By Lucy

Back to normalcy, or what passes for it for me. Waking up, having breakfast alone in my cabin, going out to feed the chickens even though it’s my day off. I thought it was raining hard, but it was barely misting, and the light rain was accumulating on the tree branches and dripping on the tin roof of my hut in big drops, making it sound like it was raining harder than it was.

I was braced for things to be bad, just from the way she grimaced when she asked me if I could feed the chickens. I wasn’t prepared for it to be that bad.

Part of it was the demonic wind the day before. It had flung the lid off the chicken feed in the first pen, and they were in it, probably had been for a couple of hours. Well, you guys have food, I’ll deal with you later. I went into the second pen; the water bowls were everywhere. Also, curiously, some of the egg trays were strewn about, when they should be tucked into the egg room.

There were no eggs on the floor like there usually is, and a bunch of broken ones in the tray.

Once I got everything in the other two pens tidied up and sorted for food and water, I went back to the first pen. They were still hungry and I discovered why; when they all stampeded into the bin to eat the pellets, one had gotten crushed and died, blocking it. How ironic.

Christ, that’s 5 dead birds in 3 weeks, and 2 were “young” ones. What an attrition rate.

I dumped out most of the food. It might not currently be raining very hard, but the food had still be open to the moisture all night and it would congeal into a big blob and go moldy, so I might as well let them gorge themselves.

When I came in with the trays of eggs, Simo said, “So how ravenous were they?”

“How ravenous? They were fine, actually. I think the rain took the wind out of their wings.”

“Ah, that’s good, cuz they weren’t fed at all yesterday. They haven’t been fed since Kelly fed them Wednesday night.”

Whisky tango foxtrot Simo, you couldn’t tell me that before you let me go feed the cannibalistic feathered raptors? I’m surprised they let the rain stop them! What is she going to do when I’m gone??

Turns out rats have been getting into the middle pen. They roll away the eggs on the ground, but the ones in the trays they can’t move, so they just eat them there and leave the shells behind. She’s put out rat poison, so we’ll see. The young ones still aren’t laying and haven’t for a month at this point. I suggested calling a vet, but she just shrugged.

I spent most of the day playing Stardew Valley, or I should say dragging myself through Stardew Valley. A few years back they released a whole new island as post-story content, which I have never really explored. I’ve had to wait two in-game months to reach it, and considering there are 28 days in a month and it takes 20 real world minutes for a day to pass, it’s been a slog.

Simo made fresh fluffy scrambled eggs on toast for lunch, after which I went back to my cabin and had the rest of last night’s delicious pasta. I always end up having two lunches here – I can’t make it ’til 7:30 otherwise.

At one point I decided I aught to get rid of the cola-flavoured candies I’d had sitting around my cabin since I left in Christchurch. I left them out on the family table for anyone to grab. Ethan pocketed most of them. Gary had tasked him with cleaning out the tool truck and he needed the sugar to stay away and focused.

I’ve learned that 13 degrees is the line for me to be comfortable with no fire. Although I still prefer a fire above it, but below it is too cold for no fire.

Saturday I was left alone, Gary and Simo had a few houses to see in Methven. Simonetta has a curious quirk of saying that I’m in charge whenever she leaves, as if I have control over anything. Kelly was too sick to come in.

Before Gary and Simo could leave, they had to help Luigi. The guests had given him a large bone to chew on. Was it the wrong kind of bone, or just bad luck? It got lodged in his jaw and he couldn’t close his mouth, so Simo sat on him and Gary pulled it out with a pair of pliers. Personally, I’d be nervous as hell knowing my dog was spending time with random strangers, for this very reason. They might have given him chicken bones and killed him!

I only had the Granary to turn over, which is fine. I’ve finally gotten to the point where I can do it quickly and smoothly, just in time for me to move on. Well, it’s all transferable skills; I’m sure the next hostel will appreciate me being broken in. The problems came when I got to the bathroom. The customers had balled up all the towels and shoved them into the trash can under the sink, for some reason. But people do daft things all the time and I threw the ball into the basket and then laundry machine without unravelling it much. I threw my hoodie on top, because it needed a wash.

When I went back to put the laundry on the line, I discovered my error. The towels had been balled around an adult diaper, which had come apart in the washing machine. On my hoodie.

Whisky tango foxtrot, why? I get it, you’re embarrassed to be using an adult diaper. I had an ostomy bag for 5 months and it fell off at Anime North; been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Put it in the trashcan downstairs and tie the bag shut, don’t wrap it in a freakin’ towel so it’s guaranteed to make my day hell!!

I cleaned up the mess, put the wash on again, cleaned my hands very thoroughly with lots of hot water and soap, and decided to have lunch. Christ on a cracker.

I spent the rest of the day weeding. When Simonetta came back around 3, I was technically done, but she was going to be canning and I definitely wanted to be around so I could sneak bites of her cooking.

Most of it was already made in large batches, it just had to be ladled into jars so she could seal them. Whatever was left that wouldn’t make a full jar was mine to eat, although most of it was chutneys and I’m not big on chutney. The cream of the crop was her famous whisky marmalade (aha, it’s not just an excuse to swear!). I basically licked the pot clean.

As I ladled and she stirred, I listened to her tell me stories about Italy.

“My sister is a proper Italian woman – “

“What is a proper Italian woman?” I interrupted.

“Ah, you know, la bella signora.” She made a curtsy motion. “She lives at home until marriage, she only has one boyfriend, whom she later marries, she defers to him for everything and goes where he goes. I was quite unusual, going to school and getting my own flat. Independent.”

“I’m surprised your parents let you go to school.”

“I was always very good in school, but it was also expected at the time. Actually, my mother wanted me to go to med school, so I could meet a doctor to marry.”

I burst out laughing. Like Mona Lisa Smile, a degree in husband. “My mother had the same problem.”

“In the 1970’s?” Simo says, as if in disbelief.

“Yes, my mother is around your age!” I forget how old exactly, but I know she was older than 30 when she had me and I’m basically 30 now. “She went to trade school and she was one of the few women and they harassed her. She had to sue the factory cuz they wouldn’t hire females.”

Actually, when was that? After her marriage to Scottie fell apart, and then she knew dad for 5 years before they got together and I was conceived. Probably in the mid 80’s then. No matter.

“How are you enjoying your Baileys?” She asked mischievously, as Kelly had dropped off the bottle while I was away.

“Good.” Disappearing too fast.

“It does go down far too easily. I can’t have it often.”

“Want some of mine?” I asked with a wicked smile. “I can go get the bottle.”

“Good heavens, don’t tempt me! It’s not even 5!”

Bah, it’s almost 5.

She also told me about how the guy up the road makes cheese and that they went to high school together. Total, 100% coincidence that they ended up living on the same street in New Zealand as each other. I asked if his Gorgonzola was any good and she made a face. “The town of Gorgonzola was one over from the town I grew up in and I know Gorgonzola! It is not Gorgonzola!”

I laughed. Oh, how I’d love to see her and the Vagabond have a single conversation!

While the recipes were out on the counter, I took snaps of the ones I wanted, although some were mysteriously absent. Some she guards and some she doesn’t care about, more’s the pity. As if I’m going to compete with her preserve sales! Must be an Italian thing.

Sunday promised to be an absolute scorcher, which is perfect for a bike ride!

When I went out to feed the chickens, I was confused that I couldn’t find Simo or Kelly. Still, I knew what my job was. After the chickens were taken care of, I tidied the kitchen and went out to weed one of the gardens.

As the customers left, Kelly showed up and we went to do their cabins. They left behind a box of ice cream! After the cabins were done and the linens in the wash, she disappeared quickly; she’d been suffering from a severe migraine, but she needed the work today cuz the dogs had finally destroyed her couch.

The laundry dried quickly on the line – it was at least 25, probably hotter in the full sun. Not a cloud in the azure sky! After we finished taking it in and folding it, Simonetta declared “You’re a free citizen! Go enjoy Arthur’s Pass.”

For real? Well, I still had to eat lunch, but I hopped on the bike as quickly as I could.

I took the long way around to Windwhistle; the station there is a card only, cuz it’s unmanned and prepaid, but it’s the cheapest gas and also the closest. Then I went around to Sheffield, which was as far as I’d ranged on this bike.

This was the real test. The drive out to Hororata with my bags hadn’t actually been that far, compared to the kilometers I’d be putting on it now. Plus the winding mountain roads.

Thru Sheffield and Springfield without stopping. I noted the giant donut Kevin had sent me on the right; I’d get it on the way back.

Simonetta had warned me about tourists in rented cars, driving too fast and in the wrong lane, but I didn’t have that much of a problem. This late in the day, everyone was where they wanted to be and heading back. I passed a large number of motorcyclists, most of whom waved back! I am starting to think of bikers as “us” and not “them”. A perfect day for a bike ride, for a biker like me.

Quick aside: A couple of weeks back, New Zealand made motorcycle patches illegal. Well, technically the law makes wearing “gang patches” illegal, which is such uselessly vague information. The motorcycle group I’m part of is called “Women on Wheels”, is that a gang? A few weeks back I ordered a jokey patch about joining the “I fell off my bike” club, is that illegal? It also makes it possible for cops to seize “gang memorabilia”, even if it’s just stored in your home and not publicly viewable. What a violation of free speech! Of course, everyone gathered around the kitchen table to joke about me being a 1% biker and I complained about the stupid law and found no sympathy there. I suppose I am an outlier, then.

In case you were wondering, by the police’s own estimates, there are roughly 200’00 bike riders in New Zealand, and 10’000 patched members. Which is more than 1%, funnily enough.

At the hairpin turn at the base of the mountain, there was a sign for a hiking trail in a tussock grassland. It required real mountaineering gear and skills, so I’ll pass.

The ascent was pretty easy. My bike doesn’t really struggle on hills. Although the twists and turns made me nervous, I’ve been taking them faster and faster as I get used to the bike. I started doing the dirtbike thing, even, just like I was at the moto safety course. I still tried to pull over and let people pass me as much as possible, even if I was going as fast as them, just because I was nervous about having someone take a corner too fast and giving me no space to react if they spun out.

I passed several people with boats in tow, and I wondered where they had come from. I discovered near the top, Lake Lyndon. This is where the Acheron starts, before wandering down to Rakaia. I also learned there is a road from here down to Lake Coleridge, although it says FAIRWEATHER ONLY and as I later learned from Simonetta, is mostly gravel, so not for a bike.

The ascent itself only took 15 minutes, and then I rounded a corner and I was there, at Castle Hill.

Technically the mountain across the road is Castle Hill, but hush. Just enjoy the majesty.

Castle Hill, and the strip along the road to Arthur’s Pass, seems to be unique in that the mountains on either side are fresh basaltic rock from the depths of the Earth, turning over as it rises. The section in the middle here is limestone, from 30 million years ago, before the Southern Alps started rising and this land was beneath the sea. It was the last great extinction event before the modern era; falling carbon dioxide levels caused the Earth to cool dramatically (dramatically meaning over the space of 400’000 years). The continued separation of the Australian and Antarctic plates opened up the Tasmanian Passageway, causing further cooling of the sea at the south pole and leading to the creation of the permanent ice sheet over Antarctica that still exists today. These limestones are the remains of 30 million year old sharks, that couldn’t survive the suddenly chilly waters and died en-mass and sank to what was then the ocean floor. Prior to this, Antarctica had a sub-tropical climate similar to Australia and New Zealand.

Of course, this was all white noise in the back of my head, as I stood in awe of the rocks. I’ve seen a lot of things, including Stonehenge and what remains of the Ishtar Gate in the Pergamon museum, but the things that nature can craft always impress me so much more than what man can do. Like Dr Manhattan’s speech about how the randomness of the universe, atoms smashing together and fish learning how to breathe air, all came together in just the right way to create you, a singular unique individual. How many things had to go right to create these impressive limestone sculptures, independent of so-called “rational thought”?

The path around part of the park is well made, wide and flat with gravel and steps at the inclines. Not that that stops people from wandering off the path, although I’ve gathered that that’s allowed and possibly encouraged. Castle Rock is a destination for rock climbers/ bouldering enthusiasts and it’s easy to see why; the rocks have many natural handholds, almost perfectly shaped, like someone did it on purpose. I suppose it’s possible Maori shaped the rocks, in years past, for entertainment. I didn’t leave the path much; while other tourists wandered around with selfie sticks and screaming kids, I just admired the towering rocks at a distance. At a few points I put my palm flat on a rock and felt like I could feel the Earth moving and shifting, thousands of feet below me.

Just to think, over there is Mount Enys, and behind it Lake Coleridge and Hororata.

I learned from a plaque that the hated spearweed was used by the Maori to create a perfume.

I spent over an hour wandering around. Eventually I had to move on, though. I sat in the shade for a bit and drank some water; there is a porta-potty type arrangement on-site.

The road onwards was tough. It twisted and turned and went up and down; not enough to slow down a car, just a bike. I turned a corner to what is technically Arthur’s Pass, the flood plain for the Waimakariri, and pulled over for a moment among one of the many small parking areas for daft tourists like myself. The mountains on the far side still had snow; high enough elevations, far enough inland, to be cold still? Snow-capped all year round? Must be, the Waimak is snow-fed. The temperature was notable chilly here, but across the stony flood plain was fields and fields of lupins (invaders. Lupins, from the word for wolf, are so named because they are poisonous to sheep). It was very pretty!

It reminded me that one of the random home page images Google offers me is Lake Pukaki with lupins. It was such a treat to go on Google maps and discover this place was in New Zealand, barely 2 hours away!

There is a trail called the O’Malley trail, that it only 2 kilometers and goes right to the beginning of the Waikmak, which was tempting but I was short on time as it is. I still had to make Arthur’s Pass village and be back in time for dinner. The sun was descending, the mountains casting long shadows and clouds appearing over the westward mountains. It smelled wet and green, like the forest after a fresh rain.

I also missed a location I meant to stop at, Flock Hill. Flock Hill looks a lot like Castle Hill, but it’s notable because The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe was filmed there.

I had a few problems with other drivers at this point. The wind had picked up to such an extent that I couldn’t accelerate into it, and actually had the throttle twisted all the way just to maintain speed. I got passed unsafely by a few people, including an ambulance who was clearly just doing rounds to be close by if someone went off the road, cuz I caught up to him at the village and he turned around and went back the way we came! In a rush to make me his next customer, apparently, but then it makes me laugh how often people criticize bikers for being unsafe while being unsafe around us!

I also have a problem at one of those single lane bridges. They are everywhere in New Zealand and I hate them. I had someone try to cross while I was still very much in the middle. I presume his excuse being that he couldn’t see the small black bike on the black road, but an incident that wouldn’t have occurred if the road had 2 damn lanes!

I didn’t stop long in Arthur’s Pass Village. I had a thought that I might have a coffee at a cafe or something, but the only cafe was closed and I should be heading back. I texted Simo to let her know I was turning around – just in case I got knocked off the cliff, so someone knows to start looking for me! She jokingly asked if I would be home in time for dinner or if I was going on to Greymouth.

I tried popping my headphones in and zipping the cord inside my jacket. There’s no spot for a radio or even speakers on my bike, and the silence is deafening (metaphorically… the actual noise of the bike is truly deafening). The first song my phone offered was “Too Good at Raising Hell”, which seemed apropos. However, the earbuds don’t like to sit in my ears with the vibration of the bike. My next helmet needs built-in speakers or something.

The drive back was shorter, now that I knew where the sharp turns were. The roads were quiet and empty. As I came up to Castle Rock, I noticed a bike stopped by the side of the road and slowed down to ask if he needed help. He waved me on with a smile, and passed me fifteen minutes later.

I stopped in Sheffield for gas. Next door to the gas station was the giant donut, which I dutifully got pictures of, although there was no one around to take a picture of me in it.

I pulled in to the driveway at 7:20, almost ran over Luigi like always (I’m glad he’s feeling better with the arthritis meds, but he’s a menace for attacking me on the bike), parked quickly and ran inside to strip off my biking gear. I was at the table before 7:30, although dinner was 20 minutes late anyway. We had… well, she called it hamburger, but we’d call it meatloaf in North America, with salad and a couple of pre-made pavlova’s that were going stale in the fridge. In case you didn’t know, pavlova originated in New Zealand, despite the Russian name!

I’ve noticed reports of snow finally hitting Ontario; the area north of Orillia was buried by more than a metre of snow overnight. Thunder Bay’s temps have finally dipped below freezing, although they’ve only had a little bit of snow while I’m over here enjoying my first days over 30 degrees, muwahaha and all that jazz.

Kelly is quite unwell; she’s been throwing up and bedridden. I offered to come over and check on her, make some soup or do a pharmacy run, but she declined.

Sunday night over dinner, Simonetta asked Gary, “Where’s Earl?”

“I shot her, that’s what you do with dogs that don’t behave.”

We frowned at each other. His tone was right in the middle of being sarcastic enough to think he wasn’t telling the truth, and annoyed enough that it might be. “You’re not serious?” Simo asked again.

Eventually he said she was at some place getting training.

I wondered if he’d be amenable to giving her to me. Assuming I could even bring her with me… probably need a vet to sign off on it and paperwork, yada yada, but I couldn’t bear the idea of him shooting her and burying her out back.

Monday morning, the boys left without me. Slightly surprising; I know I mentioned to Gary that I couldn’t come with them Monday due to my tattoo appointment, but there was no “we’ll miss you” or “come up afterwards on your bike”. I think he’s still skeptical of my utility, and to be honest they can muddle along fine with the three of them for now; he’s not very good at delegating. Another possible answer is that Simonetta requested I stay this week to manage her anxiety; the deadline for offers on the estate closes Thursday, meaning all the offers will be made available to her on that day and no sooner. Or, there may be no offers… that’s also a nerve-wracking option.

I fed the chickens and hauled the bike out to go to Methven for my tattoo. The bike sputtered and coughed but wouldn’t turn over. I gave it a little gas. It would rev as long as the throttle was twisted but wouldn’t idle.

I stomped inside. “The bike doesn’t sound right.” Simonetta observed.

“Yeah, I was hoping to call Ethan and ask if I could borrow his truck.”

“Oh, that’s a much better idea than me driving you! Yes, let’s do that.” She punched his number into the house phone, while I marveled that she had heard the bike misbehaving and was mentally deciding to drive me so I wouldn’t miss my appointment, which is very kind of her! Ethan agreed (of course, not like he would need the truck ’til he got back), and surprise surprise, there was actually 3/4 of a tank! I texted the artist that I may be late, and noticed that she had texted me to say she would be late, so all’s well that ends well.

As I got to where the road goes to Lake Coleridge, I noticed a single female hitchhiker. Her lucky day, that I was in the truck and not on the bike, especially as a single female. “Where are you going?” I yelled out the window.

“Near Methven, if you could!”

“Ah, I am going right into Methven, if that’s alright.”

“Perfect!” She threw her heavy pack into the back seat and climbed into the front. Thus the mystery of marooned hitchhikers in the middle of nowhere was solved; there’s a hike from one end of the South Island to the other, called the Te Araroa. The trail comes down into Lake Coleridge – presumably from Lake Lyndon, so I might even have passed her on my outing yesterday – and then most people hitchhike into Methven for supplies. The people I’ve seen were dropped off by drivers who were going to Darfield/ Christchurch. Since she was going for supplies, it was doubly fortuitous, because the tattoo parlor is across the road from the main grocery store.

She’s from the UK, so we had a good talk about all the ways New Zealand seems exactly like England. She also commented that I seem to be doing really well for a working holiday visa and that most people really struggle. I can see it; I’m really lucky I ended up clicking with Simonetta.

I went inside and waited for Lizzy to be ready. She was super stoked for the tattoo – it is certainly unique. I was disappointed that the stencil only had half a triangle on each arm, as I kinda wanted it to wrap around my arm so it didn’t cut off.

That was before she started. I had assumed this tattoo would be mostly painless – the upper forearm is fairly meaty and doesn’t usually hurt. I forgot to consider that the funny bone, and by extension the tendon that attaches there and is the real reason it hurts, is there. It quickly started to feel like she was digging a hot knife into the bone itself, so I balled up my other hand into a fist to avoid grinding my teeth together or complaining. By the end, I had decided maybe it looked just fine as half a triangle, or at least I was in too much pain to argue now.

It’s a big tattoo, in terms of square footage. It was the first of my tattoos to start weeping plasma as soon as she was done, and the inside of my sweater was too much for the sensitive skin. Maybe a good thing I didn’t take the bike, with the restrictive jacket.

Still! I was thrilled with it, and it got the biggest response from my friends!

After I went home, had some lunch and puttered around, I decided to take a look at the bike. Maybe it was fixable. I opened the manual and went to the troubleshooting section.

“Go to page 22 to follow correct starting sequence.”

Sure, fine…

Shift to neutral, turn ignition switch, pull the choke lever-

Wait wait wait, there’s a choke on this bike? It’s not a kick start, where the hell is the choke??

Waaaaaay under the chassis was a switch that did not look like a choke in any way. I’d been driving with it fully engaged for 2 months.

For those who don’t drive motorcycles (although cars used to have chokes as well) a choke reduces the air intake so the engine can warm up properly. Driving with a choke on causes the mixture to be rich, decreasing fuel economy, increasing the RPMs and eventually killing the bike.

It’s not like I didn’t know this was a problem; the journeyman who bought the Vagabond’s old bike did the exact same thing and we laughed about it for ages! Part of the problem is the odd placement, part of it is that the original owner had it warm and running before I got there so I didn’t need to learn about the choke, but at the end of the day I should have read the manual front to back before running all over the South Island with it.

And what timing too, not even 2 weeks before I’m due to leave!

Once I finished having a panic attack and catastrophizing, I sat down and had thought about it. One thing it can do is coat the spark plugs, which could possibly be cleaned. I went through the manual; there is a single lonely spark plug on my bike, easily reached, and the little tool kit that comes with the bike includes a spark plug wrench.

I wrestled out the tool kit, took the spark plug out. Yup, coated, but not in bad shape.

I went inside. “So, did you figure out what was wrong with your bike?” Simo asked.

“The driver. Do you know what a choke is?”

“Yes. I thought that’s what it sounds like.”

I’m surprised she knows this. “I need something like a Brillo pad to clean the spark plug.”

“There’s a Goldilocks by the sink, you can use that.”

“Like a steel wool?”

“It’s brass!”

But still… basically a steel wool.

I grabbed it and a pair of gloves and got to cleaning. It looked pretty good! Popped it back in and tried to fire the bike up again. No dice, but it sounded better. I was getting somewhere.

Paul suggested draining the “fuel bowl” for the carb. Which explained a nebulous concept my parents had instilled in me without fully explaining. Basically, you’re always going to have incomplete combustion, with particulates and water building up in a fuel tank, which is another reason why running on empty constantly is a dumb idea; all the crap sinks to the bottom, but if there’s very little gas in the tank it’ll get sucked into the carb and start clogging things up. In theory, if there was a bunch of nonsense at the bottom of the tank blocking the fuel intake, I could bleed it and clear it out.

I video called Paul and had him walk me thru it. We couldn’t find a shut-off valve or even a proper drain for the carb. We decided a small screw at the bottom of the carb was the drain; I put a piece of recycling under it and unscrewed it slightly.

Nothing.

Wait, there was something dripping down my kickstand! The drain must be further down on the bike, for some reason. So much for my oil pain. The first little bit seemed to be water, but then when I started smelling gas I screwed the screw back in tight.

Fixed?

I tried to start it up again. It sounded a lot better, like when I dropped the bike and flooded the carb. I waited ten minutes and tried again. Still not a proper idle.

(Paul also pointed out that higher altitudes have less oxygen available, which probably didn’t help me)

Well, I give up for tonight. My arms were absolutely burning from the tattoos. Even air moving across them felt like someone was rubbing them with sandpaper, nevermind trying to lay on gravel to look at the underside of the bike, and they were still weeping.

Simonetta asked if I could fend for myself, so I had a dinner of leftover chicken, salad, and some cheese and crackers.

I’m surprised whenever something says “end of the year roundup”, like Duolingo. This can’t really be December, it’s hot as hell and sunny and flowering. How strange, but it’s real. I’m on the other side of the world and they really have hot, summery Christmases.

It’s too hot. And windy.

This is wildfire weather.