NZ traffic jam.

Auntie Shannon three times over.

Trygve Shane Burke, welcome to the family. Word on the street is that you’re the cutest thing since cute things were invented. I can’t wait to meet you.

LL and ShanShan get into hot water.

If the earthquakes in Christchurch taught the world anything about New Zealand, it’s that the entire country lies pretty much smack-dab on top of two colliding tectonic plates. Total bummer, right? Well, if you’re talking about shakers, then yes. But if you’re talking about crazy awesome natural phenomena, then no. Take, for instance, the very creatively named Hot Water Beach. It’s a beach that seeps hot water. Perfectly positioned geothermic springs allow intrepid holidaymakers to dig their own little spa pools in the sand during low tide. You shovel out a hole, it fills with hot water, and good times ensue. The only problem with what I consider to be pretty much the most incredible thing in the entire world is that other people seem to like it as well. So Hot Water Beach is a hoppin’ spot on the Coromandel Peninsula.

Armed with a shovel and a couple of beers to reward our anticipated ten minutes of manual labor, LauraLe and I set out to dig a hole. But where to go? Shovels were shoveling everywhere. Other tourists were stealing our steam!

But never underestimate the generosity of strangers.

A delightful Frenchman and an Alaskan bear hunter offered to share their spa with us, and we, in turn, shared our Montleith’s Gold Lager with them. A win-win all around.

Anyway, Hot Water Beach can be a little temperamental. If you’re in a good spot, the seeping water can scald your ass. If you’re in a bad spot, you’ll get tepid temperatures at best. The trick is to get just the right combination of sea and spring. I think LauraLe and I did a pretty good job. With, of course, a little help from our new-found friends.

Awww, nuts! (And a Raglan resolution.)

Manuel had his first mini breakdown yesterday. LauraLe and I were on our way to a beach outside of Raglan to catch the second day of a surfing competition when the car started to make a horrific noise. A nut flew off one of my rear wheels, and the resulting wobbling was not only incredibly loud, it very nearly sent us careening off the side of a spectacularly beautiful emerald green cliff. It’s a good thing I’m such a timid driver because my snail’s pace probably saved us from catastrophe. So instead of perishing in a fiery ball, we were assisted by a lovely German surfer who found and returned the offending nut, and a lovely Kiwi from AA (that’s AAA to the Americans—not Alcoholics Anonymous) who came and fixed Manuel up like a champ.

So, Raglan. I guess it’s kind of cool, but incessant rain just puts a damper on everything. We did meet two hilarious ladies from Auckland who convinced us to go watch this Argentinean band play at a place called the Yot Club (Yot Club? Kiwis are terrible spellers). Anyway, I’m not sure if it’s a cultural thing or a surfer thing, but peeps in Raglan can dance. They were very intimidating. I can’t put my finger on exactly when or where I lost it, but at some point I—much like Stella—would like to get my groove back. I may need to return to Raglan to do it.

Blown away: The Tongariro Alpine Crossing.

Sometimes the Lonely Planet leaves a lot to be desired. In fact, my friend Mufaro, a tour guide in Africa, disdainfully refers to it as the Lonely Liars. However, in a pinch, it can be a lifesaver. And every now and again, it gets something totally spot on. Like the Tongariro Alpine Crossing.

The Lonely Planet calls the Tongariro Alpine Crossing the best day walk in all of New Zealand. I think I agree. And not just because it weaves through both Mordor and Mount Doom. Though honestly, how cool is that? I was geeking out over LOTR stuff nonstop for 14 miles. LauraLe, I apologize.

But hobbits, elves, and Viggo Mortensen aside, the Tongariro Alpine Crossing is just over-the-top spectacularly beautiful. You hike up and between three competing volcanoes to find the most perfect series of turquoise crater lakes surrounded by magical misty peaks. Even though it’s summer here, there’s still snow capping the highest points. At times, the crossing can be pee-your-pants scary. I was very nearly blown off a ridgeline into a volcano due to the gale force, freezing cold winds, but the view from the other side was well worth the danger. I heard that it’s really good in the winter, so I think I’m going to buy myself some crampons and go for broke once the snows come.

While my peers are busy being hung up on that one special person, I’m finding myself more and more hung up on special places. And this is one is tops. Tongariro, you complete me.

2012. Here’s hoping the Mayans were wrong.

Way back in 2009 (or was it 2008?) Ashley and I made a pact. The deal? 2011 was to be a year unlike any other, a year so utterly off the chain that entire decades on either side would weep with envy—The Year of ShanAsh. And it really was. Africa. China. Southeast Asia. New Zealand. We packed in a lot. But now that the curtains have closed on 2011 and 2012 has tentatively begun to stretch its legs, I can’t help but wonder, “What’s next?”

Well, for two weeks I’ll be roadtripping around the North Island in Manuel with my good friend Laurale. And after that…honestly, I have no idea. More tramping. More roadtrips. More New Zealand. And then the long journey home. But where, exactly, is home? I guess only the Year of the Dragon can answer that one.