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...
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