With each passing day, Karamea proved more and more irresistable. What had started into a quick overnight before a long road trip had become several days of lounging and feasting. Not a bad turn of events by any means, but the time had come to begin making my way to Martinborough and the next leg of the adventure: making New Zealand Pinot Noir.
With Jens' van thoroughly out of commission, Jens, Marleis and I elected to hitchhike our way out of Karamea, but not before a final bonfire and beers on the beach, and of course a few beers in the van as well. I was going to miss these crazy Germans. Jens and Marleis had decided to head south and make for Christchurch, while my path led north to Picton and the ferry to Wellington, where I could catch a train to Martinborough. It was only about 150km as the crow flies from Karamea to Picton, but the relative isolation of Karmea left no direct route there, meaning the total trip was more like 350km. Still penniless, I planned to hitchhike the entire way (save the ferry crossing of course). I bid a fond farewell to Jens and Marleis with promises to reunite some time down the line, and caught my first ride to Westport from a young Dutch couple who were staying at the holiday park. The rain began to pick up in Westport (the west coast of New Zealand sees about as much rain as the Oregon coast, ie A LOT), but I remained hopeful that the pity of strangers would keep me dry. Just then, the clouds parted and the sun shone brilliantly across the land as a chariot piloted by two young beautiful Belgian angels smiling radiantly at me slid to a stop along the road. As I climbed aboard amid excited giggling, I ran through a mental checklist of all the available dieties whom I would be sending a small thank you note to in the very near future. But oh the folly of man! Their path was leading south to Hammer Springs, the exact opposite direction from my idiotic responsibilities, so our wonderful time together only lasted some pitiful 8km. Time and time again I have wondered exactly where this particular path that had been laid before me would have led should I followed them to some delicious clothing optional thermal spring high on a mountaintop somewhere in Middle Earth...but instead I was left standing on the road watching their tiny blue nissan dissapear in the distance. It was, quite simply, the biggest mistake I made in New Zealand.
As if to ensure plenty of time to mull over my cold, lonely decision, my next ride didn't arrive for nearly 30 minutes (which felt like 40 hours). The rain, which had briefly abated for my glimpse of divinity, returned in earnest. Finally, a car pulled past me and ground to a halt, and I was moving again. Trent, Tom and Mel were three older gay men from the US and Canada. Tom and Mel were celebrating their 20th anniversary, and Mel owned property somewhere in Nelson. They were all very friendly and invited me to spend time with them at Mel's house (which I politiely declined), and left me where the highway split towards Blenheim just after 1pm at a place called Hope River. Four hours in and I was already halfway there! Elation quickly turned to despair as an hour slowly ticked by, with only four cars passing in my direction. My rate of pickups thus far had been about one car in twenty, and Hope flowed downstream. I had all the necessary gear to spend a night in the mountains, but food was a real concern. So was the isolation.
Finally, two French girls picked me up and got me to St Arnold, saving me the prospect of a cold lonely night of warm Belgian fascination. I spent another hour there waiting (at least St Arnold had a bus stop en route to Blenheim) before getting picked up by a Kiwi marthon runner who got me all the way to Blenheim. A van full of American and French hippies and an old kiwi handyman landed me in Picton in time for dinner at the Villa, a little backpackers near the ferry. A beer and a soak in the hot tub, and I was a new man.
I caught the ferry early the next morning to Wellington, spending the two hour trip watching the tides ripping across the Cook Strait before grabbing a train and a bus to Martinborough. I met Dave, the vineyard manager of Escarpment, at the bus station and after a quick drive around Martinborough (or really a quick loop around the square at the center of town) he deposited me at my home for harvest. I was staying with Carla, a divorced mother of two who worked in the office for another winery in town and had a house situated on 7 acres of savignon blanc and pinot noir.
As it turns out the month of February had been very cold, meaning harvest was at least another 2 or 3 weeks away. Having spent all of my money travelling the previous 6 weeks however, I had little choice but find ways to amuse myself locally. On my first day, I oriented myself with Carla's kitchen, which had a very flash espresso maker. Not wanting to use such an expensive devise without instruction however, I chose instead to make myself instant coffee with the tea kettle. Putting the kettle on the gas stove, I set about making toast and jam. I began to notice a peculiar odor coming in the direction of the kettle, and turned just in time to see the kettle burst into flames. As it turns out, this particular kettle was electric, and though it was made almost entirely of metal (as to emulate an actual kettle), the bottom was in fact plastic. Thus, my first day in Martinborough was spent frantically rushing around downtown trying to find a replacement before Carla came home from work. Not the best first impression.
Now I could spend hours writing about harvest and the weeks I spent before it began, but given that I am once again in New Zealand and fresh adventures are turning up daily, I'll keep things brief. In short, I attended a cricket match and drank some champaign, visited a seal colony on the coast and ate paua (sort of a giant mussel), made 200 tons of pinot, riesling, chardonnay and savignon blanc in a barrel hall (the winery at Escarpment is yet to be built), drank a lot of beer and some really good wine, and generally worked harder than I ever have in my life.
Such is the life of a traveling winemaker :)
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