Until The Lake Remembers

Packing the Impossible

Chapter 2

Ariel stared at the open suitcase lying on her bed like a blank page waiting for a story to begin. Her apartment was a mess of half-packed clothes, camera gear, and scattered travel-sized toiletries she wasn’t even sure she needed. She paused for a moment and looked out her window toward the noisy street below.

"New Zealand..." she thought to herself, sipping from the mug of coffee in her hand.

She still couldn’t believe she had said yes to her editor. A deep sigh escaped her lips as she thought about what might await her in such an isolated place. She knew New Zealand was breathtakingly beautiful, magical and traveling there was a dream come true. She had previously only seen it on posters, wondering how something could look so stunning and magical. She had never imagined that one day she would actually set foot in such a place, yet here she was, traveling across the globe for a major magazine cover story.

Still, a persistent question lingered in the back of her mind: Why New Zealand? When they could have easily captured stunning landscapes anywhere closer to home in New York, why send her all the way to the other side of the world?

Giving a quiet shrug to her own wandering thoughts, she pushed the mystery aside and climbed back into bed. Rubbing her face, she grabbed the first item on her mental list: her camera, scratched but reliable, and her phone. She packed extra batteries, spare lenses, and memory cards labeled with black tape. A voice recorder went in next, along with a battered notepad filled with doodles and shorthand notes—and, of course, her colorful collection of pens and notes.

She also packed some jackets and long pants, knowing she was heading to the countryside, expecting it to be cold since it was the holiday season, and feeling she needed to prepare herself for any possible weather. She threw in her gloves, boots, and a scarf she hadn't used in years… essentials, sort of.

She paused and stared at her passport, running her thumb over the faded edges. Finally, she was going to use it.

“Holiday,” she whispered to herself. “Sure. Alone.”

The suitcase still looked half-empty, so she tossed in a flashlight and other emergency equipment, just in case the long winding roads and unpredictable weather caught her off guard. A pocket-sized first aid kit followed. After a moment’s hesitation, she slid in a small silver charm bracelet her mom had given her, featuring a tiny anchor as a reminder to stay grounded. Finally, she zipped the suitcase shut and took a deep breath.

Ariel stood for a moment, her heart pounding with a mix of dread and exhilaration. This wasn’t just another freelance rush job. It felt like a door opening into somewhere wide, ancient, and entirely unfamiliar. She turned off the lights, leaving the packed suitcase waiting by the door like a loyal companion ready for adventure.

Tomorrow, she would leave her apartment—well, not for good, but it looked like it would be a while before she could return. She lay down on her bed and forced herself to get some sleep, hoping to avoid feeling too drowsy once she was on the road.

At exactly six in the morning, she was already at the airport, dragging her heavy suitcase behind her. Marcus had told her that once she landed in Christchurch, she would need to take a long bus ride down toward the Mackenzie Basin. Her editor had given her enough pocket money for daily expenses while she tracked down the local high-country farmers and residents. After a few more hours had passed, she found herself on a bus heading toward the main town to look for a place to stay.

The bus cut through winding country roads, leaving a trail of dust behind as it climbed higher into the South Island. Ariel pressed her hands against the glass window, her breath fogging it slightly. Majestic mountains rose like silent sentinels on either side, their snow-dusted peaks glittering under the pale sun. The sheer scale of the landscape made her chest tighten; New Zealand was nothing like the urban sprawl of New York.

She felt a mix of awe and disbelief. The air smelled crisp, clean, and electric, carrying the faint scent of pine and open earth. Her camera, safely slung around her neck, felt heavy with potential. She snapped photo after photo, though no lens could truly capture the grandeur of the valleys, the endless stretch of open land, or the way sunlight bounced off the glacial lakes like scattered diamonds.

As the bus neared her destination near Lake Tekapo, the landscape grew wilder and more solitary. She disembarked at a quiet stop where the wind swept across the tussock grass. The cold air bit her cheeks, and she clutched her suitcase tightly as she searched for a place to stay. Unfortunately, the few local motels were fully booked for the shearing season. She had no choice but to duck into a small local general store to buy a hot pie and a cup of coffee to fight the chill. Because the journey had been so long, she was starving, having eaten nothing all day and simply slept through the entire trip.

As she stepped back outside the store, a small, weathered wooden sign by the gravel road caught her eye:

“High-Country Cottage for Rent”

Without thinking twice, she pulled out her phone, popped out her New York SIM card, and swapped it for a local New Zealand prepaid SIM she had grabbed at the airport. Once her phone connected to the network and she had a stable signal, she dialed the number written on the sign. After she confirmed the cottage was available, she paid for it immediately without hesitation rather than risk having nowhere to sleep tonight. Quickly, she hailed a taxi and got in.

She arrived at a modest, slightly worn farmhouse sitting completely on its own against the backdrop of the Southern Alps. The dirt road was quiet, the evening shadows stretching long across the fields. She pushed open the front door, suitcase in hand, when she suddenly collided with someone stepping out from the door.

“Oh! I am so sorry—” she began, stumbling back.

A tall, handsome, and slightly tanned man stood before her, radiating a distinctly manly and rugged presence. His posture was commanding, yet the careful way he caught her arm to keep her from falling showed he was alert and grounded.

“Watch your step,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Ariel stammered an apology, her eyes scanning the stranger. He wore a heavy flannel shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle from hard labor. His sharp jawline and intense gaze locked onto hers for a fraction of a second, making her heart skip an unexpected beat. Without another word, he simply stepped aside, letting her pass, but the weight of his presence lingered in the small hallway.

She shook off the uneasy flutter in her chest as she stepped inside. The sign had called it a cottage, and Ariel was surprised to find out she was renting the entire rustic space. Though modest, it felt cozy and offered complete privacy—far away from the noise of the city.

She locked the wooden front door and opened the window just a crack. Outside, the evening air was freezing, but the view of the vast, starlit southern sky was breathtaking.

“Well, this is definitely not New York,” she muttered to herself.

She unpacked her gear, built a small fire in the stone fireplace, and warmed herself by the flickering flames. Her thoughts drifted briefly to the rugged man she had just encountered in the hallway. Wondering who he was, she finally retired to the bedroom, pulling an extra wool blanket over herself.

Tomorrow, her documentation of the high-country locals would begin.