Day 74 – Endeavour Inlet to Ship Cove!
Despite my melancholia last night, I woke this morning like a child on Christmas: early and eager. By 6:30 I couldn’t stay in bed any longer, and by 6:50 I was packed and moving. There was a low fog over everything again.
I had two small saddles to cross today, but on such easy track they went by in no time. There was no-one about, and I was starting to worry whether there would be any of the boats would be bothering to go to Ship Cove, since it is the off season. Atop the second saddle I scrounged up just enough cell signal to call and book a ferry, and my phone died immediately after.
I was starting to wonder if I would see anyone at all on this my last day, but shortly past the second saddle I started passing a large clump of people, all just off the first boat of the day.
Half an hour I was at the water in Ship Cove, and asked a couple of mountain bikers to take a victory photo.
They’re doing some pathway construction at Ship Cove, and they’re taking it quite seriously. There was a barge parked up against the short, and two front-end loaders shuttling dirt off of it into the new pathways, between the restrooms and the historic monument to James Cook. They had a compactor running over the already laid dirt, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they paved the whole thing. It really wasn’t much the atmosphere for quiet reflection and celebration of a personal triumph. It was cold and noisy and the fog never did fully lift, so I was plenty glad when the next boat came along in just half an hour.
It takes costs just as much and takes almost as long to get between Ship Cove and Picton, on the same island, as to make the bigger trip between Picton and Wellington, from the South to the North Island. This seems typical of travelling, and I wonder if there’s some sort of fractal theory of travel times to be worked out here. The longer trips can be cheaper per mile on account of being more popular, and the shorter trips are more expensive per mile because fewer people share the cost.
The trip into Picton was made aboard a fast catamaran that also delivers the mail to residents of the Queen Charlotte Sound, many of whom can only be reached by boat. The service also ferries hikers’ packs from one bay to the next so they can walk with just a day pack. I spent much of the ride chatting to the captain of the mostly-empty vessel about his career piloting ferries across the Foveaux Strait down by Bluff, doing freight runs, and the occasional fishing job. He takes his work very seriously and says when he was down south, as soon as he was made manager of the ferry fleet he ripper the autopilots out of every ship. In his opinion, they made the human pilots complacent. He would often catch them in the back of the boat flirting with tourists, instead of up front watching for unexpected hazards like floating logs or small craft.
In Picton I stayed at Juggler’s Rest, a lovely small hostel I’d heard about many times before. It has a stock of props for the guests, and is run by aspiring jugglers and fire spinners. But these are really secondary – simply by naming the place, the owners made it a focal point and a great place to hang out with jugglers. I wanted to pass clubs, but soon after I arrived a thin drizzle began outside, nixing that idea. Still I practiced my Mill’s Mess with beanbags indoors, and geeked about gear to the two or three jugglers. It was a small crowd staying there but very friendly, as the hostel has a really pleasant common area that includes kitchen, dining room, and living room with fireplace. It really felt like we were staying in somebody’s large home rather than a hostel. In the single night I spent there, I made two friends with whom I hope to keep in touch. This is in contrast to most hostels, which leave me anxious to get back into the woods and away from the tedious clonepackers who only want to know where you’ve been and where you’re going.
Most unusually for a hostel, Juggler’s Rest has a bathtub. There was a sign indicating to ask the manager before using it, and I soon found out the reason was twofold: First, there was a NZD $3 fee to cover the water and heat costs (a steal!). Second, only the hot water tap worked. So the manager showed me how to pull the garden hose in through a window and use that to control the temperature. I lit some candles, put some Bjork on my iPod, brought my current novel (The Firm) and soaked until I was lightheaded.
It was a great end to a great trip.