Sweet As, Out In The Wop Wops

I Bet I Was a Lousy Submarine Captain in a Former Life

OK so lots has transpired in the past few weeks.

Bill, comrade, and travelling companion has returned home to be with his family after the death of his grandmother last week. This is an obvious drag, compounded by how much time we have left on our visas and how much more we had hoped to do. His return is uncertain at best and not terribly likely, and of course everyone we've befriended here misses him all ready.

Now the Lighter Side
Also on the list weeks chore list is a couple days work on the motorcycle. Just Thursday afternoon I went for a ride up the stunning Rees river valley. Wide glacial carved valleys with braided stream beds and running up toward jagged glacial ice fall, and serrated ridge lines. Confidence high. Cocky, but cautious after coming off the bike a week prior. As I was putting one soggy boot in front of the other , something in the deep ether reminded me of National Lampoons Vacation and the Grisswald Family Truckster mangled in the desert. Chevy Chase's voice echoing in my head.

Russ: Wow Dad we must have gone like fifty yards!
Clark: Nothing to be proud of Russ.
[Russ exits]
Clark: ...fifty yards.

While the KLR hadn't flown through the air I was 50 yards down stream of where the bike and I first entered the Reese river. Having all ready crossed it once successfully I was confident that that I could navigate a second section in continuing my quest up the valley in the early afternoon. On the first crossing I went perpendicular to the stream in a direct line. This got a bit dicey as the current pushed me off course a bit, but while disconcerting I knew that I could counter act it next time. The channel depth was about hub high on the bike, about half way up my shins, but wide, the river perhaps sixty feet.

Upon the second crossing which was only minutes after the first I lined up an even wider section of river in order to shallow the depth but also take the crossing at an angle with the current. With the bike in first, revs as high as I could take them with out blasting into the river and splashing too much water into the grill I crept. Three quarters of the way across I hit the channel, and the bottom dropped out, only another 4 inches and with the engine sputtering I got all but the rear wheel out of the main push and I can practically reach the shore but I need to parallel the shore to exit. The bike sputters and dies. My momentum gone I'm leaned downstream holding the bike at an angle, my downstream leg holding us up. A minute or two passes and the strength of the current is to much. I can not restart then engine and gun it out because the rear will likely slip and drop the running engine into the water sucking water into the engine which it will try to compress with disastrous results.My strength gone, and unable to dismount and push, I'm resigned to setting the bike down in the water, where the current takes hold and leisurely carries the bike down stream. I dance around it, mind racing; "Don't get trapped by the bike." "Don't try to lift it against the current."

After a few minutes the bike has been spun with the help of the current and pinned against a large smooth rock just bellow the surface. I pivot the bike on the rock and work to haul the bike up parallel to the current and facing upstream. I am spent now. I have bike up and I'm in the middle of the river. No way to start it, no way to turn it. I must back it down stream angling toward the bank I came from. This takes ages, I'm weak from the struggle of the last ten minutes and I move slow and steady to the bank, water swirling around my boots and over the knees of my riding pants. Out of the water and I push the bike well up the shore out of reach of a possible storm surge in the water level. Draining the muffler results in a liter of water or more. There is no drying this bike out. I quickly strip out of my ridding gear, now steaming hot. I'm soaked from the waist down and so I ring everything out and shed the insulated pants I'm wearing. Back into the boots, ridding pants and a t shirt I collect everything I can carry in my Camel Back; my fleece pants and top, a juice box, my leatherman, a wee flashlight, baseball cap, sunglasses and my ipod. Yes my pore ipod carelessly left in the tank bag, submerged as long as the bike, scorecard reading BIG ADVENTURE 2 - ELECTRONIC LUXURIES 0. Beginning to think about how long it's gonna take to hike out of here. Can't be more than three hours to highway, five or six hours all the way to town. Most likely will run into other trail users, plenty of water, and we're away.

I walk an hour and a half before meeting a German man driving a sedan down this "Remote Backcountry Road/ Deep Fords Common". I hope it's a rental, but I don't bother to ask, he would hardly understand, and he's only going to make it another couple of minutes in a car. In his broken smiling English he explains that he's going to go ahead and take pictures then in a couple hours turn around and if I'm still walking he'll pick me up. I guess he's still bitter we won.

10 minutes pass and I'm approached by a Dept of Conservation Truck. Sweet Salvation! "Sorry mate, no can do...got explosives in the truck, can't pick anyone up. ... some one will be along shortly you should be fine." GET FUCKED BUDDY. Fortunately he was right and around the corner a small wagon has turned around at the first sign of water and is heading back to town. I dine on a hasty lunch with the wagon's inhabitants Nathan and Vanessa. Nate is off for a walk, Vanessa back toward town. I get back to Glenorchy after a half hours drive and wait to hitch back to queenstown.

The world suddenly shrinks. I get picked up in Queenstown by a couple of Bostonians, Geoff and Shalagh (Shayla). We talk for about a half hour on the long drive back to town and eventually we get around to the fact that Geoff once worked for Labatt Blue. Funny because I used to play hockey for the Labatt Blue Tailgators, who got the jerseys from a Labatts marketing exec on the way out. Geoff instantly knows I play for the same team as Frank Urban, as he got the jerseys for Frank. Back in town the three of us sit in the dying sun and drink beers at Monty's.

The following day I mount a rescue mission with my friend Woody's truck, Tim's Trailer, and Woody's roommates Rod, Claire and Gen for tactical support and videography. We drive to the bike having left the trailer at a washed out section of road and I pilot the bike under the power of the truck and two straps. A successful recovery mission. The bike is scheduled for the shop to be drained and dried but recent events make that somewhat challenging.

posted by Dusty Calfee @ 8:30 PM