1989 - THE PENCIL OF AN ARTIST    

Finally we are here.

From the onset, uncertain surrounded our arrival: for the elements had forced an extended stay in Port Pegasus at the southern end of Stewart  Island and while an interesting diversion, it was one we could have done  without. With the added frustration of a return trip to Bluff, for more  supplies and a indefinite wait for that break in the weather, it was a  marginal affair that we would be here at all. The wind fair howled for days while we waited, and the ocean could only be described as worse  than Cook Strait on a bad day. But now, we strained with our essential possessions that would be all we could have for the next few weeks.  Across the sandy beach, past the skuas and those seal lions that lay like great rocks in the sun absorbing every ounce of heat that was to be  had, we were actually here!

Then we struggled with weighted packs, bags and boxes up the manicured grass, where the blue rabbits bounded like wound up toys in front of us, to the three small huts hugged by the mass and tangle of trees that fell from the forest to this area of grass. It did have a strange air about the land, a strangeness of the earth itself, of a harsh and tragic history but also of a future not yet known. Immediately it was fascinating to my senses, it allured me into accepting this eccentric place as a kind of normal that I would never have condoned back home.

 

The strangeness of the land was worsened by our first bazaar meal in the hut. Introduced to the various D.O.C. staff in the hut, and the offer of a cuppa, here we were trying to eat bread that was green with mould. The  worst edges trimmed it still had a decidedly greenness that would put anyone off and only have made the compost bin back home.

Even disguised with jam or some other spread, it looked as wicked  as any substance I had ever had the need or will to eat and it was an effort to take the first tentative bite let alone gulp the inevitable swallow.  The worst of it was that the D.O.C. people, who had been here for some time, were munching through the stuff as though it was a delicious feast for the famished. It seemed as though they were ship wrecked sailors enjoying their first meal for more than an age. The others in our party
looked with unbelieving eyes, that this is what, (and worse perhaps,) we  will have to endure for the next few weeks. The bread can only get greener by the day and god knows what the other food is that we shall have to survive before we have the chance to return to civilization.

The large tin mugs full of tea were at least hot and welcome and showed no signs of greenness It was this with a swish in the mouth that eased the pain and helped wash down the dry bread we were all tentatively chewing on. You don't realize just how dependant we are on civilization for our food.

It was difficult to know where to start on the project after the "Acheron"  had left for the southern part of the island with the artists that were on the  way home. In some ways it felt a little unfair, as we had the problem of the weather on the way down to contend with that had nearly taken a week off  our stay, and they had scored a few extra days on the island. Now they were going to trip right round the coast, and it might be doubtful if we would see that on the way home on the frigate.

Well I did make a start that afternoon and set off for a short walk with my sketch pad and pencil. It was the twisted dead trees at the other end of the  bay that had attracted me from the door of the hut, and it was there I made for in the golden light of the late afternoon. I had seen the twisted gaunt  shapes silhouetted on the horizon as soon as we had arrived. Immediately they had acted as a large inescapable magnet. The sun takes so long to set  down here in the long days of midsummer, and there is an enveloping golden glow about the atmosphere that would be wonderful to explore with paint.  There was all the wild life that I had imagined right here on this beach too. The great big male sea lions that dominated the beach with their groups of cows, I think that's what they are called. They must have it all worked out, but the males seem so large and fat and I pity the slender, smaller cows. Really they are just great horrible lumps of blubber with sharp teeth at one end  and bad breath, while the cows are sleek, slight beasts and generally much more attractive to the eye. The males seem to spend all their time  protecting their herd of females as a greedy man would his fortune, and the beach theatricals never stop as other young males try out their strength.

The penguins are my favourite as they waddle out of the water, across the sand and up the grass before disappearing into secrecy of the bush. They have a wonderful air of wit about them, and unlike the sea lions, I can't tell the difference between the males and females by either their size or their manners. They have a comical look and manner that makes me stop and laugh as they scurry about their business. As I neared the ghostly tree trunks, across the large grass "golf course" that the rabbits keep trimmed to a green, neat as a golf course, the trunks of these once great trees were twisted in a way I had never seen before,  and here I sat down under the bleached, dead, reaching arms with my  sketch pad and sharp new pencil to make the first marks on the page as reference drawings and ideas for a later time, when I could extend these with paint back home.

As I sat alone on the ground, the peace and isolation of the island crept from the inner sanctum of the deep forest behind me, to envelop me completely. Quite suddenly I could feel something permeate me. It was really hard to describe, and the only other time I can recall something similar was once in the ruggedness of the Rimutakas Ranges just outside Wellington. We had fallen asleep on the grass, in the sun beside the dark green tangle of bush that stretched to the tops. There was an enormous rock that had been burnt black on one side with a great fire at some stage. It may have been from a party, as there were old rusty and burnt beer cans and also the familiar broken  brown glass that litters such sites. 

We woke suddenly with a tiredness that frightened both of us undescribably in fear of our lives. It was as though a Tanaiwha was  about to devour us if we camped here for the night, and together, we both knew we must move from there as quickly as we could to find another camp site before dark.  It almost felt like the fairy story of Rip Van Winkle; we were sure we could have fallen asleep right there and then for more than a thousand years. This was the same eerie feeling, but somehow I did feel welcome in this place and time. I felt as if I had a spiritual permission to be here, I felt a sense of belonging that had not been evident in the wild hills of the  Rimutakas.

Because of this "spiritual permission", I stayed far too long sketching till the dark shroud of the night had dropped her cold cloak and the only light remaining was the fading air-brushed pink and blue glow in the clear sky outside the forest. In places it pulsated with the sheening reflection of the sea. With some care, I picked my way through the broken, twisted stumps and remains of great trunks at the edge of the forest. Then across the regeneration of new growth that was springy under my feet.  Once on the grassy slopes it was easy going and a quick walk along the sand, though making sure I dodged those great fat male lumps on the beach.

Next morning after a slow start and the usual chores, I was able to get away for another day's sketching quite early. I had decided to walk as far around the coast as I dared in the day, though as it turned out this was no t too far at all and quite simple going. There were so many good spots to sit and absorb the essence of the land that the temptation to do so meant that the walk could take all of the day however. At the first stopping spot, right on the edge of a vertical cliff, looking back towards the hut end of the  island, with low cloud in long lines across the horizon, I set to start and realized that I was already one pencil down, lost from the new box I had started with just the day before.