Our car has oil in the cooling system. From what I've learned a greasy, brown sludge is not supposed to appear alongside the water in the radiator. In fact, it is a very bad sign. Some phantom "head gasket", with a crown and scepter, is leaking. He lays on the his deathbed, surrounded by underling gaskets and leaks his lifeblood into our radiator.
We hoped to sell the car for a cool $1700(NZ), but after a few test drives and impartial examinations under the hood we know that our Mazda's head gasket is porous. This happens with Mazdas. It explains the exponential increase in over-heating incidents. Eleven months ago it took four hours of reckless hill driving and day time temperatures of 80+ to get the engine to over heat. Now it takes nothing more than a fifteen minute drive at a reasonable speed on a flat road in a chilly drizzle.
I suspect this is not a new problem, you may remember a post many months ago about our first overheating, it is just a worse problem. Chris and I are naive and trusting, this is something else I've learned, and thought the seller was honest and helpful. We did not wonder at his impatience to sign the papers and be rid of the car. I thought maybe he was late for Church, or his volunteering session at the Red Cross. It turns out he wanted to get out of sight before our car burst into flames.
On Sunday we took Hank to a Car Fair. This is where we learned his dirty secret. After a couple of people diagnosed the leaky head gasket and explained, sympathetically, that the fix costs more than the car is worth, I did not have the stomach to sell it. Should we lie to some poor unsuspecting backpackers, a couple guilty only of car-ignorance? We had sunk a substantial portion of our NZ savings into the car, and cursed the name (whatever it was) of the schmuck who sold us the car. Could we want to just turn around and swindle another group. No. We have saved lots of money by living in the car, not to count the bus-fares saved, and even budgeted our living expenses with the assumption that the car would be sold for scrap.
I felt a knot in my stomach when customers wandered over to our shiny red car. He'd had a wash and a vacuum and, together with the bed made up and all of our stuff piled on the ground outside, Hank looked sharp. Roomy. Cosy. Conveniently equipped with a Road Atlas and crockery. Go Away, don't buy this car!! It will only cost you thousands of dollars in repairs! He won't get you out of Christchurch! Run!
A nice, older gentleman, who moved slowly and smoothly like a ship in a calm, came up to the car. He asked me how many Kms on the odometer. I replied, "157,000, but you don't want to buy it it has a leaky head gasket". Hmmm, "can I take it for a test drive?". What? Chris looks at me and says, "sure". The gentleman climbs into the driver's seat and carefully, with years of experience, eases the car out of the parking lot. I stayed behind to watch our piles of stuff and chat with an 11 year old Kurd about WWE (wrestling). When they returned Chris and he are laughing. Chris has told him all about the car's problems but John (that is his name) wants to buy it for his grandson who's coming in a few weeks for three months. We agree on a very low price (but one that we both feel good about) and he is happy to let us carry on living in it till we hand it over when he'll take us to the airport.
So many times strangers have been kind to us, in this faraway land and it's nice to leave the country without screwing some new arrivals.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
St. James, the Protector of Cows
We got back yesterday from another hike--the St. James Walkway--it was beautiful, calm, easy and in a bowl of good weather, whilst rain continued to fall in Christchurch. We met another couple in the first hut, and since we were the only two couples walking on that day in that direction we were together in each hut, every night for five days. They are an interesting pair; Dominik from Scotland is a researcher at Edinburgh University who examines FMRI scans of autistic, bi-polar and schizophrenic patients' brains; Shelley is a kiwi currently employed as a "professional traveller", who funds her explorations with nanny jobs and ski instruction.
The St. James Walkway starts at Lewis Pass, in the middle of the Southern Alps, and wanders through scenic reserves and private farm land for 67 km. We had one of four rushing, winding rivers as a companion the whole time, and herds of cattle to watch over us. Beef cattle are large, and when worried they stand still and stare down the danger. We are little, but apparently unnerving, and a couple times a day we approached a line of fierce, immovable cows. I whisper to Chris, "they're right in the way, I can see the next marker, should we edge around?". Gulp, what if they trample us. We'd carry on, timidly, and suddenly the ranks would break apart and gigantic cows would stumble over each other in their desperation to flee. Every time this happened, and every time I was sure they'd hold fast and kill us. The only brave cows, it turns out, are the mothers with their calves. These cows we would avoid, not because they seemed more aggressive, just more determined, but because you have to respect the cow-calf bond.
We saw wild horses too. I'm suspicious of the "wild" label, but this is the term we were handed, and it certainly sounds more romantic than mere "horses". Horses are cooler than cows, they hold themselves with poise and dignity, toss their hair and move with grace. The herds of horses usually kept to themselves, off on the side away from the clumsy cows. But sometimes they'd all feed in the same area, the horses absentmindedly swishing their tails against the ubiquitous sandflies, and the cows rigid with terror at our approach.
Before that hike we enjoyed my dad's company for two weeks! We saw it all: cities, tiny towns, farms, mountains, beaches, glaciers and a rainforest. We traveled by train, plane, car and dinghy (Chris and I were in a kayak). We walked through Botanic Gardens, along city streets, around the French town of Akaroa, through rain and fog to the silent face of Franz Josef glacier, up and over the "pancake rocks" of Punakaiki, across dark sand and past the pounding ground swells of the Southern Ocean.
Our diet was even more varied than the sites! After months of car-food (nothing too perishable, nothing too colourful or interesting) and tramping our little stomachs had shrunk, but we stretched them back out to post-Christmas levels in two weeks.
Now is the final month. We've got more tramps planned, and a general route south. We've also got the fidgety departure details to work out--sell the car, cancel the phone, get to Auckland, buy Christmas gifts, get some luggage from the Salvation Army to carry all of our Christmas gifts ...
The St. James Walkway starts at Lewis Pass, in the middle of the Southern Alps, and wanders through scenic reserves and private farm land for 67 km. We had one of four rushing, winding rivers as a companion the whole time, and herds of cattle to watch over us. Beef cattle are large, and when worried they stand still and stare down the danger. We are little, but apparently unnerving, and a couple times a day we approached a line of fierce, immovable cows. I whisper to Chris, "they're right in the way, I can see the next marker, should we edge around?". Gulp, what if they trample us. We'd carry on, timidly, and suddenly the ranks would break apart and gigantic cows would stumble over each other in their desperation to flee. Every time this happened, and every time I was sure they'd hold fast and kill us. The only brave cows, it turns out, are the mothers with their calves. These cows we would avoid, not because they seemed more aggressive, just more determined, but because you have to respect the cow-calf bond.
We saw wild horses too. I'm suspicious of the "wild" label, but this is the term we were handed, and it certainly sounds more romantic than mere "horses". Horses are cooler than cows, they hold themselves with poise and dignity, toss their hair and move with grace. The herds of horses usually kept to themselves, off on the side away from the clumsy cows. But sometimes they'd all feed in the same area, the horses absentmindedly swishing their tails against the ubiquitous sandflies, and the cows rigid with terror at our approach.
Before that hike we enjoyed my dad's company for two weeks! We saw it all: cities, tiny towns, farms, mountains, beaches, glaciers and a rainforest. We traveled by train, plane, car and dinghy (Chris and I were in a kayak). We walked through Botanic Gardens, along city streets, around the French town of Akaroa, through rain and fog to the silent face of Franz Josef glacier, up and over the "pancake rocks" of Punakaiki, across dark sand and past the pounding ground swells of the Southern Ocean.
Our diet was even more varied than the sites! After months of car-food (nothing too perishable, nothing too colourful or interesting) and tramping our little stomachs had shrunk, but we stretched them back out to post-Christmas levels in two weeks.
Now is the final month. We've got more tramps planned, and a general route south. We've also got the fidgety departure details to work out--sell the car, cancel the phone, get to Auckland, buy Christmas gifts, get some luggage from the Salvation Army to carry all of our Christmas gifts ...
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Time Travel
Here are some photos from the start of our post-Papamoa travels (including the famous first Great Walk). There are a few duplicates, sorry we're new to Flickr, and technology as a whole.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/37421672@N02/sets/72157622545459432/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/37421672@N02/sets/72157622545459432/
Friday, October 9, 2009
Queen Charlotte Track
We took to the hills once again last week. The Queen Charlotte Track from start to finish covers 71 km, but our version did not quite take us to the end, nor did we start at the very beginning. All in we still walked 76 km, but instead of strolling along the gentle slopes of the start, or the coastal flats of the end we spent six days walking up and along and over a ridge and then back again. Though the most arduous portion of the tramp is on these 600 m. heights, the views are also definitely the best. Instead of paying for the water-taxi (like everyone else does) which would drop us at the road-inaccessible start and then carry our packs to each campground each evening, we parked at the second campsite, made that our start and finish, and we carried our packs ourselves. Each of our hikes has had a flavour, and this hike tasted heavy! My backpack has straps for carrying a tent, Chris' does not. So I carried the 5kg tent, and he carried all of the heaviest food. I feared my straps would rip off of the pack it was so heavy. To complete the look I had a rolled up bright-blue mat strapped to the top of my pack, so that the whole mess stretched up from my knees and towered over my hat.
Have I mentioned the birds in New Zealand? If not my blog-rights should be revoked. The soundtrack to our life is like a Discovery Chanel special on birds. They fill the morning air with their cheerful chatter. The variety of sounds combine in such a way that it sounds like we're in a forest of wind chimes. In the afternoon the sounds thin out a bit, and you can hear the distinct pure notes. I wish I knew the names of the birds. I wish I could whistle.
We had two days of blustery winds, horizontal rain and see-your-breath cold. Other than that the weather was gorgeous, and if we had done the trip only one way, we would not have seen the turquiose waters and the green hills in all of their beauty. The hills claw directly into the water like tree covered fingers, and beyond each hill is another hill and another and then a mountain, and then further in the distance are more mountains covered in snow.
We rewarded ourselves with a hot, hearty meal at the local RSA (Returned and Services' Assoc.--the NZ version of the VFW). Armed with a full shaker of salt we enjoyed some stunning roast veg, roast beef and unlimited salad bar. Chris was particularly pleased...but he'll probably give you his perspective in his blog. On his blog. At his blog. What sort of preposition sticks to "blog"?
Have I mentioned the birds in New Zealand? If not my blog-rights should be revoked. The soundtrack to our life is like a Discovery Chanel special on birds. They fill the morning air with their cheerful chatter. The variety of sounds combine in such a way that it sounds like we're in a forest of wind chimes. In the afternoon the sounds thin out a bit, and you can hear the distinct pure notes. I wish I knew the names of the birds. I wish I could whistle.
We had two days of blustery winds, horizontal rain and see-your-breath cold. Other than that the weather was gorgeous, and if we had done the trip only one way, we would not have seen the turquiose waters and the green hills in all of their beauty. The hills claw directly into the water like tree covered fingers, and beyond each hill is another hill and another and then a mountain, and then further in the distance are more mountains covered in snow.
We rewarded ourselves with a hot, hearty meal at the local RSA (Returned and Services' Assoc.--the NZ version of the VFW). Armed with a full shaker of salt we enjoyed some stunning roast veg, roast beef and unlimited salad bar. Chris was particularly pleased...but he'll probably give you his perspective in his blog. On his blog. At his blog. What sort of preposition sticks to "blog"?
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Emeralds, Sapphires and Gold
We have just returned from our epic version of the Abel Tasman Coast Track. I power-washed off nine days worth of sweat and grit in the ridiculously strong and gloriously hot showers here at Old MacDonald’s Farm, and now I want to sleep. But I’ll play on the laptop for a bit and maybe write something that makes sense. Chris is up at reception paying for our site. (I see now, this blog is long, to give you a sense of how long we lived this glorious tramp…)
We awoke this morning from dreams of hot showers, bubbly shampoo, food and clean clothes. (Really, last night felt like Christmas eve, I was so excited to get clean!). Our food had been carefully, desperately rationed since the first day, and we were thrilled to have an extra packet of Barbeque Rice Crackers (when do rice crackers count as food, except when you’re very, very hungry) to chomp on all morning—thanks Andrew. We plodded along at a reasonable pace, had great conversation and gorgeous last views of the park, our temporary home. At last we emerged from the bush—that’s what they call it here, like in Oz, which is what they call Australia—and made the final push across a boardwalk over the Marahau estuary. We exited the park. High Five! And turned toward our old campsite, where our sweet little car patiently awaited our return in a locked carpark. As we turned up the road we saw the campground owner driving towards, and then past us. A few minutes later we reached the empty, dark reception and read; “Office will re-open at 3pm”. Over the road we could see Hank, but our shampoo and bread and laptop may just as well have been in Taiwan. No worries, the slow, calm pace of life on a hike carried over and kept us chill and happy. We sat in the sun with drowsy heads and happy hearts.
So, but the hike! That’s the thing. We loved it. We never went more than an hour without rounding a bend and seeing seas of emerald green and sapphire blue gently lapping golden-sand beaches. Truly the sand is golden, Chris called it “Ground-Up-Golden-Retriever-Fur-Sand” (Not, “Ground-up-Golden-Retriever”, which I accidently heard). The water so dazzled and enchanted us, I wonder why gems aren’t named after Seas. We had gorgeous weather every day but two, and so we spent many hours on secluded little beaches along the way. Most of the time we’d be in paradise, with no one else but birds and seals. Seals are very adorable.
No single day was exceptionally tiring, the huts are set about 4.5 hours walk apart, so we enjoyed the flexibility to stop anywhere we wanted, with no need to rush. The cumulative effect was quite tiring, however, and the meager rations added an extra will-power component to an already exhausting pursuit. Few other people we met would walk for more than three nights, they were all racing to the end, or near end to be picked up in a water taxi and whisked back to civilization. Jaws dropped when they heard not only were we headed for Wainui, the official end, but we would then turn around and walk back! This fact, and our charm, prompted people to take pity on us and supplement our Spartan diet with some much-needed calories. These trampers also gave us much-needed levity and joy. We ended up seeing the same people a few nights in a row and forming some genuine bonds with these strangers.
One day we tramped with the fast-talking, fast-walking Canadian, Sandy. She tells fabulous stories with great wit and enthusiasm, so we were entertained enough to not realize just how quickly she walks up those hills! Chris and I are used to a leisurely pace, Sandy, however, was determined to lose her miniscule “Tui-Tummy” (a.k.a. beer belly) and thunders up and down every saddle and hill. We spent a couple of evenings with Simon, a gentle and cheerful Taiwanese boy, and gleaned lots of information from his sometimes-limited vocabulary. Simon went against the wishes of his family and culture, quit his respectable and desirable government position (at a govt. operated power plant) and came to NZ to travel. All in he would walk as far as we did, but his second half was along a road to Kahurangi National Park where he starts another Great Walk. Simon lumbers steadily along under a teetering backpack that towers above his head, its orange bulk bulging past his narrow hips. One day he sat with us at a small beach and we all chatted while we rested. Chris and I sat at small beaches and rested at least twice a day, but not Simon, who remarked; “Sitting is nice. Not always walking, walking”.
We shared bunk-shelves with Brits, Germans, Kiwis, Taiwanese, Canadians, Austrians, Chinese and more. We passed people on the track and imparted important news, “the heater at Bark Bay is broken” or “the stream is real low right now, you won’t have to take off your shoes”. We were all friends in this common endeavour. We spent one sun-drenched afternoon with a German couple, Robert and Diana, who had us in stitches most of the day. Diana did not trust her perfectly-fine English, but gained confidence as we talked, and I think if we’d had one more day together we would’ve been fast friends. As it is Chris and I will have to think back on their home-brewed Manuka tea (which just tasted like the red plastic bowls we drank from, but smelled like perfume). Robert boldly snipped some rosemary-like twigs from a tree and boiled it up for us; like pioneers, we lived off the land!
Chris and I both have bow-shaped smooth walking sticks, from this same Manuka tree, I believe. We look official. We look like Prophets.
I carried one book, “Franny and Zooey”, Chris brought “The Bourne Identity”. We didn’t bring my journal—nine days of food weigh a lot, even if you don’t bring enough—so every evening we’d flip through our books and tear out a mostly blank page. Gasp! Don’t worry, they were 50 cent books, and “Franny and Zooey” had already led such a tough life it split in two at page 86. At the last two huts, Awaroa and Whariwharangi, we had beautiful wood-burning stoves. These stoves give off much more heat than the standard gas stoves in the more popular huts, and get hot enough to cook on. Buried in the old newspapers in the Wood Box we found a few sudoku puzzles and broke our heads trying to solve the hard ones.
Now for the worriers among you it's time to worry. We did have two days of foul weather. The first of which was quite grim. We were on our way back to the start of the track from the last hut at Whariwharangi. Between this hut and the next at Awaroa lay a massive estuary which can be traversed 1.5 hours before or after dead-low tide. Low tide that day was at 6:30pm, so we planned to leave at 12:30, walk the 4.5 hours and arrive exactly on time to cross. A win-win plan, no waiting and no wading in the dark. However, the driving winds and rains pushed us along at such an incredible, never before seen from Chris and Betsy, rate that we arrived at the 1-hour-to-go point at Totaranui campsite one hour early! What to do? We were drenched with rain and sweat. I suggested we hang out in the largish bathroom and unpack our sleeping bags—no hypothermia for us! Instead we found a group of stranded Germans whose water taxi refused to pick them up and was instead organizing, slowly, some land transport. They’d been sitting in the camp office since 9am. I peeled off my wet clothes and changed into my one dry change—no hypothermia for me! Chris decided to do push-ups and jiggle for the hour instead. As a result he chomped at the bit a mite more fervently than I did, and we set off to the crossing a quarter of an hour earlier than we should have. Once we got there we could see the hut across the estuary. But we could also see the bay was full of water. What can you do in cold, wet weather, when you can see your accommodation glimmering on a bank only 25 minutes away. Why, you hold hands and plunge through waist deep water for 15 minutes. The water wasn’t at our waists the whole 15 minutes, but it swirled around our thighs the rest of the time. I remember racing John at the pool at grandma’s, we didn’t swim, but we ran, as if in slow-motion along the shallow end. This crossing was a 15 minute, slow-motion, cold race. Then we were there, we chopped wood in our dripping clothes and built a roaring fire in no time. Ah. Bliss. As Chris said, it was as if this hut were a 5-star hotel we’d been waiting our whole lives to visit.
My camera stopped focusing on the second day, but Sandy has promised to send us some pictures she took with us, and I pressed my floozy of a memory chip into a couple different cameras along the way. Maybe some day we will patiently sit for hours and download all of our photos.
We awoke this morning from dreams of hot showers, bubbly shampoo, food and clean clothes. (Really, last night felt like Christmas eve, I was so excited to get clean!). Our food had been carefully, desperately rationed since the first day, and we were thrilled to have an extra packet of Barbeque Rice Crackers (when do rice crackers count as food, except when you’re very, very hungry) to chomp on all morning—thanks Andrew. We plodded along at a reasonable pace, had great conversation and gorgeous last views of the park, our temporary home. At last we emerged from the bush—that’s what they call it here, like in Oz, which is what they call Australia—and made the final push across a boardwalk over the Marahau estuary. We exited the park. High Five! And turned toward our old campsite, where our sweet little car patiently awaited our return in a locked carpark. As we turned up the road we saw the campground owner driving towards, and then past us. A few minutes later we reached the empty, dark reception and read; “Office will re-open at 3pm”. Over the road we could see Hank, but our shampoo and bread and laptop may just as well have been in Taiwan. No worries, the slow, calm pace of life on a hike carried over and kept us chill and happy. We sat in the sun with drowsy heads and happy hearts.
So, but the hike! That’s the thing. We loved it. We never went more than an hour without rounding a bend and seeing seas of emerald green and sapphire blue gently lapping golden-sand beaches. Truly the sand is golden, Chris called it “Ground-Up-Golden-Retriever-Fur-Sand” (Not, “Ground-up-Golden-Retriever”, which I accidently heard). The water so dazzled and enchanted us, I wonder why gems aren’t named after Seas. We had gorgeous weather every day but two, and so we spent many hours on secluded little beaches along the way. Most of the time we’d be in paradise, with no one else but birds and seals. Seals are very adorable.
No single day was exceptionally tiring, the huts are set about 4.5 hours walk apart, so we enjoyed the flexibility to stop anywhere we wanted, with no need to rush. The cumulative effect was quite tiring, however, and the meager rations added an extra will-power component to an already exhausting pursuit. Few other people we met would walk for more than three nights, they were all racing to the end, or near end to be picked up in a water taxi and whisked back to civilization. Jaws dropped when they heard not only were we headed for Wainui, the official end, but we would then turn around and walk back! This fact, and our charm, prompted people to take pity on us and supplement our Spartan diet with some much-needed calories. These trampers also gave us much-needed levity and joy. We ended up seeing the same people a few nights in a row and forming some genuine bonds with these strangers.
One day we tramped with the fast-talking, fast-walking Canadian, Sandy. She tells fabulous stories with great wit and enthusiasm, so we were entertained enough to not realize just how quickly she walks up those hills! Chris and I are used to a leisurely pace, Sandy, however, was determined to lose her miniscule “Tui-Tummy” (a.k.a. beer belly) and thunders up and down every saddle and hill. We spent a couple of evenings with Simon, a gentle and cheerful Taiwanese boy, and gleaned lots of information from his sometimes-limited vocabulary. Simon went against the wishes of his family and culture, quit his respectable and desirable government position (at a govt. operated power plant) and came to NZ to travel. All in he would walk as far as we did, but his second half was along a road to Kahurangi National Park where he starts another Great Walk. Simon lumbers steadily along under a teetering backpack that towers above his head, its orange bulk bulging past his narrow hips. One day he sat with us at a small beach and we all chatted while we rested. Chris and I sat at small beaches and rested at least twice a day, but not Simon, who remarked; “Sitting is nice. Not always walking, walking”.
We shared bunk-shelves with Brits, Germans, Kiwis, Taiwanese, Canadians, Austrians, Chinese and more. We passed people on the track and imparted important news, “the heater at Bark Bay is broken” or “the stream is real low right now, you won’t have to take off your shoes”. We were all friends in this common endeavour. We spent one sun-drenched afternoon with a German couple, Robert and Diana, who had us in stitches most of the day. Diana did not trust her perfectly-fine English, but gained confidence as we talked, and I think if we’d had one more day together we would’ve been fast friends. As it is Chris and I will have to think back on their home-brewed Manuka tea (which just tasted like the red plastic bowls we drank from, but smelled like perfume). Robert boldly snipped some rosemary-like twigs from a tree and boiled it up for us; like pioneers, we lived off the land!
Chris and I both have bow-shaped smooth walking sticks, from this same Manuka tree, I believe. We look official. We look like Prophets.
I carried one book, “Franny and Zooey”, Chris brought “The Bourne Identity”. We didn’t bring my journal—nine days of food weigh a lot, even if you don’t bring enough—so every evening we’d flip through our books and tear out a mostly blank page. Gasp! Don’t worry, they were 50 cent books, and “Franny and Zooey” had already led such a tough life it split in two at page 86. At the last two huts, Awaroa and Whariwharangi, we had beautiful wood-burning stoves. These stoves give off much more heat than the standard gas stoves in the more popular huts, and get hot enough to cook on. Buried in the old newspapers in the Wood Box we found a few sudoku puzzles and broke our heads trying to solve the hard ones.
Now for the worriers among you it's time to worry. We did have two days of foul weather. The first of which was quite grim. We were on our way back to the start of the track from the last hut at Whariwharangi. Between this hut and the next at Awaroa lay a massive estuary which can be traversed 1.5 hours before or after dead-low tide. Low tide that day was at 6:30pm, so we planned to leave at 12:30, walk the 4.5 hours and arrive exactly on time to cross. A win-win plan, no waiting and no wading in the dark. However, the driving winds and rains pushed us along at such an incredible, never before seen from Chris and Betsy, rate that we arrived at the 1-hour-to-go point at Totaranui campsite one hour early! What to do? We were drenched with rain and sweat. I suggested we hang out in the largish bathroom and unpack our sleeping bags—no hypothermia for us! Instead we found a group of stranded Germans whose water taxi refused to pick them up and was instead organizing, slowly, some land transport. They’d been sitting in the camp office since 9am. I peeled off my wet clothes and changed into my one dry change—no hypothermia for me! Chris decided to do push-ups and jiggle for the hour instead. As a result he chomped at the bit a mite more fervently than I did, and we set off to the crossing a quarter of an hour earlier than we should have. Once we got there we could see the hut across the estuary. But we could also see the bay was full of water. What can you do in cold, wet weather, when you can see your accommodation glimmering on a bank only 25 minutes away. Why, you hold hands and plunge through waist deep water for 15 minutes. The water wasn’t at our waists the whole 15 minutes, but it swirled around our thighs the rest of the time. I remember racing John at the pool at grandma’s, we didn’t swim, but we ran, as if in slow-motion along the shallow end. This crossing was a 15 minute, slow-motion, cold race. Then we were there, we chopped wood in our dripping clothes and built a roaring fire in no time. Ah. Bliss. As Chris said, it was as if this hut were a 5-star hotel we’d been waiting our whole lives to visit.
My camera stopped focusing on the second day, but Sandy has promised to send us some pictures she took with us, and I pressed my floozy of a memory chip into a couple different cameras along the way. Maybe some day we will patiently sit for hours and download all of our photos.
Friday, September 11, 2009
The 70 Dollar Mistake
Last I wrote we were waiting for the clouds to part in New Plymouth. New Plymouth is a pretty big NZ city with shopping malls, tall buildings, a haze of smog and a fancy, but not very helpful i-site (information center). It is also a free-camping void. I had noticed the absence of little blue tents—the Atlas’ symbol for “informal campgrounds”—for about a hundred km in any direction from New Plymouth. But, I thought, surely we can just park on the road, or ask at the i-site about informal informal-campsites. Either way we wouldn’t spend too much time near the city, New Plymouth existed merely as a gateway to Egmont National Park. We would spend the days hiking in the shadow of Mt. Egmont. Ha! Forget it! We were cursed with rain and a 5-day forecast of dripping clouds.
The 5 days could not be borne for we had nowhere to live in the meantime. Our first, and last night, in New Plymouth left both of us law-abiding fools freaked out. It started out promising enough, when we landed on the outskirts of a small suburb at a town park looking out over the ocean. Families wandered past with their dogs, workers stopped in their cars to watch the sun set before heading home and we even had a picnic table to eat at. A friendly American couple (a doctor and a school teacher here with their four kids for at least five years, but maybe forever) eased our conscience. Sure we could camp out here, there’s no one who monitors the area and everyone breaks the rules on the board all the time—those families with dogs on the path for a start. At about 8:30pm as we watched the end of our movie, some guy pulled up in a truck, his headlights beaming into our car, he parked and we heard a knock on the glass. Move along, this is private land…Eep.
We moved to a row of parking spots across from the beach under the watchful eye of up-scale houses on a hill. Streetlights bathed us in orange light, I lay with my complimentary JetBlue eyemask squishing my eyelashes and flinched every time someone walked past. We survived the night. In fact I think we were incredibly safe in this quiet, upper-class suburb but we were rattled from our brush with the law.
The next morning I took my freezing shower and we walked along New Plymouth’s coastal walkway…
Once the rains came we hid out in the library and used their free internet, or tried to, so patchy was the signal. After about 4 hours of reading and dilly-dallying we faced a decision. Where will we stay the night and do we want to stay in this un-captivating city for five nights on the chance the weather icons of the future will show blazing suns? At 6pm that night we decided to flee New Plymouth, accept it as a waste of gas (a lot to swallow at 70$ a tank) and move along.
We came full circle back to Wanganui and spent a couple nights in a lovely, but windy, free campsite on the beach. Ahhhh.
The 5 days could not be borne for we had nowhere to live in the meantime. Our first, and last night, in New Plymouth left both of us law-abiding fools freaked out. It started out promising enough, when we landed on the outskirts of a small suburb at a town park looking out over the ocean. Families wandered past with their dogs, workers stopped in their cars to watch the sun set before heading home and we even had a picnic table to eat at. A friendly American couple (a doctor and a school teacher here with their four kids for at least five years, but maybe forever) eased our conscience. Sure we could camp out here, there’s no one who monitors the area and everyone breaks the rules on the board all the time—those families with dogs on the path for a start. At about 8:30pm as we watched the end of our movie, some guy pulled up in a truck, his headlights beaming into our car, he parked and we heard a knock on the glass. Move along, this is private land…Eep.
We moved to a row of parking spots across from the beach under the watchful eye of up-scale houses on a hill. Streetlights bathed us in orange light, I lay with my complimentary JetBlue eyemask squishing my eyelashes and flinched every time someone walked past. We survived the night. In fact I think we were incredibly safe in this quiet, upper-class suburb but we were rattled from our brush with the law.
The next morning I took my freezing shower and we walked along New Plymouth’s coastal walkway…
Once the rains came we hid out in the library and used their free internet, or tried to, so patchy was the signal. After about 4 hours of reading and dilly-dallying we faced a decision. Where will we stay the night and do we want to stay in this un-captivating city for five nights on the chance the weather icons of the future will show blazing suns? At 6pm that night we decided to flee New Plymouth, accept it as a waste of gas (a lot to swallow at 70$ a tank) and move along.
We came full circle back to Wanganui and spent a couple nights in a lovely, but windy, free campsite on the beach. Ahhhh.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Slips, showers and earthquakes
We've been on the road for two weeks now, although it feels more like two months. Our Great Walk in Waikaremoana was brilliant. Describing the experience tries my abilities; so to help you must go on a four-day "moderate" hike in beautiful weather through a stunning, tranquil National Park. Good. Now that we're on the same page...you must be filled with peace and a solid sense of accomplishment.
We all fell down during the hike. Wendy slid down a rained-out ditch and got the messiest, as her pants scraped along the miniature gorge. Chris caught his fall at the expense of his shoulder, and I took the prize with not one but 4 spectacular falls. I slipped on rocks three times and shuddered down one muddy bluff. Wendy led the way most of the time, and periodically called out "mud!"--we were trying to keep our feet dry. ha! After a while her voice would ring out, "mud! slippery rock!" and I'd come to a standstill. Muddy, wet feet or bruised bottom? By the end we recklessly splodged through the mud and then rinsed our shoes in the numerous crystal clear, cold streams only to muddy ourselves again minutes later.
The oddest day, and the best day, was our oasis of civilization in the middle of the bush. Our second hut is a popular destination for hunters and fishermen. Or at least this is the backstory they give their wives, it seems more like a hearty man-food and crates of beer sort of trip. We were given freshly caught and smoked trout, chips, oceans of hot water and the option of a full dinner with wine. We slept peacefully in a room with guns hung up next to our raincoats, as the air vibrated with a hundred thundering snores. In the morning they gave us oranges and hot coffee and we were rested and ready to carry on.
Our hike feels so long ago.
Now we're back in the car. This morning I took an invigorating, but much-needed, cold shower in a facility by the beach. Chris is holding out for something warmer. We both had delightful showers for 2 dollars in Napier in a public shower block, but since then the options have been free and cold.
A few nights ago we survived an earthquake. It felt like someone shook our car, or bounced the bumper, but Chris recognised the feel from his time in San Diego. Sure enough, the next morning we asked at one of the ubiquitous i-sites (standard information centers in every city and town) and they confirmed the earthquake! A 3.6 on the Richter scale.
We are hanging out in New Plymouth right now. It's a big city on the western thumb of the North Island with the only deep-water port on the west coast of the country. The internet is free, the library is spacious and nice (but nothing in comparison to "the living room of the city" in Palmerston North. Now that is a library!), and there's a beautiful coastal walkway spanning 7 km from the port across the town center and into the classy suburbs. We walked about 7 km this morning, while the clouds seemed disinterested, and it was lovely.
We're giving the car a break--and the driver--so we'll spend a few nights here and hope for an unlikely clear spell of gorgeous weather so we can hike. If the clouds and fogs left us alone we would be stunned with a view of the tall and perfectly symmetrical slopes of Mt. Taranaki (a.k.a. Mt. Egmont) a not-quite-defunct volcano. It was used as the backdrop in "The Last Samurai". Who needs to visit NZ, just rent a load of movies. One hike in particular would keep us below the tree-line (warmer) and far enough away from the Mt. to see it without breaking our necks.
We all fell down during the hike. Wendy slid down a rained-out ditch and got the messiest, as her pants scraped along the miniature gorge. Chris caught his fall at the expense of his shoulder, and I took the prize with not one but 4 spectacular falls. I slipped on rocks three times and shuddered down one muddy bluff. Wendy led the way most of the time, and periodically called out "mud!"--we were trying to keep our feet dry. ha! After a while her voice would ring out, "mud! slippery rock!" and I'd come to a standstill. Muddy, wet feet or bruised bottom? By the end we recklessly splodged through the mud and then rinsed our shoes in the numerous crystal clear, cold streams only to muddy ourselves again minutes later.
The oddest day, and the best day, was our oasis of civilization in the middle of the bush. Our second hut is a popular destination for hunters and fishermen. Or at least this is the backstory they give their wives, it seems more like a hearty man-food and crates of beer sort of trip. We were given freshly caught and smoked trout, chips, oceans of hot water and the option of a full dinner with wine. We slept peacefully in a room with guns hung up next to our raincoats, as the air vibrated with a hundred thundering snores. In the morning they gave us oranges and hot coffee and we were rested and ready to carry on.
Our hike feels so long ago.
Now we're back in the car. This morning I took an invigorating, but much-needed, cold shower in a facility by the beach. Chris is holding out for something warmer. We both had delightful showers for 2 dollars in Napier in a public shower block, but since then the options have been free and cold.
A few nights ago we survived an earthquake. It felt like someone shook our car, or bounced the bumper, but Chris recognised the feel from his time in San Diego. Sure enough, the next morning we asked at one of the ubiquitous i-sites (standard information centers in every city and town) and they confirmed the earthquake! A 3.6 on the Richter scale.
We are hanging out in New Plymouth right now. It's a big city on the western thumb of the North Island with the only deep-water port on the west coast of the country. The internet is free, the library is spacious and nice (but nothing in comparison to "the living room of the city" in Palmerston North. Now that is a library!), and there's a beautiful coastal walkway spanning 7 km from the port across the town center and into the classy suburbs. We walked about 7 km this morning, while the clouds seemed disinterested, and it was lovely.
We're giving the car a break--and the driver--so we'll spend a few nights here and hope for an unlikely clear spell of gorgeous weather so we can hike. If the clouds and fogs left us alone we would be stunned with a view of the tall and perfectly symmetrical slopes of Mt. Taranaki (a.k.a. Mt. Egmont) a not-quite-defunct volcano. It was used as the backdrop in "The Last Samurai". Who needs to visit NZ, just rent a load of movies. One hike in particular would keep us below the tree-line (warmer) and far enough away from the Mt. to see it without breaking our necks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)