After an 800 km drive up the West Coast and back east through the mountains, I dropped my car/bedroom on wheels at the Christchurch airport, and started hitchhiking on the busy highway on the outskirts of the city. Which wasn't exactly the easiest thing in the world, considering that this is arterial traffic going in a hundred different directions at each intersection (or, ok, four) and cruising along at highway speeds, with nowhere decent to pull over, given the construction zone lining the sidewalks. I had to walk a while with my pack, but eventually a German guy saw me, pulled a U-turn, and came back and got me. Turns out he'd done a fair bit of hitchhiking before he had a set of wheels at his behest, and felt bad about my predicament.
He brought me as far as Darfield, an inland community about halfway to Methven. It was a slow road though, with barely any traffic, and I found myself flicking through a paperback novel more often than trying to thumb down a car. Eventually (probably my longest waiting time yet), a sheep shearer on his way home brought me just outside of Glentunnel – and lo! an Irish voice on my cell phone.
Colm and the boys bailed me out, and brought me the rest of the way to Methven, where the lamb in the oven was very nearly done. I've said it a bunch of times that I'm luckier than I deserve, but something struck me a while back: that's not true. Sure, I can rhyme off a dozen names of people who have gone out of their way to give me a ride, give me a place to stay, point me in the right direction, and help make this trip the amazing experience it's been (ok, it's a lot more than a dozen), but that has absolutely nothing to do with luck, any more than it has to do with inherent charisma or effort. It's because people are genuinely interested in helping other people out, however they can. All of these things could (and do) happen to other people all the time, and it doesn't make me feel any bit less special or privileged – if anything, it's ΓΌber inspiring, and makes me a lot happier to be alive and part of this global community today. Don't believe me? Try it for yourself.
From the upstairs loft, sound from the living room carries well, so when two small boys are up before 7:00, making a racket, you might as well shake off the dust and get up semi-early too. Cara's parents have a fairly large farm, that's been in the family for 80 years, just outside of Methven, and both the boys know as much about the farming lifestyle as I knew about the Montreal Canadiens at their age (at the risk of tooting my own horn, I was something of a prodigy, for some totally out-of-character reason) – they were keen to show it off, so away we went.
Oh, incidentally, it was a sunny day – I'd never believed Methven was in the vicinity of mountains before, but now I could actually see them. Turns out it wasn't just a running joke to play on visiting Canadians after all.
After a lunch of pumpkin soup and pastries, myself, Cara, the boys, and her father Ross set off in the truck, driving through paddocks recently harvested of Chinese cabbage, wheat, barley (to be malted for beer), and grass (for seed). I finally figured out how the irrigation machines work – a hose runs the length of the thing, connected to a reservoir deep in the earth. The machine runs the length of the field, and is on wheels, so that over a 24-hour period, it slowly runs up the field, intermittent sprinklers hosing down the field. There are some other little features, like strategically placed gates so that the machine can move to the next field, concrete areas to pivot, and a computer sensor that measures field moisture to determine when to turn on the rigs – pretty cool, and pumping out some 80 L of water a second, it makes you realize how big an operation this is. They're everywhere in Canterbury, a major expense, but a neccessary one when you consider how much it amps up the produce of the farm.
By the
end of the tour, I had a place to stay after my upcoming stint in
Akaroa, if the mood strikes and time allows, as well as the use of a
Corolla that I brought back to Methven that afternoon. I'm spoiled
now, being able to drive now when I choose – I've already clocked
in about 700 km on this vehicle, if you can believe it.
We
continued on through Methven and up to Mt. Hutt, a ski field on the
outskirts that the local Lion's Club helped develop in the early
1970s, effectively putting Methven on the map. We're looking at a
mountain about 2000 m above the flat Canterbury plains, and from the
top of the winding, slushy, dirt road, it's like looking out on a
patchwork quilt of farmland. By this time in the year, even though
it's still nice down below in Methven, it's starting to look a lot
like winter up here – ski enthusiasts are no doubt starting to get
excited, and that includes me. I'd be hard pressed to find trails
through the trees up here, and the idea of cruising down a snowy rock
face is almost making me say shag the beaches away up north, I'm
working on my goggle tan instead.
Wednesday morning was another clear day, so I set out to make my first dent in that little car's odometer. Continuing on down Highway 72, the Inland Scenic Route, I came to the tiny town of Mt. Somers, where I turned onto a dirt road some 40 km long. It was slow going over the loose stone, but pretty cool – yellow, grassy fields, contained in a mountain valley with a couple of lakes along the way. Eventually, the road ended up at Mt. Potts Station, a cafe closed for the season – but, just beyond, was Mt. Sunday.
I remember, in one of those production videos that no one except me ever watches, the crew from The Lord of the Rings talks about how the location for Edoras was one of these almost-too-perfect finds (Hobbiton in Matamata being another one): here was a hill on a plain, totally in the middle of a range of mountains, but at 500 m still high enough to build a little city on it. So, when you see this in the movie:
I can attest to the fact that, yeah, that's pretty much what it looks like in real life. Rock on.
I
passed a few tour vans on the dusty road in, but there was no one on
the go on the actual walk up the hill, which took about 45 minutes to
scramble up the gentle climb. Most of the sets from The
Lord of the Rings aren't exactly
that recognizable, even to me – granted, you recognize that the
background scenery is all very New Zealand-esque, but narrowing any
particular shot to one real-life location isn't exactly easy,
especially since more than a few are outside of the public domain,
accessible only by helicopter or special permission. A lot of people
come to New Zealand thinking they're going to recreate the movies,
and the somewhat disillusioning fact of that is that you can't
really. Edoras though, despite being a bit of a drive, is one of the
ones that's totally open, and it's the real deal. There's no sign
pointing advertising this as a place in Middle-earth, but if you've
seen the damn movie, it's pretty obvious. Looking out over the grassy
tussocks, interspersed every so often with boggy peat and rivers, I
swear to you – this was Edoras.
The city and Golden Hall are long since gone, but this wasn't a set
born in a studio – this was a real place, not so long ago. The
place where Eowyn stood and looked out is a real place. The place where Theoden
buried his son is a real place, and it really is at the base of the
hill.
I
poked around the hilltop looking out over the basin for a little
while, somewhere in the middle of nowhere in a vast, empty desert
land.
By mid-afternoon, I was on the road back to Methven, for an egg burger from the fish and chip shop and some Pineapple Lumps, two Kiwi delicacies that went down a lot smoother than my feijoa. Pints at the newly-refurbished Last Post (which actually used to be the post office until 1989) followed by the side of a crackling fire, which isn't a Kiwi delicacy so much as a universal one.
Yesterday morning, I set off on another highway adventure, and this one needed a sleeping bag. With the Juno soundtrack and a cassette that had Oasis's (What's the Story) Morning Glory taped off (I hope everyone owns at least one copy of that album, and that yours doesn't cut off midway through “Champagne Supernova”), I left Methven after breakfast. Back I went down the Inland Scenic Route as far as Geraldine, where I topped up the gas tank and headed towards Fairlie and Burkes Pass, opening onto Mackenzie Country. The lowlands had earlier given rise to rows of deciduous trees against a mountain backdrop, but now it was the sparse country of the mountain flats. This distinctive area (I'd go out on a limb to say that the countryside from Te Anau to Mackenzie Country is the most sublime places I've seen on earth, and I don't make that comment lightly) is named after James McKenzie, a Scottish rogue who probably stole a thousand sheep in 1855, went to jail, got pardoned, disappeared, and became a folk hero.
One of the heights flanking Lake Tekapo is Mt. John, atop which sits a major southern sky observatory (the main one in New Zealand, in fact). There's a decent walk, along the lake to the cafe and giant telescope sitting just over 1000 m high – but screw that, this the first time I could opt for the lazy option of driving instead of walking, so away I went up a narrow paved road (closed after 5:00, because of the headlights – this area is pitch black once the sun sets, which is why it's such a key astronomy observation point).
For what it's worth, driving didn't diminish the impact of the view. It's a pretty telling thing that, after four months of wandering through heaps of distinct wild settings, there's still something that can take your breath away and make you stop and state. I'm sure it's possible to get jaded here in New Zealand, but I don't see it happening to me during my brief stay here.
Next stop, a bit further down the road, was Lake Pukaki, another glacial lake, slightly larger than Tekapo. The road to Aoraki/Mt. Cook departs from the main road and runs along the side of the lake, and the whole northern side was a wall of mountains, reflected in shimmering waters.
It almost makes you want to leap around like Michael Flatley. Which is a weird thing to say, without this picture (actually, even given this picture, it's still a bit weird):
I
kept on the southbound Highway 8, as far as Twizel. A hydroelectric
service town from decades earlier, Twizel isn't exactly a hopping
city hub – no offence to Twizel, but I went looking for a coffee at
4:00 in the afternoon and found the whole place to be a ghost town.
Bored, I scooted up to check out Lake Ruataniwha, an artificial lake
from the Waitaki hydro project, bought a can of L&P, and went
back up the highway to a picnic area off the road with no sign
prohibiting overnight parking. Armed with some chocolate, soda, a
pulp novel, and a James Bond movie, I was set to recline the
passenger seat and settle in for the night in the middle of the
woods.
I've said it before – there's a small window of time in most people's lives that they can get away with things like this. It would be a sin not to make the most of it while that window's open.
This morning, I was awake soon after the sun, and after a little stretch through the thicket, it was back on the road towards the Mt. Cook Village, a half an hour drive off the main drag. People don't come this way for the shopping – it's tramping and exploring, in a little cloister at the foot of mountain peaks and glaciers. The village itself isn't a place to set roots (although about 300 currently do), little more than a carpark, visitors centre, pub, cafe, and a few hostels (slightly more bustling than Milford) – I parked the car and took the half hour stroll out to Kea Point, where I didn't see a cheeky Kea (I've been in the hotspots, Milford and Arthur's Pass, but still haven't seen one of the signature mountain parrots), but did see the deep blue glacier ice clinging to Mt. Sefton (3,151 m high – Mt. Cook might get all the glory, but the peaks in the vicinity aren't exactly molehills), the blue pools left in the retreating glacier's wake, and a high wall of debris that Geography 3202 taught me is called a lateral moraine.
Oh, and the big brute, Mt. Cook itself, from an opposite angle as was reflected in Lake Matheson earlier this week. At 3,754 m, it's the highest peak in the country – no big deal.
I figured I'd take a little tiki tour through the area before heading back to Methven, driving out a dirt road that branched outside of the village towards the Tasman Glacier, the longest hunk of ice in New Zealand (everything's bigger in Aoraki/Mt. Cook – this one is 27 km long, and that's a big retreat from where it once was). It's a rough old road, but only a short little hike leads you to the Blue Lakes (more mirky green in colour, but that doesn't have as nice a ring) and on to a viewing point of the glacier.
The first thing that catches your eye is the greyish water of Tasman Lake, the result of the retreating glacier. The lake has only been here for a few decades, and it's growing by about a foot every week – rocky icebergs float aimlessly in the still waters, doomed to add to the lake's volume sooner rather than later. The whole place looks dirty, like a quarry, but that makes a lot of sense – this giant chunk of ice has been scraping along the earth for hundreds of years, and as it melts it dumps the rocks it's been carrying. That's what you see from up here, and as your eyes carry on down the lake, you come to the glacier itself – and that, more than anything, looks like the snow the plow pushes in the ditch in April.
Even
on a drizzly, overcast day, it was a gorgeous drive back to Methven, where
dinner was nearly on the table. I'd say that it was all a giant
stroke of luck, but then again, that's just the way things happen
down here – although, when I spun around and put my finger on New
Zealand on the map about a year ago, that definitely took some freak
surge of luck.
Cheers,
rb
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