Weather Window

This morning the rain woke me in the early hours. The forecast was for afternoon rain, how often is this wrong.

We live on a group of islands at the bottom of the south pacific, where the weather is hard to predict and often changeable.

For me I had a two-day window to complete a job and now, well it is gone, my week is thrown into disarray, all because of the weather.

The land is wet now, after a wet winter it doesn’t take much to lift the water table. This is important to me as it affects what I can and cannot achieve on any given day.

Frustrating as it is living by the weather is a simple and intrinsic life. For too long we have moved away from what we are. Our ancestors lived with the elements, nature was what provided for them and it governed how they lived.  Where our ancestors lived was due to the elements in part, they had an understanding of how to use what was presented to them on a daily, seasonal, and yearly basis.  

Myself I live in all the seasons my work puts me out there in it. I love the wind rain sun cold hot. Long ago I learnt that I have no sway on the elements, so I live with them. There is a lot of joy to be taken from the sun on your face. Conversely the rain being driven into you by a strong southerly wind too is invigorating, to be enjoyed with equal passion.

You have to slow down and go with it. You get time to think, often too, wonder, and daily look in awe at the world around you and revel in the complex simplicity of it all.

Walking out on a frosty cold still morning has no equal for invigoration. I cannot buy the joy felt. I feel the same standing ankle deep in cold mud sawing falling trees in the midst of a winters afternoon. The cold seeps into my very core, this is the moment when I feel the connection with those that have gone before me.

I come from a long line of people who understood the weather the land and the sea, for if not; I would not be here today.

SLOW LIVING

GRBX

 The morning started with me lying in bed listening to the wind howl down the coast I rolled over it was only 3am I couldn’t get back to sleep the wind from the south sounded evil I knew it would be cold. Six am arrived; god the wind, please stop. At the café by eight, what a great idea for a start point slash meeting place. Two coffees and I’m still frozen the hail shower waned my resolve, nothing like fellow fools to make you push on.

Eight thirty and I’m away, head down into the wind each bay gives respite each point a sand and gravel blasting, the cook strait ferry rolls and crashes its way south into the biting gale . Ric holds his bike up and the wind blows it horizontal, fuck I’m cold.

Over the point onto the Wainui road the wind softens, others ride by laughing hellos friends and fellow adventures are they as cold as me? No turning back now past Orongorongo the wind is starting to push us now. I walked this coast as a kid with dad to go paua diving, memories flash by then head long pell-mell into the unknown I dive. Laughing we stop to admire the brash carefree trio starting into their first beer, its ten thirty, I’m getting old I was a little shocked, man by eleven I would have curled into a ball and died if that where me.

The coast bent to the north the trees bent too, the wind is savage here, and the sea a washing machine. I am alive this is so cool what a moment. Pushing through sand I hit ocean beach tick off another segment on to tar seal.

I’m at home now, on the TT bars head down I rock into my work, the train is leaving my fellow travellers tuck in we eat kilometres. The wind is behind making me look good but I’m still cold so fucking cold.

Cross creek looms I swing left back onto gravel. We stop at trail head eat and muster courage for the climb, I’m half way now. I pedal talking all the way, I can’t warm up the wind eats at my soul stripping me bare. The summit tunnel is 3 degrees I need to know that why did I look at my Garmin? I could feel it did I just want confirmation. Like a drunk double checking an empty bottle I look again, fool. Stopping I put on a jacket in hope forlorn empty hope, I’m so fucking cold.

The decent was cool so cool utilising both meanings of the word; I revelled in not pedalling and froze a little bit more.

On the Hutt trail our team of four; one by two halved becoming two. A pie at Lower Hutt warmed my edges, onto the Hutt Motorway hanging on for dear life, I was thinking, fuck I’m cold.

Then into the warmth I strode to the greetings of fellow adventures, I drink my pint and the pizza was hot I’m getting better now is it pride? Thrill of completion or am I finally thawing out. Whatever it was I’m feeling great its six o’clock at night and I’m happy.

Two hours later I’m pedalling down the road to meet my lift home, I stop by the bakery to wait, I shiver, fuck I’m cold. 

Donations to keep me writing?

Well here goes, I’m trying something new. Work is hard to get and my writing will not pay the bills. If you like what you read make a donation hit the paypal button so I can keep them coming. Thanks Mark 

The Tomahawk At Shirtcliffs Store

The evening sun was sitting low on the hills as I walked away from home, my breath rose in white plumes as warm met cold. Two dogs bounded away from my feet their breath too rose like a steam training leaving a lonely station. My hands are thrust deep in my jacket pockets, a woollen hat is pulled down low yes it is cold. The lack of wind makes the cold seep into my joints I walk faster trying to warm up.

Slung across my back is a netting pack containing a small axe, which bumps on my spine as I walk, its rhythm is like a metronome counting my foot fall. The dogs reach the pine trees before me and run deeper into the rows on a bed of brow needles. With every step the day falls from my shoulders problems are lost and I begin to stand taller I can smell the wind, the trees, the ground, and the dogs. My senses heighten, movement is seen, and sounds become clearer.

As I walk I pick up pine cones and drop them in the bag on my back. At a fallen limb I stop, slip the bag from my shoulders and remove the small axe, to be correct a tomahawk. Slipping off its leather cover I pause to look at the axe head. I beers the marks of time I can remember when it was shining new sitting on the shelf of Shirtcliff’s store. I saved my pocket money for months to make this little axe mine. The tomahawk has stood the test of time for over forty years it has cut my kindling. I have carried it on countless camping trips; it was part of my tool kit when I worked as a fencer.

Now as I swung the axe knocking cones from the branch I remember the pride and thrill of a young boy who at the age of eleven was experiencing for the first time the value of hard work and the tangible reward it produces. Every time I oil the handle or file the blade I see time, life in a tool, every mark on it has a story. I can compare this little axe to my skin, aged by time and hard work; we are a team inseparable and reliant on each other.

Later in the evening, as I open the fire box throwing in a cone I pause and think back to the young boy at the store counter did, or could I have ever imaged how far we would both come?

A Motel at the Confluence of Two Roads.

The motel had no laundry. Too tired to care, I washed my riding clothes in the shower. Outside a strong, hot wind was still blowing. I hoped the last hour of daylight would be enough to dry them, as I hung my clothes on the communal line.

We had decided to stop in this two shop confluence of roads, so I could climb Lewis Pass in the cool of the next morning. For three days in a row now we had battled a strong, hot head wind for the last twenty kilometers of each day. It was beginning to wear thin but the sight of a motel and a café connected to it had buoyed our spirits; tomorrow was an eager anticipation.

The food in the café was just what we needed, big, hot and flavorsome, served with bigger and hotter chips. I harbour a latent desire to return to this café when I am fresh, nor tired, sun burnt or windblown, just to see if the “Alpine Big Burger” is as delicious as it was that night. Somehow I have a feeling I will be disappointed, but to its designer and constructors credit, it did its job that night.

Fed, washed, with our cloths quickly dried, we turned in. The sounds of the day receded, the wind dropped away, darkness enveloped our small complex. I was just falling into a well-earned sleep when the first rat ran across our motel ceiling. I could not see it, but I knew the sound. I hate rats in fact I am terrified of rats. Do not share an important secret with me, for your adversary or my interrogator, would only have to say the word, “RAT,” and I make no apology, your card would be marked, resulting in you being woken one dark night by a knocking on your door, to then disappear into a dark unmarked car……..

 “Ok” I thought “one rat, I can handle this, soon I will be asleep,” but no, one was soon joined by two, then three. How do I know this? You ask, trust me, being a fervent rataphobe I knew. By three in the morning the rat festivities had reached a crescendo with what sounded like an organised race across our ceiling. This was not any old race, but a heavy weight derby with some very closely matched participants pushing for a glorious win. The finish must have been breath taking for all watching, with three heavy weights going down to the wire, two falling as they crossed, oh how the crowd cheered their display of speed and power.

It was draining for all involved; slowly the crowd dispersed the last making their way home as the sun was breaking over the distant hills, the very hills I was destined to climb in a few hours. Turning, I pulled the sheets over my head and fell into a fitful slumber.

 

Are We Lost

“We need the weird people the - poets, misfits, writers, mystics, painters, musicians’ adventures explorers’ troubadours - for they teach us to see the world through different eyes.” Unashamedly copied and bastardised.

“Are we lost”?

“No”

“Well where are we then”?

“I’m not sure but if we keep going down this track we are bound to hit the road at some point”.

It was a late summer’s afternoon a simple idea of a ride had inadvertently turned into an adventure. We were lost no doubt but we still had a vague idea of where we could be.

 After a climb that turned into a push we linked on to an old farm road that went in the direction we had planned to ride so onward we road.

The trail dipped down a little too soon for our liking but with no other option and nothing to worry about we took advantage of the trails gentle downhill gradient and easy flowing corners. Following I always wish I could ride like she , her balance and  feel for the bike is natural the lines are always perfect I find myself mesmerised and drawn into following her wheel marks.

Down we flew round grassy smooth corners down down, when abruptly the trail turned uphill. Changing gear, upwards we cruised buoyed by the day, the moment, the company.

After nearly an hour of climbing we topped out on a lonely summit. This is where the doubt set in, and the conversation of lost stared.

So often in life we know what we are doing, when we have to do it and why. Little is left to doubt; caution is rarely thrown to the wind. Are we or our lives lesser for it? I know exploring a new trail that I have little or no knowledge for is a thrill not to be missed. The uncertainty the excitement of new discovery has a magical effect that lasts all day. In life that is now connected instantly information is at hand for all to see, risks are avoided sanitised reported and repaired. Couple this with the necessity to tell everyone what you are doing and where you are instantly leaves nothing to chance. Have we lost the art of getting lost?

As the sun set we retraced our tracks climbed a few fences and eventually found the road. Both smiling we rode back to we knew we had left our van, true adventurers and wiser for the experience.

Why has society always judged explorers, adventures and free spirits as not the norm, is it an inner fear of moving away from a comfortable being.

“We need the weird people the - poets, misfits, writers, mystics, painters, musicians’ adventures explorers’ troubadours - for they teach us to see the world through different eyes.”

Searching for Coffee

The full moon woke me in the early hours before dawn. I turned in my sleeping bag seeing my fellow travellers were still asleep.

I lay listening to the dawn unfold, fighting the urge to extract myself from the warmth to go to the toilet, necessity eventually won over warmth. Crawling back into my bag stillness returned. In the distance the sound of a truck winding its way up the road, we had climbed last night, drifted over the valley.

Slowly others started to wake around me and before long I could hear the sound of a gas cooker being coaxed into life. Reaching in to the bottom of my bag I retrieved my cooker and too started the morning ritual. Taking a cup of hot water I spooned large spoonfuls of fresh ground coffee. Setting it to side I waited.

They say the first hit of heroin is the best and those afflicted by the drug spend a lifetime trying to visit that first event over and over. For me it is coffee, not just any coffee but the first of the day coffee that has the same effect. I spend the balance of my day trying to revisit the first hit.

Sitting in my sleeping bag I look across to the hills we must climb today, I take a long pull on the cup I hold between my hands and let the magic of the drug take hold.