Behind the scenes at Women’s Health

I emerged from the myriad of tunnels that form Old Street underground station and picked up a message from my good chum Laura K. She was in the coffee shop next door to the location for today’s shoot. I still had plenty of time to spare, so I tracked her down and we got to natterin’. We gassed, chitty-chatted, chinwagged, talked the hind legs of many donkeys, before suddenly realising that the 30 minutes to spare had now reduced to just 2 minutes before we were due in the studio. Panic. We dashed outside, desperate to find the venue, which was apparently ‘just next door’.

MISSION IMPOSSIBLE: FIND THE STUDIO

Alas, it seemed that finding the entrance to the studio was like finding the Ministry of Magic. Somewhere, in the gaps between these tall, ancient buildings and old industrial works was an entrance. But where, oh where in the world, was anyone’s guess. Just as I was beginning to wonder if perhaps we should retreat to the phone box across the street and go in underground Harry-Potter style, I spotted a glimmer of hope. Two ‘model’ types were hanging out on the steps of what we thought could potentially, possibly, definitely-maybe be the entrance. Continue reading

It’s not you, It’s me. And it’s over.

Better late than never for a final blog post, I’d say. Although it feels like I’ve been back in the UK for a lifetime, it’s only actually been 7 weeks. How quickly life slips back into ‘normality’ (whatever that means).

I often liken finishing an adventure to a break up. And so, now that the Te Araroa and I have said our last awkward goodbyes, handed back one another’s CD’s collection and taken up residence on opposite sides of the globe – I feel like perhaps we, I, New Zealand need some kind of closure.  Continue reading

Mind games in the final month

Jees Louise, I am tired. And it occurred to me that in my barefoot running, sunset snapping, unicorn pant wearing daily shares – that might not necessarily come across. So I thought I owed you all a little shot glass full of honesty.

The reality of entering the final month of a 6 month journey is…messy. My mind is a tangled web of thoughts, feelings and emotions – enough to give my hormonal 15 year old self run for her money. The only difference being that I can’t trudge up the stairs in my Airwalks, play Skunk Anasie at full volume and cry into my pillow.

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Whangariro: From Whanganui to Tongariro

If Carlsberg made rivers, they would make the Whanganui. It really is everything a river should be: Wet, winding, steep-banked, gorge-framed, tree-lined, tumbling and with a flow that can change from gentle stream to raging torrent on the flip of a dime. But I know, you know (that we know) rivers are about so much more than physicality. A World class river needs to offer the full package. It needs personality too. And let it be known – the Whanganui’s got swagger.

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North of the strait: Wellington to Whanganui

I’m in big trouble. I mean, like serious, knee-deep doggy doo doo. My problem? People.

I arrived in Wellington 10 days behind original schedule. No biggy, I thought, and reasoned that I’d make up time in the North Island. The terrain here is more suited to a runner after all. There are large sections along roads, and more frequent places to resupply, meaning a lighter pack and bigger daily mileage.

But all too often, Mr Reason and Mrs Reality decide to go their separate ways. Two
weeks in and it’s blindingly obvious that I was a fool was to think progress here would be faster. Continue reading

Hard Yakka: Nelson Lakes and The Richmond Ranges

In the days leading up to heading over Waiau pass, I consulted the map. Uh oh – a dotted line. Dashed lines are good, dotted lines – not so much. They mean ‘a route’ rather than a trail. As in, you can go this way, many do, but be prepared to place your heart firmly in your mouth to negotiate it.

Waiau Pass is a route for experienced trampers and mountain leaders only”. Dear mother above.

The night before taking on the pass, I stayed at the site of Caroline bivvy. The department of conservation do a pretty got job of maintaining huts, but some get rather neglected. Caroline’s reputation had preceded her. Cesspit, hell hole, mouse factory – were among the words used to describe it by Southbounders. “That thing needs burning down” one tramper had gone so far as to say. Another had reported that it was “an actual sh*t hole” Continue reading

Huts and the highway to hell

It’s nearing the end of a very long day. The trail has twisted and turned for almost 20 miles now, plunging through bush, down to creek beds and dragging me back up to open tussocky tops. I stop to catch my breath, throw off the pack and flop, lifeless, at the side of the trail. I pull out the GPS, a rare treat and something I only sanction every hour or two. There it is, a small black square less than 1km from my current flop point. Princhester Hut. I haven’t even clapped eyes on it, and yet and I’m already deeply in love.

Princhester is one of 900 backcountry huts throughout New Zealand. Owned and operated by the department of conservation (DOC), they range from teeny weeny 1 or 2 person bivvys to the biggest (or so I’ve heard) 80 bunk hut in the Coromandel. I’m dedicating a whole wodge of words to these huts because they have been by far the greatest surprise
addition to the journey so far.

Continue reading

Hey there, big rivers: The Rangitata to the Rakaia

It was 9am and I was, much like the white rabbit, running late. I was caught up having a WWE style wrestling showdown with some waist high tussock. It’d just about pinned me to the ground, and I was on the third count when… I heard a whistle. I broke free from the tussle and looked upwards at the scree slope ahead of me.

There, silhouetted against a bright blue sky and every so slightly obscured by whisps of encroaching cloud, were the outline of two human beans. “Hi Kevin!!!” I shouted at the top of My lungs. “…I’ll, err, be there in a minute…” Which seemed like an obvious continuation, but something I should mention, just to be polite.

Continue reading

Loose on the lakes: Hawea to Tekapo

I was sat in the cafe/general store/local gathering place in lake Hawea village, watching it rain. It’d been raining for hours. ‘One more coffee, then I’ll go.’ Well, I was 4 coffees deep now, and getting a little wired. Then it occurred to me – this rain was pretty much a metaphor for life. What if it never stopped? What if there was bright sunshine and rainbows (and unicorns) on the other side of the hill? I was never going to find that out by sitting inside now, was I? So I quickly purchased a can of man-up, downed the lot and headed off in a general vertical direction up Breast Hill track.

Above the clouds on Breast Hill track

Above the clouds on Breast Hill track

10km later, the rain relented and I heard voices at the crest. “Annaaaaaaa, hey Annaaaaaaa….” I stopped and looked around, I couldn’t see anyone. A few steps further on, and I heard it again. “It’s the runner, it’s the runner...” Was this it? Had I finally gone loopy? Had I slipped off the ridgeline and these were in fact spirits from the beyond? Then, in a Stars In Your Eyes style smokey reveal the clouds parted and two figures appeared from the mist. Tonight Matthew, I’d be sharing a hut with Whio Warriors Finny and Fi. And boy was I pleased to see them. Although I’d only spent one night in their company in the Motatapu’s, somehow on the Te Araroa, friendships are magnified. Once inside Pakatuki hut I found American boys Andrew and Peter (also of Motatapu fame) there too. Little did I know that these four would form the basis of tight-knit ‘trail gang’ for the next 10 days.

The sunshine after the rain, above lake Hawea

The sunshine after the rain, above lake Hawea

The following morning was like an episode of Top Gear. The sure but steady Team Hammond (Fiona and Finny) left at 8am. The slightly reckless high-octane seeking Team Clarkson (Peter and Andrew) departed at 9am, taking a higher route along a ridgeline. And myself, the sensible but always a little late James May, left at 10am to chase down the pack. I caught thrill-seekers Peter and Andrew at lunchtime, with the added bonus of running into Coach Ron again (who was busy writing signs to direct trail users to the nearest water source, naturally).

By mid-afternoon I’d caught early risers Finny & Fi just as they’d stopped to have a chat with southbounder Jory, who was walking the trail barefoot. Jory had made his own packs from leaves and vine, and foraged or hunted for as much food as he could along the way. As someone who gets flummoxed hunting for supernoodles in their backpack, I found it all rather impressive. He’d even accessorised with a vine headband, which performed the dual task of keeping his Beckham esc locks from his face, and filling me with style envy.  

Midway through the 'great race' to Top Timaru hut

Midway through the ‘great race’ to Top Timaru hut

WAITING OUT THE STORM

It was 6pm when I arrived at Top Timaru hut to find Kirsteen Collins nestled quietly in 6 person

Kirsteen - a woman on a mission (photo courtesy of Finny)

Kirsteen – a woman on a mission (photo courtesy of Finny)

bunk. Kirsteen, also a southbounder, or a ‘SOBO’, is somewhat of a trail celebrity. She’s renowned for keeping an incredibly detailed blog, militant in her preparation, and approaches each day with admirable gusto. She’s the kind of lady who’d sawn the handle off of her toothbrush and then drilled holes in what remained of the stub, just to shave off a few extra grams. Kirsteen seemed to be enjoying the peace and quiet, and I hated to burst her bubble of serenity: “There’s a mobile hut party heading this way.” I warned her. “Prepare yourself!”.

A few hours later Finny and Fi arrived, followed by the San Fran lads, and finally Coach Ron, who concluded his hike by doing a victory lap of the rock out the front. That night Ron picked up the guitar again for a round of country tunes and poetry. We sang along in our bunks, chatting, eating, laughing and discussing tomorrow’s impending weather warning. Rain they said, snow they said, gusts of up to 120mph they said. And they weren’t wrong – the next day was a write off.

A younger me would have been frustrated with such a hold up. This is a run, after all, and that was not a day I’d be doing any running. But older me has grown accustomed to enjoying however the adventure unfolds, and so I embraced a day of enforced rest. If I’m honest my legs were just about the wrong side of screwed anyway, the left calf especially, and so I drifted in and out of sleep all day. Come the evening, the only pain I was pushing through was in my left arm – I’d been holding my Kindle up for too long and it had gone numb.

Coach Ron after the hut party

Coach Ron after the hut party

LAKE OHAU LODGE

Following a days battle through tussock and pokey-plants (gawd knows I hate pokies – see the video), it was a relief to make the shore of Lake Ohau, and Lake Ohau Lodge. Owners Mike and Louise were Friends of friends,  and they treated me like a princess.

I woke on the first morning of my stay, enveloped in crisp linen and marshmallowy soft pillows, looking out through floor-to-ceiling sliding doors at Mount Cook in the distance.

The lodge has a rich and turbulent history. In the years preceding Mike and Louise’s ownership, it, along with the attached ski field, had been to the brink of closure and back again. Now it was booming. A hive of activity as mountain bikers, hikers and passing tourists stopped in. Lunch, a beer, an overnight rest – the story was always the same: “Oh we love it here, we’ve been coming for years.”

With lodge owners, Mike and Louise

With lodge owners, Mike and Louise

There’s a real charm about the place, which is just beautiful. Dinner time is an old-school affair, where the general format is to sit at tables with people you’ve never met before and to… talk. Imagine that. In my nights there I had the pleasure of meeting a British couple with a holiday home in Martinborough – he was a retired ear, nose and throat surgeon, she was a mother who’d set up a business selling wood burners in later life and rediscovered her joy de vivre. Then there was the Australian lady who was writing a book about the 10 years she’d spent as an aerobics instructor in Hong Kong (judging by her stories of the city fitness class scene, I’ll be buying the book). Then there was Karl and his young son, Kyan – who’d come to the lodge for a spot of business and to go fishing together – isn’t that lovely? And everyone else, well everyone else seemed to be from the East coast town of Timaru, although I’m yet to work out why.

TO TWIZEL

After a day of rest my legs and feet had swollen to walrus size, something that I’ve learnt is the norm on days when I don’t run. Setting off for the 35km to Twizel was like trying to make headway with sausages for limbs – possibly Cumberland, but I can’t be sure. Whatever the variety, my pegs were in revolt. Especially the left calf which I’d been pushing through a decent amount of pain for the past week. The going was slow, and the infamous Central Otago heat started to become unbearble.

4kms from town I had a wee bit of a meltdown. I’d run clean out of gas. Every step felt like lead and my mouth tasted as if someone had placed a block of Brie on my tongue and left it there to ferment. My gums stuck to my teeth and my throat rasped. I decided that pushing on in the heat was getting me nowhere fast, and so found a small tree at the side of the road. I curled up in a ball and lay in its shade for 40 minutes. Just until I felt human enough to move, and to make the final few kilometres into town.

THE DARK SKY RESERVE

After a bound from Twizel and along the shores of Lake Pukaki, I decided I’d go all out for a marathon day to get me to Lake Tekapo. I’ll agree it’s a strange life when you get into your tent after running all day, and think – “Yes, yes, let’s go for a marathon tomorrow.” I was only carrying one day’s worth of food so the pack was relatively light at 10kgs. I say relatively. It’s all relative of course when everything is graded from “Mother Hubbard that’s heavy.” to “Mary and Joseph, that’s a bit lighter. ”

Everything went according to plan and after 44km I stumbled out of some woods and onto the edge of the campground. And who is the first person I see? Finny. Trail-gang Magic truly is everywhere.

Lake Pukaki - not a bad place to run a marathon

Lake Pukaki – not a bad place to run a marathon

The following morning I was downing my coffee, when I got a call from Graeme Murray. Graeme was a friend of Mike and Lousie from the lodge, and as well as being the owner and founder of the Mount John Observatory, pretty much runs the town of Tekapo.

Staring at the sun through a solar telescope on Mt John

Staring at the sun through a solar telescope on Mt John

Say Anna, why don’t you come over for tea? It’s Chinese New Year and so the observatory tours are pretty booked up with tourists, but we’ll work something out.”

And work something out we did. The next 24 hours were a whirlwind. I ended up de-camping to stay with Graeme, who took me on a tour of the mountain, for lunch then for pizza and beer, before chasing down a tour bus at midnight to squeeze me on a stargazing tour.

 

A NATIONAL PARK IN THE SKY

Over the course of my time with Graeme I got to understand the monumental amount of work that had gone into making the observatory the world class site it is today. I learned that Lake Tekapo is the second best place in the world (behind Chile) to observe the night sky. Thanks to the strict light pollution laws within and around the town, the Milky Way is just about visible all year round. The Mackenzie area is already officially a dark sky reserve, and there’s now a campaign under way to make it the worlds first UNESCO heritage site. I’d never really thought about having a heritage site in the sky before, but of course the skies are as important as the ground. They contain even more of our history, after all.

Mt John and the mega telescopes

Mt John and the mega telescopes

For the star tour itself, I was expecting a Disneyland kind of experience. To be greeted by cheery attendants, music (perhaps a dash of David Bowie) and to be bundled from place to place in militant fashion. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The guides are in fact accomplished astronomers. Individuals who are in the process of studying nighttime wonders and simply want to share their knowledge with a wider audience. They come armed with (super awesome) green lasers, which they point up at the sky as if it were a giant projector screen, to show you where the constellations are. And, because they are bona fide research students – you can ask them pretty much anything and they’ll know the answer. Wonderful.

Between midnight and 2am I looked at Jupiter up close. I watched a moon-rise, learnt how to navigate using the southern cross, stared down a telescope at a globular cluster of 2 million stars, was shown not one, but two distant galaxies and learnt about good old Orion and his hunting belt. By far my favourite constellation was the ‘jewel box’ cluster. A group of stars which were visibly Green, Blue or Red, according to the different levels of heat they generated. Who knew that stars were more than one colour? A-mezzin.

Well. That’s me for now. I’ll leave you all you starlets where you belong, hanging out up there, and come back to collect you for story time next week.

Enjoy the weekend, maybe go for a little run, or something…?

Big high five,

McNuff out xxx

The pictures are up on Flickr here.

Help me use this run to send some youngsters on adventures of their very own here

Camped on the shores of Lake Tekapo

Camped on the shores of Lake Tekapo

From bush to bustle, and back again

I’ll confess, by the time I made Queenstown I was a bit of a state. I hit the first section hard and, in a bid to catch a friend before she left town, I went without a break for 11 days. My legs were cut and bruised, I had an aggressive rash covering both cheeks of my toosh (don’t dunk in a sheep sh*te infested stagnet pool to get under a fence), my right knee was complaining more than usual and I had a funny muscle bobbly bulge thing protruding from my left hip.

When I rounded the bend at Walter Peak station, I’d run out of food and been camping in bushes for the past few days. Having not seen anyone bar a few passing cycle tourists, my thoughts mostly consisted of “Oh my gosh, I’m, like, soooooooo out in the wilderness” and “I’m frickin Bear Grylls“. The bubble of hardcore-ness was swiftly burst by a sea of tourists who greeted me just a few minutes down the road. Backpacks on fronts, sunhats and oversized Nikon cameras snap snap snapping away – it was like wandering out of Adventureland at DisneyWorld and straight onto Main Street. There was a gift shop, a restaurant, heck I could even go on a farm tour if I wanted. Back in your box Bear Grylls, back in your box.

Anna McNuff

THE EARNSLAW

As I padded the last few steps towards the waters edge, the Earnslaw loomed into view: A 102 year old steam boat which ferries tourists across Lake Wakatipu. The only remaining one of its kind the Southern Hemisphere, it’s somewhat a point of pride for Queenstown. And quite rightly so. In fact, I’m hereby renaming it a ‘steam beaut.’

I hurried into the shop and threw a magnum in the general direction of

Disembarking The Earnslaw: spot the runner

Disembarking The Earnslaw: spot the runner

my mouth whilst simultaneously requesting a boat ticket from the baffled girl behind the counter. She looked me up and down, at my grubby legs and sun sprinkled face, then past me to the outside: “Where’s your bicycle?” She asked. “No, no, no bike.” I said, mint and chocolate spilling from my chops and just missing the counter. “I ran here.”

At last aboard, I sat grubby and stinking on a wooden pew and joined tourists who were belting out a rendition of Auld Lang Syne around a piano at the bow of the boat. Somewhere between ‘When will I see you again’ and ‘Tie a Yellow ribbon’, I inhaled an assortment of foodstuffs from the on-board cafe. To the point where I felt a little sick and couldn’t actually eat anything else. Most impressive.

QUEENSTOWN

For someone who gets as high as a kite while keeping two feet firmly on the ground, I wasn’t entirely convinced that Queenstown was going to be my ‘thang’. How would I cope with such an explosion of activity? In my mind, I’d be dodging adrenaline junkies falling from the sky, ducking those swinging between bridges and side-stepping the ones at the bottom of their bungy, before they returned skyward from the ledge whence they came. In reality, I found it to be quieter than expected. I quickly adjusted to the backdrop of parasailors and shark-shaped jet boats in the harbour, and enjoyed the European style waterfront – most agreeable for the lady with legs in need of a little down time.

I spent a couple of days hanging out in cafes, eating ice cream (important for protein intake) and drinking coffee before retreating to stay at Kelvin heights, just across the lake. And man can that lake sparkle. If diamonds are a girls best friend then lake Wakatipu is my new BFF. Set against the backdrop of the Remarkable Mountains (which I kept calling the ‘The Incredibles’, whatevs) there’s something about Queenstown and its surround that just beggars belief. People shouldn’t get to live somewhere so wildly dramatic, but they do. And I’m just a wee bit jealous.

 

Queenstown - just redunkulous

Queenstown – just redunkulous

At Kelvin heights I hung out with Barbara, Anne and Joe. Barbara an ex-helicopter control operator (including for Lord Of The Rings filming) now assistant to the local MP taught me about politics, adventure racing and how Queenstown had grown from a population of 3,000 when she first moved there to the bustling 20,000 of today. Retired couple Anne and Joe, who split their time between a home in Idaho, fed me up on French toast, chatted about golf, and taught me how to play a badass game of Rummikub. I never won, but apparently I’ve got ‘potential’.

THERE’S GOLD IN THEM HILLS

Leaving Queenstown, it was a short jog down the road to historic Arrowtown. In May of 1861 Jack Tewa, aka Hatini Whini, aka Anthony Whiti, aka Maori Jack (seriously, how many names does one guy need?) found gold on the banks of the Arrow river. Word spread fast and by 1863 more than 600,000 ounces of gold had been mined in the area. Thousands made the arduous journey from China and came to the river to seek their fortune. The hours were long and workers often went weeks without pay, but they toiled on, with a dream to make between $100 and $200 NZ dollars – enough to buy a small farm back home in China and live a prosperous life. Sadly many never made the return journey, and when the gold ‘ran out’ those who remained ended up isolated, poor and lonely. Visiting what’s left of the small village where they lived, I couldn’t help but admire their boldness – to leave everything they knew and go in search of a better life.

My Arrowtown crew - Toby 'the cheetah' with the wicked blond hair.

My Arrowtown crew – Toby ‘the cheetah’ with the wicked blond hair.

Local hosts Raewyn, Toby and Jack escorted me as far as the first bridge out of Arrowtown – Toby, aged 5, doing a stellar job at highlighting my ‘steady pace’ by summoning the speed of a cheetah up the initial run. Dusty and wide enough for a horse and cart, the old road to the now deserted hamlet of Macetown rumbles on up the valley, curving and winding above the Grey gorges of the river far below. After a solid hour of listening to Guns and Roses (which I deemed an appropriate musical selection for such a dramatic backdrop) I stopped to check the next section of trail instructions. It read: “Turn left and walk up the river” – only in New Zealand.

THE MOTATAPU’S

Don’t tell the other mountains, but The Motatapu’s are my favourite so far. They sprawl across the landscape like giant sleeping tarantulas. Green bodies and hairy tussock covered legs forming sharp ridgelines and deep basins.

The giant sleeping Motatapu Tarantulas

The giant sleeping Motatapu Tarantulas

Weaving its way between the arachnids, along the valley floor, is a nice, sensible, wide trail – alas this is only opened once a year for a 4×4 race. The Te Araroa follows another, more ‘undulating’ route. A route that is a ball buster (if I had balls that is). Often no wider than a sheep track, it contours round the side of mountains at an angle which (if moving at speed) requires that you to hang to tufts long grass to prevent an ungrateful slide off the edge. Dozens of tiny streams punctuate the path, creating a miniature roller coaster effect as you dip in and out of them. I often found myself above the cloud line gasping for breath before plunging back down into a tightly packed basin. From each basin I’d look up and around and think – ‘how I’m the name of Maori Jack do I get out of here?”. The contours of the land never had an obvious answer, but I could bet my (sheep rash covered) bottom dollar that it’d be straight up that tasty steep ridgeline just in front of me .

Eating Percy Pigs up in the clouds of the Motatapu's

Eating Percy Pigs up in the clouds of the Motatapu’s

Way up there in he Motatapu’s it got hot. I mean, really hot. It wasn’t until I made Wanaka that I found out that that Mercury had hit 37 degrees. And that was in town, so goodness knows what it was in the hills. All I know is that the cheese and chocolate in my pack turned to smush. Who needs a temperature gauge when you can judge heat by smushed or not smushed? On the second night, upon making Rose Hut and meeting now long time trail friends Fiona and Finny, I gathered up my molten bars of Whitakers and headed for the steam. “I’m taking my chocolate for a bath” I announced. There’s something oddly satisfying about getting butt naked in a cold stream, your chocolate bars pinned under rocks next to you, and having a good ole scrub. Ten minutes later, I emerged with a clean body and fully formed, if slightly deformed chocolate bars. Everyone was a winner (except the stream).

WING TIME IN WANAKA

Post Motatpu coaster I rolled into Wanaka – to stay for just a day or so, or so I thought. Three days later I was still there and the town had well and truly cast its spell on me.

I’m not entirely sure what happened on the second afternoon of my visit, but one minute I was sat on the sofa eating an avocado and chicken sandwich, and an hour later I was at the airfield, preparing to go up in a 1940’s Tiger Moth with Classic Flights.

I asked the pilot Peter what the best thing about his job was, and his answer took me aback: “We all take flying for granted these days…” He started. “We get upset when our baggage is delayed, or if you end up in a middle seat… You know there was a time when flying was a real adventure. And the people who flew were pioneers. We’re just trying to show people what that felt like.” How apt for a journey like mine, I thought. One which relies so heavily on the appreciating the simple things in life. That afternoon, my effort to reinstill a sense of wonder for things that have become so familiar, collided directly with his. How ruddy marvellous. The guy was a total dude. And so I was very happy to be in his capable hands for a journey into the clouds.

Heading up in a Tiger Moth with Classic Flights

Heading up in a Tiger Moth with Classic Flights

Suited up in full 1940’s flight suit gear: goggles and a (surprisingly warm) leather jacket, we took the the skies. The first few minutes were filled with the usual thoughts of someone with an over-active imagination, but then I became too distracted by what I saw to feel anything other than sheer joy. The Wanaka landscape from the air is truly spectacular. Parcels of green and brown land, dipped neatly in and surrounded by Blue lake waters. Aqua and green rivers flowing in from the East, vineyards on the hillside, and an assortment of oddly shaped mountains and landforms, scattered out to the horizon. Peter the pilot could have left me up there for all I cared, I was transfixed.

Okay Anna, are you ready for a loop-the-loop?” Came the voice in my ears. I flicked up the

The face of  Tiger Moth Joy

The face of Tiger Moth Joy

intercom. “Yes sir!” I squealed. Thinking no sir in reality, but in for a penny… “You’ll get about 2.5gs on you, just look straight ahead and you’ll be fine.” And off we went. It was the most beautifully surreal experience. The force pinned me gently but helplessly to the seat, and there was nothing to do but to surrender to it. Looking ahead as instructed I listened to the whir of the propellers increase and felt the nose of the plane start to rise. I watched the world turn upside down, sky turned to land and back to sky once, twice – then we were level again. “You alright there Anna, how was that?” I composed myself for a second, thinking of a well constructed and dignified reply to the profound experience I’d just had. But all that left my mouth was “OH MY GAAAWWWDDD THAT WAS AMAAAAAAZING!!!”. Nailed it.

Well campers, I’m going to halt it there for now. My story sack is still bulging with tales (yes I have a story sack), but I’ll save those for next week.

The pictures are up on Flickr here. I warn you many are incredibly beautiful and may result in you running away from home. Approach with caution.

Big love and a high five,
Anna xx

Help me use this wee run to send disadvantaged kiddywinks on adventures. Spondoolies (big or small) gratefully received here

Trail friends and trampers at Rose Hut, Motatapu's

Trail friends and trampers at Rose Hut, Motatapu’s