The Way to Waitiki Landing - Dogs and Mud

June 3, 2008

The drive up the Cape Reinga peninsula is quick but not spectacular. We drop back into Kaitaia to get supplies at the large Pak 'N' Save there, leaving our campervan rather nervously near the front entrance, as the Lonely Planet guide we are using cautions us against the likelihood of theft in the region and even in the parking lot of this very grocery store. Of course nothing eventful happens, and we stock up on food for our upcoming tramp, pick up some rather lackluster but cheap meat pies at a bakery, then drive back north up the peninsula.

The peninsula itself is rather quiet. From the main highway, which sticks to the middle part of the land, it appears to be mostly grazing land, punctuated by the occasional pine plantation. These plantations come in 3 varieties: young and tender, tall and proud, and completely razed to the ground. Periodically we pass through what passes for local towns. Most of these are doing well to manage more than 5-10 houses, and in the late afternoon not much appears to be going on. The land itself is mostly low and rolling. Aside from the pine plantations, there aren't a whole lot of trees. The houses themselves are quite modest. Evidently the tourist and vacation-home driven development has not hit this area. I suppose the general lack of sunny beaches has something to do with that.

Near Te Kao, we round a corner and spy an enormous tawny hound at rest in the opposite lane. He lies there on the road with his head pillowed on his paws and watches us approach. I slow down a bit in case he is preparing to do something stupidly doglike, and am more richly rewarded than I could have dreamed, as at the last minute he leaps to his feet and attempts with great energy to throw himself under our front wheels. Swerving and braking, I squeak around him, his body hidden from sight by his closeness to our van, knowing I haven't smacked him mostly by the lack of audible or tactile *thump*s.

Looking in the rear-view mirror as we drive away, we see him standing in our lane looking after us with what I can only assume is a pleased expression. I suppose just like in horseshoes and hand grenades, 'close' to driving off the road counts as a success for the dog.

Christina marks the location of the dog on our map so we can watch for him on our trip back and we drive on. Near dusk we roll into Waitiki Landing, which is instantly familiar. It's the truck stop on the edge of nowhere, the last place to fill up on gas, catch a bite to eat, or buy what passes for essential groceries in this neck of the woods. There are several buildings arranged in kind of a compound. I back the van into a parking spot next to the preserved top of an old lighthouse (with dust and fly-spot covered sign proudly proclaiming its availability for regular display), and we walk into the room labeled 'office', calling out politely until someone appears.

A voice calls out: 'Just a minute.' Momentarily, a rough-boned man with weathered workman's hands walks in from a side door. He's amiable enough, and shortly we arrange to be dropped off the next morning, Wednesday, and picked up at the end of the tramp Saturday at noon. We also make camping arrangements for the night. He warns us that some of the spots are a bit soggier than others, waggling his eyebrows at us as he says this. I fail totally to clue in as to what level of emphasis eyebrow waggling constitutes.

We walk back to the van. The light is almost gone. Christina goes down to scout out the kitchen, bathrooms, and general layout of the campsites. I start the van back up and drive through the gate and down the slope onto the small grassy field. It's nearly dark by this point. I roll around a few sad trees - apparently no one at Waitiki Landing is much into landscaping - and towards a part of the field that appears flat enough to let us sleep without rolling or sliding on our bed. After a moment, I see Christina walking back towards me from another area across the gravel drive, so I turn towards her and pull to a stop as she reaches me. The squelching noise as I brake is my first clue that something unfortunate is happening.

Christina steps to my window and tells me that the field is pretty boggy and perhaps we should park across the road - closer to the dorms, but at least on solid ground. I agree, put the van in gear, then completely fail to move forward. The rear tires spin in the water-soaked grass and rapidly dig themselves into the underlying mud.

The problem is as follows: Behind me is a slightly drier slope. Getting our underpowered van to tug itself out of its ruts and up the slope is unlikely. Ahead of the van quite possibly the boggiest 15 feet of the field separate it from the secure footing of the gravel drive. The van itself is conspicuously absent a rear bumper, so even if I was willing to stomach the remnants of my pride, I was still going to require someone willing to try to tow me out to have any luck asking for help. Meanwhile it has gotten completely dark. An 8-year old kid zips around the van at high speed on his quad-bike, pausing every couple of minutes to ask us with great excitement if we're stuck. Meanwhile, up the hill and around the corner, the local road crew sits out front of the truck stop restaurant talking. It's hard not to think that their laughter runs a bit louder than before while I dig.

At first I try to get Christina to drive while I attempt to push the van. After my feet slip in the darkness and slime and I crash to the ground, I give up on this approach and start digging. Luckily we have a small spade which came with the van, or I would be working with the folding camping toilet shovel. By this point the wheels are solid cylinders of mud. No evidence of tread is visible on even the new rear tires under their coating of muck.

Digging in a bog would be easier if the top 6 inches of it were not solid knotted grass runners, but after a good half-dozen passes, I manage to dig trenches forward far enough, and line the trenches with swiped gravel well enough that the van finally spins its way onto the drive. After an hour of this I am so filthy that I've stopped caring about further mud and am just glad to be done. I shiver a little bit, thinking about the huge muddy rutted curves we slid down on the 309 road while crossing the Coromandel Peninsula, and how close we must have been to a long, unpleasant walk in the dark.

Christina whips up a sort of beef bourgogne with noodles in the kitchen while I clean up a bit and relax. The truckstop feel holds up under closer inspection. Everything is functional but worn, and cleaned up in the sort of rough fashion you find in bachelor havens.

The kitchen has 2 ancient gas countertop ranges, wrought ensembles made half of rusting iron and half of burnt but unidentifiable foodstuffs. One of them is missing a leg, but conveniently held up by a chipped, upended sugar dish. Despite their rough appearance, the ranges work fabulously, burning with the kind of flame you could spit-roast a whole steer over. From the faint smell percolating from the stainless steel sink, and from the numerous grumpy signs about disposal of scraps on the wall, it seems the meat of choice is more likely fish.

The dining area is one part massive hand-made furniture and one part cheap surplus junk. We eat at a giant wood table whose top is made from a single rough-edged slab of what appears to be pine. The other table is a cheap folder, and has a couple of chairs upended on top along with an old guitar. One of the glass doors is broken and papered over. It rustles in the breeze as we eat. Finally, tired, we finish off our mugs of tea and crawl in bed. Tomorrow will be busy enough.