The Hexagon: A permaculture paradise....

Adam and I must be living our dream because we keep stumbling upon the most amazing surprises on our journey. Two nights ago, after spending a small fortune to fix up Rupertina, we were very happy to be leaving Greymouth, a town we seem to get stuck in and the dollars disappear. We were headed to Barrytown where a legendary man named Simon lives in a bus called Optibus Prime. The town is so small that we accidently blinked and found ourselves on the other side, so we turned around and inquired in the local pub. Unfortunately, the legend remained but the man and his bus had moved on to a bigger city on the other side of the island.

Well the rain was threatening and we had the name of another pair of folks that lived close by and ran a small backpackers, friends of our vineyard hosts. Once again we inquired in the pub and they pointed us back the way we came, we must have missed this one too! And no wonder, we could hardly find it with directions. We pass by fields of sheep and small houses and up a gravel drive we find a big hexagonal sign with an arrow. I think we are close! We turn up the road and are engulfed by jungle, a strange phenomena in such a temperate zone on the coast… This is where we found ourselves:




We drive up and park in front of a small house full of windows and interesting angles. It is dusk, the rain is drizzling, and a small, brawny woman with a deep-set crow’s foot etched into each side of her smiling face comes out to greet us. She welcomes us inside a cozy kitchen and sets us down in the living room, offering tea.

We meet Larry, a lanky kiwi with bright eyes and a grey beard that softens around the edges of the happy creases on his face, and Nip, a small dog with a diamond spot on his head and a case of the fleas. A small fire in their wood-fired stove is heating up a pot of rice and keeping the living room toasty, but the warmth that radiates from Di and Larry makes me feel right at home.



We dive into conversation… the pair of them bought this land thirty years ago and have built an edible jungle out of what was a field of grass and lupine, situated on top of a bed of rocks with minimal soil. The property sits right on the coast, with little protection from the elements of nature. For ten years they lived in a tiny shed while they built their home from recycled materials, during which time they had three kids. Sweat, blood and tears, of course, but the most fulfilled and happy folk I have ever met with a wealth of wisdom they collected along the way.

While living in the small shed, the wind would be so stormy that they would have to pack up and leave, the river nearby would hurl boulders and huge barrels were picked up and thrown across the acres. One of the first ventures was planting a windscreen of weedy trees to grow quickly into wind blocks. Thirty years later the trees are still doing a wonderful job, and native species are crawling up the trunks and filling the under stories that the pioneer trees provide.

They started out knowing very little about building or gardening, experimenting along the way. The key, says Larry, is observation. And Di pipes in, “and enthusiasm.” Larry is filled with such enthusiasm to keep learning, to observe what works and where his plants flourish and where they fail, what food the pigs eat and when. He spent 4 hours each day with his cows, following them around to see what plants they were eating so he could plant more and be sustained by his property. Some people may think of this as foolishness, but he has a whole library of knowledge on what native bush he can feed his animals and how their diet changes during different seasons. Plus he got to spend many happy hours getting to know his animals and just be.

We enjoy the next morning with Di and Larry, exploring a bit of paradise, and falling one of the big trees for winter’s supply of wood.



The trees have gotten too tall now, they block out too much sunshine and now that the under bush has grown so tall and dense, big trees that can get caught in the wind are unnecessary. The cycles and the systems that operate on the grounds, about 15 acres of all sorts of perennials and annuals, make so much sense and are self-contained on the property. Nothing really has to be added in as it is all incorporated in the place itself. If you have chooks, you grow their food and use their waste as part of the system! For food crops, you grow mulch so you don’t have to bring in fertilizer or soil. The list is infinite!

Larry takes us on a multiple hour tour of the grounds in the afternoon, pointing out the mistakes and interesting observations and surprising discoveries he has made in his years as “gardener.”



He started studying permaculture and found a lot of wisdom there that he has applied to his practice. A book called Farmers of Forty Centuries (a study of the farming practices in Asia) also inspired him to take a trip to China to learn more. Later on, Larry, Di and their three children travel to Thailand and China for 12 months to understand more and to teach their kids that other perspectives exist, other ways of life… one of the amazing lessons a traveler can learn.





They have certainly opened up my eyes to a new way of life, an exciting way to live out my dream of self-sustaining lifestyle and earthly consciousness.

In one of my moments reading Michael Pollan, I was made aware of the ignorance of my existence when he pointed out that most meat-eaters have never actually killed their own meal. It comes plastic wrapped in a Styrofoam tray, with little resemblance to its former “body.” I am one of those folks, feeling guilty for the obvious gap in my awareness of the food chain, and morally obliged to fill it. I have, of course, been procrastinating, as I am not sure if I will be able to do it. And if I fail, do I deserve to eat meat? Why must some one else carry the burden of my existence and will they raise it and kill it in awareness of the gratitude they owe to nature? Larry introduced me to his rooster, dinner for the next week, and took me through the process of turning bird into meat. The cycles of energy are ever apparent on his farm, a mimicry of nature, an extension of the ecosystem even, that we seem to shun in our society.

As the sun sets, we watch the ocean turn spectacular colors from the living room windows and he pulls out a pile of literature from his bedroom.



We share stories and theories, ideas and laughs. He cooks up an amazing Thai Curry, pointing out that all cooks should be gardeners and all gardeners should be cooks. Quite logical, and makes for the tastiest meal. I drift off to sleep dreaming of Oregon and all of the knowledge I can apply to starting my own farm and building my own kitchen and how I can share what I’ve learned in an expression of bliss.

As I write this I am aware that I am not being completely honest with myself. I feel as though I should be ecstatic finding myself in the presence of two people who follow their dream passionately and experiencing the paradise that they share. Instead I feel a deep sadness, and it is hard to pinpoint why.

Upon entering their home, I knew I was in a different place, one where certain visitors were welcome but one that stayed hidden from most folks. We were welcomed whole-heartedly, even though we were an unexpected arrival, but in the first moments I sensed their reluctance to open up and embrace us. Larry was especially reserved, observing us from a distance while we chatted with Di, as though testing the waters before joining in. As the conversation continued and we shared with them our own dream that has taken us on an interesting path, a deviation from the norm, and a slightly ludicrous possibility that we know will unfold if we keep going, we found that we were kindred spirits, almost a foreshadowing of our future.

They have created for themselves a life worth living in a world that values the contrary, people who follow the norm and live in fear. Larry and Di are certainly courageous, we were told many stories about the challenges they endured along the way, but the fulfillment of overcoming them is encouraging. It is like the pioneer species Larry pointed out, the pine trees were planted to protect their home from the wind and, surprisingly, a few years later edible mushrooms popped up. As you follow your dream you strike out in ways that allow others to blossom as well, and feed you with the enthusiasm to continue. Adam and I found a few other mushrooms later on, ones that were able to grow in the environment created by the pines: white speckled red-capped ones that will kill you upon ingestion.



A bittersweet but ultimate beauty lies in pursuing your passion and forging your own path. It can be dangerous to leave the trail but you might stumble upon a life of immeasurable beauty.

Larry couldn’t be happier experimenting in his Eden, tending and observing the intricacies of nature. He really opened up when we expressed interest in the house he built and a desire to learn from the wisdom he had gained creating the 15 acre garden from a patch of rocky grass, a blissful smile I will never forget crept across his face. But for him, it is a bit of a lonely life. His dream is one that points out a lot of the ridiculous situations our western world creates, the ones that appear to indicate our destruction, which is what inspired them to action in the first place. A bit of a hermit, Larry confides that he is lonely and tends to “say the wrong thing and fuck it all up.” A guestbook full of gratitude seems to argue the opposite, but it can be a burden to live a small rebellion and carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.

I suppose the sadness I feel springs from the loneliness and isolation that such a spectacular lifestyle seems to entail. I wish to see this shared with everyone and embraced, not hidden away up a gravel path. I believe Larry and Di would benefit from a larger community as well. It is also hard to see such enthusiastic folk slowed down by age, and their dreams having to rest. The success of their property relies on their energy at the moment, hoping for a future but unsure how it will continue when they move on (although it did continue to function in their 12 month absence with little setbacks). A community would ensure that it would continue to flourish and nourish generations to come.I suppose I wanted to be part of that, but my journey takes me onward, and I am not sure the invitation was there anyways, when you put so much energy into your form of expression and subsistence, Larry admits it is hard for him to give up control.

I have learned more than I can possibly express in the last couple of days. I find myself in a small state of melancholy upon departure, but honestly a bit relieved. It was an intense and completely whelming experience, a little space to digest all of the passion, sadness, wisdom and inspiration of a bittersweet world is essential. So now I end my insomnia, tucked cozily inside of Rupertina. We are parked at the end of a gravel road overlooking the ocean. Our bodies are sore from splitting wood this morning and our hearts are heavy but strong, eager to carry on our journey, confident we are on the right track.

Booberry Confusion

Well its been pointed out to me that the boobery is not understood. Aptly put "What the hell is a booberry"

This is the booberry:



You see its a rather large, stuffed blueberry Rebecca's mom gave us. In this photo I'm scolding it for getting into the cooler!

The booberry is very important. It encompasses all things oregon. Its family, friends, big trees, flowing rivers, volcanoes, dance parties everything. A little bubble that has all the good bits of home guiding us along the way and reminding us how much you all mean to us.

Another Left Coast

Life is full of strange parallels, you know what I'm talking about, those little things you just find yourself gravitating towards for no real reason, only to arrive there and realize its another version of something you already know. This time around its the bloody west coast! I've made it half way around the world and I'm still drawn to left on the map, its weird but oh so lovely all the same.

After a sad gray day departing the Vineyard, it was hard we'd come to rather love that place, we were off on the road again. With nothing better to do for the better part of week, where would we go, where should we. Out comes the map and of course, we should head left, to the West! We set off, with rumors of Huge trees, gray skies, rain, a sea called Tasman, and a festival of food unimaginable! Oh and let us not forget the stories of the people, so chilled out they make Ice seem afire. Stoke running high, Rupertina running (well cruising, she's a bit to old to run you see), and the booberry poised and ready we were off.

Pit stop one, Reefton. Reefton is tiny, very tiny, but very very pretty. About an hour off the coast in a beautiful lush green valley lies the town of very little, but famous for the first town to have electricity in NZ and the biggest Skate park, its not without charm. My mission for the day was to mount the big tired beast and pedal and push bikes to the top of a mountain. What a mission it was, 7 hours in the saddle to tire my skinny bum into a sorry lump. But what an adventure it was. To the kabin Kirwin I did go and back down did I blast, and blast and blast. Over an hour of some of the best riding I've ever done bar none. Twisted trees, roots, rocks, perfect dirt. its was like I died and went to single track heaven. Upon my return I found the fair lady posted up out side the van and a huge dinner we did grub. Then a race, us versus the van versus the itchy bite bugs. We packed her full only got about 1 million bites instead of two and into the night we raced!

There something about driving somewhere at night and just waiting to see what you get when you wake. Well we awoke in Greymouth, to a breakfast prepared in a park, the smell of ocean air and vivid green as far as the eye could see. The largest town we'd been to since leaving Christchurch, business was in order. After some exploration of town we found another wwoofing opportunity. This time at a backpackers where you can park you van out front and use all the facilities, all in exchange for 2 hours work handing out fliers at the local supermarket. This not only proved excellent for showers and laundry are grand, but it opened my eyes to a new profession of mine here in NZ. Busking, or street performing for money if you will. One fine lad, Daniel was also staying at the place handing out fliers and he often took his guitar down to make some extra beer money. We jammed, he said I had what it takes and off I went inspired. You see the super market is brilliant, its not really street performing, because that would imply performing. I'm no great musician, but people are there to go grocery shopping not check you out. So I pretty much sit there and practice and people give out their change from buying their groceries. Bloody brilliant, paid mando practice who could want more! So after sorting our lives, a bit of adventuring, and a few hundred coins richer we had to say by to greymouth.

Rumor of a festival where you eat worms, and foodies gather had us flying with the boobery south on the coast. A stunning 45 min drive later and bam Hokitika awaited. We also gave our first ride to a hitchhiker from the hostel. Grand to pay the karmic ride god back. A bit of confused map reading behind us we managed to find our man Mike, the guy behind the Wild Foods Festival! He was a legend, and the nicest guy ever to organize a huge event I've ever met. We spent the day hours digging trenches, moving tables, and marking out vendor stands to earn our way into the festival. Felt good to check off "volunteer" at a festival from the list. So we scored tickets to the Friday concert, the festival, the saturday concert, free lunch, and free beer! Mike was a legend, did I mention that.

Knowing we would be kicking it for a few days, we posted up on the beach and set up camp. This is what we saw the first night:



After that it was a steady stream of people for the next 2 days, as the town quadrupled in population from 3k to 12k. Interesting camps popped up, costumes came out, and beer lots and lots of beer. This festival was about food and drink not just food to say the least. Any way we danced the nights away and scarfed grub, only interesting not disgusting. Things like ostrich, punkao bird, and venison. We saw people eat live grubs from dead trees, and pickled grasshoppers, but we had to pass. The festival wrapped up and it was truely a few days of chaos, but things really returned to normal very quickly.

Sunday miday rolled around and it was just back to normal, so we decided to go for bike ride. Rebeccas first really big ride, we saddles up and road 30k inland to see this:






Something are just more rewarding when you travel by bike. This was one of those days. so so so beautiful and so much better to get there by your own will power.

To celebrate Rebeccas first big day on the push bike a dinner was powered thru and then a movie. Alice and wonderland was a great way to chill out in the evening. What a spectacle that movie is. Then NZ helped us do a little more celebrating with this:




Over and out for now!

The tale of Rupertina and the Bumbling Booberry

The tale begins as two kids from the US of A decide to venture to a faraway island where english has found a peculiar twang and the biggest road only has two lanes. Looking for adventure and a wisdom that may only remain in the wildness that has been all but tamed in the states, they set out together, eager to enlist in the University of The World.

Of course, it is difficult to leave the Oregon homeland without a little bit of home coming along for the ride. Adam and I found ourselves in the company of the Bumbling Blueberry, an amazing specimen made by Mother, a grapefruit sized blueberry that is ever so sweet and filled with words of love, luck and inspiration. Really, we'd be lost without the blueberry, it is our guide back home.

On the kiwi front, it serves as a place to rest my head and helps us communicate with our other traveling companion, Rupertina. Who else but a bumbling berry could navigate us through the whims of a 20 year old van and remind us to putter along and enjoy bumbling slowly through the backcountry to the beat of a relaxed reggae rhythm? It has already proved useful as we unintentionally insulted Rupertina, who then left us stranded atop a mountain pass, during the choosing of her name. Rupert, we decided, was a fitting apellation for such an endearing yet ugly, bent out of shape old beater with a front fender that curves up into a snarl. The blueberry kindly informed us, a little too late, that he was a she, and so Rupertina recieved her name and we eventually made amends and found our way back down the hill.

Our lucky, laid back traveling party will soon hit the road again. The nets are laid at Marble Point and our work is just about done, soon we will head North to Nelson where a Festival of Opportunities awaits. After enjoying yoga, art, holistic style workshops and a few of our friends from Festival Past we are going to check out the wet west coast and enjoy some grub, literally, at the Wild Foods Fest where we are volunteering for a weekend of Kiwi mayham (or so we've heard...)

Kiwiland Chapter One, 31 days

Well, we found ourselves drawn to leave the states to learn how to live sustainably, tramp through wildness and enjoy the relaxed and companionable kiwis of the island nation of New Zealand.

Adam and I have been in kiwi land for one month, and of course traveling with Adam, adventure begins each time the sun rises.

First big adventure was the flight over, dragging a bag we both could have slept in cozily, filled with bikes and another with backpacking gear. The bag was 32 kilos and we almost missed our second flight, as it was 2 kilos too heavy and the airline lady must have started off her day without a cup of coffee. Oh well, it’s always fun to work up a stinky sweat running through the airport before sitting on a long flight next to strangers. Amazingly, our selves and our bags all made it to Christchurch without delay.

The first few days we established our home base, a “family” of bike nerds from his former downhill team, Cam and Amy and their dog Tony (aka “Sausage”) make up the nucleus, and many others orbit through the couches and spare beds, ourselves included. I spend the morning and afternoon of day 2 purging myself of all that was American in my system, suffering a bit of airplane food poisoning (my fate for choosing the Gluten-free option, must have sat there for ages!) while Adam gets oriented and takes care of business, finding groceries, a van, making plans and putting his bikes back in order.

Our first kiwi adventure begins on a whim. We wake up day 3 in NZ and he putters on the internet, looking for a van and instead finds news of a music festival a few hours up north. Of course we would want to dance our way into a new country! We buy tickets from a shop in town, and as we are still vanless, find ourselves standing by the side of the road with backpacks and thumbs out. My tummy is still quite touchy and unfortunately our first ride is from a Maori man who never gets tired of pinning it around the corners, a certain adrenaline seeker who lost a few teeth in a snowboarding accident and part of his gut to some tummy rot bug I was hoping I didn’t have living inside me! The NZ highway is a windy two-lane road and leaves me feeling like a spew, but he was quite the tour guide, and left us at a cheery one-stop-shop to find our next ride. I recovered while Adam enjoyed the biggest falafel burger ever seen, made by a lovely, hospitable kiwi who knows all the locals and sets us up in the best hitching spot. We are quickly picked up by a livestock truck driver, whose skills driving a big semi through one-lane bridges amazed while the scenery from such a high vantage dazzled. Our last ride was from Jimi, the bare-chested, dreaded and sun kissed ticket salesman Adam had met earlier in the day. We ride all the way to the top of Takaka Hill, notorious van killer, and Adam sets me up in a beech tree forest where I fall fast asleep, music floating in from a distant stage.

Jimi welcomes us into his camp of musicians, providing a 10x10 acoustic lounge, massage trains, cold beer, tall bikes, kitchen and of course good company and a lively dance crew. The festival is full of incredibly relaxed hippy folk of all ages, but the grounds have ample room for running around and enjoying whatever you fancy. A big kiwi festival, being a country of 4 million, is an intimate crowd with plenty of space to enjoy a good groove. Of course Adam and I caught plenty of dancing, ranging from electrorganic French Caribbean beats to dub with the Mad Professor. We also found a couple of interesting workshops, a reflexology lesson left us primed for nap time, a drawing session covered me in charcoal and a Tao of Farming lecture took us on a journey to the river and let our minds flow over the possibilities of water-based agriculture. The festy was located right next to the Abel Tasman national park, so just a short stroll down a beech wood path we found plenty of hikes and mountain bike trails to enjoy. Adam and I took an afternoon stroll to Howetts Hole, an incredible chasm filled with jungle, possibly the mouth of the South Island. A photo vortex that makes your knees feel like jello, no bottom in sight. I was inevitably drawn to a few stellar food booths that fed the majority of us. An ayurvedic chef serving sublimely spiced lentils and rice topped with sweet and spicy banana chutney tempted me to sign on as his devoted apprentice. But maybe I would have more fun running away with the 3 Italian kiwis who built an outdoor wood fire pizza oven, mixed dough in a kiddy pool and rolled up a smoke to enjoy while rolling out delicious pizza pies filled with spice. A solar warmed shower and a squatting perch over composting toilets completed our introduction to kiwi land.

We hitch back to Christchurch to gather our belongings and buy our house, Rupertina, a 1985 Toyota Hiace equip with bed, stove and dresser that bumbles along on a small petrol tank and leaves us stranded on top of a pass at the end of our first tank, expecting to go a few more kilometers before it puttered out of energy. Luckily a kindly fisherman was winding up his reel for the day and toted us back to civilization. We visit a surfer yogi friend we met at the festival on our way to our first help exchange. He has a for sale sign outside of his small bach in Waikuku beach, a simple house within walking distance to swimmable, surfable ocean waves and a nice yard out back under the shade of a walnut tree, beans and tomatoes cultivating the soil, offers enough space for the yoga studio he hopes to build one day. Through our travelers’ eyes, he sees his place anew and an old fire is rekindled to remodel his prime real estate.

A few days later we are enjoying tea (dinner) and wine with Sheryl (chef and Mum), Richard (jolly boss-man), Alex (the lanky grom of 14 years), Lucy (the possibly pregnant princess pup) and Rusty (the roly poly bisquit eating vacuum cleaner). The vineyard at Marble Point is a certain kind of paradise, nestled in the mountains, near east and west coast with thousands of trails to explore, a river sparkling in the canyon below for swimming after a hot day in the vines, not to mention wine, farm fresh food and companionable hosts. We are not living with hippies but sustainable folk enjoying a simple life of growing vines. Richard grew up on a farm and continues to raise pigs, chooks, and sheep to roast each night for tea, along with a big garden full of veggies and plenty of fresh eggs. I couldn’t be happier in the kitchen they built, gas stoves, two ovens and sharp knives, Sheryl was educated and worked as a chef before the vineyard so I am eager to learn how she cooks up such a mean tea every night! The house uses greywater systems, solar water heaters, and is made mostly of windows that look out on a spectacular view, bringing in fresh breezes and cool air or soaking up warmth from the sun.

Our job description is varied but each task is generally a mountain of monotony, the secret to a good wine. Strolling along the vines, ordering unruly tendrils, pruning water shoots and unnecessary vines, raising wires so they have more room to stretch towards the sun, rescuing plants blown down by the wind, each requires a minute of attention that spans 55 long rows of Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Riesling and Sauvignon Blanc. A lot of time to let the mind chatter and hum.

This week on the vineyard we have been putting up nets to keep the birds from devouring the harvest, transforming the vines into a strange clone army of aliens. There are a lot of birds in New Zealand, they sing some amazing songs, but I suppose if you are a viticulturist you don’t want them around this time of year. This is the only task that is less monotonous but still a test of patience and tolerance, probably the only thing that really gets Richard’s (boss man’s) blood to boil. Frustration level is high, trying to lay the nets over 5 or 6 rows at a time, a renegade sail flowing behind a tractor, tangling and twisting as it goes. And these nets aren’t light, so there is a lot of gristle being built this week. And of course our fearless leader commanding the unruly ship through the vines has a pirates booty full of swear words lined up to describe the experience. He reckons it might be better for his sanity to sit there with a shotgun for the next couple months.

Other than work, we frequently visit the nearest town, Hanmer Springs, a tourist magnet featuring a strange mix of relaxing hot pools and adrenaline stimulating activities. For a tourist town, it’s not that bad as it hasn’t sold out, the shops are all local and most of them sell ice cream. A common sight is chubby folks wandering about in swim trunks and a t-shirt, towel slung over the shoulder, smiling as they lick their ice cream cones before they melt in the hot sun. On our excursions to town, I am learning how to pilot Rupertina, a manual column shift with no power steering and the driver’s seat on the wrong side. I drive awkwardly on the Left Hand Side of the road, a task that leaves me giggling helplessly and one that we save for weekdays when it is less likely I will run over said tourist.

We also find time to go on adventures into the woods and mountains. Our first tramp was a route Adam devised that took us through two national parks, over two mountain passes and back to Hanmer Springs. We start out hitching and get a ride all the way to our turn off and find ourselves dropped mercilessly into the epicenter of sand fly battle, where humans are laughably doomed. We set up our only haven, the North Face tent, and wait for the water taxi to take us to the start of our tramp 23 hours later. We spend a good chunk of time marveling at the buzzing thunder so many small bugs can create and cheer on the few wasps that wander into our tent space, vacuuming up the itchy bugs in a miraculous pounce. Camaraderie is formed easily in these circumstances with braver souls than ourselves, a chuckling Englishman enjoying his supper while being supped upon himself.

Our ship finally sails and we have just enough daylight left to make it to the first hut so we start off on a speed hike through beech wood forests, muddy trails and damp fields. It is steamy but the smells are diving after spending so many hours in a stuffy tent. I am elated and enchanted by the hobbitesque woods, blue lagoons and clean, crisp water that fills my boots each time we find a steam in our path. By the time we arrive we are inevitably damp and stinky, but the palace we find welcomes us with a warm fire, a clothesline, and a handful of friendly folks enjoying tea by candlelight. Kiwi huts in the back country made my jaw drop, this one slept 36, had a woodstove and a sink with water piped in from the river, a shed out front for firewood and toilets over yonder. Environmental impact in the backcountry, reduced, and conversation with other trampers, inevitable!

Our next day begins with a leisurely morning, drying out clothes by the fire. Rumors of promising sunshine pleasantly awake me from my slumber, blue skies replacing the cloudy, damp blanket of the night before. Today we wander up the river, past Blue Lake (a stunning turquoise where we dip our hot feet while enjoying salami and cheese in the afternoon) to Lake Constance, another stunning blue with no outlet but reflections of the mountains revealing its source. We climb up and over the first scree field of the tramp to get to the other side of the lake where we’ll camp. It has me huffing and puffing in the hot sun, envisioning a refreshing swim while I admire the lake from above. As we scramble back down to a rocky alpine shore, we find a patch of squishy moss that will serve as another night of luxury accommodation. We eat our curried couscous, tuna and surprisingly sweet dehydrated veggies while admiring the mountains, me a little daunted as Adam points out the pass from which we will view our little patch of moss tomorrow afternoon.

The sun is out, the scenery is breathtaking and the little alpine man bounds up the hill, carrying most of our food and gear. He disappears behind a ridge as I gimp along with an unhappy knee, humbled by Adam’s paradise and a little resentful at the ease with which he flourishes in the higher altitudes. Of course he bounds back to shower me with compliments, encourage me up the slippery scree and share the view as I plod up and over the Waiau pass. The only way to climb a mountain is step by step. We do a few 360s and a small hoorah at the top, admiring a landscape carved of stone and water, a place that humbles while strengthening the will and letting the spirit free. On the other side, we find solid rocks to clamber down nimbly bimbly, a fresh mountain stream to refill our waters and a field of wild flowers to enjoy calories wrapped in tortilla before continue down to the flat lands below. The rest of the way down is uneven terrain shrouded by bushes that has me stumbling and cursing as I twist my knee a bit more. At the bottom I plunk down in the river and let the water refresh my tumultuous self, a little beat up but determined to continue on. Peanuts, chocolate and raisins devoured, we keep going for another couple of hours over impressive avalanche fields, grassy flatlands, steams and through beech wood bushes. One last river to ford and we pass a couple of horses, the bivvy we were planning on staying in occupied by a couple of hunters. No matter, I plunk down under a tree, get out the good bye sand fly and watch the branches sway overhead while adam readies our home for sleeping. Springy beech wood ground and many strange dreams later finds another blue skied morning, the sun slowly filling the valley as we tramp off through damp fields towards home. The morning is blissful, following a river through flat lands in no real hurry. A lovely stroll passing more variations of the color blue, gnarled beech trees, wild horses and startling a flock of wild geese we stand and watch circle for along while. We stop for lunch at the turn off to the pass home, next to a perfect swimming hole where we gleam white and are spotted, of course, by the two horseback hunters from the night before. We swim on and they pass in the distance. Adam gets out the map and I grimly prepare for our last up and over, a gravel road in the hot sun. More chocolate, please! Slathered in sunscreen and water bottles brimming, one step two step repeat, we head home. On the other side, Adam spots a trailer pulling away and with his mad cyclocross endurance he runs with backpack bouncing to catch them. Sure they would disappear before he even got near, I watch the crazy boy run and the gap shorten. Over the next hill I see that he is at their window so I start my own form of hustle and we score a ride back with the two hunters that get to give us grief for being caught in our skinnies.

Back on the vineyard we enjoy a bowl of muesli, yogurt and fresh fruit, happily massaging sore muscles.

Our first month in New Zealand is a promising introduction to kiwis, vineyard care, living off the farm, sipping wine, tramping through the backcountry bush, and grooving on top of the island. A few more weeks of work at Marble Point than we are off in the van, bringing along the bumbling blueberry for a bit more adventure.