SECRET PARADISE

It started in the grocery store when I recognized a Dutch kid in the checkout line, the pronounced cheekbones, fair skin and hair—the slightly bewildered look on his face. It was defiantly the same guy, standing in line with his shorter, average-looking friend. The third guy I didn’t know, he was wearing a pair of circular red sunglasses and his head was shaved.

I walked up to them and slapped their backs, and after a momentary jumble of surprise and greetings, we stood around smiling without much to say. I’d met them weeks ago, my second night in Auckland, we shared a drink and some conversation—I never did know their names—and here we were, a whole island away, awkwardly reunited, standing beside the dog food, grinning.

They’re telling me wide-eyed about a secret place—a special place.

Cheekbones is nearly dead with shock just talking about it, yammering directions, gasping, and swallowing air to keep up with his tongue. His buddy furiously agrees, nodding his head like a lethargic woodpecker. The third guy is trying to look like Woody Harrelson in Natural Born Killers. His arms are crossed and he shrugs occasionally.

Robert buys a sandwich and walks up to our circle, listening.

They float across the street toward their hostel, arguing directions. Robert and I look at each other—an hour later we’re climbing through the mountains.

The scenery is common—which is to say breathtaking—as we trudge up hills and into the woods.

30 minutes later we reach the cave.

It’s mosey lips are gapping and drip-drops emit from the cool darkness of it’s throat. We walk inside, ankle-deep in an icy stream, and our footsteps join the symphony of trickles, splashing in the silence. We’re swathed in black. My feet go numb. Glowworms form obscene constellations above us, clinging to the stone ceiling like fleshy, misshapen stars, phosphorescent and squirming. How long have we been walking? Forever it seems, into the depths, through this damp, endless tunnel—earth bowels, wet with streams of unholy temperament—when, at last, the sun reveals itself, a dull glow catching the edges of rock that sprout from the walls.

We emerge, stepping out onto a bridge that curves from one cave to another. Torrents of water spill from the wooden planking in long silver threads. The floorboards are slick beneath our feet. Supports for a long-gone canopy force us to crouch, spaced at odd intervals along its length. It’s a twenty-foot drop on either side.

There is an alcove where the bridge rejoins the mountain, a sheet-metal roof above a heavy oak door blocking the entrance to the second cave.

NO ENTRY.

Robert gives it a shove, but its solid, nailed in place, impassable. Looking directly to the left, out across from the bridge and at about equal height, there is a small shelter settled into the mud and moss. A tributary flows from beneath it, crashing down the hillside to merge with the river beyond the trees.

Robert is about ready to give up when I scrabble over the side of the bridge and climb onto the roof. We’d come this far and I wasn’t about to turn back—then I slipped.

My body slammed into the wet steel and I felt its slimy surface ushering me over the edge. I scrambled for a hold, thinking about my father and all the times he’d warned me about sheet metal.

Sharp. Slippery. Deadly.

I caught myself just in time.

Jagged rocks and other precipice cliché’s watched me from below like hungry teeth. Robert’s mouth dropped open. I dragged myself across the roof, slipping closer to the abyss with each movement. My fingers found something solid and I slid down onto the mountain face, carefully working my way toward the bottom.

Robert is watching me from above. I started climbing toward the shelter. The earth was crumbling beneath my feet and the grass was slick. My heart was pounding.

The structure was solid, though decrepit, timbers ragged and water logged. I pulled myself around to its front where there was a gate, which swung open on heavy iron hinges—a remnant of the mining era—squeaking, and exposed a tunnel crisscrossed with caution tape—a dripping, open wound in the side of the mountain, dark and forbidding.

A secret entryway.

I called out to Robert and returned to the ravine, then, standing beneath the bridge where we had emerged, scaled the muddy slope to a ledge that was shielded by grass.

The bridge was near—it could be managed.

Robert clambered over the edge, reached out, and joined me, stepping onto the ledge. Together we hiked back to the shelter, batted aside the caution tape, and entered the cave.

Darkness again.

The ground is dry and our footsteps rattle in the silence.

The tunnel shrinks, lowering—we’re on our knees. It lowers still—now we’re crawling. Stalactites thump our heads—we can’t see a damn thing.

After awhile we reach an ending.

Using his phone for light, Robert reveals the obstacle, sheer stone, the wall and the crack beneath which we’d have to crawl on our bellies to proceed. We should turn back—he says.

Dammit, no—I think, determined. I'm ready to crawl when my toe catches on something. I feel around and my fingers come into contact with old wood. It’s a ladder. Looking up I see a square rim of light, faint in darkness.

I pull myself up and start to climb.

My imagination is overflowing—I’m in a book right now, this can’t be real, what is it?

Wrapping an arm around the ladder, I use my free hand to press the dark square above me and the cave is flooded with light, stabbing our faces, as is slides back. The hatch opens, steel grating against stone, and I reach my arms into daylight.

As my head emerges and my eyes bare witness—I go insane, dragging myself onto the cliff overlooking the spectacle, howling in wonder.

This place—this shocking reality, vivid dream, wonder of wonders—

This secret paradise.

I will say no more.