by Glenn Wood
When this happened the next 10 cadets simply swooped in, picked up the pole and carried on with the race. There was section honour at stake. One of the reserve runners did poke his head over the cliff and ask if we were alright. Upon receiving a couple of moans in the affirmative he said ‘good’ and buggered off as well. By the time we had picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves down and climbed to the top of the cliff, our section and our pole were half a kilometre away. We had to sprint to catch up - just in time to be handed the pole again. The entire section was shattered and bruised by the time we crossed the finish line. Some cadets had lost their towels in the run and had badly smashed their shoulders. It took over a week for us to recover from the poleathon. Physically, that is; the mental scars remain. I now have an irrational loathing of everyone who works for Telecom.
In an unrelated incident some Australian cadets came over for a visit. We beat them in the drinking competition, thanks to one cadet who has a bucket where his throat should be. That’s all I’d like to say about that.
Speaking of mental scars (which I was before the Australians so rudely interrupted), shortly after our transtasman cousins left we began our bushcraft course. I recall very little of the lectures but have very strong memories of the exercise itself.
Before we plunge headfirst into my sorry tales of Trentham trekking tragedies, you should be aware of my ignominious history in the bush. I must admit, my previous attempts to commune with Mother Nature had been less than successful.
When I was a camp leader for the YMCA, our duties included teaching kids the basics of bushcraft. This was a bit difficult as I didn’t know any, and to be honest my motives for spending nights in the wilderness were different from the camp director’s. Where he saw it as an opportunity to teach kids some appreciation of New Zealand’s native flora and fauna, I saw it as a chance to bed the female camp leaders.
My theory was that the bush was a scary place and the girls would require some masculine protection. Which just goes to show how truly stupid I was.
I had overlooked my complete and utter terror of insects. I have arachnophobia and even the tiniest spiders freak me out. I trace my terror of spiders back to primary school when the only girl in the class I actually liked turned on me one day and chased me around the classroom with a daddy long legs. Bitch. She made me look like a sissy in front of the boys and all the girls laughed. That was the last time I shared my egg sandwiches with her.
It wasn’t just spiders I was afraid of. Any creepy crawly sets my nerves on edge and I especially hate flying bugs. So, as you can imagine, the bush wasn’t the ideal place for me to position myself as a haven of testosterone fuelled shelter. I was less of a Bear Grylls and more of a Winnie the Pooh.
My secret was soon out but surprisingly, it worked in my favour. Several of the girls thought it ‘cute’ that a hulking guy like me could be reduced to a quivering wreck by a small bug and they fussed around me, making sure my bivouac was insect free. This meant they built it while I sat on a log watching. And best of all, it also meant they came in at night for a pre-sleep bug check. I even managed to persuade two girls (both of whom I had a huge crush on) that the only way I’d be safe was if they both slept in the bivouac with me. I was astonished when they agreed and I settled down for the night with a girl in each arm.
This may sound like heaven for a young heterosexual guy whose hormones were going through the roof and frankly, it was, but my joy was short lived. After about 15 minutes of having the girls snuggle up to me, one on either side, I realised that, not only was my head resting on a rock but both of my arms had gone numb. Rather than risk moving and letting go of one or both of my sleeping companions I stayed still and suffered. I was unable to sleep from the pain, so I stayed awake gritting my teeth in exquisite agony and listening to the soft plink of tree wetas falling onto the bivouac’s polythene roof. Any thoughts I may had of a carnal nature (and there were many) were extinguished by the uncomfortable position I ended up in.
As I hadn’t tried it on with the girls (due to both arms being dead) I got a reputation for being a nice guy. The sort of fellow girls like to be friends with. This was a disaster because, as any guy knows, friendship the kiss of death as far as sex is concerned and I never did manage to carve any notches in the tree that held up my bivouac.
Still, I was the envy of the camp for having shared the night with two women and it was all due to my new-found friends in the insect world. Though frankly, after the primary school incident, they owed me.
So, aside from discovering that rocks make extremely poor pillows, I had learnt nothing about bushcraft from the YMCA camps.
An opportunity for redemption came at army cadet training during my first sixth-form year at school. Our platoon was going to tramp through the Egmont State Forest, then on to Weld Road Reserve for Army manoeuvres. Surely, this time I would learn some useful survival techniques. Especially as there weren’t going to be any female shaped distractions at this camp, mine being an all boys’ school. This guaranteed the exercise was going to be a lot less fun than the YMCA camps. My bivouac companions were Geoff and Quentin and no matter how lonely it got in the bush I doubted we’d be getting together for a snuggle. We were best mates, but the line had to be drawn somewhere.
The other fun-killer was that the exercise would be taken by my biology teacher, Mr Taylor (not his real name). Not content with giving me stink marks all year, he set about making things as hard as possible for me on this tramp. He had taken a real dislike to Quentin and me. He saw us as disruptive influences, which was ironic given the rest of our platoon was made up of the school’s biggest macho dickheads and hoodlums.
Naturally, as the army was in charge, they chose the worst offenders to be our platoon leaders – a small group of large second-year sixths with the most gigantic of them all (Big Gav) easily being the biggest guy in school. The others all played rugby for the first XV and were, shall we say, academically challenged. They were solid brutes and Quentin and I made it our policy to avoid them at all costs. This was difficult as they shared a loathing for Geoff, Quentin and me. Our chances of emerging from the bush intact looked bleak.
It became apparent within the first few hours that Big Gav and crew were out to get us. They opted for mental torment rather than physical. We were immediately placed on latrine duty, which meant not only digging the damn things but, even more disgustingly, filling them in after use. This group spent the 10 days giving us every shitty job their spiteful brains could think up and Mr Taylor was quite content to let them.
This unholy alliance made our lives a misery. On our first day in the bush we were taken to a particularly boggy section of ground for a lecture from Mr Taylor on swamp fauna and flora. Half way through the talk he thought of a suitably menial task for me and I was sent me off on a pointless errand. I didn’t want to antagonise him so I did my best to complete the task in double quick time. My haste was to be my downfall. As I ran back towards the group I caught my foot in a supplejack vine. The creeper sprang up and catapulted me over a small bank into the swamp.
According to eye-witnesses (Quentin and Geoff) my fall was quite extraordinary as I somehow managed to fly like a spear; embedding myself head first in the swamp. I stayed vertical for a few seconds, foul-smelling water oozing into my eyes, nostrils and ears. Then, with a wet sucking squelch, my body tipped sideways and I lay sprawled in the bog. I hadn’t been hurt, but I felt pretty bloody stupid.
The most astounding part of the whole incident was Mr Taylor’s reaction. He was furious, and as I raised myself soggy and embarrassed from the muck he yelled at me.
‘Wood! You did that deliberately to disrupt my lesson.’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The surrounding pupils found his claims equally ludicrous. The only thing keeping Geoff from guffawing aloud was Quentin’s hand over his mouth. Taylor ranted unreasonably for several minutes but my ears were full of mud and I missed most of it. As punishment for my plot to usurp his authorit
y I was made to sit by myself for the rest of the lesson. This ineffectual punishment was completely unnecessary because, reeking of stagnant bog water as I did, the chances of anyone sitting next to me was minimal.
Aside from latrine digging, being pushed off the occasional rock into the river by our beloved platoon leaders, and my obvious efforts to sabotage the bushcraft exercise by taking my own life, the next few days passed relatively quietly. Our nights were spent in our tents trying to sleep on bits of tree root. In contrast, Mr Taylor spent his time sharing a few beers and a smoke with Gav and the boys, their revelry only disturbed by coming over to kick the side of our tent and tell us off for talking too loud. Finally I learnt something from Mr Taylor: the meaning of the word hypocrisy.
After another three days of tramping aimlessly around the bush and having dull bits of lichen pointed out to us by Mr Taylor we finally arrived at Weld Road. Now we were onto stage two of our bushcraft exercise, which inexplicably was set in fields by the beach, miles from the bush. The army, like God, works in mysterious ways.
Our tents were much more comfortable and only had to be set up once. We had met up with the rest of the sixth form, and were split into new platoons. It appeared we were finally out of the clutches of Big Gav and pals. Yahoo.
The teachers took a back seat as the army seized control and began to teach us military stuff. This consisted of being yelled at by wiry men with short haircuts. These men were obviously very practiced at yelling and were remarkably good at it. They did strike one problem though, and it was very funny. The drill sergeants were used to screaming at grown men and had carte blanche to use whatever language they deemed fit. Said language was, however, deemed inappropriate for the delicate ears of cherubic schoolboys and the sergeants had been asked to curb their swearing.
This was like asking a dog not to lick his balls. Drill sergeants live to be offensive - they’ve made an art form of it and it was hilarious watching them trying to hold back and mostly not succeeding.
‘What the hell sort of a fffnnn abortion are you, Wood, I’ve seen more coordinated cripples. Where the fffff did you learn to ffff flippen well march, fffn nursery school? You fffff fluffed up streak of weasels piss.’
Even with modified swearing, their insults were a thing of beauty and this was one part of the course that did prepare me for Trentham. Although, and I feel like a traitor for saying it, the police instructors insults weren’t quite as good as the army’s. No one can wound with words like the armed forces.
It turned out the army weren’t going to teach us bushcraft after all - we’d already been taught that (where had I been?). Instead they were going to teach us sneaking around. A very useful skill and one I’ve employed many times since.
One particular form of sneaking was called the kitten crawl and it involved getting down on all fours and shuffling forward using your elbows and knees. I enjoyed this manoeuvre and decided to use it if an appropriate opportunity ever arose. My chance came the following evening on a night exercise. The aim of the activity was to sneak into a roped-off area (the enemy base), which was being patrolled by six soldiers, all armed with powerful torches and equally potent voices.
They waited until it was pitch black then began the exercise, releasing us about 500 metres away from the target area. It was up to each pupil to find their way to the enemy base without being spotted and ‘shot’. If you were caught in the torch beam you had to stand up and make the long embarrassing walk to another roped-off area nicknamed ‘the morgue’. There would have been more than 80 klutzy teenagers bashing about the fields of Weld Road Reserve that night and it didn’t take long for the army to send at least half that number to the morgue.
Surprisingly, I was doing okay, not because of any great stealth on my part but because I’d fluked upon a sneaky route to the roped-off area. On the left hand side of the enemy base was a steep hill and I’d clambered three quarters of the way up it and was making my way along a natural ridge. I wasn’t the only one using this approach but I was the only one to go so far up the hill. I could see lots of shadowy figures sneaking along the hillside below me.
Every now and then a powerful torch beam would sweep over the hill as our opponents scoured the area for movement. When this happened everyone would hit the ground and lie still.
After one particularly close call (where I was saved from detection by a guy just below me being nabbed), I decided the best way to proceed was by utilising the kitten crawl. I assumed a prone position and began wiggling forward on my elbows and knees. This kept me low to the ground and hard to spot. But there were drawbacks, the main one being it was pitch black and I couldn’t see a bloody thing. I was crawling blind. I figured I would be aright as long as I followed the line of the ridge.
This worked extremely well and before long I was closing in on the cordoned-off area. Seconds later I kitten-crawled nose first into a hedgehog. One of the nasty brute’s spikes went right up my nostril. I leapt up and yelled ‘Owwww fuck ow, ow, ow.’
Six torch lights hit me simultaneously. I was put on a charge for swearing (latrine duty) and sent to the morgue.
Bloody hedgehog. I decided to get my own back by biffing the prickly little bastard down the hill. I tried to pick it up but annoying beastie had rolled up into a tight ball. After fumbling around for a few minutes I finally got hold of it (spiking myself again in the process) and threw it into the night. Seconds later I heard a cry from the dark, then another, then another. On its way to the bottom the hedgehog was bouncing into members of my class who were crawling along further down the hill. It was like one of those bouncing bombs the British used to destroy dams during the Second World War. The rolling hedgehog claimed three victims before coming to a rest in the field below and scuttling off under a bush. But was it the hedgehog that got the blame for my mates capture? No, it was me and I never heard the end of it.
That was the one and only time I ever used the kitten crawl. Once again the exercise had finished without me gaining any discernible skills.
The same could not have been said for another member of our class. His name won’t be revealed here to protect the guilty. Given the nature of his leanings, I’m sure he will have gone on to work for some secret government agency and is probably single-handedly reviving the Cold War.
Anyway, the classmate concerned, let’s call him Mr X, had made an interesting observation. He was interested in the latrines. Not in a sick, weirdo way but in the manner of a scientific experiment (though I realise the lines quite often blur, especially given the scientific communities fixation with cloning.)
I digress. Mr X had been observing the latrines for several days and had formed an intriguing theory. He hypothesised that the long-drop style of latrine we’d been doing our business in would by now be producing a considerable amount of methane gas. Methane is a light gas and would normally disperse but Mr X thought the poor design of the long-drop holes might have resulted in small pockets becoming captured. He maintained that five days worth of school boy crap would make a decent-sized blast if ignited. Mr X proposed that some brave soul set light to a roll of toilet paper and biff it down the dunny.
We were intrigued. It was an audacious scheme and contained many elements no school boy could resist: fire, danger, an illegal act, a possible explosion and shit. How could we say no?
As it was his idea, he volunteered to do the deed. All we had to do was watch. Even better.
The set-up of the latrines was simple. Four deep holes in the ground all spilt into a trench that fed into the main bog pit. The toilets were surrounded by a five foot high wall of canvas, to preserve our modesty. This also acted as perfect shelter for anyone sneaking in and attempting to blow up the toilets. I’m surprised the army hadn’t thought of this - hadn’t they heard the saying ‘Cripple the crapper and you cripple the camp?’ Probably not, as I just made it up.
The main bog pit was Mr X’s target. He’d calculated the biggest pocket of methane would be contained there and if that pocket
went up then the other four bogs should follow. We were sceptical but egged him on anyway. Even the remotest chance he may succeed was more than we could resist.
At the appointed time Mr X, armed with toilet paper and cigarette lighter, sauntered into the toilet tents. We crowded around at a safe distance from the canvas wall. We didn’t have to wait for long. Mr X went straight to the pit, lit the paper and, when it was nicely ablaze, he threw it down the hole.
The resulting explosions exceeded expectations. The gas in the main pit went up with a loud whoosh and a brilliant flash. A ball of fire then shot along the feeding trench, setting off four more blasts. Fountains of filthy water, bog paper, urine and large pieces of excrement, topped off with splintered toilet seats, shot high into the air.
The blast blew Mr X and the canvas wall to the ground. He landed in a heap in front of us. He was quite a sight - soaking wet and covered in shit. Astoundingly, he was uninjured and had a triumphant grin on his face. As we watched, a fine mist of sewerage rained down over the camp and a toilet seat landed on the top of the officers’ mess tent. We all agreed he was entitled to smile.
After the explosion there were many accusations, threats and decidedly un-schoolboy-friendly language from the army. They badly wanted to torture the boy who had blown up their camp but as we refused to rat on Mr X (we were scared of him now) they were forced to punish the lot of us. Camp ended early that year and the entire sixth form was given a good dressing down.
And that was it. My sixth-form bush training was over and aside from my proficiency at latrine digging I had come away from the whole experience none the wiser. So, when it came to bushcraft at Trentham all I had to fall back on were the recent, highly memorable, bush survival lectures to which I’d paid no attention. There’s nothing like going into the wilderness totally unprepared.