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...