Ngaruroro Chapter Two: Middle

The section of the Ngaruroro between Kuripapango and Whanawhana is known in whitewater circles as the lower gorge, or sometimes simply the Ngaruroro gorge. I refer to it here as the 'middle' section of the river, in order to leave the stretch from Whanawhana to the sea as the 'lower'.

There is about 50km of river between Kuripapango and Whanawhana and within this stretch is the hardest whitewater the Ngaruroro has to offer, culminating in one or two rapids which probably reach class IV. There are plenty of stories out there about people doing long day trips on the section, finishing in the dark or taking on high flows. I have now had the privilege of completing the section twice, both as overnight trips. Much like the upper river, this section holds great significance to me but it is for starkly different reasons.

Let me take you back to 2013. In 2013 we had a great winter of flows in Wellington and I was chock full with motivation for whitewater paddling. I got on a lot of classics; many Hutt gorge laps, Tongariro access 10, 13 and 14, Kaituna, Waihohonu, Rangitikei gorge laps and a memorable high flow lap on Willow flat section of the Mohaka. Besides this I also managed to get onto a few of the more esoteric runs like the Whakatikei, Atiwhakatu and a first descent of the Korimako gorge. With all this paddling plus many slalom sessions behind me I was feeling more comfortable on whitewater than I had ever been.

Labour weekend of 2013 rolled around and the collective decision was an overnight trip from Kuripapango to Whanawhana. I was excited at the prospect, if the upper river intrigued me, this section intimidated me. I had heard the stories in local paddling circles but I knew I was ready. Increasing my anticipation was the fact that this would be my first paddling multiday.

So it was for the first time that I floated past the Igloo rock of my beginning and entered the next stage of my development. The 15 or so kilometres immediately below Kuripapango is a fantastic introduction to the section. The river wiggles around constantly through hills that epitomise the dry and rugged nature of back blocks Hawkes Bay. There are countless rapids, mainly class II with the odd III thrown in. Life becomes a succession of rapids, pools, cliffs and Kanuka as the Ngaruroro slips over the smooth greywacke boulders. It is serene.

Class III boulder gardens somewhere mid Ngaruroro.

Then the river steepens slightly and enters the gorge within the gorge. The features get a bit bigger and pushier and the rapids start to be dictated by the bedrock as opposed to boulders. For a few kilometres the river is a blissful grade III-IV boat scoutable delight. There is a bit of fatigue in the body at this point as there is a fair amount of river behind, but nobody can complain of not being warmed up. With the final rapid Barricade, the harder water ends and we reached the campsite on the TR.

A long III near the entrance of the gorge within the gorge.

Camping out of your kayak is different to camping out of your pack in subtle ways. The river is omnipresent. The background rushing reminds the subconscious that your travel through this landscape is tied to the water. Everything is in a drybag, or waterproofed in some way and there is always wet gear to deal with. The throwbag strung between trees as a clothesline. The boats and paddles pulled well clear of the river. This was my first experience of this lifestyle and the Ngaruroro campsite is perfect. The sun sinks into a gap between tall greywacke walls. Waving stands of aromatic Kanuka frame grassy campsites.

As the sun reached the river we set off again into another perfect Hawkes Bay day. The rapids are easy in this stretch - all class II and the cliffs become less frequent and less imposing. Only a few bends down from the campsite I caught an eddy on the TL. Peeling back out, I dipped my left rail into the water so the current would slide harmlessly under my boat. I felt the rail catch and flipped over towards the downriver side. Confusion. This was a beginner move and everything had felt right. Why was I upside down? Try to roll: all going well, all going well, almost upright, snap, back under. What was going on? I opened my eyes underwater and found out. A stick had pierced through my spraydeck and was embedded in the seat between my legs. The stick was attached to a log on the riverbed and while small was showing no signs of giving way. This was bad. The river was pushing my boat at right angles to the stick and holding me there upside down. I tried to swim. I pulled my deck but couldn't get the tangle of boat, stick and spraydeck to let me out. The boat was now filled with water. The stick ripped through my spraydeck and reached the thick elastic at the edge. This wouldn't budge. I cursed my cag style spraydeck and drytop combo, I couldn't just wiggle out of the spraydeck and escape. Sometime about now I felt a rock. By pressing my fingertips against the rock I could just get my nose and mouth out of the water. I was stuck but stable.

Probably this all happened in the course of about twenty seconds but the confusion and terror of that short time has stuck with me. It is the first and only time I have genuinely thought I might die. Once I was stable, some of the team pulled into the eddy created by my boat and together managed to untangle the mess. We sewed up the big tear in my spraydeck with fishing line and continued downstream. While I was standing there on the bank recovering I looked closely at where it had all gone down. Only the vaguest sign of the stick was visible and no hint broke the waters surface. I was left with the uncomfortable realisation that I would probably do exactly the same thing again. The rest of the day was not dramatic. The sun shone, the river eased, we paddled many more kilometres to Kuripapango. I don't really remember it. What I do remember was thinking about how this was a perfect example of uncontrollable risk. If I wanted to paddle then this sort of thing had to be accepted, justified, it had to be worth it. I didn't have a good answer for the question this line of reasoning poses then and I don't really have one now.

The offending stick hides just beyond and downstream of the rock in the centre of the picture.

With that my first experience of the section and of a multiday was complete. On the way home and for the days following I was more introspective than perhaps usual, reflecting on my incident. Then I went back to the river. In my mind it was accepted and I planned to continue just as I had been. However, in retrospect it may not have been that simple. The end of 2013 was the start of almost four years where whitewater took a back seat to slalom, certainly a much safer discipline. Of course, this could have been caused more by my skills reaching a level where slalom competition was more enjoyable or any number of other factors. But my gut tells me that this incident on the lower Ngaruroro played a subconscious role.

In 2019 I went back. Dad and I had done the upper river about a week prior and the river was still holding at a good flow for the section. With a team of three we pushed off from the same point Dad and I had left the river a week before, an aesthetic and meaningful symmetry. The day was sunny but with a persistent breeze sneaking up the valley. This was nothing compared to the gales we experienced between Cameron and Kuripapango. We slid down into that same valley I had first seen six years ago. The river felt playful, the endless succession of bends and rapids once again serene. The harder section was a real treat and surprisingly unfolded much like my vague memories of it. Intermittent bedrock, boulders dotting the river, trees clinging to the disintegrating cliffs with their roots dangling in space. The water blue and bouncing through small channels.

The gorge within the gorge.

At the campsite we each set up our own fly, the throwbag clotheslines were rigged and dinner was prepared. Simple living is always rewarding. During the night I lay in my sleeping bag unable to sleep. At home this is usually a frustration, wasted time that should be used resting. But here I was content to look up at the sky, feel the breeze and think about adventures past, present and future. As I lay there the wind started coming in stronger and stronger gusts, lifting my fly and slamming it back down above my face. It felt like a benevolent wind, there to entertain rather than intimidate. At some point I began to drift in and out of sleep to the sound of the Ngaruroro.

Looking upstream from the campsite flat.

Much like 2013 we left the campsite with the sun and headed downstream. This time I was really able to experience this section of river without a mind preoccupied by risk. The hills are high and dry but they gradually lean back from the river. As they do so the farmland starts to become apparent and the white dots of sheep can be seen above the river. Just above the Taruarau campsite we spotted a jetboat, at this point a curiosity but prescient of what was coming. Over the next 20km jetboats were our companions. An indistinct roar which was difficult to place as upstream or down heralded their arrival in groups of around three. We saw upwards of twenty jetboats and some of them a number of times as they flew up and down the river. It transpired that the Ngaruroro was playing host to some sort of jetboat meet over the weekend. The whole experience was disconcerting and made our progress feel pedestrian. As the river became more braided willows became our primary concern. We picked our way carefully down the channels between trees and gravel bars. As we swept down one channel we saw a jetboat aground on the gravel. Its driver had lost the plane and was now stuck pushing the hull back and forth trying to get it into deeper water. We offered a hand but it wasn't needed and we turned the corner feeling a little smug about our nimble slow boats and pedestrian progress. At the take out we lay in the heat of the day atop our boats. The Ngaruroro had served up a wonderful journey.