Months ago a friend organized a long weekend at a bach (rental house) here, looking out over the hills. We went this time with the “hunting gang,” a bunch of guys and their spouses who swapped photos of dead animals back when Jeremiah worked at SCIRT. The hunting bond is strong, and the group still hangs together. This time they came down without their firearms, but with a common goal: CATCH SALMON.

New Zealand has a massive hydroelectric scheme in the south island, moving water from one big glacier lake to the next through huge canals. Salmon farms have been set up in the clean, cold, swift water resource, and hobby fishermen try their luck on the escapees and native brown trout fattened on farmed-fish pellets. And just a few days before our trip there had been some media about a big salmon net breaking–hopes were high that our group would be the lucky beneficiaries of that farming mishap.

After a good effort, hours and hours of casting and reeling, here’s the token salmon. Good job Mark!  Even the skewed perspective doesn’t do much to augment its size. I tease Jeremiah a bit–he has such good success with hunting and spear fishing, but his fresh water fishing definitely has a negative return on investment. After two years of fishing licenses, I’m not sure he’s caught anything but sand flies. Another perk to the salmon farms is that skunked fishermen don’t have to come home empty-handed. They bought fresh salmon from the farm cooler.

Jeremiah and Ben SAW big trout in this lake (Lake Alexandrina, near Tekapo), but they were wise to lures and wouldn’t be tempted. Milo sits and observes the process.

While the guys fished, Naomi and I paddled at the water edge. Milo joined us for rock tossing.

At the lake inlet some bigger boys were scooping minnows from the reeds and collecting them in a bucket. They generously lent Milo a net and gave him some pointers. The fisherman caught two fish! And I know what to get him for Christmas!

Tekapo doesn’t have any natural hot springs, but it has lots of tourists, epic scenery, and cheap hydro electricity, so they built their own hot pools. The kids and I enjoyed them.

I used to be the only mommy in the group, but two babies were born about a year and a half ago, and Naomi really enjoyed their company.

Poppies and lupine at Lake Tekapo’s edge.

The day we left the weather packed in, and we drove back to Christchurch in the rain. I must admit, it makes the going easier.

“Staying warm and dry?” Jeremiah text me while I was at the Ag Show last Thursday. Cold rain earlier in the morning had given way to sleety showers passing through with spots of sun between. We were under cover, for the moment, admiring the farm animals before the building got swamped with school kids. These chicks had the right idea–just seconds before you could only see the hen with one tentative beak poking up through her wing feathers. Then chicks spilled out like clowns from a tiny car.

I’ve watched the sheep sheering competitions for a couple years now. My grasp of the Kiwi accent must be improving, because this time I could discern some of the announcer’s words educating us about the scoring system. it’s a two person team–the sheerer and the wool sorter. The sheerer does what you’d expect, handling the sheep so skillfully and firmly that there isn’t even a scuffle. The wool sorter gathers the fleece as it’s separated from the sheep into a complicated bundle that she floats out over the sorting table with a deft heft and flick–like spreading a quilt on a bed. She picks off”diingleberries” (use your imagination–they are what they sound like) and low quality leg hair, then rolls the best part into a tidy bundle and sweeps the floor.

We went to the show with Sophie and her girls. We were marching towards the carnival rides when a herd of well groomed bulls and a loud announcer grabbed our attention. “….and they have nice big testicles, and…..” we didn’t hear the next part, we had dissolved into giggles. We digressed into gossip involving a local wallpapering business with “Well Hung” plastered across their truck. Considering the size of those bull testicles, it’s surprisingly hard to catch them on camera.

This is the first time Milo has been on a carnival ride. He’s delighted, grinning on every revolution.

“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.” The signs and safety measures on NZ carnivals seem a bit rustic.

Sophie treated Amelie and Naomi to a merry-go-round ride–also her first carni experience. They timed it just right to be under the roof when the next rain squall came through. If I remember that November in NZ is really only the equivalent of May in NY, which is notoriously fickle, then I don’t feel jaded about paddling at the beach one weekend while rucking up in winter garb the next. Happiness is all about managing expectations.

“Whatcha don’ this weekend? How about a beach day?” Sophie and I chatted Thursday, emails zinged back and forth Friday, and by Saturday we had a plan. Rapaki bay Saturday for a barbeque.  

Rapaki is in the Port Hills near Christchurch.  It has a “warm water seep”–too tepid to be classed as a genuine hot pool, but still geothermically heated water. It’s submerged at high tide, but we arrived near low tide, took over from the resident mallards, and enlarged the pool a bit. Naomi and I sat at the feeder pool a few feet up, warming our feet, while the boys did the hard labor below.

There’s a picture in an old photo book of me and my dad standing like this in the waves, staring at the camera, grinning. Naomi thought the waves were pretty funny too–especially when the cheeky water tickled her “bits.”

The silliness continues!

I didn’t realized how funny this picture looked until afterwards–Milo looks smug in the centre of an adoring crowd of girls. He’s in the middle of the girls alright, but they don’t hold any illusions as to his adorable nature. The play is always punctuated with “Stop MiiiiLoooh, STOP!” Or more often they skip the words and come running to a mommy for assistance. “You’ve got to use your words, girls–you can’t expect boys to understand body language.” It’s a parental pickle, really. I remember my own father advising me not to react to a tease, since the reaction is what the teaser wants, but as a kid I found that utterly impossible. And the girls do put up a really good noisy reaction to even slight provocation….

Chloe is Sophie and Ian’s oldest. A book is a beautiful thing–on the couch, waiting for the parade, or for a Saturday afternoon on the beach–you never need endure a dull moment.  

It’s a nice spot to get married, isn’t it? That’s what our friends Emma and Ian thought 6 months ago, when they decided to have their wedding bash here at Okuti Ecostay near Little River, Banks Peninsula, NZ. Yes, that white round thing is a yurt. A risky venture, an outdoor wedding (we should know!), but it worked out splendidly.

This is where the bride and groom stayed on their wedding night. I remember the high villages near Xico, Mexico, with the calla lilies in the stream beds and the grazed grass around. It’s a fond memory, though the villages were poor and the people’s lives were hard….I learned a lot on that trip.

Stately callas, in the dappled shade.

“We thought we’d keep it really low key and informal,” Ian said, as he described their plans. “Mostly family, some close friends, no wedding gifts, just everybody bring themselves and some food. Molly, you can do the flowers.”
Gulp.
I don’t do last minute very well, and fresh flowers are nothing if not last minute. I spent the next couple months pondering how I could make flowers well ahead of time, and happened upon the idea of tin cans. I know, it sounds horrible doesn’t it? But “ecostay” and “upcycling” match, and Emma is rather crunchy…. You can judge for yourself. The important thing was that the bride was happy.

Table settings were surprisingly formal for the informal venue. I take no credit for these decorations–all I contributed here were the potted polyanthus from work. They’ll go in Emma’s garden when she returns from the honeymoon.

It had a nice vibe, this family wedding. The generations mingled seamlessly. I didn’t know where my own kids were half the time–they were off running with the pack, there were plenty of other parental eyes on the look-out. Here Aunt Mary over from Australia is admiring Milo’s hat.

The pre-wedding punch team members were Emma’s mom Rosie and young friend Kieran.

There’s my beautiful baby! The punch was spiked with pims (a very British style alcohol) so kids had some sort of neon yellow bubbly soda. Naomi didn’t seem to like the bubbles, but she certainly liked pretending to sip her special drink from a definitively grown-up glass.

Milo spent the weekend charging around with William, Emma and Ian’s youngest son. They brandished their willow knives, roaring savagely at all the guests, then fell exhausted into their beds that night.

Here’s the bride and groom, with the celebrant who conducted the ceremony. His name was Sean and he fit the style perfectly; casual, teasing, irreverent. Not sure how many they had to interview to find him, but he was a blast.

Their four kids walked Emma down the “aisle,” (through the throng of party-goers on the grass).  Instead of a bouquet, William is carrying his willow knife.  Fitting.

We were all out at Okuti Valley for the day, as well as the night. After the ceremony we relaxed picnic style (I’m here reading my book and enjoying a beer in the shade) before an early dinner. But as night fell, the scene changed.

Wedding day was October 31st, and Emma loves Halloween. We were all under strict instructions to dress up–not for the wedding, jeans would do for that, but for the Halloween party afterwards. Naomi was a flower, Milo an Indian (native american, first people….what’s the correct term these days?).

Here they are, seriously ready for the after-party.

I was a fish, but you might need to squint to see it.  We danced to the excellent one-man band (guitar, harmonica, drums played by the same guy), Naomi bouncing up and down for hours, Milo stabbing his willow knife at costumed aliens and creepy operating room nurses.  Darkness fell and we got out the glow sticks and the balloons illuminated inside by tiny LED lights, and danced some more.  At 9:30 Naomi started laying her exhausted head down on my shoulder, and I brought the kids up to the tents to roll into their sleeping bags.  10:00 p.m. they broke out the port and pies.  It was a fun wedding.  

The bell rings at 9:45. We all troop into the break room for “smoko,” or morning tea. The bell rings again at 10:00, and we tip the dregs out of our tea cups and troop back to work. It’s a factory. A plant factory. The surprising part is that I like it.

There are some idyllic bays tucked into notches around the Banks Peninsula. Winter is loosening its grip, so couple weeks ago we stayed at the Okains Bay campground, with tent sites tucked under those big pine trees just behind the beach.

Our friends Emma and Ian plus their three kids joined us for Saturday. If Sand + Water = Kid Happiness, then fresh Mussels + Beer = Adult Happiness.

Sand+Water+Dead Fish=Intense Happiness. We found this kahawai fish in one of the tidal pools, recently dead for no apparent reason. We were tempted to try eating it….but declined when we contemplated the various pathogens that might cause a fish to die at sea (actually, we have no idea about the pathogens, just aware that what we don’t know fills volumes). Then we saw a dolphin in the bay, and wondered if it got whacked by the dolphin, then lost in the waves. The diggers and trucks were immediately abandoned by the children. The fish was smacked, whacked, buried, disinterred, swung in graceful arcs, dropped from the overhanging rocks, and eventually detailed and descaled. Talk about cheap amusement.

You couldn’t tell Naomi that the rocks were too high for her–her chubby little fingers found the hand holds and her toes scrabbled up behind.

Aw, mommy-baby photo op.

The sand at Okain’s Bay is perfect for sculpting, smooth and wet and dense, and strong enough for a seat.  

Some people are mesmerized by waves, languidly watching them for hours. I personally don’t find them so calming, but I did stop to admire the sun’s glare on the overlapping edges as they chuckled in to shore. I wonder if the waves feel a bit redundant, always doing and re-doing the same rote task, like endlessly tidying the sheets of sand only to have critters muck them up again with foot prints.