Little stories piling up in my head, in two parts:

I. Do you know what to do in the event of an anaconda attack? I do. Do you know about Hogzilla? You're about to. One afternoon Thomas and I were passing the time by talking about crazy things, I guess, because these were the two foci of our conversation. He knew how to handle anacondas, but I didn't believe him, so we had to turn to the source of ultimate truth, google, and sure enough. There it was, written in clear steps reading something like this:
1. When you see an anaconda coming, don't run, you cannot outrun it. Lie on the ground, feet facing the approaching anaconda's head and be sure to have your knife(!) out and at the ready. Apparently you will always have a knife on your person if you are in anaconda territory.
2. Don't panic!
3. Allow the anaconda to begin swallowing you feet first.
4. But seriously, don't panic!
5. Once the anaconda has swallowed you to above your waist, stab upwards with your knife and cut off its head from the inside out.
6. Crawl out of the snake.
7. Have a great day.No joke. These are (basically) the steps. The only thing crazier might be.....HOGZILLA. (image from http://thegreatwhitehunter.files.wordpress.com/2010/01/hogzilla3.jpg, not me!) This pig actually lived and was actually killed by hunters in actually Georgia. GEORGIA. The South. My home state. Maybe we even crossed paths in the woods once upon a time. Imagine being out on a hunt and realizing that the movement you see is this pig. I mean, since Hogzilla exists, I probably believe in Sasquatch.
II. One day Dad and I paid a visit to Gilly's brother, Doug. Or Dug, rather, since that's what he has officially changed his name to. Dug lives to die, which for him is dying to live, since it is all about decomposition and the cycling of life to death to life again. He makes his living on compost. Fish compost. He lives near a seaside town and gets fish scraps delivered daily from the fish and chips shops nearby, which means that he has a sky high mound of the richest, most nutritious, most odiferous compost in the land. Gilly and her sister Billie, who Dad and I stayed with during our visit to the Bay of Islands, warned us about Dug with phrases like, "He is pretty out there," and, "A visit to Dug's would certainly be....an experience." Well, any of you who know Dad can imagine how eagerly he jumped at the opportunity to visit with a self-proclaimed hermit and compost master of the Kiwi boonies. By "self-proclaimed" I mean Dad-proclaimed. Dad called him a hermit the whole time, but no one else does. Dug was certainly full of radical rants and "interesting" life style choices, but he turned out to be such a gracious host. He immediately offered us a brew of kawakawa tea from the leaves on the tree outside, with honey from the hives outside. It was delicious. His house is built around trees with mud floors and old posts and pieces of paper covering every inch of wall space. Much like Dad's house would look if he, too, were left to his own devices for 20 years. Dug only eats what he can grow, so if it isn't growing, he's not eating, which I think is a remarkable commitment. I'm not sure how much of it is due to the fact that he is preparing for the imminent collapse of civilization on December 23, 2012, and how much is due to the fact that growing your own food is a healthy, good thing to do. My favorite part was a visit to Dug's favorite tree, an ancient puriri tree with branches the size of old trees themselves that hold up a hut he built as though they were pillars of stone. I definitely learned things from my visit to Dug's and came away grateful for his hospitality. In some ways, Dug and I are fairly similar. We both appreciate the beauty in the way our earth recycles energy, and we both see comfort in the fact that life is born again and again through death. But I wondered if in focusing so steadily on the death part of the cycle, Dug relinquishes some of his appreciation for the glorious life side of the equation. The visit reminded me how grateful I am for my own fleeting, yet rich, energetic time on the life cycle.

III. Dad keeps referring to my ipod as "those tapes." Not just "the tape," because it is clearly too many hours of music to fit on a tape, so instead it is many tapes. I made a playlist while he drove the other day and he couldn't believe how quickly I could churn out dozens of mixed tapes tailored to his musical tastes. He says I'll have to make him copies of "those tapes" when I get home. I will focus on his praise of my music selection, instead of my frustration about my dad being elderly. He also keeps pronouncing Mauri "may-or-ee" and referring to any house that a Mauri person might live in as a "village," even though they are just normal houses on a street. I think at this point he is just doing this to vex me because it can't still be happening for real.

IV. One day in logging world we'd been torn up by a few rough batches of logs, leaving our hands cut and bleeding. While we were standing there catching our breath and waiting for the chains to head back down the hill I noticed that Katy was drawing a big smiley face on her hand using her own blood. It was terrifying and badass and funny, all rolled into one.

V. Two encounters, both with giant trees: One night Dad and I were driving to our destination in the dark, but saw a little dot on our map labeled, "Giant Fig Tree." The dot was at the very tip of a small peninsula that we would otherwise drive past and we decided that it was worth the stop. We'd just be in its presence and maybe shine our headlights on it. We got to the fig and, sure enough, it was giant. This is a massive tree. And it has amazing snaky roots and strong, thick limbs perfect for climbing. Sort of like a magnolia on steroids. We pulled up the car to shine our headlights on it and see what we could see and while we were walking around it, another car pulled up, situated its headlights beside ours, and a family equipped with headlamps got out to look at the tree as well. I just couldn't believe that more than one car load of people would think it worthwhile to go see a tree, in the middle of winter, in the dark, by the lights of their headlights. It was beautiful surrounded by stars, but I've got to try to get back to it in sunlight. The other old tree was also an unplanned stop for a dot on the map, this time labeled, "2,000 year old Puriri tree." This time, we found the tree in a forest park that was a patch of old, native forest surrounded by farm land. This little patch of forest turned out to be one of the most beautiful pieces of forest I've ever seen. Think Avatar, but without the glowing and without a single thing that can hurt you. Not so much as a tick. The highlight of the forest is, in fact, a 2,000 year old Puriri tree with a huge hollow at its base that used to be a sacred burial place, and while it is still sacred, the bones have been relocated. It was amazing. Definitely makes one feel small. Dad and I were the only people there, standing in the presence of this life that has lived as a contemporary to everyone from Jesus to Shakespeare and Colombus to Cook, and now my dad and me. And it will probably outlive us all. Just as we were about to walk away, two Tui birds flitting around in the branches above us began their mating routine, letting us watch as the male danced away, unable to secure the female's affection. Tui birds sing the best song of all the birds. It makes a walk through a forest like that all the more magical. That recording hardly explains it, but it's a start. I'm so glad Dad is finally here to witness this place.

VI. We got to watch this sunset over the East Cape a few nights ago:











VII. One day at Gilly and Greg's, Dad went out on a boating adventure with Greg and Gilly and I spent the entire afternoon walking to the tip top ridge of a farm near the beach and then down a trail along those glorious west coast beaches. The farm was vivid green because rain has come back for winter. Along the way we were surprised to see a flock of peacocks, and then at the top of the hill all of the farm's horses were grazing and quickly surrounded us in hopes of treats. Standing on that hill, surrounded by beach and green grass and friendly horses felt like floating through a drugged, dream world. Couldn't possibly be real. It was dark and freezing by the time we got home, and we rushed over to Margaret's to watch the All Blacks play South Africa in rugby. Great game, they won. Watching with Margaret was awesome because you don't expect such a sweet looking 83 year old to be so into rugby, but she was feeling it. Then we went back to Gilly's for lamb stew and bedtime. I thank you God for most this amazing day!!!!!

VIII. Today dad and I were on a hike and he was looking at a big tree and said, "Could you handle that? Being a tree? Stuck in one place for the entirety of your life?" "If I were a tree, I don't think I'd see it that way," I said. "Infinite patience," he said. "That's what trees have." I thought that was lovely, infinite patience. He went on to tell me that if ever I'm in prison and know I'll be there for a long, long time, I must think of myself as a tree, at peace with being rooted in my one place. Though I wonder why he thinks I need prison advice and though I have a tendency toward wanderlust, I feel weirdly relieved to have a meditation to get me through prison, if ever I need one.

There's just no chance that I could tell all of the stories that I want to tell. There's not enough time, you'd get sick of reading, and first hand accounts are way more fun for everyone. So I'll go with a bare minimum. First and foremost, Dad is here now! He arrived on Sunday morning and I flew up to Auckland to meet him. We've been staying with Gilly and Greg, who have been the most generous hosts imaginable and Gilly has spent the last two days taking us through the highlights of Waitakere scenery. It's great to be back here, and I know that I'll have to spend a quality amount of time here before I leave. I started here and it only makes sense to finish here. Dad brought me some bags of dark chocolate reeses, one of which Tansy promptly disposed of, tin foil and all. This is the second dog-attack I've faced with imported dark chocolate reeses and you'd better believe it's not going to happen again. I can't believe I'd be so negligent of something I care about so deeply. It's fun to be around Ron again. Did I ever talk about how Ron has cancer? He found out soon after we left the last time that he has cancer of the esophagus and the doctors estimate six months more to live. He's already past three, but he just bought his sons tickets to visit him for Christmas and Ron is the epitome of determination, so I fully expect him to be around for a long while. In the meantime he is just doing his thing. Laughing, working constantly, mocking me. He bought a tractor while he was in the hospital finding out that he is sick. A brand new, hard working tractor. You can't get more Ron than that.

So I went logging. Whoa. That's one hell of a leap from Greenpeace. The thing is, it is heavily managed logging that is monitored by the Department of Forestry and harvested with the idea of renewability. We're not going all swidden over here. I think it is great for me to take part in that kind of work. The kind where liberal, idealistic Robin who loves living in world peace fantasy land has to toughen up and do things that people have to do and will keep doing. I can't pretend I don't use wood. Even when I'm not I wish was. For instance, right now I'm writing on a blog instead of on paper. But those of you have been with me since day one may remember how I feel about blogs. I hate them. I wish I was using trees right now and writing you all letters about my life. Instead I've sucked away all the "pure romance," as dad would say, and smeared my thoughts on this blog. My point is, trees are a great resource that I love using, so it's about time I took some responsibility for my resource use.

I started the job as a "poleman." We changed the spelling to "polemyn" to make it more lady-friendly, but really there is nothing about this industry that makes a point to appeal to women. This job as poleman involves unhooking chains from the trees once they are pulled up the hill and safely onto the skid site. Basically I stand near the hauler, the big machine pulling them up the hill, wait for the load to get there, get the go ahead, unhook the trees (takes an average of about 30 seconds), get out of the way, give a go ahead, and stay away until the next load gets there. That's the job. It would be wholly uneventful if I weren't working in the Marlborough Sounds. But fortunately for me I was working in the Sounds, in one of the most beautiful landscapes I can imagine, watching the sun rise and the sea wake up every single day. That kept it interesting. This picture is of the town closest to the Sounds, but doesn't at all do it justice or show the heart of the area. It's just all I have because I'd lose street cred if I brought my camera to work. Wayne (Carolyn's husband and owner of the business) and Katy (the one girl who works there) were supposed to be my safety net in my first days; however, Katy left because she was sick and Wayne hurt his foot before morning tea on my first day, so they were both out for the count. That meant meant that my first day I was taking my breaks in the tiny, dark, metal shed called "the container," sitting on oil buckets with my 8 bushmen co-workers sipping tea and talking about pig hunting. What? I'm sure they were all wondering how that American girl in the corner got there. Though they look tough, they all turned out to be so nice. The first few days a few of them sheepishly apologized for cursing in front of me and by my second week they accepted my presence without much ado.

After two days my career as poleman was cut short when Wayne announced that we were headed down the hill. I swung my boot up on a tire while he knelt down and strapped crampons on my feet, and away we went. I felt like a twisted sort of Cinderella. Modern day, working girl Cinderella getting Bushman Charming to strap the perfect spikes on her feet and lead her away down the muddy hillside. You know, this is my second experience with crampons in New Zealand? I'd never even heard of them before and now I've actually be required to wear them on more than one occasion. Before I came here if someone had asked what size crampon I wore I would have thought them very crude. Anyway. Thus began my career "breaking out." This job is the part of logging that makes it one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. It is also the part that hones super human strength. So the breaker outers work on the hillsides where trees have already been felled, hooking chains to the trees and directing the hauler to pull them up. Time is of the essence, so you do it all as fast as you possibly can, which means a lot of running straight up mountain sides. The chains come down the hill, you race to untangle them, figure out how to get them around a tree or two, race to a safe distance, and call the hauler to pull them up. You just move down the hill till the bottom, move the ropes, then walk back to the top and start the next line down. It's completely hard physically, but it is kind of fun because each time is like a little timed puzzle. It is so dangerous because if I log slips or chains or ropes break, your survival is only a matter of luck because you couldn't possibly get away from a falling log fast enough. That part makes it scary, and probably not worth it, even though I liked it and want to take on a whole season of it and see if I can get really good. It tore me up. I am covered in bruises, scrapes and cuts over muscles (or places where muscles should be) that won't stop being sore. Oh, but at the end of the day you feel so accomplished. Like you won a big race, every day.

Women don't typically have this job. It is highly unusual, which makes it all the more awesome that I was doing the job with a woman. I worked with Katy, a woman who is seriously not five feet tall and who weighs approximately as much as one of my legs. She smokes like a chimney and speaks like a sailor. On more than one occasion she was rolling a cigarette while racing down the mountain or dragging along chains. Breathing was a constant struggle for me doing that job and I've never smoked a single cigarette, so I can't understand how she does it. But she does it, and she's good at it, and she reckons that we are the only two women breaker outers in the whole of the South Island. Wayne worked with us most of the time, too, which was really nice because I got some quality time Wayne time. We took our lunch and snacks down the hill with us each day because it would take your whole break to walk all the way to the top of the hill, and I swear to you that Wayne accidentally made his instant soup in his tea thermos instead of his hot water thermos everyday. And everyday he said, "oh, I've done it again" and ate it up. Love that guy.

During the week most of the crew lives in a little cabin in the forest we work in, so I'd go home early each day and make dinner for everyone and then we would sit around talking or reading until bed time, then get up at 5:30 each morning and do it again. We don't have a TV, but I told them about those DVDs at home of fireplaces burning and so now we pretend that our real fire is a DVD that we are watching. It makes us feel more modern, less isolated. One night this conversation happened after a silent few minutes of fire-watching:
Katy: I wonder what's people are watching on TV right now.
Gavin: I think Underbelly is on right now.
Roydon: Oh, how is that show? I hear it's good.
Gavin: Don't know, never seen it.
All of us: Yeah, neither.
Silence continued.
Don't let the word "cabin" fool you into a false sense of rustic-quaint. Remember that this house is occupied by six lumberjacks, who co-habitate remarkably well with rodents and spiders of all shapes and sizes. One night early on I was horrified to wake up to find my head actually touching the pillow. It was meant to stay fully encased in my sleeping bag at all times. Then I got over myself and embraced the grime, making me a much easier, if not happier, camper.

After all of that it might sound like I didn't like that experience at all, but I actually sort of loved it. I hope I can do it more in August. It was so different from the life I generally imagine for myself, it felt sort of like I was reinventing my whole persona. Like Halloween, but real life. Real, lucky life.

On to the next adventure with Papa Fail on board. And so it goes!