Boney Creekings

New Vista...

2007-09-11T12:34:00.000+12:00

For the next two months - two expeditions will be occupying my mind & time

I will try cover these separately:

Dudh Kosi: http://milkofsagarmatha.blogspot.com/

Kameng : http://risingsunfallingriver.blogspot.com/

2007-08-17T11:48:00.000+12:00

The world turns, the earth burns (jun 23/24 2007)

Some people have a natural affinity with things sedentary. Like fences, couches, kayaks, bar stools, etc; while the order is unimportant, certain combinations can tend toward complimentary states, and now, after a wait of Falstaffian proportions, the mix was right.

The Black Wait in HorrorScope

Consider: amongst the southern most quaking appendages protruding from the northern isle (wellington & environs), upon a fragment of any day, there is to be seen: an absurdity of loquacious idolaters and interlocutors supping their favorite coterie of blackened beverage and brew. What is the principle component of this neo-stationarity I imagine one of the few curious asking ? Answer: (ones fat arse aside) Caffeine!

It is unsurprising that the inherent contradiction here, of being both energised, and the tendency to remain immovable, are variously at odds in the minds of the indulgent, who consider Newtons first law of motion to lack a caffeine component - one accelerates to the water in direct proportion to the amount of caffeine consumed, and the problem of ones rotund derriere ever contributing to ones inertia is neglected in inverse proportion to ones awareness; but, alas, happily, on this occasion, apres one such mental meltdown, good things conspired to happen: It rains, and I move toward it, with a coffee in hand; verily, the planets have aligned, as no doubt, every horrorscope in the daily prophet (sorry, dominion) has enumerated in great detail, and so, as if I have a choice...

Of Good Fortune and Ostriches

Of good fortune, let it be said: it happened here; multitudes, nay, hoards of isolated instances, continuously interjecting; conjunctions of sun and surf, silence and serendipity, exhausted feet and vino (endless list really...) And rain, did I mention rain? Into this desert comes rain. At last. A deluge (but not of Northland proportions - sadly).

Alas, there is, as there must be, a dark side. A balance to this abundance; a nemesis for this paradise:venture out amongst it of a Saturday night, and you will be tempting the fates; rape, pillage, beatings etc and other mean nasty stuff. There is also, from the perspective of someone with a mal-adaptive sun persona, the slight problem with the lack of precipitation for the first six months of the year (Apologies already! I did mention rain or the profound lack thereof? It is worth mentioning again). I am not trying to trivialize the trauma of others, by equating their very real pain with the lack of rain, just harping on about the smidgen of the internal drama inherent in this moment. Picture drawn. Coloured. Lets move along.

Nothing new here though; it has been pretty much on par for the last five years. And for April, please welcome the warmest one on record for wee Ireland; and for May, please give it up for the warmest one on record for New Zealand. One may detect a pattern forming; even for the pattern adverse; even for the ego-centric ostriches amongst us. Or we may not. Sigh. But whats this, the wettest june/july on record for Ireland... Mein Gott! where is the justice ? O, the irony.

Depart-Overture

And so, this wet Friday night proves to be too much temptation; there are flowers for departing, and an impending sense of separation anxiety; but the rains, they come! The road, it beckons. The lift arrives punctually, in the manner of many a Kiwi (the person, not the fruit; though they are oft the same); and by fall of darkness, we were to be in bed (but packed seperately, to avoid spoiling) with the rain, wrapped in the blankets of lightening.

By Otaki, caffeine necessitated a BP stop; not quite the last semi-reasonable coffee outpost for a while; but not far from it either; and there was also the precedent of tradition to be adhered to. The elements were being semi-brutish, and with a wizardy-flash; all turned to black, as I stood in line awaiting my beverage. The darkness was total; "the eftpos seems not to be working...", he says. I can overhear his desperate tapping's...; maybe I should do a runner ? I eye up the still running car outside...; there is a surreal quietness, then a kick start of light overhead, and all is re-illuminated; coffee and queue it is then.

Climbing the Lodge

There are texts to Chris; rain, I say... lots...; come to the valley. He might, he replies, but he is play bound.

The lodge is full of work persona only. It being a Friday night, and the kiwi experience - which seems to consist mostly of travelling piss takers and piss makers - is absent - it being a rest day for the crew; but resting they are not. They contort about the dinner table. A climbing post to amuse any sober head: they start by lying flat atop, and then clamber underneath, and around in odd spidery motions, yielding bruised arms, wrists, legs and ankles. Me not tempted. Too sober. So I climb the inside of the stairs, one step at a time; hand over hand; good climbing workout, but mayhap equally as odd as table clinging.

Strange Brew and Slainte

There is a strange brew handed to us; there is an occasion, but it eludes me; but Paul assures us, its all on him; there is whiskey mixed with some mysterious ingredient... "don't let it touch your tongue" he says. Slainte and down. It chokes. The unspecified mixer was Tabasco, and it stings in the way you would expect Tabasco to sting: unaware before ingesting, and on fire after. Paul smiles. Holy shit sticks, that was a brew.

There followings one more single - un-adorned, pure an un-polluted - unlike quite a few snot laden kiwi rivers - and it is a slow tingling pleasurable sup. There is a little tension borne of too much alcohol, but it diffuses easily and just as suddenly, its sleep-time; 1am. The rains continues episodically to tap-dance outside, and the wintry chill prods the layers of lodge and clothing for weaknesses.

Morning Liaisons

Morning infuses the mind slowly. Bones respond likewise. Too early, almost too difficult. I stumble down the stairs for breakfast. Whilst vision systems are un-blurring, a fuzzy form resolves into Chris. A five hour spin with a one hour sleep. And plans to paddle the almost 50 cumecs of the freezing tiki. An excellence of craziness. It was summer when last we caught up. He, west coast departing; I, Murchison lingering. Breakfast...

"you did not order last night, so I will take my time" This, the response to food inquiries...; so much for Paul's promise of a personal touch for breakfast; amusing. A drunken promise to arise gives way to a more immediate sense of what alcohol does to indulgence.

Tasmanian Tom Turns Taxi Driver

At the Parhatanui guage, water is sitting comfortably at 1.3m; when Tasmanian Tom drops us at the get-in; it appears to be sitting about the same level. It looks good; the continuous rain promises a potential peak at some point; but, unlikely to be within our three hour window of water time, so we commit to enjoy.

Water is chill, and a chill wind gusts on occasion; mits and gloves alleviate somewhat; but Chris, exposed to the elements is soon blowing his hands to stave off the freeze; by the gorge proper, I will discard the mits in favor of a freeze too.

The body is river starved; and surging eddies take their time shaking free the months of accumulated cobwebs. Chris, with one hour sleep is faring better, and Dean seems quite keen to get to the get out as soon as possible: the promise of a 5 o'clock return, despite being somewhat optimistic, is still his party-point of distant focus.

New Rapid, New Man

New rapid has clean rolling lines on river right; and each rapid has pleasing contours and shapes. Soon, the gorge quintet: Max's drop (and lead-in), Dogsleg, Fulcrum and Foaming. Dogsleg has beautiful break outs left and right, and a kicker of an angular hole at the bottom. Dean runs left and has his tail flicked into the air on river left; Chris similarly. Water is good. We are all smiles.

Memories of a rock

A few months previous, Dean paid a certain rock on Fulcrum an unintentional, though spectacular visit on the lead in to the pivot point: sideways and rolling over a rock. Chris leads and is gone from view. He flips and runs the gamut without pause.

The pivot eddy on river right is always too much temptation, before jumping across its back, left on the bottom ledge, and breakout under the ominous pulsating eddy with precipitous overhang on river right at the bottom. Dean follows, flips, says hi to the rock of recent-past, and drops down on river right, still smiling.

Slip Sliding Away

Foaming. Man, dog and river. I take river left, then right. There is a clean line to the ledge on river left, which now resembles a mini Hukka, replete with a nasty closed looking hydraulic; which, with a small error might decide to rip one apart with complete indifference. I pound the palm of my hand with my fist. I think they understand.

Flecks and fragments of grey catch my eye from tens of metres above them, and already they are moving backward; Dean having received notice of intent with a rock fragment in the back. The Foaming slip is loosening again somewhat. I write hasty obituaries in my mind. They smile, backs hard pressed against a rock face - just in case, and I muse over the difficulty of retrieving them from the rubble of the slip.

The line on river right looks a sweet ramp; and there goes Dean some few minutes later, running river right the whole way. I come from river left, angling right and break out behind a large rock; i briefly contemplate the ledge, the lack of momentum before I would reach the lip; and decide to also slip down the ramp on the right. Chris follows Deans line, and slips cleanly down.

Double drop follows, more roller coaster clean lines, followed by the bitty, but enjoyable lead out rapids. The play wave at the bottom provides some impetus for hot showers; which, to our great dismay only proved to chill us even further. The disappointment was offset nicely by some brew provided by Chis, which I hope is setting some kind of precedent for winter Tiki trips. Nice one!

Home Time with Sun

The road home is not long away. Dean drops off his split Mystik, and Chris muses about sleep, beer and getting warm.

The bubble of brief musings (during the drive north) about remaining Wellington bound, whilst accompanied by the heavy rains, bursts; as the Waikawa, and especially the Otaki confirm that levels did not correlate in any way, with the perceived deluge.

Wellington greets with dry roads and fading sun, and all is well, with the weekend still mid-flow; the Southern still got the Sting, team NZ drop one, and with the All Backs soon to rise against the Boks...

2007-04-06T10:49:00.000+12:00

The W a t e r f a l l C r a w l W e e k e n d

[O c t o b e r 2 0 0 5]

This 2^nd Waterfall Crawl weekend has been long loitering in dust clouded corridors of our collective consciousness, and it is only the imminent departure of a kayaking friend to the Emerald Isle that has precipitated the fixing of a date. That the date is less than a week away alarms no one in particular, and certainly no one familiar with the slow organisational arc of a kayaking trip, typically consisting of a flurry of friday afternoon emails, which usually (though not always) coalesce into some semblance of a plan. That the plan is to hit the road and decide en-route is also, happily, a not unfamiliar one.

image #1: [shane] airborne in the space of the atomized

This Friday is proving to be no exception, it is late, and things still have an air of confused peculiarity: high in generalisations: we head north, and low in specifics: Which cars to take? Who is to travel? And more importantly, what falls are we travelling to? But such details are not insurmountable.

Not to give too much of a misleading impression of the formidable organisational prowess at our disposal, we have decided to meet en route for a coffee, and fix a plan of sorts. But, as things often transpire, our two well-worn cars leave with such a time differential, that their paths only converge again when River Valley Lodge is reached, just north of Taihape, several hours later.

R i v e r V a l l e y M u s i n g s...

It is after midnight before the car (in auto-pilot) finally rattles down the recently flattened gravel road toward the lodge. A police car cruises passed to our collective bemusement, the Spanish Inquisition aside; it is one of the very last things expected in this oasis of calm. It is unusually quiet at the lodge, the whispering Rangitikei aside; the absence of any noise is somewhat unnerving.

The answer is provided the following morning, a rafter has died on the river. A death on a river is always a reminder of how tenuous the thread, connecting risk to consequence, and it is close to our thoughts all weekend. Four paddlers, three creek boats; a conundrum we hope the closely based Bliss Kayak Manufacturers will resolve by donating one of their designs for the weekend.

While the boat situation is resolved, Louis, Quinny, Sue and I study lists of waterfalls within a few hours drive of the central plateau. Two drops make the top of the list pretty quickly: Poutu and Waikato, both suffering from the pleasant combination of close proximity and our excessive curiosity. The Poutu falls has previously proved somewhat illusive, (during last years inaugural Waterfall Crawl), and could have assumed a mythic status of sorts, had it not been for a previous scouting by Louis and Sue.

image #2: [quinny] Cerulean Freefall

W a i k a t o F a l l s B l u e s...

The Waikato falls sits upon the very over dammed Tongariro river, which offers a pleasant juxtaposition of delight and danger for kayakers. The fall sits between access 10 and 14, framing its crystalline waters with corrugated walls of black volcanic rock. The bridge spans an impressive narrowing of the river. Upstream tends toward an impenetrable tree chocked mess, while downstream, the river convulses through a series of ledges, which are very typical of rivers in this area.

image #3: [Sue] The transition to Elevated Spirits from Elevated Heights

The first, at an acute angle to the rock face, deflects a large cushion of water into a large bowl shape cut into the opposite bank, past the Waikoko stream, which flows over a 2m fall, leading to the second drop, which, in fact, is a double drop, with a deceptive lead in, and a rock outcrop on its river right base, all of which add to its lack of appeal, while the third drop is a sweet cascade of blue and white.

To conclude that access is difficult, is to understate the case somewhat. Numerous safety ropes and harnesses are used as magical lures to entice boat and body below the second drop, where the water can be reached with relative ease. Sitting on a high outcrop, twixt the bottom two drops, I lament the lack of a few inches more water, which in the opinion of Quinny will allow a cleaner line on the top drop and a potentially clean line on the second drop. It is while these thoughts cross my mind that I decide upon a differing access route: seal launch from above the channel.

Louis, the groups safety conscience, holds the rear deck, as I need quite a bit of forward momentum to get over the ledge a few feet below, and to avoid straightening and face planting the opposite wall. He counts me down. Blade wedged against the rock face. Release. Freefall. But, my stern clips the ledge below, and dangerously follows my bow. The aerated water hits, solidly, exploding as boat and river greet. The momentum pulls my right knee from its grip, and it’s a second before I can push it back in, to roll up. A little comical for onlookers, perhaps. Probably not the cleanest line. The errors are compounded with a poor line over the lip of the main drop, angled too much into the river right eddy at the bottom, in an attempt to avoid the main re-circulation at its base. I spin too quickly and end up stuck to the wall, necessitating a left hand roll. O dear.

Quinny follows, a clean line, more centre, but still angled to river right and pops cleanly into the eddy. Sue is next. Her anxiety levels have been high since the lowering of boats and bodies on ropes. But Louis and Quinny have taken time to explain the easiest way of getting water bound and the line to the lip of the drop. She appears a while later; a clean line shooting out into the into the same river right eddy.

Louis has been overseeing our shoot with throw rope and camcorder. From below, I can’t help musing about the potential for an unfortunate confusion of artefacts should rescue be required. Headlines appear in my minds eye: “haemorrhaging kayaker pulled from Waikato falls! A speeding camcorder embedded in his forehead during a safety fiasco”, priceless footage, no doubt.

image #4: [Louis] Effortless eddy catching

He lowers the camcorder on a throw bag line and, with some difficulty; it is retrieved for Sue to get footage from a differing perspective. A whistle sounds from above, his visualisation done, the signal of immanent descent. A clean line, mimicking Sues flowing arc. “How does he do that?” muses Sue, as he skims into the eddy. Our photographer is waiting on the bank, telephoto lens in hand, where a crowd of two have recently departed, and she snaps a few very elated wet bodies as they emerge from the wet cocoon of their boats. Nice belly flop. Amusing.

M i s s i o n P o u t u :

t h e s e a r c h f o r t h e m y s t e r i o u s

b o t t o m d r o p...

On a state highway 2 cul-de-sac, lunch is conjured into being upon the car bonnet. Louis and Sue have turned providers, and assortments of dips are placed at our salacious disposal, while the ever well-stocked Quinny delves into his cornucopic bag of goodies. The Poutu lay before us: a puzzle in three parts, the first of which (its location) had been previously resolved by a tenacious Louis armed with an unfortunate combination of camera and amnesia; there is a photo, but only a vague idea of how to get there…

It is a long drive along rugged forestry road, before forth avenue pulls us parallel to the river. There is an element of guesswork here, and a random stoppage point proves fortuitous: the sound of the fall can be heard in the near distance.

Prudence necessitates a tramp through the bush to check for ease of access. So we descend carefully through root, branch and assorted mulch. Quinny is reminded of the more difficult, by far, descent to the Whakapapanui get-in. “Compared to tha”, I say, "this is a piece of piss”. Then my legs give way, all control evaporates, and is only loosely regained, when I come to a rest in a deluge of dirt, some 20 feet below, a few short inches from Louis’s boat. He is standing off to the left, a bemused look on his face. He is looking from his boat to me and back again: “My Boat!” he seems to be saying, (as the sky darkens and ominous sounds rumble) “lucky you did not damage the boat!”

The fall drops cleanly over a narrow ledge, tumbling some ten metres into a large pool, which empties at an abrupt right angle before us, down a shallow rapid, to entertain anglers just downstream with its gurglings. “High” was just about all there was to say.

To resolve the second part of the puzzle (that of access), we opted for a river right forage through the bush. Louis disappears for a lengthy period before returning with a fisherman’s tale, and still none the wiser. Fortunately, some roots to my right look like promising points for harness anchors, and boat and body are shifted slowly up the bank, in the hope that we will gain the top of the fall.

“High, isn’t it?” I say, to which Quinny admits to a ”surprising nervousness” The line to the lip of a fall is none too clean, some overgrown bush and rock-strewn shallows make paddle and boat placement a little less trivial that would be wished for.

image #5: [Quinny & Sue] A study in post & pre stress disorders

We drop in an assortment of boat angles, blade positions, and levels of anxiety, to emerge unscathed, predominantly upside down, and out to the side of the pulsating cushion of water at its base. The slight breeze combines with the spray to cause quite a few set up problems for the camera, and Quinny has to be content with just a snap shot of post fall elation captured as he emerges from the his brief free fall.

Sue has been looking on with a growing sense of horror, and has resigned herself to omitting this drop from her CV. She unknowingly represents the third part of the Poutu puzzle! How do we convince her that it is within her to do this? There is the ominous sound of evil laughter wafting through the bush… Under normal circumstances, I would not consider trying to change a paddlers mind, unless I considered the line quite safe, and even then, only reluctantly, but…, some few minutes of negotiation and Louis, Sue and I are clambering the river right bank to begin our various visualisation exercises, before each dropping over sweetly. A very elated Sue at its base can barely contain her delight. So concludes our first day, and with mountainous appetites, we set off for Turangi, “trout capital of the world”, to catch some in the local chipper, and muse about what the next bush ramble might bring.

L a k e T a u p o :

T h e h i d d e n f a l l s o f W a i h a h a...

The east side of lake Taupo is littered with prospective falls we know little about, but our curiosity had been peaked by a web image of Teike falls, which sits on the Waihaha. The name is intriguing “The tail waters of exploding planets where the spirit world bathe their young”. Our logo designer, Timon Maxey, and friends had paddled the upper section, before deciding a hike back upstream was wiser than a climb from a committing gorge. River bank access was therefore ruled out, given the time/safety issues dealing with such an unknown, and we opt for a slightly less ambitious route: descend as far by car as was possible, tramp the rest of the way to the lake, and paddle the 6 km upstream.

image #6: Taupo Aesthetics: the long descent

This all seemed semi-reasonable until we were greeted with the view from the start of our hike. Far below, the beaches edge the crystalline waters like a models cuticles, and rock faces rise sheer from the waters edge. Daunting. Rose and Sue have opted to photograph and film, respectively, and Sue is to share Louis’s creek boat, should the fall proved appealing.

image #7: [louis] : The art of tramping, kayak in tow

The long trek down to the waters edge did little to diminish a niggling sense of pointlessness, that perhaps all we would find is some improbable mess, which even those with no will to live would think twice about running. But this was finely balanced with the stunning scenery; so it was in reasonable spirits that we reached a fisherman’s hut at the lakes edge. Despite the seclusion, some boats were in the near distance, probably as dismayed as we, to think that such pristine settings were

co-habited.

Rose and Sue set off along the rivers edge to see if a route to the fall was possible by bank, but within a few minutes of the paddle upstream, the landscape suggested that this was far from possible. Overgrown cliffs climb precipitously on either side of the river, which wanders in a crazy zig-zag through boggy undergrowth. The only route to the fall seemed to be by water.

It is quite some time later before a constant rumbling announces the falls proximity, and turning a corner reveals a huge arc of white through the trees, dropping into a large open pool, not unlike the Poutu. But here the volume is substantially larger, and a spray extending from the falls face smashes rock upon rock in explosions of white; this is no genteel bathing of the young then.

An intimidating 20m high, and nothing suggested it was anything like wise to give consideration to bringing a boat above the fall. A series of ropes on river right allows access to the top of the fall, where the true nature of the fall reveals itself. The line from the top is though a narrow slot, like many of the fractured falls on the Tongariro, which sluices onto a plateau several metres across, before racing over the lip in a cacophony of white. Rocks everywhere. No clean lines to be seen by the sane.

image #8: [Shane] a demonstration of why no Seals are to be found on the Tongariro

But, it was hard to be disappointed by such a secluded visual spectacle. Definitely a place to intrigue the spirit. We begin the slow paddle downstream. It has been quite a mission, but in some respects, the highlight of the weekend. Most of our day has been consumed in getting to and from the fall. The myriad other falls on the east side of the lake will have to await our curious attention another time. For Quinny, who soon departs for Ireland, the wait will be a little longer.

2006-12-21T13:23:00.000+13:00

“No problem is so big or complicated that it can’t be run away from”

Linus^¹

Perhaps these pithy words of Linus should be paraphrased and entered into the kayakers’ lexicon to read as follows “no drop is so big or complicated that it can’t be run away from”.

It doesn't take much to see that the wisdom of little people^² don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world^³

Among the few PG words quite often overheard when confronted by hideous river apparitions are “the water isn’t going anywhere”. A polite euphemism for a sound guiding principle: if there is any degree of ambivalence about running complex water, then one should give careful consideration to running it another time (or not at all). The implication being that, should one commit when not fully confident (both physically and mentally), time upon the water (in any kind of conscious state) could be seriously curtailed.

If not confident of the line, do it another time

If not absolutely confident of the line (or preferably more than one line), then perhaps it is wiser to do it another time. With sufficient time and space between you and the point of contemplation, it is potentially easier to place oneself in a better head space, to calmly figure out what it was that engaged ones reticence. If no such consideration takes place, what chance then of a wise decision being made when subsequently faced by an equally (or more) difficult piece of water?

“You've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya punk!”^⁴

Having asked yourself this rhetorical question, others may follow hard upon it: is this piece of landscape going anywhere any time soon? (Relatively speaking, ignoring capricious natural rock slides, rapidly changing water levels or equally ignominious resource consents^⁵!) Which is the more vulnerable, the sequence being examined, or you?

“Minstrel (singing): Brave Sir Robin ran away

Robin: No!

Minstrel (singing): Bravely ran away away

Robin: I didn't!

Minstrel (singing): When danger reared its ugly head, He bravely turned his tail and fled

Robin: No!

Minstrel (singing): Yes Brave Sir Robin turned about

Robin: I didn't!

Minstrel (singing): And gallantly he chickened out Bravely taking to his feet

Robin: I never did!

Minstrel (singing): He beat a very brave retreat

Robin: Oh, lie!

Minstrel (singing): Bravest of the brave Sir Robin

Robin: I never!”^⁶

Should Sir Robin in you prevail?

What matter some arbitrary period away from the contemplated long drop? Such decisions confront paddlers with alarming regularity, and often the Linus-Kayaking dictum should prevail where it does not. But, whether this piece of water is run or not, is incidental: being on the water is a deeply personal experience, and the decision to confront any feature should be an egoless and peer-pressureless decision. Any degree of coercion during the contemplation phase can only lead to bad things. Better by far for those wavering or listless to listen to their own inner Sir Robin, and choose the wiser path: running away to contemplate another day or retiring to the nearest pub to warm their innards with the wisdom of (land-based) indecision.

Andrew Quinn: Tawhi Falls

1 From Peanuts by Charles Shultz.

2 Not a non-subtle reference to the nationality of the author!

3 With apologies to Humphrey Bogart

4 From DirtyHarry

5 As far as paddlers are concerned 

6 From Monty Python and the Holy Grail

2006-12-05T11:00:00.000+13:00

Just a few daze in Pukeko Paradise (or several mixed hutt musings)

Once or thrice in blue moon, an obliging westerly fronts up and urinates liberally on Wellington . Today, despite the absence of any celestial omens, the incontinent heavens were uddering: well fed rivers must surely be high, but alas, the Te Marua guage has declined all reasonable (and unreasonable) attempts at clarification. Consultations with the book of I ching, Tarrochi, and an assortment of other higher authorities yield similarly inconclusive ciphers.

Is it high ? Or is it not ?

A dilemma of Shakespearean proportions: a tragedy in one act: bemused paddler goes home to pub, has his drink spiked with indifference, and passes out (a tragedian with one act!). As luck would have it, my desire to live the life of a transient has happily coincided with the rivers indeterminate state, and the desire of one Mr Tapper to investigate. "Free?" he asks, leadingly. Am free. For much rain, me much free (However free we deem ourselves to be; the choice to be river bound still remains, for the most part, a cherished illusion)

To the river, then. The entrance to the lower reaches of the Kaitoke park is betimes littered with the enigmatic grandeur of an indigenous bluebird: the Pukeko: an elegant conflagration of colour. It is not unusual to see three or four doing some off road rambles hereabouts. Sadly, a blue splat at roads edge bespeaks of an adrenaline junkie whose junk had sunk; and still, so pleasing to the eye. Probably no co-incidence that the first line of an article I came across recently begins with the line "...I have come to the conclusion that Pukeko are suicidal.... ".

Would you like some pastiche with that Sir ? (Mid-week Hutt interludes)

#1:
There are certain things which should not be attempted by man and kayak. Does this involve implements of destruction, I hear you ask? Copious amounts of alcohol or industrial grease; No, sadly, much worse. In front of me, one such act of depravity is being simulated, and while excuses can be made: high river flows, insufficient medication etc, one shudders to think of the hideous offspring sprung from such a morally impecunious concoction of man and boat: something short squat and always going off the rails, no doubt. Sigh.

#2:
There should be some brief commentary on the linguistic malapropisms indulged in whilst preparing for water time (although perhaps the less said the better):

* "...am changed and waiting..."

One wonders if even the correct context would allow this a redeeming quality

* "...am at the get out and ready..."

Sounds a little suggestive...

There are all manner of other slippages and tautologies on offer..., again, the least said, the better.

The land of the long white illusion: the cost of having space

It is a painfully regular observation: how safe we all are here under the long white cloud, in wee kiwi-land, which, of course, is just the craved innocence of the Shire (all aboard the Hobbiton express) or some Carboniferous cravings from GondwanaLand. Lets ignore for the moment: tectonic tension, volcanic tension, treaty and racial tension, p-tension, p's & q's tension, no rain tension etc etc etc. However, like all things, there are relativistic positions: it depends from what cloud one is looking from; ask Professor Ein Stein (stoner, to his friends), who proved among other things that the cosmological constant contains both our sense of awe (G) and the energy density of the vacuum (the power of The Man): we all have an innate sense of wonder, which allows us to be bemused by a senselessly deterministic universe, which controls the arc of our collective one act play, even as The Man continuously tries to crush our very soul (there is no soul, but that is a minor quibble)!

The thought of safety, like that of environmentally friendliness, is, predominantly an illusion. The speed of sarcasm, like the speed of light refracted through the cess pool of Intelligent Design, remains highly variable, depending on ones point of observation, and disposition. What the ID has though, like the illusion of Eden(z) (should really be a trademark! - this is not a veiled reference to the Auckland language school !) is a nicely creative approach to inconvenient truisms: here be the land where one can sleep easy in ones bed, whilst the toes of possum twinkle by moonlight, in the Myrtle Rata; which, as any fan of Harry Potter will tell you (or any member of DOC): there is good cause for the moaning!

As padiwi (irish kiwi), I can only say; well, its safer than being on O'Connell street bridge at midnight; but that doesn't mean that your shoes won't be swiped from your well-tramped-feet if you stay stationary overlong. This was re-inforced recently when a couple (with young baby), travelling the world via Aoteroa, were relieved of the complete contents of their boot, whilst bush walking near Rivendell, at our usual get-in point no less: *pop* goes that bubble of illusion.

However, this is old news. A recent article in the Dom.Post relates as much: Truth will out on 'safe' New Zealand.

Hutt returneth @ Tree Point Tree

The river is medium high; a very pleasing 3.3m at Te Marua. We set off in mock sympathy with the Hutt River Race; which has, much to the chagrin of at least one person, migrated onto the flooded Akatarawa. But, mayhap it will allow for a greater range in swimming abilities. So, in the spirit of speedsters, we set off at full tilt. During training, this observation should be marginally qualified, as a scud at full tilt differs little from a drifting scud, however today, the mellow yellow has been magically re-incarnated as a blue deans mystik ( in light of the larger flows on offer); Louis leads on the top; I give him some minutes head start. It proves surprisingly difficult to make up the time in the earlier reaches!

All the stuck-wood that now adorns the gorge at dangerously low-levels lies hidden, and betimes forms nice extra ledges, waves and holes. Infact, some of the best features in the gorge arise purely from lodged logs. It would be a pity to remove them all: it is not a grade two run, and so, to remove enjoyable obstacles for the benefit of beginners seems to me of dubious merit.

Tales of the three rivers

The run down is an enjoyable sub forty minutes. There is steam rising from the bottom of the mystik at the get out. From Te Marua, thence to the Hutt club rooms to catch up with the rest of the river racers. Alan, coordinator par-excellence, has his hands full with the logistics of competitors racing on three different rivers. One wonders how timings will be organised?

Far away Parables

There is quite a crew with modest tales of carnage and high river levels. The meat-eaters bbq is wheeled out into the warming air and all carnivores make mellow merry with sizzling sausages, while my caffeine-tropic semi-vegetarian soul (hey, internal inconsistency, its all part of the zen paddlers miscellany of Koan: water seeks the sea, what does one seek on the water? ) is drawn to upper Hutt to fill my veins before the long road home. Another good day. Caffeine musings leave me, as they have much of late, contemplating the eternal conflict between good and evil, latte versus flat white, and the corporate life styler versus the river aspirant style lifer; and what with the Ross Ice Shelf disappearing (again), the forces drawing me to my desk on a monday morning seem darker than ever, but as long as rivers and pockets keep filling, whats the issue, eh ?

[Trips on November 9/17/18 2006]

The reason no Seals are to be found on the Waikato

2006-11-28T14:02:00.000+13:00

Waterfall Crawl 2005

Dropping in for a run of the last of the three falls making up Waikato falls.

2006-11-16T14:37:00.000+13:00

And finally: The Hutt Gorge obliges with 4m at TM [Aug.26.06]

It rained all night. Hammered the house. The street. My dreams. Persistent. It was a veritable deluge when I struggled awake for a phone call at 5am, but also an opportunity to let rain-induced-kayaking-insomniacs know of my semi-coherent paddling aspirations; the resultant texts may have been imbued with the feel of unspoken alcoholic ruminations of the resent past; but then, they were the product of a semi-unconscious automaton sleep dribbling to wakefulness! It rains though the conversation; rains through Wellington's non-responsiveness;to bed I go, marginally dejected; but rain brings out the optimist in me...

Texts at 11am; the river is climbing resolutely toward the illusive 4m mark. Excellent. Trip on, I think to myself in thought bubble, only for Louis to immediately burst it with misgivings about the intractability of getting an obliging shuttle bunny to brave the elements (and our enthusiasm), or a second car. Sadly, it seems Sue (The illustrious Pink Paddler) is busy using her beast for the day. I am stumped. Doesn’t anybody realize that the Hutt is flowing at 4m? My Kingdom for a car! But Sue relents, and all is well, though her car has yet to respond to my need, and I sit blocking the road with the engine sounding sickly; Ah, the choke, mon dieu!

On the Hutt motorway; slips trigger spontaneously; car quakes of primitive beats care of Sepulchura (Roots Bloody Roots). Thrumming, bank to swimming-trees-on-the-opposite bank; a veritable torrent of eye candy! Managing to be both slightly exhilarating and terrifying; mostly exuberant; terrifying is just the wrong side of overly dramatic. After all, who could possibly fail to be curious about The Gorge when the Te Marua gauge is lubricated to its mid section?

Several years have passed since last we were on the road to Rivendell, with the river hooning past, and probably making the same exhilarating mental notes; mayhap there was some slight anxiety then; for the unknown element was greater. Its crawling tentatively onto the far bank with its centre rolling in big folding contours; there is an abundance of driftwood poking from the murk like stoned seals with their beady eyes heavenward; watching the world race by, man.

Upper Hutt; from here, it can be seen snaking in all its swollen state from the glorious fern fluted green canopy of the distant rainforest. This ever volatile landscape generates a continuously changing riverscape; and this is true since first the wellington fault cracked apart the greywacke bedrock of the Tararua ranges, and graciously inserted sufficient room for the river to meander through.

The temptation to obtain something to record both river and trepidation levels proves too much for Louis; and with the garage not all that obliging in the waterproof domain, he sets off into Hutt central to locate a camera. It has the potential to steal some important flow time; I am incapable of remaining either stationary or moving further from the river: I head to the get out and stake a branch in at water level; a reference, just in case the it drops (or rises). A great swirl of boils sits at the usual get out point. I wait. Not patiently. Text. Wait. Transfixed.

At the get in; some rambling kaitoke ruminants quiz curiously “bla bla – not too high?” “Well, we may stay night out…” “bla bla bla”. Just-In-Case-Notes are drafted for the car; Just-Because-Texts are sent. Splits, throw bags, food, matches, spare clothes…: my boat weighs a Just-In-Case-Ton! All focus is now water centric. The Pakuratahi is heaving; it’s the largest volume I’ve seen for a while; on the get-in eddy-line, sprinting upstream simply leaves me stationary, and a ferry glide leaves me sitting somewhat bemused a 100m downstream; but at least I’m at the far bank. Yes, it's high, but the recent watermark suggests the level has just started to turn from its peak.

The eddy lines are not small, and the first is sufficiently welcome, that I feel the necessity of a roll to loosen the joints; a broiling mess, folding in and out of itself, bursting from rock face to rock face. It explodes over boulders, which garner all of our attention, as there lurks retention-seeking holes; avoiding them proves to be an impossibility, and one has to spiral in as elegant a manner as possible, whilst not quite fully obliging the whims of the river.

The narrowing of the gorge yields further maelstroms. Horizon after horizon. One in particular has whiteness spewing into the air from below (not a good sign); a river left line has a wall of rolling white, grim and steep; I choose right, but it is too far right, and even as I momentarily snatch a relieved glance; the river reaches from amid the boils to yank my inattention upstream with a disconcerting jolt; stern submerging and bow jutting out at 45 degrees; there is an unpleasant moment of unreality, before enticing the boat from underwater, back into the rivers centre; it's as if the sea, constrained in a glass jar by some deity, decided to swirl both jar and captive mischievously about.

We seek eddies of relative calm to catch our breath, assume some suave aspect, even as our lungs burn, and tinges of edginess play on our features. The imagined amount of water in my boat feels a huge burden, so, while Louis strains in some gurgling eddy (as any witness to the strains of Louis will attest, it is fortunate indeed that they are held captive by his kayak); I get out and relax for five minutes (physically, mentally and bladderly!); taking the first opportunity to calmly inspect features downstream; but within an hundred metres, all lines are hidden by sheer walls – it all looks sweet to there!

Some eddy lines are amusingly difficult. Louis takes one a boat length in front of me; the bow of the scud is swallowed; its stern rises and loops over its bow, coming alarmingly close to my face. Rest. These breathless stops allow us to gather our thoughts, which are few, and those few rest focused on the water. “It’s a step up” notes Louis in the only full and coherent sentences to be uttered. It’s definitely swinging at us from all sides, like a pugilist, on speed.

Another ramp. A juicy hole on river right catches me as I descend, flips me sideways into another hole a boat length away; keeping the bow up, the stroke rate rises, and focused on a point of relative surging calm, I accelerate slowly in that direction; that is all there is to be considered; if momentum is lost; then some unpleasant submerged time is guaranteed.

What a joy this volume is; the push and pull; part fine line; part mountainous feature; at the calm of each, I glance nervously upstream waiting for Louis to appear from amongst the writhing waters. There is no hope of keeping together. The pulsing flow pulls us apart too quickly or features snag us and hold us up; eddy lines are often gargantuan and no place to linger, and the boils are often too difficult to cross to entertain any consideration of getting aid to the other, if the need should arise.

Louis, casting his eyes about, around three quarter mark, notes that perhaps the levels are starting to lessen somewhat. A trip some weeks previous at 3.2m has shown there was plenty of interesting features left (a very remarkable wave train among them) and it remains well in excess of that. How fantastic are the views upstream, as the boat emerges into being from brown-white squalls. Thankfully, each time he re-appears; sometimes on differing lines to mine, sometimes coming out of a roll, but never looking too much the worse for wear.

The eddy line at the gauge is also a mass of boils, and the river is above 3.6m, with the pipe wet the whole way to slightly above the 4m mark. At the get out; my makeshift marker is a foot above my bow, on still damp earth; thus confirming the subtle shift that had progressively became more obvious. It took less than an hour to get down: and that with a stoppage or two en-route. Over 200 cumecs of barely constrained impressiveness. Hopefully the wait for a 4m+ run will not also to be measured in terms of years!

Heart Rate with curious peaks - possibly some correlation with rapids :) [shane]