There were the dark days. The cold and rainy nights. The southerly and the waiting.
Two bowls of cereal. A cigarette and Timtams in the afternoon.
I'm now addicted to TED talks. Take a look, fuck the book, it's on the world wide web.
I can't stop itching my head—the dandruff falling like snow on my shoulders.
Unshaved. Unshowered.
I finish the first draft of a short story and start a book by Gertrude Stein.
Waiting. Waiting. While the Southerly screams through the city. Wild winds and the always wetness.
Simon receives a cryptic message from Carl Fischer early in the week, Carl Fischer being Chester's friend from Rotorua. Chester's friend from Rotorua who will be accompanying the two of us when we head south to the Darrans. Simon recieves a cryptic message that reads: "Can you leave your door open on Tuesday night?" That is all. And sure enough the Fish arrives in the midnight hours. Chester scoops him from the airport in the dark of Wednesday morning.
And when we wake on Wednesday proper it is—once again—greetings all around. And then goodbye to Simon and Anna for the four are together. The Fish, Shit-of-a-man, Chester the Character, and the mangy mullet-headed boy from the states.
Mark makes a trade: Sir Lancelot his Mitsubishi Lancer in exchange for his parents' Mitsubishi Magna. The Magna a station wagon and aptly nicknamed The Boat. We need it for this: the excursion to Castle Hill. And a worthy vessel it is. Packed to the brim, and sitting low in the water, packed with four young men, four crash pads, four backpacks, two tents and $340 worth of groceries. The Boat.
Out of the dark days. Toward the Castle on the Hill. Toward the kingdom of rocks.
The stop for pies along the way already becoming tradition, we pause in Sheffield rather than Springfield this time. All amid constant disputes as to which town makes the best pies. I, instead of arguing, eat. And after the first is gone I go back for a second. Can you hear addiction tap-tap-tapping at the door?
Through the gray, up the pass, and down the other side. Into the basin, into the rain shadow and it is Mr. Blue Sky waiting to see us again. The Golden Land spread green beneath the magic hole in the cloud cover. It is almost always there, this hole in the sky. So the sun shines all day—every day—on the rock colony.
After a visit to New Zealand some time ago the Dali Lama proclaimed the Castle Hill basin to be a spiritual center of the universe. And: Oh! How the soul wells up as we strap crash pad to back and lope into the waiting hills. Two legged turtles under the sun: padding down the path beneath foam-fabric shells, our eyes like silver dollars. Hungry eyes and open wide to swallow in the immensity.
Out of the dark days. Into the Castle on the Hill. Into the kingdom of rocks.
Two days of testing our limits. The rock set into the hillside like blown glass sculpture. Formations twisted in artistic scoops and hollows, waves of rock undulating in to and out of the grass. I see hot magma cooled quick and the dancing stone set forever in an instant pose—vogue—like the massacred at Pompeii. Forms forever set in unmoving motion. The liquid-hard grace of ballerina boulders tip-toeing through the fields. Quantum. Spittle. Flock.
Two days of testing our limits. The rock set into the hillside like blown glass sculpture. And like blown glass there is no friction. There is no purchase. There is an extraordinarily small percentage of what I would call “holds.” It is in every sense a puzzle to climb here. The rounded angles dictate the possibility of holding on. Dimples and sloped pockets, thin-ripples creased with chalk. And “there’s no feet.” Yeah, the only answer from Mark. Yeah. “Where’s the foot? There’s no feet.” Yeah. He proposes a heel-hook. “Where? There’s no feet.” Yeah. He points to the boulder. I should use the rock. I’m complaining about there being no feet, and he’s proposing that the entire house-sized boulder can be used as a foot. What? This is a different type of climbing all together.
Two days of testing our limits, and on the third we need a break. A break from Castle Hill, and a break from the campsite. The campsite located on Craggieburn Road in Craggieburn Forest Park. Take the first turn to the right, and scoot down the steep embankment: this is our home for the week. Two tents set in a clearing, crash pads folded into couches around the communal kitchen where we cook our massive feeds. We are either here or on the hill. That is all. And on the third day we need a break.
I pull out a pen and paper on the way to Arthur’s pass. A scribbling from the backseat of the boat, and thus:
Now it is all mountains. Scrub-brush wrapping green fingers around them. And then the gravel sections through the steepness—scars down the mountainside like mascara stains down the cheeks of a crying girl. We drive a road long and straight. Uphill. Downhill. We drive the valley road while all around us the mountains melt into the earth.
Past the town of Cass. Population: One. A single person to guard the University research station. Back into the winding, Marky manning the whip. He is our captain, navigating the boat through this narrow straight.
Purple flowers pink and white, here in the flat-bottom of the valley. The Foxglove pest, velvet fingers violet and cupping the gloved hand over the open mouth of the native bush. The native bush, the open mouth, an outcry. And the gloved hand muting the outcry with beauty, with color.
Road sign: kiwis next four K, and Carl is seasick in the back seat. A land lubber, this one, praying for a harbor. A harbor that we find in Arthur’s Pass. The Kennedy Lodge will be our rest day abode. It is a hut nestled within the snow-capped giants. On a hill and overlooking the train station, the gravel yards criss-crossed with steel, all of it spread below us beneath a blank sky.
Ravish. We sneak in through the back door, Carl having knowledge of the top-secret pin-pad number. Into the hut to flip through the massive collection of climbing magazines, to lounge on the couches, to scrub the dirt from our faces with hot water on tap.
Like a group of Goldilocks. Into the hut with piles of food stuffed under our arms. We cook a feed. Poached eggs, fried potatoes with mushrooms, fried bacon, fried tomatoes, all of it lumped atop toast. Tap your utensils on the table-top boys, and gobble down, gobble down, gobble down all. All of the food ‘till the dishes are clean. Clean but for the stains of our sins on the Porcelain. Gluttons, we. And gluttons proud.
Fat and happy once again beneath the gray. Drizzle on the roof of the hut, we are out past the bounds of the rain shadow. Into the gray lands, beneath the ever-present long white cloud. A drifting sky with the muted sunlight spread infinite and invisible above us. The time un-tellable. The hours meaningless.
So we sit in the hut and watch movies, read books. Waste away the day. The rest day waste away. We are the Goldilocks and as the final credits spring across the computer screen, we realize it is Friday, and we scramble to get out before the weekend warriors arrive at the hut.
We are the Goldilocks, and who knows how many bears are on their way home? Papa, Mama, Baby, oh baby. Get out and go. Arms full, we exit like thieves, rush to the car after a final sweep to make sure everything is just as it was. No trace. No trace. Just as it was. Get out and go.
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