The continued New Zealand breakdown saga featuring glaciers
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| The resulting damage of the Alpine Gardens Landslide |
You are a traveller. You are stranded on the side of the road on State Highway 6 somewhere in New Zealand's Southern Alps. Your companions are debating whether to leave your broken-down van and walk. The bearded one decides to run up the road to try and find some phone signal. The curly-haired one stays with the van, relaxing in a fold out chair, munching on a packet of Oreos.
As the bearded one walks into the distance a pickup truck pulls in. You are saved. The bearded one runs back and puts on his best burly-man voice, addressing the mechanic.
"Thought it might be the coolant, so I chucked some water in there," he squeaks, puffing out his chest. He has no idea what he's talking about.
The mechanic is silent. He clearly thinks you are all idiots and you've got yourselves into this situation, but he agrees to tow you back to the shop anyway.
The mechanic takes you towards Fox Glacier, which is where you wanted to go. He drops the van off at the holiday park. The next day you leave the van and attempt a walk to the Fox Glacier. You are walking along a forest path filled with ferns and trees draped in moss when suddenly you reach a tarmac road that is closed off to the public.
You venture up to the marker and realise that the tarmac, and everything underneath it, has fallen in completely, a landslide has taken it away into a wide riverbed below, torn through with pale grey stone. The 50km/h speed limit sign stands useless at the edge of the precipice.
You travel north through the mountain path and stop at Okarito to walk to a lookout point. From the top you can see far-stretching mountains behind rows of smoggy grey clouds. The bearded one insists on staying at the lookout until the clouds move. You wait for an hour, getting sunburnt, but he manages to produce a half salvageable panorama.
You head out back on the road. As you approach Inangahua Junction, the car starts to sputter again like it has hypothermia. You pull in at Inangahua at something that looks like a cafe and the van shudders off and won't restart. There is no signal at Inangahua Junction, and not many people either. The bearded one is nosing around a few post boxes when a woman from inside the shuttered cafe pokes out and asks if you are okay.
She gives you her landline to call roadside assistance to pick up the van, again. The bearded one engages the woman in conversation. You find out that she has retired and bought this cafe, seemingly the only business of its kind in Inangahua Junction, and intends to reopen it at an unspecified date.
"I don't want to put a date on it," she says, "if I do that it will just stress me out."
She has been reading a book on how to make machine coffee, but it doesn't seem necessary. The cafe will be a welcome oasis in the only village within a 45 minute drive in any direction. And all travellers really want is a toilet and free wifi.
"Remember that time I paid $6 for a cup of coffee in Tasmania?" says the bearded one, turning to the one with curly hair.
"Yeah, people aren't too fussy when they want coffee," she says.
You give the woman some recommendations for what food to serve, your companions recommend pies and batch brew stove pot coffee. As you wait patiently for the van to be loaded onto the truck, you suddenly remember that you never asked her name. But she's already gone. Your companions will likely never return to this place to see the cafe finally open. But maybe you will, reader.
As the bearded one walks into the distance a pickup truck pulls in. You are saved. The bearded one runs back and puts on his best burly-man voice, addressing the mechanic.
"Thought it might be the coolant, so I chucked some water in there," he squeaks, puffing out his chest. He has no idea what he's talking about.
The mechanic is silent. He clearly thinks you are all idiots and you've got yourselves into this situation, but he agrees to tow you back to the shop anyway.
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| The view from State Highway 6 |
The mechanic takes you towards Fox Glacier, which is where you wanted to go. He drops the van off at the holiday park. The next day you leave the van and attempt a walk to the Fox Glacier. You are walking along a forest path filled with ferns and trees draped in moss when suddenly you reach a tarmac road that is closed off to the public.
You venture up to the marker and realise that the tarmac, and everything underneath it, has fallen in completely, a landslide has taken it away into a wide riverbed below, torn through with pale grey stone. The 50km/h speed limit sign stands useless at the edge of the precipice.
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| Alpine Gardens Landslide |
"Well, we can't go that way," says the bearded one. Your companions are fed up. You are trying to walk up to see the Fox glacier, but without a vehicle this is proving difficult. The curly haired one checks her phone for messages. The van is still in for repair and it doesn't look good.
You find out later that this sunken road is the site of New Zealand's largest landslide, the Alpine Gardens Landslide. That’s the largest landslide. This means that there is more than one active landslide in New Zealand. This is a horrifying prospect, considering that a landslide this size is the result of a mountain collapsing and it can rip through roads like putty.
Later you find out that the van has been fixed, miraculously. The mechanics have cleaned something out, you can't remember the name of it, and it now works. It sounds like a quick-fix but you are so elated that you jump back on the road. You head to Franz Josef. There you stay in a campsite almost entirely made up of German teenagers.
The next day you decide to visit the Franz Josef glacier. You walk through a barren landscape where the glacier used to sit. The wall of ice carved its ways through mountains and then receded year after year. In your lifetime the Franz Josef glacier has thawed kilometres into the distance, to the point where it is only a faint white shape at the peak of the mountain. Tourists stand at the barrier of the walk and squint up at the cloudy roof obscuring the faint glimmer of glacier in the distance.
You find out later that this sunken road is the site of New Zealand's largest landslide, the Alpine Gardens Landslide. That’s the largest landslide. This means that there is more than one active landslide in New Zealand. This is a horrifying prospect, considering that a landslide this size is the result of a mountain collapsing and it can rip through roads like putty.
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| The town of Fox Glacier |
Later you find out that the van has been fixed, miraculously. The mechanics have cleaned something out, you can't remember the name of it, and it now works. It sounds like a quick-fix but you are so elated that you jump back on the road. You head to Franz Josef. There you stay in a campsite almost entirely made up of German teenagers.
The next day you decide to visit the Franz Josef glacier. You walk through a barren landscape where the glacier used to sit. The wall of ice carved its ways through mountains and then receded year after year. In your lifetime the Franz Josef glacier has thawed kilometres into the distance, to the point where it is only a faint white shape at the peak of the mountain. Tourists stand at the barrier of the walk and squint up at the cloudy roof obscuring the faint glimmer of glacier in the distance.
 |
| Franz Josef Glacier |
You travel north through the mountain path and stop at Okarito to walk to a lookout point. From the top you can see far-stretching mountains behind rows of smoggy grey clouds. The bearded one insists on staying at the lookout until the clouds move. You wait for an hour, getting sunburnt, but he manages to produce a half salvageable panorama.
 |
| Southern Alps |
You head out back on the road. As you approach Inangahua Junction, the car starts to sputter again like it has hypothermia. You pull in at Inangahua at something that looks like a cafe and the van shudders off and won't restart. There is no signal at Inangahua Junction, and not many people either. The bearded one is nosing around a few post boxes when a woman from inside the shuttered cafe pokes out and asks if you are okay.
She gives you her landline to call roadside assistance to pick up the van, again. The bearded one engages the woman in conversation. You find out that she has retired and bought this cafe, seemingly the only business of its kind in Inangahua Junction, and intends to reopen it at an unspecified date.
"I don't want to put a date on it," she says, "if I do that it will just stress me out."
She has been reading a book on how to make machine coffee, but it doesn't seem necessary. The cafe will be a welcome oasis in the only village within a 45 minute drive in any direction. And all travellers really want is a toilet and free wifi.
"Remember that time I paid $6 for a cup of coffee in Tasmania?" says the bearded one, turning to the one with curly hair.
"Yeah, people aren't too fussy when they want coffee," she says.
You give the woman some recommendations for what food to serve, your companions recommend pies and batch brew stove pot coffee. As you wait patiently for the van to be loaded onto the truck, you suddenly remember that you never asked her name. But she's already gone. Your companions will likely never return to this place to see the cafe finally open. But maybe you will, reader.
