A few photos from our weekend trips as fall settles in on South Island. These shots were taken by Ben Earwicker, who with his wife Michelle and as of yet unnamed soon-to-be Ms. Earwicker kept the Abbey crowd continuously amazed by their grace and good humor. They are gone now, and we are the poorer for it.

If, however, you are in the Boise area and need a damn good photographer who can also verbally bitchslap that annoying cousin of yours that thinks he knows everything about pre-Castro Cuba, then Ben is your man: http://www.garrisonphoto.org/. My guess is that Michelle is even better.


On Easter Sunday we decided to skip the processions of the cross this year and head up into the Otago wine country for a bit of the blood of the vine instead. Gorgeous day, fall in Otago has all the colors of a Rick Griffin poster without the two days of depressed confusion afterward.

Sam, Kyle, and Wiebke demonstrate the joy of wine and waffles. Kyle is the one channeling Hunter S. Thompson.

Just another average day in En Zed.

You can safely drink out of most of the rivers and creeks. I mean, how frickin' (in honor of Michelle) cool is that?

Two weeks later as Ben and Michelle prepared to leave we made one last trip together. Luckily the weather held, and we set off for tunnel beach, about 10 minutes south of Dunedin. The beach gets its name from a small tunnel and stairs cut into a fin of sandstone which was built to allow a local sheep magnate's daughters to have a private beach. The fact that one of those daughters promptly drowned on the beach shows that wish fulfillment can be a bit touchy.

Michelle, Raphaelle, moi, Emily, Wiebke, Sam and Kyle.

Another bloody typical New Zealand day.

You know, this place would be great except for all the crowds. Remember, this is the middle of a beautiful weekend day not ten minutes from a city of 120,000. And that is me.

Raphaelle gives us a bit of scale.

There are so many ways my life could suck more than it does, I have stopped keeping track.

The photographer in repose.

Notice the stairs next to Wiebke's head. Yes, stairs. Fishermen are worse than junkies.

This was, hands down, the best grass I have ever encountered. Thick, luxuriant, and even smelled nice.

I tell stories. It's just what I do.

A well deserved respite after a rigorous day.....

Thanks Ben and Michelle, you're damn good people.