I am a husband, father, bishop in the anglican church, and pilgrim making my way with sometimes not enough fear and trembling and sometimes way too much.

Rangitoto is my mountain and the Waitamata are my waters. When I see them or swim in them I know that I am home.

I have anglo-catholic leanings – which means I am all for solemn bows and probably should be more for prostration.

I think of myself as orthodox in my beliefs but I note that there are many who have different beliefs to mine and they claim the same title.

When it comes to the title of this blog it obviously gives a little nod to the Anglo-Catholic  tracts but it also plays with the title of a favourite Sam Hunt poem, “Making Tracks.”

“Making Tracks” – Sam Hunt

The fishing boats are all out,

Dinghies on moorings.

The long-liners will be back later.

The trawlers won’t be in

Till all the bins are full,

It could be days.

And you ask, how long does it take

a track to be a path? Like –

the first time the grassland is explored

the track left is

the track of one man,

the gentle tread of a lightfoot, say.

Another person comes another

day to the edge of the grassland.

Or down to the bay a morning

like this, the fishing boats out,

Dinghies on moorings.

When ever they come, they stand,

they see the track of the first man

(the dinghy keel down the wet sand)

and if there’s no better options,

follow it. (It’s a track by then.)

It has something to do

with the long-liner, Silver Spray,

we watched this morning

motor out from the bay

for the groper reefs of Cook Strait.

The old man aboard is ninety,

fished with his father from French Pass,

went to sea when he was twelve.

They go back, father to father,

fishermen. There’s a rock

named after one of them.

Some say it’s him.

And if that’s not a track,

the naming, in honour, of a rock,

I don’t know what is!

No worry though, the

sea is calm, there’s

no one on the grassland.

We are the first ones here, that’s

right, the first ones born. So let’s

start making tracks.


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