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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 13, Issue 6 (September 1, 1938)

A World in the Making — Ketetahi Valley, Tongariro National Park

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A World in the Making
Ketetahi Valley, Tongariro National Park
.

Ketetahi Valley and Mt. Tongariro from the track, North Island, New Zealand.

Ketetahi Valley and Mt. Tongariro from the track, North Island, New Zealand.

Ngatoro-I-Rangi was an ariki and revered priest of the Arawa canoe. His first task on arrival at our fair islands was to undertake a tour of exploration. In the course of his wanderings he came to the foot of a range of mountains, in the heart of the North Island, and like the modern surveyor, this ancient pathfinder decided to ascend to the summit to spy out the land. While on the summit a snowstorm swept the heights and he was like to die from the freezing cold. In his extremity he prayed in a loud voice for the fire of the gods: “Ka riro au i te tonga. Haria mai he ahi moku,” he intoned. And straightway the fire-gods sent the saving fire, by way of White Island and Rotorua. The heat reached the perishing ariki, there on the mountain top, and his freezing body gained fresh life. From the words “riro” (carried away), and “tonga” (south wind) came the name Tongariro, which name formerly included all three peaks, Tongariro, Ngauruhoe and Ruapehu.” (Abridged from Cowan's “Folk Tales of the Maori.”)

Thus the native mind accounts for the volcanic and hydro-thermal activities of the Tongariro National Park. Of the vents through which the God of Volcanoes, Ruaimoko, broke to the succour of the stricken explorer, none is so popular, famous, or consistently active as Ketetahi Valley, or Blowholes, on the slopes of Tongariro. To the traveller on the National Park—Taupo highway Ketetahi is a familiar sight. A gulch in the northern buttress of the mountain, from whose mysterious depths ascend vast columns of steam, in vivid relief against black alpine face and deep blue sky, this Rotorua in miniature is fast gaining the popularity it deserves.

Ketetahi! The Lourdes of the Maori. What tales they tell of weary and wounded warriors, faint from mighty battle, gaining life anew in its healing waters; the cripple made straight and the diseased made whole. From Poneke in the south, to Akarana in the north, they came, the wounded, the halt and the sickly for healing in this antipodean Pool of Soloam. Is it little wonder that the valley, to-day, is venerated by the natives of South Taupo, descendants of Ngatoro-i-rangi himself, who gave this gift to his people so many generations ago. Is it any wonder that, in 1887, when Te Heuheu, with magnificent gesture gifted the Tongariro mountains to the nation, this valley was not included in the deed, but is constituted, some 20 acres, a native reserve.

The Springs are contained in a valley some 600 yards long and 200 yards wide. Boiling springs, spouting gevsers, steaming cauldrons, eerie, bubbling mud pools, steam vents acknowledged the most powerful in the land, intense clouds of clammy steam, nerve racking noises, and smells, which, to say the least, are overpowering—such is Ketetahi. Care must be taken in inspecting the activities, as the sulphur crust twixt us and the inferno beneath is but an eggshell. On every hand rocks plastered with pure yellow sulphur gleam and scintillate like rare gems. The roar is deafening, and it needed but the gentleman of the cloven hoof to loom through the flying mists to complete the picture; a vision that Dante must have dreamed when he wrote his masterpiece.

We work our way up the valley, gingerly, past spitting mud pools and hissing cauldrons to the centre of the gulch. Here are situated the main vents, the most powerful of which is quite capable of emitting a column of steam to a height of 3,000 ft. During a minor eruption, many years ago, this vent had a flat rock deposited over it in such a way as to form a perfect steam whistle, a piercing, ear-splitting whistle that could be heard all over the
Main Vent Ketetahi Valley.

Main Vent Ketetahi Valley.

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Mud pools at Ketetahi.

Mud pools at Ketetahi.

mountain and was of great assistance in fog and dark to the traveller. Unfortunately a native boy, in casting a stone into the vent, broke a vital portion of the “works,” and the little rocky whistle wouldn't blow. These vents are evidently connected with the main volcanic fault as increased activities on Ruapehu and Ngauruhoe have counterparts in similar bursts of energies from this valley.

From the valley issues a muddy, boiling stream, rushing its tortuous way to the blue waters of Lake Roto-a-ira, glistening below us. The creek waters, Manga-a-te-tipua, The Creek of the Demon, are highly medicinal and might be aptly termed the finished product from the factory ceaselessly working above. Many a pakeha I have seen seeking relief from sciatica, rheumatism and kindred ills by bathing in its magic waters. But here is no stately Blue Bath, no luxurious Sanatorium; seekers after health must excavate for themselves a bath from out the rocky bed; not the most comfortable, I assure you, while the dressing accommodation needs remedying! As witness an acquaintance of mine who lost his clothes in a fog and had many anxious moments ere he discovered the missing garments, especially as he was expecting a party of ladies at any moment.

Away back in 1902 there was an eruption in Ketetahi; huge boulders, spewed from her subterranean depths lie in and along the sides of the stream, mute but eloquent witness to the rage of the unleashed forces of Ruaimoko. The sides of the stream are stripped of their vegetation for a height of 50 feet, and old settlers inform me that rocks and debris, carried down after the eruption, blocked the main road near Lake Roto-a-ira.

Way of approach to the valley is over a track, branching from the main highway at Ketetahi Mill, and sweeping up through the beautiful Okahukuru Bush, and over tussock slopes for a distance of four miles. The walk is delightfully easy and in summer the pampas slopes are a mass of alpine flora, dainty gentian, golden-eyed cel-mesia and yellow ranunculi. A hut has been constructed a mile below the gulch, and though containing little facilities has proved a boon to alpinists. The management at the Chateau conduct regular visits to the Valley and a trip to the Park without visiting Ketetahi is like viewing a picture with one eye closed.

Some day Ketetahi will be famous. A sanatorium will stand on these heights, a road will wind up from the plains below, and the powers of healing will be made available to all who seek.

Panorama of Ketetahi Valley.

Panorama of Ketetahi Valley.

We leave the valley of awefulness, of unrestrained forces, of a world in the making; silent, subdued, and with a keener appreciation of nature's method of evolving a new from an old, and of providing a safety valve for the titanic powers that rage in her turbulent bosom, ever striving for release to carry on a work of annihilation.

Tennyson, the poet laureate, was a great lover of the “weed.” He invariably smoked a “churchwarden”—otherwise “a yard of clay,” and never used the same pipe twice. As soon as he had smoked a pipe out he would snap it in two and throw the pieces into a box kept for the purpose. Then, if he wished to smoke again, he would select another clean pipe, and repeat the performance. The clay, once so popular, is out of date, but the pipe, after all, is of little consequence. It's the baccy that counts! So long as that's pure and good nothing else matters much. And in that respect Maori-landers are fortunate, for New Zealand produces some of the world's finest tobacco. There are only five brands—Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish, Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), River-head Gold and Desert Gold, not only famous for their purity, flavour and aroma, but, thanks to toasting—by the manufacturers' secret process — and consequently freed to a large extent from nicotine, they are comparatively harmless. There are no other toasted tobaccos.*

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(continued from page 31)

danger. Two of the boats had almost gained the shelter of the breakwater when the third, the ships' lifeboat, suddenly capsized.

The coxwains, seeing what had happened, immediately turned their boats round to hasten to rescue the unfortunate men struggling in the water. Courageously, yet cautiously, the two boats made their way through a maelstrom of tremendous, white-headed seas. Now hurled into the air, now in the trough of a wave, they made slow progress. At last they were at the scene of the disaster and were able to stretch forth grasping hands to the men they sought to save. Suddenly a great mass of seething foam reared itself up, entirely swamping a second boat. In the swirling mass of white sea that followed, it was feared that no man could live. By degrees it was revealed that the boats were floating gunwale under, some men standing up in them, while others struggled in the water to regain the boats. All the while, bright sunshine gleamed down on the boats, lighting up the occupants who were fevishly divesting themselves of their sodden clothing in order to be better able to assist those who had failed to regain the boats.

Help from Shore.

On shore, the excitement had reached a panic intensity, it being all the greater in the knowledge of their absolute impotency to aid those fifteen men battling for their lives against tempest uous odds. But something must be done. There was one faint gleam of hope … it was risky—the risk must be taken. An old lifeboat, a stranger to water for thirteen years had spent all that time reposing in peaceful degeneracy at the service station. This boat had always been considered unlucky and the last time she was in the water she had capsized and drowned one of her occupants. All this did not prevent a host of volunteers pressing forward to make up a crew that would venture out to save their fellows.

Speedily the boat was launched and anxious eyes were glued to that lifeboat, as, breasting green mountains of water; now hidden from view, now bow high in the air, it pushed steadily out to sea. Capably handled and kept well to the sea, she slowly worked down to the helpless men. At long last she gained her objective and one by one those who were left were grasped with a grip that meant the dragging of them from death, and they were hauled aboard. All saved … for the instant.

A Superhuman Struggle.

As if in wrath at being baulked of its prey, the white-headed seas roared in again. Up one of these great combers the lifeboat rushed, firmly held by the steersmen, till lost to view in the water's boiling crest. Onward, relentlessly onward, the wave swirled, disclosing to horror-stricken watchers on shore the drama of an upturned boat tossed about in the midst of a disorder of heads and upthrown arms. By some miracle the boat was righted and her half-drowned occupants scrambled on board. Quickly taking their positions in the boat, they prepared once more to fight for their lives. No sooner were they ready when another wave catapulted them into the seething foam. Yet again the boat was righted—yet again the men got to their oars—yet again they were tossed into the sea. Those on shore with nerve enough to watch this awesome rhythm of catastrophe following catastrophe, sickened in the watching.

Bravely the crew fought a seemingly hopeless fight. Each time they were hurtled into the water they righted their boat and set about to pick up those of their comrades who could be found. Doggedly they stuck to their task till they could see no more men. Then began a slow and anxious return to the shore. Time and again they were in imminent peril, but luck and good oarsmanship finally brought them to safety.

When they reached the shelter of the breakwater, cheers broke forth from the crowds massed on the shore—such cheers as Timaru has never before heard. As the boat drew near the jetty, it could be seen that of that forlorn remnant of a crew, some were lying prostrate in the bottom of the boat; some naked; some barely alive. Others, dazed and bleeding, sat as men who had been as dead and had, by some superhuman agency, been grappled back to life. Willing hands were waiting to give all possible aid.

The first flush of the joy of their return passed … then was the apprehensive question whispered on everyone's lips—“Who's missing?”

May 14th. Each year, on the morning of that day, wreaths adorn the base of the Benvenue Monument. Fifty-six years have glided past, yet Timaru still remembers the most tragic day in her history. They are not forgotten—those nine brave men who willingly went to death to save their fellows.

“Greater love hath no man than this—that a man lay down his life for a friend.”