10 Weekenders

Rituals often form un-intended. What starts as a one off, becomes a “second-off”, by third time surely, it’s a ritual. This ritual, an annual catch up in March in the Central Plateau (mid North Island) with my university friends who drive from Wellington, myself and one other from Auckland. Both parties leave work a little bit earlier on an agreed Friday and drive three-four hours. As far as a weekend away goes, the length of drive is about right. Anything longer feels like it is creeping into the realms of a need for a day off. Like un-intended rituals, with time form unwritten rules, of which one is no days off work (yet) and a destination equidistant for both parties. The weekend formula; an adventure on the Saturday that helps us to press the pause button on life and enjoy mother nature and each other’s company; a leisurely departure time on Sunday for a suitable afternoon arrival time home to turn the pause button off.

Our first weekend get together was the outcome of a COVID restriction that meant the planned Milford walk was best deferred – plan B, the Ohakune Old Coach Trail (15km mountain bike over a pathway once used by horse-drawn carriage). The second get together, National Park and New Zealand’s reputed best day walk, the Tongariro Crossing. Year three, my turn to arrange, and I ponder a rafting trip. Google quickly returns the option of a grade three raft on Tongariro River, with an option for the grade two family raft. I hesitate on grade three, sure the last rafting I did was grade two and that felt enough. There is an unexplained part of me in that moment that wants to push boundaries, explore zones beyond comfort. I message Anneke, from the South crew, who has had a terrifying experience on a grade five in Africa. I wonder if she will like the idea of a raft, let alone a grade three. She too must have had a moment of ‘let’s be crazy’ and grade three it is. Grade three is unlikely to result in an unexpected dip in the water. Unlikely. Not guaranteed. Nevertheless, adventure sorted. Dates sorted.

The “Raft March” Whatsapp Group is formed. The remaining logistics are sorted over the coming months, including the Airbnb booked in Tauranga-Taupo at the southern end of New Zealand’s largest lake.

And the months pass and the weekend is upon us. Jessica and I set off loosely on time. Not quite time for the pause button to go on, Jessica works feverishly beside me while I drive. First stop, dinner in Hamilton at Jessica’s mums. On arrival, Sue proudly declares she hasn’t been drinking for some weeks and is feeling great. Somehow on departure she shoves what is left of our shared bottle of rose in my hand “You can finish it in the car” she says with a laugh. And I think I just might, it feels like party time now. By the time we are in the car my middle-age sensibility kicks in, and the bottle remains untouched (for 24 hours). I’m not sure whether to grieve what my twenty something year old would have done or relish in the good decisions that comes with experience.

It’s dark by the time we arrive. Anneke and Simon have arrived not long before. The Airbnb perfect for what we need. A large corner couch becomes the focal point for relaxation and conversation. By bedtime, the quaint Airbnb announces one fault with my single bed having a very squeaky base. I try hard not to move and disturb Jessica in bed beside me.

Morning welcomes us with lovely sunshine and reveals a large lawn cascading down to a river. Trees are scattered across the lawn perhaps even self-sewn in their haphazard placement. A cute but questionably safe outdoor fire stands. The setting looks beautiful for the planned evening BBQ.

As we make the short drive south to Turangi and our base for the adventure, Anneke declares she described the weekend to colleagues as a midlife crisis. I hadn’t thought of rafting as such but admit I am a little nervous, including the daunting fear of finding a wet suit to fit.

The wetsuit does prove to be strenuous. The fit not the issue, the putting on the challenge. This becomes a workout in itself, even more challenging than pulling 80 deniers over humid thighs after a hot shower.  Once we are all kitted up, Jessica thinks I’m looking trim. I better be! This is way beyond Spanx.

As we wait for our first safety briefing, I decide to buy a rafting t-shirt. Rose wants me to refresh my wardrobe, t-shirt collection included. Post purchase, one of the staff jokes I should wait to see if I enjoy it, “Or survive” I quip. I’m re-assured more than once if you listen to the guide you will be fine.

The safety briefing commences with our guide Stefan. He’s wearing Candy Man board shorts, later revealing he has a matching t-shirt but someone suggested to him that the combo perhaps doesn’t say “I’m a serious guy that will keep you safe.” Spoiler: He is a great fun guy that makes you feel safe the whole way. Listening to the guide a very good tip.

On the short drive in the van, we are joined by the four paddlers and guide that will be in the second raft. The guide in the other raft is joined by two friends from their Oamaru school days. The other two rafters a mother and daughter on holiday from French Polynesia. We chat with the guides, both having done the uni thing, outdoor education became the next step, finding themselves rafting for several summers now, including the Buller River, and various other adventures in the winter. This winter both are off to work ski fields in the South Island. I can’t help but think what a fun way to live the younger years and perhaps a lost opportunity. My internal dialogue oscillates between envy and regret, through to rationalising the ability to do these weekends and have a mortgage is because of the sensible life I’ve lived.

On arrival, we help lift the raft down to the river. The setting is absolutely New Zealand. The waters are crystal clear, the banks of the river clad in native tree after native tree, the kahikatea the most prevalent. The river weaves and bends with its gentle looking rapids as far as the eye can see. Simon and I find ourselves in the front of the raft, Anneke and Jessica behind. As we set off, Stefan gives more instructions. How to use the paddle, what this instruction means and that. He asks if we know our left from our right. Simon and I look across at each other. Educated people we may be, but the simplicity of knowing left from right under pressure can be daunting. I learn I am right, not difficult to remember that mantra in a time of pressure. I think most of these instructions surely, we won’t need, this is just safety stuff. Turns out we use all of them.

Stefan explains this is a technical river because it’s shallow and requires a lot of navigation. Over the 14kms there are 60 rapids, apparently not many rivers deliver up so many rapids in such a distance. My one rafting experience I remember there being a lot of ‘down time’ between rapids just gliding with no effort whatsoever.

As we set off, the first three rapids are gentle. I learn quickly to trust the raft and the guide. He is constantly calling instructions. All I need to do is remember “I am right.” I also learn quickly, the raft going sideways doesn’t matter. I find myself yahooing in delight as we dip into what looks like a washing machine white wash, because the bouncing out of it is fun. And the water splashing the face feels like I am some sort of pro. The fourth rapid, called Rapid Four, Stefan explains is the most technical of the day. He coaches us pre-rapid of the various instructions we will receive through each part of the little waterfall. And off we go, nerves a little heightened and we nail it. Fun. So Fun. We celebrate with a paddle high five. The rapids come and be conquered. The Cheese Grater deliberately spits us off into the rocky bank at the end, all explained in advance by Stefan and we bounce back safely. Post Macgyver’s Mistake Stefan declares he should have given more instructions but decided we are a competent, chilled bunch. By now, we are in constant chatter and whooping in delight. On repeat we comment on the beauty of the scenery and the clarity of the water. We experience our first of a few sightings of the rare New Zealand blue duck (Whio). It’s small and more elegant than the common mallard. We bounce and cheer our way through the umpteen more rapids, there’s Another Raft in the Wall, the Trifecta, Double Barrell and less creative names like Pylon. At one point Stefan asks, “Do you want to hit helicopter rock?” Of course we do, and so we smash into the rock mid rapid and helicopter out, twirling around a few times. At no time does this feel like we will take an unexpected drink. The only drinking is straight from the river, cupped in hands to quench the thirst.

Soon the call comes, “left side” and Simon jumps across. I spend that rapid in giggles as Simon sits on my knee the whole rapid. Bit far Simon, bit far.

About three quarters down Stefan says we are at Prisoner’s Pool, the spot for a swim. We all take the plunge, gently floating on our backs beneath the peaceful blue sky and warm sun. It’s a brief reprieve from the rapids, our turbo Spanx keeping us suitably warm. Re-entry into the raft is anything but graceful, the laughter making it more difficult to straighten up with my body folded at the hip like a pair of closed plyers between the raft seats. My feet and arms in the air, I somehow maneuver myself back onto the seat, to my mother’s words singing “style and grace all over the place.” Right, with a couple of deep breaths, I am focused again. It’s not long before Stefan asks, “Do you want to do some donuts?”

What’s a midlife crisis trip without doing raft burn outs? And so we head into the last rapid and told to paddle hard as Stefan expertly uses his paddle as a rudder, we bounce and spin our way down the long rapid. And with those shrieks of delight, we sadly reach the end. The rafts are hoisted back on the trailer, a group photo taken and we head back to base a little over two hours from when we arrived.

The Tongariro River is certainly no slouch. There are no long periods of just gliding by without any effort. This is action packed, fun rafting. When I worked for a high-end tourism business, one of the operators we used rated our rivers as New Zealand’s best-selling point. Today, I couldn’t agree more, lucky I bought the t-shirt!

Over lunch, all four of us comment that we can’t believe we haven’t heard of the Tongariro River rafting experience before. This is one of the best morning activities we have done. I’m not an extreme adventure tourist. Sky dives, bungees, no thanks. Grade three rafting. Yes please. Just the right level of adrenalin and sense of adventure without pushing too far beyond the realms of comfort zone.

We all enjoy a relaxed afternoon relishing the ‘pause’ button still being firmly on. After chilling in the sun at home on the deck, Jessica visits nearby relatives, while Anneke, Simon and I enjoy the delightful Tongariro River Trail. We regroup for the evening BBQ, savouring the last of the longer autumn evenings. Jessica sets to making dessert with the freshly picked apples from one of the trees in the garden. Simon proves his prowess as a custard maker. With a bowl of apple and feijoa crumble and custard, and glass of wine, we nestle back into the large corner couch for evening conversations.  

As per the un-written rules, we set off at a leisurely pace on Sunday morning. Jessica and I manage a coffee lake side, basking in the hot Autumn sun, courtesy of her cousins, this the last delay tactic in accepting reality is coming. Feeling rested we set off north, the Wellingtonians making good time for a school commitment late afternoon. As the drive creeps closer to home and taking the pause button off, you can’t help but be thankful for friendships and creating memories like these. Thank goodness for the Central Plateau and the annual March ritual.