We had not intended to end up here tonight but then today has been one
of those days when plans have gone totally awry. We were up and away before any
of our fellow campers this morning, refilling with water and dumping all waste
on site; the Murchison camp is really an excellent site. I had popped along the
road to buy a few vegetables while Chris caught up with his sister on Skype.
Soon we were heading north up the Buller River, up past the Mangles /
Buller confluence, today so much tamer than yesterday. At Gowan Bridge, where
the river of that name meets the Buller River, we turned south and travelled
the fifteen or so kilometres to Lake Rotoroa, our intended destination for the
day.
Lake Rotoroa is quite lovely, nestled between the Braeburn and Muntz
Ranges, fed by the D’Urville and Sabine Rivers. The greatest depth is 145
metres, a fact which did amaze me.
Today, arriving as early as we did, the sun had not reached into the
valley, the few whizz-bank campers were still lingering over their brunch, the
heavy low boughs of the native trees made the entry to the DOC camp slow and
neither of us were inspired to set off on either of the walks we had discussed
over our own breakfast.
Years ago when we called this way, we did the Braeburn Walk, a couple of
hours through beautiful beech forest up to an unimpressive waterfall, and
another partway up the lake edge. Today we walked out on to the jetty, agreed
that the lake was quite beautiful in a brooding kind of way, that the famous
Rotoroa sandflies did not seem as ferocious as before, but that we would not
stay here after all. So we drove back out onto the main road, Highway 6.
A further six or seven kilometres up the highway and we arrived at
Kawatiri, where the highway leaves the Buller River and heads north. We headed
south east following the Buller up to its source, Lake Rotoiti, or more
precisely St Arnaud.
This lake fed by the Travers River and previously known as Lake Arthur,
is smaller than Rotoroa, and is only 82 metres deep.
Years ago we came here for Christmas, and spent Christmas Eve parked up
on Mt Robert, the mountain 1,421 metres ASL, high above the southern reach of
the lake. We woke high above the lake and Christmas crowds, surrounded in
cloud, which slowly dissipated to reveal the lovely vista below. We thought we
might stay at the DOC camp this time, but soon learned the one at West Bay was
closed for the season and the second camp, Kerr Bay, was excluded from our DOC
Pass.
Instead we parked up on the foreshore along with dozens of other day-trippers,
lunched then set off for a walk along the shore, south on Lake Head track,
close to the shore along beech leaf strewn paths, the kind one needs to lift
one’s feet for the exposed roots.
This morning Chris said he was not feeling well, so we kept to the flat
lake edge path to minimise exertion. He reckoned he had caught some dreaded
lurgy from a fellow passenger, a hazard of air travel. When quizzed for detail
I found his main complaint was feeling anxious about what he might come down
with rather than anything he actually was physically feeling now; this is the
definition of man-flu’, is it not? We still managed to walk for over three
quarters of an hour before turning back; it was on the return that my left knee
made itself known to me and I limped out in worse condition than my “ailing”
husband.
Deciding that we did not wish to pay commercial rates to stay at the
fully serviced DOC came here at St Arnaud, we drove the twenty five kilometres back
out, following the Buller River, so pretty in its upper reaches, to Kawatiri on
the banks of the Hope River and parked up here on the corner of Highways 6 and
63. We spent Christmas day here the same year we woke up high on Mt Robert; now
the remnants of the rail bridge are fenced off as being unstable. There are
several other parties in here this evening; this DOC camp is a Basic camp and
as such there is no charge. And as for my knee; business as normal, for now
anyway.
And as an aside but no less important, we were fascinated once more by
the story of the scale beetles, the beech and the honey dew. None of this was
new to us, but always so interesting and today Chris deigned to sample the nectar
of the waste himself.
To explain: The native beech insect is largely hidden from humans, but
produces a sweet sugar-rich solution in droplets on the tree trunks. Known as
honeydew, it is the energy rich elixir that once kept the forest full of life,
providing food for birds, bats, insects and lizards. Now, unfortunately, it is
introduced wasps that monopolise this food supply, and the curious humans who
place their finger at the end of the longest anus in the world to gather the
glistening drop of honey and test it for themselves. I have done this several
times in the past much to Chris’s disgust; today he tried it for himself and
agreed it was quite tasty!
The honeydew cycle depends on the female scale insect, which sits in a
hard casing in the bark of the mountain and red beech trees, drawing in sap
through her mouthparts and excreting the waste through a long waxy filament. It
is at the end of this filament, probably the longest anal tube in the world,
that the honeydew droplets gather on the outside of the trees. These droplets
that do not provide a food source for the native species, or for the wasps,
fall onto the trunk or forest floor. There they provide food for the black
sooty mould fungus that coats many of the trees and the surrounding soil which
in turn provides a home for a range of insect species.
Interested to try for yourself?
Interested to try for yourself?
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