WhereBJimmyB

Kiteworld Mag Issue 46--Calin Lisenbee

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 06:37:00 +0000

If there was ever a poster girl for the subtle pull of a travel destination or, for that matter, travel in general, it'd have to be Calin Lisenbee. The ex city slicker can pull together a tasty menu in a part of the world where a simple 7-11 can take on the aire of the gourmet deli section of your favorite supermarket. The next time you're in Cabarete, you'd do well to tuck in to the Kite Club Cafe. Bon Appetit and Happy Kiting.

Kiteworld Mag Issue 46--Litewave Dave Turner

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 09:52:00 +0000

The first time I'd cross paths with Dave Turner would be a few years back at the Jupiter Kite Invasion in South Florida. He was patrolling the water's edge while a local rider was demoing some gear Dave had lugged over from California. With his eyes peeled on the action before him, he was simultaneously doing a pretty good impersonation of a small child who's just learned they're getting a new puppy. The guy's enthusiasm and passion was immediately obvious. It'd be there that I'd make a first attempt at an interview. Now, three plus years later, I'd finally get a chance to follow up. I'm glad I did and even more glad Dave was kind enough to give me the benefit of the doubt for round two. Eleventh place world ranking...Damn!

Role Model

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 22:30:00 +0000

Robby Naish. Forty something and going strong. Very, very strong if this vid is anything to go on. Proof positive there's hope for us older types and that the stoke is still there in abundant supply. There for those willing to get off the couch to tap into it.

La Vida Simplistica

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 21:23:00 +0000

A "lifestyle flick" with a bit of kiting. And some excellent kiting at that.

The Best Odyssey Yacht Share - Captain's Logs - Blowing our minds in the Maldives

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Sat, 29 May 2010 08:45:00 +0000

Somewhere, just around the next corner, a place and an adventure like this awaits.

The Best Odyssey Yacht Share - Captain's Logs - Blowing our minds in the Maldives

Great Walks Article

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 03:52:00 +0000

Kiteworld Mag #43--Gabe Webber

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 02:54:00 +0000

The best part of the traveling lifestyle? That's a no brainer: the people you meet along the way. There have been too many to count but only a few that have so effortlessly prompted me to put pen to paper. Gabe Webber is definitely one of those people and I wish him continued good fortune as his gallavanting tour progresses. Sometimes we all need that little vicarious push to re-instill the notion that it's all still out there...waiting. Thank you, Gabe, for the reminder.

Tongan Lemon Aid

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 22:13:00 +0000

If yachting has taught me anything over the past ten years, it is that job security is as about as ephemeral as the notion of public opinion. When it’s bad, it’s atrocious and when it’s good I can’t help but start looking over my shoulder. So, as we pulled into the Kingdom of Tonga’s main hub of Nuku Alofa with two crew desperate to escape the floating gulag created care of the boss’s wife, the writing was, not so much on the wall, as emblazoned across the sky in day glo lettering.

A few days later, our disgruntled chef and chief stew were on a plane bound for home with the boss and his live aboard family—still somehow oblivious—soon to proceed ahead on to Australia via a flight of their own. The plan was for us to take on a cool 8,000 gallons of fuel and follow suit the long, slow route. To exactly what, no one could really say for sure. All that was certain, however, this being sleepy Tonga where bureaucratic red tape and weekend religious obligations slow things to an ice age like crawl, some down time was forthcoming in the interlude. It couldn’t have come at a better place and with the previous South Pacific hospitality of the Cook Islands and Niue still so fresh and an 8 to 10 day crossing back to Brisbane awaiting, we were primed. Anxious for snorkeling excursions to the area’s various shallow reefs and exploring various local watering holes on tiny neighboring islands with names such as Fafa and Pangaimotu and even one or two whose names we never got. In the end, with our Kiwi expat and local shipping agent, Dave, cueing us up, the personalized island tours, the teeming forests of live hard corals, the cold Maka beers and local introductions all around would follow and prove the perfect remedy to most everything that ailed us.

“I’m going to entitle this photo, ‘Why We Yacht’”, I called out over my shoulder to two fellow crew members (Kira and Garrett) as we began to make our way back from our snorkeling outing in our 18 ft. tender with yet one more anonymous island in the background. “That’s what I’m talking about,” came the reply from Garrett at the helm as Kira just stared more or less straight ahead with a grin of her own beaming a sense of mutual acknowledgement. It was a smile that spoke volumes. One that said despite everything—the uncertain, tedious, mind numbing BS of the entire shebang--or, maybe because of it, in this industry the days off were never to be taken lightly. Sometimes, with Nuku Alofa and the immediate vicinity being the case this particular occasion, they were quite simply to die for. We had this and nothing and no one was taking it from us.

As for the yachting job security? Definitely overrated.

Niue

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 23:16:00 +0000

The microscopic island nation of Niue emerged from the morning darkness off our starboard bow two days after having had to bid farewell to the Cook Islands. I peered intently through my binoculars as we rounded the island’s southern point, trying desperately to get some sort of perspective on this place that, only three days before, I’d never even heard mention of. As such, our slow 10 knot cruise into the island’s main harbor of Alofi, took on an energy that I was hardly used to. This was uncharted territory as far as I was concerned. Even the island name’s pronunciation (New-way) remained open for debate amongst the crew, even as we prepared to drop the anchor.

Described as the world’s largest raised coral island, the “Rock of Polynesia” or, more simply “the Rock” as it’s known by the locals, seems a fairly apt description upon first glance of the island’s seemingly endless, fortress like coastline. Located 1,500 miles northeast of New Zealand, the island which exists in “Free Association” (read not completely sovereign) with New Zealand is all of 100 square miles large and with a population in the vicinity of 1,800 souls. Nearly ten times more Niuens reside in New Zealand than on the island itself. Walking down the main street of the island’s largest town of Alofi is about as action packed as walking through a small strip mall, only after a bomb scare. The island’s only sand beach, ironically enough, isn’t really a beach at all. Togo Chasm is on the opposite side of the island within the Huvalu Conservation Area with the “beach” being a small patch of white sand set at the bottom of coral pinnacles reached via a climb down a steep wooden ladder.

Yet, it was while spending a mere two hours running errands ashore that it became clear Niue was special for what it still possessed, rather than what it was lacking. And what it seemed to have lots of was that special something, an unspoiled Polynesian warmth that in Hawaii goes by the name of the Aloha Spirit. The island was full of smiling, happy people willing to talk and share a moment of their day with you. Isolated and not overrun with Hawaii and Caribbean style tourism, the visitor to Niue gets an experience of a different sort and the novel, mesmerizing nature of the place only increases exponentially for anyone donning scuba gear or, as I’d do, a mere mask and snorkel.

The one or two local dive operators boldly proclaim visibility of up to 70 meters (or a whopping 200 feet). With 100 feet visibility considered pristine and worldclass, I could hardly wait for the guests to go ashore so I could take a peak below the surface along the shoreline reef just off our bow. I wasn’t disappointed as there, just offshore of the island’s main town, I floated in gin clear waters harboring more healthy hard corals in a single 100 yard circuit than I’d seen in a lifetime of diving. Even more impressive was in knowing that this particular stretch of reef was still in a recovery phase from the pummeling it took back in January 2004. It was then when Cyclone Heta decimated the shoreline and 90 percent of the island itself with 130 mph winds and 30 and 40 foot plus waves damaging shoreline reef and dwellings situated atop the cliffs overlooking the bay.

Today, five years on, only a repaired giant crack in the town’s main concrete pier remains as testimony to that time and for two days we’d remain anchored offshore in as tranquil a setting as any I’ve known in my yachting career. Just long enough to begin to realize, such time was hardly enough. The Cooks, now tiny Niue, both full of sincere smiles and easy banter were proving infectious and the South Pacific in general, after so many books and photos, was no longer a distant pipe dream. Tonga was next on the itinerary and, truth be told, I didn’t care if it took forever to get there.

First Impressions--Cook Islands

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 21:00:00 +0000

The arrival terminal at the Cook Island’s Rarotonga is a simple, non-descript set up. Barely the size of a playground sized, full-lengthed basketball court, its four walls encase four or five small booths behind which immigration officials dole out stamps, a duty free counter, a baggage carousel and not much else. Even beneath bright sunny skies, one look told me the area wasn’t destined to win any interior design awards. Arriving, as my flight was, in the vicinity of midnight, the drab, olive green walls bathed in the soft hue of insufficient florescent lighting only served to give the place the feel of tired hospital ward whose staff had fled in the face of a fast approaching enemy. Even so, despite everything, including a busted baggage carousel that would initiate the more industrious in our group to form an impromptu human conveyor belt, it hardly mattered. I had arrived. The music confirmed it.

The musical source was a wiry looking 60 something gentleman decked out in a floral patterned shirt and a straw hat. From a carpeted perch which straddled two sides of the decrepit baggage carousel, he serenaded the small island nation’s most recent arrivals with his ukulele in a language I immediately recognized as being quite similar to Hawaiian. From two women standing behind me in line I’d learn the gentleman was a bit of an institution unto himself having been playing under such circumstances for as long as either could remember. For a good twenty minutes he’d stir the still, early morning air with the melodious “whikka whikka” of his instrument and voice that painted pictures of swaying palms and untouched white sandy beaches. And just like that, the Cook Islands and the South Pacific would emerge from the fuzzy haze of nearly 18,000 miles to become a reality. Courtesy of yet one more yacht job. This one, bound for my new front door of Brisbane, Australia and possibly beyond. But this being yachting, I knew not to look too far down the track.

My more immediate concern, once my bag had been eventually located, was in getting to my hotel which a very rushed Google search had led me to believe was walking distance away from the airport. In the end, the hotel would prove at the opposite, south side of the island. After fifteen minutes of investigation, such would be the final verdict handed down from a large, gardenia lei, adorned taxi attendant who’d point me in the right direction for my ride while reassuring me with a smile, it would be a short one as,“it only takes 20 minutes to drive around the entire island.” Such is but one of the perks of arriving in an island nation whose entire 15 islands comprise a total land mass just barely 93 square miles.

Amazingly, the ride would prove short as promised with no skewed island distances seemingly in effect, at least, not at the empty island darkness of 1 a.m. In the end it would be just long enough to get quick intro to the island and to compare Hawaiian stories with my driver who’d, likewise, spent plenty of time there. But more importantly, with the arrival terminal music still resonating and the sweet island smells of the sleeping island enveloping me, long enough to know morning’s daylight couldn’t come soon enough. Long enough to have a deep sinking suspicion that I was in for a treat. Even if another boat job was involved.

Close to Home

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 01:06:00 +0000

It had already been a good month back stateside long before a Friday night in Wilmington, North Carolina and the non-descript Dubliner Irish Pub crashed an otherwise predictable stroll down memory lane. From LA’s iconic El Cholo Mexican Restaurant with good friends straight off the plane from Australia to a good ol’ fashioned throw down of a wedding in Virginia Beach to a big 40th birthday bash on Topsail Island to a three day, 1600 mile round trip jaunt to Ft. Lauderdale to visit friends and empty out a storage locker, the miles, as usual, had ticked off in a bit of a blur. But it would be there on the doorsteps of the old, often forgotten landmark of Greenfield Lake, that my very own hometown served up a powerful memory of its own.

I’d get a first glimpse of things to come only a week earlier, on a school night no less, by lucking into JJ Grey and Mofro playing at the local amphitheatre on the Spanish moss shrouded banks of Greenfield Lake. It was a venue that not only didn’t exist when I was coming up, but also, one that didn’t hardly even seem plausible. My recollection of the lake section of town was that of an area that, at best, was a transitional stretch of town separating uptown from downtown. The lake was to Wilmington what offensive lineman are to football: any attention paid to it in the press was rarely, if ever, good press. As a result, then, the opportunity to listen to the Jacksonville, Florida based group’s soulful, funk infused lyrics lamenting the “Stripmallification” of the Sunshine State in such an intimate setting suddenly became one of those How-Cool-Is-This-Moments that quite frankly blindsided me. Mofro and company had helped to part the clouds before, a week later, the area would again take center stage, this time in the wake of a cross town, high school football rivalry.

“Take a right on Carolina Beach Road and when you get to Greenfield Lake, look left,” said a friend and local watering hole aficionado. Such would be the extent of the directions and ones that I remembered from many years earlier as being little more than those for an awkwardly configured intersection housing a besieged and battered looking convenient store and little else. As we pulled into the parking lot that evening, one look around seemed to support the idea little had changed since then. Inside, however, amidst a gauzy haze of cigarette smoke and the din of boisterous banter and juke box tunes, the local’s prospects immediately showed promise.

Not much larger than a lavish two car garage, the Dubliner housed a single pool table, a substantial bar running nearly the full length of the room’s back wall and, most noticeably, just inside the front door, a well lit compact stage with two guitars and mic set ups. The crowd meanwhile comprised 20-30 souls of various ages, shapes and sizes. We were a motley, blue collar crew for sure and it seemed fair to say, one for which the area’s downtown college scene just down the road or the higher rent district of Wrightsville Beach across town did not hold much interest. “This is the sort of place,” my guide bellowed into my ear while passing out the first round, “that the Irish passing through via the port use their 6th sense to smell out and find.” A few sips later, once the music started, it became clear why.

The music poured forth care of Irish born and bred, 60 something owner, Thomas Williams and his equally gifted accomplice and, within moments of starting back up, I was captivated and transported elsewhere. Back to a land of rolling, emerald green countryside and heavy, tummy tickling stout. Guitars and the owner’s thick Irish brogue conspired to produce foot tapping tales and equally somber ballads with everything being peppered with sporadic doses of flute work via a petite aspiring musician floating amidst the stage front crowd. “How’s this?” my long time companion, Tate, called out as the trio played on into the evening. “All this and not a single television in sight.” Indeed, it was but one more observation that we really weren’t in Kansas anymore and that perhaps I needed to get home more often.

With this sentiment hanging heavy in the air, the rest of the evening played out with more beers and even a sneak preview from the following night’s entertainment, Wayne, during a rare break from the night’s main act. It’d be Wayne, full of handshakes and invitations to return for his show the following evening that we’d eventually end up saying our final goodbyes to while offering our sincere regrets for not being able to return the next evening. Maybe next time, we said, and we meant it but, with an early a.m. departure for North Carolina’s Outer Banks looming on the horizon, we headed for home and, for me, with plenty to ponder as the irony of the evening was not lost on me, even then.

For just over 20 years the tantalizing allure of the road had called me away but now, two times in less than a week, Wilmington had caught me blissfully unaware. The countless miles and experiences had provided plenty of perspective in that time and, yet, the Dubliner would prove to be the final resounding slap to the face. The smack to remind me that sometimes even one’s own backyard can prove exotic in its own right providing one is really willing to search beyond the familiar. But that said, with Australia a definite and somewhere in the South Pacific destined to follow, I am still happy to be able to say, a little more perspective never hurt anyone.

Baby Steps

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 03:26:00 +0000

I remember him well.

Dale was in his mid 20s, from Georgia and sitting to my left over a pint of beer in a pub near Christchurch, New Zealand back in 2000. Once he realized we were relative neighbors, he began lamenting the fact he only had ten more days of his two week vacation. He’d fallen in love with the country (who doesn’t?) and wasn’t anxious to go home.

“Why don’t you stay longer?” I asked him non-chalantly, somehow oblivious to the proverbial can of worms I was opening. His bloodshot eyes nearly popped out of his head when I told him my friend and I had been in the country for nearly two months, a period which was only a fraction of the seven months we planned to be away from the States.

“How?” was all he could muster before I began asking him questions, the answers to which I somehow knew were coming. As expected he’d booked his vacation through a travel agent. This being a person who sits behind a desk for endless weeks out of a year doling out information to strangers on how best to utilize precious two week periods of time. He was paying over 100 US dollars a night for his hotel and had even been suckered into having his itinerary set thanks to the service of those lumbering hearses commonly referred to as tour busses.

“Do you realize in two weeks you’re spending more than I’ll spend in over three or four months?” I carefully pointed out, before answering “camping” and “hostels” to his question of “Where do you stay?”

“How do you spell hostel?” he asked, beginning to write down bits of what I was saying.

I was beginning to lose my patience but chose to stick with it, finally suggesting he write down the name of a series of guide books I knew would answer most, if not all of his questions. “It’s called ‘Lonely Planet Guidebooks’, that’ll get you pointed in the right direction,” I told him, figuring I’d done my good deed for the evening, before getting back to my own beer and, not long after, an even more trying political discussion.

Eventually, we left Dale there, with his scrawled list of new vocabulary words on a napkin beside him and still clinging desperately to his belief that, in terms of homicides, the most dangerous country in the world wasn’t, in fact, the United States, but rather, “somewhere in South America.” “Poor Dale,” I remember thinking then and, since that time, I’ve crossed paths with more “Dales” than I can count.

However, over the years I’ve come to see, considering how poorly set up the US is for budget travel, Dale’s perspective was to be expected. But then, he was a lucky one; at least, he was willing to listen. Seasoned international jetsetter or traveling neophyte, the lessons of the road are forever ongoing and, in the end, I felt a slight intrinsic lump welling up inside me in having helped to pull the curtain back ever so slightly on the opening act of Dale’s possible fledgling career as a backpacker. As for those statistics, however, it was clear the guy still had a long way to go.

Aussie Pies

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 05:05:00 +0000

They’re to Australians what peanuts and Kracker Jacks are to the American pastime of baseball and about as ubiquitous as hamburgers and hotdogs are on a Fourth of July celebration. If your guess is blooming onions you’ve been watching too much television since, along with Outback Steakhouse, the deep fried, artery clogger is non-existent in the true Land Down Under. No, I’m talking about Australian pies. Puff pastry filled savory pies with fillings ranging from the traditional mince meat to chunky steak and the gourmet varieties such as various curries, steak and mushroom and countless others that keep Aussies lining up each morning at their local bakeries. And the lines can get long since it’s reported Australians eat upwards of 250 million a year or an average of 13 per capita, a number I find preposterously low since, all joking aside, I had nearly half that many last week alone. According to various sources, the humble Australian pie has an even less auspicious history dating back to the mid 16th-17th century England. Then, lacking refrigeration, a much thicker crust (up to 7 inches thick according to Brisbane food historian, Dr. Janet Clarkson) was used not for consumption but, merely as a vessel in which to preserve cooked meats and their juices for periods of up to a year. If the crust was eaten at all, it was as a thickener for soups or by members of England’s lower classes who couldn’t afford stoves necessary for cooking the, then, haute cuisine.

Once eventually brought to Australia, an abundant supply of wheat and mutton helped bring pies to the masses. Soon pies were being distributed via the industrious efforts of small pie trolleys whose proprietors pedaled their wares along city streets and outside sporting event venues.

Today the pie carts have faded to the history books. These days you can find freshly made pies at bakeries which are practically more prevalent than pubs across the country with one local Queensland bakery, Yatala Pies, producing upwards of 2000 or more per day. Down in Victoria, home of the ever popular Four N Twenty brand, the factory there pumps out an incredible 50,000 pies per hour. It sounds like a ridiculous amount until you come to realize at a single Aussie Rules final in Melbourne fans have been known to polish off a cool 90,000 in an afternoon.

Yes, Aussies love their pies but, even so, they come with a bit of controversy served on the side in terms of nutritional value with some massed produced pies registering a staggering 25 plus grams of fat. Health concerns became so great that in 2002, then New South Wales premier, Bob Carr, would go on record during a Child Obesity Conference stating that feeding a steady diet of pies and sausage rolls to young children was paramount to “child cruelty”. However, only one year later, in front of reporters at a press conference, he’d have a slight change of heart. There he’d hold up a pie and, as the flash bulbs clicked, proclaim it Australia’s “National Dish”.

A convenient reprioritizing, compliments of a healthy infusion of cash from campaign donors? Perhaps. Or maybe, just a simple, old fashioned flip flop. Whatever your take, my guess is he’d tried the blooming onion.

Going Back-Part I

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 10:15:00 +0000

After nine years and a memorable four and a half hour crossing of the Southern Alps from Christchurch to Greymouth finished only moments before, I knew I was close. The anticipation was palpable. A single one hour ride down the verdant, wide open west coast of New Zealand to what I remembered as being the sleepy, ex gold mining town of Hokitika, was all that remained. All that separated me from a friendly acquaintance and a long overdue task. It’d had been nine years, I reminded myself one more time as I took my seat and waited anxiously to depart. One more hour, I had to believe, was not going to kill me.
We’d met in December of 1999 while my travel companion Tate and I sussed out a pebble strewn riverbank for a campsite on the outskirts of another anonymous South Island coastal town during a blissful two month tour of the country. As we deliberated the appropriateness of our prospective site (we had no idea whether there existed local ordinances against roadside camping; the sort of which are seemingly ubiquitous at home), Robert Warman and his teenage son pulled up with fishing poles in hand. “A few final weekend casts before heading south for home,” Robert lamented after we exchanged greetings.
“What do you think,” Tate would soon inquire after a quick synopsis of our present decision making process. “Do you reckon’ it’d be a good idea to set up camp here for the night?”
“Hell mate,” Robert immediately responded while glancing around him for added emphasis. “This is New Zealand. Plenty of space and not a whole lotta people. I reckon’ it’d be a fuckin’ great idea.” And just like that, a new friendship was forged. We’d talk for all of thirty minutes before our most recent friend and his son would head off for home. Not a lot of time but enough to cover the basics: where we were from, where we’d been and details of our flexible itinerary. Enough time for easy banter and laughs and, eventually, for Robert to extend an invite to stop in for a home cooked meal and a place to stay once we finished our upcoming weeklong trek. It was a no brainer. We’d been in New Zealand long enough to determine Robert’s offer was genuine and, that decided, we gave him our word we’d show.
And we did and, in doing so, we’d end up spending a solid week as Robert’s guests. He’d make room for us in a loft overlooking various wood working machinery and lumber in his work shed, invite us into the family house for numerous dinners and drinks and, the cu de gras, even deck us out in snazzy mask and costumes for the Hokitika Christmas parade, earning us first prize honors in the process. In all, it was the sort of week that not only restores your faith in humanity, but one that drives home with perfect clarity why travelers set out in the first place. The next day, with the parade’s foul weather lifted, we’d finally continue on our way south, leaving profuse thank yous in our wake and with Robert’s business card stashed away for safe keeping and the promise to write.
But apparently not stashed away safe enough and in a cruel ironic twist of fate, Robert’s would be the only thank you card that would go unwritten upon our return home at the end of our seven month jaunt. And over the years no amount of Google searches and numerous phone calls to random Hokitika business owners found their mark and the frustration mounted. Like the images of our enchanted two months in New Zealand, Robert Warman had begun to fade into the foggy haze of memory.
Now, so many years later as the kilometers ticked off, questions bombarded me. Did Robert still live in Hokitika? From the shadows would I be able to recollect enough of our time there to be able to locate his antique shop and work shed? If I did find him, would he even remember me? Such were but a few of my thoughts as we rolled into downtown “Hoki” along a street I began to vaguely remember as being one we danced along during our soggy Christmas parade stroll. Then, not even seconds after retrieving my bag from the back of the bus, I answered one of the primary questions I’d been asking since first arriving into the country. “No,” I told myself while walking in the direction of the main highway, “regardless of whether I found Robert or not, this was no waste of time.” Something was already telling me, this was worth the effort.

Kiteworld Magazine #41

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 22:54:00 +0000

At your newstand now. Minus the photo album, of course.

TranzAlpine--NZ

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 21:53:00 +0000

http://picasaweb.google.com/JimmyCBua/TranzAlpineNZ

From two previous, lengthy visits, experience had shown that New Zealand begs to be visited and explored. For bicyclists, the country’s roads are scenic, empty and inviting. Hitchhikers are not only easily picked up, they’re often treated like long lost family. Backpacker busses are abundant and inexpensive and, for those staying longer, the procedure of buying a car and transferring paperwork is relatively effortless thanks to a blissful absence of red tape. With all this in mind, I reasoned then, a train trip across the country’s south island was as viable an idea as any for my present five day Kiwi getaway.
Though I felt I’d seen my fair share of the country’s interior from various summer hiking excursions, as I settled into the seat of my designated TranzAlpine train carriage just before an 8:30 am departure, I was anxious, nonetheless, to see how such landscapes transformed with a liberal sprinkling of southern hemisphere, spring snow. I didn’t have to wait long as only twenty minutes into the four and a half hour journey between Christchurch and the west coast town of Greymouth, New Zealand’s countryside first revealed what lay in store. With Christchurch’s miniscule version of industrial blight behind us, my fellow passengers and I soon found ourselves zipping across the vast, jade green carpet of the Canterbury Plains as the sugar coated Southern Alps loomed tantalizingly ahead adamantly declaring that, yes, you’re on your way.
Originally used to transport cargos of various natural resources, not until 1987 would the 231 kilometer (140 miles) long rail line be used for tourism purposes and since then its popularity has steadily increased and today the little rail line that knew it could handles upwards of 200,000 passengers a year. Passengers that, it should be noted, are quick to annually vote the line as one of the top ten railway lines in the world. It is a journey that comes compliments of 19 tunnels and four viaducts, the highest aptly called the Staircase at 73 meters (240 ft.). One need only spend ten minutes in any of the trains’ open air viewing carriages to realize the engineering ingenuity to be well worth it and the global recognition is legitimate. It is here that countless video and digital camera owners and I roam in a hyperactive-like fervor jockeying for prime vantage points on both sides of the track. While camera disc and chip storages are pushed to their limits, I can’t help but think how, before the arrival of digital cameras, such vast expanses of snowcapped peaks must have surely been a cash cow for Kodak and after close to an hour and a half I am practically numb. Numb from the frigid mountain temperatures, but also, to an even greater extent, from a serious case of NSO (Natural Splendor Overload). This, despite the somewhat overcast skies.
Judging from the fact I eventually find myself the last man standing in the viewing carriage, I know mine is not the only case and inside I go to contemplate the world outside my window and, more importantly, warm up. Not long after, the track reaches its highest point at 737 meters (2,418 ft.) in the sleepy enclave of Arthur’s Pass where one of a handful of five minute stops allows passengers to disembark. Back onboard the westward push ensues with a rapid, 280 meter (918 ft.) descent via a 15 minute darkened traversing of the Otira Tunnel. Completed in 1923 after fifteen years of construction, the tunnel is yet one more engineering marvel of the rail line, unique in that it has a gradient of 1 in 33, meaning that for every 33 meter traveled forward the track descends one meter. Considered quite steep for a tunnel, at the time of its completion the tunnel was the seventh longest tunnel in the world (the longest in the Southern Hemisphere) and the longest in the British Empire.
Today’s more recently constructed tunnels have knocked the Otira down a few pegs. However, considering where it is located, the service it provides and the scenery it makes accessible, it seems most certain the Otira Tunnel’s legacy is secure. Close to a quarter million impressed passengers a year and the majestic backdrops of the Southern Alps guarantee it.
Once again, it simply just doesn’t get any easier than New Zealand.

Decisions

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 08:41:00 +0000

The plan seemed straight forward enough. It was to be merely a quick five day jaunt down to Christchurch, New Zealand for a visa run. Yet, judging from the look of concern on the face of the Kiwi immigration official, my plans (or lack, thereof) were a tad too simplistic. I had the vaguest of vague answers as to a hostel to stay, a general itinerary or any sort of contact name or telephone number while in the country. In the end, the truth of my reason for being here and proof of an onward ticket back to Australia would get me stamped in. From there, I was on my own and, this being New Zealand, I mean truly alone in a sea of options to consider.
To begin with there are no less than eight backpacker hostel in Christchurch alone. This being a city with a population only slightly more than the numbers you'd expect to see in a typical US mall on the day after Thanksgiving. Once a place to lay one's head is decided upon, the information overload continues with endless advertisements for activities such as bungy jumping, tandem sky diving, jet boat river rides, parasailing, white water rafting, caving, unparalleled backcountry hiking, and skiing and snowboarding to name but just a few of the more popular diversions. And they're all practically next door to each other making it possible to do three or four of these activities in a single day. As I stared at the wall of options before me in the arrival area, memories of my own previous experiences in 1992 and during the Millennium celebrations sent my pulse racing and my imagination suddenly swamped with the best possible scenarios for my upcoming five days here. At the same time, I felt almost sorry for the poor, time constrained first time backpackers forced to make the same decisions without any of their own experiences to draw on. However, I suppose I faired alright my first time here back in 1992 which is more a testament to the country itself rather than any savvy decision making on my part. Still, either way, good luck.
Since my first visit here I'd been singing the praises of New Zealand. Now, back for less than two hours--and not even out of the airport-the message was being driven home with unmistakable clarity once again. Never has such an amazing country worked so hard to make exploring its natural wonders so easy.
In the meantime, the ski season is winding down with abundant specials begging for takers and one of the world's most scenic train trips is on my doorstep. I could suddenly feel a plan taking shape as, once again, this being New Zealand, sitting on one's ass is not an option. How silly of me to have thought that riding five days out in a Christchurch hostel (Charlie Bs Backpacker fittingly enough) was going to come to pass.
I think it safe to say it's going to be an amazing five days.

Extremely Underrated

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 23:12:00 +0000

In the late 70s The Who boldly proclaimed “The Kids are alright”. Less than 20 years later, 24 hour sport networks, energy drink and marketing conglomerates united and added a sugar rush fueled caveat of their own; “And they’re bored”. Welcome then, the “Extreme Games” of 1995, the carnival-like festival offering Olympic medal style competition for, among other things, BMX, bungee jumping and rollerblading. One year later, the more marketable moniker of the X Game was unveiled and it’s been a profitable succession of Roman numeral suffixes ever since. By 1997 the marketing phenomenon had grown popular enough to ensure that year’s inaugural Winter X Games were broadcast to 198 countries in 21 different countries across the globe. Suddenly, in less time than it took a Belarusian 15 year old to utter, “Gnarly double tailwhip 540, dude,“ names such as Shaun White, Travis Pastrana and Tony Hawk were the poster boys for making the insanely dangerous appear not only innocuous, but stylish as well. Today, White’s snowboarding antics have helped make him the most famous red head since Ronald McDonald, Pastrana is the god of the Moto X’s double back flip and Hawke is a still competitive, nearly 40 year old gazillionaire skateboarder with, among everything else, even his own line of video games to sign and pass out like business cards. It’s all quite heady stuff and, even though the X Games are only a seasonal, twice a year extravaganza, the mindset has spread like a dose of Red Bull to the bloodstream across the psyche of a generation. From ESPN to Fuel TV, the airwaves are awash in testosterone fueled, athletic individuals risking paralysis, death and even shame, all in the name of fun, prize money and self promotion.
Though it’s all quite rad, for sure, at the risk of offending devout, X Cult followers, I have to say it: The marketing is definitely da bomb. Not to dismiss what is definitely a mad display of athletic prowess, how else does one explain the relative obscurity of another recreational hobby called ski racing that took hold back in the early 70’s, is practiced around the world in close to ten countries and involves pulling multiple waterskiers behind boats at Mach 1 like speeds? While I realize not everyone can afford a 1600 horse powered, turbo charged toy on which to play, at the same time, could it really get any more extreme than this?
Such were my thoughts the first time I stood in the garage of Michael Hardie’s Brisbane home taking in the sleek lines of the 23 foot motor boat stabled there. It’d be there I’d first get a glimpse into a sport I’d never heard mention of and one which, for Michael, whose father served as president of Queensland Ski Racing Association in the mid 80s, was in his blood. “Yeah, we line up, take off and pull a couple skiers behind us while racing other boats on a river,” he’d tell me with all the gusto of someone channel surfing. He explained a team comprises four members; a driver, an aft facing observer and two skiers who are towed in slalom like fashion compliments of 220 foot long ski ropes, three times longer than recreational ropes. On river and inland waterways courses ranging anywhere from 12 to 85 miles, the boats burn nearly one gallon per minute in engines that are remarkably similar to those used in Indy Formula One Racing.
It was all a lot to take in. Formula One engines and aviation fuel sounded serious. And then there was the serious issue of speed, the sort of which has killed and injured its fair share of participants, and which Michael’s been lucky to twice survive. Upwards of 125 miles per hour said Michael with typical blasé Australian flare. The number buckled my knees momentarily as I studied him, searching for the faintest hint of a leg pulling grin before realizing none was forthcoming. “Holy deathwish, Batman,” I heard myself utter before thinking, “Who the hell actually volunteers to get towed behind a boat at speeds like that?” Apparently, there’s an extensive list from which to choose. On the Hawksbury River near Sydney, the Bridge to Bridge Race is the largest ski racing event in the world. There 400 boat teams set out with a single “all start”, which involves two teams simultaneously making the jump into hyperspace at three second intervals.
I tried to envision the nerve tingling thrill of it all. The stir of the crowd lining the river bank as 1600 competitors set to compete amidst the smell of aviation fuel and the guttural, base like thumping of idling engines. Then, with all players in place, a starting gun and the almost simultaneous deafening roar which goes up as the first teams blast off, hell bent for glory. Primed for speed and banishing thoughts of catastrophe, like everything else except for the stretch of water straight ahead, to a distant blur. All this and hardly a prime time television camera (and decent clip of video footage, for that matter) anywhere in sight and that, I’m sorry to say, is the extreme shame of it all.

Tasmania

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 07:11:00 +0000

http://picasaweb.google.com/JimmyCBua/Tasmania#

Tucked away on the southeast corner of Tasmania, in the bosom of the Tasman Peninsula and Tasman National Park, sits the remains of the island’s first penal colony of Port Arthur. Put into use beginning in 1803, today’s sleepy tourist attraction, which tragically made front page news in 1996 in the country’s worst shooting massacre, was literally the end of the road for many a petty thief and felon alike. Deemed unfit even for the prisons of Britain’s colony in New South Wales they’d come, banished to the geographical equivalent of a black hole. Even today, with the technological wonders of Google Earth and other satellite communication, this corner of the universe often falls far below the radar. Walking the grounds of the tidy, well maintained property today, one ponders at their own risk, the depths of crushing depression and forced solitude which must’ve permeated this forlorn cul-de-sac just 200 years ago. Today the convicts are forever gone, yet, in an almost fitting homage to their lives of silent exile and toil, the solitude lingers. Even in the relative bustling city center of Hobart, 50 miles away, there resonates a serene tranquility generally associated with small towns as opposed to the city of 250,000 souls that it is. With a grand total population of only a half million, this leaves the other hearty half sporadically scattered throughout an area roughly half the size of the state of Maine. And as the fact that 37 percent of the island is listed as either reserves, national parks or heritage sites suggests, there’s more than zoo trips and the ill tempered, puppy sized Tasmanian Devil to occupy one’s time with here. As such, our three day getaway, after two weeks spent packing house in Hobart, would prove woefully insufficient and it should go without saying the weather hardly helped. Regardless, it was time to explore and, with the services of the little Toyata Hilux that knew it could, we’d put a good 350 miles in the rear view mirror with the next bend in the road and any glimmer of blue sky lifting our spirits as we went. In the end, clouds made the weekend’s goal of a glimpse at the iconic Cradle Mountain an effort in futility and the beckoning siren call of the island’s premier hiking trail, the Overland Trek, would be squashed with arctic temperatures and a Don’t-Even-Think-About-It Glare from Bec. Even so, neither of us was complaining about the meteorological hand we’d been dealt since we both knew that, unlike so many who’d come before us, we were, at least free to leave anytime we liked.

Fraser Island

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 04:49:00 +0000

http://picasaweb.google.com/JimmyCBua/FraserIsland09#

Ever since first having visited Australia back in 1992 I’ve been haunted. Not haunted in the sense of apparitions or ghosts that go bump in the night but, rather, by a simple incredulous utterance. It begins with “You N-E-V-E-R went to Fraser Island?” and is inevitably followed with dreamy eyed, backpacker tales of 4WD safaris and euphoric days with new faces and great friends along endless stretches of therapeutic white sand coastline. My line of defense was a weak one, at best. We’d hitchhiked the approximate 1800 kilometers/miles from Cairns to Brisbane, I’d begin, trying to insinuate that it was the fault of our various lifts that we’d never been deposited anywhere near Hervey Bay or Rainbow Beach, the jumping off points to the island via barge ferries. I’d then tick off a list of our own excursions: snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef, Airlie Beach, a private, three day trimaran cruise of the Whitsunday Islands and Magnetic Island near Townsville. It was, I thought, a rather enviable itinerary; especially for two 22 year olds essentially using their upturned thumbs as a compass but, regardless, it often failed to register. I’d managed to do the unthinkable and somehow taken a pass on Fraser.
World Heritage listed in 1992, Fraser Island is the world’s largest sand island. It stretches 123 kilometers from north to south and is 22 kilometers at its widest, encompassing close to 170 square kilometers. In places its sand dunes can reach to a height of 240 meters and are home to 40 sand dune perched lakes which is exactly half of the number of such lakes in the world. It is the only place in the world where rainforest grow on sand dunes at an elevation of over 200 meters. All this and, more importantly, until last weekend, I hadn’t been there. The island claims less than 400 year round residents but plays host to more than a half a million visitors each year with not a paved road, traffic light or, most amazingly, a parking meter in sight. For fisherman it’s a Shangri-La, for birdwatcher and other nature lovers it’s an untapped treasure trove and for the “Walkabout Minded” camping aficionado Australians, well, it’s an epicenter for holiday getaways. And for some, like the Hardie family, after more than 30 years of one month long annual visits, it’d become all this and much more.
“I was only 10 months old for my first visit,” Bec would tell me as we raced northbound along the island’s low tide, sandy superhighway at a brisk 50 miles per hour. Various settlements and landmarks with names such as Eurong, Chard Rocks, Happy Valley, Waddy Point, Middle Point and Indian Head came and went in a steady succession of sights, tales and mostly memories. “When we first started coming here,” Bec’s father reminisced aloud as we approached the remnants of the 1935 Maheno wreck, “you could walk on the deck and all around the boat.” Today, three stories of the vessel are buried with its rusting upper sections off limits for obvious reasons. Of course, the oxidized shell of the Maheno was hardly the least of the changes that had come to Fraser, according to my commiserating hosts. All the wild Brumby horses are gone as are many of the dingoes which Bec remembers regularly roaming innocuously through the shady settlement of Happy Valley. Also, access to some of the more popular lakes and coastal attractions had been restricted. “We used to be able to drive right up to the edge of Champagne Pools and at Garawongara Lake we’d be able to park right beside the lake with six other cars and have a picnic and there still be room for other groups. Now you can’t even bring food to the lake,” lamented Bec’s father.
Yes, for those in the know, change had indeed come to Fraser. From the very first moment Europeans stumbled upon the island and its Aboriginal inhabitants in the late 18th century, change or progress (depending on your perspective) seemed inevitable. Regardless, today the sands continue to shift, game fish still run, the pristine, fresh water creeks spill forth and the elusive, five foot long sand worms still hide at the water’s edge. For three days, while the Hardies compared the old with the new, I tagged along taking it all in, creating my own memories. Three days, I’m happy to report, that finally put me out of my misery.

Football--Aussie Rules Style

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 02:17:00 +0000

To the uninitiated, the scene appears as only slightly more than a controlled form of chaos. Two mobs composed of 18 per side, decked out in uniforms which, despite it being winter time in the Southern Hemisphere, are comprised of nothing more than Daisy Duke shorts and sleeveless jerseys. Liberally scattered across an oval, grassy field only slightly smaller than the state of Rhode Island, the two packs roam while tackling and smashing into each other at random intervals in the process of trying to secure possession of a ball which looks quite similar to those heaved downfield by quarterbacks in the USA’s National Football League. This ball, however, is more bounce friendly having less pointy and slightly more rounded ends and it’s never thrown. It’s kicked, passed underhand with a closed fist and bounced periodically off the ground, all in the course of attempting to proceed seemingly from one end of Australia to the other before kicking the ball between one of two sets of goal posts for either six points or one. This, all the while trying to avoid crushed ribs, compound fractures and other various blunt traumas that generally leave one eating out of straws for years. There’s no onside or offside and, as such, opponents flock from all angles. There are a mere four substitutes per side, the quarters last 20 minutes apiece, except for maybe an accidental dismemberment, there are no play stoppages, everyone plays “both ways” and there are few, if any, TV commercials except for at halftime which last only long enough to let the smelling salts do their job. The sport goes by various names: Footie, Football, Aussie Rules Football or by the acronym, AFL (Australian Football League), the professional league which is revered in almost cult-like fashion primarily in the southern Australian states of New South Wales, Victoria, Southern Australia and Tasmania. Whatever name it goes by just remember this: The next time you’re here and some scantily clad Aussie bloke says, “Oi, Yank! Reckon yer ready fer some football?” be smart and reply firm but politely, “Hell no”. Regardless of the name the sport goes by, it’s Australian for “Pain”. These are brave souls.

Pedal Power II

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 08:17:00 +0000

http://picasaweb.google.com/JimmyCBua/UKIreland98?authkey=Gv1sRgCOTpm9rl7OrGdA#

My six weeks of pedaling had been anything but easy.
But then, I probably shouldn’t have expected anything less of September and October for a cycling tour of the UK and Ireland. Though I knew it wasn’t the ideal time, I was hoping to catch the tail end of summer and the hordes of peak summer visitors that come with the season. But as I sat nursing my third Guinness of the early evening, staring at the rain from the cozy confines of the Galway pub I’d chosen for my nightly refuge, I knew I’d made a mistake. I should’ve known better.
“Nice fall weather we’re having,” I’d sarcastically said weeks earlier to an older gentleman standing in a doorway with his umbrella in hand, waiting for a lessening of another torrential downpour. “Pretty good when you consider we haven’t had a summer here in two years,” he’d responded while staring out at the rain without a trace of reciprocated sarcasm showing.

Now, many miles further down the line, I fully understood why. The poor bastard was actually telling the truth.

In the meantime, my sunny salvation was a mere flight away and despite the prolonged adversity of stiff headwinds, plenty of rain and even a broken frame, it was clear the poor bloke needed the beer a lot more than me.

Pedal Power

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 09:08:00 +0000

http://picasaweb.google.com/JimmyCBua/CoastToCoast96?authkey=Gv1sRgCNz37euHwvTVxAE#

Encapsulated 30,000 feet above the Bass Strait, the sight of Cameron Diaz caught my eye…as this month’s cover girl for Virgin Blue’s in flight magazine “Voyeur”. Yet it would be writer Shane Conroy’s piece, entitled “Spokes and The City”, that would hold my attention. In it, the four page spread chronicles the urban two wheeled revolution slowly gaining traction here in Brisbane and across the country in general. Don’t look now but, according to this article, bike sales in Australia are up 19 % from last year and there’s a good chance that the four figure mountain bike in your garage could very well be making room for its substantially pricier, long lost, Swedish cousin, the Skeppshult (pronounced Whepshoolt). Modeled after the bicycles which have long been common place across Europe, these steel constructed Scandinavian imports have crashed the party in the Land Down Under and are commanding prices in the vicinity of $A 4,000. A lofty sum indeed, but in a country where fuel prices hover around 1.25 per liter (3.78 liters to 1 US Gallon), perhaps a bicycle of any price still makes sense? Well, if not financially, then at least in a fashion sense according to Conroy’s article. If the five year waiting list in the US for one of Sacha White’s Vanilla Brand two wheelers is anything to go on, it seems that commuting via “urban oriented bicycles” has bypassed being merely practical and has leapfrogged quickly to en vogue status. Gregg Franze, the Melbourne bicycle shop owner responsible for bringing the Skeppshult to the Australian market agrees and states he envisions a day in the very near future where bicycle owners will own two and three “pushies” depending on the destination of choice. Ride a mere mountain bike to the pub? Perish the thought. And if you’re going to be investing such funds for your daily, non-motorized commute, it would stand to reason a bicycle friendly network would come in handy. Enter Brisbane’s Cycle2City, the eight-years-in-the-making-product of co-owners Andrew Onley and John Hack. Launched in conjunction with a commitment of four years and a cash infusion of $A100 million from the city council to bolster the city’s cycleways, the program is designed to provide a hub in which to safely secure those pricey bicycles, store work clothes and have a shower while also providing laundry and bicycle repair services. All this for the price of $4 a day with a six month contract.
I’m tempted to say that as I came to the end of the article I was misty eyed but that would be a stretching things a bit. But only a wee bit since I must admit to having a big soft spot in my heart for the bicycle as a viable means of travel. Maybe not to the tune of four grand, but a big weak spot right there behind my left pectoral muscle nonetheless. At the same time I also remember vividly how little respect my bicycle and I got as we plodded along the backroads of the southern US of A. Or maybe it was just me as, looking at these photos, I can see how I may have put one or two xenophobic “suthnas” on edge. Either way, the double d batteries, the pennies and other projectiles which flew by my head or off my back care of passing motorists (all with a chorus of, “Now don’t come back now, ya hear!) left an impression of sorts on me and not just that maybe I should’ve taken a more northerly route. Putting that article down as we made our final approach into Brisbane, I had a glimmer of hope, a wistful belief that perhaps the next time I set out on a long distance journey across Hillbilly Country, I’d have a better response than the exasperated and depressed sighs of old. No, the next time that copper widow maker went zooming by my head I could puff my chest out and proclaim proudly, “Watchyerself peckerhead . Dontcha scratch the paint, this one’s Swedish and she’s some kind of special.” That’ll learn’em.

Snowcapped Memories

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 23:25:00 +0000

http://picasaweb.google.com/JimmyCBua/NepalSAnnapurnaCurcuit

Our last full day here in Hobart with our flights scheduled back to Brisbane mid day tomorrow. To commemorate the auspicious date, it seems Mother Nature is pulling out the all the stops in the form of substantial snow accumulations atop Mt. Wellington. In a way it only seems fitting. The snow, the proverbial icing on the cake with the cake being this enchanted island state that, taken with a pinch of optimism and a substantial amount of good luck, can provide its visitor with an endless barrage of scenic splendor and outdoor activities. That said, today, except for retrieving more firewood, outdoor activity is off the day’s agenda. Today will include last minute packing and tidying up around the house. Domestic chores and, as the snow line slowly encroaches upon the upper levels of Hobart’s meager attempts at urban sprawl, daydreams of another snowcapped region; this one going by the name of the Nepal’s Annapurna Circuit. Nearly 500 miles long, the trail bobs and weaves along the mountainous spine of the Himalayas, eventually peaking out atop Thorung La, one of the world’s highest commercially run passes at 17,769 ft. Back in early 2000 Tate and I would relish a good three weeks hiking its entire length. Today, nine years further down the trail, staring out the window at Hobart’s blanketed neighbor, I can vouch that it takes substantially longer to forget.

Soggy Days

noreply@blogger.com (wherebjimmyb) — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 07:38:00 +0000

Considering many parts of Tasmania average 22 days of rain a month, even in the summer, it should come as no surprise that our recent three day, two night, mid-winter jaunt around the island experienced a substantial amount of lead grey skies and slanting rain. It was the sort of rain which, with hot tea in hand and staring out the window of the warm confines of our toasty B&B overlooking the west coast town of Strahan (pronounced Strawn), had me seriously considering simply climbing back beneath the covers. “It’s a good day,” as my long time compadre and traveling companion, Tate Tucker, would say, “if you were a duck.” The guy has a line for every occasion and over the years he’s come to attribute my relative good fortune with the weather (especially my two months pedaling across the States with only one day of rain) to a certain horseshoe which he swears is lodged firmly up my backside. To this I can only say, how soon one forgets. So yesterday, as I watched the rain cascade down and felt the wind battered walls shutter against one more relentless gust, I was transported back to a certain soggy walk in Alaska’s Denali State Park in 1996. It had been scheduled to be a three day hike after our successful season of salmon fishing but after only two days of pushing through thick Alder underbrush and following rain swollen streams and creeks (in the backcountry of Alaska there are few, well established trails) we’d end up throwing in the towel. No amount of Goretex rain gear could help the fact that nothing on us was even remotely dry. The prematurely aborted hike apparently left a lasting impression on the guy and even today any formidable amount of precipitation elicits the same quote from him. Huddling in the relative warmth of our Toyata Hilux waiting for the defroster to kick in, I remembered it fondly and had to smile. “Well Bec, remember it could be a lot worse. At least we’re not camping,” I repeated the time tested adage. Then, as another buckshot like blast of rain pelted our windscreen, Bec put it in first and accelerated into the maelstrom of the new day.