After a vaguely nauseating ride from windy Welly’s harbour to the hamlet of Picton, I stepped off of the ferry full of purpose – if short on concrete plans (a theme of my New Zealand venture). Soon I was off towards the town of Nelson via a series of hitched rides – the most baffling being a ride from some Germans who were going “to a marina”, which was quickly revealed to be the very nearby village of Tuamarina (another in a series of ‘damnit New Zealand’ moments) – and happily booked into a hostel as my jumping-off point for my only pre-planned adventure in the south island: the Abel Tasman Coast Track.
After a wallet-draining bus ride I started my hike in full sunshine and with full weight in my bag – including the sizable laptop on which I now type, among other things. This being a sub-migration, however, I happily shouldered a few pounds of pointless technology for the later good; so it was that I trundled around golden-sanded bays and lush ferny forests with a stamina-challenging 42 pound bag. Abel Tasman Track is one of those places to which pictures actually do justice, so I will refer you to my facebook for those.
During the 3 nights I spent in the park there were two notable incidents to speak to, as a narrative about sweating up and down hills seems onerous even to this self-indulgent writer. The latter – the sandfly apocalypse at Waiharakeke beach campsite – is covered by the inaugural edition of Zealantics live, but the former deserves special attention as an almost perfect example of an inability on my part to just ‘be cool’: allow me to explain.
Usually when hiking your main interactions with people are with those going the opposite direction, to which a friendly hello (or my personal version: ‘ehya’) and a nod satisfies the requirements of good form: after all both parties are under some physical duress and have places they want to be. Once in a while, however, you may find yourself catching up to and passing someone going your way, which usually merits some kind of mumbled thanks as they make way for you to ‘play through’, as it were, and some upgraded version of the ‘ehya’, with a remark on the weather thrown in for congeniality’s sake. On this occasion I was the one doing the passing, and I mentally preloaded my niceties as I closed distance on what were admittedly some remarkable looking legs over the course of ten minutes or so; when the moment came I was ready to pass with dignity and gratitude… or at least I was until I saw the person to be passed.
Now those who have known me for some time have surely noted my occasional (alright, perpetual) awkwardness in forced social situations, and especially those involving attractive women: this… was one of those situations. Turning with impressive grace for one with such an unwieldy pack was a stunning redhead – something on the order of a Shirley Manson with a bit of Gwyneth Paltrow thrown in for good measure – who, to my complete astonishment, heartily addressed me first and quickly fell into step both literally and conversationally. A pronounced yet easily comprehensible Irish accent bewitched me as we walked two abreast (sometimes I love the English language) throughout the day, taking in the sights with the immediate familiarity one ascribes to suddenly inserted single-serving friends. I absolutely loved it, and walked as though on air as my South Island trip began to look like one of my all-time greatest ideas ever: not even a remarkable forward-facing fall down a hill while we walked single file (happily she was not behind me to witness the event) could dampen my spirits on this sunny day of beaches and brogue.
At last, alas, the moment of necessity came. From early on in our companionship it was revealed that we were bound for different campsites, and as we descended to the strip of glory that is Bark Bay beach I sighed inwardly. I could only be so upset, however, as I had experienced a perfect adventurous day with a preposterously enticing redhead. All I had to do was take my leave with adventurous decorum – perhaps even whatever debonair aplomb I could manage while sweating and wearing wool socks with shorts – and victory was mine. Those who know me, alas, know that this is never the case.
As we stood, a touch more than companionably close, and surveyed the area maps posted by the park wardens, I began to build up the courage needed to ask a series of potentially embarrassing (or incredibly rewarding) questions of the sylvan apparition from the Emerald Isle; there remained every possibility of meeting anew further down the trail, or indeed on the road down the wild west coast of the South Island. At this crucial instant a harrier jet-sized bumblebee shot from the undergrowth directly towards my right eye, which brought out an instinctive lash of my right hand; the sound of the connection was clearly audible as I sent it spinning into the wooden sign in front of us, and down to the sand at our feet.
I felt my chance for romance begin to slip away as she declared her inability to watch the insect writhe out its death throes, which was a reasonable assumption if you had heard the force with which I instinctively swatted this bee. Thinking on my feet (perhaps not the thing to do if you’ve been out in the sun all day), I muttered a comment about an honourable burial and launched a wave of sand with my boot in order to cover it and reduce the element of visual trauma in my potential moment. With a gasp she reached down and, with the aid of a folding map, excavated the bee which, to my absolute amazement, took a moment to aright and clean itself and then promptly flew away. My crest fell deeper than the bee’s burial had been as I stammered through polite remarks and took my leave to the strident screams of a series of local birds (a sign further down the beach explained that the birds were nesting and not to be disturbed, inconveniently enough); in the end I never even got her name, to say nothing of contact information or knowledge of inconspicuous birthmarks. These things happen sometimes.
This isn’t to say that I let the bee incident dampen my enjoyment of the trip as a whole, though, as it was a very worthwhile exploration of an area – and a biome – I had never experienced outside of photos or travel films. The trip concluded as the rains came, and I made my way back to Nelson to prepare for my trip to the west coast. After a turnaround day full of fattening foods I stepped out onto the road south with my thumb held aloft and my chin nearly as high. In Aotearoa, there is always more to come.
Goddamn bird.
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