4 March 2015 Weedons, Canterbury

It rained even heavier last night although by morning the showers had abated and there were spells long enough for any of the numerous camping parties to dump or fill with water at the “station” there on site. We peered out our upstairs bedroom window and caught my father in his gumboots doing exactly that and thought they might sneak off before we were up, decent and inviting the day in with open curtains. Of course, that would never have occurred to them, and sure enough, after a decent period of time, they drove over to see us and bid their farewells, yet again.

We caught sight of their motorhome later over in the township when we returned from the supermarket, but they were soon off in the opposite direction and that was that, so we thought.

Many years ago we called in to see where the Pike River Coal Mine was located, interested then because we had invested some of our hard earned funds into the developing business. Long before the funds disappeared up in smoke, literally, it was clear that the investment had been a poorly considered one, or at least one that might benefit our grandchildren but never us in our life time. 

Tragically for us, but far more so for the local community of Greymouth,  the mine exploded on 19 November 2010 with thirty two men underground; two men walked out and twenty nine were lost.

The aftermath of the tragedy lingered long after the event, through the courts laying blame here and there, and worse for the bereaved, the delayed decision about recovery of the bodies. Finally late last year it was decided that there would be no recovery, and since then there has been much discussion about what any memorial should entail.

However this morning at the Information Centre, we were informed that there are several memorials in place, established in the intervening four years, and from an outsiders point of view, you would wonder what all the fuss is about. But then we have not lost a loved one, merely severely out of pocket, a fact that we have moved on from some time ago. We learned that there is a well-tended rose garden within the town boundaries; twenty nine white roses and the same number of red. Along the seawall there is another memorial to all the miners who have lost their lives in the region over the years, a total of 398 men including  those lost in the Pike River Mine, all named. And even more poignant is that up near the mine, or more accurately at Atarau on the corner of Atarau Road which follows the Grey River up the northern bank and Logburn Road which leads up to the mine entrance. We drove the near on forty kilometres from Greymouth, stopping  here and spent some time wandering about reading the poetry, the tributes and viewing the colourful memorials to each soul lost. It was all very touching and so well done. Surely this is as much as one would want? But then it was not my son or husband who was lost, and they say you should walk in the shoes before passing judgement.

We were about to continue on up to the mine entrance, or at least as far as we were allowed, when I suggested we check our smartphones for any communication, before venturing into the no-cellphone wilderness. There was a message from Chris’s niece about her father whose health progress we have been following for the past few weeks, in fact, years. He has taken a serious turn for the worse and our lives were about to change.

We abandoned our Pike River crusade, and turned back to Greymouth, filled with fuel and then managed to get through to Chris’s sister, just returned from the hospital in England. Within moments we were planning a long distance trip, aborting all out plans to travel further north, and instead heading across the island, through the Arthurs Pass to Christchurch from where we hoped to secure air flights to London.

And as an aside, as we passed by the turning to Blackball, a historical mining settlement off that same road, I received a short text from my mother: ”Did you just pass the Blackball Road?”. They had been up into the settlement and were just coming down toward the main road as we flew by. I rang her to explain the current situation and again, bid them safe journeys and farewell.

The middle pass across the South Island is a stunning road, to be enjoyed in the sunshine at leisure. We have travelled the road before, from east to west, and once back to Arthurs Pass from the west when the rain had hidden the glorious treasures of this road. Today as we left the west coast we were faced with similar inclement weather, the rain mist rising up through the high peaks as we drove up the wide Taramakau River and as we turned up the narrower Otira Valley. But as we climbed the steep section toward the Otira Viaduct, blue skies opened up above us and the mountain-scapes were revealed. I remember when the viaduct was opened, it was considered one of the greatest engineering events, or at least for us antipodeans. The 440 metre four-span viaduct crosses over a particularly unstable stretch of land, a section that was previously prone to avalanches, slips and frequent closures.  Stopping at the view points, one might be visited by keas, resident in these high altitudes, native parrots who are particularly partial to the rubber seals around door and windscreens. But today there was no time for such indulgences; we carried on over the pass at an altitude of 920 metres ASL. Once over the top, the road follows the Bealey River steeply down until it converges with the Waimakariri River, which has featured in earlier posts. Here the river is wide, ribbonned and very beautiful, and there are several intriguing walking tracks leading away up into valleys and up over peaks, but all having to be left for another day.

Soon the road turns south away from the wide river, and passes through barren looking alpine landscapes, high scree slides above and fascinating rock formations through Castle Hill where again one can go for a wander through a roadside section of this well know high country station to get up among the rocks, but not today. On past the burnt remnants of the recent grassfires, past Lake Pearson for which the model of our motorhome was named, up and over Porters Pass at 946 metres ASL and then down to the Canterbury Plains, where we were taken by our Tomtom across a network of straight flat roads to this now very familiar NZMCA camp.

Tomorrow we will venture into Hornby and organise air tickets, buy travel bags, a pair of winter shoes so I can be half presentable in a wintery formal English setting, haircuts, storage for the motorhome and a dozen other matters making up our long list compiled this afternoon as we drove the two hundred and fifty kilometres across the country.

And so this for now will have to be my last post for now as I expect us to be gone from these shores within days and not back for a month or so. It is sad that it is an imminent death that takes us across to the other side of the world; it was just such that took Chris from Perth to Great Britain nearly two years ago. Such is life.

3 March 2015 Cobden, West Coast

Ah, the beauty of motor homing; to wander here and there, often arriving at an unplanned destination, spending days in a fashion not expected and with those not expecting to meet (again).

As I put fingers to keyboard, we are holed up across the Grey River in a free camp, the rain still falling and not looking like abating any time soon. Just metres away are my parents in their motorhome, no doubt reading and resting as folk in their mid-eighties like to do when they are not driving across country or tramping in the hills.

Torrential rain fell all night, with no intermission as far as I could tell. We woke relatively early, safe and dry in our own van, but feeling rather sorry for the tourists in their own tiny cocoons; seven cars and small whizz-bangs came in last night, all with limited facilities. We had intended to fill with water on departure, but the rain had not eased, so we drove on straight back to Hokitika, noting the raised rivers, the Kaniere and its tributaries, all brown and swollen. We drove back south across the Hokitika River, just to check the level of flooding, if any. Here we found the entire width of the bridged river full, not a sand bank in sight. It was indeed a sight to behold.

The road to Greymouth is only about forty kilometres, and although not as picturesque as that further south, would normally be worthy of a few photo opportunities. Several old rail bridges have been preserved for such purpose, but today there was little incentive, and no improvement as we came on north. 

At Hokitika I had received a text from my mother sent last night advising they were going to sit tight at Greymouth given the weather. I responded this morning by telling her we would probably catch up with them, which we did late morning, sharing a welcome cup of coffee before retiring to our own van. Tonight they will wade through the puddles to ours where we shall entertain them again, which makes such a change from all the times we have been invited to their home in Whangarei. Again I am looking forward to it, and for now sign off and go do some early preparation.

2 March 2015 Hans Bay DOC Camp, Lake Kaniere, West Coast

The intervening days have rushed by, much of the time spent with my parents who turned up from Greymouth early Friday morning and set up camp beside us in Hokitika’s NZMCA Park. We drank copious cups of coffee, consumed several bottles of wine, a few packets of crisps and shared three evening meals, all between much talking and exchanging of news, ideas and solutions to the woes of the our own world and that beyond. From time to time we wandered off separately or at least in our own coupledom to discover the wonders of Hokitika, the remnants of bygone days and that on offer today. On Sunday, Chris and I went to the cinema, the old refurbished 1935 Art Deco Regent Theatre, an experience all in itself. We went to see the Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, having seen and loved the First, and excited about all the hype for the second. Alas, we were disappointed; the build-up had been too much for reality. While we did enjoy the film, we were able to report back to my parents that they would do better to pick up the DVD of the first film, before bothering with the second, if at all.

Our walking about the town, along the river bank and the sea shore reminded us of the history of Hokitika, already gleaned from a past visit to the museum, and subsequently reinforced by Jenny Patrick’s historical novel set in the area. Nowadays it is hard to imagine the size and importance of the port, especially as you consider the bar and the mass of shallow islands right across the entrance.

A signal station was first built at the entrance to the Hokitika River in 1865. It used a combination of raised balls, coloured flags and painted arms to inform waiting ships of the prevailing conditions and guide the safely across the hazardous sand bar. A series of signal stations continued to function here until the 1950s and a signalman was employed right through until 1952. But by this time maritime traffic had dwindled and the era of ships crossing the Hokitika bar was drawing to an end.

Separately, or rather, in tandem, a lighthouse was built on the hill at Seaview to help guide ships to safety. The lighthouse ceased operating in 1924 but the structure still remains at Seaview today. 

Along with the shifting sand bar at the river entrance came periods of coastal erosion. Serious erosion occurred in 1914 when the sea destroyed a number of buildings along Revell Street. From the late 1870s a series of breakwaters were constructed to fix and deepen the entrance to the river port. These were extended during 1911-1914 but were later left to deteriorate; little remains of these today.

 Apart from the various interpretative panels and ship memorials, there is a plaque that remembers the forty two vessels lost on the Hokitika River Bar between 1965 and 1982. One of the panels explains how the arrival at Hokitika was more perilous for the miners moving from the goldfields of Ballarat and Bendigo, than the voyage across the Tasman Sea; every ten days or so in the period 1865 to 1867, there was a collision, grounding or shipwreck. Out of 108 mishaps, thirty two vessels were totally wrecked, twenty one of them in 1865. Hokitika by 1966 was averaging one wreck every ten weeks.

Some vessels stuck fast going out, many were grounded coming in, while others were beached due to pilot error, or by tow-lines attached to the busy tugs breaking as the ship was being towed over the bar. Schooners which lost the wind at a critical moment were soon flung up on the spits; steamers with fires doused by heavy seas met the same fate. Some losses were the result of human error or the use of unsuitable, unseaworthy craft. Most were due to the almost north / south river entrance which forced ships to enter almost broadside to the sea.

We were also reminded of the history of our camp on the south side of the River. Once an aerodrome, it was a pioneer centre of West Coast aviation from 1932 to 1952. The first aircraft to visit Hokitika was Maurice Buckley’s “Blazing Arrow” in 1923-24 which used the Hokitika beach. Land for the aerodrome was gifted by the Renton family and the first aircraft landed in January 1932. The aerodrome was subsequently enlarged and improved through various unemployment schemes. The Hokitika Aero Club was established here in 1932. Southside was the first base for Air Travel (NZ) from 1934 to 1947 and national Airways Corporation from 1947 to 1952. These airlines provided a scheduled air service to South Westland and, for a period, to the Nelson province. Hangers were built and engineering facilities provided during the 1930’s. The house near the aerodrome site was built by the Rentons for Air Travel’s Chief Pilot. The remains of the hangers and original embankments can still be seen around the site. In 1952 the aerodrome closed and was replaced by the existing Seaview Airport.

Another of our wanderings took us to investigate the identity of the high towered building a little to the north of the main street. This turned out to be St Mary’s Catholic Church, now out of use because of earthquake danger. Signs warned we should stay out of the building and even off the section, however the interpretative panels by the main door explaining the history of the building can only be read at close quarters, and so we trespassed long enough to do this.

The foundation stone was laid for this massive tabernacle-like structure in 1914, but war intervened and it was not until 1927 that the structure was considered complete. Years and years later, in 1960, the church became the first Catholic Church in New Zealand to be consecrated “in perpetuity to the service of God”, a fact or rather, statement, that confused me. I thought all churches were consecrated as part of their “opening” to be for the service of “God”?

In 1978, the church underwent a massive refurbishment, and it obviously had many years of use, “serving God” before the council or someone with similar powers, decided that the building was a bit too dodgy, even for those under the protection of “God”.  It is a shame from a historical point of view that the church is not open for inspection, or even for the use it was designed and built. Its bulk is quite inspiring even if it is, as Chris suggested, rather a monstrosity.

Interestingly a report in the local paper in januar reported that it would take $1.6 million to bring St Mary’s up to earthquake resistant standards. While the Christchurch dioceses is prepared to contribute $400,000, the local parish are expected to pay the balance. I suspect the locals are all hoping a major earthquake may rock on by and solve the whole problem!

This morning we fare-welled  my parents, or rather, they fare-welled us, because they left the camp for the laundry and other household tasks before we were ready to move out ourselves. We picked up fresh bread and set off for the Hokitika Gorge, sometimes referred to as the Blue Gorge. The river waters here in this wonderful ravine thirty three kilometres from the town are an unbelievable turquoise colour, caused by the glacial flour. 

The road to this wonder passes through the lovely wide dairying valley of the Hokitika and Kokatahi Rivers, passing the tiny rural settlement of Kowhitirangi, the scene of a massive twelve day manhunt involving the New Zealand Army in 1941. Unhinged farmer, Stanley Graham, shot four local policemen, disappeared into the bush then returned to murder three others eventually being shot himself. We had stopped here once before and I, more recently, read a longer account of the massacre; interesting but very sad that such an infamous character is remembered here, although some would say it is the dead who are immortalised rather than the killer. 

At the Gorge, we found the car park and track in had all been manicured to a more tourist friendly standard; Chris was disappointed but I found the scenes still as lovely as when last visited.

On the road back through Kowhitirangi, we passed the familiar  Avan motorhome and waved greetings at my parents who reciprocated in a similar mad manner. They will stay in the area for a few days more before heading toward Golden Bay. We are still a week or two from travelling through to that northern region, which is a shame on one level; we could have joined them on a helicopter ride over the north western corner of the South Island.

Today we came north to Lake Kaniere along a windy gravel road and emerged here at Hans Bay, a glorious spot above the lake, enjoyed by fat heavy wood pigeons along with numerous chaffinches, pukekos, but no wekas in sign yet, although we have seen them on numerous occasions since the last post. It has rained heavily from time to time during the afternoon, justifying our decision not to undertake any walks. Instead I spent a couple of hours working, justification for any future shoe shopping. 

Lake Kaniere is quite beautiful, quietly sitting amid the heavy West Coast bush, still relatively undisturbed by man, apart from the road, a few homes near the camp, several picnic places and several short walking tracks.  The lake is eight kilometres long, two wide and as deep as 195 metres in places. The surrounding reserve is over 7,000 hectare including most of the land from the lake to the top of the peaks which surround it. We are very satisfied with our view, if not the weather.

26 February 2015 Hokitika, West Coast

The night passed without event apart from the fact we seem to be watching far too many mindless movies, sitting up too late to do so, and being subjected to hours of equally mindless advertising. I really should excuse myself earlier, insist Chris puts on his earphones and immerse myself in my books; a much more desirable occupation.

After breakfast we walked up into the village, in the off chance that the newspaper might have arrived and were not surprised by the answer; 10.30 am at the earliest. By then we had filled with water, dumped and were on the road, heading north again, on past Lake Mapourika, along wide river flats and up and over windy steep hills, again missing the air brakes of the Canter, passing through forest that creeps close to the road and would take back all sign of civilisation if we were all to absent ourselves for ten years. At Whataroa, we were successful in picking up the day’s newspaper, then pressed on up and over further steep ridges and across more rivers. At Lake Ianthe we pulled into the small recreation area and found it congested with motorhomes, camper vans and rental cars, all vying for a park in too small an area. We managed to turn around, then had to back up for Asian tourists who did not seem to understand it was easier for them to reverse than us with our great bulk.

We had thought we might stop at Pukekura to revisit the Bushman’s Centre, previously “sign posted” by a gigantic sand-fly. The Centre was established in 1991, moved to its roadside spot in 1993. Lonely Planet describes it in my rather dated copy as being “a predictably rustic craft-shop with an ingrained possum hatred”. This was obviously penned by an Australian or someone who does not understand the devastation these otherwise cute little critters have wrought upon New Zealand’s native birds. When we called six or eight years ago, it was as described on line; a museum that describes how the local people used the forests in bygone years before DOC took control, depicting fur trapping days and exhibiting possums and live eels. There was a wonderful though rather jaded “20 minute  DVD screening on the deer industry showing amazing footage of the hunting and capture of deer which culminated un the multimillion dollar deer farming industry that is seen throughout New Zealand today”

Possum pies were one of the main attractions on the menu for the coachloads of tourists who stopped by, but alas in July 2014 the demise of the pie was the subject of a television documentary and regional current news.  The former wild-food award winners had been shut down by bureaucracy; the Ministry of Primary Industries said there was a potential food safety risk from selling unregulated meat. The problem had been simmering for some time, and the vendors had got around the problem by asking for a donation in return for a possum pie, but the Ministry argued that this was still essentially a sale.

Driving by today, I had the impression, especially now the giant icon of the West Coast has disappeared, that the owners, the Salters, have lost heart and are simply tired of fighting the faceless men.  This is such a shame and typical of PC laws overriding common sense. Mr Salter, a hunter with forty years’ experience trapped his own meat, inspecting his kill and only taking healthy animals to avoid any risk to the public.

As we came over the last hill before the historical gold mining settlement of Ross, we saw the sea, the Tasman Sea, and realised that although the road from Haast Village follows the coast north, there are few places in which the driver actually sees the coastline except by taking side detours, apart from Knight’s Point and Bruce Bay.

We did not bother calling into Ross, although it is worth a visit if it is the first. On our first visit we did 2.6 kilometre Water Race Walk which takes in past gold diggings, caves, tunnels and the cemetery. We pressed on, the land now more open and developed, much showing signs of serious agriculture and soon reached the turnoff to the very pretty Lake Mahinapua about ten kilometres south of Hokitika. 

The scenic reserve around the lake was gazetted in 1907 and is also the location of an excellent little DOC camp. The lake was once a coastal lagoon but with a build up of coastal dune system became a shallow inland lake. The narrow one way road in is covered in arch-like with heavy West Coast bush and without realising you are on a one way system, it could be quite disconcerting to consider someone might approach from the opposite direction.

We drove in, wiser for having been here a couple of times in the past and parked up in the camping area, expecting to stay only for lunch. We were delighted to sight a couple of wekas, the first for this trip, and made the most of the space to remove the carpets and spring-clean the floor area of our home-on-wheels. Given we had no cellphone reception, we decided to press on to Hokitika and as we drove on out, encountered more weka; a hen and her very cute chick. I was delighted!

Arriving in Hokitika, we parked up near the Information Centre, picked up a map and spent some time wandering about the town. The population of this little coastal town is about 3,000 and today, apart from being home to a fairly substantial dairy factory which services all the dairy farms hidden here and there along this wild coast, relies on the tourists that pass through plus hosting the annual Wild Foods Festival when the hordes arrive to sample an amazing assortment of food you have never even thought of.

The town was founded on gold mining in 1864, the centre of the west Coast Gold Rush. In late 1866, it was one of New Zealand’s most populous centres. On 16 September 1867, there were forty one vessels alongside the wharf here, in some places three and four deep. In that year, the port of Hokitika ranked first in New Zealand in both the number of vessels entered inwards and in the total value of exports (principally gold).

Needless to say since those days the population has diminished considerably but there are still some grand old buildings about, albeit modified.

We wandered up to the beach and found an assortment of driftwood sculptures, the remnants of the now annual Driftwood and Sand community beach sculpture event held since 2004, yet another draw card for visitors to this town we found far more vibrant and go ahead than when we were last here.

Back south across the Hokitika River, we pulled into the NZMCA park over property, finding several other parties already here, and since our arrival, the area has filled up. We sat with a dozen others over happy hour swapping travel notes and solving the employment problems of the region, before retiring to our own sanctuaries. The fish pie tonight went well with the bottle of red we were obliged to consume to fulfil the social mores. Rain has since threatened but the forecast suggests a beautiful day for tomorrow.