging shovels and saws, we set off across deep snow toward a high ridge that sloped sharply into a gully. The trip leader, Richard, had been scouring the area for a good spot to build our snow cave, and apparently this particular east-facing cliff was just right. Oh good. At this point, I was still wondering what a snow cave was.

After trudging through a treacherous snow field, in which you never knew where you might plunge in up to your knees, we had to cross an icy slope, from which--if you fell--you would slide about 200 feet and either land in a freezing creek or hit a boulder. "Careful, Marisa," Jeremy warned, "If you start to fall, just turn on your stomach and dig your feet and one elbow in." Fantastic. I guess that would be with the arm that's not carrying a large garden spade? Did I mention how hard the wind was blowing? This was quickly becoming Shackleton, Scott, and Hillary all rolled into one, and was way more than I had bargained for. And the portable toilets were nowhere in sight either.

Taking about half a step per minute, I finally crossed the steep section. I glanced behind me and thought I saw an impatient face. Now all twenty of us were standing near the base of a huge snow-covered hill slope. At the top, a mass of snow curled forward like a wave at Diamond Head. Richard was running around the hillside inspecting the snow and poking it with tools. I wondered when the cave-building lessons would begin. "OK, everyone, start digging," Richard announced.

We were assigned to a group of five along with a British man (Rob), a New Zealand woman (Janet), and her eleven-year-old son (Russell). Each of the four groups of five would build their own cave. Rob, our group leader, had allegedly built a snow cave before, so we stared at him expectantly, shovels and hand saws dangling from our hands. I think it must have been a while since Rob's last snow cave; he was not completely firm in his instructions. But we proceeded to dig a cave shape into the hillside for about three hours.

The snowy slope was being transformed into a wintry village of cliff dwellings. A primitive highway formed along the incline, connecting the four cave sites, and soon became a tourist and trade route. Visitors from yonder caves journeyed to observe other architectural techniques. Except, when people passed ours they would tend to gasp in surprise and say things like, "Oh, that's different," or "Quite an open plan you have," or "Yours is a more natural look." These comments were disconcerting, but we tried to sound confident. "We're going to build a wall in front," we explained, "It's more of an igloo." It wasn't until later, when I took to the highway myself, that I understood. The other caves were built from the bottom up, by tunneling upward into the snow for an entranceway, and then branching to the sides to form rooms. This created warm and structurally sound hollows.

Digging Into the Hillside

Snow Highway

Taking a Break for Sledding

Once we finished carving out our cave, we created dubious front walls, but found they didn't quite reach the ceiling. So we then created a downright doubtful extension to our ceiling by sawing out blocks of snow and laying them across the gap. We filled in the little holes with mushy snow and called it a cave. Just in time, because the sun was going down, and it was time to make dinner.

Our Ramshackle Cave-Igloo-Thing

Our Tunnel Entrance

Richard's Certified Cave

(which he seems very proud of)

Rob quickly dug a small kitchen next to our cave, which created wind protection and even included a tabletop for the camp stove. Janet cooked up a pot of noodles, ham, and peas, and we ate hunched inside our cave. It tasted really good, but we were disappointed to find that our warmth instigated a steady dripping from the ceiling.

The next order of business was arranging beds. This was difficult to do in spaces not much bigger than coffins, under drips that were quickly resembling rainfall. I wriggled and squirmed until it could be said that I was lying down in a sleeping bag. Jeremy threw a tarp over us to deflect the drips. We lay tentatively, wondering which form of death was more likely before morning--smothering, freezing, or going mad and leaping into the ravine. It was about then that I felt icy water seeping through my sleeping bag. I was wet to the skin on one side.

We scrambled and shifted and readjusted the tarp. Then I heard a huge clap of thunder. I thought it strange that a storm was suddenly breaking over the ridge in the dead of winter. Then I realized with horror that it was snow falling and assumed I was being buried alive. With only seconds to prepare for my demise, I was glad I had started the mental preparations earlier in the day. I looked up to see half of our wall collapsed onto my legs and feet. I was still alive, but I couldn't move one foot. Russell, the young boy next to us, stood staring. "That sure gave me a fright," he gasped (insert NZ accent here). Even Jeremy was reaching his breaking point. For Russell's benefit, we pretended everything was fine. "I'm freaking out on the inside," Jeremy muttered to me.

Janet--who had been outside during the collapse--ran off to fetch Richard, and shortly we saw his face appear in the gaping hole. "You all right in there?" he called, his headlamp lighting our sullen faces. "This is rather a disaster," he confirmed, assuming his best leadership tone, "We'll have to move you to new caves."

After plucking one leg out from the snow heap, I dragged my wet sleeping bag down the snow highway to the next cave, to which Jeremy and I had been reassigned. This cave belonged to the Princes--a father and four teenage boys. Prince was their last name, but they turned out to be every bit as charming, and--quite fortunately for us--their cave was palatial too. I climbed miserably up their tunnel and collapsed onto the entry platform, where they had spread out a tarp for us. Then I looked around in amazement. Five brunettes reclined in neat rows in a cozy and spacious cave. A candle burned on a shelf cut out of the snow and flickered on warm and ruddy faces. "Welcome," a congenial Craig sang out.

So, in the company of strangers, we gratefully passed the night. They even made us laugh. "I'm glad your cave collapsed," Father Prince asserted, "it was going to be a boring night." Eventually we even slept, and I only suffered a few nightmares involving avalanches.

In the morning, we faced a blasting wind that made the day before seem breezy. One or two gusts nearly knocked me down. My fingers were so numb I could barely close zippers and repack my gear. With difficulty, we made it back to the cars and convened for coffee and sandwiches in the nearest town. Around the table, Richard asked the group to offer suggestions for next year's trip.

"Don't go," I blurted out before thinking. This was a real "Did I just say that out loud?" moment. Several necks turned 180 degrees, and Jeremy's face changed colors twice. But it was my subtle protest against using terms like "recreation" and "fun" to describe a series of near-death experiences. I sure hope Jeremy has fun on his next club field trip. I don't even dare imagine what the next step of the hazing process could be.

Click here to play the trip theme song.