21 January 2017

Mountain Frond Feather

In this family we (led me by me) are trying to grasp every fragment of the combination of summer weather, conveniently aged children and natural beauty. Feet are meeting mossy paths, hands are swinging on branches and mountains are being climbed.



Unfortunately, a bit of petrol's being burned, but we've travelled no further than two hours from home.

Pureora


Pureora is a State Forest Park in the centre of the North Island. It's a place of giant totara, stunning bush and wonderful birdlife. The camping's $6 a night for an adult, which makes up for the fact that the toilet's a long drop (but strangely, otherwise clean and completely unsmelly). The roads are unsealed and pot-holed, but that just adds to the character. The ex-logging village is now almost a ghost town, with just a handful of occupied houses. Perfect. See ya later civilisation.

Once upon a time I worked here. It's on a plateau well above sea level, so it gets chilly. We had frosts in March and piles of ice in May.

This time around we climbed Mt Pureora, which took about 1.5 hours and gave us stunning views of Lake Taupo and snowy Mt Ruapehu.

Everything gets mossy approaching the treeline.

The view, and a rest.

Coming down felt good....
I'm a bit in love with ferns.
The children gasped: the dead tree fern fronds look like they've been spray-painted gold!
In all my 43 years I've never noticed that. Now I'll never un-notice it..

We climbed a forest tower that took us into the tree tops (and these are big trees). It is near the site of an historic protest that moves me greatly. This is how the story goes: the New Zealand Forest Service, a government department, was logging Pureora forest. Of course most of our country's forest was clear-felled in the last 150 years or so, and that had largely stopped. But they were still doing 'selective logging' of the huge old totara trees. Naturally, felling enormous trees and dragging them out of the forest involves a lot of collateral damage.

A mighty old totara tree, playing host to many guests.
Some barefooted greenies decided that it had to stop. "Over our dead bodies," they virtually said as they climbed into the trees, ready to camp out there as the loggers approached. Others went into the forest and hid in the vicinity so that the loggers couldn't tell where they were. (They had tried all the sensible ways first, like petitioning parliament, begging and presenting rational arguments.)

There were some very angry loggers and millers, and a lot of money lost, but the logging operation was paused and then cancelled. Native logging eventually ended in New Zealand. It was also proven that the old trees, with their Thidwick-the-big-hearted-moose burden of vines, perching plants and moss, were vital to the endangered kokako bird's diet (that is true for many other bird species, too). It was once called the 'organ bird' for its song, which I hoped to hear on our trip but didn't, despite knowing there are now plenty of the birds around.

Aah, bloody greenies, what would they know?




I feel incredibly grateful to those people. Now we have this priceless, stunning forest (actually it's a bit patchy, but the good bits are great). Importantly, it's not just for us to enjoy. It, and its many inhabitants, are there for themselves, surviving, and the world is a better place for it.

Mount Maunganui

I grew up climbing this old volcano, which juts up bizarrely at the end of a flat sandy peninsula (on which many houses are built - foolish, I still say so many years after that Sunday School song, to build on sand!) and guards the entrance to Tauranga harbour. One summer evening after Christmas I climbed it. It was cool and windy, and I almost had the place to myself, despite it being a tourist mecca these days.

I got a few snaps amidst the huffing and puffing.





 And then, at the bottom, the surf beach. On it - one of the country's most popular tourist beaches, nearing the height of the season, had nested a pair of variable oystercatchers.


Spot the eggs in the 'nest': merely a scrape in the sand.
White sandbags protecting the nest from high seas, and rope and a sign to keep people away.
The incubating bird kept getting off its nest when people came near.




Last I heard, about a fortnight ago, the chicks had hatched!

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