Feted Footwear Feasting Fowl

On June 21 Sam, Rich, Ben, and I departed Milford Sound having just completed the greatest hike in the world. Rain streaked down the windshield of our ’87 Galant as I urged the grey bucket up successively steepening switchbacks. We slowly chugged towards a towering rock face; the steeply inclined Homer Tunnel hid from us until the last possible moment. In the rear view mirror, I watched in terror as a previously picturesque green valley transformed into some kind of ghoulish nightmare - black rain clouds descended on the scene and waterfalls erupted from both valley walls. My three stinking and dripping compatriots broke my panic by reminding me, “Relax Cavness, we just hiked the Milford Track.”

            You see, when it rains in Milford Sound, it pours, and when it pours, the valley walls burst open with dozens of waterfalls. It’s biblical, really. Rainfall is averaged to over 11 meters and 300 days per year. The area receives so much rain that oceanic waters periodically convert to fresh water - so much rain that the Milford Track’s brochure forewarns walking through “up to a meter of water.” Fortunately, our four-day jaunt was graced by three days of clear skies; the torrential downpour didn’t hit until the end of our fourth and final day.

            Despite the rain, National Geographic labels the 33.5-mile Milford Track as “the finest walk in the world,” and I wholeheartedly agree. Describing the Track is difficult, but imagine the Disney World of hiking. Instead of the Tower Of Doom or the House of Mirrors, I found myself tugging on papa Sam’s sleeve and begging, “Oh! Oh! Can we go swimming in Lake Mintaro before we see Hirere Falls!? Can I please stay up late to see the glow worms!?”

            For me, Southerland Falls, New Zealand’s tallest waterfall, delivered the Track’s emblematic mental snapshot. There I scaled slimy rocks to stand beneath the 540-meter fall and look down-valley. Avalanches of vegetation pour into the gorge from every direction and Kea Parrots offer their shrill, piercing calls. It is a place where the Velosa Raptors of Michael Chriton’s imagination would be happy.

            We spent our three nights on the Track in huts outfitted by the Department of Conservation (DOC) with gas burners, wood burning stove, eating area, and bunk beds. The track begins and ends with a ferry ride – no other means of access are available. The group of 40 that disembarked the ferry with us was the same group that we dined with each night and hiked with each day. Memorable characters include a fearsomely disciplined German man and his troop of equally ordered German kids (presumably his children). I don’t speak German, but I imagined the conversations going something like:

Father: “You will march or die here.”

Hanz: “Yes father, I know, but when may I have my ration of nuts and berries?”

Father: “You will scavenge your own, or die here.”

Hanz: “Alright father, but why have you poured water into my sleeping bag?”

Father: “To teach you resourcefulness, otherwise you will die here.”

Yeah, that’s probably exactly what they were saying.

            The only real disappointment came on the second morning, when I awoke to find one of my boots missing. After some searching, I discovered it tattered and lacking its insole. Apparently Kea Parrots are renowned for shredding critically important pieces of equipment and pooping on things that you love.

            Thankfully, Keas represent the greatest danger to humans on the Track. Indeed, the Milford Track would be impossible in almost any comparable rain-forest. Elsewhere, predatory dangers make the track’s universal access unconscionable. In the Amazon, Boa Constrictor will gladly squeeze the life from careless hikers. In South East Asia, Bangalore Tigers might shred the wandering tramper. Access to those jungles is restricted to only the most expert and knowledgeable. New Zealand's uniqueness is its absence of dangerous predators, snakes, spiders, and bugs. Nature (or fortune) has exchanged the Asp and Grizzly Bear for the Kiwi and Blue Duck. Dominica is the only other country I’ve hiked predator-free in a rain forest, and those trails are not nearly as manicured, well signed, or hutted.

            Currently, I am relaxing back in Dunedin and housing Daniel, a friend I met on the Milford Track. Daniel is also German, although less stoic than the former group. He is riding his bicycle around the South Island of New Zealand before heading to medical school in Deuchland. Having taken a similar trip in America, I was more than happy to lend him my couch and show him around D-town.

            Milford Track was only the beginning of an epic Spring Break; the remainder must wait for a later post. 

Midnight Blackberry Mayhem

Since my last post, I’ve been hitting the books hard. The work here comes in big, tsunami-like waves. The kinds of waves that make you fear for your health and social standing. Thankfully, last night was the end of work; I spent this morning catching a different kind of wave at St. Clair Beach.

The local surf break is just a 10-minute drive from my house. Today was an “epic sesh’ at the break; the swells were pumpin’ cleanliness,” and I managed to stand up on my first wave despite “dropping the falls and getting cycled” a few times. As you can see, I've befriended the local surfer population and assimilated seamlessly. I invested in a used board and wet suit weeks ago - worth every penny.

Other highlights include, well, highlights. "Highlights," are headlights you strap to your helmet for thrilling midnight mountain bike rides in Bethunes Gully and Forrester Park. I’ve been biking with the Otago Cycling Club for two weeks now. The Kiwi’s have a fondness for steep climbs and brake-free downhills on curvaceous trails that skirt bottomless abysses of rain forrest. Interestingly, chain gangs from local prisons build many of New Zealand's walking and biking trails.

Derek, a portly, cynical, and hilarious local, demonstrated the Kiwi love of freefall on Wednesday. I had dismounted and turned off my headlight to enjoy a deep and silent darkness below the aptly named “Slippery Slope Of Death.” I watched Derek’s headlight emerge atop the Slope as a gleaming point. The light descended rapidly, followed by the sounds of brakes locking and tires sliding, then the headlight flipped multiple times through the darkness until it came to a sudden stop meters below. “Mates, I’ve got blackberries stabbing my manberries!!”

I also rode a motor scooter, placed 10th in a duathlon, and went on a fishing boat to investigate mud. Those stories, however, I have deemed unworthy of your bandwidth. I did post some pictures though...

I’m off to enjoy a hearty bowl of soup cooked with love and care and instant ingredients by Annabelle, my Kiwi flatmate. She has blazing red hair and relentless spunk. 

Tramping and Falling Great Distances

The trick to a successful bungee jump is not overcoming the indomitable terror that awaits you at the edge of a 400-foot precipice, but in remembering to stay stylish after you conquer those nerves. Anyone can fall, but only Ben Kunofsky can hold a Super Man pose for 8.5 seconds of free fall. I chose a salute into graceful swan dive. Others went for a Heisman Trophy pose. The oddest was Rich Saunders, who neither yelled nor moved as he fell. Not a single peep or gesticulation, so for a brief moment everyone was concerned that his “mortifying terror of heights” shouldn’t have been taken so laughingly as we hurled his writhing body off the platform. Just kidding about that last part.

I spent my Easter holiday camping and hiking, or "tramping" on the scenic Kepler Track and repeatedly jarring my adrenal gland and pancreas in Queenstown. The week was my fondest so far in New Zealand.

The Kepler Track snakes through glacially carved mountains overlooking the foggy Lake Te Anu. The path is well manicured and padded by abundant mosses; the rain is frequent, but serendipitously relenting at critical moments; the sights are astounding.

A host of nine healthy and handsome twenty-somethings accompanied me. Most were American, most were college students, most were males, all were friendly to begin and friends by the end.

Queenstown represents my mental projection of the perfect resort town. In one day, you can Heli-Bike, River-Sledge, and bungee jump before eating some of the world’s finest hamburgers from Furgburger and then dancing up a storm at The World Bar, where drinks are served by the teakettle.

Jet boating thrilled me immensely – imagine flying through a picturesque canyon at 80km/hr, inches from dismemberment and disfiguration. Our driver was Kelty, a long time jet boat pilot with icy veins and the perfect badass image. Kelty piloted the 20-person, 500 horsepower rally boat around corners and through obstacles with robot-like control. He never flinched, even as we spun multiple 360-degree spins through bottlenecks in the canyon.

After all that, I’m pleased to be back in Dunedin enjoying a more amenable and sustainable lifestyle (for a few days at least).

The Most Unpleasant Car Ride

On Sunday I awoke in a disoriented delirium. I found myself stuffed into the back seat of a sweaty sedan. Sam was at the wheel, hurtling the car around twisty bends on the moderately safe New Zealand highway. The time was 3:12AM, and from the middle seat, all I could see was a curtain of swirling fog. The experience mimicked some kind of nightmarish overdose. Allow me to explain.

            Three days earlier, on Thursday afternoon, five men piled into an ’87 Mitsubishi Galant headed towards the “Wild Foods Festival” in Hokatika NZ. The drive would be just over 7 hours. Our spirits soared as we cruised through lush and rolling scenery. However, after an hour of driving, we discovered that only one tape existed within the car – “The Best Of Disco.” Daunted but still determined, we powered ahead to our intended destination. We pit-stopped for a brief tour of the Fox Glacier and associated photographic hilarity. By diner time we had arrived at our campsite and had finished erecting our tents. Then the binge eating began.

            The Wild Foods Festival instantly doubles the population of Hokatika from 17,000 to almost 40,000, so you can imagine the town’s enthusiasm and energy during this weekend-long event - something like the excitement of a birthday for the middle child in a family of 12. On Saturday I ate the following: one piece of kangaroo, one piece of crocodile, one worm and almond truffle, a fried huhu grub, a stag heart sandwich, shark, a worm in a shot of Red Bull, kava juice, a snail, various exotic honey products, ostrich, rabbit balls, devil’s water, wild boar, and a host of “normal” foods. The 18-year-old drinking age boosted everyone’s culinary courage. Regrettably, none of the adventurous stomachs in our party consumed Viagra slushies, which were almost instantly sold-out. I was totally deflated.

            After the festival, everyone (thousands) migrated to the beach. When the sun set and the light rain cleared, brightly burning bonfires illuminated the beach to both visible horizons. Each fire accommodated a cluster of about 30 remorseful digesters.

            Our party decided, for reasons still unclear to me, to leave at midnight and drive 7 hours back to Dunedin. I entered a deep coma as soon as the car began rolling. At 3:12 I awoke to a horrible sensory onslaught. Five hung-over men filled the car with indescribable putrid gasses. Two of them slept on my shoulders. “It’s Raining Men” blared for the tenth time, and our driver had erupted in maniacal laughter. The ten foreign animals in my stomach had long since confounded my digestive system. My contacts had dried to my eyeballs, and the stiff back seat had somehow tied my lumbar into a square know. As a final terror, we were driving almost 120 km/hr into a wall of fog on a very twisty, very narrow road. “This is the most unpleasant dream ever,” was my first thought, but soon I realized “This is the most unpleasant moment of my life.”

            Well, we made it back to Dunedin safely. I slept from 7:30AM to 2:00PM, and promptly began a thorough fasting regiment to cleanse myself of untold toxins and general bodily misuse. Feeling much better now. 

The Last Cantaloupe in New Zealand

I have been in New Zealand for almost three weeks now. Below are the highlights. In the future I plan to make more incremental additions. 

            My first weekend was spent camping on a saddle between two peaks above the Mt. Aspiring Valley  (central in the south island). Sam Libby and Rich Saunders accompanied. Calving glaciers covered the surrounding crags; the sound of ice blocks crashing and exploding so close to camp was like sleeping in a thundercloud. For additional paranoia, we camped about ten paces from a 270-meter cliff dropping to the valley floor – the largest cliff in New Zealand. It was very windy at night, and in the morning Sam reminded me rather publicly of how I clutched him in sleepy terror, asking, “are we going to blow off the cliff!?” On the last morning, Rich spilled the remains of our food supply. We haven’t talked much since.

            My second week was full of geology. One of my classes began with a weeklong field trip during orientation week. Instead of diversifying my cultural perspectives in the various bars around town, I was swept off to northern Otago to jump over electric fences, dodge cow patties, and climb mountains all in the name of geological mapping. The following week was spent creating a detailed geologic map of a 16 square km area, cross sections, stratigraphic columns, and a ten-page report.  By the time formal classes started, one third of my grade was submitted. I slept very little.

            I finished the project on Saturday night and drove four hours north with Evan Mikkelson. Our mission: to run the Christchurch marathon. We arrived late on Saturday night, ate peanut butter sandwiches, and slept in the trunk of a Subaru. In the morning we hurried to the starting line. Christchurch is known broadly as the home of all things extreme and sporty, so Evan and I expected a bonanza of activity and energy. We arrived to discover that the marathon was in fact a 17-lap race around a 2-km loop of the city park. Additionally, only 11 people were participating. Well, Evan won the first marathon he ever ran with a time of 3:26; his prize was a box of fruit containing probably the only cantaloupe and non-seasonal fruit on the island. As for myself, I was sleep deprived, running in shoes borrowed from my female room mate (2 sizes too small), and almost completely untrained. I also encountered gastro-intestinal problems on the same magnitude as my Indian experiences – explosive. I got fifth place with a time of 3:56 and was happy to receive a free vegetarian meal in the town center.

            Currently I am happily recovering and binge eating in my flat.