Ngā Panonitanga - The Changes Part II….

Robb on Maropea river. Photo by Pete.

My last post encompassed the first three days of a seven-day sojourn to the Ruahine. A quite different sort of trip as the emerging issues with my hips caused a re-think to my approach and coinciding with a period in my own life where I needed to be in the Ruahine. Thus, the decision was made to fly in, and out, by helicopter, leaving us free to do far less encumbered day walks and enjoy the ambiance of the mountains without worrying about my hips. I carried on in great pain and discomfort carrying heavy packs towards far off destinations in the Ruahine for two years prior to my first hip replacement. It made for very unpleasant travel and a steep price to pay for being in the Ruahine. I paid it. In full.

The great realization that revealed itself to me during those seven days was that it was an exceptionally wise choice to make. I had not considered how much my then dimmed sense of Wairua, Spirit, could have been a real problem had long days of travel with a specific destination to attain would be a real problem. My hip was one thing, my spirit very much another. A blogging friend very in tune with these things once wrote to me, “that being in any wilderness for extended periods requires of us to have all our ducks in a row.” I have never forgotten that. And I realized very quickly on this trip that my ducks were certainly not in a row. Or, perhaps in a row enough for me to recognize that beforehand in a subliminal way and decide to chopper in for what I thought were other reasons.

Pete has put a post on his wonderful place, “pohanginapete” addressing our trip and I think offers a very in tune, yet different, perspective of those seven days. His photographs of the Whio we encountered alone are worth a visit. The link is here: https://pohanginapete.blogspot.com/2026/08/watching-and-learning-in-land-of-whio.html

Ngā Panonitanga - The Changes Part II….

12-8-26

7:00am

Hut porch – Maropea Forks

Our fourth day here in the Ruahine at Maropea Forks comes alive as the greyish veil of dawn lifts over the valley. A miromiro flits about already busy with his rounds and seeming to admonish me to get busy. I respect his message and tone but intend to first enjoy my coffee and a few moments on the porch.

The sun shines in patches as it works its way above the mountains high above, but it remains very cold and I am dressed accordingly.

Heeding the message of the miromiro our plan is to wander upriver towards Top Maropea. A good test for my hip after a climb and descent yesterday, which sitting here now feels okay. Though that quiet persistent voice whispers in my ear the truth of it all.

 Late Afternoon…

The post lunch afternoon wee nap has quickly become an accepted and useful part of my daily routine. Lulled to sleep with the window open and the river rolling by and letting myself drift into the warmth of my down sleeping bag for a fitful rest. Now reviving myself with a rich cup of afternoon sweet tea on the porch.

We did walk upriver on the southern branch of the Maropea intending to get at least above the waterfall. However, shortly after leaving the forks and heading up the southern branch we encountered the pair of whio who followed us beyond the turnoff to Wakeling’s and the large slip falling into the river. There they seemed to agree to settle into a long feeding session and were not at all concerned about our presence. Pete had brought along his professional mode camera gear and tripod and set up to photograph and film them.

 Including our last experience late last year on the Makaroro river on another hut day walk on the river, I have never had as much time just observing the whio and their patterns and behaviour. This pair in unison would feed at an obvious hot spot by diving down and lifting their feathery bottoms in the air while munching away on their fill of the aquatic invertebrates they relish.

I had crept to the river’s edge on the opposite side where Pete was observing and when they had their fill they just ambled along the river in their graceful dance with the water and passed within a metre or so of me. It was delightful!

We decided to let the whio have the southern branch of the river and not disturb them anymore and instead walk on the western branch of the river flowing out of the forks towards Otukota hut.

This is the branch of the river Taylor had spent on his lost night in the Ruahine fifteen years ago and so one that always invokes a slightly haunting feeling that lingers and flows with the river itself. One I can never quite catch up with. As if trying to grab a wisp of smoke from the wood stove. In a way it adds to the allure as it is a lovely stretch of river with elegant bends and deep green pools of clear chilly water then released into fast flowing riffles and runs. It is a place to linger and enjoy despite the ghosts that lurk for me there.

An hour or so up that branch I saw Pete suddenly assume a very stealth posture and motion me to take a wide berth as I approached the upcoming bend. There was a small channel with a pool of clear water against a cliff face away from the main river.

There Pete had spotted another pair of whio resting at the base of the cliff rising from the river. They blended in so well against the greywacke rock that had someone with less whio awareness than Pete been wandering down river the whio would have remained unseen.

Once again Pete dug out his gear and observed the pair from a direct straight on angle while I crept around to the pools edge where the two whio each sat on a ledge above the river. Both with their bills tucked into the wing feathers for warmth.

The male appeared more aware and focused on the presence of Pete in front of them. Every now and then he would look up and give Pete the once over, sing out, check on his mate, and then tuck his bill back into his feathers. The female would then glance up, check to see her partner was calm and then resume her position. They did this in such unison and comfort, so much a part of the environment I found the movements they made ballet like. It was quite moving for me to watch. Such a moment of peace and harmony on a river that had once invoked such angst within me. I thought of Tara and how I wished I could share what I was feeling with her then. To be the whio.

The pair of whio above Maropea Forks. The male peering towards Pete. Photo by Pete.

Whio feeding on Maropea. Photo by Pete

13 August

Morning

The pair of whio sing in the river just outside the hut. Their calls, joining the sound of the river, and patter of rain on the tin roof. It has been raining most of the night and resumed as the whio arrived in the grey dawn. A hut day may lie in store though the day’s potential has yet to reveal itself as to how and what will unfold.

I take in the sounds and sights before me and deep breath of the crisp, slightly musky mountain air. I exhale and remind myself, again, of what I can control and what I cannot.

Thoughts of the many visits and times I have spent here come to mind. There are no questions the sands in the hourglass of my presence are flowing near the conclusion . I can, of course, like this trip, helicopter in. Which brings issues of its own as well. Financial, and more deeply my own comfort with the practical and personal values attached. The danger of becoming one of “those” people.

It all fits well. The changes and reflections upon my own life outside of here and how that directly ties to what I feel here. The wholeness of self. It writes quite easily on the page from my pen, but I swallow a bit writing it as to do so truthfully means some challenging work ahead. Getting those ducks all in a row.

Afternoon:

In the late morning, the rain finally stopped, and we decided to once again walk up to the waterfall. And almost immediately encountered the whio once again. They allowed us to get even closer today and eventually we bypassed them and left them to it as we went upriver to the waterfall.

The waterfall has been altered forever when in the series of cyclones earlier this decade, the whole cliff face it ran off collapsed leaving exposed bedrock with a ten metre plus high pile of rubble that obliterated the idyllic pool beneath it. The same pool where John Nash caught up to Jeff Kjos and I, and where the presence of these huge friends in my life met for the first time. I just observed them together. The same  pool I have swam in with both my sons, the same pool that mark the final 30 minutes to Maropea Forks and the relief stepping onto the porch comes into fruition. Gone.

Yet even here the river works to free itself and the waterfall starts to take on a new lustre and quality. Beautiful in a more unique way than before. Healing and emerging from such trauma in a new form. The lessons and significance to my own self apparent. I will never see what this wonderful waterfall will look like in another thirty years. All just a mere blink of an eye for the Ruahine.

That does not invoke sadness for me, this place has gifted me far too much. Courage when I felt fear, filled my heart when I was full of doubt. I have listened to the laughter of friends, felt tears I have shed upon my cheeks, this has been truly the one place of balance in my life. A much needed one. And it will always be with me.

I was very surprised to peruse the hut book and find it has been nearly two years since I have sat on this porch. It feels as if it has only been a few deep breaths or beat of my heart. I close my eyes wherever I am and feel part of this place. It lives within me.

Female whio after feeding. Photo by Pete.

 

The waterfall August 2026

 

The Waterfall July 2005

Jeff Kjos and John Nash meeting for the first time. 1 January 2010

13 August - Evening

The charms of this hut really come to fruition in the evening. When the wood stove door is open and emitting the cherry red glow from within. A quiet piece of wood fed upon the embers now and again to feed the warmth. The soft light of the candles adding an ambiance and accentuating the shadows of our presence here. 

Pete sits at the table by the door writing his own thoughts, as I sit on my bunk contemplating mine. A full Ruahine day to ponder and reflect upon. Which, of course, finds my thoughts drifting to other matters that swirl about me. Particularly my mokopuna, Noah, and the overwhelming love we feel for him mixed with the helplessness and anger at the Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy that he is inflected with. Sitting here now I feel the need to share this place with him. Not with words but with his own physical presence. Meaning a helicopter in and out. With my two sons. More ducks to have in a row outside of here. I can allow myself, this evening, the grace of both feeling the pain of it all and the contentment of addressing so much in my life these past months. I feel like the waterfall. Still flowing, still trying to find a new path and reveal new beauty. 

I stare out at the fire and wrestle with these thoughts. I can't get too far ahead of myself. Instead I see the camp oven full of Hopple Popple and hear it upon the wood stove simmering gently. Dinner is ready.

Evening in the hut. Camp oven with hopple popple simmering  away.

 

Pete on overlook on way up to Puketaramea

Pete setting up tripod  below slip on river

14 August 7:10 am

Our final full day of this week slowly emerges out of the mist. An occasional patch of blue sky appears above as the clouds roll over. The brisk cold remains.

What do I seek to find in this final day here at Maropea Forks? Perhaps I write that question more for what I seek inside my own heart than what I gaze upon from this porch. To live each moment with integrity, honesty and the truth of my presence here. To be here fully and focused on all around me as if it were the last time I gaze upon any of it ever again.

The reality, of course, is that it is much harder for me to do than write. Already thoughts of outside drift in slowly. Some of those thoughts make me smile. Some do not.

Afternoon:

The smoke once again wisps up from the chimney absorbed by the misty rain in an evanescing dance.

It wasn’t until well after we had walked up river a few hours and just as we returned the the clouds bunched up and the rain came.

We stopped just before the start of the tight gorge that leads onto Otukota. It is where Taylor finally realized he had made a mistake and turned around. Only to be caught out by the darkness. And thus began both our lonely nights in the Ruahine.

I felt no need to enter it and even felt a slight coldness and chill run through me. I had come far enough. On a summers day with the sun shining it would be a fun adventure, in the winter cold, as Taylor had found out, it has a more menacing allure. An allure I felt little inclination to explore on this day.

Pete and I had discussed earlier in the morning climbing up to Point 1450. I tried to be keen and work some excitement, but reflecting on my own feeling that twinge in my hips and thinking of the climb back down, I had to admit to myself, and Pete, it was a bridge too far for me this day. The honesty of that decision felt like I had lived up to my own stated goal on this day. A very small victory.

  

Pool below Maropea Forks. In summer a lovely swimming hole.

My thoughts drift with the river and mist

The clarity of her pools

The mysterious rich depth of the green tinged waters

Lies beyond my grasp

Pondering questions I have left too long

In another place

Where the waters run slow and murky

Only because I have made them so

As the late afternoon begins the fade to night

It truly may be a moment of lasts

The river rolls past on the way to the sea

Raindrops and my tears

Fall as one

 

Saturday 15 August

7:00am

The days dawns grey and misty rain falls steadily. The river has come up over night and no longer runs gin clear but rather murky and with more intent than the peaceful flow we have enjoyed this week.

We have just returned from a stroll down the the river's bend where the whio meander on the bank out of the muddied flow. It was to be our farewell most likely but I think we may see them again.

I have severe doubts that Leon or Owen will be able to fly in to collect us as per our arranged time at noon. The weather will prevent it.

Normally an extra day here would not bother or impact my feelings at all, and indeed, I would welcome such a development. We have plenty of food, firewood, and a safe dry place to shelter. Yet I feel pangs of anxiety roll through me dominated by thoughts of my own whare. Which runs contrary to what I normally try to practice here in the Ruahine. Staying in the moment, controlling only what I can.

These last few months have been a time of very personal reflections and actioning of this pursuit of integrity, truth, and all areas of my life. The anxiety I feel comes from wanting to return to see what I will find upon my return. Yet the brutal truth of it is that the only real measure of that is within myself already. I can only "fix" myself. All else flows from there. Much like the headwaters of a mountain river being born high up in the Ruahine, meandering and seeking the way to the river and sea beyond. I too flow on.

Epilogue: As our scheduled pick up time neared we busied ourselves on the porch talking of what to have for dinner that evening and accepting the fact of an extra night at Maropea Forks. Our gear was packed, the hut cleaned, and wood piles stacked. Yet uncertainty remained.

And then suddenly we hear the unmistakable thump of a helicopter flying up the river and then landing outside the hut. Owen, the pilot, seemed unperturbed by any of the rain and cloud and we were soon loaded up and off. We flew directly up the river and fairly tight and low, then Owen lifted up over the final hills and were back on the Rangitikei plains. In less than half and hour back at the base and our car. Quite a morning.

I have returned home to our whare from Ruahine wanders countless times over the past 30 years. Yet none compare to the feeling of warmth, gladness, and contentment to walk through the door as on this return. Tara's sparkling blue eyes said it all.

"Mā te kimi ka kite, mā te kite ka mōhio, mā te mōhio ka mārama."

“Through seeking comes discovery, through discovery comes knowledge, through knowledge comes enlightenment.”

Pete and Robb. Evening in Maropea Forks hut.

Ngā Panonitanga - The Changes

 

9 August 2026

Maropea Forks

Robb and Pete

Late afternoon

 

It seems I have only blinked my eyes a few times since I was last here set upon the porch of the hut at Maropea Forks. Yet the truth is that it has been over two years that I have gazed out upon this lovely view.

The river flows by joined by the melodic sound of Pete slowly and methodically sawing logs. A task that will be much needed over the next seven days.

As always there is much changed in both river and self. Were this the first time my feet were here I would simply bask in the scene and river’s song. But after so many visits over thirty years the changes in both place and me are quite evident. Even the river’s song, though soothing and peaceful now, has changed during the periods when the anger within has risen and altered the scene forever. Again, much like my own self.

The little waterfall, a constant presence in my time, now buried in shingle and rock it now flows as a mere trickle of a stream joining the river. Yet working relentlessly quiet to uncover or reveal its former glory. At least I know it was there. The large grassy flat I so often roamed or camped upon now just a built-up rocky ledge the river flows beneath.

I look down towards the bend in the river where just beyond lies the forks of the two branches of the Maropea. A bend I have walked around countless times, a bend my son, lost overnight further down river, stagged around to be reunited with me, a bend where I have shared smiles with Pete and John knowing the day’s work is done and the cozy confines of this hut and place await. Today misty rain dots the view. Joined by the misty joy emitted from eyes just writing those words. We are here again.

We arrived by helicopter several hours ago. Once Leon, our pilot, lifted back off and within seconds was out of sight, everything just settled back in around us very quickly. The awa, ngahere, and surrounding nga maunga seeming to remember and accept our presence as quickly as the echo of the helicopter faded. At least it felt like that was so.

I feel no guilt or remorse in that. Perhaps some regret in that my hips are growing increasingly troublesome and needs to be addressed. But that is all.

Over the last thirty years, since my feet first carried my eyes to this place, this hallowed ground, they have done so repeated times.

My feet have earned their place on this porch.

10 August

7:30am

Hut porch

I enjoy my second strong coffee of the day and feel myself being absorbed into the aura of my surroundings. I can imagine so many others who feel what I feel here, many whom I now know, doing the same.  As if this place is somehow unique, special, and even slightly secret to us in a way that offers solitude, yet that truth is shared with many others. The echoes are all around me. In this moment it is mine to relish.

Pete woke me in the still emerging morning light just after six as he heard whio calling in the river. When it was light enough, we crept out quietly and found the pair just below the hut. A delightful morning treat.

The rain now settles in steady. We are here. That is all that matters…

12:50pm

The sun flits in and out. Tawhirimatea reaches down frequent bursts of a chilly wind which blasts over rustling the grove of rākau tawai maunga, beech trees in front of the hut. I watch them sway as if to regain their balance and I sway with them trying to find my own.

Pete and I walked up the east fork of the Maropea river towards it’s headwaters below Sparrowhawk bivvy somewhere high above in the clouds.

We walked upriver a few hours, finding the going surprisingly easy on the wide shingle flats. It is obvious here too that some major weather events have altered the landscape. No grassy river flats here either. We continued until the river narrowed and closed in tighter and when it started to involve some tricky moves over more slippery piles of flood left logs, rocks, and gorges, we turned back. The true beauty of a Ruahine day walk.

The whio pair accompanied us for a while on the way back to the hut which made us both smile. Not having a large pack on and not having to move on to get to another hut certainly adds a leisurely feel. We are in no hurry. We are beholden to no particular plan or agenda, and I am starting to feel a wonderful freedom in that which I had not truly considered. My quiet peaceful voice is whispering to me it is exactly what I needed right now.

Inside the hut the fire glows softly and our wee whare is warm and toasty. Just had some lunch and I sense the pull of my down sleeping bag calling my name. A call I will heed.

First I just want to sit here for a bit and sway.

3:30pm

Sipping a cup of sweet tea after a refreshing nap nestled in my bunk. My hinengaro, mental wellbeing, needed this as much as my wairua, spiritual wellbeing, and the swiftness at which I drifted off to sleep reflects that. I feel peaceful, calm, and focused.

I have avoided writing of my hip issue and what that ultimately means, just as I have not written of a few other struggles I have been facing. One of which is also my connection and relationship to Maropea Forks. After 30 years I know my time here dwindles, and I know all too well the hip problem exacerbates that. Certainly flying in, and even out, alleviates some of that but even though I feel my feet have earned their place here it is not quite the same as arriving tired, cold or hot, wet and sweaty, and seeing that hut emerge arriving after two days and on foot.

I am also trying to purposely avoid any grand gestures or overly emotional attaching of significance to any particular moment of this day unfolding. Rather just acknowledging the awareness of my own fragility here. Instead, I am just content to be here and recharge myself to be better out there in a place I need to find a way to be much better. To pursue my feet and heart walking the same path they do here.

Reflections: That late afternoon Pete and I sat on the porch with an array of cheeses, olives, hard salami, macadamia nuts, and few wee drams. 

Pete and I have a long history in the Ruahine going back over twenty years. Aside from John Nash there is no one I have spent more time with in these ranges than Pete. That means something. Certainly a common love of place, solitude, and all the gifts on offer in the Ruahine. Pete's love of the whio, his patient observations, photos, and filming of them have allowed me to also observe their behaviour and antics in a way I never did before. And his background in entomology, birdlife, and the rich flora and fauna of the Ruahine has also been beneficial for my own growth.

And many evening he and I, sometimes with John, have shared such moments in the late afternoon repast where the talk is mostly of place and events of the day, mixed with an elixir of past trips and memories, discussion of current events, philosophy, religion, books, politics, and aspects of our own lives unfolding.

Prior to this trip I had been in a period of intense personal struggle. With myself, with Tara, with Noah's situation, both our son's, and all of it combined with turning 66 years old in late July had me reeling a bit. Assessing everything and what I wanted my life to be on these final laps ahead. A pursuit of personal integrity and accountability I needed to enact. To save myself, to be my self, and to decide what that all looks like. Tough ground to cover. 

As comfortable and as safe as I felt talking to Pete some of the thoughts, particularly around Tara, I wasn't sure if I could share with him without feeling invasive of his own privacy. Yet when there arrived what I saw as an opening I put forth my feelings on a few things without hesitation. I think Pete sensed in a way that I needed to do so.

And I found, that much like traveling in the Ruahine, my friend offers the same style, grace, and patience in listening and discussing such matters, as he does waiting for me to lumber up behind him, huffing and puffing up a steep climb or a river bed, as he calmly points out the birdlife he has been observing, or a pool ahead with a whio I did not see. It was lovely to add that richness and depth to our friendship. To reinforce this path I have chosen for my own soul.

At one point I was reflecting to Pete some of the struggles Tara and I had been having. Looking at our own lives, and us a couple, over three plus decades and wondering at times about the choices and decisions we have made along the way. Again, as a couple, but mostly as individuals. All leading to the road ahead. Trying to avoid the tendency to interpret so many "What if's?" Something that this quiet persistent and negative voice has been whispering in my ear since I was a kid.

Pete looked at me, took a small sip of whiskey, then stated: 

"What might have been is an abstraction / Remaining a perpetual possibility / Only in a world of speculation" ...

which is from T.S. Eliot's poem "Burnt Norton" (the first part of his Four Quartets).

Talk about hitting the nail on the head!

 The chimney smoke curls lazily upwards

As if deciding to stay or meander on

into the skies beyond our refuge

far above the river's song

beneath the drifting plume

in the bosom of its warmth

where I shelter

for both sanity and peace

a quiet metamorphosis

both self and river

float with the brume 

11 August 

Maropea Forks

Afternoon

The sun is shining but a southerly seems to be moving through so it is quite cold here on the porch. I am dressed warmly and though I feel the brisk air upon my cheeks feel quite comfortable.

We climbed up the steep track towards towards Puketaramea in the morning. When I caught up to Pete waiting for me at the overlook we decided that was far enough for the day. The wind was was strong and cold and it felt like rain. We enjoyed a morning tea and the views and headed back down. I was glad of that as my hip felt okay going up but not so good coming down. And it is relentlessly steep all the way to the river so I was glad to see the hut. And rather than focus upon the negativity of my hip I found being in the ngahere, forest, and to feel the energy pulsating within it was enough effort for today. The solutions lie far from here and I know what they are. One day at a time. 

Early evening...

Pete wanders down by the river to check for any possible whio sightings. We had an exceptional day with two different pair yesterday and spent a few hours just watching them. Today they have not been around but we know they are here. That feels good. 

Inside I have built a fire in the wood stove that only awaits the touch of a match, and with a well stocked wood supply we are all set. After our afternoon repast I will retire to the hut to make meatballs and sauce with pasta. All to go along with the camp oven bread Pete made this afternoon. It's a tough life eh!

I feel fully invested in making this the best possible experience I can. I never know. This slight ache in my hip reminding me of that reality. I have been trying to avoid writing that thought but there it is. That is also true in my life outside of this sanctuary. 

My hip right now will not allow to interact with these mountains as I have done so in the past and would like to be able to continue to enjoy. Just as certain things in my life outside here will also not allow me to be the man, father, husband, and friend I aspire to be. Both need to be addressed. 

This has been a place of refuge for me for over thirty years. Which I find an interesting sentence to write and reflect upon. What is difference between a place of refuge and a place of celebration? It is time that both of my whares, both places, feel the same to me. That is my goal.

And the bigger truth is that the biggest changes lie within me. It is my whare out there as well. I share it Tara and our whanau, but it is my wairua which flows through and filters what it becomes. I need to be better. Why? How? Who am I? You have work to do Robb...

The sun now fades over the valley. The cold grows heavy upon the mountain air. Pete has retired to the hut to light the fire and warm our whare. Dinner simmers quietly in the camp oven and I only need to boil up the water to cook our pasta. 

It feels like home.

He tangata kī tahi.
(A person of a single word.)

Part II to come... Kia ora!

The Last Photo

 

The Last Photo…

Friday Reflections: 

Photo: The last moment in a photo observed with Jeff. I prefer not to refer to this photo as one “taken” but rather one that will always live as a real moment in my life. Door County, Peninsula State Park. November 2019. From left...  Rick Parduhn (BH), Mike Gatenbein (Gyro), Jeff Kjos (Roaster), and Robb Kloss (Dobber). I am proud and honoured to have such Top Shelf men as my friends. 

In the summer of 2018, I had returned home to Wisconsin after not being back since the fall of 2015 when I came back with my youngest son Charlie for a month. So, this trip Charlie and Tara came as well. Tara and I drove to Milwaukee where we spent a night with friends there. Tara was going to stay in Milwaukee for a few days and so I drove out to Madison to spend that time with Jeff and Sara. 

Jeff, of course, had organized a litany of activities, highlighted by a long tramp we did in Devil’s State Park culminating in the final walk through Parfrey’s Glen. A long day, with much of it off trail bashing about and I expected no less. The next day Tara took the bus to Madison and joined us, and other friends, for an evening at the La Fete de Marquette Summer Festival not far from Jeff and Sara’s home. It was a long hot day leading into evening where the headline act was Los Lobos. We had commandeered fine positions in front of the stage, and took turns doing beer runs. It was a fine evening and a lovely few days, as always, being hosted by Jeff and Sara. 

Normally another 2-3 years would pass until I would feel the need and pull to return to Wisconsin again. Although blessed here with 5 plus weeks annual holidays the cost of flights, insurances and arranging such things can be prohibitive. 

Yet sometime very early in 2019 something began quietly yet incessantly nagging at me. Being that my mother was turning 91 that June, and noticing her growing fragility and forgetfulness, I put it down to the need to see her as it might be the last opportunity I might get. Thankfully Tara agreed, and so arrangements were made. I would return home in late October and Tara would join me for a final two weeks.

I’m not quite sure how it all came about but I was contacted by another friend, Rick, to inform me that Jeff had arranged a three day fall camping trip up in Door County and I was told the dates and that Jeff had arranged all the tentage, sleeping bag, food and other essentials I would require so I was not to worry. All that was required was my attendance. 

I was picked up by Jeff and Rick at my brother in law’s cabin outside of Sturgeon Bay and we proceeded into the wilds of Door County where we met another friend, Mike and then drove to and arranged a campsite in the Peninsula State Park. It was virtually empty. 

The weather was cold but in due course we had erected our tents and a shelter in which to cook, store our food and drink, and retreat to in case of inclement weather. We had plenty of firewood and were soon gathered around it with hot home-made pea soup and big chunks of bread. And of course, cold beers and warmer spirits. We spent the evening talking, laughing and even a bit of sombre pondering, a perfect balance of old memories and where our lives had taken us. I kept reflecting that each one of these men, Jeff, Rick, and Mike, had visited New Zealand and each had also spent a week, respectively, with me tramping in the Ruahine. It made this campfire and camaraderie in Door County feel even more unique and special.

The next morning Jeff cooked up a huge breakfast of bacon, eggs, pancakes, and his always ultra-strong camp coffee. We then proceeded on a massive hike pretty much all around the park, on trail and off, along the lake shore, climbing up the cliffs overlooking the lake, and through the forest still with the burnt orange and brown leaves of fall clinging precariously to the trees. At the time my other hip was now bothering me - it was replaced in March of 2020, and once again my friends exhibited the grace of not making a big deal of it but slowing the pace and allowing for much stopping to observe and converse so I could gather myself. I was filled with silent gratitude.

We returned to our camp late in the afternoon, just in time to light the fire and tune in the battery powered radio to the late start Packer game in San Diego. With cold Pabst Blue Ribbon and other beers, salami, cheese, crackers, and chips. It was and felt like real old school stuff. The Packers got thrashed. Not that it mattered. And once again Jeff produced a wonderful meal and cooked up brats and provided potato salad for dinner. Then it began to drizzle so we rushed to tie down our tarpage to accommodate us near the fire. The drizzle turned to sleet; the sleet turned to snow. It was magical. Soon Jeff and I had out our harmonica’s and Rick and Mike found drums. We made up Blues tunes in honour of our tarpage and fire. It may have sounded like a pack of wolves gnawing on live chickens but on the night I thought we were pretty good. Another fantastic day and evening.

The next day we packed up in the morning and with a melancholic sadness broke our camp. Rick, heading back to Milwaukee, Mike taking me back to Green Bay, and Jeff driving along the lake to investigate kayaking a few rivers he had marked on his map. We all stopped together at a diner outside Sturgeon Bay for breakfast. It was crowded and once seated Jeff started explaining how perfect scrambled eggs are done, which he also explained to the waiter. I had to smile at Jeff’s pedantic and stubborn requirements and though sadly the eggs were not to his standard he ate them anyway. 

In the parking lot we said goodbye and I stood with Jeff for a few minutes by his car chatting and making plans for Tara and me to visit Madison for a night or two in a few weeks’ time after she arrived. I gave him a big hug as always and we drove away. 

Living in New Zealand for the last 28 years and only returning home to Wisconsin 6 times in those years, I have come to value and appreciate the moments we spend with the people we most love. Yet even in that awareness I could never have imagined that the prior evening around that fire in the snow of Door County would be the last evening I would ever spend with Jeff. . Or that it would be the last time I would smile watching him order scrambled  eggs. And mostly that the large hug in the parking lot of a diner outside of Sturgeon Bay would be our last. These are very difficult truths to write.

I came back to Wisconsin in 2019 out of what I thought was an urgent calling to visit my mom. Turns out the whole time that it was really to see my friend.

I love you Jeff.

Forty Years

Jeff the fire builder. Door County 2019. 

Devil’s Lake 2018. 

Boundary Waters 1990…An week long trip where Jeff paddled solo. He and I did a few day trips together that were amazing. 

Jeff, Sara, and Luca. Madison 2012. 

Jeff and John Nash. Ruahine ranges. New Zealand. Maropea Forks hut, a week long trip. I was so happy to show these mountains to Jeff. In spite of a painful hip that was replaced later that year. Jeff’s patience, caring and understanding of my condition while on that trip still can bring me to tears. His words from this very blog below…

 Anonymous said...

yo Dobber! I have many things to say, nay, expound,nay, philosophize upon my trip into the Ruahines and indeed New Zealand as a whole. As I sit in the middle of the north american continent in the middle of winter, many thoughts of our trip burst into being. But first I have to say,nay,demand, it is fricking cold here! Sub zero cold! So cold that if I dipped one toe into a river with this cold I would not only lose my foot to gangrene within 3 hours, I would be at the mercy of fate from that point on. Please Dobber you must understand, when the temperature never gets above zero degrees F. it is way colder than anything you get on the north island. Please understand this, my sanity depends on it. We just had a week where the high was -2 degrees F. I went out x-country skiing and brrrrrrr. No comparison. None. Sorry. So I feel better now, wether you acknowedge or not, I have had my say. Now onto more important items. I loved hiking into the mountains with you. My only regret is that your hip kept us from the high country, because the glimpse that I did see looked and felt tremendous. I truly appreciate that you powered into the mountains anyway, I sensed a profound struggle, mentally and physically with the hip and I cannot imagine the pounding you endured. Thank you Brother. Though you write that my highlight of the trip must have been the beautiful Rainbow Trout, 26 inches and 8 pounds, that was only the icing on the cake, the exclamation point on a whole month of travels in New Zealand. Now do not get me wrong, I love icing, and I love Trout for breakfast, talk about powering up for the hike out! But there is much more to the wilderness than a trout, a riverwalk, a shot of whiskey or tequila with salt and lime. There is peace and tranquility, a purpose of being beyond the mundane of culture and other piffles and trifles. There are individual river riffles and songs of the mountains to consider. There are pools of hope and valleys unexplored, there are skies full of stars and wonders around every turn. These are the true prizes we seek when we go deep, and as long as we go unencumbered by preconceptions, and stay open to possibilities,we will achieve our own glory, huge in our own immediacy, knowingly minor in the scheme of the universe.
So Dobber the highlights of my Ruahines are:the night at top maopea hut under the stars with no dew dropping on me all night long, what a star show, a once in a decade no Moon, no cloouds, full on star show; arriving at maropea forks hut and realizing what a glorious spot to camp at despite the protestations of my bank manager(and cracking a can of Fosters in celebration); checking out the confluence of the forks after the all day rain; latching onto the the huge Trout and the epic battle that ensued, man versus beast in a thrilling match of wits and endurance and..............;and then a couple of brewkis in oopaloolangaloongalong or some town on the way back to Palmy. Yowser! More Thoughts will come later as they flood in somnambulatorally.Yowser!

January 30, 2009 at 3:51 PM

 

2018 Devils Lake…with Gyro on a long day trip led, of course, by Jeff. It involved many detours. Such a cool day! And evening. 

Boundary Waters. Food bag hung from bears. A persistent black bear came anyway. We won. 

The Ford LTD. San Francisco. Thanksgiving 1987,  

Door County 2019. Our last trip. I treasure each memory and moment. And my self enforced distance always made me appreciate such times. Jeff, in a very familiar position with a map. Rick in agreement. I just did what I was told. 

Jeff, Sara, Gyro, and Larry Hale. Madison 2018. I wrote earlier on what a cool day it was. The evening was as well. 

Milwaukee summer 1981. The earliest photo I have found with Jeff, and Mike Revan aka Iron Mike - so named because he so solid and dependable . I had left Ripon and moved to Madison here. I was in town for a wedding. 

John Nash, me, and Jeff inside Maropea Forks hut. John is my finest NZ friend and to spend a week with both these men was a treasure. Both with the dry, witty, and observant quips I just sat back and watched. Mostly. 

My 30th birthday. Milwaukee. East side. Phils, Bob Revane, Jeff, me, Tim Revane, Todd Pollesch, abd Iron Mike eyeing up his shot. Bob, Tim, and now Jeff, are passed from our presence.

Jeff and Gyro. The Arboretum walk along Lake Monona. 2012. A stormy cold day. The company made all that trivial. 

Rick Parduhn, me, Jeff. Door County November 2019. As it turns out the last walk I ever did with Jeff. It was another fantastic day in the Peninsula State Park, we had the place to ourselves. My other hip was now in bad shape. I walked 10 miles that day. Led by Jeff. As aware of my pain this day as he had been in New Zealand 10 years prior. I love him for that. 

Madison 2018. Jeff, me, Larry Hale, and Gyro. Jeff soon put on Trampled by Turtles and the evening turned. 

Jeff, Gyro, me. West Bend Wisconsin 2012, Gyro’s 125 year old farmhouse he was living in and restoring at the time. Our spirits joined with the many that seemed to be around the place. After another cool day in the hills around Devil’s Lake. 

Jeff - Boundary Waters 1989. I learned so much just observing him that trip. 

Rick, Jeff, Gyro, Peninsula State Park, 2019. Our final walk. I lingered behind often to see moments like this. Almost as if I knew something. Really though, living in a country so far away, just trying to be cognizant of how special these moments can be. 

Gyro and Jeff walking ahead on a fall walk. On our way to Parfreys Glen. 2018.  

San Francisco Thanksgiving 1987. The Ford LTD Jeff had driven from Portland to San Fran. We were all glad to see one another. 

Devils Lake, fall 2018. 

Phil’s, Jeff, and me. My 30th birthday. Milwaukee. 

Jeff. In New Zealand. Along the Maropea river deep in the Ruahine mountains making us bagels. So at home. 

Cooper. Best dog. Ever. 

Rick and Jeff. Ice Age Walk 2015. 

Sunset. Door County. 2019. Who knew! 

Fishing for trout in the pool outside Maropea Forks hut. One was tempted but didn’t bite. Jeff was in Avery happy place. 

Milwaukee 1980. 

A long slow day hike in Peninsula State Park. Fall 2019. Had the place to ourselves. 

Madison. The Terrace. A visit was always required. 

Maropea river. Ruahine New Zealand. 2009. 

Devil’s Lake 2018. 

Boundary Waters. 1989. Just as a series of storms rolled in and we were rushing about tying down the camp. Jeff’s green canoe just visible. 

Jeff, Gyro, Rick. Door County 2019. 

Maropea fishing. A few pools later and Jeff had his trout. And we had breakfast. 

Madison. Fall 2012

Bad fish river. Classic Jeff. So at home. Summer 2015

Breakfast. Door County camping 2019. All I brought along was me. Jeff had gotten everything arranged and sorted. As he did. 

Setting up my tent for Jeff in the Ruahine. And I do believe it was time for a wee dram. 

Lingering behind Near Madison 2012. 

Ruahine cocktail hour. 

Stringer of pike. Boundary Waters day trip. 

Madison. 

Madison 1983. My 23rd birthday. 

Near Maropea Forks. One of my favourites. Just a very cool and memorable day. 

Sunset and Jeff. 

Devil’s Lake 2018. So at home and comfortable outside. 

Boundary Waters. 

San Francisco 1987. Thanksgiving. Another very interesting evening. 

La Fete de Marquette Music Festival. A hot summer evening in Madison. 

Post party same evening. 

Sunset San Francisco 1987. Love this moment. 

John Muir Redwood forest. Jeff took us way off the beaten tracks. What a day! 

Comrades! 

La Fete de Marquette

The Mapster! 

Madison 1987 summer.