I stood upon a small outcrop of rocks, scanning the land. Fields of dry gold stretched out all around me, patched with the shaved green areas of a golf course, and laced with dark green shrubbery. Ahead of me, merging with the hazel fields of Jack’s Point was Lake Wakatipu. It glittered like some grand opal dragon, stretching into distant valleys. Mountains rose above everything like kings, and I wondered what adventures lay beyond them.
Journey…
I leaped off the rocky outlook, and returned to my little slice of shade, ever shortening as the sun crawled along its axis. It was one of the hottest days I’d ever known - so hot, it seemed like the sun could burn blisters into the Earth. Even the Remarkable mountains looked like they were starting to buckle underneath the weight of it… At least I had been offered shelter by Bernie, the coffee caravan I was tending. I plonked onto the seat in Bernie’s bubble of shade.
Bernie was the refreshments stop on the 9th hole of the Jack’s Point Golf Course - an oasis for golfers in the summer. On a normal day, quite a few golfers would cruise into the little cul de sac aboard their golf buggies, surprised that Bernie even existed and relieved that we sold beer and wine (and sandwiches). I would sit on the chair outside like a warden, reading a book or writing something into my journal until another party of golfers came by. But today, on my last day up at Bernie, I was left in peace and solitude. ‘There are exceptionally few golfers out there today,’ one of the golf fellas had briefed me at the Clubhouse earlier that day.
Fumbling through my leather bag, I pulled out my red journal - it looked glossy when I held it in the light. I flicked through it, recalling that I had printed my first characters into this journal on my first day up at Bernie. Now it was brimming with my ideas and contemplations, all scrabbled across half of the pages. I had spent every spare moment up at Bernie scribbling into this journal, refining my big plan for 2018 like a swordsman sharpening his blade. I needed to, because in just a few more days, I would be unemployed.
I would be leaning on this plan soon.
I felt sentimental. It was a blessing to be nestled up at Bernie on these summer days, to sit here with my journals and ideas; with time to read and write. And even on days when I wasn’t assigned to Bernie, the Jack’s Point Clubhouse was still a stunning place to work. I was sitting amongst the final moments I would spend in the rolling fields of Jack’s Point.
The next chapter of my life was calling my name. A journey across New Zealand. A quest...
Time ticked along, and the suns gaze crawled its way across the empty page of my red journal, overturning the shadow of Bernie. It was bright without my shabby writing strewn across it, and it dazzled my eyes. I pulled the journal into the shade, and tried to meet pen with paper once again. I was attempting to write a short story, but it wasn’t working. For the past month, my nightly busking sessions had shown me the great deal of fulfilment that I earned from actualising and sharing my passion for music. To have my music reach people and make them smile was one of the most rewarding things I had ever experienced. Now I needed to do the same with my writing - I wanted to write stories that could inspire and entertain people!
I needed to create a blog.
A lone gust of wind came tumbling by, spurring the blank pages of the journal. It carried on rolling across the dry plains in the distance, snagging my attention along the way. I was so easily distracted. Nothing was being written, and my time up at Bernie - along with the shadow it provided - was growing thin. It was so easy to have the thought to write a blog, and to jot down themes and ideas that I wanted to discuss; stories that I wanted to tell. But it seemed damn near impossible to actually write my first story. In truth, I didn’t know where to start; which idea to pursue. I chewed on my pen. ‘Perhaps I’ll start with busking…’ I murmured, and forced myself to write something.
‘It was on my 21st birthday that I decided to busk. Perhaps this was the internal gift to myself - a key to unlock an actualised life, and the opportunity to at last share my gift with the world…'
At last, I was writing! My hand crossed the page in a controlled and steady manner at first. But my pace quickened as ideas flooded into my hand as if they burst through a levee, and it wasn’t long until the tip of the pen was fluttering as frantically as the wings of a bee. I managed a few glances upward to check if there were golfers, but otherwise I barely even notice how much time passed by. My vision to create a blog was manifesting right before my very eyes, and I couldn’t get enough of it. And that’s when my phone alarmed me; buzzing from my pocket.
I pulled it out - it was my boss, Jimmy.
“Hey Jimmy, what’s up?”
“Hi Josh. Can you see smoke on the golf course?”
Smoke? I jumped from my seat, and scrambled up the rocky outcrop. There was indeed a huge plume of smoke reaching far into the skies, a fist of grey fury.
“Yeah, there is!” I said with shock and fascination, eyes widening to take in the sight before me.
“Cool, thanks,” said Jimmy before hanging up. Phone still in hand, my arm fell limp to my side. It was a fire! Writhing beneath the column of smoke, it consumed and laid waste to the grasses, tearing its way across the fields not 800 meters from where Bernie was nestled. I just stood there, enthralled. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen - a monstrosity of smoke choking the skies; a tormentor ravaging the brazen land.
And then my phone jumped again. Jimmy.
“Josh! Get down from there ASAP!”
Oh SHIT!
I snapped out of my daze, turning to hurry back down to Bernie. All around the caravan was bone-dry shrub. I was gripped by panic within a mere instant. It could all be ablaze within minutes!
I scrambled about Bernie like a headless chicken, trying to assemble my belongings. My heart was just about lurching through my chest. I couldn’t see the fire from Bernie, and it made me feel hopeless and completely mad for trying to save my things. The fire could be reaching ever closer, ravenous. Thoughts were colliding in my head: ‘Should I lock Bernie? Grab the till?!’ I tried to calm myself down with deep breathing, but to no avail. With just my bag and keys, I fled the caravan and launched through the scrub behind it. Sitting there, as helplessly as Bernie, was The Emerald Wagon - my car. A sight for sore eyes!
Literally diving into the drivers seat, I shoved the keys into the ignition and turned them, jumping the engine. My body was trembling. “Damn!!” I said aloud. “The red journal!” I couldn’t leave it behind.
I tumbled out of the car and scurried through the prickly scrub back up to Bernie. I could see the smoke in the distance, rising ominously upward, seemingly forever. I could even taste it. The red journal was still on the table where I was writing so peacefully not 10 minutes prior, bathed in thick sunlight - the shadow of Bernie had fled faster than I did. I reached for the journal and dashed back to my car. This time, I was well and truly out of there.
Puling out onto the road, I sped forward in the wagon, headed back down the only road to the Clubhouse. I was heading straight into the wall of smoke. “Oh shit!” I had no time to think, and pressed my foot harder on the accelerator like a madman. The car hurtled forward, headfirst into the chaos. Within an instant, I was in the thicket, eyes laser-focussed on the road I could barely see - swerving the car as if I was the Rock in the latest action blockbuster. It was mayhem, but only for a few long seconds. I burst through to the other side, speeding onward and back to Clubhouse. I wiped sweat from my forehead as I pulled into a carpark down at the bottom, heart still racing, but safe.
Standing on the deck of the Clubhouse - all ruffled by the commotion on the golf course - I watched in relief as a squad of helicopters lifted water from the small lake in giant buckets, and counter-attacked the fire. The hungry flame was doused, and the wider fields saved. Thankfully, I was still alive and unscathed, and Bernie was untouched. I gripped the red journal hard in my hand.
———————————
A few days later…
———————————
Admittedly, I was nervous. The cursor of my computer hovered over the ‘publish’ button like a fat blowfly - for quite awhile too. And then I did it; I pressed that damn button, and published my first story ever - ‘My Perfect Little Chair’.
I leaned back into the couch, a warm fuzzy feeling lighting up in my stomach like a campfire. I was so excited about this new blog I had just created - 'The Heroes Journey!' - especially after the ordeal at Jack’s Point, and the story behind its gripping inception. I even pulled out my red journal, almost overwhelmed by this urge to write the story of Bernie and the fire as my second instalment into the blog. But something felt wrong, so I closed the journal.
Hmmm. 'I think I need more context..’
I had lots to do anyway - I was due out of my Queenstown abode at the break of the next dawn. I still needed to pack away and heave all my luggage into the wagon. Not to mention clean the room .. 'Oh dear,' I thought, noticing the state of the kitchen and the wardrobe looming above it, spewing clothes. I was overwhelmed, wondering where to start. And then I saw the treasure chest in the corner of the room- of course! It couldn't be more obvious.
I lifted the lid, revealing a pile of coins glowing in the lamplight, a mat of notes laying atop like feathers. It was all the money I had earned from busking; all the various coins and notes I had been given in exchange for gracing the Queenstown waterfront with my music. I had stashed it up, waiting patiently for this very moment. It felt like the reward for successfully completing my first major quest in Queenstown. I had found what I came here to find, and I was ready for the next journey.. This casket could pay my way, up and down the country on the SHEEP New Zealand tour and beyond!
And I was gone the next day. The cool morning air whistled through the open window of the Emerald Wagon as I sped down along the Mountain highway, onwards to Dunedin. Queenstown twinkled like a distant star in the rear view mirror. 'Ill be back soon enough,' I thought to myself, knowing that my journey in the South Island was only just beginning. The Queenstown valleys folded behind me as mountains consumed the road. These mountains were home to me, to 'Joshua St Clair', and what I wanted to achieve as an Artist.
But Dunedin? A mystery!
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