April 13, 2010
Driving out of Blenheim, nothing was apparently different between the North and South Islands. Grassy rolling hills stretched for miles offering browning grasses for autumnal grazing. If anything was different it was that the farms were getting bigger and the homes spaced further apart. Sally and I were driving down the motorway in the early afternoon and the strong sunlight belied the mild temperatures. Rounding a bend maybe 40km out of town, the hills dramatically grew to mountains much steeper than anything I saw on the North Island. The motorway hugged the coastline, hemmed in by craggy ridges. Off to the left side of the road emerald blue waves lapped at the rocky, black sand beaches. I couldn’t help but think of those random beachside towns on Highway 101 between Ventura and Santa Barbara.
Within a few hours we arrived in Kaikoura, the town named for a rocky peninsula crowded by seals and frequented by whales. According to Maori lore, Maui the demigod was using the South Island as a canoe for fishing. He caught Te Ika A Maui (the fish of Maui)—better known as the North Island—and used Kaikoura as a foothold to reel in the fish. What this has to do with traveling I have no idea, but it never hurts to establish context within obscure earth creation stories. So we arrived in Kaikoura looking for a place to free camp. Just north of town some campervan roofs were visible from the roads. Following the most obvious gravel road we came to a series of rocky, grassy clearings next to the beach. Stunning was the first word that came to mind. To the west, we were at the foot of a glacier covered mountain range; to the east, we were a few feet above the high tide line feeling the subtle sting of cold ocean water making cold air. We made camp and braved a night of cold, blustery winds. Wind direction didn’t really matter since it was either sweeping across the ocean or glaciers and both were enough to send us to bed in sweatpants, sweaters, socks and hats.
In the morning we woke up to shoulder-high, peaky surf and a couple of cars filled with surfers checking it out. It took a few minutes to summon the courage to brave what I assumed was going to be 40 degree glacial runoff. I checked the surf guide book and learned that the surf spot was called “Meatworks” because the slippery and shallow rocks eat feet. Very exciting! I eventually filled my bladder with enough green tea to keep me warm and was forced into the water. Getting in the water wasn’t too bad as it was a balmy 58 degrees! During my surf session I started talking to a cute blonde girl named Lauren. She’s a classic Ventura County surfer girl at the tail end of a 3 month solo tour of the South Island. After almost 2 hours in the water, she was visibly shivering in her tattered wetsuit and my feet were inflexible and numb. I invited her to join Sally and I for a cup of hot tea and we both caught waves in. The walk, nay, crawl out of the water made the surf break name apropos. My feet were bleeding and achy and every step over the uneven cobble was painful and difficult. Eventually, I warmed back up over a breakfast of baked beans, bread, banana and hot tea. By noon the sun was hot and heavy jackets and socks were shed for t-shirts and sandals. There seemed to be a 6 hour window of each day where summer was eternal and winter only a rumor.
After an afternoon hike around the Kaikoura Peninsula nature reserve we went back to the Meatworks campsites and found our new friend Lauren. Sally made camp and the sun was inching toward the mountain tops so I took the last hour of sunlight to hike to a silty, glacial runoff stream and go fishing. The idea was better than the execution as the stream was fast flowing, shallow and rocky. No fish but I did catch a cool picture with my self-shot timer. That evening we built a big bonfire and sat around it drinking wine with a wacky Kiwi couple who was 14 hours into a bourbon and cola binge.
Not long after the sun came up and we were enjoying a breakfast of eggs and tea on big piece of driftwood on the beach, a fellow named Nicholas wandered up the beach and started chatting with us. A humorous and genuine mix of Spicoli and Tom Hanks from Castaway, Nicholas was a San Diego lifeguard chasing the eternal summer. He invited us to join him and his Czech campmate Joseph on a paua hunt before lunch. Paua is the Maori name for abalone and it’s bountiful and legal fishing in NZ. I jumped at both the opportunity and Nicholas’ enthusiasm. An hour later, the three of us guys were standing on the edge of the water while Nicholas offered an earnest pagan prayer to Mother Ocean. They were armed with knives and I a screwdriver as we waded into the shallow water. Paua hunting is done at low tide in rocky areas. One climbs around the rocks, feeling the smooth surfaces for the telltale bump of a shell. The shells the shape of an egg cut in half the long way. Large enough paua are the size of an open hand and cling to rocks with a big foot like a giant snail. A prying tool is used to separate the foot from the rock while the other hand holds the shell in the chaotic surf. I tried various depths and only had success when the water was calmer and at least shoulder deep. Any shallower and I was fighting with the waves, any deeper and I spent too much air trying to get down to find the abalone. Nicholas and Joseph had a much more successful go of it as they were aided by snorkel masks. After we snagged a collective 10 paua, we made our way back to the camp to make lunch. To clean our bounty, a knife was used to separate the animal from its shell. The entrails discarded and the ugly black and green flesh washed in clean water and then pounded flatter for easier cooking. We fried them up on a beach wood campfire with vegetable oil, garlic, onions and fresh lemon juice. It was a delicious feast and the idea of catching, cleaning and cooking our whole meal gave our raggedy band of gypsy campers a sense of satisfaction that could only be capped with an afternoon nap in the warm sun. The 5 of us got together again in the evening to build a giant campfire, drink beers and cook a massive dinner of sausages, fire baked potatoes, grilled corn, a salad and marshmallows. It was an epic day.
Yesterday we decided to make it our last day at the camp. Sally has to be dropped off on the 14th in Christchurch and I was feeling antsy about staying in any place—even one so idyllic—for so long with winter fast approaching. Lauren was keen to join us and suggested a day at the Hanmer Hot Springs up in the mountains. Before we left, Lauren, Joseph and I surfed the famous right hand point break Maungamanu and scored shoulder high peeling walls that zipped down the line in 200 yard long makeable sections. We surfed until she was numb and my shoulders were cramping. It was difficult to leave such a beautiful and stunning place, but there are more adventures to be had.
