BOTTOM BIT OF THE LOOP - part 1

Queenstown is the adrenaline city of New Zealand. Set on the banks of lovely Lake Wakatipu and in the shadow of the craggy and truly Remarkables mountain range, people come here to scare themselves witless doing things that involve great heights, springy rope or the sensation of falling - sometimes all three at the same time. Given my firm footing at the bottom of the daredevil scale we booked ourselves onto a 'Funyaking' Day on the Dart River in nearby Glenorchy. This small village of around 200 inhabitants is set right in the middle of world-famous Lord of the Rings country. Its remote and unspoilt river valleys, towering mountains and forests have also been used as film sets for X-Men, Willow, Narnia and a few other box office hits. First of all we were kitted out for our adventure - on top of swimming togs went a thermal top, wetsuit, thermal fleece, waterproof jacket, life jacket and stretchy rubber booties which were still cold and wet from the previous day - nice. Cameras, water bottles and other personal bits and pieces went into a bright yellow dry bag and we were away - shooting up the river in a jet boat for a 2 hour white knuckle ride. At this speed, what had been soft rain now stung our faces and it was difficult to breathe let along open my eyes! We weaved our way up the river, skimming the rocks along the bank and doing 360 degree spins, drenching the people on the sides in the process.

The jet boat dropped us off by a big heap of red rubber which turned out to be a dozen deflated 2-man kayaks which we had to blow up with pump with footgrips and a t-bar handle that made everyone look like meercats as they bobbed up and down. The task was not made easier by the cloud of flesh-munching sandflies which had descended on us two seconds flat after landing. Maori legend says that the most beautiful of places are cursed / blessed with these stinging little critters to make sure that no-one stays too long and they remain uninhabited and unspoilt. It works. A little practice paddle took us into a narrow ravine of deep clear water and sheer walls created when an earthquake split a rock many centuries ago. Lunch was served in a clearing in the bush by the riverside where we wedged fillings between doorsteps of bread so thick that we made possibly the world's thickest butties ever. Over a steaming cup of Milo (a chocolately Ovaltine) we watched the mists starting to swirl then a duststorm enveloped us giving our sandwiches a light dusting of grey grit. Lunch was over and quickly cleared away and the winds grew stronger as we climbed into our FUNyaks. Normally, and as the piccie in the brochure shows, we would have sat on the wooden bench seats across the boat but because of the conditions we had to kneel on the bottom of the boat, just leaning on the seat, legs tucked under to lower our position and make us less of a target for the wind. And so we were off on our 6km maiden voyage down the Paradise Valley ...

I can't say that I wanted to come down the river backwards and sideways but there wasn't a thing we could do as the wind caught us and spun us around despite our best efforts to stay pointing forwards and steer a straight course - the wind whistling in our ears making us shout loud to be heard, just three feet away from each other. At one mercifully shallow point we were spun again and there were a couple of seconds when we thought "will it or won't it?" It did and over we went. Marc managed to stay standing up to his knees in it with me on my back up to my neck in it with a good whack across the chops for good measure from the wooden oar as the boat came over. We clambered back in and continued our helpless and hapless course down river, the leader suggesting that we should now start thinking of lashing the boats together for increased stability. By now the wind had us scraping our way down the right bank and we spent all our time furiously trying to push off the bank and not running aground. I was like something possessed - steam coming from my ears from the sheer frustration of it all and digging my oar into the gravel so hard that I split it up the middle! I shouldn't have been worried about what they'd say about the oar though as a couple of seconds later it wasn't an issue as we capsized again, this time in deeper water and by the time Marc had lifted the boat off me and untangled my foot from a rope, the oar was long gone. I found my feet just in time to see our dry-bag containing the camera and more importantly, a bar of chocolate bobbing away from us and made a diving lunge to grab it just in time. I'd completely had it by now and we waded ashore to where the first boats had been taken out of the water, just pulling the boat behind us which still had ideas of its own. We deflated the boat (and I gave it a good kicking) and threw it back onto the trailer as we waited for the last four boats to come in. Eventually they appeared around the corner, lashed together like a huge raft, zooming down the river as fast as they'd gone up in the jetboat. With four steering and four paddling like mad they turned and shot out of the river and up the bank. All safe and sound, some wetter than others, we got back on the 4-wd bus where our guide told us that they'd never seen such strong winds in all the years they'd been running the trip! Despite the grit in our hair, ears and hair, the blisters, aching muscles and the dunkings it had been a fabulous day and I'd do it all again.

Oh yes, apparently there is a woman downstream who has a garden fence made entirely of lost oars.