Puketapu puts it in perspective

Hmmm... being human. Sometimes it’s a right pain, isn’t it? From the failure of the body to the failure of the mind. We’re full of flaws and full of faulty thinking.

Here’s one. The temptation of tantalising leftovers, loaded with sugar, fat and flavour enhancers, can be dealt to through a quick scull down the waste disposal unit on our face. Do it quickly and it didn’t happen. Problem solved. Temptation removed.

Palmerston people, should they fall prey to this trap, are lucky to have instant redress in their backyard - Puketapu hill. It’s steep and potentially punishing, but it’s also quite dreamy.

Initially, the route crosses calm farmland. Appealing green slopes entice towards the horizon, green meets blue.

Puketapu and its monument are omnipresent, beckoning higher.

Pretty soon, amazing views poke up. The eye follows the state highway north. There’s the sound of cars on the familiar trade route but way up here we’re in an escape zone. As the track circles the hill the east coast reveals itself, way back to the mouth of Otago Harbour.

A final grunt and we’re up there.

But wait, there’s more.

The monument at the top has internal steps and ladders. It’s like a standalone turret, complete with open slit windows. It’s almost a monument to how much times have changed. It commemorates a local who became Minister of Lands, introducing the "native land" policy that alienated many Māori people from their land.

There’s nothing like a high-up view for a good hard think. Bring binoculars. It’s a whole new perspective compared with that glimpsed from a drive-by.

Palmerston is at the mouth of the triangle-shaped valley up the Pig Root. Way in the distance are the tips of Central Otago hills. Miles and miles of land host many more lives than just those in our wheeled motorised box. We’re here only briefly. We don’t own any of it. Humans are just tenants.

But our human desires predominate, most of them aimed at the short term.

We’re all doing what we think’s best - within the constraints of being human.

Scrub on the side of the hill hosts an audible bellbird. Flitting swallows let you share their patch.

It’s roughly an hour up but everybody’s different. An annual race up the hill has clocked a record run of 20 minutes. The race commemorates a World War 2 policeman who would run up looking for enemy ships.

Back to earth, all the normal farm-crossing rules apply and the track’s closed for lambing from September to November. In parts, rocks are camouflaged by long grass.