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Go with the flow

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Why you can trust SCMP
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Johnny Two Combs is an eco-sexual, a hardy Kiwi South Island mountain man with matted dreadlocks who is addicted to the outdoor life. You won't find him at any swanky cocktail bar swapping stock-market tips. Instead, it's beer from a bottle and hand-rolled cigarettes all the way.

I'm handing my life over to Johnny as my river guide in the great white-water wilderness of New Zealand's Landsborough Valley, in the Southern Alps, a two-hour drive and a 20-minute helicopter flight from Queenstown. Scream out here and no one will hear you, which is why Johnny has brought his mates: Peanut, Paul Bags and the big kahuna, Whizz. What Whizz says goes; stand on his toes and you'll be spitting chips for breakfast - literally, because he doubles as lead guide and camp chef.

The movie Deliverance has done a lot for rafting: when shown the map of where we are going I am reminded of inbred hillbillies with less than noble intentions. New Zealand's wilderness may be devoid of the deadly snakes and spiders of its Aussie cousin and it might seduce with thrusting mountains, glacial lakes and azure blue rivers, but danger lurks on every corner. Spend too long in the near-freezing waters of the Landsborough River and you could die from hypothermia. If you fall out of the boat, and it happens, don't stand up in the river, we're told by Paul. If you find your foot caught between riverbed rocks you may be pushed over by running water, unable to release your feet, and drown before you can say 'squeal like a pig'.

Not even the full-body wetsuit, life jacket and waterproof buoyancy jacket will help you at this stage, except to keep you warm while the air is sucked out of you. The safety kayaker might save you, but that's not the point.

I have always been addicted to drama, choosing adrenaline sports over bridge and croquet. The idea that death or disaster is just around the corner makes me feel alive and it appears I am not alone. Ten clients, or 'victims' as the guides refer to us, are taking on the mighty river. Chad, an American from Mississippi, is 'pumped' to be on the river, having already rafted in four other countries. He's so 'pumped' he's brought his laptop computer, SLR camera, iPod and GPS device so he can track every current, mark the co-ordinates and download them each night onto his hard drive. He's moved heaven and Google Earth to be here and he wants boasting rights on film.

On day one we chopper in with supplies, over cobalt river waters and glaciers clinging to mountains that are worthy of Frodo and his mates. Camp No 1 is a wide expanse of woodland and open clearings. The sun doesn't go down until 11pm out here and there's nothing more than a campfire and a 'chilly bin' full of wine to keep us amused.

Whizz is handy with a ladle, which is why we rename him Martha Stewart; for that and his marinated chicken and triple chocolate cake, all prepared over the campfire. Dinner done, it's only 8.30pm and there's one deck of cards; unless I want to play snap with a 13-year-old American girl experiencing corn-syrup withdrawal I'd better pop a cork.

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