“Wow, New Zealand really is mostly rural, isn’t it?” We were driving through small towns in the central North Island somewhere between Wellington and Taupo. More accurately, we were passing through acres and acres of green rolling hills with pastures and trees, where here and there a small concentration of houses and shops congretated to form a village. The downtowns of these little villages seemed bustling and healthy, colorful and full of clothing stores, restaurants and banks, like I imagine the small towns of New England were before strip malls and Walmarts drew commerce away from mainstreet.

I’m not sure what I was expecting of the North Island. Maybe because most of the NZ population lives in the north, I thought it’d be more urban. Maybe because the new David Attenborough documentary is on my mind, with the ballooning trajectory of the global human population, I thought there’d be wall-to-wall humanity out there. But I was pleasantly surprised. It wasn’t crowded.

The next day we drove from Wellington to Taumarunui where we launched on the Whanganui River Journey, a story told in a former post.

We spent 5 nights camping under red pohutikawa trees in a holiday park at Waitara, which is just north of New Plymouth. To my delight, when we moved the tent the outline showed in red needle-like flower petals, fallen from the trees above. It was a wonderful stretch of weather, and the formula was successful. Jeremiah got up early and took his kayak out fishing while mom and the kids slept in, read our books in bed, and generally had a lazy morning breakfasting and beaching. At midday Jeremiah returned, and we spent the afternoon doing something all together.

“Don’t touch her butt!” Jeremiah rebuked Milo.  Milo and Naomi were romping in the living room in that silly hour that happens when bedtime has been delayed, and there were some shenanigans going on.

“Why not?” he asked, challenging as always.

“You shouldn’t touch anyone else’s butt,” Jeremiah insisted, vehemently but vaguely.

“But Daddy touches your butt,” Milo argued to me, demonstrating the sensual caresses remarkably accurately on his own body. 

“Yes, but Daddy’s my husband,” I said, “and the way he touches my butt has a sexual connotation, so you shouldn’t do it to Naomi, because you’re not supposed to have sex with your sister.” 

Milo was grinning in delight now.  He’d gotten mommy at a matter-of-fact moment and was getting some juicy morsels of gossip on a rarely-mentioned topic.  “Why can’t I have sex with Naomi?”  He cocked his head and the buck-tooth grin challenged me to drop some more pearls of wisdom.  The year 4 students started sex ed last year and he has an anatomical idea of what sex is (“You had to do that TWICE to get me and Naomi, didn’t you?” he has asked me recently. “Yes, Milo, twice…..”).

“If you have sex with your sister it’s called incest, and it’s considered taboo by society, and your children could have weird genetic problems.” 

“What’s Taboo?”  he asked, dancing around like a joker, considering, I’m sure, how scintillating a conversation topic this would make with his next door buddy.  Naomi was also listening in delight, rubbing her bum and waving it around.

“It means you’d be an outcast of society and no one would talk to you or play with you!  Now, GO TO BED!” I insisted, pointing to the bedroom. 

They retreated, and I moved back into the kitchen where Jeremiah was making pasta salad.  “I just explained incest to our kids, did you hear?”  I said, fishing for a congratulations on doing some hard-yards parenting. 

“Yeah, thanks, good job,” he grinned. Milo turns 10 next week. Explaining Incest is easy compared to the years we surely have ahead.

The last two Christmases we did bike trips.  They were good, but I felt it was time for an easier (less kid whinge) activity.  I have good memories of canoe trips with my grandparents on Adirondack lakes, and I don’t remember putting out much effort as a youngster….my infinitely patient grandfather taught me to paddle, but I was doing well if my whirlpools reached to the stern of the boat.  And we spent significant time just watching the water trails we made as we dipped our fingers over the side of the laden canoe.    

The Whanganui River Journey is classed as a “Great walk.”  It’s a 5 day, 145 km route down part of the Whanganui River, one of 9 iconic journeys promoted and maintained by the NZ Department of Conservation.  We figured a silver lining to Covid is a summer with limited tourists, a good time to visit the relatively “crowded” north island.

We rented a canoe and Jeremiah paddled his sea kayak.  After a rudimentary kiwi-style safety briefing we shoved our gear into six barrels, two dry bags and a cooler, and launched from Taumarunui. 

“If you don’t tip within the first hour, you won’t tip until the last day,” was the reassuring outlook from the canoe hire guy.  The Whanganui has a couple rapids approaching grade 2 white water, mostly on the first and 5^th days.  While I’m happy to paddle that in a kayak, I’ve never paddled a canoe in any rapids.  Odds are that one in three canoes takes to the drink during the trip, and my aim was to be squarely in the dry 2/3rds of that statistic.  I was comforted by the fact that the NZ Greatwalks are suitable for novices; with a reasonable level of fitness I didn’t expect anything untoward.   

The first couple rapids had me nervous, but they were straight-forward and I was able to direct the canoe where I wanted to go (basically a straight point and shoot, no fancy manoeuvres required).  We splashed through with only a few gallons of water sloshing inside from waves, and my confidence increased. Unfortunately no photos, cameras and rapid navigation don’t mesh!

We pulled into our first tent site by mid afternoon, and managed to set up camp before the rain started.  It rained all afternoon and all night, a steady gentle rain. 

Next morning we dressed the kids in their wetsuits, wrung out the tents, and anxiously checked the river level.  It had only gone up about six inches from the night before, and maybe another inch while we packed, but the water had gone from tannin-tea brown to milky capucchino.  Milo surveyed the turbulent flow.  “No logs or dead animals floating along, so it’s ok to paddle,” he stated, quoting our safety briefing.  He’s a funny combination of worry-wort and bravado, that boy; he likes precision in the rules, and as long as they aren’t his parents’ rules, he follows them.  We launched and sped along amid rain squalls and gorge sides cloaked with fern trees and waterfalls.  Some time after noon the sun peaked out and the outlook improved. 

“Whakahoro campsite, 400 meters upstream.”  The sign pointed up a chocolatey brown torrent lined with treacherous willows.  I raised my eyebrows at Jeremiah.  “I can’t get up that with just the kids in front.  There must be a trail up from the main river somewhere.”  We scoured the bank—thick bush and no trail.  We tied up the kayak and paddle all together in the canoe.  Zigzagging up the current with willow branches clawing at the edges felt mighty precarious, and despite our best efforts we had to pause in a boily eddy.  “I certainly didn’t expect anything this sketchy in a Great Walk,” I panted.  Quite possibly our sense of river hazards has been heightened by our whitewater kayaking experience, especially my own recent encounter with a side-stream willow.  A Danish couple had clawed their way to the submerged landing just ahead of us, and they generously came back to offer help with their bow rope towing from land, so we made it eventually.  Hauling our barrels up the slippery bank, we saw a sign pointing another 300 meters uphill to the campsite.  “Whakahoro” sounds like a swear word (it’s pronounced “faka-whore-o), and I’d certainly suggest giving it a miss in favour of a friendlier riverside site.  On the plus side, we met Becs from Taupo at this campsite, and she very generously carried a pair of our barrels up to the camp each night for the remainder of the trip. 

Next day we were staying in the hut at Te Keiki, where there’s a marae.  Reading the informational panel at John Gould hut, we learned that we’d need to be prepared for a traditional maori greeting—the man of the group would need to say what mountain and river we’re from, along with the necessary family introductions and thank you’s.  The woman of the group would need to sing a song, preferably a folk song from your country of origin.  I spent the paddling day practicing Yankee Doodle, which seemed a bit irreverent but was a favorite with the kids.  Alison Krauss’ “When I went down to the river to pray” seemed fitting, this being a river journey and all, but I doubted I could pull that off tunefully.  I settled on the Amish song “Tis a gift to be simple.”  In the end I was spared.  Marilynn, the hostess/caretaker of the marae, suggested that the whole group sing one song together.  The one kiwi family among the group was more familiar with the requirements of the occasion, and chose a maori song that the kids learn in school. 

Marilynn’s husband is the DOC officer in charge of the hut, and Marilynn is the person in her iwi (tribe) who has taken on caretaker job for the marae, which includes welcoming visitors each day.  Her dad did this role before her. 

The land on which the DOC hut sits is a contested bit of ground; DOC built it without the permission of the maori group who historically controlled the land around the Whanganui River, so the iwi staged a live-in protest where they occupied the hut until a suitable arrangement was reached. Thankfully the arrangement allows for regular people to use the hut. I didn’t realize upon booking that the maori consider that to be their land which they graciously share.

In this delicate balancing act for control, Marilynn was most gracious, explaining our roles in the ceremonial greeting and making many allowances for us being from a different culture.  Apparently there is no other marae that allows their visitors to speak, she told us proudly.  Though they still hold the tradition that a woman must not speak and must enter behind the men.  “That’s not very 21^st century,” whispered the Danish woman.  I heartily agreed; of all the traditions to bend, treating woman as second class citizens seems to be a logical starting point. 

We started our last day’s paddle expecting the river gradient to increase; this last day had four named rapids to negotiate, as well as a few numbered ones between.  We put the kids in wetsuits and tied every loose bit of gear to the boat.  But the first long stretch was flat, with a wicked headwind, and I worked hard for every meter travelled, aware that our shuttle was booked for 1:30.  We passed the first described rapid in puzzlement—where was the rock mid-stream that we were meant to go left of?  We slowly realized that the water must still be high enough that the challenging waves were “washed out,” the term whitewater paddlers use to mean the features are so far under water that they aren’t tough to negotiate.  The real challenge was the headwind. 

We made our shuttle time, but another family were waiting for didn’t turn up on time.  The canoe hire guy checked his clipboard.  “Powell, that’s the group with two kids in front and the mom in back who’s a really good paddler, right?”  I hesitated; we were waiting for a family with three kids and two adults; they had two canoes, but I wasn’t sure how their kids were arranged.  Jeremiah chimed in; “No, you’re thinking about us.  The family we’re waiting for has three kids.”  Realization dawned sweetly.  That “really good paddler” he was referring to was me.  I let the accolade go to my head; I figured my battered self esteem needs all the help it can get these days. 

Eventually the canoe hire guy organized a local jet boat to launch in search of the other family, but much to our relief they rounded the bend just before the boat hit the water. 

Looking back on the trip, one of the major enjoyments was the little cohort of people who we spent the evenings with at the huts.  Since Christmas morning the personalities had been the same, and the comradery grew day by day.  There was the Christchurch family Milo called The Freckles, who kept strictly to themselves the first day but by day three had thawed sufficiently to be cordial.  There was a friendly hippie German couple living in Golden Bay, as well as generous Becs and her paddling friend Andrew (not partners, she carefully clarified), who had spent two years teaching English in Armenia, and had interesting things to say about a wide range of topics.  Then there was the nice aforementioned Danish couple, who had interesting things to share about Scandinavia. I find this with all the Great Walks that I’ve done, oddly enough.  We plan the trip to get out into the wilderness, but the most memorable part is the people we meet along the way. 

Back in Taumarunui we treated ourselves to a hotel room, soapy showers, and a nice Indian restaurant.  Stage one of the family trip had been a success. 

This pansy was covered in perfect spherical melted frost drops, glisteningin the morning sun. I passed it planter yesterday on my way into work, and actually doubled back to take a photograph. I wonder what microscopic characteristics of the petal surface make it so hydrophobic.

Last weekend was the first clear lovely weekend we’ve had in what seems like forever. It can’t really be that long since we had fantastic weather during our lockdown into May, but I’m tired of being cold.  I jumped onto Carrie and Irmana’s planned hiking day Sunday, and we headed up to Mt Herbert, the highest point on the Banks Peninsula. I’ve approached it from the Kaituna Valley once and Orton Bradley park another time, but this is the first time I’d started at Diamond Harbor.

The trail is a straight forward track up through sheep pasture to the summit.  Every year it is closed for lambing August-October, right about when the weather is getting warmer and we’re wanting to plan such a hike, so we squeaked it in just before the closure this time.  It really is a better track to do on a clear winter day anyway….there’s no water and no shelter, so it would be a scorcher in the summer.

We ambled along, chit-chatting about home renovations, flannel sheets, the size of the closets, and children, stopping once or twice for Irmana to stretch her back which has been bothering her. My knee started to niggle and I made a mental note to book a physio appointment.

Last week was the first time someone referred to me (in my hearing) as “middle-aged.”  I thought I didn’t deserve that term until I turn 40, but I have to admit that the wrinkles around my eyes and propensity to retire early to bed under an electric blanket all point to the same direction.  And, if I admit it, so do our conversation topics.

I remember when other people talked about cranky joints and the pleasure of taking a kid-less outing to the grocery store. I listened to them, smiling, comfortably bemused, wondering what it was like to get old.  Ha.

I guess if I am to be uncharacteristically optimistic, “middle-aged” means there’s still half of life left to live.  Here we are, approaching it with a smile.