The day after our tramp, we wake up late. We're both tired, and without any particular time pressure, it's hard to find a reason not to let ourselves sleep in. Eventually we make it out of bed and drive slowly north. We stop again at the Claris, Texas Cafe and nibble some meat pies, tea, and coffee. It's again rather drizzly, and we sit outside under the porch watching beggar sparrows evaluate their chances of sneaking a bite of pie crust before we gobble it all. Halfway through the meal, the middle-aged couple we briefly met on the top of Mt. Hobson wanders up for lunch, the man stumbling painfully. It turns out he'd twisted his ankle shortly after they saw us and been forced to hobble down the trail back to the car park. He's not exactly a wispy-looking fellow, and I wince thinking about how it must feel for him to walk.
After a bit, the rain eases and we drive up Maby's road to the north end of Whangapoua beach. It's really just about as far up as you can easily drive on the island, and the beach itself is virtually deserted. Maby's road dead-ends at a bare patch of mowed grass set off by the familiar green silo camp-toilet-long-drop. Beyond this parking space, several rows of the locally farmed pines, branches trimmed half-way up their trunks, block the wind coming off the Pacific as well as any view of the sea.
As we pull up, a lady pops out of the long drop, cleaning supplies in hand. Her companion, a chubby dachsund, has run up to our vehicle and barks fiercely at it from a position nearly, but not quite, under the wheels. She grins apologetically, and chases her dog off back to wherever they were headed next.
The beach is empty and gorgeous. It's a day of mingled sunlight and clouds, warmth and chill. The sky is many shades of blue and gray all swirled together and shot through with clouds.
On the north end of the beach is a pair of mass graves, markers for people who perished in the shipwreck of the SS Wairarapa in 1894.
Beyond that our path is blocked by a rocky headland, half-swamped by tide and runoff from the heavy recent rain. No one disturbs our peace. A disintegrating driftwood beach shelter attests to occasional inhabitation, but little else reminds us that the beach is visited by other people.
(photo: footprints from a bird that pried open this clam)
Far out in the water rises the tall form of Rakitu Island.
It's one of the few private offshore islands around NZ, and apparently still operated as a sheep farm. The island seems to climb almost vertically out of the water, and I wonder exactly where the harbor necessary for any such cattle operation is. I momentarily envision a Scottish Sheep Caber Toss loading process, but decide that'd be a tad hard on the sheep.
Eventually, the sky begins to cloud up. We end the night back at Medlands beach, enduring more awful cans of Watties “Light” soup and distracting ourselves by watching an MST3K (“The Giant Gila Monster”) before crawling in bed.
The van shakes and shudders all night long. Rain howls about us, dripping in through the rough spots at the back hatch. We sleep fitfully, and I worry throughout the night that we'll wake up in a van-sticking mud-pie, even though I had carefully parked on a high and gravelly spot the night before. The wind blows so much I keep half-dreaming about the van moving sideways.
At some point after sunrise, we give up on sleep and drive to the higher, non-official-campground park site in Medlands. The wind dies down a bit and we manage breakfast. I type up a few notes on our trip and we observe the early morning activity.
(photo: Medlands Beach after the storm)
In late morning, we drive south to Tryphena to catch the ferry, only to find out that it's been postponed a day due to the very bad weather and rough seas. Depressed at the thought of spending yet another drizzly day stuck in the van, we step into the new cafe, the "Rose", and have a pot of tea and some coffee.
We linger as long as we can over our drinks, trying to ignore all the savory smells from other people eating lunch, before we venture back out into the rain and drive to Medlands.
We park again in the high, non-DOC parking spot, then while away the day reading books and doing essentially nothing. During a quiet period, we venture out onto the beach, but do little more than walk up and down and watch the clouds.
It's a quiet night.
last day on GBI and the ferry
We're up and off back to Tryphena, stopping at Kaitoke beach on the way.
Luckily the ferry is on for the day.
We stop at a beach to eat lunch, and watch the waves roll in, wondering how rough the ride will be.
An elderly but hale man wanders down the road carrying trash to the local trash collection spot and stops to talk to us. Turns out he moved here from Canada a long time ago. He's full of information about GBI, and it's fun to talk. It makes me a little sad to hear him describe how the population has dwindled and how there are so few full-time residents these days.
The ferry ride back to Auckland is rougher than the ride to GBI, but not all that bad.
The ferry is very small, and the crew and the locals all know each other. They hang out in back near the snack bar, laughing, joking, drinking cheap beer, and watching the cars dance about on the deck.
They're all real characters. One of them, a middle-aged guy I remember from the ride to GBI, tells us about moving out to the island with his "girl" back in the 70's, He grins animatedly, exposing a wide smile and missing front teeth, gesturing expansively while telling us about his garden. Another old coot, whiskery and red-eyed, cackles so loudly that you can hear him from one end of the boat to the other. When he finds out we're staying at the holiday park, he invites us to spend the night with him at his very elderly father's house.
"It's criminal to have to pay for a place to sleep!" he tells us.
While the thought of saving 30 bucks is appealing, we're both exhausted and just want to hide. Moreover, our new friend is several beers gone and has been up above puffing at something you can't get out of a cigarette machine. He seems like a genuinely nice guy, but we're just not up to dealing with someone quite this whacked tonight. We kind of figure he'd wake up in the morning having forgotten the whole thing, and then we'd have to explain just who we were and why we were snoring in the next room.
In the end, we drive off the ferry, politely decline his offer, then drive on to Takapuna, very ready for a quiet night.
1 comment:
I think you made a wise decision about the sleeping arrangements. I love the vision of the flying sheep
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