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.