For a change, Rosemary has truly been rambling! Margaret and I virtually had three short walking holidays of four days each. As I intend to copy from my journal, the account of only the first set of four days will suffice for this month. The first is the Golden Bay Holiday. I wish I could illustrate it in the text, but we have not learned how to do that yet.
Thursday 9th February
Ray drove Margaret and me to Hamilton airport, where we caught our plane to Wellington and thence to Nelson. They were pleasant flights. I had Margaret sit by the window each time because I had flown the route so many times before, but as most often happens, we flew most of the way above the low clouds.
Bill was waiting for us, to drive us to Motueka. For the first time I learned of his accident in November, when he slipped on a grassy slope below Mt Benson in bad weather. In attempting to stop his downward slide, he reached out and grabbed a clump of tussock, but he was going so fast the sudden stop dislocated his shoulder. He figured this was better than continuing his slide and accelerating to crash into rocks below. The party, all expert trampers, climbed back up the ridge. It took them five hours to get Bill down the other side into the Upper Cobb valley. There the river was too high to cross, so Bill spent a miserable sleepless night sitting up in a tent. In the morning, despite Bill's protests, they pressed the distress button on the locator beacon for the rescue helicopter. By this time the river had gone down sufficiently for the others to cross to Chaffey's Hut and walk out to Trilobite Hut car-park, having phoned or radioed out for a vehicle to fetch them.
Bill also told us that Maryann was having considerable trouble with her hips, and will probably get replacements. So the beginning of the end has crept up for the way Bush and Beyond has been for almost 20 years. Bill and Maryann have trained excellent guides to replace them on long or difficult trips, and still do the organizing. It is hard for them to watch the groups go off, to the Heaphy for example, without them. Feeling still ultimately responsible for the trips, they worry.
Bill delivered us to The Hat Trick at Motueka where we were greeted by Paul Boniface and given the room we had on our last visit. This pleased us. It was a large room with ensuite, capable of sleeping six. We shopped for a few groceries – we did not need much this time – ate in the spacious kitchen-dining room, and retreated to our own domain for the night.
Friday 10th February.
Bill and Maryann picked us up at 8am. We were the only clients on this trip, which had in fact been arranged just for us. We drove over the hill to Takaka, where we stopped for a while. Margaret and I stretched our legs by walking up and down the main street while Bill and Maryann did whatever it was they had to do. We picked up the key for the Mangarakau Lodge and continued on our way. We drove past Collingwood as far as Puponga, where at 10.30 we were at the picnic grounds by the access to the beach and the way to Farewell Spit. Maryann set out the makings of one of her great picnic lunches, and we made our sandwiches with a loaf of delicious dark rye bread.
We set off to walk along the beach towards the Spit. There were many birds on the water, including black swans. Several swans took off and flew away in a skein as we watched. We saw manta rays in the water. I do not know the difference between manta rays and sting rays but took the word of others. Whichever, I was not able to photograph them, having no desire to step into the water beside them to do so. We walked a kilometre or so along the beach, with pine trees to our left, their branches overhanging the shore, their matted needles lining the high tide mark. At the end of the pines we came to a track leading over the base of the Spit to the beach on the ocean side. It was not really the ocean, it was the Tasman Sea, but compared to the placid beach of the bay, it was scene wild and free and wonderful.
Here we each went our separate way, over the dunes, between the dunes, beside the dunes. They were beautiful dunes. Some were big and well-established, some were as yet small islands in the sand. Fascinated I took many photos. The wind-created patterns of sand were fantastic. There were crests in the sand, sloping up gently from the west, and having a steep drop on the easterly face. The sand had different textures. As I remember it was hard when one stepped off the crest, then soft for the next step or two. We had a good day for it. The prevailing wind was definitely blowing to our backs, but it did not disturb the sand this day. It can blow the sand along up to knee height times, making walking unpleasant. It was overcast, so there was no glare of sun on sand either. With such winds blowing so often one would think the Spit would grow longer and longer. It seems the dunes creep eastward at the rate of 10-20 metres a year, but weather anomalies reverse the trend often enough to keep the Spit more or less controlled. The Spit is 26km long, longer at low tide, but the public are allowed only on part of it. At the far end is a lighthouse. Access is by motor vehicles along the ocean beach at low tide.
All too soon we came to the marker indicating the end of the public part, and the way to cross the dunes back to the bay side. We stopped midway to have our lunch in a hollow out of the wind. There are pools of water in hollows between dunes, often fresh water from rainfall. Some of the ponds are permanent, and some become quicksand. Vegetation grows on the bay side, gorse and the like. There was a stand of pines just east of where we crossed. The bay side beach of many shells was vastly different. I did not like it much, and it seemed a long way back to car park.
Before we left the area, we walked up a path to the museum and tea rooms overlooking the bay. I bought a couple of postcards. Then it was back along the road as far as Pakawau, where we turned west to drive alongside the Whanganui Inlet and Westhaven Inlet to Mangarakau, where we stayed at the Lodge. Margaret and I had the bedroom and bathroom on the main floor to ourselves, while Bill and Maryann slept in the dormitory downstairs. Both areas have outside doors at ground level, as the lodge is built on sloping ground.
This was very nice except for one thing. Our room was full of mosquitoes, despite screens on two of the windows. The door had been left open and the 'most mischievous beasties' as Captain Cook called them, had come in that way. We killed a lot of them, but more kept coming out of hiding. We had many bites. At the time the bites did not bother us much. The itching came day later.
The Lodge is the Field Centre for groups and conferences. The Mangarakau Swamp is significant ecologically. On the Visitor's Guide pamphlet I read:
“In its original state, Mangarakau Swamp was once tall, dense, lowland rain forest dominated by Kahikatea (white pine) and Puketea. On the low ridges, a forest of Rimu, Matai, Totara and Miro stood. Prized by Maori as a food source, the wetland once teemed with birds and fish, including eels and whitebait. Over the past 100 years the swamp has been the focus of considerable human activity, including sawmilling, flax processing, farming, and to the south, goldmining. At it population peak in the 1940's, the swamp contained a village of some 20 or more dwellings and a post office. As the native timber gave out, the village and people progressively vanished, leaving the swamp to slowly regain its native forest and wildlife.”
Regain in part only. It will never be what it was before man intruded. There was also a school in the village. A community hall is now a museum of sorts, a display centre for posters, photographs and diagrams of various aspects of the area.
Bill and Maryann produced a good dinner, which we ate in style around the dining table. Margaret and I were sent for a walk to the look-out along one of the paths near the Lodge. We went farther than expected, because we took a wrong turn once, and went down to the swamp, but it was all good. In fact, Bill and Maryann said they knew we would go there! We saw the site of the sawmill, and the site of the village and a few artifacts. It was rather sad.
Saturday 11th February
We had another easy day. Originally it had been planned that we climb the bluffs across the road. That plan was abandoned partly because the way was steep and somewhat treacherous and partly because we would a have hard day on the morrow. In the morning we walked to the lake. We started along the well-made and much-used main track, but were curious as to what a little track into the bush on our left might be, and we plunged into the undergrowth to find out. It seemed to be a trapper's line. It was more interesting than walking straight to the lake, so we followed it. We lost it, we found it again, we lost it. It was good fun. At one point Bill went up the bank across a little stream and the others followed. I followed part-way and decided the indications of a track I had seen on the other side were more promising, so off I went, and indeed found the track. Margaret was good at seeing the markers on the trees. At this stage there were none. We came out on the main track a few metres from where the path actually emerged.
Then we continued to the look-out point to view the lake. We saw a fernbird, a bird hitherto unknown to me. As most birds are! Before returning to the Lodge we looked in at the museum, where I read much which I shall soon forget, about the history and ecology of the place. Back at the lodge we made our picnic lunch, then drove to the Anatori River.
There we were surprised to find a bank of stones across most of the river mouth, deposited there by a recent storm. The last time I was there was when we waded the river and waited for the tide to ebb enough to begin the long beach walk to Kahurangi lighthouse. I had not thought to be back.
After lunch on the beach we started back towards Mangarakau, parked the car at a roadside stop, crossed a stile, waded a stream (barefoot) and walked to Lake Otuhie along a poled track around a field, beside a stream, and below some bluffs to the lonely lake. It was hard to believe that for a while this was a busy place in the days of the gold rush and in the days of flax cutting. A paddle boat had plied the lake. Under an overhang men worked and stored their gear. The overhang, the rock shelter, is still there, but there are no signs of anything from those days. We stayed some time beside the peaceful lake with a sandy beach. Then retraced our steps, recrossed the stream, and returned to Mangarakau for a comfortable evening. Somewhere this day, I forget just where, we saw pukeko chicks.
Sunday 12th February
We left Mangarakau early and drove part way back along the Westhaven Inlet. For the first time I saw it when the tide was out. I had not even known that it was mudflats at low tide, and I had driven by it five times before. We were opposite the entrance when we stopped at the foot of the road to Knuckle Hill. The view towards the heads and the open sea was wonderful in the morning light, which changed even as we watched.
Here Maryann and the vehicle left us. Maryann was to spend the day with her daughter Taryn, who had left her partner Daniel and their two sons to their own devices for the day. Taryn lives not far from Collingwood, on a properly at the edge of the National Park. They are living in a tent while Daniel, a builder, constructs their house in his spare time. Beside the fact that someone had to drive the vehicle to the other end, Maryann's hips would not allow her to do the day's walk with us.
Bill, Margaret and I set out for a long walk. We were doing the Kaituna Crossing to the Aorere Valley that runs down to Collingwood. I can tell by the time on my photos of the inlet that it was just on 8am when we started up Knuckle Hill. It was an uphill walk, but not as steep as I recalled. Bill said that it was the last bit up Knuckle Hill that was steep, and we were to skirt the hill and avoid that climb.
On the way to Knuckle Hill there had been a recent bad slip, taking away most of the track, but it was easily negotiable. I had been no farther than Knuckle Hill, and was looking forward to the crossing. I was not disappointed. It was the Sabbath Day, and I felt our peaceful surroundings appropriate for such.
After we left the woodland the ridge, the shoulder of Knuckle Hill, we crossed an extent of open high country, which perhaps we could call moorland, which Margaret and I found beautiful. I always like such places, high open places with distant mountains all around. All too soon we were back in the bush, but that was good too. Even there the track was varied as we went through different 'layers' of forest as we lost or gained elevation, from swampy underfoot to knobs of hills above the trees. What showed on the map as a more or less straight line, or at least a wide arc, was in fact an up and down and round about track. From various vantage points on the knobs, we could not see that there was any way out of the mountains, and we wondered at the people who had first blazed the trail. For the early settlers it was probably the shortest way in to Collingwood from the Inlet. We have no idea of the hardship of their lives.
We sought a high spot to have our lunch, so that we did not have to climb a hill immediately afterwards. We found such, but of course after going down from our hill, there was another to climb. About midday, when we were thinking a finding a lunch spot, we saw a fernbird, I imagine a young one, seemingly performing its ablutions a low branch in full view. It just stayed there while we took photographs. That was amazing.
Towards the eastern end of the track, the terrain changed. After walking a while along a surprisingly level track along a ridge, where the trees seemed unusually tall for that elevation, we went steeply down. And down. And down. I was apprehensive lest my knees give out, and we were worried lest Bill fall and hurt his injured shoulder. To slip and have the occasional little fall was inevitable for all on that descent. Bill did fall, twice, and once we were alarmed, but he got up and said, “I still have an arm!” I could not believe how far down we had to go. I was prepared to say two almost vertical kilometres, but probably that is an exaggeration due to my not enjoying it much! Which was too bad, as I failed to appreciate the forest we were going through. At last we came to the river that we had long heard. Waiting on the other side were Maryann and Taryn. A photograph I took there tells me it was 4.30pm. That was some long walk we had!
It was not finished yet. After having crossed the river, boots and all, assisted by Bill and Taryn we rested a while. Margaret took off her boots and wrung out her socks. I did not have the sense to do that. Maryann said it was 45mins along an easy track to the parking lot. That is what the signpost said. Although we walked at a fair pace, glad to stretch out our legs after the knee-bending downhill marathon, and the track was easy, it took longer than 45 minutes, and we still had to walk to where the car was parked, so one could say our walk had taken in total 9½ hours, including lunch and rest stops.
As we walked we crossed many little bridges over streams of varying sizes. As I walked over one bridge, Bill called from behind that I was not stopping on every bridge to look both ways! He had been telling people I always did that! On this track I could not decide when a trickle became a flow decent enough to merit a stop. Over the doubtful ones, I just paused and did not stop!
Maryann drove us to Collingwood, where we stayed for two nights at the self-proclaimed 'only backpackers accommodation' in town. Maryann had not been able to book into the DOC house they usually used. Where we stayed was Somerset House, so called because the owner, the town's only dentist, came from Somerset. Somerset House was situated behind the little church, but approached by a round-about way from the back.
Margaret and I once again had a room to ourselves, though not with ensuite, which indeed we did not expect, while Bill and Maryann stayed in a cabin without its own facilities. I am glad we were in the main house, as we both tend to need to use the facilities at night. The dentist's wife was Japanese, and her touch was evident in the little vases of flower arrangements in every room, even the bathrooms. As she had gone to Japan the previous day, we did not see her. Her husband, Chris, said there would be no more flower arrangements when these faded! Two young Japanese girls looked after the place for him during the day, and did the housework, but presumably not flowers.
We had our dinner out on the deck overlooking the town and harbour. It was a lovely evening. Bill said that once it was proposed that Collingwood, or a site nearby, should be the capital of New Zealand. It would not have been a good idea for several reasons.
Monday 13th February.
We had an easy day. The original plan had been to visit the goldmining area and some spectacular caves – or some caves and one spectacular cave – farther up the Aorere River. However, last night when Chris asked me where we were going today he suggested I might prefer to go to Wharariki Beach. So I told this to Bill and Maryann. They were under the impression that I had already been to Wharariki Beach on a previous trip, and quite happily changed plans. Margaret is not keen on caves and I am indifferent, so to Wharariki Beach we went. I certainly had not been there before.
It was a drive back to Puponga and a left turn to drive westward, past the road to Cape Farewell. We parked the car and climbed a stile and followed a track towards Greenhill (or Greenhills?), around which there was a walking track. We passed Dunes Lake, where we stopped to watch the birds, then the track having petered out a bit, diverted to look at Nikau Lake, a small green lake between the grassy bank on which we sat and a strip of forest between the lake and Wharariki Beach. Behind the lake were nikau trees. On the eastern side of the lake was a large stand of raupo. It seemed a paradise for ducks, and many were the ducks enjoying it. The peculiar rock formations off the beach towered above the trees. We started on the track to the beach, but realized it was not our intention to go there yet, and retraced our steps.
Then we realized we were not exactly on track for Greenhill, so climbed a fence, scampered down a hill, then climbed another small hill from which we hoped to see our way. When we had returned to the path we continued the way we should go, and soon saw below us a winding stream. We crossed this and walked by an old homestead nestled between hill and river. We followed our path into the woods and began and series of ups and downs, mostly ups, around the hill which we finally ascended from the seaward side. This was Greenhill. At the top we sat up at the Boundary Fence Lookout and ate our lunch with a panoramic view. Cape Farewell was to the east, and to the west in the middle distance we could see Knuckle Hill in front of higher mountains. It was a little windy up there. We came down a shorter route to the bridge over the winding river and returned to our incoming track, this time to check out the beaches before going back to the car.
We visited Greenhill Beach first, a lonesome place, where Maryann studied the birds. Then we went to Wharariki Beach. A spectacular place that was. We just sat for a while gazing, before slithering down to the sand. At one end was cave, and in the cave sat a man. I think we saw no one else on the beach. At the other end of the beach were the tortured rock formations we had seen from a distance. The rock was conglomerate. I had a hard time getting back from the beach up the huge slabs of rock. I had chosen a sandy spot and kept slithering backwards. On our way back to the car, we stopped once again to gaze at Nikau Lake. Had the tide been out, we could have walked along the beach much of the way back, but it was not.
We returned to Collingwood around 4.30 and just lazed around. As we sat out on the deck a cyclist came looking for accommodation. He was a Basque. The first Basque I had met. He was a handsome young man and his English was excellent. He was interesting. He was adventuring around, sometimes working for funds. When we asked his name he said “John”. That sounded so unlikely! He had no doubt anglicized it for convenience. At 8.30 the bugs drove us indoors.
The next morning we returned to Motueka for a couple of nights. This ended the Golden Bay part of our holiday.
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