Belly of the Whale

The Man from Menzies Bay________

 

 

After our dolphin encounter, we deemed it necessary to sit with some tea in a sunny café and relish the experience.  After a long, very long hot hot shower, of course (provided with the tour).  We watched ferocious sea gulls pilfer unwatched or abandoned plates, occasionally breaking glasses in the process.  Little devils.    It was one of those beautiful sunny days, the sort that only can happen after days of rain and cold.  You just sort of soak it in like a draught.

After what seemed like an overly-appropriate amount of time we agreed to set forth down the road south once again.  Kaikoura had been grand indeed.  Christchurch was next.  I wanted to see the harbor and Martina had a contact there through a friend so we'd hopefully have a place to stay the night.

The drive south was the same as all the driving thus far: utterly spellbinding.  New Zealand defies description.  The landscape is ever changing in subtle ways, colors and hues, rainforests, moors, canyons and crags.  Flowers are in bloom and spread across broad river glades and crawl up the sides of cliffy bluffs.  Columbine of pink, yellow, blue, purple and even a few orange.  By the millions.

 

It is at this point where the story starts to lose control of itself.  From here, things get a bit out of hand and things happen of there own accord. 

 

Time was getting on.  The harbor of Lytleton (Christchurch) was blah-blah so we proceeded west onto the Banks Peninsula where Martina's contact, Hamish, lived.  We assumed that the address was in the town of Akaroa.  We planned on getting gas there and we were running low.  Martina was the driver; I the navigator.  It occurred to me that Hamish was supposedly a farmer (his cousin had climbed in Chamonix with Martina).  If he was a farmer he certainly couldn't live in town.  The address, Menzies Bay, wasn't in fact a road, but a place.  By simple random chance the bay, which was small and impossibly remote, was printed in a Lonely Planet map where it was absent from my travel atlas.  It was north and we wouldn't pass through Akaroa after all.  But it was not so far.  No problem really, I thought.  The peninsula was small.

The mountains steadily grew before us and clouds crowded then spilt over the high ridges in crashing waves.  Martina down geared as we slowly worked up and up.  The mountains were certainly not on the map.  Up, up, and up.  The steepest road thus far.  We  past through the cloud and then crested the pass, thankfully, and started down the other side.   By God! if the backside wasn't even steeper than the front.  The gas gauge steadily dropped.  Thankfully we planed out and started into a little hamlet at the mouth of a stunning bay (Little Akaloa) and rimmed on either side by great mountains edging down to the northern sea. 

The road ended at a T and sign to the left indicated Menzies Bay.  Praise the Lord!  At least we were not off track.  But then the doom of the situation started to settle on me.  Menzies Bay.  It was another bay, the next one west presumably.  Looking at the mountains we just came down and the ridge surrounding Little Akaloa Bay I realized we'd have to climb out of this bay to reach the next.  The gas gauge was at the bottom, just off it.  The weight of impending disaster turned my stomach.  The road looked treacherous, steep and long.  I had no idea if we could make it.  But could we, would we really turn back??  This place was stunning—even by New Zealand standards.  And we were off the track at last, off the "Lonely Planet Path to a Killer Trip."  The road sign read: "Menzies Bay No Exit."  I recognized several different connotations.

Naught to do but go on.  Martina again downshifted as we headed up the steep concrete.  It would eventually go to gravel and dirt.  The edge was a sheer as any Himalayan highway I can remember.  Seatbelts—bah!  We were going all the way to the waves.  But Martina was stellar behind the wheel.   She's driven the entire trip.  We peaked the ridge.  The fear and excitement likely added to the impact of the vista.  This was sheep country.  No trees.  Only Scottish-style high-grass moor.  We pondered the necessity of the fences along the road.  Where in the heavens could these sheep go?  We would eventually learn, but first as we crested and then descended did I understand that this wouldn't be Menzies Bay at the bottom.  It was still another bay away.  The drama was only have overcome.  I grimly accepted there would be no making it out.  I'd have to hike out, probably days.  But I didn't care.  It was too marvelous, too surreal—a word we found ourselves using far too often but somehow apt.  Yeah, we'd run out. . . if, if we couldn't get fuel from Hamish.  He was a farmer, and remote; I knew he'd have some.  But I now wondered if we'd even make it there in the first.  We'd long been empty and we were driving hard.

The next farm we pass is far and away the most beautiful I've ever seen: perfectly manicured  and sculpted.  Not a soul around to see. 

We see the opposite side of the bay now before us.  There is no road cutting the face.  This is the end of the road and we weren't making it out alone.  Yet there was no relief ro trepidation—it was far too exhilarating a place and adventure.  We were all smiles and giddiness.  Small tractors and sheds littered the valley, paddocks and corrals, dog kennels, shorn grass and dust on the road bending back toward the head of the bay, Menzies Bay.

We see a couple folks kenneling dogs.  Time to face our demons. We look at each other, smile and cut the engine (for the last time???),

 

Martina had tried to call Hamish and had only reached his answering machine. So we had no idea of knowing whether he'd be home.  Of course, he was a farmer; odds are. . .  So seeing someone was a relief.  But we also suspected he might have heard our message and expect our coming.

We introduced ourselves and we received a big smile in return: "ah, you're Martina.  You did good to find us."

Ah, what relief.  Hamish was youngish—maybe forty dusty slacks, ripped and stained Polo shirt, collar up, sleeves rolled, worn and oiled hat over his ears.  A perfect image from The Man from Snowy River.    Eerie really, but encouraging.  This was my kind of man.  And his smile was genuine.  This was Menzies Bay, the end of the road; you don't get many folks out here.  Old hospitality still holds true for strangers.

At the time we didn't know Hamish's last name.  Judging the nature of the place, I guessed it: Menzies.  Of course, Hamish Menzies of Menzies Bay.  His family has been here for a hundred and fifty years.

 

 

We spent three days in Menzies Bay.  We arrived the day before the mustering would begin.  This next week would be hectic.  All of Hamish's ewes and lambs must be "mustered"—which is like herding, bringing down with dogs from the pastures to the paddocks.  The lambs were to be weaned from the ewes, then shorn, and "dagged"—a hygienic sheering of their bums.  All the ewes were to be dagged as well.  Most of the lambs were to be sorted and many sold, the rest kept to keep up the herd.  Hamish keeps about 3000 sheep in Menzies Bay.

As we talked to Hamish that first time we both knew that we would have to stay on; this wasn't the sort of place you left to quickly.  And to stay on, we'd naturally have to work.    And what did we know about sheep farming?  No matter.  We'd learn, and it would be great.

And that's how it went.  We woke up at five, had breakfast with the crew and went out with the breaking light to muster, sort, and dag the "mob".   I can't remember the last time hard work felt so good.  To be on the land, on a farm, working animals, watching black and tan sheep dogs keenly hopping fences and managing sheep with an inexplicable understanding of the process.  My smile never faltered and I was determined to show my best.  I was the youngest and not having a dog of my own to work, I became one.

There was certainly something more.  I really loved the work; I loved the place; I loved this crew.  Everything about this thing was right.  It dawned on me that I may have found my place.  Or, a place for a while.  I worked all the harder.  For my future.

I asked loads of questions; I learned to work independently; I hustled like a dog and raised many a laugh and cheer from Hamish for succeeding where misbehaving dogs failed (rare).  We moved loads of sheep.  Martina and I worked a good two days before we decided we couldn't stay any longer; her trip was too brief and we had still so far to go.

Leaving was tough.  We all had become close overnight.  Hamish was a climber when the sheeping was light.  He had been to Chamonix once and had climbed a daring route on Mt Cook.  His dad done a bit of sailing and had built his own sail boat.  He said he had access to mooring all around Banks Peninsula if I ever wished to sail down.  (He had no idea of how much I was thinking of doing just that.)  I had learned a bit of Hamish's business and NZ sheep farming in general.  Most farmers couldn't afford to hire on help,  Hamish ran the farm alone except in times like this where there was much to be done.   Help normally came in the form of other farmers, friends in a similar situation themselves, whom Hamish would likewise help when the time came. 

So my prospects of work weren't great.  But they were somewhat good.  There was what Martina and I called "the Holiday House"—a sort of guest house on the property.  Hamish had made it clear he'd love to have us back.  At the least I could have free room and board.  Before I left we discussed the prospect more seriously and he said he could find some paying work for me as well.  If "Old Man Menzies" (Rick Menzies) could find me a free mooring and I could work for room, board and a bit of cash, live in the Holiday House—I could lead a hell of a life for a while, learn the sheeping business, climb a bit with Hamish around Mt Cook, take enough time off to write. . . . .

 

It is a beautiful dream.  To me.  It has its drawbacks.  We aren't as close to the Southern Alps as I'd like to be.  And it is bounded.  A man is coming to work for Hamish in May.  I wouldn't relish sharing the Holiday House even if Hamish wanted me to stay on.  So the dream is looking like a  two month stint perhaps.

 

But it is a dream and could flee in the coming weeks.  The Banks Peninsula is a long way from Opua.  And I still haven't seen Nelson, my previous first choice for harbor and home.  What is more important was that it was an incredible experience, something new, different and refreshing.