It was my birthday, my 45th to be exact. While traveling up the west side of the South Island of New Zealand, I had spent the night at Fox Glacier in a backpacker’s hostel, then headed north again by bus on Highway 6. My 3 weeks in the country had so far been plagued with rainy weather, but that was par for the course for August in a Kiwi winter. It was a grey day as we passed by the Franz Joseph Glacier, then Whataroa, Harihari, Pukekura, Kakapotahi, Ruatapu and stopped at Hokitika for lunch.
It was 1992 and a new passion had entered my life – birding, or bird-watching as it used to be called. Although I was a driven climber, birding was pulling at me at the same time and I’d go out of my way to see a new bird and add it to my life list. While traveling around this beautiful country, I’d been studying the best places to see certain birds, and a good one was now practically on my doorstep. A brochure had caught my eye, advertising a chance to see the Westland black petrel. During the lunch stop, I called their number and was told it’d be fine to stop by. That necessitated a change of buses at Greymouth, where I continued north. When we were almost to Punakaiki, the driver pulled over and I hopped out on the side of the road. Denise and Bruce, the couple who owned the property and conducted the birding tour, were there to meet me.
The birds I had come to see wouldn’t be around until later, so they invited me in to their home. The weather had been overcast and sullen all day, and now, mid-afternoon, it was raining. Their two children arrived home from school, and Denise fed us all tea and cookies. Bruce said we wouldn’t head out to see the birds until 6:00 PM, and that we’d have supper before we went. I felt embarrassed – these people were so kind, and I didn’t want to offend them and seem ungrateful. I told Denise that I didn’t eat red meat, and hadn’t for many years, but not to worry about me, I’d be fine eating the rest of the meal. She smiled and said that her family never ate red meat either.
Supper done, Bruce and I headed out in his truck. The light was fading, and the weather was foul – it was pouring rain, blowing hard and it was cold. We arrived at the end of a dirt road and made ready to set out. Bruce knew what was involved, and he was prepared. He told me to remove my shoes and put on a pair of his gum boots. Growing up in Canada, that’s the name we had for black, knee-high rubber boots, open at the top. We also wore rain-jackets with hoods.
The next part was unpleasant, and a bit surreal. By flashlight, we had to walk across a flooded field, trying not to trip on clumps of vegetation. I followed him, barely, afraid I’d lose him in the dark. The water was deep enough that it almost reached the top of the boots, and I was trying desperately to avoid the deepest spots. My luck ran out before we were all the way across. As I lurched into a deeper spot, a boot filled with ice-cold water – yikes! By the time we reached the other side of the field, the rainfall was of biblical proportions. Once past the field, we climbed up a steep hillside into the bush, then waited. It was pitch black, rain dripping from the trees and we were soaked to the arse.
Then it happened. The petrels started to return from their day of feeding out on the ocean. In the totally black night, they crashed down through the trees to the ground below, then called out to their mates in their burrows, making a lot of noise in so doing. Bruce said it was okay to turn on the flashlights, that it wouldn’t bother them. I saw 4 of them up close on the ground, plus 2 flying in. It was great to see such a rare bird at close quarters. After a while, Bruce asked if I’d had enough, and I answered yes. Back we went to the truck, like a couple of drowned rats. I cannot remember a more foul, uncomfortable night. This very generous family probably felt sorry for me, given the weather, and insisted I stay the night – there was no place else to go, truth be told. I hung up all of my sodden clothing in the spare room they offered and was very grateful, and fell asleep listening to the storm rage outside.
By morning, the weather was much-improved. The family fed me breakfast, then asked what I’d like to do next. There was no bus until much later, so I wondered if there were some place nearby where I could go look for more birds. Denise knew of a track I could walk and drove me to its starting point, promising to pick me up hours later. Here’s the only photo I have of that day,
The Pororari River in Paparoa National Park
The trail was all in shadow due to the thick canopy of trees as I climbed up into beech forest. Several hours were spent quietly looking for new birds – I had the whole place to myself, never saw another soul. At the appointed hour, I made my way back out to Punakaiki where Denise picked me up. Back at her home, she fed me lunch, then drove me the 30 miles south to Greymouth so I could catch a train for Christchurch.
As I write this, 25 years after these events occurred, I am still left with an overwhelming feeling of the kindness and generosity that that family showed to me, a complete stranger. The only payment they would accept was the normal fee they charged to see the petrels, which was 30 NZ dollars (at the time, about $16.00 US). It would be hard to find a better example of a random act of kindness.