2:30 in the afternoon on Tuesday. I look above; my boots are definitely over my head. I look below; a 75 foot deep crevasse is definitely below be. Not a "choice" situation, as they say here.
3:45 pm, Wednesday. In the midst of a 300mm rain event (that's a full foot of rain for the Imperialists who stubbornly cling to antiquated systems of measurement), humping rucksacks filled to the brim with gravel up a staircase in the super-saturated rainforest to make even more steps. Dump gravel, slog down steps, wade through thigh-deep glacier water, fill bag, repeat. Suddenly, a soul-sucking office job in Albuquerque doesn't look all that bad.
Mid morning, Thursday. Drove to the perpetually empty Okarito beach, which was quite the happening place during the Gold Rush. Just myself and some rocks today, gently pissing away the morning before heading out to guide some wickedly attractive Austrian lasses up a wickedly attractive rain-polished glacier. Suddenly, this job ain't so bad after all.
High Noon, Friday. Carved a staircase in the glacier's terminal face in the fiendish drizzle whilst frighteningly large rocks rained down from above.
10 am, Saturday. Performed the fortnightly ritual of driving 2 hours away for the privilege of shopping at a supermarket. The gent at the adjacent stationary store made me two waterproof notepads by hand and charged me a mere buck for the both. He was just damn glad to get away from the fussy ladies looking for good deals on Christmas cards before the shops close at noon.
Sunday; There may have been an epic poker match, or maybe we sat on the porch and shot stuff while listening to underground Christchurch electronica, or maybe that was the day we pulled our neighbor's car out of the mud. Regardless, it probably rained.
1635, Monday. Stream crossing practice, otherwise known as "let's see how waterproof those boots really are". In case some of us were dry, we thought it would be a good idea to swim across the mighty Waiho, taking care to be far enough downstream to give the chunks of ice a chance to melt. Also practiced our Maori pronunciations in reverence to the folks from whom the Crown purchased an entire island coast for about 300 pounds.
Monday Night: celebrated the change of days off by "getting into the piss" at the local dive. Same old story (the day of the week does not matter, for in Franz Josef it's perpetually Groundhog Day): "Uncle Rowdy" makes an appearance and steals every hat he can find; disturbingly proficient pole dancing from the usual suspects; drunken tour bus dramas unfolding before our very eyes; too many shots of Chartreuse; a fight broken up by the promise of an extra handle of Monteith's Ale; someone in the corner retching from the infamous Red Peril while his/her friends laugh and offer words of encouragement; and a little "car traversing" to cap the night off.
Tuesday (again): tiptoed around the random dudes passed out on the floor to head out to Fox for a change of scenery (and it may be best to be scarce for a few days). Walked around Gillespies Beach amongst the hunting camps and rusting gold dredges in the bush. Took a few moments to admire my latest callouses.
etc...
