The first big adventure

There was a time when I prided myself in my memory.  I could retrace past adventures day-by-day, revelling in the vivid recollection.  Slowly this ability has faded over the years, and whilst my assertion that the important memories will always remain, is still valid … I bet there is some good stuff that has gone forever.  Some of what follows may have little veracity at all, but it is what remains in my family folklore basket of tales to tell.  It may have taken place 63 years ago, but some of this is clear as a day, and possibly is what led me off on many later adventures.

The summer of 1962/63 was the transition time for me between Marist Newtown and St Pats College.  I had turned 13 in November.  Soon I would change from being a big fish in a little pool into a very small fish in a big pool.  It must be noted that I was good at school, and as a consequence, I loved it.  There were games to play, mates to hang around with … life was good.  I was a house captain, Head Prefect, in the gymnastics squad, cricket team captain, in the Junior A rugby team and Dux of the school.  I was good at most things, without excelling.  I’d also found that I had a propensity for table tennis, and would subsequently represent Wellington through all the age grades.  I suppose I was quite a confident kid, but I hope not obnoxiously brattish or up myself.

Every story needs a setting and some background … so bear with me.  Mum was from the Matiri Valley out of Murchison and one of the two Badcock girls to make their lives in a city, in Mum’s case Wellington.  Five of her siblings still farmed in ‘the valley’.  This resulted in us having cousins by the score spread up the dusty valley road.  Most years we visited for a part of the summer, but it seemed that this particular year this was not to happen.  Probably that was part of the embryo that gestated into this boyhood adventure.  As city boys, my brother Roly and I ventured everywhere on our bikes.  Interestingly we both still remember what they were.  Mine was a dark blue Empire, which was a rebadged Kiwi-assembled English BSA.  It seems that they stopped doing this in the early 1950s, which seems about right, as it was well-second-hand a decade later when it came into my hands.  Research shows me that the Wellington agent was Burkes of Kilbirnie, only a couple of suburbs away.  Roly’s was a Humber Sports, repainted in a bright red.  On these plain but sturdy 26” steeds we ventured all over the Wellington region.  It was not unusual for us to head away on a Saturday through the suburbs to the Hutt Rd cycleway … out to and along the Petone foreshore, possibly dallying at Days Bay and Eastbourne through to the end of the road and onto the vehicle-restricted access track along the eastern shores of the harbour.  This led to the lighthouses at Pencarrow Head.  For us, this was a wonderful wilderness devoid of grown-ups, and we’d explore around the two lighthouses, especially enjoying the upper one with its small and poignant fenced grave site dating from the late nineteenth century, and containing the remains of the keeper’s baby daughter.  This was always quite an outing because the round trip was about 75 km, and at this point in time the bikes were still single-speed.

Roly is 21 months younger than me, so would have turned 11 in September.  I think by that time, the plans were already being worked on.  We loved our summers up the Matiri Valley with our cousins, and with Mum and Dad not taking us there this particular year, there was little option but to fantasize about going on our own … riding our bikes there.  This had several advantages.  When up the Matiri, we were normally beholding to the ‘olds’ for transport between the various farms.  Our cousins didn’t seem to be big on bicycles.  They had farms to roam, rivers to explore and for several of them, horses to ride.  If we were down there on our bikes, we’d have the flexibility to roam where and when we felt like it.  Did it take much persuasion to get buy-in from our parents?  We don’t remember.  We know that Dad agreed to pay half the cost of having Sturmey Archer three-speed gears fitted to our bikes by the small shop in Newtown, just past the hospital.  Roly and I both had paper runs so this was made happen, and our savings lightened accordingly.  Mum was a very handy person on a sewing machine, so she made panniers out of light canvas to fit the carriers on our bikes.  She’d already made the whole family Kapok-filled sleeping bags, and there was a small pup tent that I think she had made for Dad’s 1948 bicycle ride around the South Island.

Somewhere along the line it was decided that we should ride from our place in South Wellington to Masterton in the Wairarapa.  Whether we had to prove ourselves to get the go ahead is not now recalled.  The plan was that we would ride to the camping ground in Masterton and get a cabin which we would share with Mum and Dad who would come over in the reasonably trusty early-1950’s Austin A40.  Even today this is quite an epic undertaking.  It is about 120 km and takes you through the Kaitoke hills and over the challenging Remutaka Pass.  Back then we knew this serpentine alpine road as the Rimutakas, even though there is no ‘s’ in te reo Māori.  The road wouldn’t be gazetted correctly until 2017.  We would have had a pretty good idea of how to get out of Wellington and to Upper Hutt due to regular visits to our Molloy cousins in Silverstream, but beyond this it was all unknown territory.

The day was fortunately warm and sunny, and whilst I have no recollection of the early part of the ride, the grunt of the Rimutakas needs recording.  The combination of heavy bikes, and small boys’ legs made the climb to the tea rooms at the summit, a very arduous and long part of the ride.  The Sturmey Archer gears did mean that we never had to walk and push our bikes, but our speed was glacial.  Each corner turned, would open up a new view and a new point of focus … the next corner.  Of course, after a while the ‘Will we ever get there?’ thoughts intruded, but inexorably we crawled our way to the top, section by section, turn after turn, linking-straight after linking-straight.  The AA summit signpost advised that we had reached 1821 ft, and hot and triumphant, welcome ice creams were devoured.  A short rest was enjoyed before we got the reward for all that uphill pedalling.  The downhill riding all the way to Featherston was far beyond anything we had experienced prior to this.  11 km of downhill meant no pedalling, and at some points speeds rivalling the few cars on the road.  Although State Highway 2 is a major route, the numbers of cars bothering us back in the early summer of 1962 was minimal.

The euphoria of the ride down into Featherston was soon replaced by the dull slog across the plains, past the old Military Training Camp, the Tin Hut Hotel in Tauherenikau, and on through Greytown and Carterton.  This part of the ride exceeded the Rimutakas for mental difficulty.  We were tired, and there was no perceivable ‘target’ to aim for.  Our heads were down, and when raised from time to time, the vista seemed never to have changed.  On ‘the hill’ there was always a corner to aim for and our distance-points were close.  On the flat straight roads across to Masterton, everything was far away and seemingly the horizon never got closer, even with thousands of pedal revolutions.

Ultimately of course we did reach Masterton, and find the camping ground, the family was re-united and after a night in a cabin, Roly and I took ourselves and our bikes to the railway station.  A train ride to Wellington was enjoyed and we were home before the old Austin got back.  We’d proved that we could do a pretty significant ride on our own, solving all the issues along the way.  Whether I was expected to look after Roly, or he was to reign in my more impetuous nature, I don’t know.  Our older brother Kerry is four years older than me, so I was never a tag-along young brother to him.  There was just too much of a gap.  We also never attended the same schools at the same time.  With Roly it was and is different.  With less than two years separation, we grew up together and he was my natural wing man.  We seemed to like the same things, and whilst he is naturally quiet and seemingly a little reticent, we have always chattered away happily.

The summer of 62/63 was also a transition time for inter-island travel.  The Union Steam Ship Corporation’s TSS Tamahine had been replaced by the GMV Aramoana, a roll-on, roll-off ship to be run by the government agency, the Railways Department.  GMV stood for Government Motor Vessel and was the flagship of a new age.  No longer would cars be individually loaded onto the decks of aging ships by wharf cranes.  Now the cars would just drive on and four hours later, drive off.  It seemed revolutionary.  It also took trains, so the rail network of both islands were linked.  We were part of that first summer’s intake.  Our tickets were bought at the Government Tourist Bureau in downtown Wellington.  Before the introduction of the second rail ferry, the GMV Aranui a couple of years later, the service was limited to a morning sailing from Wellington, and a return one from Picton in the afternoon.  Our departure from home accorded no fanfare, Dad was probably at work and with Kerry being nearly 17, he had a life of his own.  No one accompanied us to the ferry terminal in Thorndon.  Mum was a semi-cripple and whilst not quite house-bound, she didn’t drive, so our farewell would have just been a “See ya, take care, love to all the family!”  With the actual sailing time being only three hours, 20 minutes, the long summer hours gave us plenty of time to ride what is now known as Queen Charlotte Drive through to Havelock, and on to our first night’s destination, Pelorus Bridge.  In Jan 1963, this route was still known as The Grove Track and was not a sealed road.  That would follow a few years later.

The Grove track was dusty, as would be expected in the middle of a hot summer.  The corners were often corrugated and although this was a beautifully scenic ride that was not too arduous, the corrugations caused fretting on the luggage straps holding the saddlebags to the carrier, resulting in failure.  Fortunately for me, Roly had always shown an aptitude to understanding mechanical things.  Oddly, neither of us can now remember how he fixed the inadequate straps.  We think with wire, but don’t remember where we got it from.  It was no surprise to the family that he went on to be a mechanic.  The day’s ride after the ferry crossing, was about 60 km to the delightful Pelorus Bridge Camping Ground.  Only the last 20 or so km were on tarseal.

It is interesting to reflect on the optimism that obviously surrounded this adventure.  The floorless pup tent was made of white ‘duck’ calico canvas, which is not in the slightest bit waterproof.  We must have assumed that as it was January, it would not rain.  And our gear?  We were still not out of home-made clothes.  It would be the next year that I got a pair of long ‘greys’, and jeans or any clothing of my choice, would be some time off.  We would have had store-bought white undies and singlets, but shorts and shirts made by mum, and if we’d included anything to keep us warm, it would have been a hand-knitted jersey.  Jackets and Parkas were still a few years away, as were tee-shirts.  For going to school in winter, we each had a rubberised gaberdine raincoat, not something you’d take away on a summer cycling tour.  Our footwear was plastic ‘closed-in-toe’ sandals that were popular at the time.  We carried no cooking equipment, relying on the camp kitchens which were well stocked.  Although Pelorus Bridge has wonderful swimming holes, and 30+ years later our youngest would learn to swim there, on this trip we never ventured in.  Roly was not a good swimmer and also felt the cold more than I did.

It was an unusual feeling to be fully on our own, with no one to look after our needs.  I don’t recall what we fed ourselves with at Pelorus Bridge, but the camp had a shop to provision us and boys need to eat, so we must have.  Our first real day riding across to Nelson promised to be like our ride to Masterton … two lots of major hills, with the second one, the Whangamoa Saddle being of similar elevation to the Rimutakas.  We took heart in the fact that the distance was only about 60 km though.  A good start, on another nice sunny day saw us soon across the gentle undulations and twists to the small township of Rai Valley.  It was then slogging along and up the valley leading to the Rai Saddle that saw an interaction that naïvely we never questioned at the time …. nor later when we would reflect upon and wonder if meeting was a ‘set up’.  I think we’d paused for a break, when a Ministry of Works ute stopped, and the driver enquired if we were OK.  We were, but the easy chat soon led to the offer of a lift to Nelson, and a place to stay for the night with his family.  Amazingly, our ‘saviour’ knew Mum and Dad.  We weren’t old enough to be purists about doing ‘all the yards’ … a lift was a lift.  Disappointingly neither Roly or I can remember what the connection was, nor the name of the son of roughly our age who instantly gelled with us and took us to Tahunanui Beach, later that same day.  This was all a bonus.  I don’t think our trip was fully about the ride.  The ride was just a means of getting down to the Matiri and the bikes were enabling that.  Stranger danger?  Dunno if that was considered, probably seeing that our man was in a MOW ute, we would have equated him as being part of a Government agency and thus trustworthy.

So the bikes were chucked on the back, and in no time the Rai Saddle and the mighty Whangamoas were behind us, the tiny dot of Hira passed, and we were in Nelson by early afternoon, ensconced in a family home with a friendly lad to take away any awkwardness of interacting with the adults.  This was a great stop and we enjoyed being in this environment for most of the next day as well.  Late in the afternoon we rode out to a widow friend of the family.  I think this was at Brightwater.  I recall it being on the main road, and was one of the stops we would make as a family if we were coming through this way.  It wasn’t at the Knapp homestead that Dad spent his college years living at, with his mother’s brother’s family.  Sheila lived alone and happily hosted these two boys of Jack’s who were off on an adventure.  The aim of this stay was to give us a head-start on The Big Day.  Nelson to Murchison was seen by the family as huge —120 km with two mountain ranges to conquer.  Going out to Brightwater knocked off about 20 km.

Memories are so erratic.  Some seemingly important ones have wafted away, whilst inconsequential trivia remain.  On a hot morning with only about 10 km under our belt, we stopped at a roadside dairy in Wakefield and bought a new-to-the-market Fruju.  This was frozen pineapple juice, and truly was nectar of the Gods.  Up until the introduction of these, our ice blocks were more-or-less just highly-sugared cordial of lurid colours frozen appropriately.  The Frujus were magnificent and the exotic taste remains with me to this day.  Spooners Range was hot and slow, possibly bringing us to a walk on occasion.  I recall a passing car of young yobbos calling out to us as they passed in a battered old jalopy.  The day was long and hard with no settlements as such after we left the Nelson plains at Belgrove.  We had a simple repast at the tearooms in Korere, and took another break further up the Clark Valley before hitting the 2,000 ft Hope Saddle.  Because you have battled your way up the valley for miles and miles, the actual ‘north face’ of the saddle is not that long, but it is very steep and wasn’t totally rideable for us.  The southern downhill is much longer and in effect you are crossing the main divide, and the rivers run with you from here downhill all the way to the West Coast at Westport.

The arduous nature of the day brought on a bit of irritability, and I remember with shame being less than pleasant to my little brother, riding away ahead of him for a period … because I could.  I was just that bit bigger and stronger.  I chuckle at the thought, because decades later when we used to do cycling events like the ‘around Lake Taupo’ and when on our 1999 re-creation of Dad’s 1948 ride, Roly always had my measure, and when things got a bit tough, he was always able to just pull away into the distance.  If we’d been adults we could have stopped in at The Kohatu Hotel at the junction of the road to Motueka, and also the Owen River Hotel … but we weren’t and didn’t.  Finally we saw the familiar bit of the Buller River where there is a rock formation midstream that looks like a submarine.  Soon the Longford Bridge was reached, and we turned off into the Matiri.  My slightly younger cousin Theresa, one of the nine Cooper kids recalls —

“I remember you and Roland on your bikes.  Me and Phylly were on ponies, and we met you biking into the valley, just along from where Lizzie Ford lived, only about half a mile from Longford bridge.  We were riding into pony club probably.  You did all the talking, Roly not uttering as much as a squeak, and you asked us which was which.  I said I’m Theresa, to which you replied, ‘Oh yes, you’re the one Mum said has got funny knees ‘ !!!  I have never forgotten that, and at the time I thought it rather odd she should say that as Aunty Joan was often referred to as the ‘Rickety Aunt.’ “

Aunt Tui … formally known as Sylvia Maud Badcock, lived in a tumble-down cottage that had been quickly thrown up as temporary accommodation after the 1929 earthquake.  There was no room with her, but she was happy for us to sleep in the hay barn.  This we did in some comfort and it was a good base.  I cannot now recall if we stayed on any of the other farms, as my many visits with the folks, on the bikes, on my motor scooter, and numerous stays on various motorbikes over the years have all melded into bit of a blur.  Theresa also remembers me telling of enjoying the home-cured bacon and eggs that Aunt Tui would feed us for breakfast … to keep our strength up.  Every visit to the families up the Matiri was always filled with fun, and often we’d spot some of our old clothes which had made their way south as a hand-me-downs.  Roly recalls that we’d probably been a bit over enthusiastic with oiling the rear hubs of our bikes, and some oil had migrated through into the ‘coaster’ brakes rendering them less than efficient.  One of the uncles had disassembled the hubs for us, and cleaned the brake shoes with petrol.

Sooner than we would have liked, it was time to venture forth, heading for home.  This time we would take the direct route to Picton, pausing firstly at Lake Rotoiti and camping there.  The family always referred to the village as Rotoiti, the same as the lake, even though it had been gazetted as St Anaud in 1951.  It would take many years for this transition to become commonplace, and it is ironic that there is now a move to get the settlement renamed  back as Rotoiti.  For us it was a 60 km day with sizable ups and a few downs.  We were heading to the source of the Buller River, so overall it was an uphill day.  Camping by the lake is picturesque, but the ‘wild life’ is always a factor, when considering a return visit.  The sand flies during the day are ferocious, and whilst they settle at dusk, that is only a short respite, before the noisy and blood-thirsty mosquitos come out to play.  Another annoyance is that the turf below the nicely grassed camping area is only a couple of inches (50 mm) thick, so your tent pegs soon hit rock and bend.  The camp store provided us with a loaf of bread and a pack of bacon and I remember this as a good meal, and being pretty pleased with myself.  Interestingly, mum made no effort to show us how to cook things before we left.  I think she was a big believer in people working things out for themselves.

Our second to last day on the road took us up and over the area known as Tophouse.  Cresting the pass’s summit mid-morning more or less ended our uphills for the trip.  We were at 2,000 feet and it would be downhill all the way to Blenheim.  Tophouse is quite alpine and through these years the area always showed evidence of earlier clearing of the native bush by burning.   There were charred stumps still prominent across the landscape.  It is also the location of the famous double murder and suicide at the Tophouse Hotel in 1894.  Bill Bateman became jealous of John Lane’s attention towards the local school teacher, a Miss Wyllie.  When the hotel owners, who BIll was related to, were away, he shot and killed Lane, went to the telegraph station and similarly killed the linesman.  He then tried to get Miss Wyllie to go away with him.  She refused, escaped his attention and locked herself in the telegraph station, summonsing help.  The police arrived from Nelson the next day and found that Batemen had killed himself.  Our Great Grandfather Charles Knapp, was the officer in charge, and it was with him and his family that Dad lived at Spring Grove through his years at Nelson College and beyond.  On our day of pedalling, we didn’t pass by the site of that grizzly event, but I have visited in more recent times, and stayed in the old hotel building.  The long ride down the Wairau Valley was uneventful and the gentle downhill across the plains of Marlborough ensured that although this was another 110 km day, we weren’t left shattered.  The camp at Spring Creek was excellent, and being as we had got ourselves past Blenheim, our last day’s ride to Picton, and the afternoon ferry didn’t daunt us in the least.

And so our big adventure finished with a 25 km ride to the ferry terminal.  There was one last climb before Picton giving us a bit of a workout, before the speedy swoop down into the town.  The ferry voyage home was just as to be expected, although we were not to know that the Perano whaling station passed would be closing in a couple of years.  This had been a place of interest to watch for on every sailing between the islands.  For us two lads, our big trip was pretty much over.  We would ride home, wheel the bikes around to the side of the house, lean them against the wall, and walk in the back door.  “Hi Mum … we’re home!”

Post Script:

• We never thought to ever ask if the MOW guy was set out to look for us.  Probably was.

• We don’t recall how I carried the money for the trip.  Probably all in one lot in a wallet.

• Riding a bike to college wasn’t cool, so my biking soon faded away, especially when I got a motor scooter a couple of years later.

• After my stella primary school years, like one of those sky rockets that go off with a hiss but don’t fly high or far, my secondary schooling morphed into mediocrity.

• Roly has remained close and was the absolute star wing man on our New Orleans to Buenos Aires ride featured in No One Said It Would Be Easy.

• We did have a small Kodak Brownie Starlet camera with us but currently no photos can be found.

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