(Music: Lemon Tree by Fool's Garden)
I'm sitting here in the pouring rain,
On just another muddy Tararua main,
I'm wasting my time, there's nothing to do,
I'm hanging around, I'm waiting for you.
But nothing ever happens, so I wander.
I'm walking around, I look for a path,
I'm walking too far, I'm walking too fast,
I'd like to change the current view,
I feel so lonely, while I'm looking for you,
And nothing ever happens, as I wander.
I wonder how, I wonder why
Yesterday we talked about the blue, blue sky,
And all that I can see, are a million leatherwood trees.
I'm turning my map, up and down,
Turning, turning, turning, turning, turning around,
And all that I can see, is another bloody tree!
Sing: Da. Da da da da da dee da da, da da
da da da dee da daa, deebe da da da.
I've stopped again, caught in a shower,
I'd like to go out but the clag has power,
There's a heavy cloud, the weather's shit,
I feel so tired I want my pit.
Well, nothing ever happens, and I wonder.
Isolation, is not good for me.
Isolation; I don't want to be alone with the trees.
I'm stepping around in the River of Spite,
Maybe anyhow I'll find you all right and
Everything will happen, and we'll wander...
And we'll wander, wander.
I wonder how, I wonder why,
Yesterday we talked about the blue, blue sky,
And all that I can see, and all that I can see,
are just a million leatherwood trees.
High on the ranges where the wind blows cold,
An ancient legend should be told,
Of snow and ice, grit and tan,
The story of Matt, the possum man.
Mat was a tramper of the old codg' style,
Beard and bushshirt, the four minute mile,
Porridge for breakfast, tea in a can,
Those were the marks of the great possum man.
Matt had a longing to visit old Carkeek,
Where the wind runs fierce and the door hinges squeak,
He travelled down from Nichols to the roaring Waiohine,
It was then, that the weather started to get mean.
Everything was wet on the vast main range,
The river rose up with a speed that was strange,
And stuck in the middle though he ran and ran,
Was poor old Matt, the possum man.
"Help!" he gasped as water struck his chest,
And snagged on a log, was his black woolly vest,
Then he spied the possum, watching like a fan,
The futile efforts of Matt, the possum man.
"Quick" cried the possum, "Grab hold my tail!"
And, at that point he began to wail,
For all the other possums to come and lend a hand,
In the exciting rescue of Matt, the possum man.
Each possum held the tail of one before
And soon there was a line, that stretched out to the shore.
Each possum pulled, scraping rock and sand,
Then - lo and behold! Saved Matt, the possum man.
While he recovered, the possums gathered round,
Matt said "Thanks mate, I surely would have drowned
But you're still noxious pests, worse than the rats!"
So he shot every one and made them into hats.
Anon
(Any references to VUWTC Matts are purely coincidental)
Chris Fitzgerald to Rebekah Eyles: "Are you going to come to bed?" -
Totara Flats Hut
Jeremy Haines: "I can't stand sleeping with other people" - Totara
Flats Hut
Jeremy Haines: " I had to sleep with my bike again last night" - Freyberg
Rockwall
(Perhaps that is why he is single)
Jeremy Bray: "I'm getting old - I can't get hard anymore"
"You can never get a long enough screw".
(Kindly donated by his flatmates)
Chris Fitz: "I'll have Nils on the way back"
Caroline Duggan: " Well, if you all went out with Jeremy too. . . .
"
(Labour Weekend 1996 - Wharepapa South)
Happy sculpting!
Michael Angelo
Tongariro, you are like the mind of a diseased whore
Black and red hell.
The wind sings a song of desolation through craters and jagged tors
And winter comes softly to cover your festering wounds.
Anon
Thereisnothinglefttobesaid,
ButtosuggestratherstronglythatthisfineexampleofEnglishliteratureshouldinnowaybe
misconstruedasbeingrepresentativeofanyone'sopinionofanyoneelseandthatandeverything.
Also,Idoooooooooooothinkthatthere's
alotofwhispersabouttheshaggingthatgoeson,sodoooooooooothinktwice,andalwaysuseamuffler!
LoveydoveyhuggsandexpulsionsfromEddieBrothel,
theQueenofthegutterycrevice.Longmayhestand,
loosemayhebe,seldommayhedrop.
OnTheWaaaaaaaaaste.(TM)DOC
The week before had been a silent and lonely one for the mother as her daughter had walked the snowy wastes of the Nelson Lakes area. Before that there had been a rising excitement as the hall and lounge filled up with gear - pack, ice axes, gaiters and scroggin until barely a patch of carpet could be seen.
It was 9.30 p.m. - should she pick up the phone?
The door crashed open. In she strode, purple shorts clinging wetly to
the stripy thermal legs rising out of mud encrusted boots. In ringing tones
she declared
“I’m HOME”
Flinging off the straps of the heavy pack on her shoulders,she let
it fall with a thud. The floorboards groaned an objection and her arms,
freed from the irksome burden rose involuntarily into the air with a levity
unknown over the last three days. Her eyes were wild and had a far off
look as one who has been denied the civilising influences of a hot shower
and the the niceties of eating off fine china. One for whom the deprivation
of television and videos had caused a temporary insanity. Her hair hung,
seaweed like, entwined patchily with bits of moss, lichen and twigs. A
small spider detached itself from her ear and spun slowly down past the
dripping thermals to the floor.
“Have a nice time on your walk, dear?” her mother said.
“TRAMP, IT WAS A TRAMP, mother, and you should have BEEN there.
If it was not absolutely, it was DEFINITELY AMAZING. The ambience - there's
nothing like it - the snoring in the hut, the long drops, the cold wet
boots in the morning, the crumpled slices of bread and soggy muesli, the
blisters on your heel, the drizzling clouds and slopes of scree. NEXT TIME
you must come and enjoy it with me.”
Sitting down she hauled off her boots and wrung out her socks in the
fireplace.
“We should have a tramping club party here sometime,” she said.
“It would liven things up.” She strode towards the bathroom and
soon the sound of taps were heard rushing water into the bath.
The mother thought of the executive stress and challenge that
the club committee had given her daughter; of the excitement and anticipation
on her on her daughters face as dollar by dollar she scrimped and saved
for her new sleeping bag; of iron muscles burgeoning beneath her daughter’s
thermals. Maybe there was something in this tramping business after all.
Tentatively she picked up the woolly hat and tried it on, then
the gaiters and finally, the pack. Her knees wilted, but perhaps a few
Newrhythmic classes would strengthen her up. She made up her mind. Yes!
she would accept her daughter’s invitation and join the wild free life
of the tramping world. Maybe she too could have articles of her amazing
and exhilarating experiences published in Heels and Baaa one day. What
an achievement that would be!
(Too right - ed.)
She took off the woolly hat and gaiters, patted the pack lovingly and went off to bed to dream of huts and the wild free camaraderie of the tramping tracks.