I’m One Lucky A**hole or Reg & Max Walker: Genuine Kiwi Heroes
I shouldn’t be sitting in my tent now, writing this with the surf breaking in the background. If I weren’t the type of lucky a****** who s**** in his bed only to discover a gold brick beneath the sheets, then I would be on a beach about 30 kilometers away, waiting to pay a small fortune for an AA truck to pull my little red Carolla out of the hole I dug for it.
This story, like so many of mine, begins with me going off in search of a local fried delicacy, in this case fish and chips. As the day was winding down and another long drive was nearing its conclusion, I pulled off the road to consult my invaluable Lonely Planet guidebook (props to Michele for the recommendation, don’t know what I’d be doing without it) and locate a place to stop for the night. I had just come through the incredible Haast pass, which was one of the most interesting and scenic drives I’ve ever made. If most of the landscapes I’ve seen so far in NZ remind me of the barren, rolling mountains west of the Sierras in California, then this was more like the jungle-covered mountains of Kauai. As I came out of the mountains, I came to Haast Junction a bit after 6:00. With just under 2 hours of good light remaining, I was faced with the choice to either push north on motorway 6 as far as possible, or head south from the junction towards a town so small that my AA map of the south island simply has a road heading towards emptiness where Jackson Bay would be. Lonely Planet, however, told me that I would find some fresh fish and chips on the water in this tiny fishing town, at a place called the Craypot. So I turned south, determined to locate a place to camp and then, ignoring the fact that I had perfectly good food to be cooked on my camping stove, get me some fish and chips.
Not too far past the junction, perhaps 10 of the 48 kilometers to Jackson Bay, I followed a turnoff, through a postage stamp-sized community, down a narrow gravel road to a small turnaround just off th ocean that would fit my car and my tent perfectly. I’ve read quite a bit about how friendly people are on the West Coast of the South Island and that an unobtrusive, respectful backpacker can make camp just about anywhere, but I had also just heard from my Israeli hitchhiker buddy, Lior, that that was changing somewhat due to disrespectful morons, do I decided to ask the couple who were fishing at the head of the gravel road whether I would have any trouble pitching a tent there. They told me “officially you shouldn’t camp there, but it shouldn’t be a problem. Things are different on the North Island, but this is the West Coast.”
After thanking the couple, I drove off towards my fish and chips. Knowing that I would have precious little daylight to spare, I decided to also keep an eye out for potential campsites closer to te end of the road. Just before coming to my destination, I noticed a short turnoff that ran down to the beach. I made a mental note to check it out after dinner and pushed on. A few minutes later I was pulling in to Jackson Bay.
True to Lonely Planet’s word, the first thing I saw was the pier with some fishing boats bobbing at their mooring just off the pier. The town itself was TINY, with just a handful of modest fishermen’s homes, a very small fishpacking facility, and the trailer next to the pier that turned out to be the Craypot.
To say that the Craypot has character or small town charm is like saying a Phish show has some hippies: it oozes small town charm. The entire menu is written on a chalk board outside the front door and only there. The left half of the trailer as you come in the door is the kitchen, which is completely open to the rest of the trailer. The dining space has a grand total of 5 booths and can seat only 14 people. The walls are adorned with awesome photos of various Kiwifishingboats chugging through stormy waters.
It was a one-woman show when I walked in, so I had to wait for her to finish frying up am plating the food that had already been ordered before she could take my order. My fish and chips came almost as quickly as I could take a picture outside and sign the well-worn guestbook just inside the front door. The fries were ok, but the fish itself (which I believe the proprietor named as “elephant” was light, perfectly battered and as fresh as you’d expect in such a place. Well worth the $9.
I finished quickly and after thanking the owner for a delicious meal, headed to check our my new potential campsite. I drove all the way down the turnout, realized that the “beach” at the bottom was covered in large stones, and tried to turn around and drive back up to the road. Things went smoothly until the car was pointed back up towards the road; my front tires (tyres, in kiwi) lost their purchase and began digging into the sand. Pause. S***. Shift into reverse and try backing up slowly. Tires spinning, sand flying. Nothing. Forward again? Nothing. Shift into neutral and push? Ha, riiiiight. F***ing c******, m***********. “Definitely stuck here,” I thought to myself. I took my phone (useless here, no signal for 50+ kilometers) and my keys and ran up to the road, hoping to flag someone down but bracing myself for a long walk back to town.
Much to my relief, a car pulled up not 60 seconds later, with a young woman and her daughter, whom I had seen at the Craypot. I was actually somewhat surprised thy she stopped for me, a strange man, undoubtedly wild-looking with my wildman beard, especially since she had her daughter. In the States I doubt she would have, thank goodness I was on the west coast of the south island of New Zealand! She took one look at my car, said “yep, you’re really stuck in there” and offered to drive me back to Jackson Bay and help me find someone with a 4WD truck. “You really don’t want to call AA,” she told me, “they charge a lot.”
We walked in to the fish packing facility where her boyfriend works, she knew he (and his truck) had left but hoped that someone else might have a truck. Sadly, no one did. Upon telling tem my predicament, their first reaction was to look at the woman’s young daughter and tell her “see what kind of trouble stupid people get into when they do dumb things with their car.” Well, if I wasn’t already mortified, that sealed it for me.
“You know, it’s low tide, you could just wait for the water to float it for you.”
Are they being serious?
“Ummmm, how far up does the tide come?”
“Oh quite a ways. You’d best get out of there as quick as you can.”
Adequate profanity escaped me, perhaps a lifetime first. I offered them a meek thanks and, dejected, walked out front. A truck! Two brothers, Reg & Max Walker are securing their boat on a trailer behind their truck, just across the street. They agreed to come take a look at my situation.
On the way to my car, they also told me about the situation with respect to the tides, albeit with a bit less glee than the people back at the fish plant. It also came out that Reg’s wife’s cousin is from Chicago and lives on Michigan Avenue. “Beautiful city,” Reg says, “but damn cold and people there drive like maniacs”. I told Reg if they got me out of this they should come visit Chicago during the summer and I would show them a good time for a week, it’s the least I could do. But I couldn’t deny that we drive like maniacs, it’s true, especially when viewed from a culture where pretty much everyone drives the speed limit (I tend to do 110kph on the motorways here, all of which have 100 limits, and almost no one else is doing over 100, couldn’t be more different than the US where the speed limit is treated more like a suggestion than a rule).
When we got to the car, Reg and Max parked the truck up at the road and walked down with me. They helped me dig out my front tires and remove some large rocks wedged in my wheel wells and under my car. I was able to back up out of the holes my front tires had dug, and with a bit of pushing from Reg and Max, made it up off the beach, rocks and sand flying every which way! I tried to offer them some money for their assistance, but I think the very idea nearly offended them. “Just be sure to tell the Aussies about what great Kiwis you met down here,” Max said.
With the I80 incident, this makes two potentially disastrous car-related situations I’ve escapes from quickly and unscathed. If I were a more religious man, I’d have to say that someone up there is watching out for me. As it stands, it appears that I’m one lucky asshole with a couple of genuine Kiwi hero guardian angels.
