 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| Map of Travels |
| 2005 - Journal 5 |
| Cats, Horses, Sheep, Cows and Motorbikes… Well, I’m finally back in Florida . . . Nursing a Kiwi cold brought on by of all things . . . Cats. Actually, this is the first cold I’ve had in years. But let me explain about my relationship with cats. I like cats, truly but I’m allergic to cats, big time; have been since I was a kid. If I don’t stay away from the feline species, at least twenty-five meters outdoors and nothing closer than a kilometer indoors, the angst of physical discomfort becomes intense as my body begins a slow, ugly slide into oxygen starvation. My weakened lungs, in turmoil fighting cat dander allergens, finally succumbed to Bryon Norton’s cold. In time all will be explained. My sleeping arraignments improved considerably after leaving Kevin’s lovely modern home and his two cats. I spent all of my waking hours in Kevin’s patio/pool area so I could practice cat-free breathing exercises. Kevin, a man of leisure, recognized my declining condition, and agreed with his lovely companion Faye (whom I embraced as my fourth daughter) that I needed a change of venue pretty darn quick, if I was to sample, in moderate health, the charms of their delightful island. Fay’s mom, Leah Willemsen, was leaving for a two week holiday so I was settled into her home for half a week. When Lee Hoggard, my other Kiwi friend, returned from a Chile business trip, he and his wife Marie borrowed a caravan (trailer) from her dad, so your reporter could experience a cat free zone while staying on their farm. Yes, it seems that every Kiwi family has at least one cat, often two. The Hoggards went to all this trouble so I could enjoy fresh, clear, clean New Zealand farm air. Ahhh . . . The wonderful smell of cow pies and horse manure (I do find the smell earthy and pleasant) opened my sinus passages until grass and hay allergies kicked in and gave me sneezing fits. Still, it was better than cat- dander by a long tail. Lee and Marie are farmers whose acreage borders Hobbiton where the Lord of the Rings movie set was located. Hobbiton (close to the town of Matamata) has been turned into a cash cow (snicker) with hundreds of tourists visiting daily. Unfortunately it’s the only movie set left standing of the film’s 200 or more locations spread across the North and South Islands. The Hobbit holes still grace the hillside but all the foliage and plantings that gave it character are long gone. In Kiwi-talk a farmer is what we’d call a rancher (unless he grows crops and then he's really a farmer) Lee and Marie care for 500 calves, 100 heifers, 90 or so steers and two very difficult bulls, all on 350 acres of very hilly pasture land. Lee grazes animals for other farmers utilizing 36 paddocks in rotation, all fenced and accessed by numerous gates. Unfortunately there wasn’t much rain so Lee was busy moving cattle from one paddock to another until he realized it was time to add silage to supplement the meager grass growth. He uses a flat bed truck with a trailer to cart silage to the cows. Wrapped in large plastic coverings, the silage is a moist, sweet smelling grass and little wonder cows consider it five star dining. Your reporter lent his considerable truck driving talent to piloting the dining conveyance, usually in first gear, up, down; up down and around the hilly paddocks while Lee, surefooted on the bouncing trailer, pitch-forked silage to hungry animals. I could easily see my self as a rancher, ahhh . . . a farmer if I could stop the sneezing and nose blowing for five minutes. One of my forever-memories is a short mental video of Lee clomping across the lawn in his rubber boots, early morning sun flooding the pastures, to check the rain gauge. Although it rained during the night, judging by his __expression, it wasn’t enough. “Too little,” he exclaimed, “only two millimeters. Not enough to soak the ground.” His concern led me to check the gauge as well, so I could commiserate, in an intelligent manor, of course. When he drove me around the countryside to meet his farmer friends the first topic of conversation always began with the night’s measure of rain. Nature’s bounty keeps farmers in the cow business but sometimes it can be a bit iffy. The beginning of my second week (I spoke of this in Journal # 4) I had the good fortune to be a participant in a memorable bike ride. Twenty-five riders, all members of the Top Town Cruisers rolled through some of the hilliest, curviest, prettiest, grade A exciting roads I’ve ever ridden and all this as a pillion passenger on Kevin’s Gold Wing. There was no way I could have kept up with this group of very serious bike riders, had I been on Kevin’s Harley. So I was most amenable to perch behind Kevin and enjoy the countryside. I really got up close and personal with the back of his Arai helmet. Twenty-five riders and two passengers left Hamilton early one morning and for three days made a wide circle through the mid-western area of the North Island. Such memorable Maori place names: Marokopa where we stopped for tea), Waikawau, whose back-country roads led us to the sheep tunnel. Now that was something to see. Sheep farmers, whose immediate ancestors must have been coal miners, hand-dug a tunnel through a large hill to move their sheep onto waiting barges at the surf’s edge. Damp, dark and muddy, the tunnel exits onto a narrow black sand beach that tickles the toes of a high cliff. I’d guess the tunnel is close to 100 meters long. Tall and narrow, I can’t imagine how long it took to carve that hole through rock with only hand tools. Trucks now do what barges did a century ago. The first night’s lodging was at the Mountain House Motor Lodge at the foot of Mount Egmont, aka Mount Taranaki. This is where I felt a minor tremble; my first earthquake. It was also here, comfortably seated in the motel’s lounge, having a beer that I was asked what I thought of New Zealand and Kiwis in particular. I considered the question for a moment then explained I’d never been in a more beautiful country .With such friendly folks and great food but . . . I stopped and looked around the circle of smiling faces and then trying to be honest said that the way they rode, at high speed on narrow twisty roads, “well all I can say is you’re all fucking mad.” Oops, maybe I was too outspoken . . . You know, another “ugly American “shooting off his mouth. I needn’ t have worried. They laughed. Talks with Kevin and Lee made it quite clear that Kiwi temperament is laced with an abundance of testosterone, driving a competitive nature that forces males to win at almost any cost. In other words, injury, physical pain, total exhaustion is pushed out of mind so the participant can cross the finish line. Kevin told this story: After one of his crashes several years ago, during a dirt bike group ride, he realized his pain and inability to take a breath was due, probably due, to broken ribs (more than several it turned out). Lying on the grass verge he’d raise himself up as other riders stopped inquiring if he needed help. “No mate, I’m fine,” he’d grin through clenched teeth. One after another stopped and got the same answer. ”I’m just resting awhile.” After the last rider passed he somehow managed to stand, lift the bike, climb aboard and finish the ride. Then off to the hospital for x-rays. “That’s the Kiwi temperament, we’re men and men don’t quit,” he said with a deep clenched fist grunt. I can tell you straight, I’d be hard pressed to get back on a bike if I had broken ribs. Of course no one wants to be called a wimp, especially American males. Kiwi gals can be tough as well. But they don’t grunt (certainly not the ladies I met). The second day found us in Wanganui for breaky (breakfast, also know as kai, tea or tucker) we chilled out at a sidewalk café. Took quite some time to serve 27 riders. No doubt the short kitchen staff was stretched thin. Finally back on the road, villages passed quickly under our wheels . . . Fordell, Kauangaroa, Hunterville and Vinegar Hill. It wasn’t far from Vinegar Hill the road straightened for several kilometers and Kevin in a fit of Kiwi maleness passed the entire group at more than 200K. The wind shook us so violently that one of the other riders said we looked like bobble-head dolls as we raced passed. We swept through Taihape, Waiouru and finally Ohakune, south of the Rangataua Forest and Tongariro National Park with its numerous ski fields, to spend the night at the Powderhorn Chateau. A luxury hotel in the European tradition with its exposed timber décor was built around a restored original 1919 homestead belonging to F.J. Carter, one of the fathers of New Zealand’s largest timber companies, Carter Holt Harvey. Paul Scaff, owner of the Powderhorn was one of our riders and graciously provided a special dinner for the group. Here are some of the dinner specials. For the Entrée we were offered Warm Thai Beef Salad with crispy noodles and yogurt dressing or Cream of Brandy flamed Mushroom soup. For the Mains (Kiwi restaurants offer appetizer, entrée, main fare and desert, as a rule) we could order Deep Sea Hapuka on mild kumara ginger mash with fried capers or Beef Sirloin Steak on garlic mash with beef glaze. We did eat well. |
| FOLLOW THE YELLOW LINE Motorcycle Touring with Stuart Davis and His Side Car www.followtheyellowline.com |