1. Some falls along the way 2. Jordan on one of the several wire bridges
1. Tasman Sea at Martin's Bay Hut 2. A wee seal from a colony of hundreds
We're staying at a hostel in Te Anau tonight, plotting our next move further south towards Stewart Island. It's much more comfortable than our acommodation last night, which was quite sparse and simple-our van parked in the parking lot of The Moose bar. Anyways, I've been up far too long working on this blog (2:45am now, tomorrow America!). I'll keep posting as chances arise, and until then I hope you enjoyed this one, my first blog entry ever! Ciao!
Mike
3. Lake McKerrow
Well, it's been a bit delayed and I hope at least somewhat anticipated, but I finally found time for my first journal entry on our New Zealand adventure! Our trip definitely hasn't lacked in excitement. We flew into Queenstown, a busy little resort town on the South Island and set about finding transportation. After a bit of searching and whirlwind deliberation we landed a 1989 Toyota TownAce campervan, which we purchased from a middle-aged Chilean ski instructor who seemed bent on highlighting how easy the title transfers are in New Zealand, claiming one could steal and sell a vehicle with little more than a forged hand-written note from the previous "owner." I had a bit of a feeling he had some first-hand experience. We departed Queenstown soon after, and the van clunked along wonderfully all the way to Te Anau, serving as a cozy accomodation after we shed the saggy pillow and worn sheets that were generously thrown in with the deal. After camping for a night however, our new pride and joy's alternator gave out at Gunn's camp, the last speck of civilization before the trailhead. Not to be defeated, we went ahead with the trek anyhow, leaving our now aptly named "Weak Sauce" to rest by the trailhead.
The Hollyford tramp is a hearty endeavor, especially for first-timers..........Get the snickering aside...........We hiked four days to our destination over diverse jungled terrain, catching weather half of the time and spending two hours our first night stumbling over what little ground two headlights shared between four people could illuminate. Trials aside, we eventually reached our destination, Martin's Bay, although it was on a particularly rainy night and in rather daunting circumstances...
Three hours into our last day found Jordan and I dripping wet in the thick of the jungle staring into the beady, hollow eyes of a ghostly figure draped in a glistening bright yellow rubber rain-gown. Human beings are scarce in the off-season here, especially in the Southern reaches, so it almost felt necessary to make conversation.
"How you doin'?" I asked. The gaunt figure just swayed slightly, seemingly from the force of the rank steam puff that escaped his tightly-cinched hood. I figured he may not have heard over the fuzzy patter of the jungle storm so I repeated myself, though somewhat more meekly. He swayed again, surveying me as a drunkard may another round.
"Martin's Bay ya 'eaded to?" he wheezed. I just nodded. "A coupla miles, ah, yay, a wee bit up..." He raised his arm and pointed down the trail with his bony pinky finger, clutching a handful of animal traps tightly with the others. I expected more to follow but he just swayed, arm raised, suspending the traps over the wet bed of mucky foliage.
"Oh," I finally let out, "well thank you! Have a nice day!!" Trying to muster false enthusiasm and at the same time restrain it is a task I apparently have yet to master; in retrospect I think I let out more of a squeak. We quickly resumed our march down the trail, leaving the haunting figure squinting after us, a squint that didn't break even as he bent to pick up an unmarked burlap sack with tufts of dark fur poking out at the seams.
During encounters like this I always find it difficult not to recall middle-school English lessons on foreshadowing. This creature of the bush would have been the perfect predecessor to woodland chainsaw carnage in a sappy horror novel. Either that or a culprit in the mysterious disappearance of household pets from a gated community. It's hard not to feel on edge after crossing a being like this, especially in an element so different than you're used to, but I somehow did manage to gather my nerves by the time we arrived at the hut.
The rain had thickened considerably, and the pale Kiwi winter sun had slipped around the mountain at the back of the bay. Nearly bumping into the sign, we looked up at our flat for the night, scarcely illuminated in the flat light. It was immediately apparent we were not going to be sleeping alone. The sagging clothesline suspended over the porch held a variety of tattered wool and thermal gear, the only ubiquitous quality being that each looked as though a colony of mice had mistaken it for a piece of cheese. Jordan and I threw exhausted glances at each other and approached the hut a bit more wearily than warily, although my nerves were definitely back at attention. Slinging our packs up on the chicken-wire covered boards of the deck, we surveyed our surroundings a bit more closely.
"Well, it definitely looks like someone's been here a bit," Jordan pointed out, looking at the rubbish in the front.
"Yeah, more than a wee bit," I replied. I nudged the mountain of driftwood at my feet with my toe. "It's almost like someone's liv-" The word died on my tongue as I noticed, hanging on the line between a pair of blue thermal underwar and an orange hunting cap, two bloody pelts from animals I couldn't identify. Straining past them I pegged the hunk of meat hanging from the bush as a deer leg. "Huh." Jordan opened the door to go inside.
This hut definitely had residents that felt comfortable enough to establish some degree of permanence through the off-season in this public area. Two gas stoves and an array of canned goods hogged the majority of the counter, sharing it only with a pile of bones in the corner. A linen rack pinned behind the iron stove supported twice again as much as the outside line held. The distinct scents of stale tobacco, old sweat, burnt meat and the composting of our own unwashed bodies fought for the atttention of my nostrils. I kicked at ab empty 20 kilo bag of flour and looked over at Jordan, who was holding up a men's magazine vertically.
"Well, at least they've got this going for them," he said, flicking through the crinkled fold-outs. He settled on a big-busted blonde. "I guess if I had to be stuck out here I'd want her along too." He tossed the magazine back on the table, forcing a cloud of rolling-tobacco granules into the air.
"I suppose this'll be cozy," I said as I looked around the room. It's smaller than the rest, but at least we have plenty of firewood, and we should get some good views of the bay when it clears up."
"Yeah, it'll be fine. Better than pitching a tent," he replied, signaling the raindrops echoing off of the metal roof. We set about starting a fire and jockeying for room to dry our drenched gear.
About an hour later a loud thump on the porch announced an arrival. Our heads both swivelled, expecting to find Julie and Katie, but instead observed a hulking red-bearded man whose bulk dominated the entryway. Accompanying him was a dark hound with a mass no less awesome. I skipped a breath as the door shot open.
"Ey, newcomers!" he somehow softly roared. "Didn't expect any this late." We both mumbled greetings in return. He looked at us for a moment, blinking away the raindrops pooling at the end of his dark red curls and falling away into his eyes. A smile sprang up between his plump cheeks that seemed at the moment sinister.
"So...." I hesitated, not sure how to adress the Kiwi version of Paul Bunyan, "looks like you're out here for a bit!!" I think my false enthusiasm actually squawked rather than squeaked that time.
"Yee, we're possuming! Well, we're tryin' to possum but this bloody weather....bumped into me mate a bit down the track, said a coupla yenks were 'eaded this way, 'ere yee are!"
"Yeah, we have a couple more on the way, they shouldn't be long," Jordan replied. "You said you're doing what?"
"We're possuming! 'untin possum! Name's Von by the way!" He extended a paw down to where we were perched on a bench. "N' that there, that's Spot, me 'untin mate!" Spot whimpered. We shook hands, still a bit awed at this different breed of man who was efficiently shedding gear and tossing even more on the already over-laden racks.
"So, do a lot of people possum around here?" Jordan asked.
"Aw, yee, there's good money to be 'ad in possumin'!" Von then enthusiastically broke down the possuming trade for us. Possum fur apparently is in high demand around the world due to its hollow composition and thus insulating quality. The current market will pay between $100-115 per kilo of possum fur, depending on who you know. A kilo of fur requires 10-12 possums, depending on their size, and with luck a trained possumer can pull in 35-45 possums per day, although the current possum-pulling rate was much lower due to rotten weather. All told, 600-700 possums a month is a good goal to shoot for.
" So what do you do to get the fur off of the possums once you trap them?" I queried.
" Use a 'ammer!" Takes one to stun and two to slew! What ya do is knock out the possum, n' when ya do it releases its fir!" By now it was apparent that Von spoke animatedly all the time, and this multiplied when he spoke of anything possum, which he pretty much constantly did. "Then when it's out ya just gently rub yer thumb along its back and the fir comes off like butter! Ya collect it in yer bag kill it with yer second 'it with the 'ammer, n' move on to yer next possum!"
"And what with the possum?" I ventured.
"Well we usually leave 'em, but they're quite tasty if ya just fry 'em up in a bit o' butter!" Before we could even reply we heard a second thump on the porch, this time a ghoulish figure devoid of pigment. "Yee, that'd be me mate, Kevin."
The door creaked open and the slick yellow hood fell back, revealing a face that was at least a bit more marginally human but still ominous. tall, slim, and pale, Kevin's close eyes seemed to pull at his nose, triggering much similarity to the rodent he was hunting. Long scruff almost hid the indent between his pointed chin and nose that served as a mouth, which inside contained sparse teeth arrayed in random alignment. A wavy mop topped him off, stuck in place so that not a greasy hair shifted when he moved his head. The effect of his craggy countenance was intensified by Von's gas lantern, now the sole source of light in the cabin. Finally, after a long sway, he spoke.
"'Ey." Throwing down his gear, he stiffly walked to the bunks in the back of the room. Without a word, he pulled off his boots and rubbed his feet. It was Von who stoked the conversation.
"Any possums?"
"Nay."
"Yee the weather's a killer. Glad these yenks 'ere made it."
"Yay, saw em' on the trail. Made it all right didya?" he asked, finally acknowledging us.
"Yeah, a bit wet but we made it!" Julie and Katie had since arrived, slowly pulling off their ponchos as they took in this strange new environment. Kevin just nodded, leaving the room in silence as he glanced quickly back and forth between us, eyes shifting each time contact was made. His gaze finally settled on the crackling wood stove. "'ope yer 'ungry, cause yer dinin' with us tonight."
The stoves roared to life as Kevin slammed down the leg of deer I had seen earlier and began slicing medallion-sized morsels of tender red deer while Katie and Von peeled carrots, potatos, and other veggies.
"I loik that yer all around, we don't have to sit here and just talk possum. All we ever seem to talk is possum, eh Von?" Kevin had taken a break and carefully but quickly rolled up a cigarette scarcely wider in diameter than a toothpick, seemingly lighting it with a flick of his fingers.
"Yee, we definitely talk our share of possum 'round 'ere!" Von's dominant voice blended with the crackle of frying venison.
"Yay we do." Kevin took a short puff off his cigarette and put it out. "It was nice to talk about some politics n' other things, I moight like to do it more often had I the chance." There was a long pause as Kevin looked lost in thought, re-lighting his cigarette. "See, the thing 'bout possums is they really is pests, they need killin' anyhow."
"And why not make some money on it?" Von chipped in. Kevin leaned forward putting his cigarette out and intently focusing, having become more talkative as the night progressed. "I mean it ain't easy out 'ere in the bush, but it ain't too bad either. You take all the people with these degrees who ain't ever 'ad a hard day n' they make things the way they are. But they don't 'ave a clue on life, nothin' practical anyhow, they just 'ave a degree n' that makes 'em right. Ain't that right Von?"
"Yee." Kevin re-lit his cigarette.
"Ain't nothin' against those people who get degrees, if they choose, but that just don't make 'em right. Ya can possum, ya get some other skills, ya can life like this 'ere n' there ain't nothin' wrong with this, at least not for a bit. Ya need a practical skill, that' it."
"And what do you do for fun out here, you have and music around or anything?" I asked. Von turned around with a big grin, deer bone in one hand and candles in the other. "We make our own, we sing eh Kevin? We're just a coupla 'appy possumers!" He roared in laughter while Kevin just nodded contently, relighting the nub of his cigarette. "Candlelight dinner anyone?!" Our oat-fed bodies just stared at the elaborate meal laid before us.
"It's a feast!" someone exclaimed.
"Yee, it is."
"Yay, it is."
We ate the best meal of our trip to date that night, sharing laughs with a strange but wonderful duo that just happened to have a radically different lifestyle. The next night we feasted again, paying them back with a few sea runner brown trout that I caught and cooked up. Aside from the great company, Martin's Bay was beautiful and we caught a full day of almost balmy weather. A large arm of sand hugs the mouth of the river dumping out of Lake McKerrow into the ocean, beyond which you can watch 10-meter breakers crash over each others' crests, causing a perpetual dull roar. Large slick boulders dominate the shore all the way out to a peninsula opposite the sand spit, where we were able to hang amidst a large colony of fur seals, getting within feet of a few. The only downfall was the volume of sandflies, which come at you in waves and are impossible to escape. The true pest of the Southland, they are far more numerous and harder to kill than possum, and thus more widely despised. However, all said it was a wonderful experience and a great introduction to this beautiful country. On our hike out we several nights with a slipper-toting foursome and one night with a large crowd of raucous jet boaters, all of whom we made fast freinds with. We already have invited to Auckland and one of the boater's pubs in Graymouth, an opportunity for chaos that we almost surely won't miss. As rigorous as the hike was (around 90 miles in nine days, much of it vertical), all ended well. The fine folks at Gunn's camp even picked us up a new alternator belt while they were in town, so we escaped with only one push start!
Well, it's been a bit delayed and I hope at least somewhat anticipated, but I finally found time for my first journal entry on our New Zealand adventure! Our trip definitely hasn't lacked in excitement. We flew into Queenstown, a busy little resort town on the South Island and set about finding transportation. After a bit of searching and whirlwind deliberation we landed a 1989 Toyota TownAce campervan, which we purchased from a middle-aged Chilean ski instructor who seemed bent on highlighting how easy the title transfers are in New Zealand, claiming one could steal and sell a vehicle with little more than a forged hand-written note from the previous "owner." I had a bit of a feeling he had some first-hand experience. We departed Queenstown soon after, and the van clunked along wonderfully all the way to Te Anau, serving as a cozy accomodation after we shed the saggy pillow and worn sheets that were generously thrown in with the deal. After camping for a night however, our new pride and joy's alternator gave out at Gunn's camp, the last speck of civilization before the trailhead. Not to be defeated, we went ahead with the trek anyhow, leaving our now aptly named "Weak Sauce" to rest by the trailhead.
The Hollyford tramp is a hearty endeavor, especially for first-timers..........Get the snickering aside...........We hiked four days to our destination over diverse jungled terrain, catching weather half of the time and spending two hours our first night stumbling over what little ground two headlights shared between four people could illuminate. Trials aside, we eventually reached our destination, Martin's Bay, although it was on a particularly rainy night and in rather daunting circumstances...
Three hours into our last day found Jordan and I dripping wet in the thick of the jungle staring into the beady, hollow eyes of a ghostly figure draped in a glistening bright yellow rubber rain-gown. Human beings are scarce in the off-season here, especially in the Southern reaches, so it almost felt necessary to make conversation.
"How you doin'?" I asked. The gaunt figure just swayed slightly, seemingly from the force of the rank steam puff that escaped his tightly-cinched hood. I figured he may not have heard over the fuzzy patter of the jungle storm so I repeated myself, though somewhat more meekly. He swayed again, surveying me as a drunkard may another round.
"Martin's Bay ya 'eaded to?" he wheezed. I just nodded. "A coupla miles, ah, yay, a wee bit up..." He raised his arm and pointed down the trail with his bony pinky finger, clutching a handful of animal traps tightly with the others. I expected more to follow but he just swayed, arm raised, suspending the traps over the wet bed of mucky foliage.
"Oh," I finally let out, "well thank you! Have a nice day!!" Trying to muster false enthusiasm and at the same time restrain it is a task I apparently have yet to master; in retrospect I think I let out more of a squeak. We quickly resumed our march down the trail, leaving the haunting figure squinting after us, a squint that didn't break even as he bent to pick up an unmarked burlap sack with tufts of dark fur poking out at the seams.
During encounters like this I always find it difficult not to recall middle-school English lessons on foreshadowing. This creature of the bush would have been the perfect predecessor to woodland chainsaw carnage in a sappy horror novel. Either that or a culprit in the mysterious disappearance of household pets from a gated community. It's hard not to feel on edge after crossing a being like this, especially in an element so different than you're used to, but I somehow did manage to gather my nerves by the time we arrived at the hut.
The rain had thickened considerably, and the pale Kiwi winter sun had slipped around the mountain at the back of the bay. Nearly bumping into the sign, we looked up at our flat for the night, scarcely illuminated in the flat light. It was immediately apparent we were not going to be sleeping alone. The sagging clothesline suspended over the porch held a variety of tattered wool and thermal gear, the only ubiquitous quality being that each looked as though a colony of mice had mistaken it for a piece of cheese. Jordan and I threw exhausted glances at each other and approached the hut a bit more wearily than warily, although my nerves were definitely back at attention. Slinging our packs up on the chicken-wire covered boards of the deck, we surveyed our surroundings a bit more closely.
"Well, it definitely looks like someone's been here a bit," Jordan pointed out, looking at the rubbish in the front.
"Yeah, more than a wee bit," I replied. I nudged the mountain of driftwood at my feet with my toe. "It's almost like someone's liv-" The word died on my tongue as I noticed, hanging on the line between a pair of blue thermal underwar and an orange hunting cap, two bloody pelts from animals I couldn't identify. Straining past them I pegged the hunk of meat hanging from the bush as a deer leg. "Huh." Jordan opened the door to go inside.
This hut definitely had residents that felt comfortable enough to establish some degree of permanence through the off-season in this public area. Two gas stoves and an array of canned goods hogged the majority of the counter, sharing it only with a pile of bones in the corner. A linen rack pinned behind the iron stove supported twice again as much as the outside line held. The distinct scents of stale tobacco, old sweat, burnt meat and the composting of our own unwashed bodies fought for the atttention of my nostrils. I kicked at ab empty 20 kilo bag of flour and looked over at Jordan, who was holding up a men's magazine vertically.
"Well, at least they've got this going for them," he said, flicking through the crinkled fold-outs. He settled on a big-busted blonde. "I guess if I had to be stuck out here I'd want her along too." He tossed the magazine back on the table, forcing a cloud of rolling-tobacco granules into the air.
"I suppose this'll be cozy," I said as I looked around the room. It's smaller than the rest, but at least we have plenty of firewood, and we should get some good views of the bay when it clears up."
"Yeah, it'll be fine. Better than pitching a tent," he replied, signaling the raindrops echoing off of the metal roof. We set about starting a fire and jockeying for room to dry our drenched gear.
About an hour later a loud thump on the porch announced an arrival. Our heads both swivelled, expecting to find Julie and Katie, but instead observed a hulking red-bearded man whose bulk dominated the entryway. Accompanying him was a dark hound with a mass no less awesome. I skipped a breath as the door shot open.
"Ey, newcomers!" he somehow softly roared. "Didn't expect any this late." We both mumbled greetings in return. He looked at us for a moment, blinking away the raindrops pooling at the end of his dark red curls and falling away into his eyes. A smile sprang up between his plump cheeks that seemed at the moment sinister.
"So...." I hesitated, not sure how to adress the Kiwi version of Paul Bunyan, "looks like you're out here for a bit!!" I think my false enthusiasm actually squawked rather than squeaked that time.
"Yee, we're possuming! Well, we're tryin' to possum but this bloody weather....bumped into me mate a bit down the track, said a coupla yenks were 'eaded this way, 'ere yee are!"
"Yeah, we have a couple more on the way, they shouldn't be long," Jordan replied. "You said you're doing what?"
"We're possuming! 'untin possum! Name's Von by the way!" He extended a paw down to where we were perched on a bench. "N' that there, that's Spot, me 'untin mate!" Spot whimpered. We shook hands, still a bit awed at this different breed of man who was efficiently shedding gear and tossing even more on the already over-laden racks.
"So, do a lot of people possum around here?" Jordan asked.
"Aw, yee, there's good money to be 'ad in possumin'!" Von then enthusiastically broke down the possuming trade for us. Possum fur apparently is in high demand around the world due to its hollow composition and thus insulating quality. The current market will pay between $100-115 per kilo of possum fur, depending on who you know. A kilo of fur requires 10-12 possums, depending on their size, and with luck a trained possumer can pull in 35-45 possums per day, although the current possum-pulling rate was much lower due to rotten weather. All told, 600-700 possums a month is a good goal to shoot for.
" So what do you do to get the fur off of the possums once you trap them?" I queried.
" Use a 'ammer!" Takes one to stun and two to slew! What ya do is knock out the possum, n' when ya do it releases its fir!" By now it was apparent that Von spoke animatedly all the time, and this multiplied when he spoke of anything possum, which he pretty much constantly did. "Then when it's out ya just gently rub yer thumb along its back and the fir comes off like butter! Ya collect it in yer bag kill it with yer second 'it with the 'ammer, n' move on to yer next possum!"
"And what with the possum?" I ventured.
"Well we usually leave 'em, but they're quite tasty if ya just fry 'em up in a bit o' butter!" Before we could even reply we heard a second thump on the porch, this time a ghoulish figure devoid of pigment. "Yee, that'd be me mate, Kevin."
The door creaked open and the slick yellow hood fell back, revealing a face that was at least a bit more marginally human but still ominous. tall, slim, and pale, Kevin's close eyes seemed to pull at his nose, triggering much similarity to the rodent he was hunting. Long scruff almost hid the indent between his pointed chin and nose that served as a mouth, which inside contained sparse teeth arrayed in random alignment. A wavy mop topped him off, stuck in place so that not a greasy hair shifted when he moved his head. The effect of his craggy countenance was intensified by Von's gas lantern, now the sole source of light in the cabin. Finally, after a long sway, he spoke.
"'Ey." Throwing down his gear, he stiffly walked to the bunks in the back of the room. Without a word, he pulled off his boots and rubbed his feet. It was Von who stoked the conversation.
"Any possums?"
"Nay."
"Yee the weather's a killer. Glad these yenks 'ere made it."
"Yay, saw em' on the trail. Made it all right didya?" he asked, finally acknowledging us.
"Yeah, a bit wet but we made it!" Julie and Katie had since arrived, slowly pulling off their ponchos as they took in this strange new environment. Kevin just nodded, leaving the room in silence as he glanced quickly back and forth between us, eyes shifting each time contact was made. His gaze finally settled on the crackling wood stove. "'ope yer 'ungry, cause yer dinin' with us tonight."
The stoves roared to life as Kevin slammed down the leg of deer I had seen earlier and began slicing medallion-sized morsels of tender red deer while Katie and Von peeled carrots, potatos, and other veggies.
"I loik that yer all around, we don't have to sit here and just talk possum. All we ever seem to talk is possum, eh Von?" Kevin had taken a break and carefully but quickly rolled up a cigarette scarcely wider in diameter than a toothpick, seemingly lighting it with a flick of his fingers.
"Yee, we definitely talk our share of possum 'round 'ere!" Von's dominant voice blended with the crackle of frying venison.
"Yay we do." Kevin took a short puff off his cigarette and put it out. "It was nice to talk about some politics n' other things, I moight like to do it more often had I the chance." There was a long pause as Kevin looked lost in thought, re-lighting his cigarette. "See, the thing 'bout possums is they really is pests, they need killin' anyhow."
"And why not make some money on it?" Von chipped in. Kevin leaned forward putting his cigarette out and intently focusing, having become more talkative as the night progressed. "I mean it ain't easy out 'ere in the bush, but it ain't too bad either. You take all the people with these degrees who ain't ever 'ad a hard day n' they make things the way they are. But they don't 'ave a clue on life, nothin' practical anyhow, they just 'ave a degree n' that makes 'em right. Ain't that right Von?"
"Yee." Kevin re-lit his cigarette.
"Ain't nothin' against those people who get degrees, if they choose, but that just don't make 'em right. Ya can possum, ya get some other skills, ya can life like this 'ere n' there ain't nothin' wrong with this, at least not for a bit. Ya need a practical skill, that' it."
"And what do you do for fun out here, you have and music around or anything?" I asked. Von turned around with a big grin, deer bone in one hand and candles in the other. "We make our own, we sing eh Kevin? We're just a coupla 'appy possumers!" He roared in laughter while Kevin just nodded contently, relighting the nub of his cigarette. "Candlelight dinner anyone?!" Our oat-fed bodies just stared at the elaborate meal laid before us.
"It's a feast!" someone exclaimed.
"Yee, it is."
"Yay, it is."
We ate the best meal of our trip to date that night, sharing laughs with a strange but wonderful duo that just happened to have a radically different lifestyle. The next night we feasted again, paying them back with a few sea runner brown trout that I caught and cooked up. Aside from the great company, Martin's Bay was beautiful and we caught a full day of almost balmy weather. A large arm of sand hugs the mouth of the river dumping out of Lake McKerrow into the ocean, beyond which you can watch 10-meter breakers crash over each others' crests, causing a perpetual dull roar. Large slick boulders dominate the shore all the way out to a peninsula opposite the sand spit, where we were able to hang amidst a large colony of fur seals, getting within feet of a few. The only downfall was the volume of sandflies, which come at you in waves and are impossible to escape. The true pest of the Southland, they are far more numerous and harder to kill than possum, and thus more widely despised. However, all said it was a wonderful experience and a great introduction to this beautiful country. On our hike out we several nights with a slipper-toting foursome and one night with a large crowd of raucous jet boaters, all of whom we made fast freinds with. We already have invited to Auckland and one of the boater's pubs in Graymouth, an opportunity for chaos that we almost surely won't miss. As rigorous as the hike was (around 90 miles in nine days, much of it vertical), all ended well. The fine folks at Gunn's camp even picked us up a new alternator belt while they were in town, so we escaped with only one push start!
1. Tasman Sea at Martin's Bay Hut 2. A wee seal from a colony of hundreds
We're staying at a hostel in Te Anau tonight, plotting our next move further south towards Stewart Island. It's much more comfortable than our acommodation last night, which was quite sparse and simple-our van parked in the parking lot of The Moose bar. Anyways, I've been up far too long working on this blog (2:45am now, tomorrow America!). I'll keep posting as chances arise, and until then I hope you enjoyed this one, my first blog entry ever! Ciao!
Mike
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3 comments:
What a great intro to your journeys! Brilliant writing; You make it possumable to visualize the sounds/sights/smells(!)of your adventures and the characters along the way. Can't wait for the next installation--I think your blog may become a cult classic.
Love to you all and Happy Trails!
Yeah Mike! Great blogging...lots of work to put down so much of your experience into words...
Don't feel like all of them have to be epistles, we will accept short ones too!
I will try and figure out how to print them off for your dad.
Hugs and kisses to you and Julie!
Michael,
You are such a great writer, i'm a little jealous!! Your writing makes it easy for me to feel like i'm there...Yay!! Love and miss ya!!
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