The appointment of such a well-known university and public figure as Director-General was seen as a coup for the Government. For this reason Sir Robert Roydhouse, Minister of Forestry, had not bothered to delve too deeply into his background. If he had, he might have read an article written by Dr Holcroft a few years previously in The New Zealand Herald which strongly contested any claim to Maori customary shooting or fishing rights in Forest and National Parks.
He might then have had suspicions that the proposed Director-General’s bicultural sensitivity was not up to the standard required for such a controversial position.
Unlike the kakapo, the brown kiwi and the black petrel in the other sanctuaries Dr Holcroft had set up, the huia in its sanctuary was to survive without human assistance.
CHAPTER 37
Kate felt that she was flying like a bird.
As each great mist-topped range surged up in their path then fell away again into the anonymity of its restless green ocean, she felt the exhilaration that a bird must feel. She had the freedom to rise as the ranges rose, and the freedom to soar above them. She was part of the mountains of Papa as they rolled like great waves across the land, and part of the winds and the clouds which flowed and raced across Rangi’s measureless blue canopy.
As she looked down at that green expanse which stretched as far as the eye could see, she envisaged the sheltered fern and moss coverts, the berry-laden boughs, the fertile rotting logs and the nectar-laden kamahi and rata flowers, the remote valleys where introduced predators might never have penetrated.
Here was an avian sanctuary, a last retreat for birdlife. Might not a bird find shelter here – a bird which had been hunted and driven from every other North Island mountain range?
Instead of all the terrible rumours, dear God, could it really be there?
Show me a huia!
The helicopter was now following a big white-flecked river running in a north easterly direction, which kept on disappearing where thousand-foot bluffs almost closed in above it.
“That’s the Motu, best wild water in New Zealand!” called out Tane.
As they rose up into the heart of the mountains, the country changed. Instead of high, bushed ranges, bare pinnacles of rock thrust up, jagged and menacing. Tane pointed to a great horned peak rearing up by itself right in the path of their flight.
“That’s Devil’s Peak. We’ve got to get over that to get into the Waitoa.”
His voice was drowned by the whining of the wind around the cockpit of the helicopter. Rain appeared on the window, then hail ricocheted off.
“Where did that come from?” said the pilot, peering white-faced through the cockpit window which was rapidly icing up. The helicopter lurched and swayed. The mountains had disappeared. There was nothing to see outside but swirling mist and hail.
“Go up!” yelled Tane. “You’re going to hit that mountain!”
The pilot tried to climb, but the power did not seem to be sufficient to overcome the down-draught. Then the mists tore apart and they saw ahead a great black mass. Out of the mists it emerged like a ferocious guard dog suddenly unleashed. Beads of sweat stood out on the pilot’s face as he strove to keep control of his machine. Then the storm enveloped them.
“Where the hell are we?” he yelled.
“Just go back!” shouted Tane.
The pilot was struggling to keep control, but without bearings or sight they seemed to be borne along by the wind in a sea of whirling mist. They prayed that the wind was taking them away from those towering castles of rock.
Fifteen minutes later they saw a gap in the mist. Far below they glimpsed a patch of green.
“Thank God!” said the pilot.
They descended towards the green, and pierced through the mist. The green turned out to be a valley, with a ribbon of sparkling water running through it.
“Not the Waitoa,” said Tane, checking his compass. “It flows east. It’s the Raukawa, and if I’m right we’re somewhere near the falls. He scanned the valley. “Yes, I think I can see where they are – about a thousand yards downstream.”
“Wasn’t that part of the route that Stan and Bill chose?” said David.
“And one of the search parties investigated the falls as a likely place for an accident,” said Kate. “The storm must have blown us right off course.”
“Can you get down there?” Tane pointed out the grassy flat to the pilot. Down they came, and landed.
David got out. It was 9 o’clock on Monday morning. They were not in the Waitoa, but it was terra firma and it was not swaying. The grass was like a soft carpet under his feet. The sun was bathing the flat with its first warm rays. Blue mountain duck rose from the stream, honking round them in astonishment. The edges of the bush were alive with tui, robins and fantails. The cicadas were into their full morning song, and he could hear the river burbling over its stones.
“It’s just like the Garden of Eden,” said Kate stretching out her arms in the warm sunlight.
David looked at the helicopter anxiously. “I think we should hide it,” he said to the pilot.
The pilot had gone very quiet. “Why?” he asked sullenly.
At length he grudgingly brought out an old army camouflage net.
“Is that what you use for deer carcasses and possum tails?”
None of them wanted to go anywhere. With no sleep the night before and with all the strain of the last thirty-six hours they were physically and mentally exhausted. David, feeling a stab of conscience for the pilot, offered his tent and sleeping bag to him, but was too sleepy to realise that the pilot wasn’t interested. When he went to lie down on his spare clothes with a spare tent fly to cover him, he saw that the Kate and Tane had already disappeared into their own tents under the trees.
Just as David was falling asleep, he was jolted into consciousness by a harsh noise.
The helicopter!
The traitor! He leapt up, seized the revolver from his pack and raced over to the now uncovered machine.
“Stop!” he gesticulated.
The pilot continued to warm up the motor.
David realised that at any moment the rotors would begin spinning. He pointed the revolver at them.
The pilot shouted belligerently. “You jokers are crims! The sooner you’re behind bars the better!”
David shouted back. “There’s another side of the story! Do you want to hear it?”
The pilot, seeing that his helicopter was in danger, turned the motor off. But he stayed in his cockpit with his hand on the controls.
Ten minutes later, David had finished. At the same time he gave the revolver to the pilot. “Well, you’ve heard it all. If we are still crims, take us prisoner and bring us out.”
The pilot chuckled. “I can’t understand your story, but I understand that. You’re on the level, mate.” He handed back the revolver. “And Tom’s the name.”
As the sun rose higher over the camp David was again drowsing when he heard the roar.
“It’s that pilot again!” he exclaimed. Then he saw Tom emerging from the tent.
“Take cover!” he yelled.
They plunged back into the bush and took shelter in the deep fern, just hoping that their tents under the trees and the camouflage net on the helicopter would not be seen.
The roaring increased. It seemed to be coming directly towards their camp and a moment later it became deafening. Then he saw it, a large black helicopter without markings, only a hundred feet or so above the trees.
The ominous black machine passed over their camp. The roar lessened.