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Adventure Guide: New Zealand's South Island
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Thus enlightened, we geared up and started paddling out of a deep cove. There were intensely vertical mountains on all sides, and all of them were heavily forested. Waterfalls tumbled wherever we looked, and the sun was warm and glorious. Ron was a little disappointed by the waterfalls. "A well-hydrated elephant could do better than that," he said. "This is one of the wettest places on Earth. When it rains, the fjord is filled with waterfalls. Problem is, we've had a pretty severe drought here. It hasn't rained in five days."
There were seven of us (three double kayaks and Ron in his single), and we kept close to shore in case the unpredictable weather of the 40th parallel sucker punched us. Then we turned down Hall Arm, which Ron thought was one of the prettiest fjords in New Zealand. The mountains rose 5,000 feet (1,524 meters) or more directly out of the sea, and they were crowded together, one against the other, scrunched up so tightly that it looked as if a guy would have to walk sideways to move through the valleys. And you couldn't move through the valleys anyway, because they were fairly choked with vegetation.
In the Rocky Mountains, where I live, we believe that if there is vegetation growing on a slope, it can generally be climbed without technical gear. Here, trees grow on slopes that inch close to perfectly vertical. And since the soil is shallow, there are frequent green avalanches. Trees tear loose from the wet, shallow soil and tumble down the slope, ripping up other trees, so that there are large avalanche scars marring the mountains on all sides.
The freshwater runoff from the constant rains is nearly black with tannins
from tree roots—like a strong tea—and this dark water floats on the surface of
the sea. It's so buoyant you can cup your hand and drink directly from the surface. The darkness created by this phenomenon has brought scientists from all over to study various forms of undersea life that, in other parts of the world, exist only in the abysmal depths of the ocean.
We took out at a campsite in one of the few flat spots along Hall Arm. There was a screened-in building where we cooked, and each of us had a screened sleeping area. The protection was necessary because the shore is infested with sand flies. You couldn't really feel them bite, though they left great stinging welts on your arms and legs. Captain James Cook, when he was here, named them sand flies, though they are actually a form of black fly.
I recall slathering myself with repellent and going out of the cooking area to wash the dishes. I was thinking about Cook, who'd named this fjord Doubtful because it was so narrow that he doubted he could turn his ship about in it. Instead, he'd anchored in the neighboring Dusky Sound and commented on the constant and cacophonous calling of birds.
New Zealand was a bird island, I thought, and, as if proof were required, I was boldly approached by a weka, a hen-size bird that is absolutely fearless. It moved in and tried to grab the shiny gold pot scrubber I was using. I splashed some water in its direction. The bird retreated a step, then made another quick grab for the prize. I splashed water directly on the thief, to no effect. It was a stand-off then: me and the weka. I kept the scrubber in my hand at all times, and when I looked at the bird, its eyes, fixed on the scrubber, glittered with intelligence.
I remembered a quote I'd read from the explorer Charles Douglas: "Why did New Zealand not select the weka [as its national symbol]? It has personal valor of a high order, an undying thirst for knowledge—unthinking people give it another name—which causes it to annex everything portable about a hut and carry it into the bush to study it at leisure. It has affection for its young that would face the Prince of Darkness in their defense. And above all [it possesses] an intelligence apart from what we would call instinct: far higher than I have ever seen in a bird."
But it wasn't the Kiwis, I would later read, who bestowed an avian identity upon themselves. During World War I, soldiers from other countries referred to New Zealand's fierce fighters as Kiwis. It's a fitting name, I think now. A full-grown kiwi, which is about the size of a chicken, can face down a small dog or a stoat. They move fast and will rise up on one leg then strike with the other. All this happens very quickly. The birds are accomplished boxers. And they are fearless. As Kiwis are.
After lunch the following day, the four of us were off to have more fun, Kiwi style. We went to a high cliff overlooking Queenstown, rode a gondola to the top, and decided to try the swing. Maybe we'd turn black-and-white and our eyes would go red. Two platforms at some distance from one another were cantilevered over the cliff some 150 feet (46 meters) apart. A rope was anchored to one and pulled over to the second from which visitors launch. A crew of Kiwis fit you with a seat harness, lower you a bit, and tell you to pull the pin when you are ready. Then the thing lets go. Greg, Peter, and I, perfect gentlemen, said Ladies first, and Amanda had no problem with that at all. She was raised a Kiwi.
When it was my turn, I checked out the rig—"she'll be 'roight mate"—lowered myself, then pulled the pin. The world dropped out from under me. I plummeted 90 feet (27 meters), and then the swing started. I found it was rather faster than I'd imagined. This was a little different from the bungee, since I wasn't used to falling into a 300-foot (91-meter) warp speed swing from a sitting position. Meanwhile, as I swung under the station where my rope was anchored, I couldn't help but notice that the wall of the cliff rushing by me to the right seemed but a few feet (about one meter) from my face. (I was probably 40 feet [12 meters] away, but it seemed too damn close.) Then, soon enough, I was swinging gently back and forth, taking in the view. Double paragliders were doing loops overhead, jet boats were tearing across Lake Wakatipu below, and the luge-bikes were winding down a cement track at truly silly speeds. Ah, Queenstown. I was winched back up to the anchor platform by the safety rope.
Now Peter and I drove down the lake at sunset, as Amanda had suggested. The water turned golden in the dying light, and Peter, driving again, suddenly swerved.
"What was that?" I asked. I'd been looking at the sunset.
"Opossum."
"And you swerved to miss him?"
"It had a baby on its back."
"We could have gotten two."
"I'm a bad conservationist," Peter admitted.
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Adventure Guide: New Zealand's South Island
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