Dear Guantecilla,
Time sure does fly by if you don't take it by the horns, and even then the ride can be rocky. It was a mad dash to pack up my shit, move the last of my belongings out of my hovel at 29(I'm gone for good!) and hustle out the door to be shuttled off to the Buffalo/Niagara International Airport. Strung out and nerves frayed on too much black coffee, I slumped into a chair at the airport and awaited my four flight, twenty-two hour airborne itinerary.
Then there was Sydney; sunny, warm, humid, alluring. But Sydney will have to wait for later; when I have a one-week layover to visit friends. Christchurch came next and the vast, stretching Canterbury plains. The jagged, snow dusted Alps at 6000 meters above sea level accompanied with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in my right hand wasn't a bad sight either. Still, after landing I was a bit nervous about customs and my immediate plans, which were basically nonexistant. My worries eased a bit when a younger chap stamped my passport with a working Holiday Visa imprint, telling me in a fatherly tone "Now don't work to hard, you're on a vacation ya now." Then he promptly informed me that there was a bike stand outside the airport doors where I could reassemble my machine. I was beginning to warm up to the place.
While my original plan was to cycle to Queenstown from Christchurch, hitch to Te Anau, hike with Jovencito for ten days, then ride up the West coast and bus to Marlborough in time for vintage I soon realized my itinerary was unrealistic. Plans changed. Sixty miles outside of CHCH I met a bit of good luck and bunked with an affable Kiwi family that offered me a warm bed and foraged mushrooms to saute on their range. I forgot how amazing it feels to wash all the grime off of your body after a full day of touring. Beautiful. But my legs felt like Jello Jigglers, there was moutainous terrain in my future and I had lost a day with the flight. If I was to meet with Jovencito in time to hike the Hollyford Valley I would have to bus it. And cheat I did! Lustfully! Taking the bus from Geraldine to Queenstown was a total cop out but i wanted to keep my word to my tramping partner.
The ride to Queenstown was gorgeous, lined with a series of hydro-lakes, rolling scorched mounts and an aqua marine river along a gold miners gorge. Adding to the ascetic was the circus styled ballads of Fintroll that played in my ears as the bus bobbed over the hills into Central Otago. While the ride was uplifting Queenstown was the pitts. Flocks of tourists, the buzz of mindless consumerism and a hostel fulla T.V. zombies forced me to flee town towards Glenorchy. Luckily, my gut instinct was rewarded with a free picturesque campsite 12 kilometers outside town on the edge of Lake Wakatipu. Some travel diety must have been watchin' my back.
A day later I returned to Queenstown and ditched my beautifull stead Jezabelle, the winged gladiator of the south. My first ride came via a German couple who's campervan soon coaxed me into a cloudy sleep. The Germs however left me stranded and kilometers short of Te Anau, but in New Zealand the next ride is never far off. Half hour or so later a pair of Israelis (NZ is teaming with them) were kind enough to offer me a lift, dropping me at a sparsely adorned town with a boutiquey main drag. I had landed on the edge of civilization in New Zealand staring at the rugged, untouched and untamed wilderness that makes up Fiordland National Park, only a jetboat's journey across the cold depths of Lake Te Anau. Life felt amazing.
Enter Jovencito; the eccentric fellow that he is. Who else profeses a bold desire to live on a tropical isl
and with little more than a gal pal and a banana tree. What are the chances that two acquaintances randomly elect to travel to the same corner of a country halfway around the world? Rather infrequently, I reckon. Tramping through the Hollyford was mind blowing at times, challenging at others. Parts of the trail were a bit soggy and the sandflies were a constant menace but I was all smiles. When you read about a trail intersecting a "rain forest" your first thought normally isn't, "It's going to piss cats and dogs!" At least mine isn't. Well now I see things more clearly. There was a steady rainfall for five of the seven and a half days we hiked. The route, especially during the Demon trail portion, was a bit grueling, but the thick, lush understorey and podocarp forest that stood tall in the valley and mountains made the tramp priceless. We tramped, Jovencito's pack fell a part (of course), we snacked on scroggin' mix, we lost weight around the mid-section, J repaired his pack, we eagerly awaited dinner (pasta or rice and lentils flavored with veggie bouillon) and we crashed by 9 pm.
and with little more than a gal pal and a banana tree. What are the chances that two acquaintances randomly elect to travel to the same corner of a country halfway around the world? Rather infrequently, I reckon. Tramping through the Hollyford was mind blowing at times, challenging at others. Parts of the trail were a bit soggy and the sandflies were a constant menace but I was all smiles. When you read about a trail intersecting a "rain forest" your first thought normally isn't, "It's going to piss cats and dogs!" At least mine isn't. Well now I see things more clearly. There was a steady rainfall for five of the seven and a half days we hiked. The route, especially during the Demon trail portion, was a bit grueling, but the thick, lush understorey and podocarp forest that stood tall in the valley and mountains made the tramp priceless. We tramped, Jovencito's pack fell a part (of course), we snacked on scroggin' mix, we lost weight around the mid-section, J repaired his pack, we eagerly awaited dinner (pasta or rice and lentils flavored with veggie bouillon) and we crashed by 9 pm.After departing ways with my faithful tramping companion on day eight, I set off for the Divide to hike the Routeburn. First day on the track was absolutely breathtaking and I fell asleep with the inside of my dome awash with a spectacular sunset. Three days later I emerged from the wilderness and hitched back to Glenorchy. My ride, a well groomed Aussie-Kiwi couple based out of Perth, were kind to give me a lift but a bit taken aback by my vile body odor, which by this point could best be described as dumpster juice delight. Kind folks they might be, the lady soon put her window down and they advised me that next time I should take care of "proper transportation." That one gave me a chuckle.
In Glenorchy I had a night fulla all things Kiwi. Cheap, skunky smelling continental lager; oil with a side of fish and chips and a match of Rugby Union. "Why the hell are they kicking the ball away?" I would ask the chap perched on the barstool next to me. "Couldn't tell ya mate," came the reply. I'm determined to understand rugby and cricket before stepping foot off the island.
In the early morning, I rolled out of bed shrugged off a mild hangover and stuck up my thumb once again to come full circle to Queenstown. A cheeky rugby mom, pulled over in a energy efficient four door and lifted up her eyebrows as I peered squint-eyed into the driver side window. Running over I asked graciously "Could I catch a ride?" A snappy, cockney reply was shot my way "only if you make it quick!" Hell yeah lady, give me a second! Then blammo we were rocketing back to Q-town along a winding road, the bubbling juices in my belly looking for an exit as I pursed my lifts and closed my eyes, waiting for the motor to switch off.
Queenstown turned into a two day layover, waiting to pick up my baby girl I tasted some of the scintillating and pricey Pinot Noirs Central Otago has to offer. God the ruby red varietal certainly tickles my titties; Amisfield, Valli and Chard Farm were among my favorite producers.
Full steam a
head to the Catlins! The battle cry for the last leg of my trip to be taken via two wheels. After all why walk when you can ride? After hearing rave reviews about the remote beaches of the Catlins and reading a brief blurb in a tourist rag I jumped on my bike and headed south toward Invercargill. While I thought that the first day out of Queenstown was bad (keeled over with cramps after pounding 50 cent wafer cookies) the second day was absolutely brutal. Side winds from the southwest, side winds mind you, were blowing me off the shoulder of the road and into the tall grass. Never in the past 7 years have I experienced such a harsh love/hate relationship with cycling. One hour my grin was as wide as the Grand Canyon and the next mother nature is bullying me into a standstill, questioning my purpose of existence. One day I'm on cloud nine and the next I want to ditch my bike (after ripping the steel tubes apart with my bare hands) and leave it for dead next to a tumbleweed and stick out my thumb. The latter feeling was one of those days, with long stretches at no more than 5 kph. When I finally reached a rustic Invercargil, creatively nicknamed the "asshole of the world," I was ravenous with hunger and eagerly crammed a falafell wrap down my throat at the second kebab place I passed.
head to the Catlins! The battle cry for the last leg of my trip to be taken via two wheels. After all why walk when you can ride? After hearing rave reviews about the remote beaches of the Catlins and reading a brief blurb in a tourist rag I jumped on my bike and headed south toward Invercargill. While I thought that the first day out of Queenstown was bad (keeled over with cramps after pounding 50 cent wafer cookies) the second day was absolutely brutal. Side winds from the southwest, side winds mind you, were blowing me off the shoulder of the road and into the tall grass. Never in the past 7 years have I experienced such a harsh love/hate relationship with cycling. One hour my grin was as wide as the Grand Canyon and the next mother nature is bullying me into a standstill, questioning my purpose of existence. One day I'm on cloud nine and the next I want to ditch my bike (after ripping the steel tubes apart with my bare hands) and leave it for dead next to a tumbleweed and stick out my thumb. The latter feeling was one of those days, with long stretches at no more than 5 kph. When I finally reached a rustic Invercargil, creatively nicknamed the "asshole of the world," I was ravenous with hunger and eagerly crammed a falafell wrap down my throat at the second kebab place I passed.After powering up it was smooth sailing. Gathering supplies, I stopped at a large package store and picked up a 750 ml bottle of Lions Red and sped out of town on Scenic Highway 92 at a startling 30 kph. That night I bed down behind a vacant community hall. No problems and only the occasional visitor who was stopping by to ditch their recycling in the local receptacle. The winds screamed through and rustled my onzie tent as I nursed my aching muscles with the malty sweet barley pop.
The Catlins are in
sanely gorgeous and rural. This area is actually strikingly similar to Chiloe with the rolling green pastures, vast untouched beaches, decrepit farmhouses and brackish rivers. In the past two days I gleefully watched half a dozen or so molting yellow eyed penguins come to shore for nightly bedding outside Curio Bay, caught an eyeful of the blubbery NZ sea lions and stumbled across the occasional fur seal. Fur Seal? Pretty original, eh? You think that the scientific community could have found a bit more of a humane name for these playful creatures. In the daytime the Catlins' forest is ringing with calls from the Tui and Bellbird and at night I can hear the opposing bone chilling screeches of the opossums. I'm cool with the night crawlers as long as they steer clear of my ten door and my ever dwindling food supply.
sanely gorgeous and rural. This area is actually strikingly similar to Chiloe with the rolling green pastures, vast untouched beaches, decrepit farmhouses and brackish rivers. In the past two days I gleefully watched half a dozen or so molting yellow eyed penguins come to shore for nightly bedding outside Curio Bay, caught an eyeful of the blubbery NZ sea lions and stumbled across the occasional fur seal. Fur Seal? Pretty original, eh? You think that the scientific community could have found a bit more of a humane name for these playful creatures. In the daytime the Catlins' forest is ringing with calls from the Tui and Bellbird and at night I can hear the opposing bone chilling screeches of the opossums. I'm cool with the night crawlers as long as they steer clear of my ten door and my ever dwindling food supply.In two days I'm off to Marlborough. I can't actually translate into words how stoked I am about my upcoming job. I landed a six week gig with Giesen Wines as a cellar hand the day I arrived in CHCH. This is going to be my first foray into the industry and a great chance to get my feet wet. Keep you posted. Well, I'd better sign off before my second pen dies.
xoxo,
Tough Tea
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