Rock Climbing

Not bravery just a sense of stubbornness. This can be done, I will do this. It’s a job for two. Some, a few, prefer to go it alone. They forget that the further up they go the harder the landing. Landing is misleading; it conjures up a duck or a Boeing 747 gracefully touching down. Free falling 50m on to rocks is not going to be graceful. It will be the opposite of graceful – it will be ungraceful, and so it could be regarded as an unlanding. Certainly it will be the undoing of the free climber. Good luck to them. No we approach the vertical problem in a more circumspect manner. We approach the problem with a piece of rope. Bloody expensive, proper rock climbing rope. It has a lot of strength and a bit of stretch to take some of the shock of a fall. The other piece of essential gear is the belayer. The person on the other end holding the rope in case the climber falls. On a top rope the fall is only as far as the stretch of the rope. Lead climbing the fall tends to be a bit more dramatic. A moment of uncertainty as we plummet and wait for the rope to hold. The moment is a hair breadth – not a true measure of time but an indication of the narrowness of the moment. Yet time does stand still, the brain collects and collates data at an alarming speed to try and find a solution to the problem of free falling. The only way it can do this is by playing with the fabric of time itself – a very cool trick. Just as the brain is realising that gravity will prevail and the person it has been trying to find a way to save is beyond saving the downward plummet comes to a sudden yet graceful conclusion. The brain has to stop panicking, which for another brief moment creates a small void – often mistaken for the onset of shock. This void is then replaced with hysterical laughter – this is the onset of shock. Finally the stubbornness returns and another attempt is made on this vertical problem that can be done.

Tongariro Crossing

Seven hours. The cold blue sky, touching down, presses against us. Us making slow progress against the vertical thrust of a mountain side. Caught between the blue infinity and a land mass escaping from Hades. A sense of crushing freedom. Seven hours of being reminded of the forces buried deep below. City life, built on concrete and asphalt, is far removed from this raw energy that nature keeps concealed from us. Sleeping, us in our trance of daily life. Sleeping, nature rests, confident in her awe.
We step upon the South Crater. Life struggles with altitude and cold. The barrenness hemmed in by the presence of Ngauruhoe and Tongariro. Red Crater shows signs of life. Some primordial entity, devouring the sinners, breathing out sulphur. The ancient beast lets us pass. Our sins not worthy of its appetite. Seven hours. A still Blue Lake, the colour takes your breath away. No, that’s my lungs being forced to work so hard. Far below, land stretches and buckles. Life grows from the ashes discarded long ago.

Teal for Two

Two Brown Teals have adopted the Akapoua DOC camp site on Great Barrier Island. A couple of inquisitive and human tolerant birds. They shy away from movement. If you can stay still for just a few moments these delightful ducks will waddle right on up and may even test your toes as a source of nourishment. My toes were not to their liking. The only source of bother for this couple was another pair of Brown Teals. Both males, both bullies. They came quaking in on the wing, chasing our two friends away and trying to bully us into handing over food. As their stand-over tactics only came up to our shins we were able to stand our ground and the bully teals eventually took flight. Our friends emerged out of the long grass. After a small spell of waddling they came across our pot on the ground. The pot contained the left over porridge from breakfast. The porridge pot was soaking in water. The Teals could not resist the overwhelming combination of water and cold porridge stuck to the walls of the pot. Their heads disappeared. To access the best bits near the bottom of the pot the teals had to stand on their tippy-web-feet. It was comical. To complete the show they donned top hat and cane and did a tap routine while singing 'Teal for two and two for Teal'.

Whangamomona

Welcome to the Republic of Whangamomona. Republic: a system of government that derives its power from the people rather than through heredity or divine right. Whangamomona: a small rural town, in New Zealand, celebrating twenty years of being a Republic. A republic within a country that has an elected government. A government though that still answers to the Royal Family of Windsor. After a subtle but disputed boundary change 20 years ago Whangamomona decide it only wanted to answer to itself. The New Zealand army was not requested to reclaim the town for Queen and country and so Whangamomona stands within and yet adrift of the rest of NZ. A bit like the Vatican City but without St Paul's or a Pope. On this particular day it was more like a minature Hell. The thermometer had crept up to 'asphalt melting'. Shade was at a premium. The ice cream vendor had been listed on the stock exchange and the jandal repair store had cornered a niche but necessary market.

No Lift

For me to ski the conditions have to be just right. Fresh soft snow, blue skies and the lifts need to be operating. Lifts don't operate on windy days. No lift, no ski. Alternative plans included staying in bed, going to the pub, going up to the snow and looking at the lifts. We went for a walk. Blue skies, fresh mountain air and a slight sense of going up. I'm always surpised that gravity assisted exercises are not more popular: parachuting, abseiling off a rock face, kayaking down the river and of course skiing down a Mountain. Working against one of the strongest forces on the planet really does not make a lot of sense. Walking up hill does not make a lot of sense. On my tombstone I'd like it to read 'Man in Need of a Lift'. Why, in the physical and the metaphysical, is going up always such hard work? Why is it a 'Stairway to Heaven'? Why not a lift?

Wellington

Wellington is water and hills, people and power. Much has been spent and much has changed but pockets of decay remain. The slow relentless salt air eating into infrastructure. The biting wind etching itself into the face of progress. The passage of ships burden with cargo passing through the channels of the world. This slow connection of people and their produce. Trade winds carrying echos of a distant land and a distant past.

London People

If ever you're feeling lonely and wondering where everybody is, here they are. Oxford Street, London, UK. Madness. We ended up bailing and catching a bus to escape. Along the Thames had been relaxing and full of sights. People, as it turns out though, are like small pieces of iron and shops are really big electromagnets - if they didn't turn off at night the iron like people would never make it home. The bus takes a meandering route and the people slowly become thin on the street below. Behind us the crush of iron shoppers surge and the micro space we had occupied is gone.