Get Down, Get Out

Hi Everybody,
We made it. Finally Ger and I are on the South Island of New Zealand. From our vantage point in Wellington we stared longingly across the Cook Strait – two or so months spent imagining the colour and the shape of our next playground. If you meet Kiwis anywhere and tell them you’ve been to Australia they ask why you didn’t go to New Zealand. When you’re in Auckland or Wellington they wonder why you haven’t been to the South. Certain economic realities, airline schedules and a massive TV/couch postponed the journey a little. There was also the threat of a sudden painful death at the hands of Hummingbird’s maitre’d if I didn’t stay for the Lions Tour weekend. Having tied up loose ends, said our goodbyes to our flat mate, Grant, our mates, workmates, mates of mates and flat mates of mates and workmates respectively, we were on the ferry south as quick as Grant’s car could carry us.
Our boat was called Aratere. That translates as The Quick Path – a fanciful name for a lumbering block that would probably have to move over if a sea turtle or the old swimming man from the Guinness ad wanted to overtake. Not to pooh-pooh the Aratere. I forked out for the $15 upgrade on our tickets, largely out of curiosity, and was impressed with what we got: a private lounge with our own window, TV/couch, endless tea and biccies and best of all no children whatsoever. Don’t get me wrong. I love children as much as the next pompous bastard. On long journeys, though, children seem compelled to test the boundaries of that love with maximum volume and few parents are able or willing to contain them. In my defense, the lack of children was not a matter of luck or the ‘Fuck Off With Your Kids’ sign I hung on the door but actually the rules of the upgrade lounge. Should I be blamed for enjoying the hell out of it? I took a stroll outside to get a feel for the boat. With the exception of the humiliating wind and slippery deck, I made the crossing in style. Ger got to watch an impromptu silent film through our cabin window as I Chaplined about trying to take photos of a receding, mist-shrouded Wellington. Sadly, the photos and the rust stains would never come out. The exercise was repeated with far more success at the other end of our journey. Photos from guide books, cinematography in Lord of the Rings and loose descriptions from my co-workers pointed to the fact that South kicks North’s ass for scenery. My expectations were not just exceeded but politely drugged and packed into a retirement home. Our ferry went into hyper-slow as we cruised through the Queen Charlotte Sound with its breathtaking scenery. When I get the tech-know-how I’ll include the photos I took. The Righteous Brotherhood of Geography Teachers would probably give me 100 lines and a sudden painful death if I attempted to describe it. Check out http://www.qctrack.co.nz/ for a few photos and info that I’m too lazy to plagiarize.
After some time soaking up the views we docked in the town of Picton and were driven to our hostel by Rob, possibly the nicest hostel manager I’ve ever met. If you’re in Picton and don’t have a gold card, stay at The Villa. Our rooms (we stayed there twice) were warm and comfy, free apple crumble and ice cream, free breakfast, spa and did I mention free apple crumble and ice cream? Rob hooked us up with a hiking trip on the Queen Charlotte Track and all the info and transfers we needed. By dawn the next day we were in a water taxi, booted up with a bag full of sandwiches, speeding through the sound. There were some mail stops to make. One hotel got its daily papers and a trio of man-sized gas bottles. The next lakeside resident received delivery of a chainsaw – not in its box or wrapped up but ready to go. It had the guy’s name and address attached. I wondered if it was just for his firewood or some kind of Backwoods Mafia threat. On we pressed to our hike’s starting point but not before a pod of dolphins decided to race the boat. Almost on cue the playful little buggers took turns jumping from the water for successive photographs. Perhaps dashing around in the wake of a small boat is the dolphin equivalent of sitting on a washing machine in the rinse cycle or going over a hump-back bridge in a car. The boat slowed down as we entered the cove that would be kilometer zero on our hike. The dolphins seemed to lose interest at this point and broke off their pursuit but not before saying so long and thanking us for all the fish.
One of the great things about hiking in New Zealand (or tramping as it is called here) is that a huge number of tracks are maintained and improved by the Department of Conservation. You don’t need a guide or much experience provided you can read signs and don’t collapse and die every time you climb the stairs. Our first day’s walk went quite well. The initial uphill slog made us feel like a couple of Elvises but once we hit the ridge line the scenery opened out in every direction and Lord of the Rings music began to play in our heads. The view from the ferry the previous day had been a pleasant introduction. When you get up to 400 odd metres with clear skies, the water mirrors the trees perfectly and you’ll think you’ve stepped into a brochure of some kind (one for hikes probably). A couple of lunch stops and several instances of taking away of the breath later and we were descending to sea level and our bed for the night. The DOC provides huts and campgrounds along the track and you can stay there for slightly more than $0.00. You need to bring water purification shit, a stove and a whole lot of other stuff that needs to be lugged by its owner up and down hills. Given that its low season, we found the traditional bed and four walls both available and affordable (and a nice alternative to dented shoulders). A heavenly fish dinner interrupted our diet of sandwiches in the lodge’s restaurant. Only a few other people were staying the night and our tiny group surrounded by empty tables and the total silence outside gave the evening a Shining-esque feel, though pleasant.
Another dawn found us back on the track. The uphill slog back to the ridgeline felt easier, possibly tranquilized by buckets of early morning gusto – the kind you see in Brylcreem ads from the ‘30s. Are my lies that transparent? OK. We trudged cursing up the feckin hill and planned to forgive God and the world later on. The weather treated us well for the rest of the day and we finished up with enough time for a beer in one of the lodges before our water taxi arrived. It was an experience I’d recommend to anyone. All the wholesomeness and exertion of the two days tramping ensured a sound night’s sleep before our onward journey to Nelson. The next morning would mean a packed bus (actually a van with ‘bus’ written on the side), a bumpy road and some very sad and disturbing news from London.
Fred.

Tags: Accommodation, Hiking, Travel

This entry was posted on Tuesday, July 26th, 2005 at 9:22 pm and is filed under Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.