miners. Later the New Zealand government subsidised the immigration of Shetland Islanders, but even the stalwart Shetlanders found it too desolate a place. This secluded bay might be designated Port William, but it is deserted; it is impossible to detect prior evidence of human settlement. Apart from a jetty and the DOC hut, there is nothing in this forlorn place but bush.
Walking along the beach, I discover empty shells of scallop, mussel and abalone (paua), bull kelp, kelp bubbles, sea urchins and a dead porcupine fish. I sift through all this natural flotsam and find not a scrap of discarded plastic, shred of netting or shard of broken glass. On the tide-exposed rocks and beach, I collect a pot full of cockles, mussels and oysters, then find a fist-sized octopus clinging to rocks just under the water line. I pluck him out and dump him unceremoniously in an aluminium pot with the rest of my dinner.
As I watch the sunset, a weka, a flightless brown bird resembling a hen, walks within easy reach. His mate follows, pursued by two chicks, all of them unconcerned by my presence. The
adults communicate by a curious drum-like sound. One of the wekas pecks at the eyes of my boots.
Rakiura translates as the ‘land of the glowing skies’, and the island lives up to the name with a burning sunset. I bask in the last rays, almost off the edge of the world, further south than I have ever been before. Stewart Island is further south than South Africa, closer to the South Pole than Tasmania, almost on a par with the Falkland Islands. It is about as far as you can go to hide without getting ridiculous. This is, after all, only New Zealand.
As dawn breaks in the forest, birdsong precludes sleep, as if someone has turned the stereo up; but with the sunrise the racket fades. Waking up alone here seems perfectly OK; in this setting, there is no stigma attached to being single. Being solitary enhances the experience, or so I persuade myself. With no incentive to stay in bed, I swing out of the top bunk and stuff my belongings into my backpack. Then I zigzag along the beach before slipping into forests haunted by the sounds of unseen birds.
I have this primeval urge at the end of each autumn, before winter sets in, to migrate to greener pastures, richer hunting grounds, as if to stay too long in one place would invite discovery from enemy tribes. There must be some genetic truth to this restlessness; a reason why my European ancestors thousands or even tens of thousands of years ago survived. My ancient instincts for survival compel me to move on – I cannot fight them. Resisting these impulses creates turmoil; giving in to these urges keeps me in balance with myself. I am often told how lucky I am to embark on these journeys. It is not so much a matter of luck as a matter of choice. But there are drawbacks to this incessant life of wandering; I have no tribe to bond with, no family of my own to provide a familiar sense of belonging.
There is something mystical about walking alone through forests. Although this one has been milled in the past, huge rimu and rata trees stand testimony to what the virgin podocarp forest must
once have looked like. The sun cuts through the foliage, casting light on the ground in shimmering splotches of browns and greens, like a turtle’s shell. The shadows stir with the canopy above, swaying in the blustery breeze. Massive tree trunks chafe together with the ominous heavy creak of a wooden sailing ship rolling in heavy seas. The snorted warning of an unseen deer startles me. I take some photographs, but they can hardly do this velvety rainforest justice. I forget trying to capture the scene with my camera and concentrate on experiencing this thriving nature. I commit to memory a stand of crown fern back-lit by the sun, an iridescent lime-green kaleidoscope thrust out of a sombre, indistinct underworld.
The luxuriant forest is primordial, a perception enhanced by the haunting chimes of the invisible
Walking along the beach, I discover empty shells of scallop, mussel and abalone (paua), bull kelp, kelp bubbles, sea urchins and a dead porcupine fish. I sift through all this natural flotsam and find not a scrap of discarded plastic, shred of netting or shard of broken glass. On the tide-exposed rocks and beach, I collect a pot full of cockles, mussels and oysters, then find a fist-sized octopus clinging to rocks just under the water line. I pluck him out and dump him unceremoniously in an aluminium pot with the rest of my dinner.
As I watch the sunset, a weka, a flightless brown bird resembling a hen, walks within easy reach. His mate follows, pursued by two chicks, all of them unconcerned by my presence. The
adults communicate by a curious drum-like sound. One of the wekas pecks at the eyes of my boots.
Rakiura translates as the ‘land of the glowing skies’, and the island lives up to the name with a burning sunset. I bask in the last rays, almost off the edge of the world, further south than I have ever been before. Stewart Island is further south than South Africa, closer to the South Pole than Tasmania, almost on a par with the Falkland Islands. It is about as far as you can go to hide without getting ridiculous. This is, after all, only New Zealand.
As dawn breaks in the forest, birdsong precludes sleep, as if someone has turned the stereo up; but with the sunrise the racket fades. Waking up alone here seems perfectly OK; in this setting, there is no stigma attached to being single. Being solitary enhances the experience, or so I persuade myself. With no incentive to stay in bed, I swing out of the top bunk and stuff my belongings into my backpack. Then I zigzag along the beach before slipping into forests haunted by the sounds of unseen birds.
I have this primeval urge at the end of each autumn, before winter sets in, to migrate to greener pastures, richer hunting grounds, as if to stay too long in one place would invite discovery from enemy tribes. There must be some genetic truth to this restlessness; a reason why my European ancestors thousands or even tens of thousands of years ago survived. My ancient instincts for survival compel me to move on – I cannot fight them. Resisting these impulses creates turmoil; giving in to these urges keeps me in balance with myself. I am often told how lucky I am to embark on these journeys. It is not so much a matter of luck as a matter of choice. But there are drawbacks to this incessant life of wandering; I have no tribe to bond with, no family of my own to provide a familiar sense of belonging.
There is something mystical about walking alone through forests. Although this one has been milled in the past, huge rimu and rata trees stand testimony to what the virgin podocarp forest must
once have looked like. The sun cuts through the foliage, casting light on the ground in shimmering splotches of browns and greens, like a turtle’s shell. The shadows stir with the canopy above, swaying in the blustery breeze. Massive tree trunks chafe together with the ominous heavy creak of a wooden sailing ship rolling in heavy seas. The snorted warning of an unseen deer startles me. I take some photographs, but they can hardly do this velvety rainforest justice. I forget trying to capture the scene with my camera and concentrate on experiencing this thriving nature. I commit to memory a stand of crown fern back-lit by the sun, an iridescent lime-green kaleidoscope thrust out of a sombre, indistinct underworld.
The luxuriant forest is primordial, a perception enhanced by the haunting chimes of the invisible
Similar Books
