Heaphy Track

Another semester, another bit of random Kiwi street-art:


While Dunedin is a University town, it is easy to forget that Otago is not the only college here. Otago Polytech, with its focus upon vocational programs, also has a vibrant arts scene. I do not know which group produced the above, but along with the omnipresent graffiti the road and sidewalk art make every day a bit of an exploration. Well, that and the broken glass and bits of body fluids lying about, also bearing testament to the student population.

Nothing scenic about the below picture, but it charms me. Apparently this Dr. Safari is MBCHB FRNZCGP MScIM and DVM. No idea what the first three are, but I am pretty sure the last one makes him a veterinarian.


Heaphy.

With Kyle's impending departure back to North America (at least for a bit) and his return with his guy (which will have an unknown impact on our heretofore swinging bachelor lifestyles ) it was decided that a final trip was in order. Winter in New Zealand rules out many of the Great Walks due either to off-season expense (Holyford) or weather-related dangers (Milford, Routeburn, etc.). The Heaphy Track is on the north end of the South Island near Abel Tasman. It is fairly low altitude and sheltered from the worst of the coastal weather for much of its length. It is generally open without restriction for most of the winter, so we decided to give it a try.

Two complications arose. The first is that as the Heaphy links two dead end roads we would come out six hours by car from where we went in. Second, the weather reports were dire. Papers warned of the worst storms in two years and terrible rain and snow on the trail. After the ten hour drive to the start, we were willing to take the chance. Or perhaps we were simply not bright enough to care. This trait has served me stunningly well over the years. Either way, the next morning we appeared on the trail reasonably intact.


Turns out we were to have the best weather on the South Island. While most of the island flooded, the Heaphy had a bit of moist mist and a few good rains. The warned of flooded rivers and impassible storms never arrived. Much to my secret disappointment.

The Track features an initial day of climbing, followed by two days crossing the downs before you descend into the forest of the west coast. Not classic South Island alpine terrain, but beautiful nonetheless.



The kiwis are generally a practical people, and they tend not to waste much. A possible exception is food eaten after 3 AM following an All-Blacks match which never seems to be used for more than an hour or so before being donated back to the environment. That said, why throw out worn out shoes when you can carry them in a pack for two days and nail them to a random post in the middle of the downs?

The downs grow on you. Hard to find terrain like this elsewhere on the South Island. Riddled with caves and strange little chasms, the hills roll on for hours with flax and birds as your only companions. As well as the three older Kiwi chaps from Wellington. Nice guys, but they had a very different sense of tramping than ours. We went through a liter and half of Jameson's in two and a half days. They didn't. They went to bed every night at 6PM and slept until 8AM. We stayed up until 11PM playing cards and lying to whoever would listen. We left the hut before they did each day; they inevitably passed us en route. Needless to say we resented them deeply, especially after we ran out of whisky.

The huts were great for all of that.

And I found some fellow Nomites!



Did I mention that the downs are riddled with caves?


This jolly bird hesitantly approached us on the porch of the hut, shat next to our gear, and then waited expectantly for something. Approbation? A peanut? After a while it looked disgusted and wandered off.


One of the nicer things about being the oldest one in a tramping group is the limitless opportunity to look disapprovingly at the rest of the gang. Punks.


Post-rain and sunset at the high point of the downs. The next day we dropped down toward the west-coast rain forests.



Looking west from the saddle.



Travis assembles his nightly hut-fort. He then went on to severely bruise Kyle's brain.



The ocean at last, with the next hut nestled in on the saddle.



The forests here are jungles in reality; rich and dark. The rivers that drain them pick up so much tannin as to be the color of old tea.



Swinging bridges break the pattern of walking with moments of deep fear. Compared to the three wire bridges, however, these are stability itself. They also bounce when you jump on them.


Running out of time on the final day (we had a shuttle to meet) we dropped everything and tried to climb this waterfall. I damn near managed to release the logjam holding up the upper half. Kyle wouldn't let me.


The effects of the local fungi are generally positive.


Previous trampers have a habit of leaving donations to the local deities on trail markers. Here is a gift to Lewinsky, goddess of minimal underclothing.


Last day, last bridge, desperate need of a shower.


As we left for home we were shocked to hear that Gary Coleman had died, and happy that Travis had been elected Postgrad Rep in our absence. Or perhaps the adjectives should be reversed. I still have not come to peace with Travis wielding power. In honor of Gary's passing and the general brevity of life we stopped for a scrub at Maruia Springs. After five days without showers the bath houses and outside hot pools were glorious. Not sure I would have wanted to clean up after us, but you can't worry about such things.

On the way north one of my windshield wipers had completely broken off. Since it was the passenger side I thought little of it. As we drove south, however, the reports of weather calamities grew. Roads were flooded, snow blocked passes, and general mayhem was in the midst of ensuing. In the middle of a gigantic rainstorm north of Christchurch, the other windshield wiper let go. As near as I can tell, the new tires I put on Yokozuna allowed us to go about 120kph rather than 100 kph, and the stress broke the wipers clean off. Either way, we were pretty much screwed. Except for the hitchhiker.

Driving down out of the pass I saw a hitcher standing in the rain, and asked Kyle and Travis to pull over. I assured them that as I was in the back I would deal with the guy. He was a pleasant young Kiwi dude and I was tired. Seeing no danger I went to sleep, despite my promises to the two guys up front. I slept until I heard him mention that he was supposed to take three pills a day, but only took one because they 'slowed him down'. This woke me up, our hitcher being off his meds. Listening as I lay there I heard him talk about swapping random pills with the other drivers he had traveled with, and how his anxiety problem was not helped by the Ritalin he had just taken. I arose. His first question to me? "Do you like recreational drugs?" Really, exactly that. I have been asked lots of drug related questions over the years, but never quite like that. It would be like your alcoholic acquaintance wandering up and asking "would you care to consume some ethylated spirits?" The question stopped me dead.

Now I am used to surprises from hitchers. Once Karen and I had just dropped the boys off at a summer camp in central Alaska for a week and we were heading out to camp with our two dogs. Just outside of Fairbanks there was a guy hitching. I had my VW bus, so plenty of room, and I stopped. The gent was from Belgium and he was VERY grateful to us for stopping. He asked if he could grab his gear out of the brush. The next twenty minutes were a Jerry Lewis bit. He kept going into the brush and pulling out more gear. Boxes, coolers, a huge raft, tents, bags, food, guns, and finally a husky. I started out troubled, then pissed, then eventually simply laughed at the absurdity of it. When he was done Karen and our dogs were crammed in the back completely fenced in by at least a half ton of gear that this guy had been schlepping through Alaska alone. The van was so full that I could not shift properly and the husky had to sit on his lap so he could put more stuff at the base of the passenger seat.

Turns out he had rafted down the Yukon from his brother's place Carmacks solo, leaving the water at the end of a road barely traveled in Circle, Alaska. He planned to hitch home. It had already taken him six days to cover the 150 miles from Circle, and we could only take him as far as Delta Junction, leaving more than 500 miles to go. He seemed totally oblivious to the problems inherent in hitching that far with hundreds of pounds of gear, far more than any passenger car could carry. In fact, he was enjoying himself. We dropped him at the corner in Delta and as we drove off he was busily hiding his gear in the shrubs, waiting for the next unsuspecting moving van to wallow by. I have to give him credit for his optimism, though not for his sense.

The kiwi hitcher was just offering me pharmaceuticals. Before the conversation could progress much, the other windshield wiper let go, leaving us blind a long way from home. The hitcher mobilized to help, eventually unsuccessfully but after several adventures at the place he was crashing since being run out of Westport for 'rooting' the wrong girl. He directed us to a store outside Christchurch that might still be open at 5pm on a Saturday night in the middle of the worst storm in two years. They were, and showing typical Kiwi ingenuity they used tape and cable ties to get us back on road. As a matter of fact, I still haven't got around to fixing that....

The rest of the trip home was damned wet. Water on the roads that you could feel through the floorboards. Flooded signs placed in the middle of road-lakes rather than in front of them. Road closures and lots of detours through farm-roads crawling with crazed, frustrated, Kiwi truckers. Upon our final arrival we realized we really needed a mint juelp after that drive. Three bars later, we taught them how to make one. Huzzah!

Good trip.

This week saw the annual All-Blacks game in Dunedin, held for the final time at the old-school Carisbrook stadium, otherwise known as the 'House of Pain'. I am not a huge sports fan, but you can't miss something like this. Kiwis are rugby mad in the same way that Russians are vodka mad. The All-Blacks define the national character. They win, all is good. They lose...well, you'd best stay indoors. Plus it is rugby. Pure, unvarnished violence between consenting adults. Fueled by massive amounts of alcohol in the stands, and ego on the turf. What's not to like?

The opponents were the Welsh. Yeah, I know, the Welsh?


One thing the All-Blacks are rightfully famous for is the Haka. This wardance done before each match is meant to scare the opponents. In fact it is merely an excuse to make great faces at other grown men. Really, check out one on youtube. Great stuff.


No pads, no pauses, no whining. If you are going to play a blood sport, do it right.



Carisbrook was the last place in New Zealand that had terraces, stepped concrete areas where folks had to stand, and relatively cheap compared to the seats. Student area and damned lively. The police presence in front of them is not just for show. Keep in mind that everybody walking in the gate is buying at least one if not several 4-packs of Steinlager in green plastic bottles. Keep in mind as well that once you are packed into the terraces it is impossible to slip out for a slash. Some folks bring PVC tubes to piss in. Others just use the bottles. What happens to all these bottles of liquid? Watch the video below to find out. Keep in mind that the bottles tossed from the seats are empty, but notice how many full bottles are rising from the terraces. I can guarantee you that these are not folks to waste beer......





The All-Blacks stomped 'em. The party went on all night long and included our confiscation of an entire transit bus to get to our meeting place.

This is a fun little town.