July 27, 2020, Journal

A hole carved into a hillside caught my attention as I was driving down route 6 for my usual morning adventure. This scrubby, sunny spot was far from human habitation, and I was joyously alone. The Regent doesn’t seem to have an occupation that might shift his focus from me.

Carmen bumbled to a halt on the side of the empty road, and I crossed over. The soil in this part of the West Coast reminds me of the dense red clays of the Appalachian lowlands. There, the flat clay particles stack together and form an impenetrable mass that might as well be rock. Nutrients are locked away to all but the most pernicious roots, so the land is both barren and overgrown with useless weeds. Here, the land belongs to itself, graciously excusing itself from usefulness.

It was probably a lot of fun for some fellow and his mattock to come out here and chip away at this remote bit of the South Island. The hillside crumbled easily, but it was hard enough to hold the vague shape of stairs leading up to a small tunnel. Hoisting myself up the sketchy stairs, I found myself in a vaguely symmetrical hole, about four feet tall and two feet wide. The floor was packed down quite well, but New Zealand couldn’t help but cover the damp walls with lashings of moss and a festive fern or two.

I stumped, huddled, through the tunnel, only to find that it was no more than thirty feet long. The opposite end was obscured by the desiccated skirt of a tree fern. Long layers of dry leaves shook like the roof of a tiki bar when I pushed them aside.

There was nowhere to go but straight down. I clung to the outer edge of the hole, finding a ledge that led to a knot of roots to the left. From there, I could see the tiny, steep-walled valley clearly. It was all dense brush and thick, dark leaves that could have been easily accessed from the road, had anyone wanted dangerous footing and lacerated shins. Nothing else, not even a hint of ancient castles or burial sites or even rare, exotic flora.

The tunnel has absolutely no purpose. It goes from nowhere to nowhere, like 18^th century follies in English gardens. It tunneled solely for the sake of tunneling. Fucking adorable New Zealand.

It encouraged me to sit right there in the present moment. I shuffled around, settling myself and my backpack until the tunnel’s view was framed perfectly in its front doorway. Maybe this was the whole point: the view.

Yin and yang swirled around each other in the tunnel’s arched frame: ocean filling the shore, vegetation slipping down the hills, and land cupping the river-like road. It sorted itself out as I smoked a morning joint and meditated, the long winter shadows drawing the bright landscape straight like the teeth of a comb.

If only the future could keep its distance… if only it wasn’t so cold, I’d stay here in this mossy birth canal forever and refuse the right of re-entry into the harsh world from which I emerged.