Wet bouldering days at castle hill - New Zealand

We arrive late on a wet evening at Castle Hill, and testing out our new head lamps which thankfully work a treat, set up the tent in the dark. Sleeping gear in, we lay exhausted with tired eyes but sleep doesn’t come easily. The water in the stream, tranquil at first gets louder and more threatening as the rain intensifies. How high can it rise in one night I wonder? I drift in and out of sleep. We are lilo-ing downstream on our stomachs, in our sleeping bags, on our mats. We drift through the forest under big canopies, dropping our hands in to say hello to the fish. We make friends with the pretty keas who are content to sit on our backs for the free ride. Up ahead the stream goes through a cave, and there, guarding the entrance is Gollum.... the riddles begin.

What is the grade 16 highball route beginning with D? How many bouldering routes are at Castle Hill, and what is a kea’s favourite food after the rubber on your climbing shoes?

I wake the next morning with great relief that the tent hasn’t moved, and that we're dry. But the rain lingers on during the day, leaving the Castle Hill boulders greasy and wet. So began the rainy day climbers' ritual. Out came the hacky sack ( or happy sack as I insist on saying to keep our spirits high) and out came the frisbie... out came the coffee pot, and out came the nibblies. And when we were bored then began the hut traverse, the mantle fireplace boulder problem, the sloper beam hang, the one arm jug roof hang, chin ups on the eves... but best of all the banter.
“Did you know that a sheep can recognise up to 25 other sheep? They have done tests, and found that sheep will recognise the rest of their flock and follow them above any other sheep”, said one reliable source. But what happens if they have had a hair cut I wonder? I certainly wouldn’t recognise my friends naked and hairless... and probably wouldn’t want to... and definitely not 25 of them. I begin to wonder if a sheep’s intellect has surpassed that of the human race. Perhaps the sheep is sacred, and holy, and supreme. Perhaps New Zealand is the land of the holy sheep, like India’s holy cow. Perhaps my kiwi friends have sheep rituals they are hidding from me.

I stop pondering over sheep and wonder back to the tent, my haven from the rain, but there, right at the entrance is a hole. A nibbled, dirty, ripped hole. A hole that lets the rain in. Someone was chewing away at it during the night and I doubt it was Nic! I seeth with rage, and wonder. That was some viscious animal. Then I remember, it is not the sheep that is holy in New Zealand, but the kea.