Cook River
through the rain
WEATHER
BOMB
I hate my wet weather pants. Yesterday’s
euphoria has been replaced by a certain
dread. ‘Got a wet arse, and no fish’, as my
father used to say.
The threatened weather had arrived behind
me. There were reports of damage, floods and
blocked roads. I left the Coast and went up the
inland route to Nelson. I decided to go right
and forego the pleasure of Fox River, Crow
Bay and Punakaiki in favour of outrunning
the rain. So, south of the Bridge, I turned onto
SH7, towards Inangahua, Buller, Murchison
and the long running roads into Nelson.
Greymouth was as I remembered – wet,
drizzly, bleak, grey and stinking of burnt coal.
The Brunner Mine Disaster memorial does
nothing to lighten spirits.
I rolled on winding country roads, in and
out of showers, dry patches, downpours and
delicious looking rivers. Crossing the Ahaura
river I could stand it no more. I pulled over,
and awaited the farmer mowing a paddock.
He saw me and slowly made his way down to
the gate where I leant. “Gidday, is it okay if I
fish your river?”
“Go for your life, mate”, he smiles. The Ahaura
River is wide, clear and I have seen big trout
working above the bridge. I de-rigged, hid the
bike from the road, set up my fishing gear,
and made my way to the rivers edge. I find a
cliff and go below. There’s gorse, blackberry, a
bit of mud and another cliff, I can’t get down.
I could cast to the fish, but any retrieve is
impossible. I crossed back, getting scratched
to hell, walked a couple of hundred metres
along the paddock edge, and the entire bank
is made up of fallen willows, rotting, broken
and entangled. No way down.
The fish remain completely unmolested. I
pack away my fishing gear for the last time. It
will not be used on a bike trip again.
It stayed grey in weather, mood and sky
until Inangahua Junction. Joining the fantastic
Buller Gorge Road is a pleasure and the colour
came back into my ride and the day. I love
this place. I passed the stables where Stephen
works his magic with horses and drays, still
beside his beloved river after all these years.
I tooted the horn. He had no idea it was me,
couldn’t care less I imagine, and I rolled onto a
welcome lunch stop in Murchison.
KIWI RIDER 31