It was snowing lightly when we finally reached Arthur's Pass. I had a good look around while waiting for the other passengers to board the bus, and it seemed a deserted mountain town if ever I'd seen one. The rail station was wooden and dilapidated, and across the tracks was a small blue building with white trim and absolutely no people about. It would be tough to find a way out of here...
but, as luck would have it, there were five empty seats on the bus, so I made it in to Greymouth after all the fuss. I forgive you, hostel-woman from Christchurch.
I bought another bus ticket from Greymouth up to Punakaiki, which is along one of the most lovely coastal highways in the world, says Lonely Planet. But before I got on that bus, I had to buy more provisions at the grocery store. I also found a glow-in-the-dark compass, which made me feel pretty much like a rock star. I also bought black tights. For warmth. And because, why not?
The bus ride was gorgeous and ended much too soon. I was unceremoniously dumped off at the small Punakaiki tourist information station, at the foot of Paparoa National Park. I went on a short hike to see the Pancake Rocks, and then I spotted a sign for rental canoes. I literally ran to the little shack and rang the buzzer. After a few minutes, a grizzly male voice came over the intercom: "Z'there sommun there? Z'the buzzer ringin? Hang on aright mate, I'm comin"
The river went deep into the rain forest and through a limestone gorge that comprises much of Paparoa, and finished at the Tasman Sea. I was the only person around for miles, as my bus-mates had reboarded and continued farther North. It's such a sparsely populated country-- so completely wild in that way. It was perfect. I'm becoming a complete introvert, I tell myself. Eventually a grizzly, jolly middle-aged man came bounding 'round the corner of the shack and asked if I was there for hiring a canoe. I said I wanted a kayak, and he said, no, you probably want a canoe-- and then he pointed to a rack of kayaks. Ok, I want a New Zealand Canoe, I said. And so he gave me a lime green kayak. But first he advised me to put on a wetsuit, and handed me a giant rubbery black thing that was large enough to fit me AND my kayak inside. The changing room was...well, it was weird. It was a small, wooden room much like a sauna, but with eight or so amateur paintings on one wall, all of people kissing. Okay... and then there was the other side of the room-- there hung a single painting, of five grown men standing together in a wilderness, wearing overalls and hats and holding various farm tools. It looked like some Kiwi version of Deliverance. Eeeeeee. Needless to say I changed really quickly and ran down to the river with my "canoe".
The river was fairly shallow this time of year, but extremely peaceful and cool. I kayaked up the river (wonderful, hard work though the current wasn't terribly strong) for about an hour, and then turned round and let the water carry me back to the Tasman Sea. The sun was setting, the water was glass, and I was the only living soul in the entire canyon (unless you think birds and/or wild goats have souls, because they were the only other creatures I saw/heard). Before the beach was a large lagoon of freshwater from the river. I ditched my kayak there on one side of the lagoon, grabbed my oar and my camera, and ran down the beach to the ocean, my super-sized wet suit flapping in the wind. The sunset was incredible-- I have some pictures of it posted on my facebook page, but I'll put a couple here. Obviously they can only give a taste of it.. but at the time I thought the setting sun looked a lot like the Ascended Christ wrapped in cotton-candy. And I mean that with the utmost reverence.
After I'd taken a few photos I put my camera safely back in the plastic bucket the grizzly jolly man had given me ("More 'en one camera at the bottom of that river, I tell yeh"), and frolicked in my giant wetsuit in the surf until it was time for me to head back. The sea was pleasantly salty, and only a little cool. Quite calm. They say the sea is most beautiful and calm in the winter.
After I'd changed (again, as quickly as possible in the room with all the...paintings) I walked a few kilometers up the road to a small lodge hostel called Te Nikau. It's owned by Lisa, a bubbly Welsh woman who fell in love with the rain forest and never left. I was given a key to a cabin in the woods, where I had some supper and had a nice chat with four British travels by a wood fire. Two of the girls were together--they'd been WWOOFing around New Zealand for almost a year now and said they needed another few months at least to finish exploring the country. I was ashamed to tell them I only have four real days there. WWOOFing is a new term I learned; it stands for Willing Workers On Organic Farms. Basically, kids (well, mostly post-college aged) from Europe (though I met one American girl who was WWOOFing) come to work on organic farms and earn their keep in remote places in Australia, New Zealand, or other agricultural places on other South Pacific islands. The money is extremely little, but the point is to work hard and help locals build a more sustainable way of life, and then take what little you earn after a few months and travel around the rest of the country. It is a neo-bohemian style of living that brings you very close to the earth, very close to the natives of any country, and very close to bankruptcy. But that's what being young and without babies means, I guess. For many Brits and Germans, anyway (these two nationalities dominate the WWOOFing scene around NZ).
The next morning I got up early and hitchhiked to Westport, farther up the coast. I was really nervous to hitchhike. I mean, it's not something you get to do in many countries, especially if you're a female. And frankly, that pisses me off, but that's the way it is. So I thought I would have to face my fear and just do this one thing that I'd always wanted to have the freedom to do in the only country in the world where you can probably still get away with it and not fear for your life. I was picked up by the very first car along the stretch of highway, which turned out to have very, very little traffic. His name was Rodger, and he drives trucks for a NZ produce company. Probably mid-30s. I think he could tell I wasn't used to "thumbing it", being from the States and therefore paranoid, but after a few meters we spotted another guy thumbing it, and picked him up, too. As they say, three's company. They both were Kiwis, and so had a lot of nice, New Zealandy things to talk about. After a while they started to ask me questions and were very excited to find out I was studying philosophy of science. I must say I was more than a little amused when they both immediately assumed that meant I worked with genetics, or gene mutation (yes, they started asking a variety of questions about growing ears on the backs of mice and that sort of thing) and, though I was having fun letting them assume what they would about my research, eventually I told them that I worked more in physics. Which got them going on aliens. I was trying with all my might to maintain my composure. They were both just so earnest, and eager to talk about the possibility of life on other planets and what that would mean for us...philosophically. I realized what snobs we all become when we start to study philosophy, because we get away from what philosophy can really mean to most of the rest of the world. Sure, it was hard not to laugh when Roger and Len went from UFO hypotheses to wondering about the meaning of life in the same breath, but they got as excited thinking about these big questions as little kids do when they first see the moon through a telescope. And that's something I guess I didn't realize I'd lost touch with. Grad students really are the worst of snobs. Shame and double shame on us. Well, me anyway.
We arrived in Westport about an hour later, and went our separate ways. And that was the end of my hitchhiking adventure. I made a bee-line straight for the travel info center and booked a van-trip way up north, to literally the middle of nowhere: Karamea. In Karamea, which is right at the edge of Kahurangi National Park, I would-- that very afternoon-- climb to the top of Mount Stormy. It's a day climb, the women at the desk told me. But I wasn't going to let that stop me. All the really good hikes in NZ take over two days of good, solid hiking, and I only had one day. So the best I could do was this one hard climb, fast and steep, in an afternoon. I guess I'll just have to come back to do more backpacking when I have REAL time to spend here, not just a blink.
While I waited for the van shuttle to take me to the nether-regions of northern South Island, I popped over to a famous local cafe, Gibby's, for a bit to eat. At 11:00, a young man with fiery-red hair and piercing blue eyes pulled up in a white van with stacks of parcels and letters in the back. My ride. The driver's name was Phil, and he became a good friend during the two-hour drive through winding back roads up to Karamea. He stopped every 15 minutes or so, pulling into a little farmhouse or stopping at a lone convenience store in the middle of acres of pasture to deliver the mail. It was..quaint. Like I was in the middle of the novel Christy, in the Appalachian mountains ... but with less-bigoted people. Maybe that's harsh, but I was in a bad mood about that at the moment: just that morning at Gibby's I'd picked up the Christchurch paper and flipped through it for any news from home. I found plent of Obama buzz, featuring a full-length article of interviews from folks in the Appalachians who were quoted as saying they could never imagine "one of [Obama's] kind running our country. It's too big a job." I literally spat out my lemonad, all over that page of the newspaper.
Phil and I, during our chat, got right to politics. Although, Phil told me, the difference is New Zealanders are curious about the affairs of the world, but that's as far as it goes, whereas the Aussies (there is much rivalry between the nationalities)..the *Aussies* were desperate to become big in the world, and would "eat up any news from the States". This was Phil's frank opinion, and many other Kiwis shared the same. Australia was hungry to be on the world map. New Zealand wanted to go on living it's quiet, peaceful way, keeping their own business as their own, and the world's business and the world's. I think this might be the only reason I would not be able to live permanently here. Oh, and the incredible isolation you feel being thousands of miles from cities with more than a million people in them.
Anyway, Phil and I had a great laugh about a good many things. He became sort of like an older brother to me, and when I told him about climbing Mount Stormy he was a bit worried. It's sort of late in the day.. sort of drizzly and cloudy, don't you think? No, I said, I don't care. This is my only chance to climb in New Zealand. I need me some mountain. He just laughed, and said after I dropped some of my things off at my hostel for the night (called "Rongo"-- a really funky hippie hostel outside Karamea), he'd drive me the seven kilometers or so to the trail head. I ran inside Rongo, and asked to book a room and stash a few things on a bed for the next few hours, all in one hurried comment. The three blond people my age standing in the kitchen just looked at me slowly, and blinked. One of them said (British-ly. I surmised he was from Britain), that will be fine, 28 dollars please. I said I could only pay with a card, but he slowly shook his head and said, "We haven't any card-machines here. We have to travel up the road to the hotel to use your card. Jack here can take you" He pointed to an older man with a cowboy hat sitting in the corner, working on a laptop, whom I hadn't noticed before then. Jack looked up and waved.
I said "I'm sorry but I'm in an awful hurry-- I've got a ride waiting to take me to the Mount Stormy track. Can I pay you when I get back?" At this point one of the girls in the kitchen, who was sitting cross-legged on the counter eating bread like I imagine hippies probably do, and she said-- with the quietest and smallest and most monotone voice I'd ever heard-and very slowly: "It's misty up there." And that was all any of them said to me. It was like she was pointing out to me that my hair was curly, very slowly and matter-of-fact, with no sense of irony. She was being perfectly serious, and so were the others in the kitchen. I told them "Sorry, but I just gotta climb me some mountain!" Then I ran out the door to rejoin Phil, and told him of the odd, somewhat cold reception of the hostel-keeper-people.
"Ah well, may be they're all tossers. Don't you feel bad. But I know Jack- Jack's a good man. Did you meet Jack?" Phil knows everyone on the entire West Coast. He's been driving this country for 15 years, delivering people and packages and mail. He knows everyone, everyone knows him, and he knows all the best stories around these parts.
After making some turns past Karamea and off into the farmlands, Phil came to a stop right opposite a herd of grazing cows. "Here ya'are, mate! Have a good tramp! I'll pick you up in front a your hostel tomorra at seven forty. Cheers!" He shut my door, ran around to driver's side and sped off back down the gravel road toward Karamea. More deliveries to make, no doubt. I turned and face the "trail head", which was on the other side of an electric fence, and consisted of a small, less-than-informational sign saying "This is the beginning of the Mount Stormy Track. This is a 6-8 hour tramp of some difficulty. You must obtain permission to begin this hike, as it begins through private farmlands." Yes, I noticed, I though to myself, glancing over at a calf who'd been mooing at me since I stepped over the fence. I don't have time to walk all the way to the farmhouse to ask permission: it's already getting on 2:00 and it will be completely dark by 6:00. Must get going.
So off I went, through a hilly pasture full of cows (and all that cows entail, *ahem*), electric fences, rocks, and small streams. It reminded me quite a lot of an Irish farm. That still, that green, that beautiful. And that drizzly.
I was going to have to push myself extremely hard to make it to the top in time. This would be a challenge, and I had to be smart about it. There were no people. No people, anywhere. And just that morning Roger and I drove past a small group of television cameras set up alongside the road: they were still looking for a 21-year-old Asian tourist who'd disappeared on a tramp two weeks ago in that area, Roger explained. This is a different sort of adventure, I had to tell myself. Sober up. Compose yourself. Think.
I paused to take a single photograph of the lovely pastoral scene before facing the unrelenting thick of the rain forest. I turned to the mountain, still cloaked in mist, took a deep breath, and sprinted up and in.