Top Maropea again

 

White clouds drift in a brilliant blue sky; west from the hut, bush-clad ridges in successively paler shades of light fade into the blue of distance as a sou’west front begins to thicken the cloud. Maropea Forks sits down there somewhere in hazy sunlight and I wonder how many visitors have stayed, or just called in while passing through, since Robb and I flew out exactly a month ago after a week when the complexities of the outside world seemed distant and less important than speculating about the weather, or deciding which branch of the river to explore that day, or whether to resist the urge to take a nap. I’d love to visit again and explore the rivers once more for whio. They’ll be nesting now, perhaps even not far from hatching a brood of delightful and unsinkable chicks.

Another time. Soon, I hope.

Last time I was here at Top Maropea the bitter cold drove me indoors but now, as I sit on one of the scarily unstable bench seats at the back of the little terrace in front of the hut, scribbling in the sun with a second cup of Lapsang Souchong cooling in the afternoon breeze, I’m almost warm. Then a big cloud drifts its shadow over me, the temperature drops, and I wonder whether that’s the day calling time. But, after a few minutes, the cloud moves away and the warmth of the sun returns. Off to my right, a riroriro sings and is answered by another, further away and to my left. Pōpokotea have been trilling, too and waxeyes call as they work the stunted mountain beech. Far off, the sound of the stream in the gully swells and fades.

I look up as a blackbird flies off from the dwarf beeches beyond the lip of the terrace, uttering a little cluck of alarm. Perhaps it wanted to fossick for worms and other morsels on the terrace but I looked too fearsome? They seem to be everywhere in the Ruahine — thrushes too, but, as far as I know, no one knows what much about the impact of these introduced birds on native ecosystems. Thrushes presumably eat native snails but that doesn’t mean native snail populations are adversely affected (although that doesn’t mean they’re not adversely affected). The impacts of introduced trout, which are now ubiquitous in Ruahine rivers, on whio have been questioned but the only study I know of concluded trout don’t compete significantly with whio for food[1]. I’m not entirely convinced but I’ll concede that, even if the two do compete, fewer trout would mean not necessarily mean more whio. Population ecology isn’t that simple.

The afternoon sun begins to soften and I think about photographs, but right now I’m happy to sit and enjoy the warmth and relish the fact that from here all you can see is the Ruahine — no roads, no fences, no farm tracks, no huts other than the one behind me if I turn to my right. Yes, that faint haze of hills in the extreme distance lies beyond the Forest Park boundary but it’s too far and too indistinct to be recognisable as farmland, as anything other than a two-dimensional, featureless shape. Other than the occasional, barely discernible drone of a plane from time to time, no sound of human activity intrudes on bird song, wind sigh, and the faint, constant, always changing sound of the stream.

Back in the hut, I boil water and add it to the dehy and set a timer for longer than the recommended 10–15 minutes. The sun’s almost gone from the terrace so to enjoy what little remains I take the binoculars and stand there looking for an unlikely deer. I turn the glasses towards Puketaramea and the clearing where, in 2022, Robb and I had watched a stag, his antlers in velvet, feeding in the deep snowgrass. Already that has become history, a story to be told, a photograph and a video stored for the time when an encounter like that will no longer be possible. The thought strengthens my resolve to spend as much time as I can exploring the Ruahine — even if that means revisiting places I’ve been many times before.

I know people who think repeated visits to favourite places suggest a lack of imagination or an aversion to adventure. I disagree, and in any case the two attitudes are not mutually exclusive: it’s perfectly possible to keep going back to places you love while also exploring new places. Crucially, though, I don’t think you can build a deep relationship with a place by visiting it just once, briefly. You get to know a place in much the same way as you get to know a person: by spending time with them. Falling in love with a place instantly is not just possible but, in the case of the Ruahine, a common experience, but it carries similar risks to love at first sight when you meet a person. Infatuation can lead to deeper, stronger love but it can also lead to disillusionment, boredom, and the realisation that what you thought you saw is what you wanted them (the person or place) to be, not what they are. Still, I wonder if that’s as common for places as people? In my experience, including that of good friends, becoming disillusioned with a place you loved the moment you met it is rare and happens only when the place changes radically — for example, the so-called development that destroyed the marvellous, wild qualities of the place where I lived during my childhood and teenage years. The place no longer exists; you can only mourn it and enjoy the memory of what it was.

I hope that will never be true of anywhere in the Ruahine.

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Notes:
1. Towers, D. J. (1996). Diet overlap between coexisting populations of native blue ducks (Hymenolaimus malacorhynchos) and introduced trout (family: Salmonidae): Assessing the potential for competition [Doctoral dissertation, Massey University]. Massey Research Online. http://mro.massey.ac.nz/handle/10179/2827

Photos (Click them to see them properly):
1. The head of the Waipawa river — very different from a few months ago
2. The last of the sun-rotted snow at the start of the descent to Top Maropea hut
3. The heart of the Ruahine. Top Maropea's on the darkest spur; Maropea Forks sits hidden in the far distance.
4. December 2022 — the stag finally decides something's not right.
5. The top of the track that climbs from Top Maropea; last snow clinging on. From here it's along the ridge and down to Armstrong Saddle and eventually to Sunrise hut. On that last section between the saddle and Sunrise, the wind lived up to its notorious reputation, battering me so violently I sometimes could nothing but stop, brace myself, and wait for a slight lull.

Photos and original text © 2026 Pete McGregor