Caution: wekas may be too cute for words
Why must it only rain when I’m camping? Why must it not rain when I
paid extra for a hostel? The weather god is mocking me. I told myself
I could stay in hostels if it rained on the West Coast, since this
region is known for its massive rain, but it looks as though I only
hit it right two nights out of eight. Eit. And one of those nights my
tent was still soaked from the dew. Luckily, while the mornings are
often overcast around here, they’ve been clearing up nicely by the
afternoon, so I’ve been able to dry my tent before sleeping in it.
This morning I was still a bit mopey, but the weka poking its beak
under my tent cheered me up. As I packed up my gear it was very
interested in the trash sack, and approached it from assorted
directions only to be scared off time after time. I don’t remember
exactly what it did to make me laugh delightedly, but apparently
that’s when it decided its work was done, and departed to check out
the next tent.
Today I decided to go 31 km to get to breakfast. I had an energy bar
at camp, and started biking. Only on the road did I remember that
Pedaller’s Paradise had showed two big hills between Punakaiki
and Charleston. And they were big. The second one had three peaks. I
hate those kind of hills. They kill me. Especially when I’m not
expecting it. Also, a big double trailer truck decided it had to pass
me at the same time as an oncoming campervan, and I had to stop on the
side of the road to cry hysterically for a bit. Later in the day,
similar events occured, but the carbohydrates in the system dulled the
effect of the adrenalin, and I just shouted at the trucks.
The bar/hotel/restaurant I stopped at in Charleston reminded me like
an establishment of a similar set of functions on the Dalton
(Dempster?) Highway on my way from Inuvik to Whitehorse. The same
half-restaurant, half-cafeteria ambience, punctuated with a faint
scent of old beer and cigarettes. Guys in overalls drank coffee next
to tourists in flipflops.
The set of older tourists who drove me crazy at the counter, because I
needed sustenance immediately, and they were poking around, trying to
figure out what they wanted, screwing up their tea order, paying
separately, came over and chatted, and then drove me crazy again
trying to help me with directions of how to get to Berlins, where I
was heading that day. All I had to do was follow highway 6. The guy
confused me by telling me it was before Westport (the turnoff was, but
the mileage was much further), and then told me to follow the sign to
Inangahua. When I got to the sign there was no mention of that tiny
town, just Christchurch, Nelson, and maybe Murchison. But I was a good
kid and smiled and said “Thank you” and smiled and said “Thank you”
again. A curmudgeon, moi?
I was officially a very bad tourist, because I didn’t stop to take a
photo of the penguin crossing next 5 km sign. Sorry. I did take a
photo of the Caution: Wekas sign, though. Someday I’ll post the
photos. Really.
The cafe/backpackers I stopped at in Berlins was kind of disappointing
because they weren’t allowing tent camping because the field was too
muddy. I clarified that I was just on a bike and the woman got super
defensive and wouldn’t shut up about why they weren’t allowing tent
camping, even after I started asking her about the dorm rooms. Gah. I
ended up in a dorm room for $8 more than the tent site, and it was
fine, except for the fact that there were no screens in the windows,
they were all open, and there were always three sandflies somewhere
nearby, no matter how many I killed. At least in my tent I can
eliminate the few that get in. My laptop is smeared with the brown-red
guts of sandflies.