Right Whale Said Fred

Fort Hills

The constant pound of a pile driver shakes the working trailer like that of a T-Rex in Jurassic Park. Jeff Goldbloom could very well be pointing at my water cup. Sunday morning, two and a half hours into the working day and there is still no sign of sunrise. Rather a spatter of lights from heavy equipment whir around a snow covered wasteland. Constant back up beeps resound. Tensions are high, stakes are high, spirits and emotions are mixed. Coffee pours like an oil waterfall. I attached a ring tone to a special girl's contact in my phone last summer. One that sounded like a bird chirping, I though it was appropriate. This noise always16 used to put a smile on my face. Something about this girl. Anyways as I sat focused on work, the sound. Shreee Shrrruuuump like an under the tongue chickadee whistle. My heart raced and I flushed. Was it her after all these months reaching out?

Summer Solstice Dusk

An electrical storm circled the harbor like so many do. Starting from the North East, over by Mom and Dad’s, the ominous clouds began to suffocate the peninsula. The muggy air began to dance, rain drops spit, and nothing was wet for more than a fleeting moment. I watched and counted as lightning struck fifteen kilometers away. I knew the heavy rain would escape us, it would stay out in the bay. My desire was to grab her and go watch the storm. We could find a tree on the backside of Ministers Island, lay down a blanket and watch the darkness approach. A moment like that is when two people can fall in love.

Grey Blue

Its dusk and its calm. The type of calm that suspends time. Clouds ribbon the sky like a ruffled sheet before bed. If a car didn’t drive by and a construction worker wasn’t having a smoke I very well could have been still. The boats sit quiet in the harbor, barely a ripple straight to Navy Island. The lights on the wharf trace back toward the town, refracting off the steel grey water like lit sparklers. I just left the Kennedy Inn where I received the most heartfelt hug from my friend Mel. We drank beer and exchanged stories of life’s minor quarrels. It makes me wonder why I feel the desire to want more. I love this town, I love my life.

Forgive Me

Forgive me. Before it gets too complicated let's spend some time in the city. We can take a drive up, get drunk at a concert. We can laugh the night away and I won't have to worry about a fight. I will smell your hair and you will scratch my beard. Amidst a sea of people we will be alone. The sticky floor and the mist in the air makes me love you. There is no need to talk. The situation speaks for itself. We enjoy each other not thinking about our exes or the fact I had to cancel our dinner date the other night. You won’t mention anything as I notice beautiful people in the venue. I have you and that’s all I want. As we loosely hold each other it’s a perfect fit. Smitten. In the morning will be rolling around in bed, I will look at you and love your face waking up. Imperfectly perfect. Not arguing about how I didn't tell you about going to the bar and running into old mates. We can spend a fleeting few months together in glee. Trying not to think about how baggage will surface and how the very memories we create will end up culminating to our eventual falling out of love. Forgive me.

Apple Sauce

Proof is in the pudding? What the fuck does that even mean? Actually proof is in the pie. Cross my heart and don’t hope to die. This needle is going nowhere near the region of her upper thigh. Apple pie; pumpkin pie; hair pie. Regardless of anything, I don`t want any pie. Noon hits. My crotch gets the fits. God damn. There goes that theory.

Seems as though becoming single and my wantingness to blog come hand in hand. Perhaps its because when I'm single I generally don't give a fuck. A shout out to all my Asian girls, let the lights dum sum. Drake. But in all seriousness, it would be way to hard to explain a raant to a woman you're porking. Especially if she is legitimatly crazy and irrational. It would be even more taxing than watching a Rom Com with that type of girl. You get some photoshopped gomer like Ryan Gosling doing all these creative romantic things and the wheels are just a churning. They compare every action and phrase in the movie to real life situations. If you are planning on using a movie as lube, skip the Rom Com's unless you want to wait until after the flick. The panties begin to dampen as the couple skips off into the sunset. One can liken my current situation to that of Andy Dufresne in Shawshank redemption. He was falsely accused, spent a siginficant amount of time in jail, where at times wasn't so bad, crawled through a bunch shit, but was in the end became a free man. Free to a certian extent. Just like Andy, I am not about to go galavanting around town excersicing being unshackled.

Timing is everything.

I recently heard the quote “It’s not just the music, it’s how and when you hear it”

To me that is a pure statement with so many connotations. Music has impact on me through the melodies and lyrics but more importantly it is a catalyst for my actions. It can pump me up, put me to bed, or etch a situation in my memory. Like when Mariah Carey’s ‘always be my baby’ gripped me one summer as an adolescent. I’ll never forget hearing that song coming from our old blue and silver rectangular shaped radio/cassette player at our cottage. That song had a powerful effect on me, one that I will never forget. Or there is Prince’s “Purple rain” a song I hate, however has been forever ingrained in my mind because it was playing when I received my 1st lap dance in the apartment above the Video Shoppe when I was 15.

I, as I’m sure most music lovers could go on for days talking about songs and what memories they can dredge up. It’s as though a song can put you back in time, deliver a nostalgic smell in your nose or serve up a brief moment of self loathing.

Economy getting you down?

Economy, Economy, Economy. Did anyone know that we are in the midst of an economic meltdown? It’s official the economy has just taken over top conversation spot over weather and gas prices. In hard times such as these spending must be limited to essential items only. So here is my guide to savings that will surely get you through this historic economic meltdown.

Start using empty bread bags and a large elastics for birth control. Condoms are expensive and if the bread bag happens to be permeable then a kid will only stimulate economic growth.

Buy a one hitter or a pipe. Joints are hands down the most expensive and inefficient way to get stoned. With a pipe you can afford to keep spending the same amount of your disposable income on pot and stretch it out longer.

Use your neighbor’s power. Just before the 1st big snowfall run an extension chord from a low lying external outlet on your neighbors house. Let the snow cover the power grab, turn the furnace down and use several inefficient space heaters. If you don’t have space heaters go to Wal-Mart and buy them. Come spring, bring them back and say you aren’t satisfied, full refund.

Forget expensive booze; use Lysol. Take a glass and give a quick pssssht with the pressurized goodness, coating the interior. Fill the glass with water and enjoy. One can of antibacterial Lysol will sustain a large party all night. If you’re not that hardcore a quick huff from a gas can will also aid you in achieving a pleasant buzz.

With substance abuse, sex, and warm shelter taken care of, if you can siphon gasoline then the economy should be the least of your worries.

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"If it aint broken don't fix it"

Apples Apples Apples Apples. I do not care if I ever see another apple in my life. Who would have thought that apples would have occupied the majority of our time as backpackers? I think I need one of those “no fear” shirts – eat sleep pick apples.

The next chapter of Pacific wandering has been written for you from the rustic hills of Red wood valley. A place that is twenty years behind the progressive world; where people still burn garbage, recycling doesn’t exist, tractors are more common to see on the road then cars, working class men wear blundstones and short shorts, destruction derbies occur nightly and if you can pick 10 bins of apples in a day you’re a national celebrity. This passage highlights life as prized apple pickers and includes summaries of our latest tramps.

Apple picking is a battle against time, the tree and will. The concept of apple picking is similar to tree planting. Anyone can pick or plant at leisure but when taken seriously a simple job can become as technical as a match of tennis. You have to pace yourself, plan movements efficiently and maintain a rhythm while picking only the highest quality fruit. Every hour QC personal inspect your bins and if 5% of your fruit is either bruised or does not conform to the grade parameters of size and color….no money for you. When in prime picking conditions it’s possible to pick 8 to 9 bins in 9 hours. A bin consists of a 4’x4’x3’ wooden crate that holds roughly 3250 apples so on a good day our hands pick roughly 29,250 apples. This is the highest paying orchard in the region therefore money is good but not nearly as good as Paul McCartney’s former wife Linda who earned 700 pounds per hour of marriage.

You may be wondering how the apples get from the tree into the bin? This is done by means of a bag that hangs from our shoulders in the front of our body. When the bag is filled with apples (roughly 250) it weighs up to 50lbs. Many times throughout the day we catch ourselves stretching for a single apple while standing 10ft high on a ladder with a full bag wondering……is this apple really worth it? Neither of us has fallen but there have been many other casualties among the picking community.

The picking community consists of illegal immigrants (classifying both plane and boat jumpers), refugees, locals and backpackers. As I mentioned in the opening paragraph there are celebrity pickers among the community. Fortunately Nick has been blessed with the presence of two of them this season due to his high pay rates and flat orchard. I am surprised that these dark horses are not endorsed with sponsored picking bags and clothing because they certainly work harder than any other person I’ve seen.

Marquee picker number 1 named Lao. He is in his early 40’s and has been picking apples since his plane jump the late 80’s. He still has not managed to learn English but he has changed the world of apple picking. Apples are generally picked with both hands but Lao only picks with one….which is something Chuck Norris would do. His famous one handed picking method - which has now been adopted by many - allows him to hover from tree to tree, picking apples at mind-blowing speeds with low bruising rates.

Marquee picker number 2 named Ken. Ken (Age unknown) earned his celebrity status for his due diligence. He is always the first on the orchard and the last to leave. He does not leave until he has the high bin output of the day which is usually 10. Ken has also adopted the one arm picking method and this method coupled with due diligence makes him the most famous picker in the region.

Simon and I each picked tens bins on the first day of our last week – stimulating a buzz within the community - but guess what……Ken picked 11.

Being a tree scientist I feel much guilt about my daily occupation. The tree stands there defenseless while I rape and pillage it, disrespecting its purpose of existence while I make money off the fruits that took a year of continuous work to produce. Hopefully my karma will not be affected.

Our living conditions have improved immensely from the previous working stint. Rather than being shacked up in the no door, bug infested, chemical ridden old tomato packing barn, Nick gave us the keys to the apartment next door - in appreciation of our return. The move has made leisure life much more comfortable and enjoyable. We now have different rooms for sleeping, eating and TV watching but we still have to walk outside to the kitchen and washroom. It will be a special day when I can cook a meal, watch TV, use the washroom and not have to walk outside. Shane is no longer our flat mate. He has solved problems with his Misses and has moved back to her van, opening up one of the rooms to a few orchard bunnies to keep us on our toes. Like all other backpackers in NZ they were germens. Simon has such fluent English that when we introduced ourselves to the girls we said were all from Canada. Now whenever “googanheiming” paralleled an English conversation, Simon could report to us as to what they were gossiping about. Pretty sly eh? The plan backfired a few days after initiation when they were having a conversation with Nick where he implied that things must be going well because Simon is a Germen. Their resentment soon dissipated due to the pheromone emissions of us hard working boys.

Within three weeks (working 6 days a week) the red apples had all been picked and there was a 6 day break to allow the green varieties to mature. It was during this break that we decided to tackle the infamous Able Tasman track around the north eastern peninsula of the south Island. The Able Tasman is the most popular tramp in NZ. Normally we try to avoid the more poplar tramps because they are less challenging, more developed and of course full of people. Our bodies were exhausted from the backbreaking labor so an easier tramp was more realistic and also the Able Tasman is said to have one of the most beautiful coastlines in the world. The track is classified as an easy 5 day 51km trek but we minimized it to a 3 day tramp. Our experience is beginning to show as it only took a few hours (during the morning of the tramp) to prepare our packs. Since our route was altered to three days and tides had to be taken into consideration it made for a more fluent hike to begin the tramp at the ending point and work our way back to the beginning. It was a wonderful boat ride in the water taxi to our starting point. It was more of a tour than a shuttle. The driver explained the history of the national park and took us to black seal and indigenous bird breeding grounds. Upon first impression the idea of a water taxi was great but as the guide progressed, fellow passengers were being dropped off and picked up from at all the popular points of the track to picnic, kayak, or catch rays. Now we knew for sure the track was going to be congested.

Overall the trek was quite anticlimactic. Each day we tramped along a wide, hard packed path, passing beautiful sandy beeches along the way. The scenery was absolutely gorgeous but it didn’t fluctuate much from the first five minutes of the tramp. Each morning an evening – when we had the beech to ourselves - we would swim in the luke warm turquoise waters of the pacific. It sure was a remarkable way to start and end a day of tramping. The most challenging part of the trek was our second day where we covered 26km – our furthest distance in one day. It’s not something to be too proud of considering tiny Asian woman were walking the same track equipped with thong sandals carrying there supplies in save-easy bags. I really didn’t want to mention this…….but there were even flush toilets.

In between hikes, during the Easter holiday picking break Stephen and I stumbled across a destruction derby track during an attempt to find a short cut into town. The sign read ‘race tonight at 7pm’. It was ten past and without hesitation we entered the gates. Just with our luck it was the south island championships and the place was packed. The air smelt of deep fryers and high octane full. Stephen and I realized after the first couple races that we were not there to watch the cars spin around the track, smashing into one another; we were there to people watch. This was much more entertaining. Toddlers were dressed in beer shirts carrying soft sided coolers packed with their parents piss. Teenage daughters were strutting around showing maximum cleavage and ass cheekage, bearing printed words on their shirts reading “place hands here”. Truthfully I thought places like this only existed in the outskirts of Victoria County. It was well worth the $20 dollars.

The next day we were pondering as to what we could do over the remainder of the Easter holiday. Spontaneously we decided that it would be suiting to climb the highest peak in the region. After an afternoon of research at a local information centre, we had our sites set on climbing Mt Arthur (1800m) in the morning. Coincidentally this was a mountain that I gazed at many times while on pursuit to the Sunday market with Steve. The Mt Arthur track was a two day 35km trek including two climbs above 1500m - more of our cup of tea.

Up with the sun, we packed our packs and hit the road. Not a soul was on the trial. The beginning moments of the trek lead us along a hard packed track of leaves and various decomposing matter with beech trees on either side glistening in the wind. The sights and smells brought me back to forests of New Brunswick. After all it was Easter Sunday and the familiar setting catalyzed a Stewart Mclean narration in my head.

It was a Sunday morning……..the air was cool and smelt of fall. It was Easter and the revelations brought me back to a familiar place in an unfamiliar setting. This moment reminded me of being a boy, walking though Northern New Brunswick forests bearing my grandfathers gun, hutting partridge with my father. It didn’t matter if we got a bird because mother would have a dinner of turkey, roasted vegetables and her famous blueberry crumble prepared for us when we got home. Oh I can taste the crumble now…………
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After hours of steady ascends we rose above the bush line where the vegetation was like nothing I have seen. I had read in the information centre that during the ice ages much of the North West South Island escaped the severe climate which destroyed plant life elsewhere. And in many places especially on warmer north-facing slopes, plants took refuge from snow and ice and survived. Therefore there are many plants and grasses found in this area that are not found in any other places in New Zealand or around the world.

We spent the evening in a hut above the bush line. I love being in high altitudes because the temperature is cool, water boils quicker and sunrises and sunsets are always more nostalgic. For the first time we brought the Settlers of Catan board game with us and I was crowned with the first high altitude victory. Around dusk a few younger guys rolled in with strong Canadian accents and believe it or not they were from NB. Both of them attended UNB and had mutual friends with Stephen. My god it is a small world.

The tramp the following day was remarkable. As always the sun was shining and the terrain was like a camels’ back. Six hours from hut departure we reached the peak of Mt Arthur. The orchards of Red wood appeared like the contrasted squares of a checker board. It was as though I climbed a mountain 10 times the size of Chamcook because we could view the stomping grounds of our NZ home.

Currently we are finishing the last few days of picking before we continue traveling the south island. It has taken many apples to get to the most anticipated point in our travels thus far. I must say I have seen so many consecutive sun rises and sunsets than at this point in my life. Last night we conducted a formal meeting and decided on our final itinerary. We have four demanding multi-day tramps in all the hot spots of the south island, leaving us two days to sell our car and get organized before our flight to Saint John on May 2nd.

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Yesterday evening we finished the first hike of our voyage south in Mt. Aspiring national park. It was a very demanding 3 day tramp that had some of the best alpine views we have seen. When at high elevations (around 1800m) glaciers were around every corner and avalanches on neighboring peaks would send bone chilling vibrations every ten minutes. A detailed log of the hike should be posted soon. Tomorrow we are going to begin a two day tramp up a sister peak of Mt Cook (the highest peak in the south). Today is a day of rest and communication in the small town of Wanaka. Stephen and I are cooking a big stew and discussing potential outcomes of the NHL playoffs.

Thank you for reading

Patrick

Arthur's Pass

Nights turn into days and days turn into glorious nights filled with zero responsibility, hard work, excellent company, and great music as our journey in New Zealand continues.

For this installment of Pacific Wandering I will briefly highlight the days after returning from the Australian Open. Rock and Roll.

New Registration, Insurance, front right tire, oil change and our pale green 1990 Nissan Sentra “Midnight Special” was purring like a kitten. She was dog gone ready to take us Pacific Wandering through the central south island of New Zealand. I tell you one thing, we never shag the foot feed or lay rubber with her. When you rely on an 18 year old piece of shit it, by gum it gets babied. We took a few days in Christchurch to complete the tasks mentioned above, get caught up on sleep and plan a multi day tramp. The highlight from our brief stay in the city was maybe our enthusiastic day which included a seven hour afternoon nap, a foot long at Subway and then promptly back to bed. A day which to me was a major throw back to first and second year university life. After browsing through our trusty “Tramping in New Zealand” guide Pat, Simon, and I came to an agreement on a 3 night, 4 day, advanced track in Arthur’s Pass National Park. Our sprits were high. We had five days until we started working on a vineyard so no better way to spend time than pounding a trail. The trail was our first ‘demanding’ track which required a significant amount of orienteering and serious river fording action.

About a two hour drive North West of Christchurch or EzekielSynagogue as I like to call it was Arthur’s Pass National Park. We stayed in a great hostel for the night to pack our backpacks and get some rest. The trail began as we headed upstream in inclement weather along a 200 meter wide river basin. Mostly baron rocks but water flowed in multiple channels which we seemed to be crossing every half an hour. We had already succumbed the fact we were going to be walking with wet feet, believe it or not, it felt OK. The day was relatively short and the scenery didn’t change much as we followed the river bed for six hours in a deep ravine. Snow capped mountain ranges loomed on either side of us as rain periodically poured from the impressive low lying clouds stewing atop the peaks of the Southern Alps. We arrived at a back country hut where a few people we already settled in. The nostalgic smell of gas cookers mixed in the air as we happily removed our waterlogged boots amidst an unpleasant swarm of hungry sand flies chewing our legs. The usual drill commenced, food, books, light conversation, and sleep dictated by the sun.

We woke the next morning to find everyone else but us and Kasparov already on the trail. Kasparov is a fictional name we gave to our Czech-Republic acquaintance that drove us to the track. He was a very bitter, solitary man, with negativity most appropriately describing his lexicon. The sun was shining as we began the day with semi dry feet thanks to the wood stove in the hut. This was the day we would cross the tropical Harman Pass. We knew it was going to be demanding because it allowed 7-9 hours with a small 500m ascend and a 711m descend over only 7 kms. Semi dry feet lasted a meager twenty minutes as we had to ford a fast moving water right away. Then we began boulder hopping up the White river. It was exhilarating terrain for several hours as we ascended toward Harman pass via the river. Many waterfalls spewed over the steep banks creating intense wind tunnels and refreshing mist baths. The track required a significant amount of athleticism and quick decision making as we jumped from rock to rock successfully climbing in and around the river. As we reached the tropical pass it had surprisingly began to rain. The terrain changed momentarily and we spotted the first trail marker after a day and a half of tramping. Sweet. On another note, this was the point where we lost Kasparov, never to be seen again. Cloudly, spitting skies gave us little to admire while making the pass so we routinely began the descend on very similar terrain. After six hours of jumping, ass sliding, and stagger stepping my legs were jelly and I was hoping the hut would come soon. We reached the point where the river took on a normal gradient and I thought the hard shit was over. It was then we entered a trail cut out of the side of the bank. It smelled of pungent decomposition, there were vines everywhere and the ups and downs were killer. I shut my mind off and simply put one foot in front of the other until we reached our hut ninety minutes later. Our reward for the roughest day of tramping yet were natural hot springs that lines the edge of the White river. After a carbohydrate enriched meal we went down searching for the springs. It was as easy as following your nose toward the smell of sulfur. We found one which was literally inches from the river. It was a pool of clear, stinky water that intermittently bubbled from below. The water was scalding hot so we reverted to skills learned as young boys on the beach and diverted a small trench of water from the river to lower the temperate and raise the water level. Perfect. As I lay in hot, steaming water inches from a hypothermic river rapidly rushing by me in a deep ravine of lush forest surrounded by mountains, I was having a moment. One of those precious moments that will never escape a healthy mind. Something that you will look back on and smile inside knowing that there are places on our earth with natural beauty that don’t get justice from a picture. Places that need to be explored and embraced if for just a moment in time. Moments that define you. We waited for Kasparov but when darkness fell we assumed he must have changed his intent to our hut. We hope he did because we never saw him again. The night sleep or lack there of was partially brought on by mice running all night. Our new tramping mate, Ian Brodie from Glasgow, Scotland initiated a midnight rafter food hanging mission. Pat lay in bed and muttered “If they can get to my food through my bag they deserve it” and he rolled over ignoring the preventative measures.

Rain, Rain, Rain. Early to rise Simon paced in the hut wanting to hit the trail. Pat and I happily lay in bed. I lay there converting time then realizing that my beloved New York Giants were playing in the Super Bowl. I felt a little disconnected but then smiled thinking about a football Sunday in my basement on Pine street in St. Stephen.

Nev, Pat, Dave McCormick and I sank American Hickweiser after Hickweiser watching a game in High Def. My vindictive girlfriend, disgusted at us as we became comfortably sedated via beer, wings, and football stormed out of the house. The next afternoon after a rough Monday at work I remember coming home and the house was in the same condition as I left it. Pizza getting rigor mortis on the stove, cats gnawing on festering chicken wing bones in and around the couches. There was my unemployed girlfriend taking pictures for some sort of demented collateral and screaming up a storm. That is why I smiled in my bed, in New Zealand. A free man.

The relentless nature of the rain made it dangerous to tramp not to mention the river levels would be significantly rising making fording that much more difficult and dangerous. The skies somewhat let up at around ten so we hit the trail. No climbing today, just a lot of river crossings and flat walking beside the Taipo river. Day three highlight came from an old school cable car which we needed to cross the river. A hand crank brought the aluminum box to our side of the river. You then sat inside the box and secured by a large braided cable you fired across the river propelled by gravity. The final meters of the passage were hand cranked. It was awesome! The sun started shining in the last hour of the short five hours fifteen kilometer walk which refueled my body and mind after a surprising taxing day on the trail. We ran into a three hunters which was a downer, but when they told me it took an hour drive to get there from the main road it made me feel better. The sun prematurely set over the western mountain ranges as we experienced dusk like conditions for a few relaxing hours. Our healthy appetites were calmed by some enriched white flour and salt. Pat read us some fluffy article in a tabloid magazine left from a previous tramper. Even the secluded people of New Zealand are interested in the trials and tribulations of Hollywood. Who would have ever thought Jake and Ryan would be squabbling over Reese and the toddlers?

Day four. The profile of the day was intimidating. We were to climb from nearly sea level to 1350M and then back again in nine kilometers. I was happy as a clam because my feet were dry. Bring on the climb. We figured that we climb around 350 meters an hour or more when tramping on steep terrain. We shook hands with Ian and said our farewells before the climb as he could see the sheer size of Pat’s calves.
That put us at infinite meadows of alpine grass in 3 ½ - 4 hours of powering the trail. It was cold and breeze atop Kelly Range. The euphoria of looking out on the vast Southern Alps was well worth the days of hiking. I looked smugly down at the river we followed snake out of prehipial range. We sat down near an alpine pond admiring the green water a giddy as school boys.

“Oh man, I can’t wait to have a pizza!” Simon said.
“I can’t wait to have a shower!” Pat said.
I was speechless. Once again the visual power of the scenery gripped me in a tender silence.

We ducked into an alpine hut to sign the guest book and began the rapid descend toward civilization. Pat and Simon sped ahead as I manned the back as usual not taking the un-necessary risks as them. Or maybe I’m just slower? We go at least three times as fast on the way down so we reached the end of the tramp after about ninety minutes of side hill gauging. The satisfaction of finishing our first “Demanding” hike quickly diminished as Simon and I lay nervously in a baron parking lot looming due to the absence of Pat. An hour crept by and no Pat. A day hiker offered me a ride to town, 15kms away to see if he had already hitched into town. I took it. No Pat. If you know me, as paranoid as I am, I was still calm. He was the lead man so I got in the car and drove back to the end of the trail. There was Simon but no Pat. We rationalized the situation, and wrote a note.

Pat we have headed back toward Kelly Range. It you come to the car, stay here!

We gathered what water we had left and headed toward the trail. Then Pat sauntered from the woods. “Holy fuck boys” were his concerned words. Long story short involving Pat’s mp3 player a wrong turn and the thought we made the same mistake it was all rectified and he drove back to the National Park village.

Needless to say we had a tasty, expensive meal in the Village. We all ate entrees and the insatiable hunger we possessed made us order two large pizzas for desert. We also ran into Leigh Eagles for the second time in New Zealand. I was great to see her.

Thanks for reading and I hope signs of spring start to tantalize the New Brunswick air. We are back at the barn Apple picking. Details of this work and our time here will be detailed by Pat in the next installment of Pacific Wandering. All I can say is that money does grow on trees, in the form of apples. We did rough calculations and Pat and Simon are making the equivalent of 60 000 per year. I am making slightly less but nonetheless great cash. Best of all the hard work is honing our bodies into fine working machines.

Peace

Stephen Rex

The land down under

Well we are finally out of the barn. It was a timely departure as summer has set in and the insects were beginning to infest our living space. There was a cyclic exchange of insects throughout the day. From the early morning to late afternoon copious amounts of horny house flies would openly show their affection for one another; sometimes three or four mounting at once. Later in the evening the house flies would mysteriously disappear and the moths and bark beetles would move in. These bark beetles are the June bugs of the southern hemisphere and they are horrific. Some trophy Juners exceeded 5’’ in length, with cephalothoraxes of an inch in diameter. They had jaws of a clam worm and when in mid flight their buzz would exceed the decibel reading of a large humming bird. Nothing is more unpleasant then being woken by five or six snapping the walls and steel ceiling.

Returning from a luxurious holiday of great food, rest and relaxation - at the Shambala - we had a week to find other work until our second term of apple thinning began. This was not a very difficult task because the Nelson region is littered with various farms that are always looking for temps. So we decided to walk next door to the neighboring vegetable and berry farm to ask for a weeks work. Sure enough he needed 3: Two to pick raspberries and one to help him prepare and package produce for the weekend markets. Luckily I ended up not picking berries. Stephen and Simon slaved for hours in the hot sun, filling punnets (500g dish) of raspberries valued at 50c/punnet. I don’t think either of them broke $80 in an 8 hour shift. On the other hand, my job entailed weighing, packaging and pricing every type of fruit and vegetable imaginable. Not only did I make a hefty hourly wage, but I got to eat fresh produce and learn about one of the most famous agriculture industries in the world through lengthy conversations with the farm owner and operator named Steve. Steve is a short wrinkly man in his early forties who has a figure and facial profile of a leprechaun. He smoked easily two packs of cigs a day and drank shit juice as though it were water, so you can only imagine the potency of his breath. He is known throughout the south island for his tomato and bean varieties.
I worked very hard for the first few days, not taking any breaks and cleaning in between tasks. My hard work was recognized with a promotion to shop keep. Now my days consisted of chatting with locals and selling to them. I memorized all the prices per kg and could easily provide solutions to consumer requests such as “do you have any scarlet runners or Dutch flats in the back?” One day after my promotion to shop keep, Steve asked me if I would like to travel with him to the weekend markets. I was moving up the corporate ladder quite quickly. Now my Saturdays and Sundays began at 430am where we would load crates into the truck and make hourly commutes to surrounding towns. Not only was working for Steve a great learning experience but I made many friends.

It was difficult motivating ourselves during the second tear of apple thinning. Afternoon temperatures were becoming unbearable and there were many distractions. We discovered a great swimming hole down the road, we rented a PS2, and the one channel that our TV picked up, broadcasted the first two tennis tournaments of the season. Even Simon who would consistently put in ten hour days was knocking off at lunch time. Mid way through the week we picked up another bunk mate named Shane. Shane is an ex-convict who has been thinning and picking apples for 18 years. He is your stereotypical jail bird, littered with tattoos and is having troubles with his Miss’. His Miss’ now refuses to drive him to work every morning and that is why he is living with us. Close your eyes and picture a blonde haired villain out of a Quentin Tarantino film. That is Shane. He has some interesting outlooks on life and woman and even though he has been behind bars for a quarter of his life, Shane grew close to us. While in Australia we receive daily text messages from him making sure were O.K.

It t’was the night before Australia and all threw the barn, kids dreaming of tennis balls while bark beetles snapped the walls. I swear it was like Christmas Eve as a young child all over again. Stephen, Simon and I were overwhelmed with the thought of attending the Australian Open.
Running off little sleep we still had to finish thinning a block of Brea-burn trees before departing to the Christchurch airport. It felt as though the trees were growing larger by the minute. Productivity was at an all time low and the block was not completed until late afternoon. After saying goodbye to Shane and our boss (Who invited us back for picking season) we hit the road around 5:00pm. Our flight did not depart until 6:15am the next morning so we took our time soaking in the views of 450km of undulant roads. Just outside of Christchurch our front right tire “cooked”. God knows why or how it didn’t but it just bubbled out and made the car jitter like a bat out of hell. Our fingers were crossed in hope that she could complete the final stretch. It felt as thought we were dragging a piece of metal for the last 10 minutes of the drive, but midnight -being the veteran that she is - brought us safely to our destination once again. The time was now 11:30pm and there was no way we could make it to a hostel so we grabbed our sleeping bags and crashed on the airport floor until boarding time.

It was a sleep deprived five hour flight with no source of entertainment, no complementary snacks and no free fluids. I thought Air Canada was bad but Jet star is worse. The sky was clear during take off and landing so Stephen and I saw breath taking views of New Zealand’s Southern Alps and eastern Australian coast line. Parched and famished we landed around 9:15am Melbourne time. During the commute to our hostel, it was a comforting feeling to see North American TV shows and brand names being advertised on passing billboards.

Upon settling in, Stephen and I called home to inform everyone of our arrival. I will never forget the excitement on both sides of the telephone line. It was at this point where mom and dad blessed Stephen and I with extra funds to purchase additional Australian open tickets, other than our five day ground pass. Mom and dad we cannot thank you enough for your support! At the end of our conversation we raced to the concession stand to pick up our ground passes and view other ticket prices. Reality finally set in. Here we were in Melbourne Park in front of Rod Laver arena deciding whether we wanted to watch semi finals or quarter finals. People must have thought we were either really immature or crazy as we were jumping around - overwhelmed with excitement - capturing the moment on video camera. The final decisions lead to holding tickets for two day sessions at Vodaphone arena and a quarter final night session at Rod Laver.

It was the first morning of the Australian Open and we were at the gates an hour before opening to beat the rush. It was one of the longer waits of my life but it was worth it. Being inside the tennis grounds was very overwhelming! There were over 20 matches to choose from and too much stuff going on to know where to begin. Finally we decided to support the only male Canadian singles participant named Frank Dancivic. He was playing against Jarko Nieminin from Finland who is ranked 21st in the world. Before the match we shook Franks hand, had a quick conversation and wished him luck. It was an exciting five set match but Jarko’s machine like consistency lead to Frank’s demise. At the end of the match Frank thanked us for the support throughout the five sets. It was at this point where we realized the intimacy of the event and the influence you have on matches taking place on outside courts. Not only did we just watch a professional tennis match, but we met our favored competitor and interacted with him throughout the match with our supporting cheers. This was like no other professional sporting event I’ve attended. For five days we watched the Best players in the world, practice and duke it out behind the scenes. We exchanged words with Andy Roddick and James Blake (to name a few) and were feet away from the stunning figures of Maria Sharapova and the Williams sisters. Some of the best matches of the tournament took place on the outside courts in the qualifying rounds when an unseated youngster like Jo-Wilfred Tsonga would take out the games top seats. During our Vodaphone sessions we witnessed all the top ten men and woman (besides Federer) play their hearts out in the heat of the day and under the lights at night. The stadiums were much more comfortable to watch from; you didn’t have to worry about your seat getting stolen during a washroom break, but the intimacy and influence was minimal. It was here where you were able to see a caliber of play above the norm. How these humans were able to consistently hit the ball with extreme pace and get to a return so quickly will impress me forever.

When you couldn’t ignore your restless legs, a walk around the tennis grounds was always entertaining. Live bands would be playing, sponsors had booths full of information and activities where you could win prizes and learn about new products. The weather each day reached the high 20’s and early 30’s so the men were shirtless (us included) and beautiful woman were strutting in string bikinis. If the band and promotional activities failed to entertain you could always count on drunken aussies’ causing a disruption somewhere. The environment was so relaxed and comfortable that at times Melbourne Park was more like a community than an event.

While waiting for the tournament to progress to the quarterfinals we spent a few days exploring the city and lounging on surrounding beaches. In the city we played many roles in order to be taken seriously by sales reps at high end stores. Stephen would pretend to be the American asshole who is interested in a $100,000 Bang & Olufsen entertainment system, while Simon and I would have people trying to sell us their newest sporting equipment and clothing lines. It was great to re-sync with the consumer world.

The time had finally come and we were anxiously waiting to hear from Simon who had been anticipating the quarterfinal draw all morning. Simon raced to our room the moment the updated draw was posted. He yelled “Good ol Federer vs. Blake”. We laughed as that was the best possible outcome that could have happened and also at the fact that Sy is absorbing our NB slang. Federer was the only top seat we had not seen play so it was sure to be another unforgettable evening. To take the event seriously we dressed in our best cloths, ate chicken parmesan and had a bottle of wine at a fancy Italian restaurant. It was a victory walk under the glowing Melbourne skyline to Rod Laver arena. Goosebumps riddled my skin upon entrance of one of the sports most historic icons. Federer’s presence was felt by all. During play his feet caressed the court and his racquet controlled every ball. Our seats were only three rows up and when he was close to us you could feel an aura about him. There were a few great rallies but as expected he swept Blake in straight sets.

Being in Melbourne on a backpacker’s budget is quite frustrating. There are classy restaurants around every corner - nothing would be more satisfying than sitting down, ordering from the left side of the menu (not focusing on the price) and enjoying a nice bottle of wine – there are the best shopping centers I have ever seen and there is the largest casino in the southern Hemisphere only walking distance from our hostel. We attended the casino on a regular basis not to gamble but to capitalize on the cheap meals and comfortable lounges which broadcasted the tennis matches on days we didn’t have tickets. Melbourne did not have a national distinction; it is an integration of European, North American and South Pacific cities. If you were blind folded and dropped into the city, it would be difficult to figure out what country you’re in until you herd someone say “Mate”. The city represents beautiful people from all over the world. If you obsess over one nationality of men or woman, I would suggest coming here to find them. Not only is it a potpourri of beautiful people of every ethnicity but all are submersed into a cosmopolitan English speaking environment. Personally I find it very frustrating walking by super models every second because I know I cannot meet all of them. I swear Stephen and I fall in love over a hundred times a day.

The cost of living here is much cheaper than in New Zealand. Communication costs are still the same but the price of accommodation and food is less. When in NZ it is impossible to find a restaurant with healthy food and table service for under $15. Here you can eat any cuisine and receive exceptional service for under $10. One thing we are fortunate of is the cost of Alcohol. In NZ you can always buy beer for less than a dollar a bottle but here the cost is tripled. Therefore this leg of our travels has been very healthy; we are not exposed to any chemicals (fungicides or growth inhibitors), we eat exceptionally well (other than our barbeque diet), barely consume any alcohol and play tennis or workout at least once a day. Life is good!

Now we are watching the warm colored lion king sun set over the pacific on our flight back to NZ. At the moment we are all smiles. It’s a great feeling to know that we are entering the following three months of mystery, experienced and fully equipped. Words cannot express how much Stephen and I miss you all. I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday!

Thank you all for reading,

Patrick

Office Boy turns Farm boy

with Stephe Crabbe

Apple Thinning

Hi Everyone! And welcome to the Christmas edition of our wild journey in New Zealand. From Alpine to Jungle we traveled the North Island in style. A land where beer is bottled cheaply and good times are around every corner, mountain, river bend or wherever the hell you may find yourself. First I would like to apologize for the unnecessary latency time between blogs. Back by popular demand I am about to take you on a trip into the mind of an office boy turned farm boy. You are traveling not only through a dimension of sight and sound but of the mind. Where the brain is not being used but is it? What happens to a man when it is just him and a row of trees for ten hours? Read on to see…

Over the last four weeks Patrick, Simon and I have been focusing on getting some money in our New Zealand bank accounts as our Canadian accounts are now empty. Pat’s rough calculations on our newly planned trip to Melbourne, Australia for the Aussie Open Tennis Major were 2200 NZD. Ground passes are available for the very affordable price of 99 AUS Dollars per week! The recent currency hike has come at a very convenient time in an equinox of sorts as we transition from one currency valuation to another. We were looking forward to getting work primarily for the money but also in a hope that it would give us a temporary routine. After living on a boat for a month to living out of a car and a tent for two, you being to appreciate things that are normality’s to your average person. The thought of having fresh cold milk, perhaps a couch in front of a television set seemed like amenities from a past life. A dream land where a man could shower and shave in the morning in his own space…wow that would be special, I thought.

We were four people south bound to Wellington, the capital of NZ in our car which was getting less reliable as the days progressed. Hannah, a good friend, was with us as we were crammed into the car like sardines. Sometimes it the car wouldn’t start, not that the engine was going but the battery kept mysteriously dying. Fortunately jumping our car is very easy and when the battery was too dead to jump start someone was always there with a boost. The road curved and undulated as we progressed over a mountain range back toward the east coast of NZ and the South Pacific Ocean. The Whangenui River is the most central geographical location in NZ, a whopping 100 kms to either ocean. We spent a few days in Wellington, one of which was relaxing and the other a bit more exciting. We boarded the ferry with our car heading to the South Island early afternoon, destination Nelson. A costal city of 40 000 Kiwis with a vibrant tennis community and the most sunshine on either Island! Where the water is an aqua blue color that North Americans only see in an artificial state. Mullets are as cool as Dave Beckham and every young man is striving to have the loudest, fastest car. Simon and I purchased racquets in Wellington and we were all more than eager to start playing tennis. Fortunately we landed at the Palace hostel where we score our own apartment. 20 per night for a flat with a private kitchen and living room. Our initial days in the Nelson region were spent on the tennis court. Morning, Afternoon, and night we were tearing it up. For the 1st time in our lives we had a close friend that was a very competent player. Simon’s ability to consistently execute a powerful inside-out forehand had us scrambling around the court to stay in sets. His elite background in nationally accredited German table tennis was shining through. Patrick’s elbow is feeling excellent and he can absolutely “schmammer” the ball. We soon found ourselves immersed in the local tennis community playing the best tennis of our lives.
A Classified Ad and a phone call later and we were heading into the country side for an informal interview with “Nick”. Bronte Farms Ltd. was looking for apple thinning employees on a 4 contract. Perfect! Work until just before Christmas on a farm. I didn’t want to be in a factory or in a restaurant; I wanted to be outside earning money the way a man should; with his hands. Patrick, Simon and I sprung out of the car on a balmy Saturday afternoon and Nick, our boss was washing his dirt bike. A burly man in his mid thirties with unassuming good looks hidden behind a ball cap and a morning of dirty work. There were several dogs milling around looking for a hard pet as he tried to feel us out. Ten minutes later he told us to show up at eight on Monday morning to start work. With a firm country boy handshake we were heading back to our Hostel with jobs!

Monday morning came quick and with a cooler full of ham sandwiches and trail mix we were off. The training and orientation was very brief, Nick’s father Bruce had a few words of wisdom for us and we were given a daunting row of apples trees to be thinned. You may be asking yourself what is involved in the process of thinning an apple tree? It is simple; you must eliminate clusters of apples as well as purge any apples that have russet (frost damage) on them. These trees are quite tall so you are given a special ladder which becomes an extension of you legs. Each row is given a specific tree valuation depending on the size and maturity. One of their veteran thinners picks a tree from a row and thins it. Usually at a superhuman pace he sets the piece rate to determine the monetary yield for each tree. If it takes ten minutes then the tree is worth 2 dollars. If it takes ½ hour then it is worth 6 dollars etc. The ambiguity associated with this valuation process gave people rows that could be gold mines, but that was never the case for me. My first morning is a fairly accurate depiction of how the four weeks went for me in the luck category. I was assigned to an end row, like a partridge in the morning; naive ness overlooked the fact that the additional sun that an end row receives turns trees into sprawling jungles. The first day was trying but at the same time very gratifying. On the drive back to Nelson I was invigorated knowing I had a net positive gain for the day. I had also been outside in the warm Kiwi sun working with my hands and using my brain in a way which wasn’t connected to my work at all.

After the second day of thinning on Bronte’s main farm we were gratefully transferred to another location which was closer to Nelson, Redwood Valley. It was a Wednesday morning which was progressing very similar to that of the days before. The temperate evenings deposited an unpleasant layer of dew on the trees which would relentlessly drip on you until the sun had time to evaporate it. I was working alongside a young Swedish chap who informed me of his travel plans and other customary small talk. He also told me an odd story of his travel friend, also a Swede getting drop kicked in the face. Intrigued but the scenario he went on to tell me it happened mid-day at a vineyard on the North Island. His friend suffered a broken jaw and many stitches. After getting to know this travel partner if his I understood what type of a personality warranted a drop kick in the face. Our boss Nick dropped by in his truck to see how things were going. He greeted me with his consistent “how u doin’ awlright?” I replied in a very cheerful manner and we got to talking. A few minutes later and he informed me that a few people with whom he had accommodations for never showed up for the contract. He said if we wanted to stay we could for 20 a week to simply cover the electricity. I held back my joy and calmly said that would be great. He went around to Pat and Simon and explained the situation also. Since we had already paid for the night in Nelson we commuted back into the city to retrieve our personal effects and tell our friends of the change. Packing our belongings was somewhat harder than usual as we had been getting comfortable in our flat which means all our shit was everywhere. Another day, another dollar but Thursday was different. Today after work we were going to our new flat. Our supervisor had informed us with a raised eye brow that there was a dart board, pool table, living room with TV. You can imagine the excitement brewing amongst the three of us. Interstellar alignment of what we had wanted to accomplish while working. We were sure bridging the gap between ideas and results. Days end came quick as usual and were pleased to see that our new flat was right in the orchard. Expecting much more grandeur we were introduced to an old tomato packing barn. The tin roof was radiating heat like a paved road as we walked through a wood stack which was our entrance. We looked inside to see a stack of mattresses in the corner riddled with mice shit, mold, and cobwebs. There were a few couches in the opposite corner which looked as bad. Exposed rafters revealed netting used to interrupt bird flight as well as heaps of cobwebs. The walls and floor were like dirty cottage cheese as I noted at least a dozen sizeable holes. Quarter inch spacing was average between eight inch planks of wood making up the walls. The entire floor was carpeted, every ten square feet the carpet color and texture changed. We all looked at each other and despite everything optimism seemed to be shining through. We were then brought to the cooking area which was a barbecue. The kitchen wasn’t a kitchen, rather a room with a fridge and a washing machine. Hmmm…cooking should be interesting. Attached was also a toilet and shower. Bonus. I was keeping a positive outlook on everything but Pat and Simon we surprisingly pessimistic about the whole deal. After a quick meeting we were all on the same wavelength and this place would be more than fine. The barn had a true Kiwi experience written all over it. How cool is this going to be? The three of us in a barn, picking apples all day and hanging around in the evenings drinking beer, playing darts and shooting the shit! In the midst of warm air circumventing freely through the walls I was ecstatic as the potential of this space rushed through my brain. The first order of business for us was to purchase a T.V and Stereo system. After shopping around we became educated in the subject of return policies in New Zealand. An afternoon later and we had both, receipts closely behind as they were merely rentals soon to be returned due to falsified problems. With a major rearrangement and a quick cleaning our barn had transformed from a shit hole into a pretty cool spot! A man camp if I may.

We all progressed at different levels while working. Simon scorched through his row making upwards of 160 NZD per day as Pat and I struggled to make over one hundred. Pat and I worked Thursday and Friday side by side, talking away like best friends should. Questions and memories flowed freely as discussions jumped from the mystery of our basement on Ernest St. to the time when drug dogs invaded the high school during a dance. We touched on love, the future, hockey, business prospects, if the worlds problems could be solved in an afternoon could have done it. There was something about the freedom of it all which unlocked a certain something in us. We were conjuring memories which we distant to us for many years. Fortunately for me when we moved apart as our rows deviated in time per tree I had my Ipod. Music has always evoked emotion in me but this was different. With headphones you hear every lyric, ever thread, you notice that base line or effect that has been overlooked through the years. The worse thing that could happen is a dead battery. No music, no motivation. The Ipod took me through an emotional rollercoaster all day were I could relate to hip hop icon Usher when he sang “Let it burn”. Feelings of euphoria would come over me when listening to “We’re all in this together” by Old Crow Medicine Show. And let’s not forget about “Streets of San Francisco” by the Global DJ’s which would make my fingers and body move like wildfire as I squirreled up and down my ladder watching the money fall into my pocket.

So that is how our days went. Nothing spectacular. Five O’clock mornings, a bowl of muesli, a few ham sandwiches, BBQ every night, and hard work. Work that freed my mind to look into a happy and prosperous future. I though of family, friends, SWP and how this experience was exactly what I need to return to normal life and begin to focus less of party and life “out there” and more on career and my passions. Patrick said that if he could have had a personal assistant to write down his thoughts it would be unbelievably productive. Evenings at the barn were consistent, after dinner and a shower to wash off some of the pesticides we usually watched a film, listened to music read, talked. Four of the most impactful weeks of my life to date.

So…it is now between Chrstmas and New Years. We spent a perfect three days oceanside at “Shambala” which is a meditation hostel on the Northern tip of Golden Bay. A place so serene that I could run out of superlatives very fast in a description of the property. The main house reminded me of Pete Puelston’s with a comfortable alternative feel. Its only power was solar and rain water was to only source of H2O. It was so cool. There were cabins and meditation areas scattered throughout the mature property. Simon, Pat and I were joined by Leanna Davis (Josh’s younger sister) and her friend Jackie both from Vancouver. The Swedes. And six other Germans, Hanna, Eta, Elena, Doro, Karsten, and Stefan. We found ourselves swimming and snorkeling on a sunny, warm 25th and meeting some truly genuine people. It was tough talking to everyone back home and dreaming of turkey, snow, and eggnog. Being away during the holidays sure makes a man appreciate how special and important family is.

Go Giants Go! Someone have a glass of Eggnog and a box of Kraft dinner for me!

Cheers

Father Nelson

Canoing. A tramper’s luxury. Rather than eating one course meals consisting of instant noodles or chunky soup and drinking only tea and water, you can nourish your body with perishable items and evening cocktails. It was time to give our blistered heels and sore backs time to recuperate so the next leg of our journey led us to the last great walk on the north island which is a 5 day, 145km canoe trip down the Wanganui river.

A little background……….The Wanganui is fed Mt. Tongariro and Mt. Ruapehu (Mt. Doom) – both are mountains that we climbed on the previous great walk. This river was the nucleus of all trade between the early European settlers and Maori (the largest Native tribe). The land surrounding the river is very young, roughly 1 millions years old. Formed of soft sandstone and mudstone from the ocean bed, it has been eroded by water to form sharp ridges, deep gorges, cliffs and waterfalls.

Our group consisted of 8 people, filling 4 canoes. Six of them were Germens – 3 guys and 3 girls. Stephen and I were the only experienced paddlers and we were riding together, therefore we knew the trip was going to be full of hilarious bails. A German expressionless face + cold water = priceless. The river had a similar skill level to that of the Saint Croix later in the summer when water levels are low. The majority of the canoes were 16’9” Old town discoveries, “Canadian canoes” they called them. Taking advantage of the fact we didn’t have to carry any belongings on our back, we had heaps of gear - coolers and barrels full of food and piss. Steve our chauffer suggested that Stephen and I take the largest boat to accommodate all or our stuff. The boat was not an old town; it was a meter wide, 17’ Feelfree. Talk about a piece of shit! I think we would have been better off taking a bath tub.

The trip began at 10:00 from Cherrygrove. After a crash course from Steve about hut locations, major rapids and dangers on the river, Stephen and I were very excited to make passage but the germens had faces riddled with uncertainty. About 20 minutes in we hit our first set of rapids. We were paddling like mad men but were still minutes behind the streamline Old towns. Coming around the corner where you could see the fast breaking water, two Germens were down. Their canoe was wrapped around a rock and both of them were hanging on for dear life as their heads were bobbing in and out of the freezing cold water. “Lift your feet up and let go” I yelled. In the meantime our tub was taking in so much water because of the shallow sides that we almost joined them. Upon reaching shore Stince and I grabbed one of the old towns and paddled to the “U shaped” canoe. We loaded all of their gear into our boat and freed the capsized boat. I had to swim with it while Stephen paddled the gear to shore. After a few solid foot stomps to pop out pressure wounds, the old town was back in working order. Again the Canadians saved the day.

That evening we tented along the river at the designated department of conservation (DOC) camp site. For dinner we fried some burgers and made a garden salad. We sipped cold beer with a few veteran canoers’ and played a germen card game called two heads (similar to that of Oh Hell) with the entire crew. Many good stories were exchanged and our group became close very quickly. The night was a great pace setter for the remainder of the trip.

The sleep was shit! Trying to share a 2 person tent with Stephen is next to impossible. You cannot pass the centre of the tent into his territory or he will wake from a dead sleep and viciously chop you. You cannot snore or breathe to heavy and recently I have developed a horrible snoring problem so sleeping had been unpleasant for the both of us. We were on the river by 10:00 just in time for the rain. It’s amazing how frequent the weather can change from ten minutes to the next. All day we were paddling in down pours, catching sunny breaks and getting thrashed by south westerly winds. I hooked two beautiful rainbow trout but both raised and spit out the hook. The waters were a murky brown due to the rain fall, making fishing conditions poor so we showed up the Whakahoro (pronounced “fuck a whore oh”) hut empty handed. The hut was located in a sheep farm below the main lodge of our canoeing company. As usual the Germens began “guganheiming” back and forth so Stince and I decided to walk up to the lodge. Gou-gan-heiming is the word we use for German conversation because it is a suitable word that depicts most words used in the German language. If only we knew what the night had in store for us.

Just as we put our foot in the door a squirrelly looking Kiwi ran to greet us. He spoke very quickly with a heavy accent and used so many actions to accentuate his conversation that it was almost impossible to understand him. His name was Dave and boy was he ever a character. I would compare his presence to a camp fire. You could sit there and watch him and be entertained for the entire evening. After the hand shakes and small talk he invited us in to his living space. Pete his other friend introduced himself and handed out beer. I noticed a guitar resting in the corner so I picked it up and began to strum quietly. Immediately I was bombarded with requests so I began to play like nobody was watching. Stince was singing along, Pete was stomping his feet and Dave was snapping and clapping. The musical setting catalyzed an unforgettable evening. They treated us to spaghetti and we all shared stories which had great impact on our lives. Within an hour of meeting them I felt as though I have known them my entire life. Just when things couldn’t have gotten any better one of the rare species of Owl called a Morepork flew in the illuminated room. He was catching the meaty moths that were circulating the outdoor light. After many escape attempts while blinded by the light he rested on the centre truss of the high ceiling. Its intelligent eyes were jetting around the room, studying the surroundings. Rarely a Moreprok is seen by the human eye so we were all memorized by its presence. We burned our midnight oil dry and upon dispersing, many times one mentioned how special the evening was.

The next day we were storm stayed. The heavens were pissing and the wind was blowing. Dave was very excited to have us stay an extra day so he called Pete to bring his 454in3 300hp jet boat to the landing to take us for the ride of a life time. As much as I hated being in a deafening motor boat traveling in waters that should only be navigated by canoe, it was a hell of a time. This boat could accelerate from 0 to 80km in two seconds and turn on the dime. The hull of the boat went as deep as a canoe so you should literally jump rapids when flying up river. Normally a jet boat ride costs $150 a person but for us the only condition was to have a fire with them later that evening. The Germens joined us for the fire and again the night was fulfilled with great stories and ab-busting laughs. We all were fortunate to witness the sport of sheep bumping. Sheep bumping is a native sport which involves getting on a 4-wheeler, extremely pissed in the wee hours of the morning and knocking over sheep as they run for their lives. Dave was very experienced so no sheep were harmed during the show.

Staying the extra night was not anticipated so everyone’s food supply was behind a day. Being the amazing host’s that they are Dave and Pete drove two hours into town to buy a list of food items we needed in order to complete the trip. It was hard saying goodbye to our new mates but I guess all good things must come to an end. They insisted that we come back during our travels to work with them and stay at Pete’s house. What generous men.

The trip that day was very slow. The water was high which hid many of the challenging rapids beneath the surface creating many swirling eddies. Again the water was murky so fishing was like dropping a line in a mud puddle. The bath tub did not fair well in these waters, if we stopped paddling for a moment our momentum would shift in the opposite direction. Reaching the John Coull hut was a great relief. That evening I cooked pasta and we sat around the kitchen table commenting on an outdated People magazine and playing who am I. Our body’s were exhausted from hours of paddling and spending two nights the crazy Kiwi’s so we were all in bed by dark.

The water was clear the next morning so I was looking forward to catching the trophy Rainbow trout I dreamt about. We were on the river very early because we had 40km to paddle. This morning Stephen put everyone’s name in his hat and drew out new canoe partners. Our current travel buddy Simon had been working on the beautiful German in our group and you could tell he was praying that his name would be picked with Hanna’s. Stephen rigged the draw and when their names were picked together you could almost see him jump out of his skin. Stephen was picked to canoe with another girl Stephanie and I was fortunate to partner with the clown of the group named Carsten. Carsten was a powerful lad so manning the back of the canoe was a pleasure. All day we paddled together like a four pontoon catamaran. Carsten snagged my only fishing lure, so again I was not able to fulfill my promise of fish for dinner. We shared songs back and forth, raced around many corners and had some splashing fights. It was definitely the most beautiful and entertaining day on the river so far.

Our hut site that evening belonged to the Maori tribe (native Indians). There were beautiful hand carved totem poles around the perimeter of the property, a large cooking hall and sleeping area. Carsten, Stephen and I made the traverse to the other side of the river after dinner to check out a luxurious building on the crest of a hill that we could see from the river. It turned out to be a comfortable lodge equipped with a bar, guitar and large deck with a panorama of the river. We had very interesting conversations, sipped a few toddies and watched the sun descend below the horizon before heading to bed.

All of the Evenings are very peaceful in the wops of New Zealand. There is never the constant sound of clicking crickets or bubbling frogs. It seems as though every species enjoys a peaceful evening.

It was the last day on the river and roughly 2 hours in we pulled ashore to hike an hour to the famous Bridge to Nowhere. The landscape felt as though we were trekking through the lush rain forest of the Amazon. Ferns were towering 15ft in the sky and moss covered vegetation was aimlessly growing in all directions. The combination of sunshine and sounds of exotic birds melded to create a setting only one could dream of. An elevated concrete bridge was doing exactly what it was famous for – leading to no where. While throwing many objects off the bridge I decided to make things a little more exciting and pee a waterfall. The Germens were now beginning to understand our humor.

After a swim, 5 hours of paddling and one last pitch of large rapids we reached the pick up point where Dave was waiting for our arrival. We unloaded the canoes, tied them down and headed back to Tongariro National park. This trip was definitely the best great walk so far.


Currently we are staying at a hostel in Nelson. Nelson is a city with the population of 40,000 located on the northern tip of the south island. It receives the most sunshine out of any city in New Zealand. Tomorrow we begin our first day of work on an apple farm, thinning the trees.

Thank you all for reading. The blog from our great walk (the 4day northern circuit) before the canoeing trip should be posted in a few days.


Patrick

The Courtesy Flush

With Stephen Crabbe


The Courtesy Flush is a highly effective method of reducing the smell of feces when you are in a situation when it may be offensive to one of more person(s).

How it works:

When the unfortunate circumstances become a reality first study the ventilation system present in the lavatory as well as the proximity of other person(s). Time your bowel movement when you feel the others will not use the “area” until time has erased the odor of your stool. The optimal timing is achieved when person(s) have used the facilities and you are certain you have ample time. Examine the toilet to ensure the flushing lever is accessible from a comfortable sitting position. If time permits perform a test flush to assess the magnitude of water flow, you have to accept the fact you may get slightly wet. If everything mentioned above is in order you are ready. As the log(s)/loose matter hit the water you must flush immediately for a floater bobbing or other consistencies can dramatically increase the pungency level of your stool. Repeat flush if necessary to ensure the foreign dirt does not fester in the water.

In conclusion if the “Courtesy Flush” is executed in proper fashion it can be a handy tool which can turn a messy situation into a mere blip on the radar. Enjoy.

That Will Rip Your Undies

With Stephen Crabbe



The next lag of our journey began after some great rest and relaxation at Jordan Walkers flat in Whangerai. We were treated to 3 square meals and some great company. Props go out to Jordan, Shelley and Wendy thanks! Box of Birds!

We drove Midnight Special from Whangerai to Auckland where we stayed another night at the fat camel hostel, groovy place. As we drove to Te Urewera National Park I couldn’t help but think about how much has happened since we arrived in New Zealand. Every day and night is so different, the people, the scenery. Hostel rooms are like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get. It could be empty; it could smell like Rodney’s jeans after he wore them for three weeks with no underwear. There may be someone sleeping, or a foreign exchange student learning English. One thing remains constant regardless of who your bunk mates are for the evening, everyone wants to have a good time. The conversation always starts out the same way. “Where are you from?” That opening question brings me to another rant altogether; nationalities can be quite deceiving…New Zealand being the global soup that it is can be a phenomenal place for people watching. Just when you have someone pegged as a Russian they end up being from Brazil. The hoards of German girls, aside from being quite fit are hard to nail down until they talk. And locals, Aussies, and Brits all have that same beaky demeanor making them impossible to distinguish. There is one exception though, Swedish guys. Usually riddled with pimples and of course blond hair they stick out like a sore thumb.
You look out on the dance floor “Look at the Swedish guy go”
Walking down a crowded city sidewalk “Look! It’s a couple Swedish backpackers”
“Hey Swedish guy! Can you pass the marmite?”

Anyways, enough about that let me set the scene in Te Urewera National Park. One of the last large parcels of land owned by the indigenous Maori people of New Zealand it was squeezed from their control in the 70’s and turned into a national park. It is located in the central North Island sitting around a half of a kilometer above sea level. According to Maori legend the forest is inhabited by “little people” whom move nomadically with the abnormally thick fog that swirls and meanders around Lake Waikaremoana. A good word to describe the lake is mystical. The water is very deep and dark but as it gets shallow toward the banks it takes on a jade green hue which is very beautiful to look at. Since the altitude is high the area typically gets high volumes of rain, snow, wind and generally pear shaped weather. A week before we began our hike it got dumped with eight inches of snow. Towering trees and aggressive rock faces add to the overall majestic nature of Lake Waikaremoana. Our drive into the park was quite eventful. Not knowing what to expect we entered the north side of the national park at a round dusk. The road quickly transitioned into an unsealed winding passage with livestock everywhere! Sheep, cows and horses were plentiful, lying on the road, running about. After sixty minutes of driving deeper into the heart of possibly the most remote place we have ever been we started to see shanties that looked like something out of the Blair Witch Project, it was creepy. You could almost hear dueling banjos twanging in the darkness. Finally after two hours of driving we spotted a small sign that indicated that there was a campground fifty kilometers away! Three hours after we entered the boundaries of the park and several dozen possum spottings we finally came to a campground. It was late, around eleven we pulled midnight special in and pitched our new tent! This one was mosquito proof. A cold night filled with battling for inches and listening to Pat saw logs wasn’t the most ideal sleeping situation but it did the trick.

The next morning we were woken up at sunrise by two very territorial male paradise geese locking horns for an impressive sounding battle as a female squawked in the background. I wanted to kill these fuckers, they never shut up making what could have been an amazing camp site irritating. We took a sun soaked day to organize our packs, buy our great walk pass, check out some waterfalls, and cook one last semi nutritious meal. We arranged our shuttle to the entrance of the walk for the next morning at eight AM.

A brisk morning with scattered clouds and sun greeted us as we got dropped off at Onepoto, the starting point of our tramp. My cheerful demeanor soured quickly as we ascended 532 meters over four kilometers. I kept looking up to see Pat’s bulging calf muscles scampering up the trail, hazed by lack of oxygen I kept thinking I was following a half breed mixed between Morgie McElman and Mike England. Two and a half hours after our inception onto the trail we reached the highest altitude of this hike at 1181m. We had climbed the spine of Panekiri bluff and the view was our reward. Looking down at the colossal lake we could see all the facets of the water outcropping into areas like spider legs. There was dramatic rock faces scattered around breaking up the thick, lush forest. We stopped at a hut where we filled our water bottles with collected rain water. We also met Simon and Stephan there, two German trampers which we are still traveling with two weeks later. The rest of the day we descended closer to the water, crossing several impressive suspension bridges. We stopped hiking at around 4pm at a Waiopaoa hut on the lake edge and set up our tent in a lovely secluded area with a fire pit. Luckily we got to see some of the thick fog that gives the lake its mystical reputation. It was so dense and packed in individual pockets that it looked like smoke. If you had Pink Floyd “Echoes” on your ipod and a hit of bathtub acid you would be in for a mind melting evening. Soon after we set up a few other trampers entered the site and we had a relaxing evening filled with light conversation and warmth from a wood stove in the hut. At around nine we retired to our tent after an hour of non-consequential rain to pack it in. Sleeping was easy after a day of rigorous exercise in the wops of New Zealand. We laughed ourselves to sleep listening to the comical owls scream “More Pork” Pat kept saying “I don’t have any fucking pork!” We didn’t have any pork so they screamed for it into the wee hours of the morning. And we would laugh, the other campers must think we are abnormally gassy, crazy Canadians…wait, we are.

The next morning was a late one starting; I don’t think we got onto the trail until after ten. We strapped on our packs and hit the trail with a vengeance. Our strides were powerful as we carefully stepped the trail in our usual formation of Pat setting the pace and myself doing everything I can to keep up. We were crushing estimated trail times by hours with conversations that made hours seem like minutes. Something about tramping makes you have the most lucid thoughts. We were both remembering things about our childhood that we hadn’t though of in years. There was an optional hike off the trail into Korokoro fall which was signed at one hour thirty return. We set our packs down and minus 20 kilos we scorched the trail to the waterfall and back in an impressive 45 minutes. By mid afternoon were we both moving like snails. We had bad blisters which was making any change in elevation excruciating. A little confused as to where we were on the trail we pushed on to Marauitu hut and set up shop lake side, close to a fenced off Kiwi reserve. Pat started a small fire and had a great moment on a makeshift bench which he noted “this is the life!” As darkness fell upon us the birds were sounding calls that were very different and amusing. We also got to hear a female kiwi calling after dark which sounds like a terrified woman screaming. The Kiwi is a nocturnal bird so the call is probably the closest contact we will encounter but we are passionate about seeing one.

Yet another late morning as we hit the trail after ten in an attempt to make our water taxi at 1:30pm. Surprisingly after an hour of slow and steady tramping we came to a sign that had the water taxi only 45 minutes away. With this great news we stripped down and enjoyed an hour in the sun relishing the accomplishment of another multi-day hike. Pat tried some fishing, I finished yet another book and we walked to our taxi spot were a sweet boat was waiting for us. The boat ride was great because we got to scope out where we had hiked from the perspective of the water. Looking up Panekiri Bluff which was a towering monstrosity of rock, we got to see why it seemed like a never-ending ascend on the first day. Pat and I sat back and smiled the whole way across the lake.

Thanks for reading the blog, I hope you enjoyed it. Pat and I are having the time of our lives!

From Ballers to Backpackers

After catching unexpected Labor Day sales – Shopping in a frenzy for camping necessities as though it were Christmas Eve – Stince and I were fully equipped for our cherry popping outdoor adventure in New Zealand. It was difficult deciding on which trail to tackle first, we have no experience, cheap new gear, and could be great supporting actors in a Super Size Me sequel for all the Mc Donald’s we have been eating. How could anyone pass up on the Mac Attack deal (2 big macs, 2 large fries and 2 large drinks) for $10, especially when you’re on a backpacker’s budget? All that aside, with reference to our Lonely Planet guide we decided on a 3 day, 41km tramp around Cape Regina. Cape Regina is labeled as New Zealand’s most northern point where over two hundred miles of white sandy beaches surround the coast and sub tropical forests occupy the mainland. It was only a 300km drive, Auckland was cold and it was about time we got a little color before we were mistaken as British backpackers.

The drive was very entertaining but extremely long. If you were driving you were blessed with the smooth shifting of Midnight Special (the name of our car) through twisty, undulant roads with similar composition of a video game. If you were riding passenger your head was on a swivel trying to capture all of the beautiful sites and strange looking creatures. It took longer than expected because with the profile of these two way highways you’re lucky to reach highway speeds of 80km. Not factoring this in, we had to pull into a campground as the Midnight Special was having a hard time illuminating the road.

Setting up for the evening was very exciting. It was like Christmas. We had been accumulating so much stuff throughout our days in Auckland that it was a surprise to open the large bags full of new gear. Our Moral was soon dampened once our erected tent displayed a mesh that a fucking bumble bee could fly through. Now it makes complete sense as to why it was 50% off. The bugs were non existent that evening but all we could do was pray that the Woods of Cape Regina are nothing like the Bush of northern New Brunswick.

We reached the Cape Regina check-in point early afternoon on the 24th, expecting to spend the rest of the day organizing our gear, planning meals and strategically packing our packs with intentions of leaving the next morning. No deal. They insisted we catch our shuttle to Te Paki stream two hours after we landed. We made the deadline but our packs were extremely disorganized.

After a quick orientation with our driver named Honey, at 17:00 we were tramping. It was a feeling I cannot describe. My boots were grazing fine white sand of the famous ninety mile beach, barreling waves of the Tasman Sea were crashing to my left, 300m wind sculpted sand dunes to my right and a mountain of tropical vegetation ahead. I turned to my side to look at Stince and followed by a big high five was gut wrenching laughter.

There were only a few spots along the way where fresh water ran to the ocean so our options were limited as to where we could camp. We purchased an ionic carbon filter that could make any water but sea water drinkable. While filling up at these streams it was important that the unfiltered water didn’t make contact with your mouth piece or drip into to your bottle because there is a bacterium called Guardia that thrives in these streams. If you ingest it, I guess you will not stop shitting until you shit your intestines out.

We tramped up and over two mountains to the fresh water destination of Moon Light Bay. The sun was beginning to set so we needed to set up camp quickly. We nestled behind a sand dune and pitched our tent in a bed of knee high field grass to escape the high winds. The sunset at this point was so beautiful it distracted our growling bellies until dark. Our main course for the evening consisted of mixing 5 hot dogs into a boiling pot of canned spaghetti. Boy was it ever good. At this point I was just waiting for a hatch of sand flies (black fly) or a swarm of mosquitoes to invade our site and penetrate the tent, but luckily there were none.

The sleep was fabulous. The sound of crashing waves accompanied by memory foam field grass caused us to sleep in. It was a must that we reach our next freshwater destination and time the tide at Tapotupotu Bay, so we packed up on empty stomachs and hit the trail at 09:10. It was a beautiful day for tramping, the sun was shining and there was not a cloud in the sky. For brunch we ate almonds and a bevy of granola bars. Everything was seamless until the Te Werahi descend. The tide was quite high and there was not a dry passage to the beach. We searched and searched and walked in circles to avoid having to take off our boots and wade across the estuary. In these areas you had to watch for quick sand. The grain of sand is very fine and the current of water runs beneath the sands surface, creating suction and no resistance for the step. After hours of searching for a shallow passage we unlaced our boots and made the cross safely. The hike was very tiring along Te Werahi beach because most of the energy from our steps was lost in the movement of the sand. After the beach we began a very steep ascends up a narrow trail to the peak of cape Regina’s highest mountain. The scenery at the most northern point was breathtaking. The South Pacific and Tasman Seas was crashing together catalyzing large waves with a tropical blue hue.

After many serene yet grueling climbs and descends we reached our camp site at 16:00, much earlier than expected. At this point we were both moving like old men, our legs were filled with lead, our feet riddled with blisters and our asses raw with chafe. The campsite was at a secluded campground you could reach only by traveling hours on dirt roads. We had the campground to ourselves until two beautiful Germen women pulled up in a van next to us. The tide was moving in quickly and this was where we had to make the crossing but Stephens’s infatuation with the German babes caused us to miss our window. Nothing more escalated from this scenario and in order for us to make our pickup point the next day we had to wade across the bay at 02:00. A full moon helped us make a safe passage through the bay where we quickly re-set up the tent and fell back asleep.

You would think that wading in salt water and walking through a field of waist high grass at 02:00 is a little unnerving but here in New Zealand it gives you peace of mind to know that there are no snakes, ticks, spiders or insects that will harm you.


The next morning arrived early. Both of us were awake in time to have a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal. Again we were blessed with another gorgeous day. The hike began at 09:00 with a 1.5 hour climb that caught us by surprise. Throughout the entire afternoon the trail slowly descended along the spine of a 500m mountain giving us a clear view of the south pacific on one side and Hobbit like terrain on the other. By the time we reached the final stretch of Pandora’s beach, our bodies were dipping into the Big Mac fat reserves. Shrieking with joy thinking that we only had another hour beach walk left we took off our shoes and decided to soak in all the elements of our victory lap. The finish point was visible but it seemed as though we were not getting any closer. After an hour of walking we put our boots back onto speed up the process because the finish point was not getting any closer. The hour beach walk ended up taking three hours, later to find out it was 9km long.

Reaching the end point an hour ahead of schedule (15:30) gave us both a great sense of accomplishment. What a life changing experience it was. The ice has now been broken and a new chapter in our lives has started to unfold.



Stephen and I are now in Taupo after finishing the first great walk around Lake Waikaremoana. It took 3 day to tackle 46km of moderate terrain. The blog on this tramp will be uploaded by the weekend. Today we are traveling to Tongariro National Park to complete the second great walk through snow capped mountains that are volcanically active. Currently the trail is closed due to heavy snow fall but by tomorrow it may open.

Thank you all for reading. All the best!

Patrick