Thanksgiving, 1993.
New Zealand. It was November and spring, day to home's night; even the night sky was not the same. We drifted down the thin road along
the edge of the Tasman Sea into the Paparoa National Park. It was still at the time
a new park, young, eager rangers all around. We wanted to go on a trek. Unfortunately, it had rained for days and the enthusiastic, ill-informed rangers sent us on our way. In
the park we found swollen rivers; trails swamped and dissolved into churned,
knee deep mud, and an angry bull blocking our way. We cut the trek short.
Rather than hike
out the same way we went in, we forded one of the torrential rivers by
stripping naked and crossing with our packs and clothes and shoes balanced on
our heads. On the other side of the river we followed a trail back to the
coastal road, Highway 6.
We made it to the
road and hitchhiked back to our car. We were soaked, tired and frustrated. We
decided to drive toward Mount Cook.
As we rattled down
the road in our Rent-A-Wreck, with the sea to our right and thick forest to our
left, we flew past a small sign pegged to a tree outside an old house teetering
on a steep slope between the road and the beach. The sign said ‘bed and
breakfast.’ It was written in fragile, pale letters. The sign was so small it
did not register until we were just past; it was a memory sighting. Jackie said
we might want to turn around to see what was what, so we did.
The house was
tucked into a hill between the road and the beach. It was an old clapboard
Victorian, time worn, tired, dirty. We parked and knocked on the door.
