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  Best Management Practices
• 2006:
  Watershed Event
• 2005:
  I Hit the Jackpot!
• 2005:
  Chloride City
• 2004:
  Get Out the Vote
• 2004:
  Over the Top … or not
• 2004:
  No. 8 Wire
• 2004:
  Trampers
• 2004:
  Dark Carnival
• 2003:
  A Walk to Nowhere
• 2003:
  Beach Idyll
• 2003:
  Tall Trees
• 2003:
  Dead Horse Canyon
• 2003:
  Slippery Slope
• 2002:
  'frayed
• 2002:
  Rae Lakes Loop
• 2001:
  The Grand Adventure
• 2000:
  San Juan Islands
• 1999:
  The Bear Story
• About this site

The little boat rocked and skipped over the waves. I pulled the tarpaulin tightly around my neck and waited for the next wave of salt spray.

Ahead, we could see a small crowd gathered on the beach. Then David cut the engine and we drifted in to greet them.

January camp on Ponui Island is a tradition for the Opie extended family. Now they were headed home, leaving this bay—and some tents and other equipment—behind for Jennie and Mic to host two guests from America.

A storm was gathering as the group helped us unload, then began to fit a mountain of gear into the emptied boat.

I'd met Dick and Kath at Mic and Jennie's wedding in Chicago six years ago. Now Dick was smiling and winking like a man who couldn't be happier than to be right there, at that moment, talking on the beach about what a great time we'd have, as he gathered chilly bins and lawn chairs and a bicycle and passed them on to David, who found places to fit them in the already overloaded craft.

The children climbed in first, then the eldest of the adults, and finally Dick and his son J.J. pushed the boat off the beach. Everyone smiled and waved. I scanned their faces for a hint of worry. I saw none, and soon the engine roared as David headed the boat into the whitecaps.

David Chamberlain operates his father's farm on about a third of Ponui Island. Other Chamberlains—Ernest and George—farm the other two thirds. There are cattle and a few horses in paddocks. A few feral donkeys and thousands of sheep wander the rangeland.

At low tide, we walked around the rocky head of our little bay to visit David and his wife, Roz, a girlhood friend of Jennie's. We passed the old house, now abandoned, and came upon the chickens and children in their yard.

Over tea and homemade muffins, David drew a map of a walk to the island's highest point; then, in response to my question, sketched an explanation of the ancient Maori revetments we'd found on the bluff overlooking our camp. We talked about the habits of the resident population of Kiwi (birds).

Jennifer, Jennie, and I passed through David's paddocks and climbed the farm road up to the ridge. As we walked along the ridgetop, we could see across the Bay and, at one point, to the Auckland skyline. At the highest elevations, we passed through a forest of large Kauri trees and a near-tropical density and diversity of vegetation.

Having reached the island's “trig,” or survey point, we found our way back to the little private bay. It seemed a just-right-sized playground for the four of us. Over the next three days, Jennifer and I paddled the Opie's old battered kayaks along the shoreline for a while. We harvested mussels and oysters for dinner. Inside the mussels we found tiny, intensely flavorful crabs. We sat in camp chairs and read or just watched the water.

At the appointed time, David arrived to retrieve us, and our gear, from the beach. He had the big boat this time—an aluminum launch, plenty big enough to ride above the spray. We stopped at another beach to pick up other passengers and gear, the island's mail, a sheep, and a dog along for the ride. The loading and unloading seemed like chaos as arriving and departing passengers made several trips to carry items on and off, each stepping over a tangle of ropes lying askew on the deck. With the resulting jumble of cargo filling the passenger compartment, we all sat or stood on deck as David steered toward the mainland.

“Number Eight Wire,” Mic and Jennie explained. It's a kind of code for the make-do and don't-worry-about-it ethos of New Zealand. It goes along with the an unaffected willingness to pitch in. It's an ethos that may be fading as New Zealand's society inevitably becomes more integrated with capitalist values from abroad.

That would be a shame, I thought. “Number Eight Wire” is a refreshing difference from American “rugged individualism” and its unfortunate corollary—our countrymen's unattractive habit of always finding someone to blame (or someone to sue) if things don't go their way.