‘No, not for some time. Anyway, I need to keep an eye on things. Last thing we want is bulldozers up here!’
He watches as Sam ignores the jibe, shrugs his shoulders and starts packing away the equipment.
The two men are as different as they are alike. As he’s got older and especially since his near miss during the eruption when the lake had disappeared altogether, Theo has been won over more to the Maori philosophy of letting the volcano be and stepping up the early warning systems.
Sam, more of an interventionist, thinks there are engineering solutions to the Crater Lake problem, like cutting into the tephra dam to ease the water pressure. He favours bringing in a couple of bulldozers to break into it.
Theo realises that Sam is probably on safe ground, tapping into the mood of some of the commercial interests and the up-and-coming politicians who, ever mindful of the lingering memories of Tangiwai, think it foolhardy not to take more direct action. There’s a lot of nervousness in the mountain village of Whakapapa, partly because the ski operators dread another disastrous season that will keep tourists away. With winter approaching they are hoping for a boom season.
It is easy to unsettle the locals with dire warnings, but Theo feels obliged to keep everybody up to date with the best scientific information he can provide. But he is exasperated by their arrogance in wanting certainty from volcano forecasting. They have little time for cultural sensitivities. At least he has the alpine clubs on side. They’re there for adventure, not profits, hardier types who have long co-habited with Ruapehu’s moods and support the early warning system rather than drastic intervention.
Although he has caused him a few headaches, particularly when negotiating with the local iwi, Theo is still glad to have Sam Hawks on his team, and he admires his scientific skills. But he senses there may be further friction between them, especially with the arrival of the American woman. Sam was quite put out when he heard of her appointment.
Although he’s not altogether confident that it will reduce risks to life, Theo has decided to push ahead with upgrading the early warning system, and he and Sam have started locating the best places on the mountain for acoustic microphones.
‘We’ve got to finish off the location siting for the system soon,’ Theo says. ‘Frances Nelson arrives tomorrow so once she’s settled in we’ll bring her up here to see if she has any fresh views on it.’
‘I’d be surprised. I think we’ve got it all covered. Sometimes I wonder why you put out the help call, Theo. We’ve got enough knowledge between us and with the other scientists backing us up at the universities.’
‘Listen, Sam, do me a favour and make her feel part of the team. She’s got a lot of talent and we’re lucky to have her. The Americans really advanced the acoustic side of things and Frances has had first-hand experience. She’s got a terrific reputation.’
Sam says nothing and Theo knows he’s hiding his resentment. He has complained often enough that he can’t see how a person without knowledge of the region’s unique environment will be of much use.
The chopper pilot beckoning them down interrupts Theo’s thoughts.
‘We have to go, the weather’s closing in.’ Luke Gallagher is a tough Vietnam veteran who has flown in these mountains for more than two decades.
Gathering their backpacks, they scramble quickly down the slope: they know better than most how quickly the cloud can descend and envelop them. As they rise above the mountain, thick white pillows are already smothering the summit, becoming one with the steam plumes that continue to pump out of the volcano’s throat.
CHAPTER FOUR
Bugger, my watch!’ Before Tori Maddison can stop him, one of the three men he has brought fishing, a rotund Melbourne media executive, jumps fully clothed into the lake and duck dives. As he plunges, the white soles of his sports shoes catch the rays of sun penetrating the depths of Lake Taupo. His companions on the boat sit helplessly as they see the clunky silver watch sink beyond his reach into the silky clear water.
Tori is alert, ready to peel off his cream sweater and toss off his boat shoes to jump in after him. But he holds back, counting to himself. Twelve seconds later the man surfaces, his dripping face pale and puffy. Tori’s broad shoulders flex as he leans over to yank him out of the cold water.
‘Bugger, that was a Rolex—cost me a bundle!’ Denis Brown’s normally booming voice is reduced to a splutter.
‘Well, dive back in and get it, Denis,’ the others tease him. ‘What’s wrong with you? It’s only a few hundred metres deep. And get a big trout while you’re at it, you mug.’
Denis scowls at them while Tori helps him out of his drenched clothes and hands him a dry T-shirt and a large towel.
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, your watch won’t be lonely,’ Tori says. ‘There’ll be plenty of others keeping time down there somewhere.’
The men burst out laughing and Denis, now shivering but slowly regaining the colour in his cheeks, joins them. ‘Well, what are you waiting for, you wankers? I need a beer.’
As they sip from their cans, Denis trails his hand into the water again. ‘Tori, mate, how deep is this lake?’
‘Look down there and tell me what you can see.’ He enjoys teasing his foreign fishing clients as they peer nervously down into the seemingly bottomless silvery-green depths. ‘You’re looking into the eye of the Taupo volcano that blew up nearly two thousand years ago. It was so big they saw it in China and it blocked out the sun in Rome. But don’t fall in again, Denis, it could blow up at any moment.’
‘Sure, and pigs could fly too!’ Denis, his ego as large as his bulging stomach, snorts and his friends guffaw.
Tori lets them enjoy the moment. Today’s group is typical: an Australian politician being fêted by Denis, and two of his friends—all middle-aged, well-girthed, well off and affable, at least when they’re getting their way. Tori has earned a reputation as a canny fishing guide, not just because he knows all the tricks of outsmarting wily trout, but also because he makes himself indispensable to his paying guests. He takes them to out-of-the-way spots the other operators don’t know about and they almost always catch a trout. And he has the gift of the gab. As well as the rods and reels, he has lots of stories to spin. One of his American clients was so impressed that he flew Tori over to accompany him on a fishing expedition to Canada.
Using his strong brown hands and smiling dark eyes, Tori slowly paints them a picture of the Taupo eruption.
‘See those burnt trees over there.’ He points to the edge of the now still lake. ‘And next to them, the layers of pumice, ash and charcoal. They’ve been there since the eruption.’
For once the men are quiet, silently contemplating the evidence surrounding the vast watery wilderness where they’re floating.
‘So we’re in a fucking crater—is that what you’re telling us, mate?’ Denis says at last.
Tori laughs. ‘That’s right. It’s called a caldera. It’s anything from a hundred metres to many hundreds of metres deep in parts.’
‘No wonder those blasted trout have plenty of places to hide,’ says one of the men, who has failed to catch a fish.
‘And were you Maori here when this thing blew up?’ Denis persists.
‘No, not until a long time later. Apparently it’s blown up many times but the last one was a helluva long time ago. It was in 186 AD and some say Taupo caused the biggest eruption the world had ever seen then or since. Much bigger than Krakatoa.’
‘How long have you been here, Tori?’
‘All my life, apart from a few years up north. It’s my home. I grew up here on the lake and along the rivers. All my family did.’
‘You got much of a family here?’
Tori laughs. ‘You could say that. Too many sometimes. We have an extended family and I count hundreds of my tribe as cousins.’
‘Boy, I wouldn’t want to be shouting them all the time!’ Denis mutters.
‘Where did they all come from?’ he asks a little later.<
br />
‘I trace my roots right back to the thirteenth century, to the mighty Arawa canoe crossing from Hawaiki to Aotearoa, the land of the long white cloud, or New Zealand as the Pakeha called it.’
‘You mean us white fellas?’
‘Well, maybe your ancestors.’
‘And who were your ancestors?’
‘They came from three of the great tribes, Ngati Tuwharetoa, Ngati Rangi and Ngati Tahu. They broke away from the Arawa to find land of their own. They were led here by a powerful tohunga, a high priest called Ngatoroirangi. A lot of people died along the way, as you can imagine it was very rough country. Once they got here they claimed the mountains and lakes and then they built fortified settlements to protect their territory from other tribes.’
‘So you grabbed the mountains too, eh?’ Denis ribs him.
‘That’s right. But one of my ancestors gave them back for everyone to share.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Well, because of the volcanoes, this was known as the land of fire. We’ve always revered the mountains as well as being afraid of them. In the 1800s there were so many others coming here—Maori and white men—who wanted to carve up the mountains that our paramount chief decided the only way to save the land was to make it a gift. So it became the first national park. This way the mana of our tribe, our power that lies in the mountains, is protected. Certainly my ancestors, and even some today, believe in supernatural forces, and many of our ancestors have been buried in lava caves in the mountains and have to be shown proper respect.’
‘That’s what we all want at the end of the day, a bit of respect. Even if you have to die to get it,’ Denis adds with a chuckle. ‘And what about the lake, do you own it too?’
‘Again, yes and no,’ Tori replies. ‘Maori own the lake, but the lake bed belongs to everyone. There are rules—a limit of three fish, no live bait and so on—but they give the fish a fighting chance and make sure there’s plenty of sport left for those who follow. You’d have to agree with that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yep, nothing like a bit of sport,’ Denis says, still shivering. ‘Well, I think we’ll call it a day. Whaddaya reckon? Feel like a hot shower and a few more beers.’
After four hours of trolling on the lake, Tori is pleased the working part of his day is drawing to a close. He’s keen to do some more fishing alone, without interruption. He steers his shiny 8-metre charter boat with all the bells and whistles into the marina at Taupo. Just two years old, the vessel still gives him the same kind of pleasure he remembers when he was given his first bicycle at just five years old. He looks around at the other boats in the marina and feels pleased he no longer covets any of them. Not like when he had first come here, starting his business from scratch with an old second-hand boat and a motley collection of fishing gear. He edges close to the jetty and helps the men ashore.
‘See you tomorrow. I’m taking you up the Tongariro River for some fly fishing. Don’t drink too much beer. Remember I’m picking you up at five in the morning!’
CHAPTER FIVE
Summer has given way to autumn and the adult fish are already moving away from the lake, starting their rigorous migration up through the turbulent rivers and streams to spawn. But Tori knows there’s still good sport to be had with the mature rainbows and browns in top condition, fattened with the food from the lake.
He motors slowly away from the marina and accelerates as he hits open water. He heads to his favourite spot near his home on the western shore, a place where he never brings his clients. He slows almost to a stop when he approaches the mouth of a stream and props his rod at the back of the boat, the line dangling into the water behind. With the setting sun streaking the blue-green waters of Lake Taupo with gold, he knows this is the best time to try to snare a rainbow.
Before long, he hears a plink and turns around to see the unmistakable bend in the rod. Cutting the motor to let the boat drift, he leaps back to pick it up before it is pulled overboard. Adjusting the Polaroid sunglasses that allow him to see right through the water, Tori grips the rod firmly and leans back comfortably for the familiar contest. The veins in his neck strain when he feels the tug as the trout, now furious, runs out of line. It doubles back and leaps clear of the water to begin its fight for freedom or death. In the second it is in the air, the light dances on its pink-hued rainbow skin, long enough for Tori to figure it is the perfect size for dinner.
This battle between man and fish is in Tori’s blood. His grandfather, who nicknamed him grasshopper because of the way he jumped up and down on the little tinnie, often took the boy out in his boat. He taught him patience as well as his fishing skills. He told him Maori secrets. ‘Remember: the second and third days after a full moon, the end of the third quarter, the second day of the new moon and the second day of the first quarter—the best times to catch fish,’ he’d say as the boy looked up in awe at his grandfather’s lined brown face and snowy-white hair.
‘You have to look after the land and the water,’ he advised the boy gently, sometimes holding him in his arms, creased now with loose folds of skin. ‘Look after it like it’s your best friend and it will look after you.’ Then he’d change the mood, make his grandson laugh by giving him a tickle before releasing him.
‘Now stay still, little grasshopper,’ the old man would say. ‘Hey, don’t rock the boat too much, you’ll scare off that giant fish I’ve been trying to catch for years, eh?’
‘Don’t rock the boat…’ Tori whispers the words aloud. ‘That’s exactly what I am doing now with the row over the mountain.’
The trout dives again, pulling the line until it stretches to breaking point. Tori feels it suddenly slacken. Seconds later the fish reveals itself again, hurling its writhing, shiny body into the air. Tori starts to wind in the line. Three more times the trout dives and leaps out of the lake, desperate to escape. But this is to be the man’s victory and he reels the fish in with expert ease, raising the rod, winding in the line, centimetre by centimetre.
The exhausted trout now close to the boat, Tori leans over with his net and scoops it out of the water. Many a fish is lost at this moment, twisting away as the catcher loses a moment’s concentration, the trout scoring an unexpected reprieve. As it wriggles and flicks in the net, the speckled skin, covered with its slimy coating, glistens in the last rays of the afternoon. Struggling to the end, it twists and heaves as Tori lands it onto the boat. Taking a chunky piece of kauri, Tori whacks the trout on the head, driving the last life out of it.
‘What a beauty,’ he thinks as he places the fish in a bucket. ‘I’ll cook that on the barbecue for the kids when they come over for dinner from Mum’s place.’
Starting the engine, he slowly motors to shore, tying up to his mooring alongside the small jetty he shares with a few other locals. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the familiar white four-wheel-drive of the ranger.
‘Hi, Tori, how’s the fishing today?’
‘Kia ora, Smithy. Pretty good. My fellas today went away happy. Most of them took one decent one each and threw the rest back. Just the way we like it, eh?’
‘Having trouble with poachers,’ the rake-thin ranger tells him. ‘There are a couple of guys in a black ute been seen pulling out lots of fish. Have you seen anything?’
Poachers have been around Taupo almost as long as the trout and Tori sometimes turns a blind eye if it looks like just a couple of amateurs. But there’s big money to be made from selling the fish and it’s the organised thieves that everyone wants to get rid of.
‘No, but I’ll let you know if I do. Heard any more about the crater talk?’
‘Yeah, lots of people are going crazy about it. They’re being whipped up by some of the councillors who reckon we’ll all be killed!’
Tori grins. ‘Yeah, it suits some of those fellas to scare the shit out of everyone, if you ask me.’
‘Well, I know where you stand but I’m not sure we should stand back and do nothing. Don’t forget a big lahar could wipe
out the fishing here. I’ve got to keep moving, Tori. See you later. Remember to ring me if you see those poachers. You’ve got my mobile number.’
Tori hears it faintly at first and then it comes quickly into sight, the helicopter used by the seismologists. Must have been up the mountain again. He’s been on this chopper himself when he did a bit of deer hunting in the backblocks a year or two back. He’s given that away—could never get used to that look in the eye of the dying Bambi.
He glances back at Ruapehu soaring in the distance and shudders as he thinks of what lies ahead. For a while, Tori had turned his back on his culture, his responsibilities. In his late teens, he followed the well-worn track of many young Maori out of town, drawn to the lights of Auckland. Occasionally, he wishes he had stuck things out in the city rather than taking on the burden of protecting the mana of the mountain.
‘Don’t rock the boat,’ he murmurs. ‘Maybe old Pop was right.’
CHAPTER SIX
Warm water flows over her, soothing jet-lagged limbs. Her body clock tells her she is still back in Seattle so Frances has risen earlier than usual to loll in the hotel’s pool, its water pumped from one of the many hot thermal springs that dot the volcanic plateau. She has the place to herself.
She is dreading the morning ahead. Maybe she should skip her visit to Tangiwai. She could forget the whole thing and go directly to Taupo. That would be so much easier.
She is startled by a splash beside her. The plump Bavarian man and his equally round wife she encountered last night in the restaurant are circling in the water around her. Their vigorous splashing and the sight of bulging flesh that is testing the endurance of hot-pink and lime-green lycra costumes are enough to jog Frances into an early exit.
‘Would you like to join us today if you’re on your own?’ the balding man asks her.
Weeping Waters Page 3
