February Face

"Why, what's the matter, 

That you have such a February face, 

So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?" 

-William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

Your father and I met him - the transportation engineer- while canoeing the emerald jewel of a river known as the Wanganui. We had just survived a vicious bout of giardia that humbled our intestines and weakened our hiking legs but we were leaving the island soon and needed one last paddle. The Wanganui was chock full of Maori legends but we were mostly drawn to its primal beauty, the way the young river sliced deep into the green earth, perpetually sodden, a bed of crown ferns set against baggy cliffs with stoner mountain goats.

We put in at the town of X and suspected there wouldn’t be much paddling or many paddlers; it was late in the dying season and the water level was exceedingly high, the kids back in school, floppy hats shelved for the year. This was our last one-month hoorah before heading back to the states in silent defeat; we would soon drag tails between our legs making solemn, whispered promises of a triumphant return.

The Wanganui splashed and sluiced us in our rented purple canoe with its big, blue sealed canisters full of noodles and fuel and matches and sleeping bags. Your Dad at the helm, we moved through mild rapids and bigger eddies until we smashed the bow against hard, mulish rock; a camera in one hand, a gasp, we giggled, plucky and stupid, all strong bones and backs and rosy futures and second chances.

It rained. Run for the house or hills rain. But nowhere near camp or empty structure, we pulled aside the river and crouched to light a cook stove in vain, abandoned those efforts and then worked on heating ourselves. I zoned out and thought of human absence and bloated river levels and the delightful perils waiting downstream to ensnare us. I was shaking with cold and your father pulled out a Macpac shell to keep me warm.

Most of the river campsites and backcountry huts downstream were empty save for a few field mice. One camp resembled Machu Picchu in miniature, with steep, cobbled, knee jarring steps all the way up to the mushy flat plateau where I pitched our tent while Dad fought with stubborn wet ferns to make fire.

It was much later at the marae camp – a kind of sacred, communal Maori space – that we met the transportation engineer and his girlfriend, both in from England on holiday, the only others on the river that week.

The river had profound history; it was a historic stronghold for the Maori, and even today some of most disputed and longstanding land claims in NZ are contested here. Still. Despite the messy past, the locals welcomed river runners to overnight at the marae in exchange for nonobligatory donations. So it was here we arrived, exchanged the ceremonial hongi – the pressing of noses with our hosts - and it was not long before we sat around a warm fire petting a spotted dog, generous plates of baked pasta in our laps.

From our chairs we watched the British couple tie their canoe and then greet the hosts in traditional fashion until they joined us at the hearth. What-do-you-do introductions, awkward smiles, we were momentarily transported back to the real world.

"So did you give them money?" the man asked us. He had a February face.

“Sure”. It seemed customary enough. Plus, we were so poor we were rich.

“This just all seems kind of strange,” he added.

He was getting at the authenticity question. How legitimate these people were. But he couldn’t single-handedly ruin the vibe.

That night, we opted to sleep in the hut and dusted off itchy mattresses where we set up sleep bags for the night. The Brits chose the sensible route and pitched a green tent on the wooden floor. 


The night was inky black when we heard a creature enter the hut, sounding long and fat and shuffling up the wall with audible, raspy hunger and a sense of where-did-I-leave-my-keys urgency.

“What’s that?” I whispered to your Dad.

“A rat”, he replied. Crap, I thought. And the first time we leave the safety of our tent.

Down on the floor, our roommates had already flipped on their torches and unzipped the tent fly. The man went straight for the shovel that rested against the wall and began to chase the rascally interloper. He bashed metal against the wall and swung at the floor and scraped wood and then your father climbed down from his bunk. The Brit grumbled and missed and the rat eventually left the same way it came in.

Your Dad crawled back into bed and then: sleep. Itchy, fitful, restless slumber.

The next morning the Maori wished us well and we cut back into the river for the final leg or two. Here and there we caught glimpses of the British engineer and his first mate heading downstream in their canoe. We tried to stagger our campsites to avoid chance meetings; it was a dishonorable display but we wanted our Machu Picchu memories to ourselves.

I will remember well the British man trying to mush the fleeing rat, his face so full of February’s cloudiness. Likewise, I'll think of your Dad - huddled over golden embers, he tends October's fire.

*The Wanganui may also be spelled "Whanganui".