We take our time getting on the road but manage the historic little village of Greytown the first settlement in the Wairarapa. J spots a shoe shop and I am sunk, with no choice but to pull over and indulge the pediatric fantasies of my road trip mate. Such is life, the day is grand the company divine and time is our ally.
I wander the streets while J shops before long we are on the road again this time heading toward Napier starting up the coast. We chat and commiserate about past loves laughing, enjoying each others company and the beautiful spring day that is shaping up. J begins to relax comforted that I am not going to suddenly want to drive on the "other" side of the road. It is constantly on my mind that I must remember where I am and concentrate on staying on the "appropriate" side of the road. The scenery is the usual spectacular vistas and twisting winding roadways. I even manage a few roundabouts with a major incident.
After several hours we decide to pull off the road for the evening, no worries. We start looking for camping spots, however it being off season there are few open. We can't seem to find anything, daylight is waning and time suddenly has become an issue. I spot a sign advertising a beach side campground, we wheel off the road and head into the hills. After driving for an hour we are no closer to the elusive beach campground and decide to pull off to the side of the road for a conference. We both agree it's pointless and burning unnecessary gas to keep searching for the campground we may never find, so we opt to perch on a bluff overlooking the coast and Napier. The last light of day is disappearing as we cook up a scoff washed down with some fine local wine. It is cold and damp but we have the million dollar view. The moon glistens over a calm ocean, there isn't a lick of wind. I wander down the hillside and play with some time lapse photography.
Magpies chatter and call from the trees, somewhere down in the valley a wayward lamb bleats longingly for it's mother. The sky is iridescent blue flecked with dark puff of clouds. Off in the distance the lights of Napier twinkle like tiny diamonds. I inhale the sweet sea air and sigh. I am in love with this place, I have found my New Zealand. The beauty of these two islands is that over time they morph into something even more beautiful than the last spectacular vista you just enjoyed. Every turn in the road and hill that you climb reveals another facet of this amazing country.
J has been waiting patiently back at the camper huddled under a cadre of blankets. She is smiling, a good sign. We climb into the camper and prepare the bed for the night which require some acrobat maneuvers my circus training comes into play and soon we are settled in for the night sharing laughs and smiles. Even though you can see your breath in the air we opt to do without the heater as it will use power we may need tomorrow.
1:00am my back aches
2:00am my neck cracks
3:00am my shoulder throbs (a pig hunt souvenir)
4:00am sleep is finally my ally, ah yes camping 101, lets see another six nights of sleeping on a wafer thin mattress in single digit temps.
Kiaora
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
On The Road Again
Ugh! I roll over in bed it's early, but I must catch the train as Sunday service is limited especially out here in Martinborough. Right, no more Bourbon and Cokes for this fella, vile stuff pre-mixed in a can. I am feeling the effects of my indulgence. It's 6 a.m. and no one is stirring as slip out the door and hop on my trusty bike (thanks T).
I wobble down the road it is a cool 3 or 4 degrees Celsius. The sky is slate grey not very encouraging as my legs reluctantly pump the push bike pedals, slowly moving toward town. It's my usual rise and shine ride to the bus only this time I am stashing my bike at T's place. J my tango friend is going to meet me at the train station in Welly and then we are off for a camper van adventure up the North Island Coast. The topic came up in conversation as we were zipping through the streets of Wellington J deftly shifting gears hugging corners and forever climbing hilly streets. I was still coping with the driving on the opposite side of the road thing. J said she had always wanted to do a camper van trip. My response was a casual "well why don't we". It was a done deal she went online and found a rental place close to home. A 7 metre camper van had been secured, we just had to pick it up and head off. Yah right as the Tui beer ads say.
We had to sit through an instructional video which was a hoot the Kiwi's sure know how to entertain and make the most mundane instructional video hilarious. The same applied to the seat belt video on the plane it had me in stitches so much so I managed to garner the attention of my fellow passengers who wondered what was so amusing. Air Canada could take a lesson from these chaps. I have digressed, back to the camper van. We are now on a tour of our new home for the next seven days. Fridge check, stove check, shower, shower? It is more like a closet with barely enough room to lift your arm to do the pits. Overall it looks like it will be a cool experience certainly more comfortable than falling down mountains!
After the check out we are approved and sail out in our newly minted hotel on wheels. J decides to drive as I am still considered an opposite side of the road newbie from over the pond. We are on the road, well almost, just a minor complication we can't seem to find the on ramp to start our adventure. Not the most fortuitous start! After several miscues we find our way on to the highway and head up into Rikatura a rolling range of mountains that frames the city separating the Wairarapa Valley from Wellington and the coast. The motorway winds it's way through the hills winding and twisting with hairpin turns edging on steep drop offs to green lush valleys. The road is barely a two lane highway with the tiniest peg fence, that wouldn't stop a bicycle let alone a 5 ton camper van, separating motorists from a horrible excruciating death careening to the bottom of the valley below in a tangled ball of flames. Hmmm, steep drop offs and perilous roads seem to be the norm here, I am slowly getting acclimatized to the topography. Transport trucks whiz past us, the fact that we are elevated in the cab sitting higher than I care to makes the journey look even more treacherous. J has a death grip on the wheel, she doesn't look comfortable at all.
Are you alright? I ask as a truck narrowly misses our side mirror. She nods and we both stare straight ahead snaking our way up the mountain. J continues to courageously handle the wheel, I sense she is very stressed after all she is used to driving a little tin can no more than 2 metres in length. I feel ready and offer to drive. "Would you like to take a break" I innocently ask. J wheels the van and cuts a swath through oncoming traffic to the side of the motorway and I take over. I feel like a Lorrie driver sitting perched up on the air ride seat. I am right into the groove, living the dream as I depress the clutch and we lurch back on to the road narrowly missing a passing sports car. Hmmm didn't see that one, good thing we have insurance I chuckle to myself, J looks very uncomfortable.
I question myself is this a true test of courage or stupidity. I have never driven on the opposite side of the road this is going to be very interesting. The standard truck style shifter is more challenging than the left hand drive. The camper barrels around corners rocketing down the hillside, a few times my foot confuses brake and accelerator. I stoically show no emotion or fear, J shoots me an inquiring glance as we roar up a little too close to the small car in front of us stopping just in the nick of time. J mutters something about insurance deductibles and shoots me a polite but inquiring glance.
Thankfully we manage the mountain motorway and emerge on the other side unscathed. The Martinborough sign beckons and we coast down into town. I pull off to the side of the street and park we are only too happy to climb down and leave the camper van for a well deserved bite to eat. Tomorrow our road trip truly begins, the journey ahead promises to enchant, challenge and hurt, but more on that later for now we are at the flat and off the road.
I wobble down the road it is a cool 3 or 4 degrees Celsius. The sky is slate grey not very encouraging as my legs reluctantly pump the push bike pedals, slowly moving toward town. It's my usual rise and shine ride to the bus only this time I am stashing my bike at T's place. J my tango friend is going to meet me at the train station in Welly and then we are off for a camper van adventure up the North Island Coast. The topic came up in conversation as we were zipping through the streets of Wellington J deftly shifting gears hugging corners and forever climbing hilly streets. I was still coping with the driving on the opposite side of the road thing. J said she had always wanted to do a camper van trip. My response was a casual "well why don't we". It was a done deal she went online and found a rental place close to home. A 7 metre camper van had been secured, we just had to pick it up and head off. Yah right as the Tui beer ads say.
We had to sit through an instructional video which was a hoot the Kiwi's sure know how to entertain and make the most mundane instructional video hilarious. The same applied to the seat belt video on the plane it had me in stitches so much so I managed to garner the attention of my fellow passengers who wondered what was so amusing. Air Canada could take a lesson from these chaps. I have digressed, back to the camper van. We are now on a tour of our new home for the next seven days. Fridge check, stove check, shower, shower? It is more like a closet with barely enough room to lift your arm to do the pits. Overall it looks like it will be a cool experience certainly more comfortable than falling down mountains!
After the check out we are approved and sail out in our newly minted hotel on wheels. J decides to drive as I am still considered an opposite side of the road newbie from over the pond. We are on the road, well almost, just a minor complication we can't seem to find the on ramp to start our adventure. Not the most fortuitous start! After several miscues we find our way on to the highway and head up into Rikatura a rolling range of mountains that frames the city separating the Wairarapa Valley from Wellington and the coast. The motorway winds it's way through the hills winding and twisting with hairpin turns edging on steep drop offs to green lush valleys. The road is barely a two lane highway with the tiniest peg fence, that wouldn't stop a bicycle let alone a 5 ton camper van, separating motorists from a horrible excruciating death careening to the bottom of the valley below in a tangled ball of flames. Hmmm, steep drop offs and perilous roads seem to be the norm here, I am slowly getting acclimatized to the topography. Transport trucks whiz past us, the fact that we are elevated in the cab sitting higher than I care to makes the journey look even more treacherous. J has a death grip on the wheel, she doesn't look comfortable at all.
Are you alright? I ask as a truck narrowly misses our side mirror. She nods and we both stare straight ahead snaking our way up the mountain. J continues to courageously handle the wheel, I sense she is very stressed after all she is used to driving a little tin can no more than 2 metres in length. I feel ready and offer to drive. "Would you like to take a break" I innocently ask. J wheels the van and cuts a swath through oncoming traffic to the side of the motorway and I take over. I feel like a Lorrie driver sitting perched up on the air ride seat. I am right into the groove, living the dream as I depress the clutch and we lurch back on to the road narrowly missing a passing sports car. Hmmm didn't see that one, good thing we have insurance I chuckle to myself, J looks very uncomfortable.
I question myself is this a true test of courage or stupidity. I have never driven on the opposite side of the road this is going to be very interesting. The standard truck style shifter is more challenging than the left hand drive. The camper barrels around corners rocketing down the hillside, a few times my foot confuses brake and accelerator. I stoically show no emotion or fear, J shoots me an inquiring glance as we roar up a little too close to the small car in front of us stopping just in the nick of time. J mutters something about insurance deductibles and shoots me a polite but inquiring glance.
Thankfully we manage the mountain motorway and emerge on the other side unscathed. The Martinborough sign beckons and we coast down into town. I pull off to the side of the street and park we are only too happy to climb down and leave the camper van for a well deserved bite to eat. Tomorrow our road trip truly begins, the journey ahead promises to enchant, challenge and hurt, but more on that later for now we are at the flat and off the road.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Counting Cattle
I am barely able to catch my breath before we lurch away in the Rino. A semi-comfortable seat never felt so good . We are going even further up into the Mt. Mable Range as M wants to check his cattle. He has approximately 300 cows foraging in the surrounding hills, some he hasn't seen for over two years. We pass through several gates all with warnings on them that trespassers will be prosecuted. My only thought is who the hell is going to be crazy enough to come up here. The two kids cling to the gun rack as we traverse the clay based muddy cow path. M negotiates the narrow path, on my side is an old wire fence precariously leaning over supported by a single strand of barbed wire. On the drivers side a yawning chasm sports a straight drop of at least 500 metres. The wheel of the Rino straddles the edge of the path sending stones and small rocks careening down the cliff.
I am terrified to the point that I can't bear to look. I imagine the Rino cartwheeling down the side of the mountain ejecting us from the vehicle as it goes. Who would find us in this remote abyss? I tighten my grasp on the HF handle and close my eyes praying that if I make it out of this alive I will be a better person. I can't resist the temptation to look as M slows down. There is a 1000 pound heifer standing on my side of the path. M deftley veers around the cow and the wheel slides further off the path, the vehicle tilts at a godforsaken angle and I feel as though I am going to pass out. Did I mention that I am so acrophobic I have trouble climbing a stepladder? My heart is pounding in my chest and I say a silent prayer. The Rino slips sideways and for a split second the tire loses it's bite and catches the mountainside tilting us even further. M yanks the wheel in the opposite direction and we are back on the path again climbing to the peak of the summit. The view is stunning I can see the entire mountain range. It is cold and I notice a dusting of snow at my feet, my heart beat is slowly returning to normal.
We climb back into the Rino for the voyage down the mountain. M lights a smoke and we make our way
back to civilization. I opt to keep my eyes closed as I am now on the cliff side of the equation I just can't look. I am numb, cold and scared I can't even bring myself to take a picture. I pull the tuque down over my eyes and pretend to rest as the Rino bumps and grinds us down the mountain. I am cold, wet, numb and exhausted, the kids in the back are having a ball playing with the boar jaw and arguing with each other. In the valley we ford a stream and stop at M's Maori friends isolated ranch house. The stream regularly floods and strands them for months at a time. We get out and stretch our legs it is a little warmer in the valley but I am still feeling the effects of wearing damp wet clothes in zero degree temperatures. After a cordial visit in the farmyard and a badly needed drink of water we are heading back to the station. I can't wait to get into the house and dry my clothes by the fire. The house is quiet and the fire has gone out M decides we don't need another fire, but I still strip down and start waving my damp shirt around like a rabid fan at a rugby match. I am chilled to the bone and feeling rather miserable.
In a couple of hours M's wife arrives with the two other kids and we take off for S and E's ranch house where he is farm manager. To my relief S has nice warm fire going in a large wood stove in the corner. I gravitate to the fire like a flea to a dog parking my butt a few inches from the soothing warmth. Within the hour I feel human again. We start with the bourbon and cola's, a few too many if truth be known, followed by a lovely meal and table tennis tournament. It has been one helluva day. Would I do it again? You bet, in a heart beat. Next time I'll bring warmer waterproof clothes and a contact case!
Kiaora
ps: coming up camper van mania on the wrong side of the road.
I am terrified to the point that I can't bear to look. I imagine the Rino cartwheeling down the side of the mountain ejecting us from the vehicle as it goes. Who would find us in this remote abyss? I tighten my grasp on the HF handle and close my eyes praying that if I make it out of this alive I will be a better person. I can't resist the temptation to look as M slows down. There is a 1000 pound heifer standing on my side of the path. M deftley veers around the cow and the wheel slides further off the path, the vehicle tilts at a godforsaken angle and I feel as though I am going to pass out. Did I mention that I am so acrophobic I have trouble climbing a stepladder? My heart is pounding in my chest and I say a silent prayer. The Rino slips sideways and for a split second the tire loses it's bite and catches the mountainside tilting us even further. M yanks the wheel in the opposite direction and we are back on the path again climbing to the peak of the summit. The view is stunning I can see the entire mountain range. It is cold and I notice a dusting of snow at my feet, my heart beat is slowly returning to normal.
We climb back into the Rino for the voyage down the mountain. M lights a smoke and we make our way
back to civilization. I opt to keep my eyes closed as I am now on the cliff side of the equation I just can't look. I am numb, cold and scared I can't even bring myself to take a picture. I pull the tuque down over my eyes and pretend to rest as the Rino bumps and grinds us down the mountain. I am cold, wet, numb and exhausted, the kids in the back are having a ball playing with the boar jaw and arguing with each other. In the valley we ford a stream and stop at M's Maori friends isolated ranch house. The stream regularly floods and strands them for months at a time. We get out and stretch our legs it is a little warmer in the valley but I am still feeling the effects of wearing damp wet clothes in zero degree temperatures. After a cordial visit in the farmyard and a badly needed drink of water we are heading back to the station. I can't wait to get into the house and dry my clothes by the fire. The house is quiet and the fire has gone out M decides we don't need another fire, but I still strip down and start waving my damp shirt around like a rabid fan at a rugby match. I am chilled to the bone and feeling rather miserable.
In a couple of hours M's wife arrives with the two other kids and we take off for S and E's ranch house where he is farm manager. To my relief S has nice warm fire going in a large wood stove in the corner. I gravitate to the fire like a flea to a dog parking my butt a few inches from the soothing warmth. Within the hour I feel human again. We start with the bourbon and cola's, a few too many if truth be known, followed by a lovely meal and table tennis tournament. It has been one helluva day. Would I do it again? You bet, in a heart beat. Next time I'll bring warmer waterproof clothes and a contact case!
Kiaora
ps: coming up camper van mania on the wrong side of the road.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Falling Down the Mountain - the conclusion
I part the bushes and dive into the unknown. At 5'4" M moves down the 70% slope with the dexterity of a mountain goat, at 6'2" I crash down the mountain side like an Ox. M clears trees that seem to be constantly smacking me in the head, I slip and tumble trying to keep my agile nimble host in my sights. I shudder at thought of losing him in this no mans land. As I stumble into a branch at forehead level it knocks me flat on my butt. I manage to scramble to my feet just in time to see M slide down a treacherous section of slope like a kid on a playground slide. I do the same thing covering an astonishing distance in a very short period of time. Trees whiz past me, I am enjoying the ride when the thought strikes me, at some point I must stop. I watch M stab his bowie knife into the ground, heave himself to his feet continuing the scramble through dense undergrowth. After 20 metres of sliding a tree does the job for me. I hit a thick barked limb with my right shoulder and careen sideways smacking a second tree with my left hip and leg tumbling further into a thicket at the edge of a small bluff. M is way ahead of me, of course, at times I lose him completely and call out only to hear a reassuring voice from somewhere down the below.
I refuse to turn back and give up, my Canuck honour and male ego at stake. Aching arms clutch at trees for support as I hold on and pull myself up the other side of a small bluff. I have to be careful as some trees are dead and snap off at the base leaving nothing but a handful of dead wood. My lungs strain for air as I pant and struggle clamouring for the next tree. The camera is wrapped around my neck like a hangman's noose I don't dare try and move it for fear of losing my balance and falling to my death on the rocks below. Muscles ache and scream to stop this stupidity, suddenly a rotten tree snaps and I fall back 3 metres slamming into another tree. I have awaken an old injury, a stab of pain shoots across my right shoulder. All this time the pig is screaming like a baboon in heat it's cries echoing in the hills, the poor creature is somewhere over the next rise. I regroup and charge over the hill almost crashing into M who has taken a detour around the side of the cliff. He scrambles like a monkey up the face of the 15 metre cliff amidst blood curdling screams and rabid barking. There is no way I will make it up the cliff and envision myself tumbling to a horrible death, so I circumnavigate and attack the wet slippery cliff from a side angle crawling and clawing at anything to get a hold and pull myself up.
M is at the kill site as I arrive and madly fumble to get my camera gear ready. My half frozen fingers are almost useless, I am covered in mud feeling rather cold and miserable, but I made it. M stands over the pig with a knife drawn "Do you want to stick 'em Steve?" he offers. "Uh no thanks M I'll just grab picts and shoot some video" (note I will not post the video for fear of exposing M to a torrent of abuse over the boar hunt). As I slowly move toward the boar I have this sense that I am being sized up.
"He wants you mate" M astutely observes. I swallow hard and back up slowly, stumbling over a tree root mumbling a response " I had that feeling".
"No worries" M assures me "e would've had you by now mate, but e's 'ad a bad go, dogs got his balls he's not going anywhere". With that he sticks the poor sod with the bowie knife. Blood gurgles from the beasts throat as it shakes and contorts emitting a very human sounding spine tingling shriek. M sits on top of the Cooks boar as the life weeps from it's body. The animals eyes glaze over with the veil of death.
M turns the pig on it's back and guts it while his dogs assemble slumped around the carcass eager for a morsel. M feeds the pups the heart and penis telling me that the stomach and guts will make the dogs sick if they eat any of it. M explains how the wild pigs are vectors for TB, he shows me the glands which fortunately are clean.
The reality of where we are suddenly hits, I look to the top of the mountain and realize the climb back up is going to be 3 times as difficult as the ride down. I am cold, wet, my teeth chatter and my body aches. M has the carcass prepared by the time I have gathered my thoughts and voice concerns about the climb back up. M informs me we are going to haul the boar carcass back up!! My jaw drops, all I can manage is a stupefied "of course you're kidding" followed by a nervous laugh.
M looks up at me his hands covered in blood, his toque sitting askew on top of his head.
"No, me mate al'ays helps carry, we can manage together no worries mate".
I am stunned there is no way in hell I am going to be able to carry over a hundred pounds of dead pig back up the mountain. As a matter of fact I was fantasizing about a medivac chopper swooping down and lifting me gently back to our starting point when M floated the thought that we share hauling duties.
"No worries mate I need some string or rope" M replies looking around. My first thought is why didn't you bring some with you when we went on this mad escapade in the first place?
He spots the cord on my hood "that'll do". He draws his hunting knife an inch from my neck and slices through the cord pulling it away from my hood. M ties the front and hind hooves together on both sides, I help him pull the boar up on his back so it is riding (pardon the pun) piggy back style like a bizarre back pack.
We're off retracing our steps, I follow snapping pictures, because no one at home would believe me if I told them about this strange journey. I am carrying the Marlin .44 rifle slung over my shoulder. M's back is soaked a blood red as he huffs and plods through the bush. I follow behind helping push him up the steep incline. The boar looks almost child like flopping from side to side while perched on his back. This is a true NZ outback experience, however the moment is lost on me as I struggle to make it back up the mountainside.
A soaking wet shirt clings to my skin making me even more cold and miserable, my nylon track pants are caked with blood, shredded and torn from the numerous trees I bounced off on the trip down. Part way up I convince M to give up carrying the trophy. We stop and he deftly carves the lower jaw bone out of boar to give me a tusk.
We start back up the mountain, I struggle to hold my own. My lips are parched and I crawl on all fours for a large part of the climb physically exhausted, but determined to make it to the top. I promise myself a nice big tumbler of 12 yr old single malt scotch if I make it out alive. The muddy banks are slippery and slow our progress. I maintain a stoic silence in the interest of male pride. Finally I can see the clearing and we emerge from the jungle, we are at the Rino, I collapse in the front seat, even M is winded and needs time to recoup.
M's two kids have waited patiently for almost three hours looking after the gear while we were gone. They gleefully hoist the blood soaked, flesh caked jaw in celebration of the kill. There is something tribal and ancient in the ritual and I snap more pictures. We are sitting over 600 metres up in the mountains the view is stunning, a fringe of snow lines the pathway where we are parked. I take in the pure clean air and smile. It was an amazing experience I am glad I went the only question remaining is, will I be able to walk tomorrow! The Rino lurches away and we are off to check M's cattle, a day I will remember for the rest of my life, thanks to my new mate.
I refuse to turn back and give up, my Canuck honour and male ego at stake. Aching arms clutch at trees for support as I hold on and pull myself up the other side of a small bluff. I have to be careful as some trees are dead and snap off at the base leaving nothing but a handful of dead wood. My lungs strain for air as I pant and struggle clamouring for the next tree. The camera is wrapped around my neck like a hangman's noose I don't dare try and move it for fear of losing my balance and falling to my death on the rocks below. Muscles ache and scream to stop this stupidity, suddenly a rotten tree snaps and I fall back 3 metres slamming into another tree. I have awaken an old injury, a stab of pain shoots across my right shoulder. All this time the pig is screaming like a baboon in heat it's cries echoing in the hills, the poor creature is somewhere over the next rise. I regroup and charge over the hill almost crashing into M who has taken a detour around the side of the cliff. He scrambles like a monkey up the face of the 15 metre cliff amidst blood curdling screams and rabid barking. There is no way I will make it up the cliff and envision myself tumbling to a horrible death, so I circumnavigate and attack the wet slippery cliff from a side angle crawling and clawing at anything to get a hold and pull myself up.
M is at the kill site as I arrive and madly fumble to get my camera gear ready. My half frozen fingers are almost useless, I am covered in mud feeling rather cold and miserable, but I made it. M stands over the pig with a knife drawn "Do you want to stick 'em Steve?" he offers. "Uh no thanks M I'll just grab picts and shoot some video" (note I will not post the video for fear of exposing M to a torrent of abuse over the boar hunt). As I slowly move toward the boar I have this sense that I am being sized up.
"He wants you mate" M astutely observes. I swallow hard and back up slowly, stumbling over a tree root mumbling a response " I had that feeling".
"No worries" M assures me "e would've had you by now mate, but e's 'ad a bad go, dogs got his balls he's not going anywhere". With that he sticks the poor sod with the bowie knife. Blood gurgles from the beasts throat as it shakes and contorts emitting a very human sounding spine tingling shriek. M sits on top of the Cooks boar as the life weeps from it's body. The animals eyes glaze over with the veil of death.
M turns the pig on it's back and guts it while his dogs assemble slumped around the carcass eager for a morsel. M feeds the pups the heart and penis telling me that the stomach and guts will make the dogs sick if they eat any of it. M explains how the wild pigs are vectors for TB, he shows me the glands which fortunately are clean.
The reality of where we are suddenly hits, I look to the top of the mountain and realize the climb back up is going to be 3 times as difficult as the ride down. I am cold, wet, my teeth chatter and my body aches. M has the carcass prepared by the time I have gathered my thoughts and voice concerns about the climb back up. M informs me we are going to haul the boar carcass back up!! My jaw drops, all I can manage is a stupefied "of course you're kidding" followed by a nervous laugh.
M looks up at me his hands covered in blood, his toque sitting askew on top of his head.
"No, me mate al'ays helps carry, we can manage together no worries mate".
I am stunned there is no way in hell I am going to be able to carry over a hundred pounds of dead pig back up the mountain. As a matter of fact I was fantasizing about a medivac chopper swooping down and lifting me gently back to our starting point when M floated the thought that we share hauling duties.
"No worries mate I need some string or rope" M replies looking around. My first thought is why didn't you bring some with you when we went on this mad escapade in the first place?
He spots the cord on my hood "that'll do". He draws his hunting knife an inch from my neck and slices through the cord pulling it away from my hood. M ties the front and hind hooves together on both sides, I help him pull the boar up on his back so it is riding (pardon the pun) piggy back style like a bizarre back pack.
We're off retracing our steps, I follow snapping pictures, because no one at home would believe me if I told them about this strange journey. I am carrying the Marlin .44 rifle slung over my shoulder. M's back is soaked a blood red as he huffs and plods through the bush. I follow behind helping push him up the steep incline. The boar looks almost child like flopping from side to side while perched on his back. This is a true NZ outback experience, however the moment is lost on me as I struggle to make it back up the mountainside.
A soaking wet shirt clings to my skin making me even more cold and miserable, my nylon track pants are caked with blood, shredded and torn from the numerous trees I bounced off on the trip down. Part way up I convince M to give up carrying the trophy. We stop and he deftly carves the lower jaw bone out of boar to give me a tusk.
We start back up the mountain, I struggle to hold my own. My lips are parched and I crawl on all fours for a large part of the climb physically exhausted, but determined to make it to the top. I promise myself a nice big tumbler of 12 yr old single malt scotch if I make it out alive. The muddy banks are slippery and slow our progress. I maintain a stoic silence in the interest of male pride. Finally I can see the clearing and we emerge from the jungle, we are at the Rino, I collapse in the front seat, even M is winded and needs time to recoup.
M's two kids have waited patiently for almost three hours looking after the gear while we were gone. They gleefully hoist the blood soaked, flesh caked jaw in celebration of the kill. There is something tribal and ancient in the ritual and I snap more pictures. We are sitting over 600 metres up in the mountains the view is stunning, a fringe of snow lines the pathway where we are parked. I take in the pure clean air and smile. It was an amazing experience I am glad I went the only question remaining is, will I be able to walk tomorrow! The Rino lurches away and we are off to check M's cattle, a day I will remember for the rest of my life, thanks to my new mate.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Falling Down the Mountain Part II
Bleary eyed I stumble out into the early morning light my glasses precariously perched on my nose. It is cold, damp and foggy, a typical NZ winter day, the temp hovers around 5 degrees as I follow the kids out to the various animal enclosures on the farm. The shed has several rotting deer antlers complete with flesh still attached parts of the skull, fur and disintegrating tissue hanging from the remains of what were once several proud bucks. The trophies are lined up along the roof. The stump of an old tree in the centre of the farm yard houses a rather large rusting meat cleaver wedged neatly in the heart of the wood. The yard is framed by a row of dog pens. I know where they are without looking as the wind is blowing in the right direction. The howling, yelping and smell are overpowering quickly clearing my sinuses. In my sleep dazed state I can't help but wonder if I am in a NZ version of the American movie Deliverance.
M, my host saunters out to load up the Rino, the infamous Rino from the stories of the night before, the same machine that he almost lost his leg too. It has two front seats and a small box in the back for the gear, the dogs and the kids. We are joined by Drew who is 5 and Cody who is 12. When I ask about the kids M reassures "It's all right mate the kids'll ride 'n the back no worries". The last addition to the load is the .44 Magnum Marlin Rifle. M has been pig hunting for over a decade it is his second favourite pastime right after bronc riding on the summer circuit. Our tour of duty will take us 40-50 kilometres up Mount Mabel to an altitude of about 700 metres. We are going after "Cooks Pigs" a lineage that can be traced back several centuries to the captain's arrival in NZ.
Drew and Cody look like miniature versions of M the skinning knife in their belt, wool caps, thick waterproof jackets and gum boots on. As we lurch out of the farm yard in the Rino the boys stand in the back with the three pig dogs; Jake, Patch and Digga'. The dogs are fitted with radio collars so M can track them in the rough mountainous terrain of Wyrangi Station. M has 2,300 sheep and about 300 cattle grazing in the surrounding hills. As we start climbing into the mountain M lets the dogs loose, they promptly disappear at break neck speed into the forest. The dogs are a John Lockey Breed specially bred animals that are used exclusively for pig hunting. A good pig dog can fetch a princely sum in these parts. We follow the dogs progress roaring up and down twisting dirt roads that quickly diminish to cow paths. Possum traps dot the trees as we zip past, the kids clinging to the Rino roll bar. Possum's are an environmental issue often acknowledged but not talked about, according to the locals the marsupials are chewing up the countryside at an alarming rate. M slams the Rino to a halt "Digger's on ta something". He jumps out following the dogs progress I quickly follow camera in hand ready for the moment, only to be disappointed when they turn up with nothing and return to the truck.
The false alarm doesn't dull M's enthusiasm "we'll get one today mate Digga's got a good nose fa pigs". I feel reassured as we jump back in the Rino and roar off, a routine that will be repeated numerous times today. We climb to the top of the mountain the view is stunning I can see the coast off in the distance. After posing for a few picts with the Marlin rifle (bragging rights don't ya know) we are off again the dogs have another scent.
We stop and listen, the dogs sound like they are a long way off deep in a valley "they must be on ta something" M assures me. Suddenly all is quiet, the silence is shattered by a high pitched squeal, then silence, we strain to hear, more barking, another squeal and then silence. "Must be a small pig down in the valley ah probably not worth goin' down nah" M looks disappointed. I look relieved, the pig is almost 350 metres down the side of the mountain the climb would be down and then back up a 70 degree slope in wet dense brush. I reassure M "yah it sounds like a small one". Suddenly the barking gains in intensity followed by a panicked screaming from the pig. It is too much for M "we'll have to go down mate somethings up". I shudder in horror at the thought of a trek down into the valley below it is cold miserable and damp, flakes of snow pepper the air.
M plunges into a thicket of brush and down the side of the mountain. He looks back "lets go mate are you up for it"? There are moments in life when we should stop and take stock of the situation and the possible liabilities and this was one of them. Tossing caution to the wind I foolishly follow, my pride preventing me from taking a pass at the impending adventure. After all I couldn't have M think Canucks are a bunch of wimps. It is a move I will barely live to regret. To be cont.
M, my host saunters out to load up the Rino, the infamous Rino from the stories of the night before, the same machine that he almost lost his leg too. It has two front seats and a small box in the back for the gear, the dogs and the kids. We are joined by Drew who is 5 and Cody who is 12. When I ask about the kids M reassures "It's all right mate the kids'll ride 'n the back no worries". The last addition to the load is the .44 Magnum Marlin Rifle. M has been pig hunting for over a decade it is his second favourite pastime right after bronc riding on the summer circuit. Our tour of duty will take us 40-50 kilometres up Mount Mabel to an altitude of about 700 metres. We are going after "Cooks Pigs" a lineage that can be traced back several centuries to the captain's arrival in NZ.
Drew and Cody look like miniature versions of M the skinning knife in their belt, wool caps, thick waterproof jackets and gum boots on. As we lurch out of the farm yard in the Rino the boys stand in the back with the three pig dogs; Jake, Patch and Digga'. The dogs are fitted with radio collars so M can track them in the rough mountainous terrain of Wyrangi Station. M has 2,300 sheep and about 300 cattle grazing in the surrounding hills. As we start climbing into the mountain M lets the dogs loose, they promptly disappear at break neck speed into the forest. The dogs are a John Lockey Breed specially bred animals that are used exclusively for pig hunting. A good pig dog can fetch a princely sum in these parts. We follow the dogs progress roaring up and down twisting dirt roads that quickly diminish to cow paths. Possum traps dot the trees as we zip past, the kids clinging to the Rino roll bar. Possum's are an environmental issue often acknowledged but not talked about, according to the locals the marsupials are chewing up the countryside at an alarming rate. M slams the Rino to a halt "Digger's on ta something". He jumps out following the dogs progress I quickly follow camera in hand ready for the moment, only to be disappointed when they turn up with nothing and return to the truck.
The false alarm doesn't dull M's enthusiasm "we'll get one today mate Digga's got a good nose fa pigs". I feel reassured as we jump back in the Rino and roar off, a routine that will be repeated numerous times today. We climb to the top of the mountain the view is stunning I can see the coast off in the distance. After posing for a few picts with the Marlin rifle (bragging rights don't ya know) we are off again the dogs have another scent.
We stop and listen, the dogs sound like they are a long way off deep in a valley "they must be on ta something" M assures me. Suddenly all is quiet, the silence is shattered by a high pitched squeal, then silence, we strain to hear, more barking, another squeal and then silence. "Must be a small pig down in the valley ah probably not worth goin' down nah" M looks disappointed. I look relieved, the pig is almost 350 metres down the side of the mountain the climb would be down and then back up a 70 degree slope in wet dense brush. I reassure M "yah it sounds like a small one". Suddenly the barking gains in intensity followed by a panicked screaming from the pig. It is too much for M "we'll have to go down mate somethings up". I shudder in horror at the thought of a trek down into the valley below it is cold miserable and damp, flakes of snow pepper the air.
M plunges into a thicket of brush and down the side of the mountain. He looks back "lets go mate are you up for it"? There are moments in life when we should stop and take stock of the situation and the possible liabilities and this was one of them. Tossing caution to the wind I foolishly follow, my pride preventing me from taking a pass at the impending adventure. After all I couldn't have M think Canucks are a bunch of wimps. It is a move I will barely live to regret. To be cont.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Falling Down the Mountain Pt I
It is overcast in Welly, cold and drizzling as I finish J's basement steps. I call T and make arrangements meet her at the bus depot in Martinborough. J drops me at the train station, I arrive in Martinborough a little later than I thought but T is waiting patiently to take me out to the farm. The road winds on forever, the usual incredible NZ scenery, typical back country with rolling hills that seem to go on forever stretching to the sea or vanishing in the distant horizon. T assures me it is only a 20 minute drive, I sneak a glance at my watch, we have been twisting and turning on rural roads for more than half an hour with no farm in sight. I can't help but wonder if I am being spirited off to some remote backwater never to seen or heard from again.
As if to reassure me we are actually going out to the farm T points to a tiny speck of light at the bottom of a monstrous gorge and proclaims "there's the house". I strain my eyes to see the faintest outline of a bank of lights, it is too dark to see anything else. Another 10 minutes of hair pin turns and yawning gulley's, we are at the bottom of the valley approaching Mt. Mable Station - the farm.
Tea (dinner) as the Kiwi's call it, is cold by the time we get there. I step out of the Land Cruiser only to be swarmed by three bare footed urchins all clucking at the same time. Company is an endless source of fascination for the kids. I am unprepared for the sight that greets me when I walk in the house. The domicile is a sea of chaos with kids running in circles around the newcomer, there is stuff and kids everywhere. A small cheerless fire in the stove does little to ward off the damp chill of the Kiwi winter. I am swarmed by P who is 10 and the only girl (she also runs track events bare footed), C a twelve year old boy, P a nine year old boy and the little fella D who is five. I give the kids CDN flags, lapel pins and tattoos ( I scored a heritage package of Canadian swag to give away on my trip). Within 10 minutes the kids have decorated their arms and legs with the tattoos. We polish off our tea which satiates my hunger and it is off to feed the lambs. Each of the kids has a small lamb which they are raising and have to bottle feed twice a day. The lambs practically tear the milk bottles out of the kids hands as they greedily suck the contents dry. We go back to the house, the kids are still bare foot in spite of the 3 degree temps. M and T have 4 kids, 2300 sheep, 300 cattle, 8 Jack Russel Terriers, 6 pig dogs, 4 sheep dogs and a small flock of chickens.
Sam, a neighbour, shows up with his sheep shearing kit bag stuffed to the gunnel's with beers. He proceeds to work his way through the contents of the bag while I watch with rapt fascination nursing my third. We sit around the kitchen table and I am regaled with tales of ringworm, parasitic infections, swine flu and other nastiness they have been dealing with on the farm. M (the host) tells me about the pin in his leg from an accident in the bush a few years back when he rolled his Rino quad like vehicle and was pinned under the machine for over six hours half submerged in a stream. M is also a rodeo competitor so tough goes with the territory. By the way he informs me with a chuckle, "we'll be using the Rino to go boar hunting tomorrow."
Sam polishes off another beer which disappears in his large ham like paws, I have lost track, is it an even dozen yet? I marvel that he must have the bladder of a bloody camel. T and M toss back a case of canned bourbon and cokes, no one else seems to have use the loo with the exception of moi, but then they are two decades younger than their Canadian guest!! Sam empties his kit bag and heads home. We trundle off to bed, I am sleeping in one of the kids rooms. A coil spring grinds into my back over the course of the night and I don't have my contact case so I decide to wear them to bed, big mistake. I wake up at 3am to the sound of a croupy cough, the lenses are glued to my eyeballs and feel like sandpaper. I peel the lenses off and toss them aside, damn it's back to wearing my glasses. I drift back to a fitful sleep alternating between freezing and some level of discomfort on the waffle like mattress. At 6am I hear tiny feet pad down the hall and stop at the door of my room. The door opens and a sliver of light ends any hope of sleep. P pokes her head in the door "Steeeeeve would you like to feed the lambs? Her Kiwi brogue inflecting her speech. "I would love to" I manage to croak back.
It is the start to one of the strangest days of my life.
As if to reassure me we are actually going out to the farm T points to a tiny speck of light at the bottom of a monstrous gorge and proclaims "there's the house". I strain my eyes to see the faintest outline of a bank of lights, it is too dark to see anything else. Another 10 minutes of hair pin turns and yawning gulley's, we are at the bottom of the valley approaching Mt. Mable Station - the farm.
Tea (dinner) as the Kiwi's call it, is cold by the time we get there. I step out of the Land Cruiser only to be swarmed by three bare footed urchins all clucking at the same time. Company is an endless source of fascination for the kids. I am unprepared for the sight that greets me when I walk in the house. The domicile is a sea of chaos with kids running in circles around the newcomer, there is stuff and kids everywhere. A small cheerless fire in the stove does little to ward off the damp chill of the Kiwi winter. I am swarmed by P who is 10 and the only girl (she also runs track events bare footed), C a twelve year old boy, P a nine year old boy and the little fella D who is five. I give the kids CDN flags, lapel pins and tattoos ( I scored a heritage package of Canadian swag to give away on my trip). Within 10 minutes the kids have decorated their arms and legs with the tattoos. We polish off our tea which satiates my hunger and it is off to feed the lambs. Each of the kids has a small lamb which they are raising and have to bottle feed twice a day. The lambs practically tear the milk bottles out of the kids hands as they greedily suck the contents dry. We go back to the house, the kids are still bare foot in spite of the 3 degree temps. M and T have 4 kids, 2300 sheep, 300 cattle, 8 Jack Russel Terriers, 6 pig dogs, 4 sheep dogs and a small flock of chickens.
Sam, a neighbour, shows up with his sheep shearing kit bag stuffed to the gunnel's with beers. He proceeds to work his way through the contents of the bag while I watch with rapt fascination nursing my third. We sit around the kitchen table and I am regaled with tales of ringworm, parasitic infections, swine flu and other nastiness they have been dealing with on the farm. M (the host) tells me about the pin in his leg from an accident in the bush a few years back when he rolled his Rino quad like vehicle and was pinned under the machine for over six hours half submerged in a stream. M is also a rodeo competitor so tough goes with the territory. By the way he informs me with a chuckle, "we'll be using the Rino to go boar hunting tomorrow."
Sam polishes off another beer which disappears in his large ham like paws, I have lost track, is it an even dozen yet? I marvel that he must have the bladder of a bloody camel. T and M toss back a case of canned bourbon and cokes, no one else seems to have use the loo with the exception of moi, but then they are two decades younger than their Canadian guest!! Sam empties his kit bag and heads home. We trundle off to bed, I am sleeping in one of the kids rooms. A coil spring grinds into my back over the course of the night and I don't have my contact case so I decide to wear them to bed, big mistake. I wake up at 3am to the sound of a croupy cough, the lenses are glued to my eyeballs and feel like sandpaper. I peel the lenses off and toss them aside, damn it's back to wearing my glasses. I drift back to a fitful sleep alternating between freezing and some level of discomfort on the waffle like mattress. At 6am I hear tiny feet pad down the hall and stop at the door of my room. The door opens and a sliver of light ends any hope of sleep. P pokes her head in the door "Steeeeeve would you like to feed the lambs? Her Kiwi brogue inflecting her speech. "I would love to" I manage to croak back.
It is the start to one of the strangest days of my life.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Date with a Dentist
I arrived in Welly on the morning train, my appointment with the toothenheimer is at 3pm so I decide to do some chores around J's house. The right side of my face is tender and swollen like a chipmunks cheek. I buck up some wood and work on a set of exterior stairs that lead to the basement. Many homes here don't central heating, however J's does, good thing as it is cold and damp.
The time finally arrives and J drives me to the appt. asking if I need a ride home. She is tired and I don't want to be a bother so with the usual aplomb I tell her I can get back to the house no worries. As the Tui beer ads say "yeah right". The dentist Dr. M is an attractive Irish lass who loves the outdoors, hiking and canoeing, we hit it off right away and then she asks me to open wide. You know that feeling when a medical professional looks at the problem and doesn't say much but sighs and calls for a lot of foreign sounding instruments, then in a falsetto calm voice tells you to relax, we'll get to the root of the problem. One minute I am looking at hiking maps pinned on the office wall and suddenly I am staring at the ceiling with one rather large needle being inserted into my gum. Since I am male we can't show any pain or weakness but when my your eyes start watering you know it hurts. For forty five minutes I say nothing in a vain attempt to be the tough guy but it hurts like hell. It hurts so much that it actually stopped hurting for a few moments that was when I realized I had crossed the pain thresh hold.
The chair tilts up and the tears roll down my face, still I stoically say nothing. My real concern is the cost and whether I can pay for the procedure with the little cash I have, given that my credit card is close to being maxed out because someone forgot to make a payment before he left. Dr. M looks at me and asks if I am okay. I nod and attempt to smile which of course makes for a ludicrous face given the freezing is still at work. I stand up and almost pass out quickly regaining my footing and exit thanking Dr M as I go. At the reception desk I reach into my pocket for my cash and realize it's not there, somewhere along the way I have lost almost $300. I dig out my Visa card and pray that the financial Gods are at work, my card is processed no problem.
In a haze of latent pain and suffering I turn the wrong way after leaving the dentists office. J told me which road to take to get back to her house, of course I forget the name of the road but find one that sounds very much like it and start heading up the hill. One thing you have to understand about Welly a large majority of the city is built on a bloody hill, so up I go, trudging along holding my cheek looking very pathetic. I climb forever my calves are burning from the hike.
In an hour I am at the top of the hill looking for J's house, suddenly I realize I am in the wrong area as nothing looks familiar. The hillside is a mix of housing and trees with beautiful sweeping ravines that lead down to the business section of the city. I spot a house that I think is J's and realize I am too far west. I hike back down the hill but decide to go through the forested ravine to save time. I only have my dress shoes on with no gripping soles. The hiking route that I start on quickly becomes a narrow pathway with pitches that are at a 60 degree angle, once I start down there is no stopping. I literally swing from tree to tree grabbing a hold to slow myself down (a theme that will be repeated in a later adventure). I nervously make my way down the slick soil based hillside praying that I am not going to be lost in this urban forest, to be found curled up in a fetal position by some family out on a Sunday hike. At the same time the freezing begins to wear off, the pain is unbearable, fortunately my current predicament precludes being able to focus on anything other than staying on my feet. After a half hour descent I end up in someone's backyard. I scramble out of the forest and I am back where I started about 100 metres away from the dentists office.
Now any sane individual would ask to use the phone and call J for a ride, or take a cab. Remember I said I had no money I also didn't have the contact number for J's place. Confidently I walk further east and boldly charge back up the another street slogging my way up the hillside again. My tooth no longer hurts but the rest of my body isn't doing as well and I am getting tired. I make it to the top of the hill again only to realize that I have made the same mistake twice. The topography looks all too familiar, I am back at that same spot again, all roads do lead to Rome! This time I stay on the beaten path and follow the street back down, once again I am back at the dentists office, however this time it is closed for the day.
A little more clear headed now I realize I needed to go east not west. I re-trace the route that J drove and start recognizing some familiar landmarks. I also know that if I don't get it right this time there won't be a third trip I will just curl up under a tree and sleep. Fortune smiles upon me and I find the right street. I crawl up a long winding set of stairs that snake through yet another beautiful forested area, although the beauty is lost on me at this particular moment. By the time I arrive at J's it is after six o'clock I am exhausted and she is relieved to see her wayward guest finally made it back home.
My tooth is healed thanks to some great dentistry and I am ready to return to my flat. Tomorrow I am meeting my farming buddies from the pub, it is time for the great NZ boar hunt.
The time finally arrives and J drives me to the appt. asking if I need a ride home. She is tired and I don't want to be a bother so with the usual aplomb I tell her I can get back to the house no worries. As the Tui beer ads say "yeah right". The dentist Dr. M is an attractive Irish lass who loves the outdoors, hiking and canoeing, we hit it off right away and then she asks me to open wide. You know that feeling when a medical professional looks at the problem and doesn't say much but sighs and calls for a lot of foreign sounding instruments, then in a falsetto calm voice tells you to relax, we'll get to the root of the problem. One minute I am looking at hiking maps pinned on the office wall and suddenly I am staring at the ceiling with one rather large needle being inserted into my gum. Since I am male we can't show any pain or weakness but when my your eyes start watering you know it hurts. For forty five minutes I say nothing in a vain attempt to be the tough guy but it hurts like hell. It hurts so much that it actually stopped hurting for a few moments that was when I realized I had crossed the pain thresh hold.
The chair tilts up and the tears roll down my face, still I stoically say nothing. My real concern is the cost and whether I can pay for the procedure with the little cash I have, given that my credit card is close to being maxed out because someone forgot to make a payment before he left. Dr. M looks at me and asks if I am okay. I nod and attempt to smile which of course makes for a ludicrous face given the freezing is still at work. I stand up and almost pass out quickly regaining my footing and exit thanking Dr M as I go. At the reception desk I reach into my pocket for my cash and realize it's not there, somewhere along the way I have lost almost $300. I dig out my Visa card and pray that the financial Gods are at work, my card is processed no problem.
In a haze of latent pain and suffering I turn the wrong way after leaving the dentists office. J told me which road to take to get back to her house, of course I forget the name of the road but find one that sounds very much like it and start heading up the hill. One thing you have to understand about Welly a large majority of the city is built on a bloody hill, so up I go, trudging along holding my cheek looking very pathetic. I climb forever my calves are burning from the hike.
In an hour I am at the top of the hill looking for J's house, suddenly I realize I am in the wrong area as nothing looks familiar. The hillside is a mix of housing and trees with beautiful sweeping ravines that lead down to the business section of the city. I spot a house that I think is J's and realize I am too far west. I hike back down the hill but decide to go through the forested ravine to save time. I only have my dress shoes on with no gripping soles. The hiking route that I start on quickly becomes a narrow pathway with pitches that are at a 60 degree angle, once I start down there is no stopping. I literally swing from tree to tree grabbing a hold to slow myself down (a theme that will be repeated in a later adventure). I nervously make my way down the slick soil based hillside praying that I am not going to be lost in this urban forest, to be found curled up in a fetal position by some family out on a Sunday hike. At the same time the freezing begins to wear off, the pain is unbearable, fortunately my current predicament precludes being able to focus on anything other than staying on my feet. After a half hour descent I end up in someone's backyard. I scramble out of the forest and I am back where I started about 100 metres away from the dentists office.
Now any sane individual would ask to use the phone and call J for a ride, or take a cab. Remember I said I had no money I also didn't have the contact number for J's place. Confidently I walk further east and boldly charge back up the another street slogging my way up the hillside again. My tooth no longer hurts but the rest of my body isn't doing as well and I am getting tired. I make it to the top of the hill again only to realize that I have made the same mistake twice. The topography looks all too familiar, I am back at that same spot again, all roads do lead to Rome! This time I stay on the beaten path and follow the street back down, once again I am back at the dentists office, however this time it is closed for the day.
A little more clear headed now I realize I needed to go east not west. I re-trace the route that J drove and start recognizing some familiar landmarks. I also know that if I don't get it right this time there won't be a third trip I will just curl up under a tree and sleep. Fortune smiles upon me and I find the right street. I crawl up a long winding set of stairs that snake through yet another beautiful forested area, although the beauty is lost on me at this particular moment. By the time I arrive at J's it is after six o'clock I am exhausted and she is relieved to see her wayward guest finally made it back home.
My tooth is healed thanks to some great dentistry and I am ready to return to my flat. Tomorrow I am meeting my farming buddies from the pub, it is time for the great NZ boar hunt.
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