Winter Storm (10)

Previous Chapter
In 2005 David Paton, good friend, mentor, example, and inspiration died after experiencing an aggressive cancer. I flew to New Zealand to attend his funeral. On the flight back I started writing some notes that were intended to capture something of what David meant to me. Taking a deep breath I thought I would share them more widely here on this blog. They are less coherent than I would like but they tell a story of what a difference one life, honestly lived, can make to those around them. These notes are offered up in 15 chapters which I will post out over the next few weeks. And in order that you can put a face to a name, here he is, on the Stewart Island ferry, catching some “zeds”. Or “zees” depending on what part of the world you hail from.
That dump, in May, caught everyone by surprise. It was breathtakingly cold. Concerned about his cattle still caught out on the high country of his farm David was up early the next day and driving out to “the Run” to bring those animals in. I knew it was cold because even David stopped in some wonder to observe that the creek up in that part of the farm had been snap frozen, caught in mid motion as it tumbled over little waterfalls and swirled around the sedges and tussocks. We had a laugh later in the day as we went high up onto another mountain to bring down two of his bulls. The snow had started to come down heavily again and we were starting to think that they had been lost in the cold when they came bulldozing through the snow to us, attracted to the sound of the truck. By now the snow was coming down so heavily that it had covered the fences and gates and it was hard for me to get my bearings. I was also very concerned about driving with David as we felt our way up a scratch of a track tacked out of a steep hillside. Somewhere out on my left the mountain dropped away to nothing and a wrong guess would put us in mid air for a few seconds as we plummeted to a dead stop. I recall being quietly relieved when he asked me to get out of the truck and to walk back down the track to open a gate I could not see but which the bulls would need to have open if they were to make it back to the safety of the yards. Pushing through the snow I felt my way down the fence (after locating that first) to the gate and arrived just in time to hear a muffled shout of warning from David. I turned around. The falling snow was sufficiently heavy to have David in his truck almost invisible only twenty metres away, just a shadow in the grey-white silent swirl. But between the truck and where I was standing the snow was heaving and pulsating and from which the rolled eyed, snorting heads of two Hereford bulls pushed a few moments later. In a nanosecond I was standing on the strainer post supporting the gate and refusing to get back in the snow – despite all David’s exhortations and taunts. And laughter. But sense won out in the end. David stopped the truck and waited, the bulls settled down, only their heads being visible above the snow, and I reinserted myself into the snow to unlatch the gate and pack it back far enough for the bulls, who clearly knew what was going on, to amble through, down the track and to a dry spot under some macrocarpa (a cypress) trees where they started into an unprotected tumble of old hay bales.

In fact travel with David could often be a precarious thing, but it was especially so when he was in a risk taking mood. South of Cherry Farm is a stretch of highway that in wintertime would not see any sunlight for a good few months, it being cut into the shadow of a hill. The drop off was not great, maybe thirty feet or so, but at the bottom was a water channel and swamp that promised deep water. It was the perfect environment for black ice to form and stay. On a cold winters day we were travelling in a new four wheel drive that David had just purchased. As we rolled down past Cherry Farm and the strip of icy road hove into view David, who had been delighted with the way this new vehicle performed in the mud and snow, declared he would be interested in seeing how it performed on black ice. So without slowing down as we reached the ice he swung the steering wheel. Instantly we were travelling sideways down the road, fortunately perfectly in the middle. I was looking out the side window at the centre line passing underneath us, with my back to the water. Fortuitously there was no traffic coming the other way. Without seeming to be too perturbed (maybe I was too fixated on my own alarm to really note David’s disposition) he flicked the wheel and we continued to slide sideways down the road but this time we were facing the water. After correcting that move we slowed down and behaved more circumspectly as we rolled out onto less slippery bitumen. I never did ask what he thought of its performance on ice.

Next Chapter

Jim and Lizzie

My first travel journal of any substance was an old hardback invoice notebook that I had lifted from one of the local farmers – from a pile of old stationery in one of his sheds. I must have assumed he had less need of it than I. It went with me to Stewart Island in 1976 when we spent a week or so walking what is a comparatively remote island. Located 25miles off the bottom of the South Island of New Zealand. (Google Earth 46°55’0.25″S 168° 5’33.75″E) One of those freakish, glorious places with dense fern jungles and what in warmer climes would be nothing less than rain forest. Creeks you can drink out of as you go. In fact I recall drinking from puddles in the track – we were high on a perpetual false crest, having hauled ourselves up a hillside by the mossy roots of tall hardwoods. It was hot, we were on high ground, there were no streams, we were not in the habit of carrying water (it is not the Australian bush after all) and we were exhausted. It did not take long before those clear puddles were very attractive. Ironically, having made the top of that ridge we descended shortly thereafter into Patersons Inlet, a creek mouth, and all the fresh water we could drink.

We staggered into Patersons Inlet on dusk, to a hut that was decrepit and falling down. Old tin and timber, with a loose chimney and fireplace. And no lighting, which in itself was no problem. We had spent the day walking a track on which there was no other person. Indeed, one of the attractions of this island is its isolation and its small hiking population. Sorry, “tramping population” to those of you from NZ. As the sun fell, that sense of isolation was heightened by the calls the Whitetail deer were making. The stags bellowed out in the bush somewhere over my right shoulder as I picked my way down the bush track and I was confirmed in our remote and wild wilderness.

That pleasant sensation was bent a little when we entered the dim, no dark, hut. We had plans to light a fire and get comfortable. To get our sleeping bags up on the (three) tiered bunk structure that lined one end of the hut. (We would get a dozen people in there with no problem). You can imagine our surprise when in the darkness two people sat up and peered at us from the top tier. Very hippie like and dishevelled. Camped together in their grungy sleeping bag. Looking over the edge like a couple of surprised but dozy possums. (Years later I thought of them when the British “Young Ones” was on TV. Neal had an uncanny likeness of demeanour to them). Jim and Lizzie. Probably playing doctors and nurses up there to their hearts content thinking they had this place to themselves and only the wild deer out there bellowing their heads off to worry about. Enjoying their wilderness until we crashed in. We crashed out again the next day and they were still up on the top beds looking down at us from out of the dimness, by now pinpricked by light filtering through the leaky roof. I wonder where they ended up.

My first journal entry, in green ink, titled “Jim and Lizzie” contained an account of Jim and Lizzie. And a cartoon sketch of their camp up near the roof. They did wander around a bit getting dinner and all that, but they were quick to repair to their little lair just as soon as they could. That journal hung around for years but I am not sure where it ended up. Probably just as well it is compost – I dread to think what I might have reflected on Jim and Lizzie. Probably something judgemental from an immature head and hand. In hindsight there are moments when I think back to the solitude of Patersons Inlet and think Jim and Lizzie had it right!

Blogger’s Choice

There is always a degree of scepticism in the blogging world which is always healthy. Well, skepticism in my own blogging world at least. Competitions and promotions are as much about feeding someone else traffic as getting exposure for yourself and more often than not they are promotional tools that take you up the same filthy dead end track that we used to find out the back of Trotters Gorge (NZ). (Google Earth 45°24’14.83″S 170°46’49.99″E. You can see the open camping area. The trout, lazing in water as clear as your bottled distilled stuff, and in the shade of the foot bridge, are just out of view. Clear in my memory though). If you had told me in 1970, as I ran loose in this Gorge, that more than 30 years later I could “walk” up it via satellite (or other) imagery and from a desk in Australia I would have thought you insane. Who wanted to live in Australia?!

I digress, though I dip my lid to “travel”. Like a good security plan any online strategy has to be a consideration about trade-offs that you have to make. So here we go – Pickled Eel is out there with nomination for the Best Travel Blog in the Blogger’s Choice Awards. To vote, and I would love it if you did, you will need to go to Blogger’s Choice site, create an account (basically user name and password), log on and vote for this Blog. And if you can’t be bothered doing that, at least get into Google Earth and have a fly around Trotters Gorge. You might see a bunch of ten year old boys in long shorts and no shoes having the time of their lives.

Some Memories are Best Left Alone

My grandfather’s place on the outskirts of Christchurch was an exotic locale in the mind of an eight year old boy. The house was always immaculate. The yard was pristine, the lawn mown smoother than a bowling green. The goldfish under the wire in a pond wrapped around a fountain was about the most outlandish thing I could imagine. Around the pond smooth flagstones warmed in the sun were carefully matched and aligned in a path that went around the side of the house. I can still smell and feel the heat coming off those stones. The house was located well back from a quiet road. Push through a hedge at the back of the house and be taken into a collection of sheds among trees and explore to your hearts content.

So it would have stayed if I had not fancied that somehow thirty years later it would all still be just so, in reality as it is in my minds eye. Now a gas station hides the old house from the road. The bowling green lawns are a jungle. The house is a mess with peeling paint and awkward handyman extensions of shade cloth. The sheds behind the house and the forever fields are now being turned into a housing estate. In fact the kindest thing I could do to honour the memory of that place and of the people who lived there was to not take a photo at all. Rather, to take a view from the back fence from where I used to gaze in anticipation of wild roaming, “cops and robbers” or “cowboys and Indians”. What used to be a blank sheet for the imagination of a boy and his brothers is now housing estate. Here is the view, looking towards the foothills of Banks Peninsular. Of all the things I have seen and done in my travels this visit is one thing I now regret doing. I regretted it then and I regret it now.

October 2001

Sinking of Mikhail Lermontov

In Picton, (Google Earth 41.298901N, 174.0056E) a sleepy little town of about 3,500 people, is this lifeboat, a lonely reminder of a bizarre sinking of a Russian cruise liner a few years ago. 1986 actually. Murky but not bad weather, and light seas. Travelling in places it should not. And through well chartered waters – ferries travel through here on a daily basis from the North and South islands.

Whatever the truth, this lifeboat is an odd trophy sitting in Picton, not far from where the ship went down. It is a sad memorial and struck me as pretty lonely and feeble when compared to what it had come off and what it had once represented. And the truth is , like all wrecks they are dangerous to dive. Three have died in the hull and one of those remains missing in there somewhere. New Zealand Maritime Museum site covers off some useful details.

« Previous Page