Dear Family and Friends,

The piece de resistance of our New Caledonia visit took the form of a 3 day road trip hosted, arranged and escorted by our good friends Emery and Kamea. The men piled into the front of the four door pickup and Kamea and I arranged ourselves in the rear seat. I had packed not only my camera, swim suit and sunglasses but also my French Dictionary and was prepared to learn lots of French on the trip. I'm not sure Kamea realized she would have to endure hours and days trapped in the backseat with me incessantly babbling in broken French punctuated by mime and paging through the French dictionary, but she was a very good sport about it.

At this point in our sailing expedition we have crossed the breadth of the South Pacific. New Caledonia is pretty much the last stop before heading on east to Australia, New Guinea or Indonesia and parts unknown. It is the largest island in the South Pacific and is in the midst of struggling to define itself as independent from France who continues to subsidize much of the luxuries the population enjoys such as well maintained paved roads, medical care and education. We had been centered at Port Moselle in Noumea the island's capital but this was our chance to see the farthest reaches of her sparsely populated interior and wild shores.

We began at the South West corner of the cigar shaped island and headed northward up the long west side. Very quickly we left the city behind and made our way through farmland and sparse towns mostly composed of a traffic circle and the usual school, church, gendarmerie, magasin, snack, patisserie and chocolatier. The west side is much like northern California, semi arid with gum trees and white trunked smooth eucalyptus densely surrounded by what appears at first to be clumpy sage but is rather shrubby acacia. Precipitously steep mountains in the distant interior contrast with the far reaching expanses of ocean lined by white breaking waves demarcating the fringing reef half way to the horizon. The grasslands perched along the flat between the two extremes are dotted liberally with white trunked trees in the style of Northern California's Live Oak but even more horizontal in attitude interspersed with solitary older trees stretching their massive branches impossible distances perfectly parallel to the earth's surface so that their drip lines extend out so far it seems a whole village could find shelter beneath that canopy. Grassy pastures rolled past dotted with handsome ranch horses, cattle and occasionally sheep. The cattle are mostly the French Limousine and Charolais breeds crossed with Brahman bulls. Most of the Brahman stock is grey or white and the bulls are striking with their enormous stature, humped back and long ears. They mill amongst their cows like white wool robed priests their eyes and points darkly shadowed. Sometimes cached in a tiny valley I would snatch a fleeting glimpse of an isolated herd of Brahmans, ghostly white like condensed tendrils of fog or temporarily materialized spirits. At other times the road leans toward the shore providing glimpses of tumbled massive rock formations pummeled by surf and framed by the asparagus like Cook's Pine narrowly jutting upwards at a multitude of sweeping and diverse angles like pick-up sticks tossed into soft sand and caught all askew. Acres of squash and melon transition into fields of corn or the more stunted milo for cattle feed in all stages of growth and ripeness even to dry brown stands.

By late afternoon we reached the northern end, continuing along a winding one lane dirt road often branching into unmarked offshoots disappearing into remote windswept grassland. Occasionally a hand painted sign announced a "gite" or hostel somewhere out of site. A huge cloud of dust followed billowing behind us and the shrubby roadside acacias were flocked light grey as the dirt road rolled on for miles and miles without a house or store or gas station or building of any kind to break the emptiness. We finally arrived at the northern tip where the grass grows right down to the beach sand interrupted by jagged striated rock slabs striped with fat veins engorged with a white mineral deposit resembling melted tallow. Live cone shells were busy in the shallows as were good sized hermit crabs in tall pointed screw shells which waved about wildly as they managed the merry little wavelets. The ironwood trees were so heavily laden with pollen that their weeping pine needles seemed bedazzled in gold glitter and the trees buzzed with the drone of a thousand busy bees humming to themselves and stuffing their pockets full. We settled into our barn-like, simple, beach side outbuilding at the gite which despite being far from resources provided neither bedding nor food. But as usual Emery had friends in the area and we had prior reservations to dine at another more upscale gite with a delightful enclosed sea side patio. We were soon enjoying a deluge of homemade delicacies and home brewed concoctions which flowed toward us like a veritable parade of creativity and good taste. The owners dry their own sea salt in ponds, juice their own coconuts, extract cane syrup from the sugar cane, distill black wood and gather local wild plants and herbs as well as seafood for the meals. They invest an equal amount of attention to the comfort of their guests, joining us at the long table where all the guests eat family style and where they could address our every need for drinks, gaiety or conversation. Needless to say the experience was unique and unabashedly decadent and sublime.

The next morning we were off across to the eastern side. The crossing was in contrast over steep and rugged arid country on a sometimes difficult road which wound past towering sentinel rocks standing like skeletons of mountains from which long ago all the soil had washed or blown away. Slashes in the rock walls cut to grade the road revealed white patches of gypsum alternating with granite like swaths sparkling with micah and outcroppings of clear or white quartz. Pulling off into a view area we were amazed to step out onto dirt which shone like gold dust. Approaching the east shore the vegetation began to thicken becoming lush with coconut, banana and stunning flowers of wild bird of paradise. Now the road frequently bridged wide rivers or waterfall streams each one a post card perfect tropical visual paradise, edges softened by thick leafy overgrowth, fern rich undergrowth and splashed with colorful flowers. Spring is already in full swing on the east side with dusty rose and magenta bougainvilleas like Rose Parade floats piled up and spilling over fences and whole huge trees covered in fiery orange flowers or the soft lilac of jacarandas or deep throaty reds of hibiscus. Perhaps the oddest is a vine reminiscent of wisteria which climbs high into the tree tops and dangles fat grape like clusters of deep turquoise green flowers. Everywhere is color. Deep bays cut into the shoreline which often drops into the sea as dizzying grey rock cliffs. Even the islets lining the shore are tall and sheer like Charabdis of mythology and the rock cliffs continue their breath taking plunge deep into the water which consequently is free of sediment and crystal clear blue. The entrance to one such bay is guarded by two tiny but statuesque rock islands one shaped distinctly like a slinky napping cat and the other a perfect hen with a pointy beak jutting from a combed head on one end while the opposite end bristles upright in perky tail feathers. We ended the day at a beachside hotel where the traditional round, high, cone shaped roof of the bungalows effectively swept us off into dreams.

The third day we continued a bit south toward the next crossing road which would return us to the west side. At one point a bay cut so deeply into the shoreline that a cable ferry took us across to the other side two cars at a time. The road continued steeply up to the ridge line from whence we could see across the vast expanse of mostly uninhabited, rugged open space we were to cross. Now it seemed to us we had begun in California's farm belt, progressed to Hawaii and now found ourselves in Lake Tahoe traveling through pine forests and winding along hairpin mountain roads. Smoke from small runaway brush fires smudged the horizon in several seemingly inaccessible places along the way. A wide riverbed traversed miles of stone slabs where we picnicked exuding the peculiar smell combination of sun baked rock and pond water which instantly catapulted me back to my childhood summers at Gramma's house and lazy afternoons on the river sliding down "Ole Slicky" and dashing barefoot from shady patch to shady patch over the asphalt road melted soft by the mid day sun.

All too soon we are back to where we started, our dreamy tour interrupted by the jostling hustle and bustle of weekend traveler traffic returning to Noumea. In three days it feels as though we have toured the world in this one island with its diversity of ecosystems, climates and cultures. And yet we know we have just scratched the surface and could spend three years or three lifetimes exploring her deeper secrets without disappointment or ennui. Her history is rich as well with legends of shipwrecks from the early explorers, camps, barracks and arsenals from the Great War as well as older French prisons and forts and even older remains of extensive terraced mountainside gardens suggesting a native population at one time in the hundreds of thousands-- A staggering population completely comprehensible when we realize we have not found New Caledonia wanting in anything. She is indeed a big little island and hugely beautiful. But now it is time to go while the wind is willing --which it rarely is --to blow us back east to Fiji. And so, well fortified with heartfelt friendship, enduring memories and fondest farewells, we are already on our way again and all is well.

Much love always, Pat and John S/V The Rose en route to Fiji 06 October 2013