A Long Overdue Update

I can't believe it's been so long since I've written. 

The reason is simple: I’ve been busy. The last time I wrote I was ending my road trip and about to board a plane from Hamilton on the North Island to Christchurch on the South Island. The only noteworthy bit of the flight would be the security, of which there was none. It’s how I imagine flying must have been in the good old days: walk in, check your luggage, and go to the one and only gate in the “terminal.”

After reaching Christchurch I was picked up and driven back to Rakaia Island – an isolated “island” – surrounded by rivers, tributaries, and a lagoon, that is the home of four dairy farms all under one umbrella owner. The entire island is private land for the dairy farms. So what in the world was I in for?

Calf rearing. Feeding cute baby animals and watching them grow with butterflies and rainbows, right?

Wrong.

When a mammal is born, one of their first instincts is to eat. So here they are, looking for a big warm mother with teats near the ground. My job is to introduce them to their new mummy: a blue container with 2 liters of warmed milk and a pink plastic teat that will hardly emulate that of its natural mother. Sometimes this is easy. And sometimes this is my own personal hell.

If we receive the calves soon after their born, our jobs are relatively simple. The calves don’t know anything but your fingers and the blue feeder. But sometimes the calves come in hours after they’ve been born, and there is a good chance they’ve been feeding off their mothers. It’s pretty hard to convince these babies that the plastic teat is just as good.

So why are the calves taken off their mothers?

Well, think about it for a minute. A calf is born and the mother produces milk to feed it. If the calf drinks it, there’s no way it’s making it to your cereal bowl.

In short, calf rearing is one of the most grueling jobs I’ve ever worked, with long hours and physical labor. But it’s also highly rewarding, because at the end of the day I get to look at the 1200 healthy calves in the shed and in the paddocks that I’ve personally raised (with the help of my amazing teammates).

We keep the calves in a shed for the first two-three weeks of their lives, after which they are brought out to the paddocks. So when you wonder why I haven’t written for weeks, it’s because at our busiest point we had over 600 calves in our shed that we were feeding twice a day, and starting 60-80 new calves a day.  That means work from 7-7.

Beyond feeding, we’re responsible for the health of every one of those calves. It was quite the learning curve, but I’m prepared to recognize and treat navel infections, pneumonia, pink eye, neurological issues, colic, or just a sore tummy in need of electrolytes. I’ve learned how to drive tractors, to back trailers (still learning!), to ear tag, DNA test, dehorn, weigh, and inoculate calves. I continue to learn the ins and outs of the dairy business.

What I’ve appreciated the most out of this job is that I’m not a mindless drone. I’m constantly learning, problem solving, and making decisions. I’ve even been offered a leadership position with a pay raise, which were both gladly accepted. I haven’t yet accepted their offer to stick around for next season – I’ll have to check my schedule!

While work is filled with cows, home is filled with cultural exchange. What do you get when you mix an American, a Frenchie, two Uruguayans and a Brit together? Apparently, a farmhouse in New Zealand. We had a Kiwi for while (Karen, the woman I lived with on the North Island in Waipukurau), but she’s since abandoned ship (also known as returning to her family after teaching me everything I know about calf rearing).

New people, new beer; same country, great times.

------------

The above post I wrote about a month ago and never got around to posting it. I've stayed in the same place with the same job, and great things are happening. 

I had a fantastic birthday weekend, complete with my first party bus experience and too many tequila shots. It rounded out with a house party on the farm put on by my best mates here. I had three cakes, balloons, bourbon, a personalized hat, and the greatest company. 

My flatmates continue to change - the two Uruguayans have been replaced by two Irish guys. At the end of the week the French girl moves out, and who knows who will take her place. 

My calves are still my pride and joy, and they make me happy just looking at them. Then I get close and they suck on my finger, back up and bunt me as hard as they can on my legs. In those moments I try to remember I love them. 

The long and the short of it is: I'm happy. 

Rearing Calves, Taking Names

I haven't written in awhile, and I actually don't have the time to write a full post now. I do, however, have a video to show you all. See my friends and me calf rearing below! It describes the job better than I can put into words anyway.

Warning: the song includes explicit content (cussing). Also, you can't watch it on mobile devices unfortunately.

Road Trip Edition

Because of a sequence of both unfortunate and fortunate events, it turned out that for the last week of Jody's travels, I was able to take a road trip. I wanted to see a few of the North Island destinations that I had missed in my five months here, and I had limited time due to my imminent move south.

There were three accomplish-able things on that list: Cathedral Cove on the Coromandel Peninsula, Mount Maunganui, and Taranaki. Below you will see the journey, as it  happened, though I will not post this blog until it is complete:

Days 1 & 2:

First stop: Cathedral Cove.

The drive to Coromandel was uneventful, and ended with a beautiful walk down to the coast where I saw the remains of what once was a field of active volcanoes. Since that time, the water level has risen and the volcanoes have been covered, leaving beautiful structures behind.

More importantly, I discovered that not only have I been in Middle Earth, but I'm in NARNIA.

When I took a boat tour around the coast, several locations were pointed out to me that featured in Prince Caspian. GUYS. I FOUND NARNIA.

It wasn't until I left Coromandel that things started getting interesting.

The car and I are playing a fun game called "guess my speed." Here's how it works: randomly, without warning, the speedometer and the rev count will suddenly fall below zero and stop working. Turning the car off and waiting does nothing - it decides when it will work. So I've learned to be thankful for my manual transmission, in that I can listen for my speeds. If I stay in third, I won't get above 50 kilometers per hour without noticing it (that's in town). If I'm in fourth, I can count on maintaining 80 kph. And after that, I trust that the windy roads will keep my 100 kph in check in fifth gear.

And then when I get comfortable, I'll look down and suddenly they're working again! For no reason in particular. The one redeeming piece is that I've found I'm a much less aggressive driver when I don't know my speed. I just follow traffic.

Day 3

I made it to Mt Maunganui in Tauranga on the evening of day two. Still on the east coast, it's got a vast beach and what is generously named a "mount." On the morning of day three, I took a hike up the mount.

The ascent was nothing as rigorous as our climb of Mt Ngauruhoe, but it got the blood pumping for a great view. Better than the view, however, was the man I met at the summit (Facebook readers, I apologize you have seen this twice).

The man who took this picture claimed that photos should be taken at an angle, because that's what life is: it's not perfectly square. We chatted for all of five minutes, but in that time he predicted that I would "marry a man of the land," and though I could live in the city, I belonged in the countryside. I hadn't told him a thing about me besides that I was from Minnesota - nothing about living or working in DC. He told me that I had a "boisterous and outgoing personality" and that I was doing it all right. It brings a smile to my face every time I think about it, and it is for moments like those that I travel.

Days 4 & 5

One of the big driving days, I took off from the Bay of Plenty and headed southwest, back to the other coast for a trip to Taranaki. I was bound for South Taranaki, where my friend Jason had recently moved after I met him in Hawke's Bay. The good news is, my speedometer worked the whole way. The bad news is, I got lost. I texted Jason to tell him I was 80 kms away, but didn't pull into his drive until 2 hours later.

When I told him that I was going to climb Mt Egmont while he was working, he laughed, telling me that it was covered in snow.

This is very true. Down near the base the track wasn't too bad, but it didn't take long for the snow to appear.  So I couldn't climb to the summit - for that I would have needed alpine equipment. But I climbed as far as I could, which was actually not as far as I could go up, but whether or not I could get back down on the ice.

I got close enough for a satisfactory view. The clouds parted for this photo and momentary appreciation, and I turned back around.

After settling back in and showering, the most exciting part of my day occurred: an earthquake. I was sitting on the couch, and suddenly just felt really wobbly. Looking up I saw the TV swaying back and forth and felt like I had vertigo - or  was really drunk. I'm pretty sure at this point there was a running monologue:

"Is this an earthquake? I think this in an earthquake! Oh my god, I'm in an earthquake!"

It lasted all of 30 seconds and I jumped on to GeoNet, where the quake was already confirmed, with an epicenter east of Seddon on the South Island. I felt it 500 kilometers north. It was a 6.9 quake, and superficial damage was scattered across Wellington. Apparently that was one of two big quakes, while small ones and aftershocks hit south of here all weekend.

Day 6

 Woke up to discover that on a clear day, it's quite obvious you can't climb to the summit without the proper gear. I took a drive along the coast and enjoyed the view before heaving a fabulous dinner and guitar show with Celine, a woman I met months ago at a dressage show.

Days 7 & 8

Took it easy for my last day and had a casual walk on the coast before settling in for an afternoon of reading. I took advantage of being in the "Bread Capital" - Manaia - and bought ciabatta bread and scones to enjoy. Jason and I finished off our last night with beer and cider after I actually put some effort in and cooked tea for us, and I was off the next morning for Raglan.

The car and I played the "guess my speed" game for awhile, and I listened to my 3 CDs on repeat until I pulled into the drive.

Post Road Trip (Today)

This morning I drove into Auckland and picked Jody up from the airport. We've been debriefing from her 5 week journey and my 5 week farm stay. It's been great having somebody else in the house again! Additionally, she came bearing gifts from America. Excuse me while I go gorge on chocolate.

A Good Cuppa

Never underestimate the power of a good cup of coffee. Now, I know coffee drinkers everywhere have been saying this since their first cup in the 6th grade. I myself started in the 10th grade, and I'm proud to admit it's habit that comes with addiction headaches if I stop. In truth, I've given it up for lengths of time, but realized that there was absolutely no point. Coffee makes my world better.

I never quite understood how true that was until I reached New Zealand.

Certainly, I had experienced it in undergrad. During undergraduate finals, I drank enough coffee to give me horrendous stomach aches while studying for 12 hours straight in the library. The 24 hour Starbucks on the first floor was both a blessing and a curse.

I also knew that without two cups of percolated Folgers in Montana, I would quickly shrink into the fetal position. Granted, those two cups came after waking up at 4:45 AM and riding for two hours to wrangle the horses. Then we could talk about the hunting season, where the alarm went off at 3:15 AM, and then there was barely enough coffee in the world to keep me going until 8 PM that night.

Back to New Zealand, where I never anticipated that coffee would be such an issue. When I first approached a cafe I went up to the counter with confidence - all I wanted was a drip coffee. It was always a relief to be standing in line at Starbucks or Caribou and know that your order would never confuse the barista. Just a simple large coffee.

The reverse happened in NZ. I was terribly confused by the fact that a drip coffee could not be obtained. It's just not available. Anywhere. So you have to choose between a short black, long black, flat white, or latte. They all cost barely under $5.00 a piece.

Obviously that's not ideal. In a country where they only put milk in coffee, I wasn't thrilled about getting a short black (essentially an Americano), but there's an exorbitant amount of steamed milk in a flat white and latte. What's a girl to do?

I turned to the alternative, and here my real troubles started. The varieties of instant coffee were beyond my wildest imagination. Unfortunately, they all have one draw back: they taste like instant coffee. The next best thing was a french press, or plunger, and it has saved my sanity.

I went through every brand of plunger coffee available, and I played with the measurements until I finally had a satisfying cup. But what really topped it off was the accoutrements. While working potatoes one of my co-workers turned to me and asked:

"I've always wanted to ask an American this: is it true that you put cream in your coffee?"

I smiled my affirmation, cocking my head to the right and escaping to my day dream of pouring half and half into a cup of black coffee.  It sealed the deal.

I found cream in the supermarket, added some skim milk, and voila: the half and half of my dreams.

Now every morning it warms my hands, makes my heart smile, and kicks my ass into gear.

The fact that I could write an entire blog post about coffee is probably sentiment enough. So here's a bit of actual information about my life:

After drinking my coffee, I meander outside into the occasional sunshine to feed the mares and fillies. In total there are twelve horses and one pony on the property, but only the pony and the stallion live indoors. My daily activities include feeding the horses, cleaning the stables, riding or lunging the stallion, and treating the ailments that all of these animals have collected. Beyond that I play my recently purchased guitar (play is a generous word), wander through the town of Raglan, walk along the beach, and play with the puppy.

While the last few weeks have been slow, I haven't minded the quiet and the calm. In a few days time I'll be packing the car up for a mini road trip (puppy included), where I'll hit a few of the North Island destinations I have yet to see.

In August a new chapter will start, when I make my way to the South Island to work on a dairy rearing calves.

In other factual news, I'm losing my best-friend-and-travel-buddy Sara, who is bound for the States in a couple weeks time. We haven't been together for the past month or so, but knowing that she's out of the country, and out of NZ cell phone range, will be saddening. Hopefully I'll be meeting up with her again in a few months when she returns, but only time will tell.

Now then, my coffee is gone and there are some hungry horses to attend! Drink on, my caffeinated comrades!

It's a Conspiracy

It’s been a little over four months since I moved to New Zealand, and now that I’ve met countless people, I feel the need to share a rather alarming observation. Now, I admit that I didn’t come upon this on my own; Sara, my best friend and travel buddy extraordinaire, stumbled into it with me, as she does most things.

Let me bring you back to the second month of our stay, when we arrived in Waipukurau. A friend, let’s call him Tommy, was driving us around one day and we were running the gamut on topics. American politics (he was proud to know we had a Congress) led to Obama, led to George W. Bush, which inevitably led to the Iraq War until we ended up on September 11^th. I find it’s not uncommon to talk about the subject with foreigners – while devastating; it’s an important part of our history. It’s one that is so personal to Americans, and yet rather disconnected from many other people.

So far we weren’t in unfamiliar territory, until Tommy said (something along the lines of): 

“What do you think of the conspiracy theory? There was so much research done, and evidence that shows that those buildings should not have fallen down.”

Yes, we’ve all heard this before. I laughed it off, Sara shot it down, and Tommy remained convinced. Then he went on to say:

“And do you really think they landed on the moon in 1969?”

I never knew I had reason to doubt it! Really. I had never thought about it, though I suspected that I knew the answer. Tommy explained how there’s no way that flag could have been waving since there’s no air on the moon, and he took issue with the supposed footprints that they left behind. He ended by saying, “Do you really believe everything the media tells you?”

Well, no. And I don’t like to think that I do, but I do like to think that I read enough different sources that I get the best information available. So I did just that. I went home and researched the 1969 moon landing, only to verify that, yes, I do still believe that Neil Armstrong was the first man on the moon. Phew, I felt much better.

I sent Tommy my evidence – he claimed that he believed me, but I think he was just trying to placate me. In any case, I moved on with my life. Literally. Now in Raglan, different people surrounded me. 

Once again it was in a car, when a woman we’ll call Maggie told me that the moon landing did not happen.

I promise I didn’t bring it up, and I didn’t mention Tommy.

I mentioned that I had researched it, and given, you know, science, I believed that it had occurred as reported. She shrugged with an air of disbelief.

About two weeks later I get a text from Sara-best-friend-travel-buddy-extraordinaire: 

“Get me out of here. Pete doesn’t believe in 9/11 or the moon landing either.”

It’s one thing to meet a conspiracy theorist. It’s another to realize they surround you. It’s almost as if in an effort to fend off spoon-fed media, they have run in the opposite direction, to find the most absurd and outlandish. Or…

Wait, it’s almost as if they get all of their news from the National Enquirer.

So at this point, I think I need to begin a survey experiment, where I go around to the Kiwi public and ask their opinion on the moon landing. And maybe any other fact I never knew I should have doubted.

But I can’t help but think there’s something else going on here... Most Kiwis doubting important American events? Convinced that the government shammed and continues to fool Americans days after day? Every country knowing it, while Americans continue to blindly trust? …What if this has always been happening, but these Kiwis were the first to let it slip to Americans?

Sounds like a conspiracy to me.

P.S. While I researched the theories, Sara pointed me to New Zealand’s space quest, which seems to have begun and ended somewhere in the pacific.

Kiwi Rocket Scares Sheep, Reaches Space

Yes, you read that link correctly. As the article states,

“As the noise of the blastoff sent sheep running, the 18-foot rocket raced into the sky, reaching beyond […] 62 miles above the Earth’s surface, which is traditionally considered the dividing altitude between the upper atmosphere and real space.”

Good on them.

((To any and all Kiwi's in the audience, particularly those mentioned in this blog, I come in peace! But I really don't believe in these particular conspiracies.))

Caring for a Cripple

I’ve lived in Raglan for four weeks now, and life here has been anything but boring. I look forward to filling you in on the details of my stay here, but I am going to start with the tale of Rubi Red Dog.

I met Rubi on the same day that I arrived in Raglan, and as it turns out, it was the first day in her new home. Rubi was a 10 week old red heeler pup – now 14 weeks – with all of the adorable and obnoxious features that come complimentary with puppies. I was tasked to train the pup, as part of the responsibility of taking care of the farm when the owner left on a ‘round the world trip in mid-June.

The owner left on Tuesday, June 18. On Wednesday, June 19^th, Rubi Red Dog was hit by a truck.

With a crying pup in tow, I went to the vet where she had x-rays done. Remarkably, she hadn’t broken a bone. In hindsight, I wish that she had. A bone can be mended, and unfortunately this pup has radial nerve damage, a possibly permanent problem that leaves the front leg virtually dead. The good news is that there is chance of recovery, and Rubi passed the ‘deep pain’ test that indicates she still has some feeling in her paw. Nerve fibers grow at a rate of 1 millimeter per day, so if there is to be any recovery, it will take a very long time to materialize.

So on Saturday, 3 legged Rubi Red Dog came home. 

Because she has no feeling in that leg, she can’t tell that her paw is dragging on the ground and getting beat up.  She has to remain on softer surfaces to avoid tearing up that foot on the ground.

I really wasn’t sure what she would be capable of doing compared to what she had been like before, so we’ve been taking it slow. Honestly, she’s proved all my doubts wrong.

Like stairs. I knew she’d be able to get up them, but before I knew it she was barreling her way down them again. Sure, sometimes when she jumps down the step at the front door she falls flat on her face, but every time she’s getting better at it.

The vets had warned me to keep her locked up all the time to avoid doing damage to her foot, but so far she’s proved that she knows her limits. As long as I lay an old horse blanket on the ground in the stable and go about my business mucking out, she curls up and waits there, gnawing on who knows what she finds on the ground. 

Like my foot, for example

The only thing I have to be wary of is long distances. Even on the grass, it’s not so much about her lame foot, it’s about the one that’s having to compensate for the extra weight. She gets tired so much more easily, and I can imagine why! Knowing her escape capabilities are limited, I’m also cautious with her around the horses.

She’s still a happy pup, just one leg down. Hopefully in time she’ll regain the feeling into that foot, but until then, let the cripple adventures continue.

The universe is laughing at me, as if to say

“And you thought staying alone on a farm was going to be boring!”

Her right paw is always curved in like that.
She has no control of that leg and cannot extend her elbow.

(See also this week in Raglan: horse eye infections, eye drops included; horse teeth and the beautiful bruises they leave behind; and penicillin injections)

The End of the Beginning

In 24 hours I will be putting the last of my collected goods back into my big red backpack and shoving it unceremoniously into a white 1996 Holden for the last time.

72 days later, I’m leaving Waipukurau (Ypuk).

When Sara and I pulled into Ypuk on March 7^th, we never knew what was coming, but we never thought we’d stay here for 10 weeks. We also never realized what this community had to offer. The only word that can describe our journey here so far has been “lucky.”

When I say Waipukurau, I should edit that to include the surrounding areas of Takapau and Onga Onga, because let’s be honest, Friday nights wouldn’t have been anything without the Onga Pub.

The past ten weeks have been a whirlwind of adventures, and I struggle to recount everything I’ve experienced, but damn I’ve learned a lot:

·      I’ve learned the lifelong skill of driving a manual transmission car. And if I haven’t mastered exactly how to drive it, I can safely say I’ve learned how not to drive it.

·      I’ve learned how to drink and appreciate Tui beer, the NZ beer of choice. If not, I’ve learned how to open a Heineken with a lighter.

·      I’ve learned how to party in a wool shed, with farmers as the best company and dance partners.

·      I’ve learned what it means to live in a small town – where you can’t take a step without everyone knowing what you’re up to.

·      I’ve learned how to appreciate living in a small town, where the community that knows everything, can also hold you up and give you the support you never knew you were missing.

·      I’ve learned how to tell the difference between potatoes and rocks. In the meantime, I’ve learned that the people on the back of that harvester and driving that tractor have just as many important things to say as the professors I had at university.

·      I’ve learned to never underestimate the kindness of strangers, because before you know it, they’ve offered you a bed to sleep in and you stayed in it for 6 weeks.

·      I’ve learned to wake up with cows mooing outside your window. I have yet to learn how to sleep through it.

·      I’ve learned how to work through a terrible job, to be grateful when it’s over, and to celebrate the people that continue to do it day after day.

·      I’ve learned how not to fall off a horse. See: face stitches.

·      I’ve learned to soften my vowels, to “reckon,” to have a “cruisy” job, to get “on the piss,” and to drive a “ute.” (Translation: think, easy, drunk, truck)

And most importantly, I learned that while Ypuk is a small community, that’s only because New Zealand is a small country, and I can always come back. Many of the people I met here over the past few months have also made moves to different parts of the country, and they’re fooling themselves if they don’t think I’ll find them again on my travels.

Needless to say, the yellow shorts have been busy. I can’t wait for what comes next, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to miss it here.

Thanks for an amazing introduction to New Zealand – three months down, nine to go. Damn. Time moves fast.

Po-ta-toes Examined

Potato Grading, Literally.

Since working in the packhouse with placentas, I have moved on to a new form of employment: potato grading.

The best part about the job? It’s not placentas. You know that phrase, you don’t know what you have until it’s gone? In this case, I didn’t realize how bad it was until it was over.

Now I look at potatoes all day as an official potato grader. Here are some of my specimens, followed by their grades.

 Grade: B

Cute, obviously going for the emotional angle.

  Grade: B-

Points for symmetry, but I'm not really seeing much effort here.

Grade: A-

I'm really feeling the sculpture approach. Great effort.

Admit it. You were high.

 Go home potato. You're drunk.

Of course, most average out at a C - those are the ones you're seeing in the supermarket. Or most likely, as your french fries (chips) or potato chips (...chip chips...)

In reality, my job is to stand on the back of a potato harvester and watch the potatoes come by on a conveyor belt. Anything that's not a potato, i.e. rocks, weeds, dirt, the occasional pine cone, get's thrown out. Everything that is a potato goes into bins that are then loaded onto trucks.

It's pretty simple. I have zero complaints.

One of two harvesters

Sara looking for rocks! Oh boy!

Rotten po-ta-toes

Job Blues (and wound photos!)

Have you ever wondered what viscera looks like? Neither have I, but my new job has given me a great idea.

When you think about placenta, because let’s be honest, you think of it all the time, you imagine it in the magical, mysterious world of childbirth. People mention it in the medical and veterinary field, but you don’t really hear much about it in everyday conversation. That’s the way life should be. That’s the way I would have preferred life to remain.

But I’ll tell you what happened instead.

One day, a 72 year old woman slipped and fell face first into a slimy pool of sheep afterbirth. This isn’t really that unusual – we are in New Zealand, after all, which has more sheep per capita than any other place in the world. Now that’s a way to go down in the record books. Anyway, when the woman stood up and brushed herself off, she glanced into a mirror and exclaimed:

“I look 35 again!”

Well it didn’t take long for the entire country to hear about it (small islands, everyone knows everyone’s great grandparents). Soon enough the celebrities got wind of this placental power, and using the remarkable technology that we have today, spread the news to the USA, Europe, and Asia, and a new business was born.

Using the afterbirth of every form of livestock in this country, pharmaceuticals and beauty products are made to help people look younger. While it sounds relatively interesting, I assure you that it is rather disgusting.

It’s not disgusting because of the end product, but because at one point down the line, someone, somewhere, had to process that fresh placenta, right out of the animal and straight off the farm. And that someone is me.

Don’t ask me how I got the job; ask me why I took it.

“Because I didn’t know any better.”

While the start was a bit of a horror show, the job has gotten easier, if not better. I’ve gotten to know the factory pack house setting: long hours, repetitive work, heavy lifting, and constantly on your feet, not to mention mastering the art of breathing solely through my mouth. More importantly, I’ve come to respect the people that do it - those people that work full time, rather than temporary travelers looking for an extra buck.

My first job in NZ has proved to be the worst in my short career. Hopefully I don’t beat that record any time soon.

When someone offers you money, make sure you get details before signing a contract.

Now some photos to show the fun I'm having after work is done:

Wound Before

Wound After

Thank You Cookies that Sara and I ate :)

The river in Ypuk

Hilton, the guy we're staying with

Yellow shorts!

 

The Day I Hit My Face with a Fence

A lot has happened since I last wrote, and regretfully I can’t rewind and tell you everything. So I shall share the most memorable, beginning with my first, and hopefully last, visit to the Emergency Room in New Zealand.

It all began with a fantastic opportunity to ride on my first live hunt. Now remember, we’re living in a horse world, so by hunt I am referring to hounds, horses, everyone in matching jackets and jodhpurs, and a hare (not a rabbit) that runs in front, being chased. For those of you that don’t know (here’s looking at you, non-horse people), hunts are riddled with rules and traditions.

The basic premise is that the hounds (don’t you dare call them dogs) pick up a scent and follow their quarry under the direction of the Huntsman. As they go, a crowd of roughly 50-60 riders follows at their leisure, but staying in a pack. Depending on how the hunt is going, it can be galloping across the hills and fields and jumping over fences, or it can be standing still on top of the hills, waiting for the dogs to find the scent again.

So I borrowed a horse and suited up for a beautiful day in the rolling hills of New Zealand. I had ridden this horse only once before, the day immediately prior. We had taken a few harmless jumps, and I wasn’t too concerned. We saddled up that Sunday morning and mounted, ready for the hunt to start at noon.

It began with a brief greeting from the Master, and we were off. Things went wrong rather quickly.

There were two things I didn’t realize about the horse I was riding. One: it was very herd-sour, and was aggravated as soon as her pasture mate was not in sight. Two: she wasn’t very experienced.

So when we approached the fence to jump and her buddy wasn’t in front of us, she needed a lot of convincing to keep going. We were about three strides from the jump at this point and she seemed to agree that we could go over. I put my balance forward in anticipation, when suddenly she slammed on the brakes and said “NEVERMIND!”

Well I was already committed, so onto the fence I went!

I pretty much hit it with my entire left side. There’s a bruise that runs in a perfect line from the left side of my back, diagonally up across my torso. My left arm is also riddled with marks. But of course, the only thing I noticed was that there was blood pouring onto my shirt from my face.

With no mirror, I asked how it looked. I received shrugs and remarks that made it sound like it wasn’t that bad. So I got a tissue from a friend and held it to my chin, put my foot in the stirrup and went on a hunt!

I rode for about 5 hours past that. The hunt was amazing – it was beautiful, green rolling hills with a mountain range in the background. The scenery was littered with people on horseback and the sounds of hounds baying. Hunts are incredibly social. You often lose the people you came with, and instead you approach anybody that’s nearby and chat. People were incredibly kind and welcoming, and many of them concerned about the blood that I couldn’t see on my face.

I happened to be riding with the Deputy Master when a kill was made. He told me not to be alarmed, but I was going to receive something. I mentioned the traditions, and when the hare was killed the Master approached the hounds, took the hare and cut off its feet. Then he threw the hare into the air, everyone around me made yowling noises, and the hare was given to the hounds as their prize.

Then I was ushered forward as the Deputy Master shouted to the Master:

“We have an American visiting us!”

At this point I feared that perhaps they would turn the hounds on me and I should start running, but instead the Master approached me and gave me one of the hare’s feet. I tucked my trophy into my jacket pocket with a smile on my face.

We passed around our hip flasks, galloped and laughed. When we returned to the trailers everyone settled their horses in and then gathered for a potluck.

At this point I began to get concerned about my face. It was the first time I could see the wound (in a car mirror) and it didn’t look particularly pretty on the lower left side of my chin. There was quite a bit of dried blood on it, however, so I shrugged it off and grabbed a beer.

After an hour I realized I needed to clean it up. Open wound + dust +horses = needing tending to. I called Sara, and she and Hilton, the guy we’re staying with, came and picked me up.

All it took was a hot cloth to the wound:

“I think you need stitches. Second opinion? Hilton!” – Sara

Hilton walks in, takes one look at my chin, “Yup, stitches, we’re going to Hastings.”

Because I am incapable of getting hurt in convenient places at convenient times, we had to drive 45 minutes to the nearest emergency room on a Sunday night. Hilton was good to take me, and Sara was good to come along. Because who likes quiet Sunday nights?

 It was about an hour and a half before I was seen. The doctor pumped me full of local anesthetic and started cleaning. It was a good thing I went in. It was a 2 cm puncture wound, full of green paint. He scrubbed it clean and put three stitches on my left side under my jaw.

And you know what the best part was? It was 100% free.

It’s called ACC – Accident Compensation Corporation, and it’s the insurance that pays for most accident related injuries. It’s paid for through a tax on petrol, diesel, and employers and employees pay a small percentage as well. While I understand it for citizens, I was pleasantly surprised that I was covered.

Three stitches, a tetanus shot, a hare’s foot, a beautiful day in the rolling hills of New Zealand, and a few pretty bruises and photos, and my weekend was complete.

Oh, and pizza. We had pizza for tea.

It’s called tea, not dinner, mind you.

Trust Me

“I don’t know you, but I trust you.”

This is the Kiwi motto, though they never say it out loud. It’s basically the prefix to every sentence when you meet a native in New Zealand.

For example:

“I don’t know you, but I trust you to stay in my home alone, care for my eight horses, dogs, kittens, drive my car around, and ride any one of my three riding horses.”

“Oh, and I know I picked you up about 7 minutes ago, but you’re also welcome to stay at my home for the next two weeks after we get back.”

Mind you, she didn’t say that first part about only knowing us for 7 minutes.

This was the most recent occurrence, and for the past week Sara and I have been staying at the Fraser’s farm in Waipukurau, NZ. It was set up by the woman whose house we were staying in previously, who had these friends that needed help during the biggest horse show in New Zealand, and one of the biggest sporting events in the southern hemisphere – the Horse of the Year.

Sara and I felt like we had landed in heaven and we had no idea how we had gotten here or why we deserved it. It’s a beautiful farm that in addition to fourteen horses is a full-time dairy farm. The two girls are show jumpers and their horses are gorgeous.

With our car we were free to drive to Horse of the Year at any time during the week, which we were given free week passes to by the Fraser’s. 

Yeah, it’s been a rough week.

Horse of the Year was incredible and by and large the biggest horse event I’ve ever been to. My favorite was the Mounted Games. The teams were New Zealand, Australia, USA, France, England, Wales, and Switzerland. NZ came out with the championship, and it made me determined to learn how to run alongside Vera and mount mid-stride in an insane leap.

She might be a little bigger than the games ponies, but a girl can dream.

The show ended yesterday, bringing the family and show horses home. We cleaned out the trailer (or float as they say here) and spent the last couple hours wiping and conditioning the tack.

We’ll be here for the next two weeks working for our room and board. It’s been incredibly nice to settle down and chill with a Kiwi family.

The show also gave us a great opportunity to network. Being a foreigner, I’ve noticed how hard you have to advocate for yourself to get anywhere. I thought I was missing out on the resume and cover letter nightmare that my friends endured post-grad, but I just moved it onto a different playing field.

I’m forced to approach strangers and convince them that I’m worth hiring. While I was looking for one of the biggest names in dressage in NZ, I met a Canadian who has been here for ten years. I couldn’t find a way to reach this dressage rider, and the Canadian empowered me.

“Go find the Grand Prix Stables. Stand outside her stall until she shows up. You’re a stranger in a foreign country, you have to be pushy!”

So yes, stalking is now on the list of “willing to do to get a job.”

And I did find her. And she was a great resource. Hopefully I’ll hook up with her in a month or so, and we left each other promising to stay in touch.

Just like every other Kiwi, she looked at me with a welcoming smile.

The number of homes I have been invited to stay in since I arrived here is more than I’ve been offered in my lifetime. I can’t wait to take them all up on their offers.

Kiwis, I don’t know you either, but I trust you, too.

From Hobbiton to Mordor, to the depths of the Earth

Just a couple of things have happened in the last two weeks.

We went to Hobbiton and checked out the view from Bag End. The hobbits were a little shy about photographs, but they let us hang out in their hobbit hole.

The Party Tree, the Green Dragon (pub) and the Mill.

Sara, Antony and me as hobbitses.

Then we drove south to Rotorua, an area known for active geysers and hot springs.

Geyser Lady Knox, Wai-O-Tapu

After two glorious nights in a hostel in Rotorua, we continued our journey south along Lake Taupo and set up our tents in the Kaimanawa Forest, a very short drive from the Tongariro National Forest.

New Zealand has several Great Walks in the country, known to be some of the most beautiful walks in the world. One such walk is the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, a trek that takes you across the Nat'l Forest between several active volcanoes. The views are stunning, from fields of volcanic rock to misty mountain sides.

Also noteworthy is the presence of Mt Ngauruhoe, more commonly known as Mount Doom. It is where several of the scenes were filmed where Frodo and Sam were climbing Mt Doom in Return of the King. I don't think I heard one single person refer to it as Ngauruhoe - we all had our priorities.

When we departed on the trail at 7 am (we had to arrive by 6 am to guarantee a parking spot at the trail head) we said that we would hike until the turn off, then decide whether or not to attempt to summit the mountain.

As my companions will attest, I was always determined to climb to the top. Who walks by Mt Doom, says, "Oh, that's pretty" and doesn't hike up it? Where is the respect?

After 2.5 hours of walking on the beautiful, mostly uphill trail to the base of the mountain, we had a decision to make.

3 hours later, we were on top of Mt Doom.


It was a great climb - the hardest part for me was in the loose rocks. Given that it's a volcano, the steep sides of the mountain are covered in scree, which is loose volcanic rock. Volcanic rock is incredibly light and easy to move around, so once you're sliding on the sandy sides, it can be hard to get very far very fast.

Towards the top it got much easier because it was basically rock climbing. Sturdy hand and foot holds made the ascent much faster and soon enough we were looking out across Mordor. That is, if Mordor was a gorgeous New Zealand scenery of mountains and emerald lakes.

Mt Ngauruhoe - the night before at our campsite.

The ring is getting heavier! (No, Sara's not a huge geek. That's a ring she always wears on her neck).

The incline.

The top!

The selfie descent.

3 hours up, 30 minutes down. The best way down was to skate your way down the steeper sides and let the rock slides take you down.

And then? Then we slept on the ground, and started our next adventure that took us 100 meters underground when we went caving in Waitomo. The pictures can't even begin to explain it, but unless we have a conversation I can't express how amazing it was.

A 100 meter repel, leaping from boulder to boulder, feeding giant eels, free climbing up water falls, canon-balling into pools and laying on your back in the dark, looking at the thousands of glowing specks on the ceiling as the glow worms attract flies to their webs. After a 7 kilometer hike underground, all I wanted to do was start over again.

And all of that? That was 5 days ago. I'll update you on the last 5 days soon. But for now, all you need to know is that life is good. Sara and I are on our own now. We're about to enjoy some sushi in Wellington, then we're off to see The Hobbit in the theater where LOTR had its world premiere. Tomorrow we hop on the bus to Waipukurau to start our farm stay. I can't wait!