Mike Mate

To reach the top of Mount Doom (Mt Nguaruhoe) took me an hour-and-half.  The volcano rose in a cone of shingle to a rim of red baked rock and then it dropped vertically inward, I imagined dropping into it – out of time.  Steam puffed out the ground and in its warm wet path lived lady-birds – their house was fire.  There was snow at the top that crunched beneath my hiking boots as I walked across it.  Tongariro is the fourth oldest national park in the real world.  Coming down again took only twenty minutes – sliding on the shingle – my imagination did not come down again though.  It remained on that high place, over Easter, and it may never return. 

Four nights tramping the Abel Tasman pulled me right back into the Earth.  Such that I can’t stop and am about to head deeper, this time on the North Island – Tongariro northern circuit – another five day walk about a volcano.  These are days of little internet and no writing for me.  These are holy days.

I have made it to Sunshine Bay, in the north of South Island.  I will step out for a while, take a break, tramp the Abel Tasman track.  I’ll be back in time.  Two friends of mine have just died,  Rosemary and Hans.  Perhaps I’ll meet you both on the paths that wind into the forests.  I’ll be on the look out.  I go now with love and peace.

That first shower of hot water and soap is the sweetest.  And then the sunshine, Invercargill let the sun out in welcome and my bones dried out.  My washing did too on the lines at the backpackers lodge.  Wi-Fi, email from friends…what treasure.  It feels good to be warm and dry on land again, but I’ve been bit.  I want to go back to sea, to sail more under canvas, exposed to creation.  The last day was the wildest and Tiama flew across the tops of the waves with only a storm jib out.  She flew and crashed into walls of water, she got spat out of troughs on the tops of surging waves, rolled and corkscrewed, and she felt good.

But it is also good to be on land again, and exciting to adventure deeper into New Zealand.  Today I head to Dunedin and it looks as though there is a long white cloud to cover me, it looks as though it may rain, still adventure just the same.

Forties and Fifties roar furious mostly from the West. But we have a window
through which they are coming from the East, driving us forward on just a
reefed Genoa – to Bluff. The swell is quarterly and, if it was not for that
small triangle of sail pulling us forward, it would overwhelm us. Rolling
cliffs of emerald sea come at us from behind, they lift the stern of Tiama and
shove her forward and twist her to the side – just then the genoa bulges filled
with wind and pulls her straight again. The auto-pilot does not like the dance
and an alarm translates to “impossible – I give up”. But I’m there harnessed to
the boat, I can beat the iron-man, and I’m dressed for the occasion. Bring it
on, I am alive.

The winds howl and the seas hiss, and now… this is the way to eternal bliss.
I am immersed in my element at the helm. First one then the other life-ring are
thrust by the ocean out of there brackets, I lean over from the wheel and push
them back in again. The sea tries, it twists and turns and I twist and turn
with it to hold true course then smash. Tiama lurches onto her side and a
waterfall lands on top of me – yeeha. It trickles down the inside of my neck, I
feel it spread its cold fingers across my chest as it reaches for my navel. It
whispers to me “you’re alive”.