Chris Long - The Boy from Gorge River: From New Zealands remotest family to the world beyond

Contents

To Grandad, who was the first to suggest I write a book.

And in memory of Lochie, whose adventurous spirit

will live on with us forever.

The engine revs and the propellers of Hank Sproulls Cessna 185 bite into the air. The acceleration pushes my sister Robin and me into the backs of our seats. We are racing down the Queenstown runway at the base of the iconic Remarkables mountain range and soon we say goodbye to the ground, rising up and over the deep blue water of Lake Wakatipu. After a banking right-hand turn we fly northwest through Skippers Saddle, and Queenstown with its roads, supermarkets and crowded streets fades into the distance behind us. Hank is using his vast experience of flying in Fiordland to steer us skilfully through the tussock-covered mountains of the Skippers Range, past the last township of Glenorchy and on into the heart of the mighty Southern Alps. We have to find a way through these tall, cloud-covered peaks to reach our home at Gorge River, next to the ocean on the other side.

Although I have flown through these mountains more than 50 times over the years, it is never boring. As we enter the Rockburn Valley the strong southwesterly winds that are ripping in from the Southern Ocean, piercing every river valley in the Southern Alps, begin to buffet us. Above us a layer of cloud is thickening, clinging like cotton wool to the jagged peaks rising on each side of the valley we are flying through. We are heading towards Park Pass, the lowest point in the mountains in front, and everything hinges on the cloud layer being high enough above the pass to let us through. Robin and I glance at each other and in that instant of time no words need to be spoken. We have been through this process of going home so many times that we almost call this exhilarating experience normal. Almost...

I am actually en route from a deserted tropical island in Tonga to Antarctica. After receiving a last-minute contract for my dream job as a field trainer at Scott Base, I hitchhiked off the island on a luxury catamaran yacht. This will be my one chance to see my family at Gorge River before disappearing to the land of snow, ice and penguins for the next five months.

Getting home is always complicated, and Dad has spent the last week trying to organise this flight through our satellite broadband internet connection. First he contacted our regular pilot and family friend Roger Monk, but his plane is currently undergoing a routine maintenance check in Wnaka. Then he tried Hugh, but he was away in Australia and couldnt fly us either. While at Suva Airport in Fiji I received an email from Dad informing me Hank had agreed to do the flight. Hank usually flies to Milford Sound with tourists each day and a flight to Gorge River is a nice change from the usual milk run for him. He told me there would be a fine six-hour gap in the weather between two storms that would align with my afternoon in Queenstown. Robin was in Wnaka, had also just arrived from overseas and was ready to join me on the flight. It had been 18 months since I had been home and my family would all be together again, albeit for just a couple of hours.

Eventually, after a cancelled flight and a rough landing on the Air New Zealand Airbus A320, I met Robin at Queenstown Airport mid-morning. After a quick hello we drove around to the New World supermarket at Frankton in her car and searched the aisles for the items on Mums shopping list. Eggs, flour, sugar, sausages, fresh fruit... etc. Robin already had the mail from Roger and his partner, Debbie, and in 30 minutes we bought two huge shopping trolleys full of food enough to stock Mum and Dads cupboards for six weeks or more.

Hoping we hadnt forgotten anything, we headed over to Hanks hangar at Queenstown Airport. Hanks large hand enveloped mine as we shook hands in greeting. The passes are still closed to the West Coast, he informed us. The front has gone through but theres still some remaining cloud. Its windy up there, so it could open up at any time. Ill call you in an hour or two with an update.

Robin and I sat on the grass nearby and chatted about our recent adventures. She had just returned from her first trip in Europe, where she had hiked through the Pyrenees mountains. Since wed last seen each other, I had travelled through South East Asia exploring the streets of some of the worlds largest cities, taught outdoor education in China, and backpacked right across Eastern Europe, Egypt and Israel. It had been an insane trip through twenty-two non-English-speaking countries, mostly in the developing world, and along the way I had experienced eighteen different languages, eight major religions and sixteen different currencies while staying in over a hundred different hostels, hotels and Airbnbs and on friends couches, all over the course of fifteen months.

Time ticked by. Would the weather clear in time to make it home today? I knew Mum and Dad would be desperate to see us a visit from their children is always a highlight for them since we both left home and made lives away from Gorge River. Finally, at 1 pm we received a phone call from Hank. The weather is clearing, lets go!

I emailed Dad: Taking off in 15 minutes.

Robin and I know the routine. After loading the boxes of groceries into the rear of the plane we climb into the back seats. Then its fasten seat belts, earmuffs on, a deep breath and hope for a safe flight. Hank jumps into the pilots seat and his son Anthony is the co-pilot. Half a dozen planes have gone missing without a trace in the Southern Alps and every time we take off our fate is in the hands of these incredibly skilled bush pilots, the plane and the unpredictable weather. The engine turns over and Hank taxis towards the runway. Even in my exhausted state, I watch and absorb his every move. A crackling reply comes over the radio from the Queenstown control tower: Echo, November, Whiskey, you are clear for take-off.

Now we enter a kind of time warp where nothing else in the world matters besides the engine, the pilots decision-making, and the power of nature and the clouded mountains. With not only my emotions on the line, but also those of Robin, Mum and Dad, Hank calmly flies the plane up the huge U-shaped valley of the Rockburn towards Park Pass. Everything has led up to this moment and it is up to him to either guide us safely through the Southern Alps to Gorge River, or to make the heartbreaking decision to turn back to Queenstown. Having flown through these mountains thousands of times, Hank is one of the most experienced pilots in the area and he has our full trust.

We are flying along under the thick cloud layer and the bushy valley floor below has given way to tussock and a small rocky mountain stream flowing past a few scattered thickets of beech trees. The little plane is shaken up and down and from side to side as we hit lumps and bumps of turbulence and Robin and I hold on tight to our seats. The steep sides of the Rockburn Valley slide past and as we approach the pass I can see Hank edging the plane closer to the hillside on the right-hand side, preparing for a sharp 180-degree turn back towards Queenstown.