Rotorua, New Zealand

Solo once again, back in a socked-in Kaikoura for the final South Island Hurrah. Leaving the Israeli flight attendants to their own devices, I cruised past the crowds of surfers up to Sawtooth Gorge, which is allegedly the only slot canyon in New Zealand and reminds one of Southern Utah. The relatively little-known trek is a favorite amongst a Christchurch photo club, who happened to be hauling their tripods around. Among them was a Kiwi woman whose ancient boots finally shit the bed, so she casually tied the sole back on with a handful of flax. A fine afternoon of hip-deep stream wading and rock hopping before taking the ferry to Wellington. Apparently the weather had been abnormally choppy, leading to an abnormally large number of mass vomiting incidents on board. Unfortunately, my crossing was far less amusing.

Bypassed Wellington and shot straight up to Masterton, which may have been the first time anyone has ever been foolish enough to do that. To compound the dreariness was a night spent in the creepiest hostel I have ever set foot in, save perhaps for the infamous Huck Finn Inn in St. Louis. The two other occupants of this labyrinth of musty dime store furnishings circa 1953 and dodgy plumbing also had looks on their faces that said "Well, this was a mistake I'll never make again". Motivated me to head to the hills, and by hills I mean the Tararua Forest Park.

Fine weather made the Holdsworth-Jumbo ridge walk a pleasant outing, but the highlight of the trip was the undisputed hero of the Jumbo hut, a gent by the name of Dave. Not only was he able to score large slabs of venison from his cousin who runs a hunting operation ("Goddamn rich American bastards shooting things from helicopters and calling it sport...they don't even want the meat!"), but he was teaching his young Dutch protege, Peter, the fine art of eating instant mashed potatoes with dehydrated peas. Peter, for what it's worth, had just arrived to NZ after three months of exploring SE Asia, taking in Cambodian killing fields, Vietnamese POW camps, typical Thai chaos, and a very unsettling 48 hours in Myanmar. Dave, it should be said, Lives the Dream: travels abroad for at least 3 months every year (it's time for South Africa once again, this time by motor bike), owns a bach on both coasts ("if the weather is shit on the Tasman, I can sit in the Pacific sunshine in two hours"), and hikes enough to know the Tararua better than the inside of his car, going so far as to describe, at great length, the merits of the stoves in each of the dozen forest huts. His secret to success? "Make a lot of money, be a cheap bastard, and stay the hell away from women...unless you are in Thailand with a return ticket and antibiotics in hand".

The weather was not as cooperative in New Plymouth, which was voted as New Zealand's Most Livable City. A persistent cloud cover was a perfect excuse to make an excursion down the road to Mike's White Cliffs Organic Brewery, where you will not find any sugar in their beers but you will find a handful of WWOOFer hippies carrying around massive buckets of spent mash. But even a hearty helping of hoppy Pilsner could satisfy my thirst for climbing Mt Taranaki, so against all advice and common sense I headed up to North Egmont for a foolhardy assault on the majestic volcano.

As expected, it was not a fun time. Complete white out with pelting wind and rain, but I along with the three other imbeciles with identical plans grinded up the slippery scree and jagged rocks to the snowbound crater summit. No hero shots or lingering lunches this time; the only thing on our minds was making a hasty retreat before we made the papers. Oddly enough, there was another solo climber that day who I met on the way up. He seemed a little cracked, but I guess we seemed the same to him. After some meaningless gear-oriented banter where the ice-axe wielding warrior criticized our weak American and European gear, he disappeared into the fog and sleet to massage his masochism. Fortunately the descent was a quick and simple affair of sliding down the scree slope more or less completely out of control...the sight of us soaked and haggard at the visitor's center did well to discourage anyone else thinking about making an ascent that day.

The situation did not improve in Turangi, the self-proclaimed Trout Fishing Capital of the World whose true claim to fame is serving as a place where backpackers can sit around and wait for a break in the weather long enough to give the Tongariro Crossing a go, billed as the best dayhike in New Zealand, if not the world. I has the great fortune of running into David the Irish Bicycle Racer from the November South Island tour. He was looking much more feral this time around, which was explained by his month of surfing in Kaikoura. Now that he has a sleek and pink road bike (the hideous color scheme keeps thieves at bay, evidently), his life is complete. We didn't have much time to chat for he was off to do a sprint around Lake Taupo, ignoring the skydiving tourists. I, on the other hand, had a different circumnavigation in mind: a nice 72 km perambulation about Mt Ruapehu, the highest mountain on the North Island and an uncomfortably active volcano.

The guidebook said 4-6 days, but I figured if I kept the pace brisk and didn't mind a little suffering, three days was possible. In fact, with a spare set of headlamp batteries and a capacity for total deprivation, two was not out of the question. All packed and motivated, I started down the track. Three hours later, I was unable to see the mountain as the clouds descended and the rain moved in. The forecast was very grim, and my morale had instantly plummeted...I've had enough masochism for the time being. Thus, a three hour hike of defeat and retreat back to the car, where I met three younguns equipped with jeans and a juice and who refused to believe that the hut really was an hour a way. My usually trusty MP3 player, for reasons known only to the fickle God of Cheap Chinese Electronics, took this opportunity to get stuck on playing the Enter the Wu-Tang Clan album on repeat...I guess it could've been worse. Favorite line: "Jacques Cousteau could never get this low!"

Ended up, after hours of aimless wandering, in Rotorua, described by my former German rowboat companion as the most beautiful place on Earth. That may be a stretch, but it is pleasant enough to transcend the ever-present sulfurous smell in the air due to the rather intense thermal action lurking below. It's also a key place for the preservation of Maori heritage, enabling the pakeha a chance to pay $$$ for the chance to see some "authentic" customs performed at exactly 6:30 pm every day. The song and dance routine doesn't exactly interest me, but I'm keen on some pig hunting and canoe crafting...

South Island Blitzkrieg, Pt 3 of 3

Tourists will shell out $200 for a pair of Goretex hiking boots, but they are afraid to get their feet wet. Such was the case on the trek up to catch a glimpse of the heavily-morained Hooker Glacier on the flanks of the mighty Aoraki (that's Mount Cook to the haughty Imperialists). The weather was absolutely immaculate, rendering the West face of the highest (and most sacred) peak in New Zealand absolutely beautiful. In fact, it is this stunning appearance that has led to over 200 climbing fatalities since they started keeping track of such things. If you are going to keel over, might as well be in a blaze of aesthetic and athletic glory.

The perpetually ice-shielded behemoths were far out of our league, so we contented ourselves with a little jog up to Mt Olliver, allegedly the first mountain climbed by Sir Ed Hillary, although about 37 other peaks claim that distinction. We were pleasantly surprised to witness a flawless paraglide of the summit by a chap who was very keen on saving his knees on the "traditional" stairmaster descent. Suddenly, all sorts of scenarios popped into my head regarding reducing one's time on weekend missions. Of course if you end up tangled in the trees you may not net any gains, save for some good stories. Regardless, we settled for sliding down the snow slopes on our asses.

Somehow we ended up in Oamaru, where they desperately cling to their Victorian roots, which evidently requires shopkeepers to reluctantly dress up in ridiculous outfits. At least there is good whiskey and cheese to be had, if you can afford it. At the building that tries to be a distillery/art gallery/banquet hall, a handful of nervous and agitated Otagans were preparing for a wedding reception. It seems as though somebody seriously botched the tablecloth responsibility, as evidenced by the humiliating public tongue lashing. That miserable crew could probably use a few barrels of 10 year old themselves.

The other attraction to this coastal town is the nightly penguin migration. I had pictured it to be some sort of Normandy-esque mass invasion, clogging the beach with wet and exhausted flightless birds. That was anything but the case. In fact, it was a really big deal when one of the squeaky buggers waddled between hiding places on the bluffs with silent nature buffs poised with cameras and grave expressions on their faces. It was like attending a golf tournament without anyone swinging a club. Nevertheless, we got all the penguin action we could stand as they built a nest right outside the bedroom window, waking everyone in the hostel up at 0400 with their hideous caterwauling.

After hours of wandering around aimlessly looking for a friend's farm on some mythical dirt road we stumbled upon some fishing village for baskets of deep fried lard. A mandatory water boil was in effect, which is a damn effective way to coax us to choke down more Speights.

Having enough of the tourist trail, we spent the final night of the suddenly all too mellow Blitz in seriously out-of-season Methven, where it was all farmers, bogans swilling cans of Diesel (and the cola-ed down 5% version at that!), and the hardy young men who had decided it was a great idea to exchange $15k for an 8 month skydiving course. After an alarmingly fabulous 12" burget courtesy of the Village Takeaway we hit up the Blue Bar (note: the other bar in town is the Brown Bar) with a couple from Israel, just out of the mandatory service and on a walkabout. Several jugs of Mac's later, we came to the profound conclusion that it would be incredibly wise to invest in pickles because everybody likes them!

Back to Lyttleton, an excellent place to ponder the pros and cons of working on a fishing boat...finally, Diesel (the Air Force bureaucrat, not the disgusting beverage) had his fill of the antipodean life and headed back to higher and drier climates while I turned back to Kaikoura in search of a slot canyon. Perhaps a parachute could save me some time...

South Island Blitzkrieg, Pt 2 (Yet Even More Franz Josef!)

Pulled into a soggy Greymouth for no reason other than it has last reasonably priced petrol until you hit Antarctica. The fellow who was WWOOFing at the hostel decided to celebrate his first night on what will likely be a dreary job by rounding up a rowdy crew to hit the town. By town, he meant the lone bar that stays open past 10. Chief amongst this motley assortment of backpacking bums were two gents from Switzerland who sweat their balls off working road construction all summer so they can bum around all winter. Took a mental note: high-paying job with heaps of time off possibility #37. They eagerly showed us pictures of the huge beastly machines they subdue like fine instruments, like a father with pictures of his newborn child. Nobody really cares either way. Regardless, it was $6 jug night much to our delight. Grizzled locals watched the horse races with desperate intensity, all the while loathing us worthless punks making a ruckus in their tavern. Feeling particularly menergetic we decided to return to our quarters via the fire escape ladder, only realizing once we were inside that we were lodged in a different building.

After a fabulous $5 fish feast at the legendary fish & chips dive on the Hoki quay we pressed on to Franz Josef, which, as you know by now, makes Sergio Leone's vision of the "Wild West" look like Burlington, VT on a Tuesday night. The following is a chronicle of 41 Hours in Franz Josef. Names have been changed in light on ongoing litigation.

7:32 pm: Rolled into the compound. "You boys here for tea [dinner in Kiwi-ese]?" "Hell yeah!" Venison stew, thankfully, with copious amounts of wine and Whiskey. Y. just quit his job; many glasses raised and consumed in the honor of jobless bums everywhere.

9:30 pm: "It's high time to get on the piss again". Off to the notorious Blue Ice, where we ran into J., who just experienced a rather unfortunate rusty axe on foot collision and is sucking down the gin to dull the pain.

11:00 pm: Went to the Monsoon, where numerous poms were totally off the hook. Shots all around for some reason that sounded logical at the time.

12:04 am: realized that Foreman vs. Holyfield '91 was on the TV. Also decided it would be a great idea to finish all the drinks lying around unattended.

12:32 am: Apparently there were many attractive Nebraska coeds crawling all over the place. Oddly enough I was too riveted to George Foreman's feeble attempt to retain former glories to notice.

2:16 am: Saw many people pile into a sedan, so several of us joined in. Saw K. splayed out cold on the sidewalk. Hogtied and stuffed into the car, deposited in front of his house. Off to Blue Ice once again for no reason other than that's where this complete stranger's car was going.

3:13 am: May have committed myself to a summer of milking cows on a farm down the road. Before I was to find out for sure from the lass who WWOOFed there, I ran like hell back to the compound.

10:30 am: Y appeared from the adjacent room: "Damn that was good! Ought to get on the piss again tonight eh." Decided it would be a great idea to slog up to Robert's Point for a misty majestic view of the Glacier.

12:43 pm: Decided the previous decision wasn't so hot given a most unfortunate hangover. However, we soldiered on because if nothing else we are Tough Young Men With A Lot To Prove.

4:44 pm: Rolled back to the house, greeted by P, who has just added a German virgin to his impressive list of conquests. Soon after, Z stumbles in. P: "Where have you been? I haven't seen you for ages!" Z: "Ah, just sittin' around doin' drugs." P: "Right on, bro!"

4:56 pm: Y arrived back with Ginger Ale, without which Canadian Club and Ginger Ale could not be possible.

6:50 pm: J serves up his famous French Onion Soup, "One of the best things a woman ever taught me". N is still waffling about quitting. Me: "I'm sick of hearing about this! Pack your bags, come bumming with us, and leave this dump for good!" J guzzling wine today to dull the throbbing pain.

7:43 pm: Y: "I don't know about you guys, but I'm going on the piss tonight!"

1:00 am: In the midst of a 280 mil rainstorm, which is no joke...

11:30 am: P: "You shoulda seen it! Black water mudslides, dudes sliding down the terminal face, valley flooding, avalanches...it was f'n awesome!" K: "I may be getting the sack...that's alright, plenty of jobs out there...like a highway worker!" Y [just waking up and stumbling into the room]: "Hell yeah! Another jobless bum! Sounds like a perfect reason to get on the piss tonight!"

Noon: Said goodbye to the boys of Franz for probably the last time...

...So now we are in Wanaka, hiking the skyline trail once again to recapture past glories. Like Foreman we went the distance, but we are still awaiting the judges' decision...

South Island Blitzkrieg, Pt 1

05-06 transition redux: a year of frustration, disillusionment, and blissful resignation culminates in a few scribbled ultimatums under the influence of several hundred miligrams of caffeine. A few hours later, an Air Force Officer accompanies me on a desperate quest to end the year with a "bang", crossing a few lines in the journey. Soundtrack is Mogwai's "Summer", Ten Rapid version...

Had the auspicious honor of crossing paths with Jo Condon, a high school math teacher from England on hiatus with the simple ambition of cycling round the world solo-style, strikingly similar to the legendary exploits of the almighty ZenMaster Mark. Philanthropists of the world, quit throwing your money down the Unicef drain: send a suitcase full of quid Jo's way to keep her dream (which is our dream) alive...

Windy steep roads to the sunburnt Banks Peninsula, smelling of salt and suncscreen. A brief bush walk to warm up; met the Quintessential Kiwi en route: happily grizzled and cutting the grass in gumboots. Rule 1: don't burn the gorse, it will win. Rule 2: no billy boiling (will find out what that means later...)

Brief pit stop in Kiakoura, formerly the most beatiful place in the world. Two months later it is choked with campervans while the snow-capped peaks have dried out. Alors, on we roll to...

Blenheim, shitjob capital of New Zealand. Overheard at hostel: "How much beer do you have?" "About 10." "Dude, that is no way near enough". Young travelers congregate to bitch about the lack of diversions and drink themselves in a stupor, trying to forget how tedious vineyard work is. The next time you try to act high on the hog by throwing down a fifty for a bottle of wine, please take a moment to thank those bitter young men without whom it would not be possible.

Completed the Sikes-Wolongevicz circuit in Nelson Lakes National Park in two days, battling the elements, the sandflies, and our own perceived limitations. The mountain didn't want us up there, so it threw some 100 k/hr winds at us. At least it helped us dry our boots momentarily before wading through a dozen more creeks. Celebrated our "victory" by watching James Bond films in a mediocre lodge in the company of greasy sacks of fish and chips, washed down with cheap Australian rotgut.

"Did" Abel Tasman track, or at least 10 miles of it in sandals with no water at a blistering pace...with only 11 days of the blitz to go, every second must count! Hooah!

Rolled into Takaka, since those in the know (or at least young Hazard) say Golden Bay is where it's at. They are absolutely right if "it" refers to Vegan Hemp Sandals and Fair Trade Organic Free Range Herbal Teas. Made me homesick for Oregon. I was wondering where all the feral ecohipsters were in this country, and now I know! This town is ripe for some bike-powered Guerrilla concerts to support vegetarian causes like sweatshop free mandala weaving. In short, I have a new favorite NZ town. Will they take me in? As A. Huxley said in Eyeless in Gaza (a must read, by the way), "[He is] a middle class snob tolerated because of his capacities as an entertainer".

Dangerously close to the West Coast. Time to load up on ammo, whiskey, muckboots, and frozen peas.