Last week on a flight to Invercargill for work I found an ad in the in-flight magazine that made me chuckle. It’s so Kiwi. First off, the farms are profitable here, without any government subsidies either. Secondly, it’s persuasive in the casual understated humorous way of NZ advertisements. I’ve included their first 4 points because I thought they were so well written. Even positioned cheek by jowl with glamorous photos of exotic destinations and wine pairings, I might have gone for the farm investment…had I been flush with lots of extra cash and low on natural skepticism.
1. WHAT GOES IN: When Mother Nature was divvying up the assets, she bestowed upon New Zealand the perfect climate for growing abundant grass. This might seem like a boring sort of inheritance, but not to a farmer whose livelihood depends on his ability to feed animals. New Zealand grows more grass than just about anywhere else on earth. Fortunate really, because your average dairy cow eats around 90 kilograms of grass every day.
2. THE ENGINE ROOM: The slow gastric process of converting grass into the liquid currency we know as milk involves a good amount of chemistry and a little bit of magic. As you know, milk gets turned into all manner of things and shipped overseas to help feed the world. As luck would have it, New Zealand is home to Fonterra, the powerhouse of our industry and the world’s largest dairy processor. Like being in the playground at primary school, it’s handy to have the big guy on your side.
3. THE UDDER: To a dairy farmer, a cow’s udder is like an ATM-it’s the place to go when he needs money. The average cow produces more than 4000 litres of milk per annum. The average dairy herd is 402 cows. Mathematicians will tell you that’s enough milk to fill 16 average size swimming pools or, founded off at today’s milk solid price, about $1.2 million dollars in gross income.
4. THE COW’S BACK: For a piece of the action without getting their hands dirty, savvy investors have been riding around up here for years. Apart from earning an average return of 13% between 1992 and 2012*, they’ve cottoned on to the simple notion that the world’s population is going mad and there’s not enough protein to go around. This is all good for New Zealand and it’s all good for you. So come on up and let’s celebrate with a glass of milk.
We go to the Ag Show every year, but this year looking at the photos what struck me most was the distillation of NZ culture. Not every aspect, mind you, but a couple strands of character than run deep in the fabric of society, such as sheep and sheep dogs. This could be a scene from the movie Babe. Sheep dogs may be super high energy, but in these trials they are amazingly disciplined, intense, and controlled. They stalk, they skulk, on occasion they sprint, but they are the model of controlled focus.
More Sheep! This time the race is to shave off their wool rather than move them through an obstacle course. It’s a two-part race, starting with the obvious bit of the sheering where the guys handle the sheep as if they were stuffed animals. Under expert hands they look docile (probably just hopeless), but once I saw a not-so-expert give it a go, and the sheep wasn’t so cooperative then. The second part is the wool handling–cleaning off the dingleberries (look that one up on google), separating the rest into grades, and bundling it all up to be baled. In the race we watched the shearers were neck-and-neck, and it was the speed of the wool handlers that separated the teams.
Lambs and sheep. The sheep maternity ward houses 50 ewes bred to give birth within the 3 day window of the show. The commentary from the women watching was all clucks of sympathy for the mama sheep, squirming embarrassment that she had to lamb in such a public arena, and pleas to help her as she strained to get the lamb out. I must admit I felt the same way.
Kids are allowed to touch animals here. Maybe I’m so impressed by this because the little county where we lived last (Tioga, NY) had a ridiculous rule about all animals being double-fenced to prevent contact with the public. These poor chicks were spending the first few days of their lives being passed from grubby little hand to grimy little fist, with perhaps a quick plunge to the floor in between. Milo admired the fluff ball for about 20 seconds, then abruptly opened his hands and dropped it on the floor. He was done with it. He’s not long on sympathy, that one.
Doesn’t this horse and rider belong in Mary Poppins? For some reason horse fashion has gotten stuck in the early 1900s (correct me if I’m wrong, history buffs). There was even a class for side-saddle women riders, with their heavy full woolen skirts, and their faces tied up in black suet bags (must have been fly nets) underneath their brimmed hats.
Big tractors. That, at least, feels like home. Except that the owners of these expensive jobbers in NZ let kids climb up and stroke their big powerful wheels unattended. There must not be as many lawyers per capita here.
Road trip, Milo Style! Last weekend we drove up to the St James area, Lewis Pass in the Southern Alps. Milo’s happy to do the road trip if he can watch Sesame Street on the Ipod whilst sucking his chewie. We’re a little chagrined that our 3 year old still wants his “dummie,” as they call it here, but parental embarrassment is a small price to pay for a quiet happy car ride.
I don’t like our 4-wheel-drive Isuzu Bighorn. The diesel is smelly, its uncomfortable, and starts unreliably. But I’ll have to admit that our sleek little VW Golf wouldn’t have hacked it over the road we took to get to the remote St James Cycleway along the Waiau River.
This is a particularly well-formed section of the road, near the pass.
The St. Jame Conservation area is 193,000 acres of public conservation area for our enjoyment, just one of the many public areas for outdoor adventures. it was a working cattle/sheep station until the Gov’t purchased it in 2008 to have as conservation land. now it is open to trampers-a 5 day 40 mile loop and a separate 2 day-33mile mt bike track. We only touched a small portion of the cycleway, many more valleys to explore here!
Here “she” is strutting her stuff while fording a little stream. Though why boats and cars and trucks are feminine is beyond my power to logic. Someone once suggested that it’s because they’re expensive and high maintenance. I wasn’t quite bold enough to give him the dope slap he deserved. Jeremiah’s wearing a silly grin as he surveys the scenery available to the manly owners and operators of 4wd vehicles like his own. Even Milo like the green car, because “its really tough”
No motorized vehicles beyond this point, so our friend Carrie and I put our babies on our backs while they guys put the remaining gear into their packs and hopped on their bikes for the trip into Lake Guyon.
Here we are, four adults and three kids. The guys planned this gentle family trip, a flat track milo could walk/ride. 7 kilometers down the mountain bike track sits a small mountain lake full of trout. On the edge of the lake sits a 4 bunk DOC hut. Surrounding hills are full of deer, wild pigs, and sand flies. What more could a man want?
Milo did great on his little balance bike, and he was proud to be riding like the dads. A couple renditions of “The Three Billy Goats Gruff,” some strategically metered jelly beans, and this rugged little balance bike got Milo to the hut entirely on his own leg power. We were extremely surprised he made it all by himself, Jeremiah brought the trailer only because he was expecting to haul Milo in a majority of the way. Next time the trailer will be staying home. Time to put a set of panniers on Milo’s bike and have him carry his own gear!
Here’s my little bundle!
“Look at me, I’m a big strong boy!” The turn-off to the side valley with the hut meant we were almost there.
Bravo Jeremiah and Milo, you’ve made it to the hut!
For some strange reason, the hut’s one and only small window doesn’t face the lake. But it had a working wood stove and 4 functional bunks. We also set up our two tents for extra sleeping quarters.
Milo spent much of his first day plunking rocks into the lake, endless amusement for kids throughout the ages.
A wood stove and a one-year-old isn’t a particularly good combination, but we managed to keep all children burn-free and the hut warm.
Milo was a hand-full in the small space, but here Ben is playing a game of Uno to help keep the peace. Stella’s first night camping was “a bit average,” to use a Kiwi term. That actually doesn’t mean middle-of-the-road at all. She awoke crying in the tent every 2o minutes for the entire night, and by morning poor Carrie was shattered. Somehow Ben convinced her to try it again for a second night (in the hut this time), and thankfully things went much better.
Ah, those elusive fish! This river had a bridge so Milo did his best to scare the fish upstream toward daddy by tossing rocks over the railing, but to no avail.
Lake Guyon is full of trout, but they were educated little buggers. They’d swim up to the lure, take one look, and reject it as a fake.
Ben is addicted to fly fishing. The evening we walked in he just had to stop at the lower end of the lake, 10 minutes before the hut, to try some casts as the wind was perfect to land the flies out on the water. The small detail that he had his family’s food and gear in his bag and that it was nearly supper time escaped his notice.
Sweet success at last. Apparently the trick with fly fishing is to figure out what the fish are eating at that present time in that body of water, then pull out of your extensive set of flies the fake that looks most life-like. Ben tried the dragonfly larvae lure and that was the ticket. Milo was concerned that the gutted fish was still moving, apparently not dead yet. I would have been too.
Passage into The Hood (manhood) has begun, and I’m watching with concern as my son is indoctrinated into the hunting and fishing guild. Will Naomi be next?
Our second night at the lake it rained a gentle soaking rain all night. Naomi and I shared this tent, enjoying the soothing patter and the improbably dry spot underneath the paper-thin tent fly.
Here we are, cozy in our tiny little efficiency tent. Still, I’m glad we didn’t have to spend a full rainy day cooped up in there. The first day I took Naomi and walked up the hill next to the lake–quiet and solitude, it was lovely. That night the rain started and continued through until morning, but thankfully stopped during breakfast for our walk out.
The extra puddles were a bonus for Milo on the way out–he moved from puddle to jelly-bean stop to the next puddle all the way to the end of the track.
Whee, fording a stream on the balance bike!
A pit stop to scan the valley slopes for wildlife turned up two deer. After many stern warnings of how tardiness back at the cars would annoy the womenfolk, the guys set out to chase those poor creatures.
They succeeded, and luckily caught up to us at the cars just 10 minutes after we arrived. Look at those grins. “Me strong hunter!” “Ug, me Man!” Right. As much as I don’t understand the rise they get from a successful hunt, I know it’s a real phenomenon, and I’m thankful for the meat in the freezer.
What a way to spend your birthday, hiking with Mom! We celebrated Naomi’s birthday on Saturday October 11 because on Sunday Jeremiah had a fishing trip to Kaikoura. Somehow when he sent me the date the significance of October 12 didn’t register to either of us. Sunday was forecast to be a stunning hiking day–sunny and light winds about the peaks, a rare combo. Our friend graciously agreed to have Milo, so I packed up Naomi and headed out to the hills with some colleagues from work.
We started down there in the valley at about 700 meters, and climbed to Cloudsley Peak at 2100m. It starts out with matagouri and tussocks but quickly climbs to bare scree…and stays bare and exposed the whole rest of the way. Impressive, yes. Grand, yes. Beautiful? Well, yes, it is in a way, but it’s awfully barren. Naked. You can see all the bones of the hills. It would be miserable in the wind.
Naomi’s tucked away in her sleeping bag to stay warm, and it worked. We were in short sleeves for part of the hike but donned jackets and mittens at the top. The two folks with us are work friends, Janine and Tim, who graciously moderated their pace for a pack-laden mama. Naomi was a good sport about being carted up and down the mountain too.
Not quite almost there–you can see the top by it was another 45 minutes of climbing to reach it. There were grass hoppers in that scree field. What were they doing there? No food, that I could see anyway.
Further west the peaks were more snowy. Somewhere not far beyond the last snowy peak is the ocean.
Maybe some day Naomi will be an avid hiker and be happy that her first birthday was spent in the mountains. That day she was oblivious to the views, and happy to have snacks inserted into mouth at regular intervals. And yes, my legs were sore on Monday.
Only old people say “time flies,” right? I guess I’ve joined those ranks. Naomi is a year old now, and the time has flown.
To celebrate her birthday we spent the morning at Hagley park playground. Naomi is a bold climber. The fact that only big kids are using the high slide doesn’t phase her in the least. She got up to that platform climbing the red grid below.
She’s happy going down sitting up or tummy down, but when I’m at the top I like to send her down on her tummy so I can see her grinning face and hear her giggly squeal.
There’s a photo of me, probably about the same age, climbing in the kitchen cupboard. She seems to find climbing irresistible. Happy Birthday, you big girl!
Last week Naomi was taking her first tentative steps, but this week there’s no stopping her.
Whoever thought a baby would take so much pleasure from sucking on ice? Naomi spent a long time in blissful concentration on this remnant of an ice sculpture in Cathedral Square. Cold, wet ice. Warm, gentle sun. Perfect.
“More! More!” Her hands come together as soon as the treat dissolves on her tongue. Naomi’s got that bit of sign language down, courtesy of ice-cream practice!
I wish Laura and her family were our neighbors. They usually live in Alaska, but they’re back in Nelson, NZ for the summer and took a road trip down to see us this past weekend. Jeremiah went hunting, and we had a kiddy weekend in Christchurch.
Left to right it’s Noah (3), Milo (3) and Audrey (4). It’s really interesting to see the innate personality differences among children. Audrey can spend hours quietly in an imaginary world with her characters conversing to one another in depth. Milo greats visitors by assuming the pre-pounce tiger stance, and roaring. He also believes it’s his sacred duty to exclude Noah (as the youngest) from the play. Consequently their play takes a bit of mama-monitoring.
A walk along Govenor’s Bay is always a good activity. After bowling through every muddy puddle in sight, Milo is testing out the balance bike’s all terrain ability.
Back in the city, we’re checking out the City Council’s stream, complete with copper eels. We started by removing shoes and rolling up pants, but by the end they were trouserless and wet anyway. No matter, it was a warm day.
The day was warm enough that trying on the entire Antarctica kit was out of the question–the big boots and mittens that Audrey’s sporting with her pretty tank top were enough. These past two weeks there has been a neat Antarctica exhibit in the city center. Spending many weeks squatting in these two-layer tents in the biting polar wind seems unimaginable to me. I guess I’m not that devoted to research.
The Botanical Gardens were just a couple blocks away, so we stopped in for a play at the droopy cedar, its branches worn smooth by a couple generations of playful kids.
Old Man Cedar (like Tom Bombadil’s Old Man Willow) caught Milo’s foot and he needed help to escape his clutches.
The formal garden beds were so impressive in their spring gaudiness, I couldn’t resist a picture.
“Legend has it that Maui used the Kaikoura Peninsula as a foothold to brace himself when he fished the North Island out of the sea.” The DOC sign gives a little enlightenment regarding the gruesome-looking head-fisher. Not quite sure where the head bit comes in, actually….. “Kaikoura” means “eat crayfish,” and the peninsula with its rocky shallows has long been a Maori food gathering site. We spent a weekend there recently with a group of friends who were attempting to do likewise, but the murky water kept most of the crays safe. Paua are almost immobile, however, so they got a fair number of them.
Our friend Mark’s 30th birthday was the occasion for the trip–hunting buddies plus their “partners.” Here, “partners” is the generic blanket term for spouses, fiances, girlfriends/boyfriends, and all other manner of domestic arrangements. It’s not one I’ve adopted. I think of another American friend whose husband tried the term out on her. “I’m not your PARTNER!” she exclaimed. “I’m your WIFE.”
In times gone by, Kaikoura was also a whaling outpost, and I don’t doubt that the seals were hunted too. Not these days!
I’m not sure who likes these warped mudstones and tidal pools more, Milo or me. He surprised me by pushing his finger boldly into a sea anemone’s mouth. I’m sure the anemone was shocked too.
Pink boots! Our family sent them over for Naomi, but since it’ll be years before they fit her, Milo is enjoying them in the mean time.
A week ago Naomi was just taking her first tentative steps in her quest to chew on rocks. Today she’s much faster, “moving by wobbles and tots.”
My grandfather Poppop died on September 16th. Today the family gathers in their home town of Delmar, NY, to savor memories of his life. We’ll each have different experiences to relay, but mine are from the perspective of the eldest grandchild. I won’t be with the gang in person today. Here’s a memoir that hopefully gives a glimpse of his amazing character, and how precious it is to have had him as my grandfather.
“Splash!” The paddle smacks Putnam Pond’s silky surface. “GrrrrRumbleScrape!” The wooden handle protests in an echoing raucous as it’s dragged back into strike position. I sit there mesmerized by the sparkling drips as they fall from the blade, making that perfect trail of concentric rings. “Splash!” The paddle’s in the water again. “GrrrrRumbleScrape!” A little more of the polyurethane finish is scraped from the shaft.
“You’re doing great,” Poppop says from the rear of the canoe. He’s teaching me how to paddle. It wasn’t until many years later that I appreciated the level of forbearance required to teach a kid to canoe. AND let them enjoy it.
“Everyone is passing me, am I going too slow?” We’re on I-87, headed south during a school vacation, and I’m the nervous owner of a brand new drivers’ permit. It’s my second time behind the wheel. The girls chatter with Mommom in the back seats.
“Relax, you’re doing fine. Just nudge over to the right a little—there—now you’re in the middle of the lane. Don’t worry, if I need to I’ll just reach over and take the wheel.” Poppop’s reassurance was strong. I drove from Delmar to the Pennsylvania border that first day. It wasn’t until I watched my dad teach my sisters to drive that I appreciated the unruffled-able nerves, the imperturbability, the gigantic patience that is required.
“My Bride,” Poppop called Mommom. “I love her more now than I did when I married her,” he pronounced at their 50th anniversary. And it wasn’t just words. He worked, dish towel over shoulder, cleaning up the kitchen. He set up the dining room table for quilt making and helped cut the fabric. He patiently packed the car on their protracted exits from the house. He stuffed a whole donut into his mouth just to get her goat (it worked!). Loving with words and also with service. Loving Mommom as an equal.
When I manage to keep my cool in the face of Milo’s antics, I’ll remember Poppop. When I encourage Naomi on a mountain hike, I’ll remember Poppop. When I change a tire on the car instead of asking Jeremiah to do it, I’ll remember Poppop. At every turn, I realize more and more of the legacy I’ve inherited from his life.
An avenue of cherry blossoms is a classic site in many cities, but this one is special to me. The first year we moved here (in August) I was so desperate for the advent of spring and the repopulation of the playgrounds that I watched this row of spring heralds with devoted interest, willing the blossoms to open and announce Spring’s arrival.
The front cover of my Bio 101-102 text book had an up close image of a magnolia center, spiraled with stamens. The spring tree bloom last a long time in Christchurch, months compared to days back in NY.
Kowhai trees are a NZ native legume. I love the masses of bobbling yellow bells.
This plant is not anywhere close to a New Zealand native (it’s from the Carolinas) but I think it’s just about the coolest of them all. Overnight our Venus fly trap caught two flies, one of them a big fat house fly (closed pocket in the rear on the right). The closed pocked in the front left of the photo has the squirming fly in its clasp, you can see its dark shape. We came back a couple hours later and the pocket had pressed shut even tighter, immobilizing the fly. It’ll spend the next few days digesting it. Yum. But I guess when food is scarce in the swamp, fly guts sound good.
Give It A Burl 