by Eddee Daniel
The low, wide mass of the volcanic island rises with uncanny
symmetry from the choppy gray-green waters of Hauraki Gulf, its profile of
olive-toned foliage unbroken by any hint of human presence. To my willing imagination
it evokes archetypal cinematic jungle islands—hints of Moreau, King Kong,
Jurassic Park—and I am eager to reach it and explore.
I had only two days in Auckland, New Zealand’s largest city
and, as is my habit, I wanted to experience as authentic an urban wilderness as
possible. I’d turned to local sources for advice about potential locations.
Rangitoto Island was the singular, universal recommendation.
I had no inkling I would discover a place so primordial that
it would challenge my deep-rooted notions of wilderness.
The gleaming towers of Auckland’s skyline quickly diminish
behind us, along with several enormous container ships, innumerable sailboats
and other pleasure craft. Our ferry leaves Waitematā Harbor—and
civilization—behind. The catamaran’s twin bows slice smoothly through the
heavier surf of the gulf. After a short cruise, a dozen or so passengers are
delivered to the island’s ferry terminal, a bare concrete wharf.
As we prepare to disembark, a crackling
mechanical voice ominously blares from the loudspeakers: “The last return ferry
will leave promptly at 3:30. If you miss it you will have a very long, cold
night on Rangitoto Island.” As if to drive home the warning, brisk gusts of
salty spray strafe the wharf as we approach the shore. I button up my jacket.
We are greeted by the sharply beaked carving of a kaka (parrot),
flanked by stylized visages of Tangaroa, the god of the sea, and
Tāne
Mahuta, god of the forest. In 2014 the Conservation Ministry
commissioned this
waharoa,
or traditional gateway, dedicated to Peretu, the spiritual ancestor of
Rangitoto. Beyond welcoming visitors to the island, the
waharoa
recognizes Maori cultural heritage and symbolizes a pact of co-governance of
the island sanctuary. (Imagine the U. S. National Park Service agreeing to
co-govern Great Smoky National Park with the Cherokee Nation.)
The small crowd quickly disperses. I walk along the shore
path, marveling at swirls of lava that reach straight into the clear water.
Though encrusted at the tide line with shells and seaweed, the exposed rock
appears perfectly fresh, as if its molten flow may have solidified moments ago.
Rangitoto is in fact the newest among 48 volcanoes that make up the Auckland
volcanic field, having emerged from the sea a mere 6,000 years ago—though it
hasn’t erupted for the last 550 years. *
Mangroves have gained a foothold along sections of the rocky
coast. After a brief detour on a boardwalk through a mangrove thicket, I head
uphill on the aptly named Summit Trail. Said summit is visible at what appears
to be a great distance. Cumulous clouds boil over it. The feeling of entering a
primeval jungle returns as impenetrable tangles of tree limbs and brush crowd
the narrow path.
Periodically, the dense forest opens onto barren and
forbidding fields of loose volcanic scoria. Blackened, basaltic lava, unstable
and abrasive, is strewn everywhere in jagged chunks, like clinkers spewed from a
fiery forge. A few tentative steps out onto it—seeking a vantage point for a
photo—cures me of the impulse. That anything at all can grow from such a
desolate wasteland seems miraculous. Then I plunge into the next patch of
jungle.
Technically, this isn’t a jungle, since I’m not in the
tropics. I am surrounded, however, by a profusion of, to me, alien and vaguely
threatening trees and shrubbery. Locals likely would find it comfortingly
familiar. Rangitoto, which receives over 100,000 visitors a year, is cherished
as a “pest-free” wildlife sanctuary where native species can flourish.
Numerous conspicuous traps indicate both the fragility of
the “pest-free” designation and the vigilance required to maintain it.
The island is home to the world’s largest forest of pohutukawa
trees, an iconic New Zealand species whose tufts of crimson blossoms have lent
it the nickname “Antipodean holly.” Although it is spring here in the
Antipodes, sadly, I won’t be seeing any of the unusual flowers, which bloom
later in the season. Its abundance on Rangitoto can be attributed to the
pristine quality of the island and to the pohutukawa’s
ability to survive in exactly these rocky, otherwise inhospitable conditions.
The trail steepens. The clouds part; sun blazes onto black, burnt
earth. I remove my jacket, slow my pace, guzzle water from bottle that suddenly
seems too small. The summit, though closer, appears far higher than before.
I catch myself reconsidering “urban wilderness,” the trope
I’ve so carefully honed over the years. Here on Rangitoto I am betrayed by my casually
generous interpretation. When our species was young there was no wilderness. The world was simply where
we lived, where we learned to survive. Later, when we settled in cities,
wilderness became something “other”—and fearsome. Here I find that wilderness: a rupture in the
civilized world. This place would be wholly uninviting, possibly lethal, had
not convict labor a century ago pummeled lava into a manageable path for
day-trippers like me.
Rangitoto was born in violence.
A Maori story tells of the tupua, children
of the fire gods Auahitūroa and Mahuika, who quarreled and cursed Mahuika. As
punishment Mahuika enlisted Mataoho, the god of earthquakes and volcanoes, who destroyed
their mountain home and raised Rangitoto from the sea.
When mist surrounds the island, it is
said to be the tears of the tupua weeping over their lost home.
And what about us? We have cast away the old gods, consigned
them to quaint totems. We believe in science: volcanology and plate tectonics.
We believe—or willfully choose not to believe—in global warming. Are we faring
better than children who quarrel and curse their mother?
As I climb the ever-steeper but now deeply forested trail I
imagine the tupua wandering the brutal terrain before anything had sprouted
from the sulphurous ground. Just below the summit a boardwalk has been built
overlooking the dormant crater. The canopy in the completely forested bowl looks
lush and benign.
This is how the Earth renews itself. Like the volcano, the
Earth was born in violence. Whether our species is responsible for climate
change or not, ultimately it is we, not the Earth at large, that will suffer the
consequences.
Wooden steps lead me to the summit where another raised
boardwalk provides panoramic views of the entire island, surrounding gulf and
distant mainland. From here the thickly forested island looks like a hoop skirt
splayed out upon the surface of the water, decorated in radiating patterns of
green forest canopy and black fingers of exposed lava. Again I am struck by the
complete absence of any noticeable trappings of civilization—no roads,
rooftops, power lines, towers; nothing that suggests we humans have been here
at all.
Except, of course, here I am. On a boardwalk built for my recreation
and comfort at the crown of this wondrous, immaculate, and hostile landscape.
And there, across the sun-dappled waters of the gulf, are the skyscrapers and
sprawling environs of Auckland. Sunlight streaming through intermittent clouds
briefly spotlights the sparkling white city before it falls again into shadow.
Rangitoto…and Kilauea, Cotopaxi, Mount St. Helens, Pinatubo,
Krakatoa and Eyjafjallajokull. And, of course, Vesuvius. No argument is
more convincing. Though it might take thousands of years, the Earth will heal.
I swallow the last of my water and take a final turn to admire the 360° view of
Rangitoto, a serene, pest-free sanctuary.
How would it shape our awareness, I wonder, if every city
had a volcano on its doorstep? Taking leave of the summit I descend the steps; I
plunge back into the misty pohutukawa forest.
*Sources vary regarding the date of first eruption. Some
give 6,000 years while others drop a 0, making it only 600. There seems to be
no dispute, however, that the last eruption was no later than 550 years ago.
To see more photos
from New Zealand, go to Eddee’s flickr album.
The Menomonee River itself bookends the year. Early on preparations began for the Last stretch of concrete to be removed from the Menomonee River, near Wisconsin Avenue where the river passes by Piggsville. I returned to the Menomonee in December, this time upstream in Hoyt Park where a series of sewer crossings that had been damming the river were being removed: Menomonee River restoration.
Also in March the Mandel Group began construction on their Echelon Apartments at Innovation Park on the County Grounds in Wauwatosa. I began a series of updates showing construction progress. By the end of the year it also became clear that the battle to preserve all four of the historic Eschweiler buildings was lost. Three updates:
