On Agriculture

The Lemon Tree is a backpacker's hostel situated almost one kilometre outside of Blenheim. The backyard is kind of an orchard, dappled in sun and shade, crowded with tents and laundry hung out to dry. There is a large, sunny deck with ping-pong, a barbecue, and lots of picnic tables. The kitchen, lounge, and hallways are noisy, like rowdy classrooms, full of young travelers. Shoes thump on the hardwood floors, doors slam, the television blares, and conversations take place in German, Spanish, and French. There is one shared bathroom with five toilets and three showers, sectioned off from each other with corrugated metal walls. One of the toilets is badly backed up, and there are puddles of water on the cold concrete floors. John and I find our room, a patch of floor for our stuff, and end up in a dorm room with six people, in separate bunks.

In New Zealand, in the agricultural districts, most of the hostels specialize in finding work for backpackers. The owner takes a lot of time and effort networking with employers throughout the region, who may be in need of unskilled workers to plant, prune, or harvest. It is not long before the owner of The Lemon Tree finds us work at a wine bottling factory: the night shift. We both accept. Later on, though, she tells me that, if I prefer, I could cut up apricots for jam during the day instead, and she will try to find me vineyard work soon. I agree: I would rather work during the day, and outside.

When John heads off to work at 4:00, I feel a little alone in the crowded kitchen. No one is speaking English, and everyone seems to have lots of friends. I head to bed and read my book until I'm sleepy, which isn't long, because it's a really boring book-- but that's another story. I wake soon afterward, when John comes home after midnight. I move over and he climbs into my bunk with me-- even though it's pretty dangerously narrow and high, with no railing. To be on the safe side, I sleep near the wall.

Next day, at about eight in the morning, me and several other backpackers get picked up from the hostel in a rusty, loud, diesel van. We're taken to a kind of factory where we stand around giant crates of apricots and pit them for jam. Many of them are moldy, and we're not wearing gloves-- if you know me then you know my suspicion of, and disdain for, overdue food. Still, we're told to cut the moldy pieces away and save the rest. In almost complete silence, sixteen of us cut open and de-pit three and a half tonnes of apricots, playing word games or making conversation now and then to stave off the boredom. After several hours my hands are orange. Once in maybe ten or twenty apricots, especially near the bottom of the crates, opening the fruit reveals a couple of dark, squirming earwigs inside, doing God knows what in there. I seem to be disturbing their party. Every time it happens, despite the frequency of the occurrence and the fact that earwigs are basically harmless, I panic a little and drop whatever I'm holding, pruning knife, apricot pit, whatever. I can't help it. Mold and earwigs, all in one environment. Great.

On the plus side, we are allowed to pick out a jar of anything from the factory to take home, and they make everything from ketchup and apple sauce to raspberry jam. I choose some jam (but not apricot, if I ever see another apricot I'll die) and accept $100 in an envelope for my day's work.

Back at the hostel, I find a note on my bed: "Hey Lid / had to go to work / back same time tonight / Love you / John."

I find myself unexpectedly alone again, and make spaghetti bolognese with the leftover wine. While I'm eating, two girls approach me and ask where I'm from-- in decidedly North American accents. It turns out they're from Nova Scotia. We click instantly, and spend the evening playing cards and watching television together, laughing. At one point, the hostel owner lets me know she's found me work for the following day: thinning grapes. I'll be picked up at 5:30 a.m., so, somewhat reluctantly-- I'm having so much fun!-- I decide to go to bed early.

I guess a part of me is waiting for John to come home from the factory, and all night, my ears strain through my sleep. I wake in the dark now and then, listening. Suddenly, my alarm goes off at 4:30, and he still hasn't arrived. I can't believe it. I even check his bed with a flashlight. What could have happened? Could he have forgotten the door code? I check outside too, but he's not on the porch, and I feel a little silly. After all, he got home perfectly well the night before.

As I make myself toast and something for lunch, I keep an eye on the clock and start to really worry. Does he work with dangerous machinery at the factory? Could he have been hurt? Is he in the hospital this moment, and here I am, getting ready for work, unaware? Could that be possible?

At twenty past five, I realize that he is at least five hours late from work, and scribble him a note on my way out the door: John / I have to go to work this morning / Please call the cell when you get home / it is 5:30 a.m. I'm worried. / Love Liddy.

As I creep into the dorm to put the note on my bed, something stirs in the upper bunk, and John says, a little incredulously, "Liddy? What are you doing?"

I shine the light so we can see each other. I am immensely relieved. "There you are," I sigh; then, in answer to his question: "I have to go to work." I briefly explain about the grape thinning job. John looks exhausted. I have never seen him so tired, actually: there are deep lines under his eyes, and his cheeks look swollen.

"What happened?" I ask, touching his face.

"Twelve hour shift," he explains flatly. "Sorry, Lid. They didn't tell me. I really expected to be home at midnight."

"Wow."

"Yeah," he says. "And I'm going in again tonight."

There is a pause while I absorb this. "So," I say. "You'll be leaving for work when I get home."

"Yeah," he says. "And it's another late one, so you'll be leaving again when I get home tomorrow."

I feel a kind of dismay, but I'm almost late for my 5:30 pick-up, so I give him a hug and leave hurriedly-- relieved, anyway, that he isn't hurt or anything.

****

Outside, on the curb, seven of us huddle in the pre-dawn dark. The sky is a deep blue, with a few pale yellow stars still shining brightly, seeming to hang randomly in the sky. Venus, I think; and, not for the first time, I miss the northern stars. Once in awhile a big truck will scream by, an impression of headlights, engine noise, and the smell of manure.

Finally, a white van pulls up and we all take our cue. We pile in, murmuring "Good morning" to the driver, a big Maori guy who seems friendly enough and introduces himself as John. He drives us out of town, away from the shops and onto the highway, into the endless fields of grapes: those same green valleys I recognize from weeks ago, when we toured the vineyards with John and Medellee. As the sky warms up in the east, I can see the same indigo mountains all around, their craggy spines dramatic against the lightening sky. The warm light of the sunrise touches them slowly, warm ocher colouring the heights and throwing the deep blue folds into contrasting shadows.

Over the course of the day, I get to know my co-workers from the hostel. Two guys speak to each other in guttural French, rolling their r's at the back of their throats and saying "oui" like Canadiennes. They are Rudolph and Xavier, from the south of France. Three guys speak to each other in lisping, nasal German, but quickly switch to English so I can overhear their conversation. One of them, Daniel, has the best English I have heard from a German in awhile; we talk about Herman Hesse and Buddhism at one point, sitting in the shade on our break. And there is Bernhard, my partner, with a squashed straw hat and an enormous smile.

My job is easy: I walk up and down the endless rows, cutting a designated number of grapes from each plant-- being always careful to cut the second growth, and to cut equally from each cane. The number changes all the time, but still, after the first day, the work gets quickly tedious. I listen to all the music on my iPod (somewhat recovered now), in alphabetic order, and try to avoid the glare of the sun. After two days, I have dark tan-lines on my back, outlining my sports bra.

One evening, I discover the amazing potential of file sharing-- not over the internet. The bandwidth in New Zealand is invariably slow-- too slow to download anything substantial-- but Rudolph offers me a choice of hundreds of movies and albums he's got on his laptop, and Daniel offers me lots of audio books. The transfer is quick and painless. Next day, in the vineyard, I listen to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows-- which lasts, I might add, for about four straight working days.

The days fly by. I wake early, go to work, and get home at 2:30. Hot and sleepy, I usually have a cold shower straightaway. Then I might wander down to the library to check out a book, or spread out a blanket in the back yard and read in the shade. John gets switched to day shifts-- thank god. So we are able to eat dinner together again, at least. In the evenings, he reads me The Hobbit (I bug him to do the voices).

Then the weather turns. One day, the rain starts up while I'm working, and to my surprise, the boss ends the day early, saying it's no fun working when it's wet. At the hostel, I make myself a cup of tea and a bowl of popcorn, and watch a movie in bed all afternoon. A private room has opened up as well, so later in the afternoon, I move all of our stuff. It will be nice to have some privacy for once, and the room also comes with a fridge and TV.

Next day, it's still cloudy, but the rain has stopped.

Well, not really. It actually rains most of the day: the kind you can't exactly see, but you can feel it on your skin; it clouds up your glasses and makes all the leaves and grass wet. Sometimes it really starts coming down and the boss halts the work, but then the rain stops again pretty quickly and we get back to it.

Walking through long wet grass, and shaking wet leaves, it's no wonder I'm pretty miserable by lunch-time. My shoes are so wet, I can wring water from them. Actually, all of my clothes are cold and wet, and my hands, which have been in wet gloves for six hours, are clammy and wrinkled. Throughout the afternoon, the wind picks up, driving the rain down the back of my neck. I shudder and plod on.

The boss was right. It's not fun working when it's wet.

At the hostel, I get into dry clothes and get into bed, feeling cozy and in a surprisingly good mood. Then I remember I have to work again tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes all too soon. When my alarm goes off at 4:30 the following morning, I really can't believe it. It feels like I've only slept an hour. It's still the middle of the night. My bed is warm and comfortable, and the wonderful, seductive pull of sleep is still just inches away. I hope against hope that, for some wild reason, I won't have to go to work after all. But I get dressed anyway, fumbling around in the dark.

Then I look outside. It's pouring rain out there. My heart lifts, and I wonder if my hopes may have come true. After all, the boss wouldn't make us work in this weather-- not after he'd seen how miserable we'd been in the rain. The water is pouring from the roof, pounding down from the sky, bouncing onto the picnic tables and dripping from the trees. I smile.

When our ride doesn't show up, I climb back into bed and snuggle down into the pillow with a contented sigh. John pulls me close to him, and I sleep in, even after he's left for work.

Kiwi Cousin

My great-uncle Lyall settled in New Zealand in the 1970s, and lived in Blenheim for nine years before moving back to Canada. Out of his seven children, one stayed behind: his son, Barry, eventually got married and had a family of his own, which means that I now have a little brood of second cousins here in New Zealand: people who share the same great-grandparents as me; part of the Eriksen family that I've never met. I first got in touch with them before leaving Canada, to introduce myself and to let them know about my plans; and they've been kind to me from the start, telling me about themselves and even inviting me to stay with them. Donelle, Barry's daughter, has even called me on the phone since my arrival, kindly inviting John and I to come and stay as long as we like, whenever it is convenient.

I'm excited to meet her, and arrange to come on a Friday in early January.

In the afternoon, John and I take the Intercity Bus from Christchurch to Ward, a tiny fishing village just 50 km south of Blenheim. The town consists of a motel, a petrol station, and a cafe; Donelle runs the motel, and lives in a nice house on the property. We pass through dramatic yellow hillsides. At just past 8:00 in the evening, we roll in, step down from the bus, and heave our heavy packs onto our backs. I am carrying a straw hat and a pillow; John has his fishing rod, hat, and a little cooler (mostly empty). The bus pulls away with a screech, and we cross the empty highway toward the motel. I can't help feeling a little nervous.

Of course, Donelle turns out to be a warm, absolutely generous woman, and I needn't have felt nervous after all. She welcomes us with polished hospitality, and offers us cold drinks as we bring our stuff inside. I realize that our pile of belongings seems enormous, but Donelle doesn't appear to notice. We sit on the veranda for a couple of hours as the light fades, the ice tinkling in our glasses, talking about family and getting to know each other. We discuss our great-grandmother's garden, which was practically famous in my books; the Great Family Reunion on Pender Island in 1989 (she was seventeen, I was four, and we both remember it in detail); and a little of her travels through North America, Europe, and Southeast Asia.

After a tour of the house, my cousin sets up bedding for us and bids us goodnight, kindly insisting that we take advantage of the internet, telephone, laundry and car as much as we like while she's at work. John and I both relish the quiet peacefulness of the country town, and we crash hard, sleeping until late the following day. At one point in the morning, I smell coffee-- the strong kind you brew over the stove-- but even that doesn't rouse me. I roll over in the soft linen and listen to the utter quiet, dozing.

The light in the window is the bright gray of a drizzly morning. John and I spend all day recharging our batteries-- literally, it's been awhile since we've had reliable electricity and everything's dead-- and relaxing: drinking tea, snacking, surfing the internet, and watching television. Eventually, we borrow Donelle's car and drive to the beach, where we explore limestone rock formations and scout for Albatross. Although the weather is windy, the South Pacific still has that turquoise evanescence. We don't see any Albatross, just loads of cormorants-- or shags, as they call them here.

When we get back, Donelle roasts a chicken for dinner and opens a bottle of red. There is even a real salad with dressing (luxury). John tells her about his work, I talk about my family, and Donelle tells us about the area: there is a good day walk we could do, she says, called Saw Cut Gorge, and a market the following morning. She'll be selling some crafts she's made, and there will be local produce as well.

We plan to wake up early, but it doesn't quite work out: seduced yet again by the sweet lull of a sleepy morning, we're not actually out of bed until half-past ten. By the time we're up and showered, it's nearly noon. Still, we valiantly troop out to the market, and even check out the local museum. John finds loads of interesting artifacts from the area's history, like sheep-shearing tools and an old lighthouse crank (to me they mostly look like rust).

Donelle's friend Trav brings mussels over for dinner. He is a muscular, tattooed man with an easy laugh and a refined pallet. While he cooks, John and I poke around outside, watching the baby chooks (chickens) and wandering down the road towards more farmland, aimlessly. I spot two adorable brown calves, with round ears and sweet faces, and they lumber to the road to say hello. I get so excited I actually jump the ditch in my sandals to see if they'll let me pet them. I try to coax them towards me with long grass but they seem pretty stubborn, now they've come so far. Eventually, I give up. I lay my hands on the fence and

ZAP~!

jump back into the ditch, a startled little scream in my throat.

The fence bleeding bit me! Shocked me! ELECTRIC FENCE!

I feel a bit outraged, but mostly embarrassed. John doesn't even laugh, he just picks me up and hugs me. My hands and teeth hurt but especially my arm, where the electricity must have escaped. I had one of those elastic hair-ties around my wrist, and the little metal bit didn't help my situation. Poor cows! ... devil cows. No wonder they wouldn't come any closer!

"All right?" says Trav later, serving up mussels and beer. "How was your walk?"

"All right," I agree, and then add: "I found out that the fence is electric."

There's a pause before he roars with laughter. "I'm a city girl," I explain feebly, but that just makes him laugh harder.

The mussels are delicious. We have a lively conversation during dinner, and afterward, watch a New Zealand film called Boy. I am content, curled up in my pajamas, electric shock forgotten. There is even chocolate.  

We have been talking about going to Blenheim to try our hand at vineyard work. Donelle has to go to town on Tuesday, and offers to drive us. In the meantime, we plan to walk the Gorge she's told us about.

****

Monday morning turns out to be the most glorious weather we could have asked for. The sky is a clear blue, and the air is so calm that the wind turbines on the hill are completely still. We actually wake up at a decent hour, and Donelle has packed us a picnic lunch: sandwiches, chips, fruit, cookies, the works. John throws some laundry into the machine at the last minute, and then we finally jump into the car, headed South.

The road winds through the jagged shapes of yellow hills, with valleys of wildflowers nestled in the recesses like lavender and periwinkle shadows. The car crawls up a white chalk road, into the mountains, and we park at a farm house that marks the beginning of the walk. We can see the white riverbed curling into the distance.

It is only a short walk downhill to the river itself. Large white stones cobble the way, and the water rushes through them, clear and cold. The stones look like eggs or like bubbles of chalk rising from the river. Underneath the surface though, the stones have turned the colour of rust. We see no little fish darting into shadows, so there may be nothing to eat the algae, I suppose. In some areas, large kelp-like plants are growing, bent under the weight of the water like long grass in a strong wind.

We pick our way over the stones, but soon give up and wade ankle-deep in the cool river. Loud birdsong pierces the afternoon all around us, chirps and whistles that sound for all the world like we are deep in the Amazon jungle. The sun is hot, but the water is refreshingly cold; we boulder, climb, and wade through the serene morning. Sometimes, we see bits of trail leading off into the woods, and we follow the shady paths upriver whenever we can. Eventually, the boulders get bigger-- bigger than cars-- and the water gets too deep to wade through. I have been waiting for this moment. I strip down and plunge into the cold water, dark green under the chalk-white canyon. The icy water shocks my skin, and I dunk my head, coming up yelling and gasping. Even John goes for a swim, although he usually avoids cold water.

Afterward, we sit on the rocks in the sun, eating soft juicy plums and sipping from our water-bottles. I feel dazed and refreshed and surprisingly clean.

Too soon it's time to move on. Within moments, my hair is dry, and we are both warm again. We see a few other hikers coming back from their overnight stay in the huts, and after that, it's not long before we reach Saw Cut Gorge.

The Gorge is an impressive sight. Over centuries, the river has carved a deep canyon into the limestone, resulting in a deep, thin gorge that looks just like a tool may have sawed the 75-metre rock down to the riverbed. We walk through, and inside, it is dark like a cave. Above us, a thin streak of sky is visible, and swallows are darting into their nests with long wings and crossed tails. I snap a photo of John approaching the other side, the silhouette of his body illuminated by the bright daylight.

We sit by the water's edge and eat our lunch, in the sunshine, and John puts his water-bottle in the river so it'll be cold for the walk back. We both feel a sleepy contentment and linger there, breathing deeply, a crisp metallic smell like asphalt after rain, the smell of earth and grass, observing the river and the little trees, the wildflowers, feeling the sun on our skin, on our hair, a soft breeze on our shoulders, the birds in the branches and the light on the water.

All the long walk back we take our time, dragging our feet, not wanting the afternoon to end. The place has cast a kind of spell over us. There is nowhere I would rather be than here, walking through the water, in this river that reminds me of my childhood. When my head feels hot from the sun, I see a path and walk in the shade of the trees, leaf-mould soft under my feet, coins of sunlight dancing.

****

Donelle makes us quiche for dinner and we pack up our things, getting ready to leave the following day. Our laundry has been miraculously washed, dried, and folded.

The lady at the Lemon Tree Hostel in Blenheim says she's got work for us, and she even has dorm beds available (although we are welcome to sleep in our tent). I fall asleep feeling a nervous excitement about our upcoming life, settled and working in a noisy hostel, doing physical labour on the farms for as long as we can stand it. I hope we make enough money for all we want to do.

I guess we'll see.

Mountains, Gandalf, Mountains

Heavy rainfall alters the landscape. Rivers swell to become wide, muddy, frothing monsters. Fields flood too, becoming marshes overnight; trees seem to grow up from the pools, and the tips of tall grasses reflect against a heavy sky.

Waterfalls get more impressive. So after the storm, despite flooded roads, the four of us decide to brave the weather and check out the famous Wainui Falls, which we guess must have grown to monstrous proportions.

Getting there is a bit of an adventure. We see cars stopped on the side of the road, unable to start because of some important component that has gotten wet, and we soon realize that the flooded trail now involves several river crossings. Many trampers have simply taken off their boots, and are wading through barefoot. We construct bridges for ourselves, and even have to cross a wire suspension bridge one at a time, which rocks and tilts in vertigo, metres above the terrifying rapids.

It's worth it: the waterfall is absolutely cool. On our way back to the car park, the clouds clear, and the sun comes out; throughout the day, the weather shifts between stormy and sunny, and sometimes both at the same time.

I still don't understand how we're going to fit five people (plus gear) into the tiny hatchback, but someone's hatched a plan involving straps and tarpaulin. While Clare organizes her stuff, John Player and Medellee construct a makeshift roof carrier. Four bags fit on the roof, giving us more room inside the car. Genius.

Our plan is to drive to Westport, but unfortunately, we discover that all of the roads have been washed out by mudslides after the heavy rain. The skies soon begin to bruise and we are forced to make camp. Ferocious sand-flies swarm, so many that we have to squint just to see through them. (If you don't know what sand-flies are, that's because you've never been to New Zealand in the summer. They are tiny, silent, mite-like insects that draw blood and itch like crazy.) We literally empty a can of bug-spray on our exposed areas, but it's no use; we spend the whole night hiding in the tent, playing trivial pursuit and drinking boxed red wine.

During the next week, we drive through the rain and camp for free. Miraculously, every time we stop, the rain stops too. We hike up to see two different glaciers, Franz Josef and Fox Glacier. We eat well on our little camp stove, although we have to cook in batches; we also drink wine, play cards, and take walks. At one point, we tour the Monteiths brewery in Greymouth, where we taste every beer and then get to pour ourselves a pint.

One morning, when we're packing up, we hear a crunch of metal as we tighten the straps around our bags.

Everyone panics, lifting the bags down to survey the damage to the rental car. Sure enough, there is a huge dent. John jumps into the car, using his feet to try to push the warped metal back into place, but it doesn't completely work.

We stare at the roof. Eveyone is silent. We realize that we might have to pay as much as $2700 in damages to the rental company: over $500 each. When we pile into the car, our stomachs are knotted, spirits depressed. Needless to say, we put our packs on our laps, and deal with the lack of space.

As we drive towards Queenstown, though, the mood gradually lightens. For the next six hours, we play Horse (see Eagle vs. Shark), joke around, and pass through the Misty Mountains, listening to the Lord of the Rings soundtrack as we drive. The Southern Alps tower all around us, seeming to disappear into the sky. Low-hanging clouds open to reveal dense jungle and misty waterfalls.

"Mountains, Gandalf, mountains," I say, somewhat awed.

****

Queenstown is an interesting place to spend New Year's Eve. Most of the population of the South Island, as well as most of the tourists, have had the same idea-- probably because Queenstown has more bars per capita than anywhere else in the southern hemisphere. Miraculously though (again, thanks to a last-minute cancellation), we score five hostel beds at the last minute. We all spend time napping, showering, doing laundry, and eating, before our night on the town. We dress up as much as backpackers can (that's sundresses and mascara-- button-up shirts for the boys), and head downtown to check out the scene.

There is an enormous street party that fills up most of town, as well as outdoor concerts, lots of pubs, and fireworks by the harbour. Signs posted indicate that bylaws allowing liquor consumption in the streets have been suspended for the holidays. Still, the place is a free-for-all. We end up at a pub, where we sing along to bad '90s rock covers and drink overpriced pints. It's lots of fun.

We spend New Year's Day checking out the many Lord of the Rings locations around Queenstown, reenacting scenes from the movies and even shopping around for movie trinkets. I pose for a photograph next to cardboard cutout hobbits. It turns out that I really am too tall.

Then we drive to Milford Sound, the most popular destination in New Zealand, to check out the amazing views.

Unfortunately, as luck would have it, it's raining and foggy, so we can't see much. The drive is absolutely stunning nonetheless. John and I promise ourselves we'll come back this year. The huge mountains are jaw-dropping, vast cliff-faces that hide most of the sky; they are veined with silver waterfalls that cascade like enormous ribbons of shining ore. When we stop to take pictures, mean-faced Kea land on the car roof and peck at the windows, demanding handouts.

We camp in torrential rain, which does nothing to deter the sand-flies.

In the Catlins, we finally see better weather: blue skies, sunshine, shorts-and-sunscreen weather. We see a beach covered in fossilized, Jurrasic-age trees; an enormous cave; the mast of a shipwreck at low tide; and no less than four yellow-eyed penguins-- the rarest species in the world-- nesting on the beach. I look out at the ocean and imagine Antarctica.

Two days in Dunedin and Christchurch pass in a blur of hostels, and soon it's time for John and Medellee's flight home. Nervously, Meds brings the car into an auto body repair shop for a free estimate: the mechanic shakes his head and says that the roof will have to be replaced. Although the dents are tiny, the new car isn't made of metal at all, so it can't be repaired. His estimate is $2500.

Hearts in our stomachs, we drive to the airport to drop off the car, anxiously awaiting the final judgment.

We wait in the airport lobby while John and Medellee face the music. Long minutes pass.

Finally, they walk back in and we all peer into their faces, looking for the answer.

"How much?" John finally has the guts to ask.

Medellee holds out her hand.

It takes us a minute to understand what she's saying. She grins; her fingers make an O.

"Wait," John stutters. "What. Nothing?"

"Nothing!" she yells. "The rental agreement... it says that the roof was already dented!"

We shout in happy disbelief, whooping, hugging. Not one of us has $500 to throw around, and we feel extremely lucky. In fact, we feel so elated that we drive back to town and rent out a Korean Karaoke room for the night. The five of us drink beer and sing our favourite songs, which are put to hilarious videos that have nothing at all to do with the words. Queen, Journey, The Stones, Disney, Zepplin-- all are reduced to echoing duets and lots of screaming while dancing.

We all share a serene goodbye.

At midnight, John and I watch the taillights of the hatchback disappear down the road, alone again and facing an unknown future.

Abel Tasman to Cape Farewell

We decide to kill the time out in the Abel Tasman National Park, one of New Zealand's most popular destinations. On our way, we spot congregations of hippie vans parked in fields, clustered in little communes, and people are walking around barefoot and playing with fire sticks. Just typical.

We score a brilliant free campsite in Caanan Downs. Really it's just a field, but it's beside the forest where a scene from The Lord of the Rings was shot. You know that part where the elves are all leaving, walking through the woods to the ships? Well that was it. We walk down that same path through the woods, to Howard's Hole, New Zealand's biggest vertical shaft. I can not in any way describe how enormous, tall, deep, and fantastic it is. Even a picture couldn't do it justice (which is why there isn't one). It is a little scary exploring the cave, because you can't even see the bottom. We hear Bell Birds calling, and their song echoes through the stones. The entire landscape seems so timeless, at any moment I expect to see a Triceratops.

We plan to see some more of the park the following day, but in the night it starts to rain. By morning it's a downpour. We rush around packing up in the rain, rolling up wet tents, squeaking in soggy sneakers. I get into the car shivering, while Medellee tries to unfog the windows. We make an immediate and unanimous decision to find a hot pub meal, pronto.

By the time we reach Te Kaka (you'll love this dad, there's a river called Pupu here), the rain has slowed to fat drops and occasional drizzle. I order tea and seafood chowder, update my facebook status, and read my book. By 3:00, though, it looks brighter, so we decide to drive up to Cape Farewell and see the bird sanctuary.

It's about a three-hour walk. We start in farmland, walking through wet muck and grass, parts of which have flooded with the sudden rain. Dinosaur-like pukeko wade in packs, lifting their strange reptilian legs and flicking their white tails with every step. We walk through hillsides dotted with sheep, and here and there, rocky protrusions that look like the guts of the mountains trying to escape. Clouds cling to the craggy cliff-sides, reminding me of nothing more than what I imagine Scotland to look like.

Eventually, the path meanders down to sandy dunes and a frighteningly vast beach, where fog obscures all edges. The roar of the wind and waves are deafening. This place is called Fossil Point, so we wander up the beach, looking in the cliff-sides for fossils. But all we find are old shells (I wanted something more exotic).

Suddenly, John, who's a hundred metres ahead of me, gives a loud yell. There is a note of panic in his voice I've never heard from him before, and he runs out from a cove of rocks at high speed, shouting. I meet him halfway in a matter of seconds and see what he sees: a bull fur seal, raised up, snarling, just a few feet away. It is enormous. John literally stepped on it while it was sleeping. I take a few pictures of the menacing animal, figuring seals don't move too fast on sand and I've got the advantage. But I back off at the insistence of my mates.

We look around and realize that many of the "rocks" all around us are sleeping fur seals. We have wandered into a colony. John, maybe mildly embarrassed for his fright, boldly goes ahead to explore, while I walk toward a few others and try to get a photograph. Suddenly another seal, a female I think, bolts up on one side of me and charges right for John.

I had no idea that seals could move that fast on land.

"John!" I scream. "Look out!!"

John just has time to glance behind him and take a few running steps, but I realize that there is no way he can get away fast enough.

The animal reaches him, runs right by him, and squirms into the waves, where she escapes her human predators to live another day.

Hearts pounding, we all decide to get out of there. This is way too much nature.

****

The walk continues north for about an hour. Walking on the endless beach is like walking on a treadmill, where the receding fog gradually reveals yet more beach. Long grasses grow in clumps on the windswept dunes, and the perfectly curling surf foams and stretches out on the hard-packed sand. We finally reach the spit, which is yet more beach, and turn the corner to a vast wasteland of mud. Black swans waddle far out, and clams spit up at us underfoot. The water looks like it's made of paint, an oily sheen reflecting the sky. On one side, snarling trees silhouette against the clouds, and ahead, a storm is gathering on the mountains.

We catch the rain on the highway back. It's the kind of downpour that windshield wipers aren't built to withstand.

We make an immediate and unanimous decision to sleep in a hostel overnight.

By the skin of our teeth we get beds, because no one wants to camp in the rain, and Annie's Nirvana Lodge has just had a cancellation not five minutes before. Everywhere else is full. We stop at the grocer and buy two pounds of potatoes, twenty dollars worth of ground beef, a bag of frozen vegetables, some beef broth and a bottle of red wine. In the hostel kitchen, Medellee and I make friends with a woman from Israel while we set to work on the biggest, most delicious shepherd's pie we can concoct. It is eleven o'clock at night by the time the four of us sit down and eat two or three helpings each. The rain comes down in buckets outside, and the wind rattles all the windows.

Full, warm, and sleepy, laying in my bunk and listening to the storm at midnight, I can only be grateful for where I am. There is no way our duct-taped-together tent could survive another storm like this.