The year’s final sun had long since settled beneath the horizon.
And then the crowds came. They swarmed Queenstown from all crevices, gathering by the thousands to collectively celebrate the grand coming of 2018. The new year was upon us at last. The new chance, the new frontier…
It was 11:40, and town was pandemonium. We were still crammed in the car and stuck at the pedestrian crossing, seriously concerned that we would still be here when the fireworks painted the skies. People wafted past, wandering the streets in droves, seeking the party and the magic. There was a brief opening in the crowd, and I pressed my foot into the accelerator, darting through. By some token of luck, there was a carpark just on the other side where I pulled up and offloaded myself and my party.
The instant I stepped from the drivers seat of the car and locked it, I was swept up by the current. My friends were just ahead of me, lugging and slinging their bottles of booze, turning back to see if I was still there and not swallowed by the rapids. As we neared the waterfront, the pumping of megalithic speakers rattled my bones. A DJ stood before them, like some kind of musical lord on his throne, commanding the horde of party-goers with the flick on his wrist. He cast ripples of bounce through the crowds of people bubbling up at the waterfront, ever growing. The excitement of the New Year was triumphant.
We found ourselves entrenched in the mass of people, ready for the fireworks. One of my friends swooped by my side, offering me a swig of vodka. I refused, gesturing with an upright palm. He was persistent, thwacking the bottom of the bottle against my shoulder and yelling through the uproar, “Come on bro! You should drink, it’s New Years!” I refused again. I was never going to drink tonight - not on this occasion. I had other plans. But explaining them through the wall of noise, and on New Years, would be a tremendously pointless effort.
And then, all of a sudden, 2018 began.
BOOOOOM. Bullets of rainbow pierced the sky. Fountains of delicious colour washed away the darkness, followed by tremendous popping that reverberated around the amphitheater of mountains. BAAANNGG. The throb of people roared back, cheering and clapping at the splendid display, welcoming the New Year with outrageous gusto. It was magic personified.
There I was in the first moments of 2018 - wedged in a prism of people on the Queenstown waterfront, underneath a dazzling sky. When the last of the fireworks fizzled out like wisps in the air, a thunderous applause exploded from the crowds, as if to say ‘HALLELUJAH! We made it yet again’! Enthusiastic gestures of friendship and love spilled from people all around us, togetherness prevailing. I guess we were all victorious.
The antics quickly resumed, now with the bonus firepower of New Year mojo and excitement. My friend rammed my side, clasping my shoulder and pulling me in for a great big hug. ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR!’ People were buzzing all around, the beat of the DJ booth puppeteering their footsteps. A bottle smashed somewhere behind us. Somebody tripped over nearby. It was getting quite chaotic…
More people I knew popped up out of nowhere and wished us Happy New Year, also offering me alcohol. I refused again, starting to wonder when I should make my escape. I came for the fireworks, and maybe for a bit of New Year bravado. But my clan were deliberating where to party tonight. My plans were hidden from them - it was more of a personal thing, how I wanted to spend my New Years. I definitely didn’t want to be in this ever thickening chaos. The frenzy was spread all throughout town, and the bars were spewing people. It was only 20 minutes past twelve…
The next thing I knew, my group were enveloped by the congregations; swallowed. I was… free!
It’s in moments like this that I have a great appreciation for being short. Sneaking through the mesh of bodies, I made my way upwards through town. I was like a slinky; ducking beneath the titans, dodging the champs. My car, the emerald wagon, waited patiently for my return just around the corner. I quickly peered through the trunk window, double checking that the my stuff hadn’t been swiped in the tornado of festive people, despite the car being locked. My tramping bag, packed with all my stuff, was just as I had left it. Perfect - I was ready.
I jumped into the drivers seat, and started the engine, reversing carefully. Rolling down and out of Queenstown at the pace of a horse trot, I eventually made it to the other end. Before me, the road stretched out anew, free of the commotion. As I left the storm of festivities, skimming along Lake Wakatipu in my car, I could almost see the silence before me, as vast as space above.
And then it was just me and the sunken moon, hanging there like a glowing medallion. It looked like the head of a watchtower, beckoning me into a world of unbound wonder, its reflection on the waters of Wakatipu like some kind of shimmering arm, outstretched and following me as I hurtled further into the Wilderness. Not 10 minutes prior, I was lodged in the thicket of the party, chaos billowing. And now, the peace of my own adventure was upon.
I was headed straight for the Routeburn track. My plan was to spend the day hiking in the mountains and embracing nature, to fully connect with my vision and what it is that I wanted to achieve in the year ahead. I’ve always tried to make these so called ‘New Years resolutions’. But of course, none of them have ever really worked out. I decided that a rock solid journey, an epic challenge, or a memorable adventure would slap me in the face hard enough for the sting to remain all year long. A reminder that I had work to do.
I headed into the Legendary Routeburn track at about 5:30 AM. The trail, just becoming visible in the morning glow, ascended through the blanket of bush, spiralling around the legs of the mountains and off into distant valleys. The mountains loomed all around me, paying no heed to my insignificancy, braced and proud of their eminence like a gathering of ancient philosophers. Their jagged peaks were like dragons teeth; trees clutching the treacherous slopes like wool. I was in the presence of giants.
As I ventured further up the trail, the peace of dawn reminded me to set my intentions for the journey ahead. I was on a Vision Quest of sorts, to realise what lay at the heart of 'Joshua St Clair’, the grand endeavour of Life and Art that I had been working towards for almost 2 years. I wanted it to work out - to be successful in Writing and Music; to be an Artist. But HOW? Was it all just wishful thinking? Was it my fantasy mind, drunk and charming, whispering into my ear again?
As I headed further up the trail, the shadows lurking through the forest were gently lifted and upturned. The morning blossomed as the sun of the New Year came peeping over the mountain-swept horizon, and began ascending to its roost high in the sky. The mossy forest sprang to life all around me; it was webbed with thick green. Rivers scintillating under the brave sun carved their way through the valley, splashing thoughtfully against the rocks. After several hours of treading through the vibrant valley floor, I came upon The Routeburn Flats Hut. And then the climb into the mountains began.
The nature in this area always leaves me awe-struck. Was it destiny that brought me to some of the richest landscapes in New Zealand? I made the decision to undertake the course of Hospitality Management at Queenstown Resort College of my own accord, but I never planned to be taken by the hand of Queenstown itself and shown the depth and the magnificence of its beauty. As I began exploring deeper dimensions of myself, I realised that my journey here was about so much more than Hospitality. The world is crumbling in our own hands. This innocent, deeply wise nature could be culled within our very lifetime… But what was I going to do about it? End up in a suit and tie, running a hotel for the privileged? That's just not me… I had a deep need to make a difference in the world, and Hospitality Management just isn't my forte. But Art…it can stir a man’s heart, it can offer refuge, it can move mountains!
Testing to see if Art could really move mountains, I pulled out my journal and flicked to a page that I thought had the most creative excerpt of writing. I held it up to the monolithic beast of a mountain that towered above me. Nothing happened.
Perhaps my Art wasn’t that great after all. It couldn’t even move a mountain… There are countless Artists out there - Musicians and Writers as numerous as the hours in a decade. What could I possibly do to make my work any more interesting than all of those other ambitious creatives? Gazing up the stern cliff face, I wondered if the spirited nature of the Routeburn track held the wisdom I was seeking. Streams of crystal water came tumbling down the side of the great pillar of rock, billowing and dispersing at the touch of wind. Behind me, the valley stretched out, cocooned by the snow-capped titans, the Routeburn track weaving through the rich forest like a thread of silk. I carried on ahead, crossing wooden bridges and scaling the stone path.
The skyward hike up into the mountains was fairly challenging, but it wasn’t without its reward. The gaping wide panorama of alpine beauty was nudging at my right side the whole time. Eventually, the Routeburn Falls Hut revealed itself through the trees; the wooden throne of the valley. It's balcony extended out, offering majestic views over the vicinity. Other trampers sat on the benches, munching on bananas and scroggin, but I just stood there, enraptured by the vista. It was the best I’d ever seen. The decision to undertake this Routeburn day hike as my Rite of Passage into 2018 seemed almost too perfect….
And that’s when it finally hit me.
‘Of course!’ I thought to myself. ‘So simple!’ The insight I was seeking had been under my nose the whole time, and I was oblivious to it. It turned out that my decision to walk the Routeburn track was no mere coincidence.
With the treasure stashed in my bag alongside my flute and journals, I took to the track, heading back down into the valley from which I came. ‘The Routeburn!’ I muttered through my smile, skidding stones underneath my feet as I charged down the trail. Of course, ‘Routeburn’ just happens to be a synonym for the term ‘Trail-blaze’. The insight I was seeking was in the very name of the track I had chosen to walk for my New Years adventure. As if the heart-melting landscapes weren’t enough, they seemingly held the answer to my question. It felt like I was in a poem. Those wise mountains…
Now I was confident in this whole ‘Joshua St Clair’ endeavour. I would head out into this New Year and start blazing my own trail, burning my own route as an Artist and as a person who strives to make an honest difference in the world. Whistling through the sun-kissed canopy, groups of trampers passed me by, scuttling up the track as I had done just hours earlier. I wished each and every one of them a grand old Happy New Year! They had the whole Routeburn ahead of them, but I was going a different way. Up another track, up another mountain, onwards on my own journey!
And then the crowds came. They swarmed Queenstown from all crevices, gathering by the thousands to collectively celebrate the grand coming of 2018. The new year was upon us at last. The new chance, the new frontier…
It was 11:40, and town was pandemonium. We were still crammed in the car and stuck at the pedestrian crossing, seriously concerned that we would still be here when the fireworks painted the skies. People wafted past, wandering the streets in droves, seeking the party and the magic. There was a brief opening in the crowd, and I pressed my foot into the accelerator, darting through. By some token of luck, there was a carpark just on the other side where I pulled up and offloaded myself and my party.
The instant I stepped from the drivers seat of the car and locked it, I was swept up by the current. My friends were just ahead of me, lugging and slinging their bottles of booze, turning back to see if I was still there and not swallowed by the rapids. As we neared the waterfront, the pumping of megalithic speakers rattled my bones. A DJ stood before them, like some kind of musical lord on his throne, commanding the horde of party-goers with the flick on his wrist. He cast ripples of bounce through the crowds of people bubbling up at the waterfront, ever growing. The excitement of the New Year was triumphant.
We found ourselves entrenched in the mass of people, ready for the fireworks. One of my friends swooped by my side, offering me a swig of vodka. I refused, gesturing with an upright palm. He was persistent, thwacking the bottom of the bottle against my shoulder and yelling through the uproar, “Come on bro! You should drink, it’s New Years!” I refused again. I was never going to drink tonight - not on this occasion. I had other plans. But explaining them through the wall of noise, and on New Years, would be a tremendously pointless effort.
And then, all of a sudden, 2018 began.
BOOOOOM. Bullets of rainbow pierced the sky. Fountains of delicious colour washed away the darkness, followed by tremendous popping that reverberated around the amphitheater of mountains. BAAANNGG. The throb of people roared back, cheering and clapping at the splendid display, welcoming the New Year with outrageous gusto. It was magic personified.
There I was in the first moments of 2018 - wedged in a prism of people on the Queenstown waterfront, underneath a dazzling sky. When the last of the fireworks fizzled out like wisps in the air, a thunderous applause exploded from the crowds, as if to say ‘HALLELUJAH! We made it yet again’! Enthusiastic gestures of friendship and love spilled from people all around us, togetherness prevailing. I guess we were all victorious.
The antics quickly resumed, now with the bonus firepower of New Year mojo and excitement. My friend rammed my side, clasping my shoulder and pulling me in for a great big hug. ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR!’ People were buzzing all around, the beat of the DJ booth puppeteering their footsteps. A bottle smashed somewhere behind us. Somebody tripped over nearby. It was getting quite chaotic…
More people I knew popped up out of nowhere and wished us Happy New Year, also offering me alcohol. I refused again, starting to wonder when I should make my escape. I came for the fireworks, and maybe for a bit of New Year bravado. But my clan were deliberating where to party tonight. My plans were hidden from them - it was more of a personal thing, how I wanted to spend my New Years. I definitely didn’t want to be in this ever thickening chaos. The frenzy was spread all throughout town, and the bars were spewing people. It was only 20 minutes past twelve…
The next thing I knew, my group were enveloped by the congregations; swallowed. I was… free!
It’s in moments like this that I have a great appreciation for being short. Sneaking through the mesh of bodies, I made my way upwards through town. I was like a slinky; ducking beneath the titans, dodging the champs. My car, the emerald wagon, waited patiently for my return just around the corner. I quickly peered through the trunk window, double checking that the my stuff hadn’t been swiped in the tornado of festive people, despite the car being locked. My tramping bag, packed with all my stuff, was just as I had left it. Perfect - I was ready.
I jumped into the drivers seat, and started the engine, reversing carefully. Rolling down and out of Queenstown at the pace of a horse trot, I eventually made it to the other end. Before me, the road stretched out anew, free of the commotion. As I left the storm of festivities, skimming along Lake Wakatipu in my car, I could almost see the silence before me, as vast as space above.
And then it was just me and the sunken moon, hanging there like a glowing medallion. It looked like the head of a watchtower, beckoning me into a world of unbound wonder, its reflection on the waters of Wakatipu like some kind of shimmering arm, outstretched and following me as I hurtled further into the Wilderness. Not 10 minutes prior, I was lodged in the thicket of the party, chaos billowing. And now, the peace of my own adventure was upon.
I was headed straight for the Routeburn track. My plan was to spend the day hiking in the mountains and embracing nature, to fully connect with my vision and what it is that I wanted to achieve in the year ahead. I’ve always tried to make these so called ‘New Years resolutions’. But of course, none of them have ever really worked out. I decided that a rock solid journey, an epic challenge, or a memorable adventure would slap me in the face hard enough for the sting to remain all year long. A reminder that I had work to do.
I headed into the Legendary Routeburn track at about 5:30 AM. The trail, just becoming visible in the morning glow, ascended through the blanket of bush, spiralling around the legs of the mountains and off into distant valleys. The mountains loomed all around me, paying no heed to my insignificancy, braced and proud of their eminence like a gathering of ancient philosophers. Their jagged peaks were like dragons teeth; trees clutching the treacherous slopes like wool. I was in the presence of giants.
As I ventured further up the trail, the peace of dawn reminded me to set my intentions for the journey ahead. I was on a Vision Quest of sorts, to realise what lay at the heart of 'Joshua St Clair’, the grand endeavour of Life and Art that I had been working towards for almost 2 years. I wanted it to work out - to be successful in Writing and Music; to be an Artist. But HOW? Was it all just wishful thinking? Was it my fantasy mind, drunk and charming, whispering into my ear again?
As I headed further up the trail, the shadows lurking through the forest were gently lifted and upturned. The morning blossomed as the sun of the New Year came peeping over the mountain-swept horizon, and began ascending to its roost high in the sky. The mossy forest sprang to life all around me; it was webbed with thick green. Rivers scintillating under the brave sun carved their way through the valley, splashing thoughtfully against the rocks. After several hours of treading through the vibrant valley floor, I came upon The Routeburn Flats Hut. And then the climb into the mountains began.
Testing to see if Art could really move mountains, I pulled out my journal and flicked to a page that I thought had the most creative excerpt of writing. I held it up to the monolithic beast of a mountain that towered above me. Nothing happened.
Perhaps my Art wasn’t that great after all. It couldn’t even move a mountain… There are countless Artists out there - Musicians and Writers as numerous as the hours in a decade. What could I possibly do to make my work any more interesting than all of those other ambitious creatives? Gazing up the stern cliff face, I wondered if the spirited nature of the Routeburn track held the wisdom I was seeking. Streams of crystal water came tumbling down the side of the great pillar of rock, billowing and dispersing at the touch of wind. Behind me, the valley stretched out, cocooned by the snow-capped titans, the Routeburn track weaving through the rich forest like a thread of silk. I carried on ahead, crossing wooden bridges and scaling the stone path.
The skyward hike up into the mountains was fairly challenging, but it wasn’t without its reward. The gaping wide panorama of alpine beauty was nudging at my right side the whole time. Eventually, the Routeburn Falls Hut revealed itself through the trees; the wooden throne of the valley. It's balcony extended out, offering majestic views over the vicinity. Other trampers sat on the benches, munching on bananas and scroggin, but I just stood there, enraptured by the vista. It was the best I’d ever seen. The decision to undertake this Routeburn day hike as my Rite of Passage into 2018 seemed almost too perfect….
And that’s when it finally hit me.
‘Of course!’ I thought to myself. ‘So simple!’ The insight I was seeking had been under my nose the whole time, and I was oblivious to it. It turned out that my decision to walk the Routeburn track was no mere coincidence.
With the treasure stashed in my bag alongside my flute and journals, I took to the track, heading back down into the valley from which I came. ‘The Routeburn!’ I muttered through my smile, skidding stones underneath my feet as I charged down the trail. Of course, ‘Routeburn’ just happens to be a synonym for the term ‘Trail-blaze’. The insight I was seeking was in the very name of the track I had chosen to walk for my New Years adventure. As if the heart-melting landscapes weren’t enough, they seemingly held the answer to my question. It felt like I was in a poem. Those wise mountains…
Now I was confident in this whole ‘Joshua St Clair’ endeavour. I would head out into this New Year and start blazing my own trail, burning my own route as an Artist and as a person who strives to make an honest difference in the world. Whistling through the sun-kissed canopy, groups of trampers passed me by, scuttling up the track as I had done just hours earlier. I wished each and every one of them a grand old Happy New Year! They had the whole Routeburn ahead of them, but I was going a different way. Up another track, up another mountain, onwards on my own journey!
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