Kiwi Steve

The cycling trip that took me through Kaikoura in 1976 found me crossing the Southern Alps via the Lewis Pass and riding the seemingly endless climb up the Buller Gorge. As I crested the final pitch I heard someone say, “Cup of tea?”

Looking around for the source of this welcome invitation, I spotted a rather wild looking gent wrestling a goat while standing on top of what appeared to be a large dog house.

Goats generally like climbing on things so as to have a better look around and farmers generally don’t want them to. Hence the disagreement.

By the time Steve had won the match, Pam and Bill had caught up and we all entered the old roadside inn that Steve called home.

We sipped our tea and had homemade cheese on crackers while Steve explained his off-grid life. No electricity, no phone, but plenty of cows, and chickens.

As we were talking, there was a commotion in the hallway. We all rushed to investigate and found that a cow had let itself in through the open door and had taken a dump on the hallway carpet. Without breaking stride, Steve chased the cow out, ripped the carpet from the floor, and chucked it out after the chastised cow. Then we returned to our tea.

Reluctant to leave, but with many miles ahead of us, we bid farewell to this unique, hospitable bloke.

Seven years pass.

I’m driving south from Nelson with visiting friends Mark and Paula from Portland when we find ourselves passing Steve’s place. Of course we stop.

”Hi, Steve. I passed by seven years ago on my push bike with a couple of mates and you invited us in for tea.” “Well then, I reckon you’d better come in for another cuppa.”

There were some changes. His partner Janice had enough and moved to Greymouth. In her place were a team of Clydesdale horses and some at-risk city boys. Also, a phone and electricity.

Steve was supporting himself by hand logging his land using his huge, powerful horses. He also got money from the government for some kind of youth rehabilitation program that I never fully understood.

In the morning, Steve walked into the forest leading his horses. He would fell a tree, attach it to a Clydesdale, and send the animal back to the farm on its own. The boys would disconnect the log and point the horse back into the woods.

”How did you know they would come back?” “I would feed them at the worksite.”

Forty years pass.

Mary Anne, Richard, Miriam, and I are on our way from Kaiteriteri to Reefton via the Buller Gorge. Of course we stop.

I immediately notice that the place looks a bit tidier than before. And, hold onto your hat, there’s a Ring doorbell! I push the button.

A friendly bloke named Barry answered. “Is Steve about?” “No, he died two years ago.” Barry pointed to the left of the door. “He died in that room.”

Barry married Steve’s daughter. They were with him to the end.

Here’s to Kiwi Steve. A gentle, hardworking bloke who made his chosen life a success.

I never knew his surname.