Night of The Living Tri Tip

  I felt nauseas.  My eyesight was playing tricks on me in the fading daylight.  My knees and feet were protesting vehemently but I continued carefully picking my way down the never-ending ridge.  My eyes were looking two steps ahead for safe foot placement while stealing glances around for potential camp sites:  nothing. Must keep walking.
  I'd been hiking all day, but had begun this 6 kilometer stretch of "trail" at 4:30 pm with a snack of Cadbury Caramello bar slathered in creamy peanut butter.  I sat at the boundary of Hunua Regional Park, a beautiful park easily accessible to Auckland with heaps of mountain bike trails, looking at a sign that read something like this: "You have reached the park boundary. There is no trail beyond this point. We are not responsible for you. You'd better bring water, maps, and a form of communication so we can locate your body later." I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it. I was entering a thick section of what the Kiwis insist on calling forest, or bush, that in all actuality must be jungle where no trail had ever existed and yet was the route the Te Araroa was leading me to. This was not a problem as the route had been marked with the sometimes present orange triangles nailed to trees along the way.  I shouldered my pack and headed into the dark green.
  I'll say this:  at no point was I nervous about getting lost.  While there was no trail per say, I was also not the first thru-hiker to come through and there were plenty of triangles to follow.  The terrain, on the otherhand, was as challenging as any I'd come across thus far.  Straight up, muddy, roots, vines, razor fronds, steep down, and logs to crawl over were my path across this high ridge, but it also wound in winding S's not going in a straight line for even 15 feet.  It was slow going and as I was traveling alone and  I was hyper-aware of the perils of even one careless step turning into a sprained ankle or worse.  (Sometimes the "what ifs" and "that was closes" scare the crap out of me.)  It was also the end of the day and I was already tired so needless to say the going was slow.  Almost embarrassingly so, but I persisted.
  Near the end of the 6 km an actual trail emerged and I slapped one foot in front of the other as I doggedly made my way down to a paddock that I knew was below me.  I had not stopped moving forward in 2.5 hours, I was slack jawed, and I was exhausted from concentration.  Finally, below I saw the very first patch of flat ground that I'd seen in about 12 kilometers and I menatally claimed it as my own, no matter what.  The thick forest/jungle gave way to an open view of lush, green paddock with 30 or 40 cows contentedly eating dinner.  I reached the level ground and came to an abrupt stop.  At last I could stop.  Before dropping my pack, resting my feet, or eating some food I just looked out across the paddock at the cows and listened.  No sounds of footsteps or labored breathing filling my head, my aural senses picked up the distinct accoustic cadence of grass being ripped from the earth.  Times 40. I just stood there and listened to the simple sound of grass ripping.  Inexplicably, a huge smile came across my face.  I don't know, it just made me happy that no matter my tiny struggle, effort, or focus, life, for these cows and for everyone else on the planet, carried on as usual. It was somehow reassuring. The cows kept eating but casually made their way across the paddock to the fence that separated us and grazed as close as they could to me while I set up my camp, cleaned up, and prepared to die in a pile for the night. It was nice to have their company.
  Fast forward to the next evening when I had completed about 33 kms of walking and it was time to find a place to camp.  I'd been walking through private farm land for a while and had been told that past the next fence would be a fine place to camp, right along the Waikato River. Great.  I trudged the one kilometer it took to get past the barrier, carefully crawled over the electric fence and started looking for my campsite. "Boy," I thought to myself, "there sure is a lot of cow shit around here!"  It took several minutes to find a feces-free bit of grass and I popped my tent up nice and taut.  I turned my back to my tent for a brief minute to enjoy my view of the Waikato River and when I turned around there was a single cow about 8 feet away from me.  Where did you come from?  And then I looked up at the tiny hill behind my camp:  dozens of cows looking down on me. Now, I'm not afraid of cows, trust me, but when they are curious and outnumber you, even the dumbest of 1,200-pound beasts are intimidating.  I picked up my hiking poles and started the showdown.
  I clacked my sticks together in the direction of the brave interloper but she merely blinked and balked.  I lunged forward and clacked and shouted, "Heeyaw! Heeyaw!"  She startled and looked ready to run.  Then she made to walk closer.  "Heeyaw! Go on, GIT!"  The other cows, still chewing cud, curiously looked to their leader to see how they should behave. A few more clicks of the sticks, cowboy shouts, and feints and the cow turned away and headed up the hill.  Satisfied with my brave outwitting of this cow, I grabbed my camera and walked the 35 feet to the river's edge to take a picture of the beautiful evening light behind some clouds.  Only a few seconds passed by but by the time I turned around to walk back to my tent all of the cows were down off the hill grazing all around my portable abode and about 8 of them were in a semi-circle around my collapsable casa LICKING the rainfly.  My victory was extremely short-lived.  Now I'm just screaming "HeeYaw! GO ON GIT!" in every direction at any bovine beast that would pay attention.  Some were timid and easily scared and others were unshakable.  I spent the next several minutes whooping and hollering in a grassy, poop-filled meadow herding cows away from where I sincerely wanted to lay down and go to sleep.  In a series of small stampedes they finally cleared the area.  Deep down I knew I should pull up camp and move out of their paddock, but, you know, my tent was up already.  I simply didn't have the gumption to relocate.  So I got into my sleeping bag, stashed my hiking sticks nearby, and took a sleeping pill.  (It's very unfair that despite hiking 30-35 kilometers per day my insomnia still occasionally gets the best of me....as if the inane, asinine thoughts that ramble through my head while I'm walking deserve more consciousness. Argh.)
  Predictably, sometime in the middle of the night I was awoken from a deep slumber by the aforementioned sound of grass being pulled from the earth, an occasional snort, and a chorus of boorish farts.  These sounds were close and coming from 360 degrees around me, my sleep-addled brain registered before my exhausted body could even move.  The cows were upon me.  I laid still and contemplated my options. Would they start licking my tent again? Would they nibble at it?  I tentatively reached my hand out of my sleeping bag, flicked the side of my tent, and loudly said in a stern voice, "Hey!!" (no pun intended). A small scurry of thundering hooves as the cows got the hell away from the mysterious talking tent.  But there were more cows.  I waited for the next batch to come close to my tent and I began to wonder if the cows would instinctively avoid my tent or was there a chance they might actually trample me.  I could see the headline: Woman Trampled By Cows In Freak Midnight Paddock Massacre.  There's really no glory in going out that way. I shifted in my sleeping bag and the loud, squeaky noise that emanates from my first generation NeoAir (sleeping pad) every single time I move (ugh, don't get me started...) finally came in handy and scared away the next batch of cows without me even trying.  Once again untrampled, I waited for the next group to wander through my domain.  I realized how ridiculous this was: me in my tent, unseeing of my foes, and scaring them with a mere shift of my body on a squeaky air mattress. Ridiculous, yet genius. This cycle happened about four times until I heard no more snuffing, shuffling of hooves, or grass being pulled. I'd won.  I'd vanquished my foes to the outlying lands to be bullied no more by the....zzzzzzzzzzZZZZzzzzzZZZZzzzzz.

Cows. Behind a fence. Where they belong....

  In the light of day, after I'd packed up and began walking again, I discovered that if I had walked around a bend for apporimately two more minutes I'd have climbed over another fence into an empty paddock and been bothered by nary a cow.  Ah well, such is life. I'm happy to report that I was not trampled to death by cows in my sleep and my tent is intact.
  Later that day, after the midnight stand down--or lay down as the case may be--I was pitted 60 to one against another herd of heifers.  I had to cross their paddock along the trail and they were not the nervous Nelly's that I've oft come across...these cows were quite curious indeed and circling me from all angles. Only my previous night's experience and sheer bravery got me through unscathed.
 I tell you what...there is no lack of adventure along the trail. No lack of adventure for those willing to see it....

Weapons and Drugs on the Te Araroa

*Gentle Reader, to be as true and honest as possible, this post will contain strong language. By strong I mean foul. Foul meaning vulgar. Proceed at your own comfort level, but there is no way to write this without it....*

  Our morning started out quite pleasantly;  waking up on the freshly mowed lawn of a generous Maori couple who had offered to let us camp in their yard.  Mary and I arise at six every morning, packing up our sleeping bags and tents swiftly as to get on the trail and make some kilometers.  This morning our kind host brought us hot tea on the grass.  We gratefully quaffed our drinks and hit the road.  We began our day with a road walk, but as it was fairly early there was not much traffic.  The biggest bummer about the paved road walks is that New Zealand roads have no shoulders.  Like none.  So we walk against traffic and scoot over as best we can when a car passes us.  This morning was calm and quiet and we passed through pasture lands at a clip:  by 9:15 we had already walked 10.5 kilometers.  At this point we had been walking on a steep, windy section of road and when I spotted a wide pullout that turned out to be a small gravel quarry, I decided it would be a nice place for a break.  Time to take a load off the hooves and eat a snack.
  In the pullout there were about a dozen small piles of perfect pea gravel.  As an Alaskan trail-builder and home owner, I appreciate really nice gravel.  I plopped myself onto a soft pile and commented to Mary that it would be great to redo the trail leading to my cabin back home.  We both dug into our bags for snacks and I pulled out a small jar of peanut butter and a spoon.  Gee, what a beautiful, quiet morning it had been.
  I stuck my spoon into the jar and retrieved a big scoop of the creamy goop.  Then the world changed.  An aged, burgandy Jaguar came roaring up the hill and passed us going fast.  We watched it pass by and then, unexpectedly, screech to an almost immediate halt, skidding in the gravel half-on and half-off the road, the reverse lights came on while still in a forward motion and the car came roaring back toward us totally disregarding the vehicle approaching behind it.  The Jag again came to an abrupt, skidding stop in reverse directly  in front of us, sitting on our gravel piles, and a woman looking remarkably like a bedraggled Ellen Barkin was rolling down the passenger window to talk to us.  We saw her lips moving but all we heard was Patti Smith with the volume set to 11.  I paused with my spoon of peanut butter halfway to my mouth, curious. Curious, indeed.
  The music snapped off and the woman shouted at us, "ExcusethemusicWhenyou'redrivingthesecountryroadsyoujusthavetorockouttoPattiSmith!Do yous girls need a ride?"
"No, we're OK! We're walking the Te Araroa, so we're fine...Thank you!"
She obviously had no clue what the TA is (I've found most Kiwis don't) but did not skip a beat when she asked us, "Are yous carrying weapons?" I don't really consider my little Leatherman blade that I use to pop blisters on my feet and slice cheese a weapon, so Mary and I looked at each other then back to her and said, "No."
*Unleash the Beast*
 "Areyousfuckin'idiots?," we heard from the car as the motor snapped off and she hurled her door open and stomped around the front of her car to confront us.  She was rail thin:  no butt, no muscle tone in her tight, black spandex pants.  She wore a shearling jacket that was buttoned incorrectly and sitting askew with a sheer black shirt tail hanging down to her knees.  I can almost guarantee that the whole shirt was sheer and she was wearing a black bra underneath, but I can't prove that.  She wore cheap, white flip flops and sported toenail polish the bubblegum, Barbie pink that a 15-year-old girl might choose.  Her hair was half piled on top of her head in a bun and half everywhere else.  She may have been in her late 50's, but it was very difficult to tell. She stood in front of us with her hands on her hips and began the rant.  I lowered my peanut butter-covered spoon, mouth agape.
 "WhatareyousdoingrunningaroundthiscountrywithoutweaponswheredoyouthinkyouarethereareMaorisalloverthiscountrywaitingforgirlslikeyoutowalkthroughthebush! Haven'tyouheardwhathappenedtoMeredithandherboyfrienduphereGOOGLEITgoaheadgoogleitYou'llhaveheardwhatIdidtenyearsagoGOOGLEITgoahead!" Mary, who was holding her iPod in her hand, began to explain that she didn't have cell service, "Acutally,---" The woman interupted and continued in one never-ending sentence, "Youscan'tbewalkingaroundthiscountrywithoutweapons! YoumustprotectyourselfI'vegotanarsenalinhereI'msittingonfourthouingoldI'mgoingtogiveyousomeweapons!" She continued talking, non-stop, as she went around the back of the car to find us some weapons from her traveling arsenal.  Mary and I looked at each other with huge, saucer-sized eyes.  Neither one of us feels the need to carry a weapon, but we were way too curious to stop her. Plus, we couldn't get a word in edgewise.  She was still talking.
  I honestly had no idea if she was going to pop the trunk of the ancient Jaguar, black smoke pouring from its undercarriage, to reveal an array of firearms in a gun rack, a box full of knifes and blades, or a suitcase with a golden light pouring out of it a la Pulp Fiction.  Honestly, anything seemed possible at this moment.  She came back around to our side of the car where we sat stupidly on our gravel piles, frozen.  Spoon of peanut butter untouched.
  Marching around the truck of the car she stopped in front of me. I didn't even have the wits about me to stand up, I just sat there as she talked at me.  She held up a nail file. "This! Holditlikethis [plastic handle in her palm, thumb on the base of the QVC file] Youwannajabituplikethis [vigorously and repeatedly jabbing in an underhand motion, stopping just inches away from my torso] foralivershotGottagoforthelivershotifsomeoneevenwalkstowardyouGoforthelivershotthenkickhimintheballs [aggressively demonstrates a knee to the groin, twice] Don'tevenlookbackjustwalkawayandgetoutofthereGoforthelivershot!" She handed me the nail file.
  She turned to Mary and pulled out a pair of scissors about 4 inches long. "Whatyoudowiththeseisholdthemlikethis [index and middle fingers in the holes of the handle, also underhanded and making a fist] andjabjabjab [demonstrates fiercely] withalivershotHe'llnotrecoverfromalivershotandkneehimintheballsandrunawayDon'tlookback!"
  The "conversation" (we had yet to get a word in) from here became quite rambling and convoluted and generally all over the board. "MynieceHeathersaiditwassweetthatIwastakingGrampaGram'spassporttotheairportandwhatdoyouknowI'vebroughtthewrongfuckingpicturetotheairportExcusemeIcusslikeasailor."
"No probl--" "...IfellandbumpedmyheadatthemarketandmysistermadegointothedoctorbecausemaybeIhadananuerysmandtheytookmylicenseawaysothecopsareafterme [looking over her shoulder] Fuckingcopsdon'ttrustthemeitherthey'refuckingcorruptuphere....."
 She spoke so fast that when she introduced herself to us I don't even remember registering her name I was so flummoxed by her presence.  She asked my name as she shook my hand.  "WeeBee," I stammered, eyes glazed, nail file in my right hand, a spoon of peanut butter in my left. "Ohthat'sacutenameWhereareyoufromImean,theStates,butwhere?"  Stunned that she paused to listen I said, "Alask--" "OhI'vealwayswantedtovisityourcountry!"
  She asked her name and shook her hand and where was she from? Mary started, "Georgi--" "OhI'vealwayswantedtovisityourcountry!" As she shook our hands she pointed out some small words on her left ring finger fingernail, on top of the French manicure. It said Pure Fiji. "That'smycompanyHydrogenatedoilsandfatsthat'swhat'scausingalzheimer'sandI'vestudiedthisforsixyearswithMensaYouknowMensa?Istudiedphysicsmetaphysicsforsixyears....[looks over shoulder, presumably for cops]"
  She began to walk around to the driver's side of the aged Jag as if to leave.  I flimsily held the nail file between my thumb and forefinger, lightly waving it, and saying, "Thanks for the weapon! Hopefully---" "NOTLIKETHATYOUDON'THOLDITLIKETHATYOU'LLFUCKINGSLICEYOURHANDOPEN!" At this point we each got a full refresher course on how to hold our respective weapons without slicing our palms open while vigorously administering a clean liver shot.
 She again went around the front of her car, this time getting in.  Mary came out of her stupor when she realized this woman had a cigarette in her hand and asked, "Do you mind if I bum a cigarette off of you?"
"HonesttoGodthisismylastfuckingone [again getting out of the car and coming all the way around the front] buthereyouhaveitIhatethesefuckingthingsanyway." She handed Mary a pack of menthol Pall Malls with one cigarette in it. Also another empty pack which she mysteriously wanted back when given afterthought. I sat dumbly on my gravel hill, spoon of peanut butter in my clenched fist, resting on my  knee.  She again walked back to the driver's side and opened the door. "DoyougirlssmokedopeDoyouordon'tyouDon'ttakeallday!" Mary and I silently looked at each other and shrugged an unspoken "Why not?" Mary said, "Uh...yeah?" But she was already coming back around the car and shoving a small ziplock bag from Bank of New Zealand into my hand with a small amount of weed in it, rambling on and on about I'm not sure what. "That'sallI'vegotbutyoumightaswelltakeit...." I quickly tucked it into the pocket on the front of my backpack without looking at it.
"Cheersgirlsbesafe....." She literally kept talking, mouth moving a mile a minute, as Patti Smith came blaring back on, she started the Jag, sending billows of black smoke onto us, and peeled out, spraying us with gravel and dust.  The already speeding car made its way back onto the paved road with a swerve, a honk, and a manicured hand waving a menthol Pall Mall goodbye out of the sky light.
  Seconds later the birds started chirping again and it was as calm and still as it had been approximately 10 minutes before the Jag entered our world. We stared at each other with huge doe eyes.  We looked at the weapons in our hands, unbelieving.  I stuck my spoonful of peanut butter into my mouth.
  And that, my friends is how I acquired weapons, drugs, and a lesson on how to shiv a man, on the Te Araroa trail. Some things you just can't make up.
 
 

From The Trail, to Trails, to a new Trail

   It turns out that there is life after the Pacific Crest Trail.  Other hikers lament in their blogs about feeling empty or restless or sad or aimless.  I cannot relate.  One week after celebrating my finish at the Canadian border I was in Flagstaff, AZ preparing for a raft trip on the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon with friends new and old.  It was amazing.  I then proceeded to spend three months on an organic farm in northern California, just west of the Sierras and the PCT, tending greens, hogs, and being a crazy chicken lady to nearly 40 chickens. It was a blast. In February I returned home to my beloved Alaska and skied my days away culminating in a week-long backcountry adventure with 3 of my best friends. Obviously I had no time to lament finishing the PCT.
  In May I began my job at Denali National Park as a trail crew laborer.  It felt very right to go from hiking a trail to giving back to the hiking community by vastly improving a trail in the DNP entry area and making it accessible to more of its visitors.  The work was labor intensive and even getting to our work site involved climbing 1500 feet up Mt. Healy every morning.  My co-workers and I guesstimated that we climbed a minimum of 95,000 feet last summer getting to our work place.  Then would begin the work of moving giant rocks and boulders with sheer muscle and rock bars to create staircases that looked like they'd been there forever. Ta da! Nothing to it, really....
  I skim over all of this to get to where I am now:  New Zealand.  As I was contemplating what I wanted to do this winter to escape the December/January blues in Interior Alaska, I recalled the Te Araroa trail:  a route that goes the length of New Zealand from Cape Reinga on the tip of the North Island to Bluff on the bottom of the South Island.  Of course I thought:  Why not?
And so. Here I am in a public library in Kerikeri, New Zealand, 138 miles into a 1,900 mile journey. Let's review some highlights, shall we?


The Trail
The Te Araroa (henceforth called the TA) is nothing at all like the PCT.  Only established as a complete route in 2011, the TA  connects existing  trails via beaches, roads, farmlands, and waterways.  What constitutes a trail in New Zealand is up for debate as well:  none of this 18-inches wide, clear pathway that we were accustomed to in America.  I remember some brushy areas on the PCT and we lamented that a crew really needed to get in there and do something about it. Ha!! Walking through the Herekino and Raetea Forests here in New Zealand was like a cross between Lost, the Hunger Games, and Vietnam.  I don't know exactly what constitutes a "forest" versus a "jungle," but my environment was lush and green and the greens had greens growing on them.  A large tree trunk would be covered in moss and plants and vines and probably also had a fern growing from the crook of it's branches.  The trail bed?  Mud. Steep mud.  Like a ladder whose rungs consisted of trees roots holding a bowl of mud for you to step in.  Climbing up was far less hazardous than the slippery decent which was slick and sphincter puckering.  Much of the time you could not even see where you needed to plant your foot as there would be giant fern leaves in your way. Once you moved those with your trekking poles and proceeded to move forward your face would be sliced by razor sharp palm fronds. So you duck your head and take a step only to step on one end of a snaking vine, unawares, and as you bring your other foot forward it conveniently snags in the loop that was created by the stiff vine.  Now you're off-balance with forward momentum in a mud bog with two long sticks in your hands and a giant pack on your back.  For about 13 miles.  Fun times, people, fun times.  This was some of the most physically and mentally gruelling hiking I've done in many years....feels good that I can still get through it! Maybe not entirely gracefully or without swear words, but still....
 The trail begins with a very long beach walk along 90-Mile Beach.  The first hour or so were spent frolicking, poking beached jellyfish, and ogling brightly colored clam shells.  The next hour was spent in reflection and listening to the waves.  The next three days were spent wondering if the beach would ever end.  Beach walking is flat....really flat. There are the dunes on the left.  There are the waves on the right.  And as far as the eye can see, flat, sandy beach.  It creates quite the repetitive motion for a body as the same exact muscles are used over and over again:  no climbing, no descents.  Just walking.
  There are miles of road walks along the TA. Some have been on paved, busy roads, but most have been on gravel, bucolic country roads in farmland. On the PCT we moaned if we had a 6-mile road walk into town or a poodle dog bush detour....Bah! I've probably already done more mile on road than all of the PCT! Really, it's just a different mind set and accepting that this is a route, not a trail.  One day I spent 5 miles walking in a river...just part of the getting there.




The Hiking Partner
  Mary gave me a droll look, took a drag from her cigarette--a habit which she had given up in August when she decided to come on this hike with me--,  and croaked out poignantly with her exhale, "I. Don't. Quit."
  It was the second day into our hike and we were sitting under a clump of trees just off the beach, soaked to the bone and shivering.  We had descended a very long staircase onto 90-Mile Beach where I stopped to eat a snack when I said, "Well, the weather's a little grey, but it could be worse!" Shortly after, it began raining heavily on us with a strong, gusty wind coming directly off the Tasman Sea.  The saturated brim of my trucker cap dripped horizontally to my left.  It was rather grim walking.  Neither one of us had immediately put on rain gear as it the rain started off as just harmless drizzle.  Shortly both of us were completely soaked to the bone and unable to stop walking lest we give ourselves a chance to get cold.  We saw several tourist buses (they drive up and down the beach for some reason) and Mary looked over at them longingly, joking about hitching a ride to town.  There were several comments made by Mary about getting "out of here" or "meetin' ya in town" or "wouldn't have come if I'd known..." I was starting to worry that Mary might actually ditch me. 
  Mary and I worked together on the Denali trail crew last summer and hit it off right away.  She's got a mouth on her and says exactly what she's thinking.  She's a really hard worker and I thought she'd be fun to hike with and that we would get along quite well.  But since she's never thru-hiked I guess I didn't really know how she'd take to it.  I didn't expect her to talk about quitting on the second day, however.  When I worriedly asked her in all earnestness, "You're not really going to leave me out here are you?" is when she told me that she never quits. Not even cigarettes.
Never have I been so happy to see Mary smoking. And now when she moans about something (as mentioned, the Raetea gave us much to moan about), I know she's not thrilled with the present conditions, but she is going to hang in there with me. Once she starts something she sticks with it.
Whew! The Pacific Crest Trial is not a problem to take on solo, but between trail conditions and questionable trail markings (it IS possible to get lost out here!), I'm very glad to be part of a duo on this adventure. Mary doesn't complain all the time, she's actually a joy to travel with....


Animal Life
 New Zealand only has one native mammal and it's a bat.  This is a land of birds. Birds that became so complacent from not having any predators that some of them don't even know how to fly.  Of course humans have changed the entire landscape here, but it's interesting nonetheless.
  While slipping and sliding through the jungle of Herekino and Raetea, I was relieved that the birds that sounded like shrieking monkeys were indeed not so and I didn't have to worry about one dropping down to attack me for my Cadbury chocolate bar.  I was also happy to not have to worry about blindly stepping on a snake or grabbing a python in an attempt not to fall on my butt....it seemed like a perfect place for slithering creatures. There are, however, crazy sounding birds. Everywhere.  Birds that sound like R2D2.  Birds that sound like Mocking Jays.  One bird that landed between mine and Mary's tents that sounded part alien and part chicken.  Like maybe a chicken had been abducted by an alien, probed, planted with a mind chip and then sent back to Earth. This same bird also pooped purple diarrhea on my rain fly.  There is a giant pigeon-looking bird that looks like it's wearing a wife-beater tank top.  Sea birds with long beaks.  Or long legs. Or both.
  On the other hand there are cows, cows, cows, and sheep, sheep, sheep.  Often our route takes us right through the middle of their paddocks.  The sheep run away and I'm tempted to attempt a little recreational mutton-busting, but the cows pretend to be spooked and then want to follow you at the same time. Thank goodness they don't realize that they could flatten me if they had a brain in their head.
 Also, an entire day can be entirely made by seeing a sow with five tiny piglets running around with her.  Four shiny, pink-as-a-newborn piggies and one shiny, black-as-a-newborn piggy.  I'm not sure that is the politically correct way of saying that, but I'm also pretty sure not all newborns are pink. Regardless, seeing baby animals can perk up the weariest of hikers.


 Well, there is more to be said, but I'm tired of being inside a library on my rest and relaxation day.  There are chips and Coke and chocolate cake to be eaten in bed just down the street. I'll do my best to keep y'all updated on the journey....so far, so good! Having a blast, getting reacquainted with the joys and pains of thur-hiking and getting to know New Zealand again 20 years after coming here to go to college for a year. Oh how things have changed.....and stayed the same.