The Green Miles

One of the author's favourite camp locations on New Zealand's South Island.

Christmas 2014 found me on a hobby farm, caring for two wiener dogs named Frankie and Winton, while their humans vacationed with friends for a week in wine country. The house was a modest bungalow in the community of Halkett, on the outskirts of Christchurch, New Zealand.  This 7-day long housesit was theoretically meant to be a time to regroup and reflect in the middle of a 2-month long bike tour that spanned the entirety of New Zealand, from the town of Bluff in the South Island, to Cape Reinga, at the north end of the North Island.  

At about the 3-day mark, having rested sufficiently and attended to all of my basic needs - cleaning, laundering, restocking on snacks, and hurting my own feelings by looking at my ex’s facebook page - I began to grow restless.  I occupied myself by going on long walks with the dogs.  Due to humanity’s incessant need to perform mettlesome fuckery like using breeding tactics to shorten the legs of a dog breed, these dog walks were far longer than intended. Hobbled for eternity, Frankie and Winton shuffled along breathlessly, doing the best they could with the genetic card they were dealt -  I wondered if it was the intent of breeders to actually turn these dogs into real wieners, who must be rolled instead of walked.

I spent the rest of my time back at the homestead, turning to my favourite hobby of gorging myself on mass amounts of food. Even this got old, disappointingly, when I eventually struck my indulgence limit - eating as a pastime hits different when the calories going in far exceed those going out, which is a problem I had not encountered to this point, being in a perpetual, insatiable calorie deficit from the past 4 weeks on the road.

The novelty of cycle touring can be highly addictive.  By this time, I had really hit my stride after spending weeks zigging over dirt road mountain passes, zagging through rolling green pastures, and sleeping amongst the sheep in lush green fields, near trickling streams, or on quiet beaches.  Stopping did not feel natural.  I began to crave the freedom of movement again.  Day 7 could not come soon enough, and when it finally did and Frankie and Winton were reunited in the loving arms of their people, I bid adieu to my four new friends, and I hit the road for parts unknown.

Hanging out with wiener dogs Frankie and Winton on the hobby farm in Halkett, NZ. Terrible photo quality, because of my phone, and also who I am as a person.

It was already early in the evening when I pushed off, so I knew I would not be biking very far.  This departure was more of a ceremonial undertaking, signalling my glorious return to a life of vagabondism, rather than a lengthy dispatch to the great beyond.  

I rolled along the highway through open farmland plains.  In the distance, I could see that my eventual fate included a hardy climb - I was headed for the Southern Alps, on the road up and over Arthur’s Pass, which is about 2,400 feet above sea

level.  Dark and ominous storm clouds loomed ahead, with erratic flashes and distant rumblings, crawling up and over the mountains in my direction.  With this rather uninviting scene before me, I was not ready to slay the giant by starting the climb just yet, so I began to scan the roadsides for a candid camp spot.  This was easier said than done, as the countryside here offered very few trees.  The sun would be setting within the next hour and with those storm clouds fast approaching, a good stand of trees would offer some welcome protection against any strong winds.

As I searched, I was simultaneously engaged in an activity I probably do more than the average person, which is to act out a completely fabricated scene by way of a passionate monologue.  In this instance, I was a famous, wealthy, yet down to earth and modestly dressed customer in a busy big city restaurant who had just been disrespected and ignored by a snobby maitre d’.  “You think you’re better than me?  You’re perched on your high horse, judging people based on their looks?  I could buy this place in a minute - AND WHEN I DO, you’ll fall off just in time to beg at my feet to keep your job.  PATHETIC.”  In the midst of crafting my show stoppingly clever and fervent diss, aimed to take this superficial imbecile down a peg, I was startled out of my performance by a woman who had pulled up alongside me in her truck with the window down.

“Excuse me” she said apologetically, as though interrupting an actual conversation instead of the schizophrenic ramblings of a vagrant.  “OH!  Hi!” I said hastily in an overly bubbly voice, as if to counter the person I was pantomiming only moments ago.  I simultaneously wondered how much of that embarrassing production she had heard.  “Have you seen a dog running ‘round out hehhh?  My dog ray-hhn off from my fahhm this evening” she said in her own brand of New Zealand country twang.

“Oh no!  I haven’t seen him!  What’s his name?  And where do you live?  I’ll be camping out somewhere around here tonight, so if I find him, I can call him over and take him to your place” I said. 

“Camping tonoiight?  With this stohhhm coming up?” she said, as she pointed with her chin towards the dark clouds bumbling towards us  “Mate, you’d bettah come for tea and stay safe on the fahhm with us tonoight.”

Her invite was extended so automatically, without hesitation, and with such a practical sincerity, that it threw me off initially.  It really shouldn’t have, since I had experienced daily acts of kindness and offerings from people all throughout New Zealand so far. My first impulse was to politely decline - which I tend to do especially in times of need or adversity, so as to “not be a bother”.  Many maritimers with Acadian and Irish Catholic roots such as myself, like wiener dogs, have been raised and bred to hobble themselves when offered a helping hand during hardships, in the name of being polite.  The unspoken rule is the more dire the situation, the more you refuse help at first, BUT if offered again, or if the situation becomes dire enough, you may accept help.  NOTE: This rule does not apply to any monetary exchanges, like someone offering to pay for your meal, which usually ends in a violent wrestling match between the two parties, while wildly waving your bank card in front of the cashier.

In this case, I had already resolved to face the elements and was in an independent mindset.  After all, I had only just left a domestic life behind no more than 20 kms down the road and was enjoying the fresh air - that, and I hated going backwards.  “Thank you so much but I’m going to keep heading down the road, and I’ll keep an eye out for your dog” I said, with an apologetic smile.

Just as I said it, an impeccably timed flash of lightning streaked across the sky, followed quickly by a loud clap of thunder. Almost immediately, the wind picked up.  The timing of it all was reminiscent of a low budget 1950’s horror flick.  The lady in the truck looked at me incredulously and I gave her a knowing grimace.  “Git in the ute mate…makes no sense to stay out in this withah.  I’ve got a nooice warm room for you back at the fahhhm” she said.

She had a point.  It was sure to be an unpleasant stormy night in a delicate, paper thin tent, where I might be lit up like a lantern by an errant lightning strike.  I threw my bike and gear into the back of the truck, and we headed down the road, stopping to yell out occasionally for her dog, Harley.  

On our drive back to the farm, I learned that my host-to-be was named Deb Dobbins and she was a cattle woman by trade. In her mid 40’s,she wore blue jeans and a plaid button up shirt, and had short spikey blonde hair, and her resting face bore a permanent smile.  She had a tough exterior - you could tell she had worked with her back and her hands all of her life, but had a gentle nature.  She lived in an old bungalow farmhouse that had a long extended wing that had several self-contained rooms, only accessible by their own exterior doors.  

I was immediately led to one of these rooms to drop off my stuff and wash up.  Deb said:  “Hehh’s your room for the noooight - there’s no washroom in it, but thehhh’s a working sink.  If you need to use the loo, you’ll have to use the one in the mayyne house, come join us for tea when you’re sittled.”  

The room was no frills with a lamp that sat on an unironically distressed side table beside a creaky old bed.  It felt like a horse stable that was made into sleeping quarters as an afterthought.  The white plaster walls showed visibly large cracks, which I made note of vacantly as I washed my hands in a sink that had independent taps for hot and cold water.  I repeatedly scalded my left hand, while turning my right hand into an ice block as I splashed the streams towards each other in a failed effort to find a warm middle ground.

Deb was a lively,welcoming and gracious host, and I was surprised to find her preparing a full blown meal instead of the “tea” that was advertised. Until this evening, I hadn’t realized “tea” meant supper, rather than drinking a couple of cups of Tetley.  “Come and meet my pahtnah, Al '' she said in a whisper as she waved me in towards the living room.  

On a lazy boy, sat a middle aged, balding man in rugby shorts with a beer gut that protruded from a stained white tshirt. He was slumped in front of a TV blaring at a level that would give us all a lifetime of tinnitus within mere moments.  “Al, this is Ginevieve - I mit her while out looking for Hahhh-ley just now.  She’s roooiding her pushboiike to Cape Reinga!” she said enthusiastically.

“Oh yehhhh….” Al said with all the alert engagement of a narcoleptic sloth on valium.  A vacant glazed look hung from his face, while the blue light of the TV danced in his eyes and he craned his head around us to fixate on the show playing behind us and said: “This is the good pahhht.”  I turned just in time to witness the infamously graphic electric chair scene in the movie “The Green Mile”, where an inmate on death row is burned alive, brutally electrocuted improperly by a sadistic prison guard.  I stood transfixed in horror as I took in the disturbing scene that went on for far too long.  The lights flickered from the thunderstorm outside, as though the electric chair in the movie was being powered by an extension cord from Deb’s house.

Sufficiently topped up on terrorizing imagery to fuel my next few months of nightmares, Deb and I walked back to the kitchen to prepare “tea”.  As evidenced by the fresh stains on his shirt, and the empty cardboard tray beside him, Al had already treated himself to a TV dinner as part of his deranged solo date night, so Deb and I prepared a salad of garden fresh greens from her garden for supper.  “ He wouldn’t loooike this meal - too healthy for ‘im” said Deb, whose default smiling facial expression turned to a snarl momentarily.  She leaned in over the counter and whispered in what seemed as loud as her regular talking voice “I’m going to leave ‘im you know.  He’s such a layzy bahhstard.  He’s no good.  He just does that ivery noooight, sits around like a slob.  Doesn’t help out around the house at all.  The layyzy bahhstard.”  

It was a surprisingly candid conversation to have with a stranger, but Deb’s masterplan to leave the “lazy bastard” was our main topic for an hour or so, and I was there for it, understanding that she probably couldn’t talk about this with her friends or family.  I was sympathetic to her situation and perplexed all at once - how had such a vibrant go-getter of a woman ended up with the sluggish loser that was loafing around her living room?  

Our conversation was interrupted when we saw a flash of lightning and the power went out.  The thunder clapped so hard that it made the house shake.  “Wooo. That gave me flashbiiicks to the earthquake.” Deb said.  “Exciiipt the quake lasted way longah - that’s why there’s cracks in the plaster walls.  It was a scary one.”  She was referring to the 6.3 magnitude earthquake that had rocked Christchurch in 2011, just 3 years before, and whose devastating effects were still visible in and around the area via crumbled buildings and condemned houses.  She showed me where she was sitting when it all happened, and how she shielded herself under the table till it subsided, describing how her dishes, books and cabinets had all come crashing down in the rumble.  She counted herself lucky - she still had her house in the end, which was not the case for everyone in the area.

It was time for bed.  By the light of my headlamp, I shuffled out onto the deck and back to my room to call it a night, while the rain came down in buckets.  

After a fitful night of sleep, which alternated between electrocution nightmares and bouts of wide eyed staring into the darkness, thanks, in no small part, to the charming combination of violent thunder, heavy rain on a tin roof and the PTSD I acquired from Al’s movie selection, I emerged from my room thoroughly unrested and started to pack up my bike ahead of the challenging ride up Arthur’s Pass.  The rain had subsided, for now, so the timing was right to make a break for it.  Deb was also awake and came outside to greet me with some news.  “Road’s flooded out, mate!  No traffic can cross the rivah just below the stahhhrt of the cloooimb to Ahhrthur’s pass!”

Indeed, no traffic was coming from or to that direction, save the odd tractor accessing nearby fields.  I paused for a moment.  “I think I’m going to give it a shot…I bet I can make it across with my bike, and if I don’t I’ll just camp out there until the water levels go down”, I said with optimistic naivety.  

“It’s supposed to rain hahhd again all day today, so that won’t help”, Deb said with her nose scrunched up, as though she had accidentally ordered the wet weather herself.  I still wanted to make an attempt even if it meant having to turn around.  Deb then proposed a plan:  we would meet at a restaurant about 20 kms up the road, not far from the flooded river, where she would buy me breakfast.  I would bike on from there and see if I could make it across the river.  If I wasn’t successful, I could bike back to the restaurant and give her a call and she would pick me up there and take me back to her house for the evening.  But if I did make it, she told me, she had a connection with some great friends that lived up on Flock Hill Station, about ½ way to Arthur’s Pass Village. Their names were Dick and Anna - she had sold them some bulls earlier in the season.  She would give them a call and see if they could put me up for the night.

The whole plan sounded bulletproof, so I pedalled off, just as the skies opened up and the rain started to pour down again.  I didn’t mind.  I was just happy to be moving forward.  

An hour later, I pulled into the restaurant, just in time to see Deb pull in with her dog, Harley in the front seat - he had been scared off by the thunderstorm but returned to the farm just after I left.  Deb and I shared a delicious breakfast together, and she confided that she was inspired by my trip - it reminded her that life doesn’t just have to be about the daily grind and settling for less. She wanted to be part of making my trip a memorable success - a feat she had already achieved with her generosity and an unforgettable evening at her farmhouse.  

She announced:  “I called Dick and Anna and lift a missage.  They’ll be expicting you today, so call in to say hello if you make it that fahhhr - there’s not really any good places to camp in this wither before Flock Hill Station anyway.”  Flock Hill was a mere 50 kms away, less than half the distance I would normally do in a day, but I promised to stop in and say hello, which would certainly break up the monotony of the rain, and I was always interested in meeting new people, especially those that came highly recommended from Deb.

With that, we hugged and said our goodbyes, and I wished Deb well.   She was such a vivacious and happy woman, I hoped her life situation would soon match her positive vibes.  “Call me if you have enny problems.  I’d be happy to come and pick you up” Deb said as she waved me off.  I knew that she meant it, too.

Sporting a wide grin that commemorated my good fortune in meeting yet another fabulous person on my trip, I pushed forward in the rain, and soon arrived at the river crossing, warned well ahead of time of the impassable state of the road by flashing signs reading “Road Washed Out Ahead - No Through Traffic”.  If nothing else, I wanted to see what an impassable road looked like. Indeed, the river had breached the low bridge crossing, but it didn’t look that bad.  There was still only standing water on the road, not a fast flowing river like I had imagined.  

A sign warning of flooding just before the river at the beginning of the ascent to Arthur's Pass.

As I waded across, I found the water to be no higher than my knees.  While the rain continued to steadily fall, it occurred to me that the state of the river could change for the worse over time if there was no respite, effectively leaving me stranded on the wrong side of Arthur’s Pass with no facilities or amenities for the next one hundred kilometers, with a steep climb ahead.  Still, I was willing to take the risk.  If nothing else, I knew I could work something out with Deb’s friends at Flock Hill Station. 

After the crossing, I threw my leg over the bike and never looked back.  I climbed steadily for the first 25kms, which steepened significantly for an additional 5km push to the height of the land.  With no traffic, I was able to meander back and forth across the road, creating tiny switchbacks to help with the climb.  Usually the main event, the difficulty of climbing this mountain pass was outshined by the relentlessly strong crosswinds which gave turbo power to the driving rains,eventually turning to hail.  When I finally got up and over the hump, I hit a downhill section, which is usually a joyous occasion, but now only served as further punishment, since my rolling speed combined with the wind caused the hail to feel like I was being pelted with BB gun pellets.  “Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow owwww!” I yelled out with a scrunched up, squinty face, one eye half open, laughing at the absurdity.  

The landscape up in the pass was of scrubby hillsides, tussock grass, and rocky outcrops that flanked the meandering road.  It was a majestically scenic area, even from what little I could tell from the ½ mile visibility that the weather permitted.  Circumstances did not call for much sightseeing and taking in splendours at the moment, as my eyes were on survival setting, used only as scanning devices, grid searching the countryside for shelter opportunities, in case they were needed. Aside from the outline of an old rickety outbuilding in the distance, there were very few options.  I felt sorry for the sheep that had to endure this weather throughout the seasons, though I was jealous of their fluffy fleece that helped with some protection from the elements.  My cheap rain jacket, in comparison, offered only a thin veil of protection from the wind and had long ago abandoned the task of keeping my body dry.

Stopping occasionally to shove an energy bar into my face, I did so ungracefully, with wet, icy cold hands, with finger dexterity like those coin operated metal claws used in teddy bear prize games that you’d find in a shopping mall in the 90s, purposefully rigged to fail.  With my frigid fleshy claw, I held the bar to my mouth and tore the wrapper open with my teeth, indifferent to the bits of foil that inevitably got swept up in the mechanical process of getting the calories into my esophagus.  I could never stop for more than a minute, as the wind robbed my body heat like a thief in the night, causing me to shiver uncontrollably.

Shite weather and rain climbing up past Castle Hill, NZ.

Flock Hill Station soon became my one and only fixation, a safe haven, even if only to offer a temporary break from the elements.  Cycling in these conditions turned to plodding, and then to drudgery, and finally to survival as my pace slowed to a crawl when the side wind made a power play and swung to a headwind.   My brain sank below thought to its original factory settings and I pushed on towards salvation.  

Three hours, four energy bars, and having sung Steve Miller’s hook phrase “Abra, Abra - cadabra, I wanna reach out and grab ya!”  as a meaningless mantra during the entire campaign, the outbuildings of a large farm appeared like magic from behind the curtain of mist and rain.  This had to be the famed Flock Hill Station.  

I pulled into the large yard filled with barns, leaned my bike against the whitewashed stone house, and knocked on the door causing pain to my sensitive, cold, purple hand.  Within seconds, a woman answered and who, upon seeing me standing in a shivering dripping wet state said “You poor dear!  Come in and have a shower!”.  Within minutes I had gone from a hypothermic existence in austere weather conditions, to relishing in the warm embrace of a comfortable family environment.  No sooner had I come out of the shower, was I invited for tea, which was already laid out on the table, piping hot, as though they had timed it for my arrival.  What a reception!

Now clean and warm, I was introduced formally to Anna, the woman who had greeted me at the door, her husband, Dick, their four children and a few of their friends who were spending the night.  There were 10 of us in all, seated at a big wooden farmhouse table, with room to spare, should another wayward traveller throw themselves upon the doorstep.  

Anna was the image of a loving mother and wife - a handsome woman with wavy blonde hair, an approachable, laid back demeanour, and an easy smile.  Dick was a stout man, and a hard working farmer with kind eyes.  Like many farm kids I’ve met before and since, their kids were all extremely well adjusted and engaging conversationalists, unlike the withdrawn, screen addicted kids I had grown used to meeting back home. 

The feeling was so joyous and festive, and this family so flawless and loving, I felt as though I had been welcomed in by the Von Trapp Family singers.  I would not have at all been surprised if they donned matching clothing made from the drapes and broke out into harmonious singing as post supper entertainment.  I was so appreciative of Deb for helping to link me with this formidable family.

We supped on a hearty feast of farm fresh lamb chops, the best oven fried rosemary potatoes I’ve ever had, and abundant salad.  I helped wash up dishes, before we all filed into the living room, threw cushions on the floor and watched the movie “The Gladiator”, whose violent scenes left me stoically unphased, as I was now a calloused veteran to violence and gore after last night's screening at Deb’s place.  

After the movie, I was shown to a room with the bed made up, sheets turned town, ready for my arrival - I felt like a long lost daughter, welcomed back home to her childhood bedroom.  This was far better than the manger I had envisioned myself hunkering down in for the night on the side of the road - using a sheep’s body for a pillow, when I still naively thought I would make it to the village of Arthur’s Pass, another 40 kms further up the road.  I slept peacefully, and awoke still amazed by my good fortune.

The next morning, Anna had prepared a full breakfast of pancakes, berries, and sausages for the whole gang.  It was a delicious and filling meal, excellent for a long day out on the road.  During breakfast, Dick was reporting what needed to be done on the station for the day.  A flock of sheep needed to be moved from one paddock to the next.  He, the sheepdogs, and a few of the kids would be going out in the next hour to get started.  “Would you like to come out and help us, Giiinevieve?”, he asked.  I couldn’t believe my luck.  Since coming to New Zealand, I had wanted to spend time seeing the workings of a sheep farm with working dogs, though I didn’t know exactly how and when the opportunity would come up.  Flock Hill Station is one of the largest stations in all of New Zealand, with over 14,000 hectares of land dedicated to its use.  I could not have found a more quintessential setting for this experience.

Wearing New Zealand’s unofficial national uniform: rugby shorts, a t-shirt and rubber boots, Dick greeted me out in the yard with a no-nonsense attitude. “Git in the back of the ute - we’ll herd the sheep alongside the dogs and when they pass through the gayyyte, jump out and shut it.  If enny of the sheep go straaay, the dogs will pin it and you can throw them in the back of the ute.”  

I was excited beyond belief.  Dick had at least 4 dogs, including one Australian shepherd named Mel, who was the brains of the operation.  Dick used calls and whistles as Mel ran alongside the herd, skillfully creeping, watching, and sprinting to keep them grouped as necessary.  The other dogs, called “Greyweimers”, were the loudmouth brutes whose job was to bark and scare the bejesus out of the sheep to keep them moving in a forward direction towards the gate.  Dick hung out the window and yelled at them:  “Git behoooind Mel!  Git behooooind MEL!”.   The Greyweimers toned it back, so that their leader, Mel, could perform her craft.  With the dogs in pursuit, combined with the truck flanking one side of the sheep, the herd had very little chance of deviation and were controlled beautifully.  It dawned on me that, with this kind of deep understanding of group movement and containment, plus the occasional squatting of a 150lb sheep for strength training, there is no wonder New Zealanders are good rugby players - it’s seemingly sewn into the very fabric of their culture.  

By early afternoon, the sheep were in their new pasture, and Dick gave me a driving tour of the extensive station.  The weather was clear and sunny, and I was awestruck by the rugged, yet fertile and abundant landscape.  There were cascading waterfalls, lush fields, rocky protuberances, all laden with a variety of grasses, mosses, and colourful wildflowers.  The station had actually been used as a backdrop for a few scenes in the movie “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe”, and I couldn’t imagine a more fitting setting for a fantasy film.

The road through the Southern Alps of New Zealand, just after I left Flock Hill Station.

With the day’s work done, it was time for me to hit the dusty trail.   “You’re welcome to stay another night, we’d love to have you” said Anna.  The offer was tempting, but the compulsion to roll on down the road was strong.  I thanked my hosts profusely as I wheeled my loaded bike beside me and said “Wow, I’m so grateful and lucky that Deb was able to get a hold of you and arrange for me to stay.”  Dick and Anna both looked puzzled.  “Who’s Deb?”  

My heart fluttered, as I felt the blood rise up from my chest, to my neck, to my face like a cartoon character, only missing the slide whistle sound effect.  I replied dumbfoundedly:  “Deb…..Deb Dobbins????  She said she knew you and would call to make arrangements for a place for me to stay if the weather was bad.”  They both looked at each other again with a perplexed air, clearly trying to wrack their brains for the association with the name.  “Umm…she said she sold you some cattle last year?” I added, hoping to jar their memories.  

“OH YES.  Yes, Deb, yes we sort of know her - yes, she did sell us some bulls a while back….” said Dick, with a vague air of remembrance.  “I don’t think she called us recently though…maybe she left a message, I didn’t check yesterday” added Anna.

“Wait, so you mean you didn’t know I was coming when I showed up yesterday?” I said sheepishly.  

“No dear, it was a complete surprise to all of us!  I couldn’t leave you outside all soaking wet and cold!”

My mind replayed the reel of the previous day, starting from the moment I rolled onto their doorstep, soaked to the bone, to the casual movie night with the kids, and the warm embrace of the cozy room they had graciously offered me. Reflecting on their hospitality, I realized that I had been welcomed into this family home with such genuine warmth and familiarity that it never occurred to me that my stay hadn't been prearranged. Their willingness to embrace a stranger, unannounced and unplanned, spoke volumes about the kind of people Dick, Anna, and their children were. It was a testament not only to their kindness but also to Deb, who had made the connection, without actually making the connection.  Seamlessly integrated into the family, adding an extra seat at the table, they treated me as one of their own without hesitation.

.

We all had a good laugh at my expense, as I stood embarrassed by my unintended brashness, and agreed that it really couldn’t have worked out better.   These events remain some of the fondest memories of my travels in New Zealand - a land of great beauty, great spirit, and great people.