WanderLust Kaitlyn Jayne: Gone Fishin'

30 May

The beach isn't sandy. As we cross over the hill that empties out unto the beach, Spirits Bay, my feet sink into hundreds of millions of broken shell bits, smoothed out by the relentless, rhythmic toss and turn, give and take of the sea. They're purple & peach, sea foam green & sky blue, striped & solid and wet enough to reflect the glow from the sunset. To my left the beach wraps around for miles until it abruptly end where the cliffs of wild bush begin in the far distance. The lighthouse at the cape begins to flash as the evening descends. To think, we'll be trekking this coast and reach the lighthouse before the sun sets again tomorrow.

The only footprints on the beach are mine, Jamie's and Anne Marie's. The sight of this peach colored beach after a 15k hike from Waitiki Landing

reduces us to our skivvies and we plunge our barking dogs into the surf. A nearly nude solo beach walk at sunset provides some sacred serenity and introspection. I even attempt a sea side meditation sit, the ceaseless ebb and flow of waves settling my mind.
What is there to think about anyway? My life is a clean slate right now, living moment by moment. I can't even plan for my tomorrows. I'm just so hungry for these moments, these experiences. I want to gobble up every second of this, and there's always room for more. Anne and I snuggle up in my little tent. The roar of the sea. Possibilities as infinite as the stretch of the dark sky.

Photo: http://wanderingjamie.blogspot.com

31 May

I'm writing just to document this moment in time. Pandora Bay. Sleeping pad under sleeping bag under gazebo roof under clear sky filled with brilliant twinkling stars. Here I am, somewhere beneath, above and between it all. Not since the Monastery have I looked up and felt so blissfully insignificant. We're all pushing & pulling, dragging each other down just to keep our own heads above water.

Sometime the crash of the waves is so loud I turn to look into the darkness as if expecting the headlights of two cars to collide. Jamie needs a good night's sleep. Poor girl ate canned tuna that gave her a bad bout of food poisoning last night. We all had a can, but destiny chose her stomach to wretch and purge the vile seafood. Maybe it was a test of her resilience & fortitude. Maybe it was a test of my compassion & patience. I shall overcome & there are more important things than bagging that peak, respectively. Made it from Spirits Bay to Pandora Bay in about 5 hours. Jamie's pluck pressed on until the safety of the gazebo. Good on ya, girl.

Nostalgia and I are becoming well acquainted. Clingy thing follows me everywhere. Right when I thought it had wandered off, it creeps back up into my peripheral. On my solo even beach walk I sat with it, let it share my rock by the tidal pool, and instead of running away, I made a kind of peace with it. What's in the past will always be there to revisit, but what serves me now is soaking in the present. Even if it feels lonely, it still feels right. Look where you are! You got yourself here! Every previous moment has been building up to this one! And the possibilities from here on out are endless if I make it so.

We're more than 20k from where we started. The beach is our front yard, the wild bush out back & the milky way our roof. We're the only occupants of this coastline. Sleep well, little possum. Rest up for another bright sunrise on another beach on another day of plenty.

1 June

The peak bagger inside of me is disappointed & restless, but the friend & fellow companion is relieved to cut our losses & head for the road. We've hiked 24km in 2 days, 9 of it along the pristine white sand beach of Te Horo. Made it to our secret Pandora paradise. 9 of it Jamie drained of energy and nourishment. Takes us less than 3 hours to hike the direct route to highway 1, hitch a ride with ultra friendly Kiwi fisherman Marty & his Jack Russell co-pilot back to Waitiki Landing to fetch Tin-Tin, and by lunch time we're driving to see all the hot-spots we were originally planning to hike to.

Funny how it all works out. Cape Reinga is even more of a tourist trap than a sacred Maori site than I had pictured. Te Rerenga-Wairua, the jumping off point for souls as they depart this earth on a journey to their homeland. Coincidentally, or maybe not, it's also the point where the Pacific & Tasman sea meet in a tumultuous mixing of waters. But today is calm and clear.

Tourists snapping cheesy photos & picnicking below the lighthouse. After 3 days of peaceful solitude, the sight of these people gawking, snacking & photo snapping feels wrong and utterly disrespectful. It's my ego talking, so I try not to feel above it. I'm just trying so hard to feel a part of this. A tiny inkling of the sacredness, of the hallowed ground that was/is the last bit of earth to which those celestial feet will ever be grounded. If I have to try this hard, the connection I seek won't be attained, so we take a corny photo or two & wander the seaside pathway.

Photo: http://wanderingjamie.blogspot.com

We camp at the beach side site of Tapotupotu, a large grassy green patch with facilities, motorhomes & camper vans with designs depicting "Shaved Beavers." Wandering in wearing everything we needed, we would have camped here on the second night of our mighty tramp. Instead, we saunter through inside a tin can. Falling asleep to the imbibed ruckus of a merry band of singing Japanese folks celebrating the Queen's birthday with round after round of fireworks and camp songs. And that sound, the reassuring endlessness of the waves I've grown so used to. You can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you need.

2 June

All life is, really, is a giant whiskey barrel filled with water and apples. Big, red, crispy orbs of opportunity. Events and occurrences for which you close your eyes and plunge head first, mouth gaping, hoping to sink into the the sweet flesh of life. Sometimes you come up with nothing and you give it another go. Sometimes you feel the squeaky face skim right past your grip. And then, sometimes, if the timing is just right, you sink your fangs in as if guided by a tiny runway captain.

Much like Jamie did when she ate that can o' tuna. Such an event can set off a chain reaction, like that red delicious was a domino tile shaped and your finger was itching to tap the first one.

Pay attention now. Because Jamie ate the gone-off can of tuna, we hiked out of Pandora Bay back to the highway. As we were standing road side, thumbs out, we vowed never again to consume fish from a can. It must be self-caught. Just then Marty rounds the corner and pulls over. We gratefully climb in the back, sharing seats with all his fishing gear. Marty just so happens to be a Jack-of-all-Trades who, in the off season, hunts possums for fur, and in the high season, takes tourists on fishing expeditions. His card reads, "We catch big fish!" A typical amiable Kiwi, he gives us his address with the invitation of setting us up with a proper fishing kit so we can keep our promise to boycott all can-shaped seafood. We thank him thoroughly and continue with our aforementioned day to Cape Reinga and camp Tapotupotu.

? June

Photo:
http://wanderingjamie.blogspot.com

We spend a relaxed, lazy morning at camp, then head to Te Paki Stream to investigate the area where our epic tramp would have terminated. Miles of rolling sand dunes are cut in half by a shallow stream bed which empties out into the wild Tasman Sea. It's quite a long walk, and when we've tired of running up and down the dunes, we hitch a ride the rest of the way with a dad, Russell, and his kids out for a Sunday drive in their big blue truck. He slices through the puddles in the stream, making the 20 somethings squeal with delight as the fresh water splashes over the sides of the pick up bed.

On the way out of town we spontaneously decide to pay Marty a visit. We follow a narrow dirt road to a long two story garage. Marty is outside skinning possums. He's a squat, muscular man will the build of a bulldog and Joe Rogan's face, if Mr. Rogan had spent everyday of his youth at sea reeling in massive marine megafauna.

Photo: Jamie

Marty passes on his gems of wisdom including but not limited to knot tying, casting techniques, bait advice, lure & hook knowledge, how to reel in a big one without snapping the line, etc. He sets us up with a tried and true fish pole and a kitted out personalized tackle box. All this for the low, low price of 30 New Zealand dollars. With big hugs and many thank you's we head straight for the corner store the accrue our #1 and #2 most important ingredients: Bait & beer.

5 New Zealand Lagers & 2 Salted bait fish later, we're back at camp frying up fresh fish n' chips for dinner. The 'fish' portion was swimming in the Pacific ocean off of Rarawa beach not half an hour earlier. Anne Marie's cast had just enough of that special somethin' to hook that apple, I mean fishy, and bring him/her out of the sea and into our frying pan.

And guess who we ran into on their extended Sunday drive!? None other than Russell and his kiddos in their blue truck! Another kind Kiwi, Russell offers his place in Kerikeri for a good nights sleep and a place to do our laundry.

Connect the dots. That can of tuna leads, quite directly, to the acquisition of a quality fish pole and to a fresh plate of fish n' chips of which Poseidon would likely approve.

3 June

We spend the next morning catching three more yellow tail fish to present as an offering to Leigh and Donna, Anne Marie's current WWOOFing hosts. They graciously invite the American tagalongs into their home made of red cob cement located down a long driveway that crosses through (not over) two streams, horse and pig paddocks, and stretches of native bush, opening up to a little slice of paradise complete with waterfall vistas and a heart shaped swimming hole. 100% solar powered, water provided by a chilly mountain spring, gorgeous tile artwork, and a bush bath!

5 June

"This is a cultural experience, not exclusively a WWOOFing arrangement." Declares L as R hands him another beer and he propels the 4x4 truck over the protruding volcanic reef, rocking us to and fro just meters from the quick rising Tasman Sea. Anne Marie casts her line out and I drink another beer, watching the torrential waves break violently over the rocks. It begins to pour rain and she retreats to the truck, fish-less. After the morning of bush-wandering in search of the evil invasive South American ginger root, I didn't think this day could get more adventurous, but L and R's 4x4 trek along the coast proved otherwise. The day concludes with a bush bath au naturel and heaps of hearty laughter. Throw all expectations out the window, they have no purpose here.