Christchurch is the destination on the ticket, that's about it. A map of the South Island, no visa required, have tent for a home and limited funds to get me through the first week of two.
As the Douglas DC 3, drones on, our faith in the two propellers churning away through the thin air is unquestioned and yet we all know how an engine works, so our faith has a touch of the almighty in it.
My dress sets me apart somewhat. I look like an early Alpinist with three quarter length corduroy trousers, long white socks and large tough mountain boots stuck uncomfortably under the forward seat. The rucksack, ice axe and coiled rope are safely in the hold but collectively they looked out of keeping as I boarded in Sydney. Hopefully they will more acceptable when I get off in Christchurch.
Standing a little forlorn in the centre of town I wonder where the camp ground is and how to get there. This is 1960s New Zealand and everything is closed, even the bus time table resembles the service out of Ambleside, one an hour and nothing after 7pm. Around the corner bundles an old car, all cars in New Zealand are old. Henry Ford would have thought he was in Detroit at the turn of the century with T Fords converted into the ubiquitous utilities (the back end opened up to provide a place for sack and the dog).
This car, full of youngsters off to a party slows and stops, care to join us, off course, squeeze in mind the ice axe !! So started my introduction to New Zealand, beer in hand telling my story they telling theirs, we danced the night away and eventually as the sun came up we turned into the dirt road that led to the farm and a delightful few days living the life of a farmers son. The boys didn't live with the"oldies" in the house, they had bunks in an adjoining building like the bunk house in the Westerns. They ate with their parents but were already introduced to the adult responsibilities of running the farm of which the coming and going at all hours made their sleeping arrangements much more sensible. Before first light they would be up high on the pastures with their dogs mustering the sheep, bringing them down for a dip or, in this case corralling them in preparation for winter
As the sun came up one looked across the valley, the people still sleeping, to the majestic sight of the Southern Alps rising out of the meadows up to their peak, clothed in snow, gleaming in the early morning sun. The sense of natures proportionality in which we were a tiny part was brought home in the peace and scale of it all.
There was work to be done, those stupid sheep ever flunking the simple route you had planned were rescued, time and again by the dogs who must have quietly shaken their heads with disbelief at our nativity, they understand how stupid sheep can be !! Breakfast after all the early exercise was magnificent. Huge, succulent lamb chops, eggs as many as you could eat, fit for a King.
Soon I was off again heading for Queens town as winter drew in, my plan to camp through the season up until Christmas and then move off to Wellington. Funny how circumstances change but the ability to change with them is one of the delights of being on the open road.
Having frozen my butt off on the frozen ground of the camp site in Queensland, with news papers acting as an insulator from the cold, I resembled fish and chips in yesterdays news. No camp bed, no sown in ground sheet, a canvas tent that leaked like a sieve on the first shower and to crown it all the constant fight with the Possums for my food, drove me to seek shelter in the Hermitage Youth Hostel at the base of Mount Sefton And Mount Cook. It was there that fate took a hand, sitting at the bar was the loveliest of girls who surprisingly responded to my chat line and began a conversation. I must be honest, we were the only people staying at the hostel so maybe it was through boredom on her part but once started we soon became starry eyed and Wellington hove into view, much sooner than anticipated !!!
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