Completely out of my comfort zone

Last week I got to travel with work a bit again. Around this time of year, around the country, we organise lots of shareholder meetings where the farmers who are shareholders can come for a feed and a presentation from the CEO and the chairman about how the co-operative is going, what's happening in the global market, how the last year went and plans for going forward. Kind of a state of the union address. It is felt that us in the marketing department at head office (which I kind of am, as well as being kind of not) should go along to one of these shareholder meetings each each year to meet the farmers and see what goes on and stuff. This year I chose Oamaru.


Oamaru is about 3 hours south of Christchurch and is famous, at least in post-European settlement times, for its many heavily-carved and ornate limestone buildings. There's also a penguin colony just near the town but I didn't get time to go and check out the little fellas. I did get an hour or so of tourist-time though and I took the opportunity to head about 25 minutes south on State Highway 1 to see the Moeraki Boulders.

The boulders are mostly spherical, large stone boulders which lie partly submerged along a beach. Totally out of place, there are all sorts of weird and wonderful tales about how they got there. Of course there are the geological explanations but I think I prefer the one told to me by a farmer called Brod a few hours later over dinner at the shareholders meeting. His idea, completely without evidence, is that a Chinese junk, pre-European settlers, was wrecked on the coast at Moeraki and the boulders were the ship's ballast rocks that split into the sea.


The weekend just gone was definitely memorable. Joanne and I along with three other couples from church (Chris & Jacqui, Mark & Hannah and Dan & Katherine) went on a tramping weekend. To clarify, a tramping weekend is a walking weekend, rather than one spent hunting hobos. The plan was to drive about three hours or so north west of Christchurch, past Hanmer where we were last weekend to a little spot called Marble Hill, between Springs Junction and Maruia Springs. We'd then leave the cars and wander off into the woods to a little DOC hut on the edge of Lake Daniells. Which we did.

We were led to believe it was going to be an easy walk in, about 9km, about two or three hours or so, and for the first half this was true. But then it got a bit swampy and progress slowed. Then it got really muddy and progress definitely slowed.


But, after about about two and a half hours and a couple of scroggin stops we arrived at the hut, at the lake. And what a beautiful spot it was. A still lake reflecting the wooded mountains that surrounded it. Words cannot describe it.

I think it was shortly after arriving at the hut, while I sat dangling my feet in the icy cool water below the pontoon, that reality hit home. Here we were, in the middle of the wilderness, in a little wooden hut with no electricity. The closest I came to camping as a kid was spending a night in a tent in Mark or Darren's gardens where we could run indoors if the weather got too inclement. And I've not camped since then really. I am not sure three nights at Reading festival count, especially since we went back to Kate's mum's every morning for a shower and a fry-up. So, the bottom line is that this was all kind of new to me. I was just grateful that the others we were with were a lot more seasoned than me, the tramping virgin.

They took care of the food, knocking up a really substantial meal of couscous with salami, mushrooms and rehydrated veg in a tomato sauce over the little gas burners they'd taken along. These huts, you see, and the one we stayed in was supposedly a nice new one, don't have anything really. There are bunks, cold running water and a roof. And that's pretty much it. You take everything you need in, and everything you need back out again. Some people do four or five day tramps walking from hut to hut to hut, carrying all their food and clothing for five days with them. So one night in the comparative luxury of the Lake Daniells hut was nothing really. But it didn't feel like it to me. It was meant to be quite a popular track and hut, quite busy most weekends we'd heard, but we had the place to ourselves. Perhaps it was because it was election weekend. It was just so peaceful. The lake was so still and so inviting, but so cold following the unseasonal snowfall last week. I definitely wasn't brave enough to join Dan and Chris in the lake, fishing, up to their waists. Especially after I'd seen a gigantic eel swim on by.

And almost as soon as it began it was over. We woke Sunday morning, had a bit of brekkie, packed up, cleaned the hut of what mess we'd made, and headed back to the cars. A whole weekend in the bush and I only got bitten once by sandflies. Maybe there is something in the marmite myth after all.

On the way back to town we tret outselves. We stopped at Maruia Springs and had a good long soak in the thermal pools. Just what was needed. Even if the 'medicinal' black algae floating in the water looked like a cross between Harry Potter's dementers and the Nazgul. There truly is nothing like sitting neck-deep in a hot natural spring, surrounded by tree-covered misty mountains. I most heartily recommend it.

All in all, the weekend was brilliant. We got to know the others a whole lot better, in beautiful surroundings, and it's not a bad thing to be pushed beyond your comfort zone once in a while.