tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146772432026-05-07T08:16:58.804+12:00Pete used to live in the Pohangina Valley, Aotearoa/New Zealand but moved into town a few years ago. He writes about travelling and people, mountains and other wild places, photography, Aotearoa-NZ, natural history, strangeness and possibility, wondering, life in general and a swag of other stuff. ('Paw-HUNG-in-uh' is a close enough pronunciation.)pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.comBlogger256125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-29211771529417073502026-03-22T17:41:16.694+13:002026-03-22T18:09:57.949+13:00

Over a decade ago I sat on the verandah of the top storey of the Tiger Eye Guest House in Manali, listening to an Italian man explain the way the world really works. At the time, I couldn’t work out whether Enrico was a genius or seriously unhinged from reality but he was impossible not to like and I count the time I spent with him, relaxing on the verandah with a beer and a plate of veg momos,

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-2513112645881447562026-02-12T15:32:00.004+13:002026-02-12T15:32:56.208+13:00

At the picnic table near the junction of the Tawa and Te Apiti tracks it was partly cloudy and almost calm. Cicadas were stridulating all along the Tawa track, which I’d chosen so I could walk the loop anticlockwise for a change and, besides, an annoying pain deep inside my left knee had persuaded me to choose the easier direction, ‘easier’ meaning very slightly longer but significantly less

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-40937113673090681962026-01-22T15:31:00.000+13:002026-01-22T15:31:31.441+13:00

One of the riroriro flew close and perched on a horopito twig to examine me. It had the gangly look of a teenager not yet bulked up into adulthood, although to describe even fully-grown adults of these tiny birds as ‘bulked up’ seems ridiculous so let’s just say it looked less rounded, more slender, and slightly scruffy, the way I assume I was when I was a teenager — and still am. I wondered

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-15554383020022058412026-01-11T15:54:39.070+13:002026-01-11T15:54:39.071+13:00

At dawn I sit outside remembering how, earlier in the week, I’d walked over the Ngamoko Range to Leon Kinvig hut in the headwaters of the Pohangina river. I had two nights there to myself and sat by the river each evening thinking whatever came to mind. Now I sit in a city and remember how, sitting by that river, I’d remembered the week-long journey with Robb at the other end of the Ruahine in

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-22183103158117368242025-12-03T09:35:00.002+13:002025-12-03T09:35:22.607+13:00

At the top of the No. 1 Line track I set up the rain kilt as a groundsheet with the little pad of closed cell foam as a seat and the camera holding it down so it wouldn’t blow away in the cool breeze. I took the stove out and set it up on the ground with the homemade windshield and got water heating for tea, and I sat down and reached into the bag for the notebook. That’s when I remembered

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-83048570691854608942025-11-07T17:05:00.004+13:002025-11-09T10:03:54.336+13:00

The big beech that had been threatening the helipad had been felled by the crew who had cut the new track from the tops down to the hut and the tree’s canopy now lay partly over the river bank. A riroriro had set up a territory in the tangle of branches and was singing furiously and squabbling with another that also appeared keen on the prime location. I watched the tiny birds fighting and

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-47753746506675734602022-06-11T12:30:00.000+12:002022-06-11T12:30:58.214+12:00

At seven o'clock the blackbird flew in like a small dark missile and landed abruptly on the lawn, yelling quietly as he settled and clucking occasionally as he began his breakfast foraging. The pre-dawn light had just begun to illuminate the birch so its main branches gleamed like white gold; the sky was smudged with hazy clouds suffused with salmon and mauve and grey against the idea of blue.

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-4849763927914516802022-05-20T14:46:00.001+12:002022-05-20T19:35:09.095+12:00

I sit on the sofa, gazing out the window at the late afternoon sunlight sifting through the soft foliage hanging over the driveway, thinking about The Log From the Sea of Cortez. I’d first read that book by Steinbeck and Ricketts so long ago it seems like a different life. I’ve read it several times since, and now I’m partway through yet another reading and I still think it’s marvellous even

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-8577599739219352332021-06-27T17:24:00.000+12:002021-06-27T17:24:48.802+12:00

The weather arrived at a quarter to three as I was reclining on the couch reading Brian Doyle’s excellent collection of Brian Doyle essays, Reading In Bed, with the new electric heated throw wrapped over my body from the waist down and my upper body encased in my best largest puffiest down jacket (the Mont Bell) so if anything had been watching I must have looked like a giant grub or chrysalis,

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-40730021442007626092021-04-01T20:11:00.001+13:002021-04-02T20:09:57.523+13:00

What is it that you love about birds? What’s at the root of the thrill you get when something as apparently ordinary as a sparrow sits on your verandah railing, puffed up against the cold, with a spatter of drizzly raindrops sparkling and gleaming diamond-like on the feathers of its back, and it doesn’t bother to fly off when you walk past the window? Or, when you watch a magpie swoop in fast and

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-51502973298961502342020-10-19T17:40:00.003+13:002020-10-19T17:40:51.464+13:00

My recollection of her is faint, which is to be expected because it was a long time ago and I haven’t thought about her in years. Possibly decades. I don’t know why I’ve started thinking about her recently. Perhaps it was the dream, a strange one, like all dreams, that I had a while ago, alone in a mountain hut (Why there? I have to ask) and which left me unsettled and also thinking perhaps I

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-65301039575789243302020-09-24T19:33:00.000+12:002020-09-24T19:33:54.441+12:00

I'd been sitting at the kitchen table marking assignments and wearing out my brain, so late in the morning I slung the camera over my shoulder and strolled down the driveway. At the bend I headed towards the letterbox and, as I neared the water trough in the corner of the orchard paddock, a magpie took to the air. It flew awkwardly and I had the impression it was a young bird, although September

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-81446553102813669122020-09-10T08:39:00.000+12:002020-09-10T08:39:20.326+12:00

The day after the deluge, I saw the aftermath — how the rough paddock beside the railway line had turned into a small marsh, the water shining like polished zinc in the quiet morning light, the low rushes reminding me of the places I found so fascinating and wonderful as a child and still do. The small marshy paddock reminded me of places I’ve never seen but want to go — places where wizened

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-29545305060487904532020-08-05T10:18:00.000+12:002020-08-05T10:18:10.045+12:00

Towards dusk I sat on the verandah drinking tea and listening to the silence and the drip of rainwater from the evening’s drizzle. The meagre runoff from the roof sounded curiously like an animal cropping grass; so much so, in fact, that I eventually stood and peered over the verandah railing in the illogical attempt to see if I could spot the miniature sheep, the one that didn’t and couldn’t

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-3038122105361968932020-04-09T15:34:00.002+12:002020-08-05T10:19:31.594+12:00

Another post from my last journey in India and Nepal. A reminder, perhaps, that life wasn't always about social distancing and being locked down and fearing the sound of a cough. A reminder, too, that one day we may be able to enjoy times like these once more. Stay safe, my friends. Udaipur, Friday 20 December 2019 No mosquito bites last night. No Bank mynas this morning, either. I’d crossed

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-13099453140321542372020-02-18T14:13:00.000+13:002020-08-05T10:19:31.391+12:00

Bundi to Udaipur, Wednesday 18 December 2019 The platform signs at Bundi Railway Station are useless. They don’t say which train’s arriving; they just exhort passengers to travel with the correct ticket. When a train arrives at approximately the right time, I have to assume it’s mine. At least it has a coach labelled S1, and I find seat 44; I also find it’s occupied by a supine

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-37507222507804088792020-01-22T00:29:00.001+13:002020-08-05T10:19:31.664+12:00

Bharatpur to Bundi, Friday 13 December 2019 During my last night at Bharatpur a storm had blown through: thunder, lightning, heavy rain, gusts of wind. Perhaps that has something to do with the dense mist that so severely restricts the visibility, the world fading out of existence within a few hundred metres, at times less. But there’s still much to catch attention. A jackal in the dim

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-20987179915903806382020-01-07T20:54:00.002+13:002020-08-05T10:19:31.525+12:00

Bharatpur, Wednesday 11 December 2019 The luck and the kindness continue. After a comfortable two-and-a-half hour train journey in A/C Chair class, I disembarked at Bharatpur and began walking to the exit. The young woman who’d been sitting across the aisle from my seat caught up with me and asked where I was going and where I was from. She lived in Bharatpur and had been attending a wedding

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-69176578197366395992019-12-27T19:29:00.001+13:002020-08-05T10:19:31.733+12:00

Sunday 8 December 2019 At the Haldwani bus station, I learned there was indeed a Volvo to Delhi at ten. Anxious about misunderstanding the instructions I’d been given, I checked again at another ticket window.   ‘Dilli Volvo kahaan hai?’ I said — ‘Where is the Delhi Volvo?’   As usual, I got an answer in Hindi, but when I clearly didn’t understand, the man told me in halting

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-48081276290992638912019-12-17T21:09:00.000+13:002019-12-17T21:09:00.840+13:00

Thursday 28 November 2019    Mr Singh sells tea and spices from the Uttam Tea Centre, a little shop at the chowk (junction) in the middle of Main Bazaar. I met him on my first journey in India and have visited him on every journey since. As I approach his shop I see him sitting in the shadows inside; he looks up, recognises me instantly even though I’m still a long way off, and

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-36658280062183836332019-12-11T03:31:00.000+13:002019-12-17T20:01:04.747+13:00

Thursday 21 November 2019 The name evokes something mythical, something to inspire awe and perhaps fear: griffon. The griffon we were seeking, however, was far from mythical, although neither Sally nor I doubted its ability to inspire awe. It was her idea to go looking for them, and she had a good idea where to look. The griffon she wanted me to see was the Himalayan griffon, the largest bird

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-54702554900426310342019-12-01T00:40:00.001+13:002019-12-17T20:01:04.878+13:00

These posts will be thrown together quickly — I don't want to spend my time in India agonising over them. However, I hope they'll give you some idea of what it's like here and will reassure you that I'm still alive and well 🙂 Sunday 17 November 2019 At the Madan Café I sipped strong milk coffee and unashamedly ate a honey pancake. The clientele were mostly as delightfully dissipated as I

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-68135625529201822532019-11-20T18:58:00.000+13:002019-11-20T18:58:33.832+13:00

These posts will be thrown together quickly — I don't want to spend my time in India agonising over them. However, I hope they'll give you some idea of what it's like here and will reassure you that I'm still alive and well 🙂 Friday 15 November 2019 The flight from Auckland to Kuala Lumpur was awful — bad food and cramped seating — but at least I had an aisle seat and could move around

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-59348824748986295622019-02-12T12:07:00.001+13:002019-02-12T12:20:46.327+13:00

At Leon Kinvig hut in the Pohangina headwaters in November 2018. The pen is a Lamy Al-Star with a Fine nib, the ink Noodler's  El Lawrence, the notebook a Moleskine extra-large cahier. This combination works better for me than any other — so far. It was the middle of the week and early in the morning, yet I almost walked away from Jacko’s café because even at a quarter to nine

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-80102009948563392632018-12-24T13:26:00.001+13:002018-12-24T13:26:51.488+13:00

At the City library the low afternoon sun was flashing from a sign that hung, swaying in a cool wind, over the footpath. The angle of the reflected light was such that it hit me — and, as far as I could work out, only me — at exactly the right angle to blind me, as if I was being questioned by a military interrogator who was convinced I was a spy or terrorist, or who just liked being a

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com5