The Wet West Coast
Trip Start
Nov 06, 2003
1
36
87
Trip End
Jan 24, 2004
Kaitaia,
New Zealand
Sunday, December 7, 2003
Or so it's reported. We give Cape Reinga a miss so that we will arrive in Auckland tonight early enough for Emma to see the extended version of "Fellowship of the Ring." We do drive 20-minutes north of our motel at Kaitaia and wander the southern edge of 90 Mile Beach. It's a bleak west-coast morning, reminiscent of Long Beach back home. One or two vehicles zip past on the edge of the surf, but we have it almost to ourselves.
90 Mile Beach
The road south past the Herekino Forest is dotted with dead possums. The frequency of road kill has increased steadily since the Bay of Islands. Along the west coast, hardly a kilometer goes by without a matted fur splotch on the road. Some genius shipped possums here to start a fur business 150 years ago. Back in their dry, native Australia, the fuzzy critters are an endangered species and popular tourist attraction. Here, they're a menace. With no predators on the islands, the 70 million marsupials eat their way through New Zealand's lush landscape, chewing up an estimated 21,000 tons of vegetation a night.
We catch the Hokianga Ferry between the tiny village of Kohukohu and Rawene, a misty 25-minute crossing through what could be Iceland or Norway. A 30-something bantering with his two young sons in Maori sounds very much like he's speaking Hawaiian. We chat about the language's roots and history.
He's heading back to his police job in Auckland, after a weekend with his folks on the farm he grew up on near Kohukohu. From him, I get some hints at the history of the Maori since pakeha (European/white) arrival. It all sounds horribly familiar: banned language, banned religion. The treaty interpretations have varied enough that there's definitely some bitterness
Fern
. "We looked at it as sharing the land together. That hasn't happened.... But everyone will give you a different perspective on it."Despite the deforestation visible on the shores around us, he says this remote part of NZ is still relatively pristine. "Put a line in the water and you pull up a snapper in no time."
The land south of Rawena seems more farmed and flat than what we left on the other side of Hokianga Harbour, and definitely more inhabited. But soon we begin climbing into rich green vegetation, and the road sways sharply along the mountainside. The posted speed limit is still 100, but even a Kiwi would be hard-pressed to exceed 60, although I'm sure they try.
The drizzle and clouds through Waipoua Forest add richness to the magpie calls as we walk amongst the magnificent kauri trees. Their trunks rise straight up 50 feet before the first branches. It's easy to see why early sailors prized them for spars. The kauri forests once covered most of NZ's Northland, but their sap (turned into products such as paint emulsifiers and turpentine) and beautiful wood brought their downfall.
The path gives way to a boardwalk that twines in beckoning sways and dips over the kauris' sensitive root systems
Hokianga Harbour
. The drizzle grows to rain. It gathers on the canopy above, then rolls in huge drops onto our heads. The boardwalk circumnavigates the Four Sisters, vast trunks together the size of a small house, and then ends at Te Matua Ngahere, the Father of the Forest. Believed to be 4000 years old, its 5m trunk holds up branches the size of the mature kauri trees around it. We take more time looking at other plants on the walk back to the car: the symmetry and vivid colours in the ferns, the unfamiliar berries and ground cover.
We haven't driven 5 minutes when Lucy gets hungry and starts crying. It's only a few kilometers to the kauri nature centre. We try singing, but sometimes even Old MacDonald can't distract much. Between the rock cliffs, forest and drop offs, no pull outs are offered on this emaciated road, so we just keep driving. A 12-year-old can take an infant screaming beside her for only so long. By the time we can stop, Lucy and Emma are both bawling in the back seat.
We regroup at the nature house, take in the displays on the west coast's history, and continue south. The towering landscape passing the windows gradually subsides to farmland. The random cars we encounter increase in frequency, gaining enough mass to almost be called traffic. Occasional European names infringe on the Maori place names, Mamaranui and Tangowahine giving way to Dargaville and Brynderwyn. By the time we reach Wellsford again, New Zealand has reverted back to its green-hilled, sheep-coated stereotype. Looking back, I consider our wet day on the Northland's west coast one of the highlights of the country.
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