30 December 2016 - Cobden Bridge, Greymouth, Westland

The old Awatere River bridge

Our last night at Lake Mahinapua was not as wonderful as I had expected, but then I prefer to camp without any companions at all, apart from my personal Cook and Chauffeur. I did not do a count however they were packing in like sardines, and I was so horrified to have large rental motorhome within touching distance of our bathroom window that I decided someone had to take charge, so out I went to move them and others still heading to the perimeter instead of making a new camp area in the centre of the camp. I was asked by fellow New Zealanders in a Trailite,  obviously annoyed to be told anything by a small Kiwi holding a bag of rubbish, if I was The Camp Commandant. I said that I had appointed myself so for the moment because I was fed up with the way everyone was being irresponsible and some order needed to be instilled. And so it was; once the first three had lined up in the middle, newcomers all followed, although there were still those travelling in cars who snuck into the gaps around the edge. It really was chaos and I was just so glad we did not have an event like that at the Lichfield Caravan Park a few nights ago when fire devastated most of the  caravans and campers. Thankfully there was no loss of life!

The next morning, we left without regret; it was time to move on. We stopped at Hokitika to fill up with diesel and refill the gas bottle that had run out on Boxing Day, then headed north again back toward Kumara Junction. We did stop on the southern bank of the Awatere River where a portion of the old Howard Truss bridge has been installed as a memorial, in the same fashion as that crossing the Waitaki River at Kurow.

This one was originally built as a rail bridge, later converted to serve road traffic as well. That was in 1891 and it served well right through to 2009 when it was replaced with a two lane road bridge and a separate rail lane. The name “Howard Truss” is named for William Howe whose design in 1840 incorporatated iron into a timber structure. He obviously knew his stuff and it would seem that his bridges, or those constructed to his design, will prove to have greater longevity than their more modern replacements.

Swingbridge over Woods Creek

Back on the road we travelled north still, past the junction and on up over the Taramakau River, that which we had followed as we descended from Arthurs Pass. Here the crossing is again on a Howard Truss bridge, or if not, a jolly good imitation, and here like the one previously across the Awatere River, a one way road and rail, crossed by first comers.

Not too far north of this, after following the coast, we turned east toward the tourist attraction Shantytown where one can experience life in a pseudo-1860 gold field settlement. We continued on up the road for another seventeen kilometres, the road now gravel but wide, no doubt to accomodate the mining traffic still working in the area although apparently not over the holiday period. We passed great swathes of upturned gravel, piles of slag but none of this explaining what kind of mining is being undertaken in these modern times. We could only guess that it was a review and reworking of the gold extraction carried out here in the 1860s.

Swingbridge exit above creek

Finally we reached a little turn around parking area, with a sign “Track” and we knew we had arrived. We had come at the suggestion of my mother who had fond memories of the walk and of staying the night in their motorhome in this relatively isolated spot. We found a flat space, one of few to be found, and then set off after lunch on this short delightful walk, which now bears the moniker “Woods Creek Walk”.  It is a mere 1.1 kilometres according to the signage but one should allow 45 minutes. Over lunch we had noted other visitors taking less time and we did ourselves when we set off, however it is very pretty and would have taken longer had we poked our heads and bodies into the tunnels that are currently ribboned off for safety purposes. 

There are tunnel entrances, tail races barely narrow enough to fit a slim hipped Asian miner and dams. The creeks are crossed with bridges, the steep slopes scaled and descended on sturdy stairs that would not have existed in the past as they do today. The path winds its way through regenerating kamihi, quintinia, rimu, kahikatea and totara; an easy path lined with soft moss, the sort of “fairy” path my sisters and I used to make through the bush behind our house when we were so very small. The last bridge is a high strung swingbridge seeming to have very little holding it attached to the opposing walls, appearing to terminate at the face of an eroded bank. But on reaching the end, one turns sharp right and climbs up through one of those narrow and deep tunnels, quite unsuitable for the well-fed matrons of today to pass through.

Our unofficial camping spot

Although a drive along dusty gravel to such a short walk, it was well worth the effort and I was glad I had listened to Mum’s suggestion. Like them so many years ago, probably before all the excellent interpretive panels were erected, we decided to stay there overnight. There were no signs forbidding the stay but nor were there any facilities at all to encourage one to do so.

While we passed the afternoon reading between listening and watching the finches, tomtits and tuis and a curious weka dart hither and thither, we noted the surprising number of tourists who had also come to walk. Obviously this obscure walk is not so obscure these days after all.

A large rental motorhome came in and parked tightly in beside us; a family of four stepped out and set off to do the walk, all good so far. But on their return they asked if we intended to stay on overnight. When we told them we were, they said they were too; it was allowed? 

Weka

We told them that since there was no signage to forbid the practice, it seemed there was no reason why they could not stay too, especially if they were fully self-contained. But we did ask that they move to another part of the parking area; this they were quite cross about saying this was the only flat spot. We indicated another area across the way and offered our spare levelling blocks. They managed to find a suitable spot without our offerings and sat out on their outdoor furniture until the sun went down tolerating the sandflies in a way we would not. This morning when we left after 9am, they were still all asleep; not so hardy after all.

In fact I suspect we were shopping in the supermarket at Greymouth before they even breakfasted, or maybe stacking and storing our purchases all away? We parked up on the northern bank of the Grey River, a spot we have stayed at on several previous occasions. The sun was shining, the morning misty rain had cleared away and we set off on foot back across the river to the town just as the Trans-Alpine train arrived from Christchurch. Tourists poured out, clogging the booking office at the station, seeking and sorting rental cars and accomodation. We picked our way around their luggage to find ourselves a street map then set off downtown to find a few bits we needed.

Coalminers memorial

Greymouth today was vibrant, all the 13,550 residents of the district catering to the crowds of visitors. Although later after the train left and the arriving passengers had been set on their way, small pockets of the catering locals sat about in groups resting, smoking and refuelling after the onslaught. We wandered along the cycleway that follows the top of the flood wall and looked across the river to our camp, up the river to the mountains and back out over the aging township. On a vacant block a young man sang to the accompaniment of a kareoke machine, busking to the absent and without success. Apparently he was more interested in listening to his own voice than targeting a viable money stream.

Greymouth and the Grey River

Greymouth has been beset with floods all through European history, the first officially recorded by explorers Heaphy and Brunner in 1846. At least two dozen floods subsequntly wrought havoc, and  the “Great Flood” of 1872 swept whole buildings out to sea, lanterns still blazing. In May 1988, the Grey River surged over its banks, engulfing the wharf area and swirling through the old town. Within four months, even before the cleanup was complete, a second and worse flood swept through, waist deep water turned the central business district into a churning sea.

The floods and mining disasters that followed were all part of West Coast life. Much more recently there were devastating floods again, in May and September 1988, and it was these two in quick succession that prompted the building of the existing flood wall in the following year. 

Part way along this wall is a wonderful memorial “In memory of those lost in coal mining incidents within the West Coast Inspection District”, unveiled by the Mayor Tony Kokshoorn in 2013 on the anniversary of the 1967 Strongman Mine disaster. More poignantly, it was unveiled on 19 November, the second anniversary of the Pike River disaster that claimed the lives of twenty nine men. (I make specific mention of the mayor by name, because he has become quite famous here in New Zealand as the spokesman for the community who today are protesting about the sealing up of the Pike River mine without having “rescued” their now long dead relatives.)

Our camp above the Grey River

Apart from the fact I found the granite sculptures of the three miners and the revolving mine portal in a base of water quite wonderful, it was the lists of names and dates of the disasters that claimed their lives that were most moving; one tends to think only of the sorrow and controversy of the most recent disaster, but the citizens of Greymouth and the district have lived with like events over and over and over again through the last one century and a half.

Back at camp, we picked up emails and caught up with other matters that rely on internet reception, something we have managed without since leaving Christchurch, sometimes because of our location and sometimes because I have preferred to spend the time with my other half.

As I write this, the sun is low in the sky and the shadows are long upon the high cliff that rises above the river. Fellow campers are out and about socialising with this one and that, but we remain tucked up out of the wind, planning our tomorrows and recording our yesterdays.