Traveling Dina - Explore. Dream. Discover.

So, after deciding I definitely did NOT want to experience the Skipper’s Road again, it was river rafting for me. I told my guide I was deathly afraid of falling in, and that I’d had some bad luck doing mellower rapids in northern California (but that had been with a friend and no guide…) He put me in a seat in front of him, “So I can catch you.” (Not that reassuring.) It was also the second rear-most seat aside from his, and supposedly the “safest” spot if one is trying to avoid ejection.

The beginning of the trip was just a gentle float down the beautiful Shotover river, which had been a great source of gold in the past. Evidence of the mining days was everywhere — big rusted pipes, twisted pieces of metal and huge things that looked like turbines and other random remnants of machinery decorated the banks here and there. We were told that under no circumstances should we stand up in the water, due to the unknown amount of wrecked mining littering the riverbed. I did not find this encouraging. But the calm water at the beginning of the trip was relaxing, so I didn’t worry too much.

Throughout the previous days of our journey, Greg had been complaining about sandflies — tiny little beasts who live in sand, but bite people everywhere, not just on the feet and ankles or other body-parts that might come in contact with sand. The welts are large and itchy, similiar to mosquito bites, but luckily, thanks to Greg attracting all of their attention, I hadn’t gotten any bites yet. My luck, however, was about to change.

Even though the 6 of us rafters (and one guide, who probably was clued in enough to use some “OFF” before the trip) were essentially covered from toe to wrist to head in neoprene and sexy bright yellow helmets, the crafy little insects had no trouble at all finding our hands and faces, pretty much the only naked flesh available. Rather than paddling through life-threatening whitewater, we were slapping the backs of our hands and our neighbors’ necks, shouting “I got the little mofo!” with triumph.

Luckily, while the pinch of the bite was unpleasant, the sandflies seemed to just leave a bunch of little red marks on my hands that didn’t really itch. (Yet.)

So aside from the discomforts of the nasty neoprene suit and the onslaught of pesky sandflies, the first half of the rafting experience was quite enjoyable — we were cruising at a nice clip down the gently but somewhat swiftly flowing river, surrounded by amazing, humbling scenery. The majority of the riverbanks weren’t “banks” at all but just hillsides and mountains that the river had carved through. If you’ve ever taken Route 80 from New Jersey to Pennsylvania (or vice versa) through the Delaware Water Gap, perhaps you’ve noted the incline of the mountains. Geologists call this incline “uplift”, terrain where first the rock is deposited in layers, then mountain-building forces push the layers up at steep angles. The mountains lining this rever reminded me of the Gap, it was that majestic.

Part of the fun of hte gentle part of the river was having our guide — another partially bearded, slightly scrawny and youthful looking kiwi — command us like a professional rafting outfit, barking stroking orders like a coxswain. “Forwards! Backwards! Forwards, left! Hold on, get down!” We practiced this last one in anticipation of the heavier rapids — basically, grab on to a rope in the middle of the boat, wedge your body between the seats, and pray. (Well, the “pray” part, perhaps only applied to me.)

The rough, class IV rapids, when they came, were definitely scary, but over pretty quickly. The first ones were crazy, but we as a raft team negotiated them pretty well. Although we got totally swamped by the chilly water (and perhaps I executed the “Hold on, get down!” slightly before it was commanded), we made it through without losing any member of the raft crew.

Some of the other rafts weren’t so lucky, and we waited over to the side at the bottom of the rapid, and pulled out of the flowing water and into our raft a shell-shocked, very small woman in her late 30’s or early 40’s. Safe in the raft but soaking wet and a little blue in the lips, she had a look on her face of utter bewilderment. Periodically, she’d look down at her hands, which appeared to have a few recently-broken fingernails, and wouldn’t stop shaking. Apparently, she’d flown out of the raft, her head had gone underwater, and she’d bumped various parts of herself on rocks, rafts and other debris as the whitewater hurled her downriver. I’d gotten a little whack on the head with a paddle as they’d hauled her in for the river, but I was glad for that whack and ever so thankful it wasn’t me who’d gotten dunked. I felt really bad for her, but wasn’t sure how to offer comfort. It had clearly been a traumatic experience for her, and we still had several more rapids to clear.

Luckily, we made it through the rest of the “scary” rapids with no more ejections. At one point, our raft got stuck between a rock and a rapid, and no matter how hard we paddled, we went nowhere — but if we stopped paddling, we would flip. “Keep forwards! Don’t stop!” our wispy guide yelled over the rushing water. Finally, another team who was parked over on the riverbank threw us a rope, and we were able to pull ourselves out of the rapid and into the quiter water.

Generally, the rapids were exhilerating, and the quiet water pleasant. But, after getting soaked by the rapids, I was decidedly COLD. Plus, I was not amused by the other rafters’ and guides’ wont to play splash games. I kept getting smacked with facefulls of cold water that shocked my system and made it hard to see. Playing the pacifist role and not splashing back made no difference except making myself an easy target. I tried to hunch down and hide during the periodic moments of splashing, but I felt it kind of ruined what could’ve otherwise been a peaceful journey. Still, it was an overall positive experience, and I’m glad I had the courage to go!

~~~

For our last night together, Greg and I decided to splurge and went to a steakhouse. Greg got beef of some sort (which was very good) and I decided to try the cervena, or farmed deer — something that was not only on my list of things to do in NZ but that we’d seen today at the farm! It was amazingly delicious. Done medium rare, the meat was pink and melt-in-your-mouth, like-butter soft. It had a fillet-like flavor, but even richer, though not “strong” or “gamey” like we think venison might be like. Apparently, the fact that the deer is farmed and not wild accounts for its buttery texture and mild, delicious flavor. I can’t wait to see if I can find some at home!

Posted April 4th, 2007 by dina in Uncategorized, Travel, New Zealand, NZ |