Call Of The Mild

Despite his better judgment and bitter experience, our columnist sort of goes bush.

- Greg Dixon

By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. Not “gone” gone – though I’m increasingly worried “gone” gone is a possibility – but gone bush.

Frankie, an old friend, and I, in a moment of madness, decided to relive past glories by signing up for a three-day private walk out on the Wairarapa coast.

The rush of blood happened way back in June. So, we’ve had months to get ourselves into the sort of tickety-boo shape one really ought to be in when one is a fiftysomething crock intending to walk about 40km through bush, over hills and across sand in just three days. Only neither of us seemed to have bothered with much of that exercise carry-on.

“I’m very worried I’m not fit enough,” I said to her this week.

“Well, I’m fat, and unfit, and my joints are incredibly stiff,” she retorted. “So, I’m expecting to take about 10 hours to do day one. You’ll be skipping far ahead of me, like a gambolling lamb.”

“Unlikely!” I parried. “My right ankle hurts. I now have a pacemaker. Also, my mother once told me I was born tired.”