Stairway to Howling Heaven

There are many of us locals who claim Mt Manaia as being ‘our maunga’. Its dramatic rock peaks, steeped in Maori legend, have long formed the backdrop of family holidays in the bays below. 

Legend has it that a chief who lived on the opposite side of the harbour entrance crossed the water chasing after his wife and two children who had been taken captive by Manaia, the paramount chief of Whangarei. All five were struck by lightning and turned into the rock outcrops visible at the summit.

Legend also has it that my father, who grew up under its majestic rocky beauty, ‘ran’ up it every day before school, according to his boyhood diary. One will never know if that was the truth.

I hadn’t climbed Mt Manaia since I was a kid – the last time we’d made it almost to the top, only to find it roped off. I’d been planning to return to the mountain for years and for some reason last weekend I decided to just do it. 

The day was not the greatest – it was windy and threatening to rain - but I’d had a reasonable sleep and it was time the kids got out from the ipad.

Earlier that morning, I’d entertained the idea of a picnic at the top, but then discarded it in favour of travelling light. Instead, I stocked the kids up on fuel before we left, packed some water bottles and, short of cracking a whip all the way up, stopped in at the shop to buy a little incentive.

Armed with the bag of lollies, which goes against my anti-sugar principles, we set off.

Google estimated an up to three-hour round trip ‘but that might be aimed at the grannies and grandpas’, I’d said to the kids by way of inspiration as the first lot of stairs loomed before us.

In the 80s there were no stairways – I have memories of a much harder ascent, scrambling up crab-style grabbing at tree trunks and low-hanging branches and twigs. Today there are stairs-galore.

The view on a good day.

“Up-oh – the ‘s’ word,” called out Master Six, who’d been charging ahead the whole way and just rounded a corner to be faced with a rather daunting steep triple set.

He’d taken it upon himself to be our guide, offering encouragement as the rest of us lagged behind.

“Don’t worry, I think this is the last lot,” he called back as we surely neared the top.

Master Nine’s role was time-keeper. Not only did we have to beat three hours, but every ten minutes we were allowed to stop for a lolly and water break.

To be honest, I don’t think we needed the lollies. I’d had visions of having to carry Miss Six up, only to turn round halfway and back-track but she surprised me with steely, silent determination, which only wavered into fear towards the top.

And I don’t blame her.

Despite warnings from several trekkers making their descent, as we rounded the top of the mountain, the wind hit us with force.

Here I started to worry and Miss Six, who was by now clinging to me, picked up on it. We stuck together, keeping low and, rounding a corner to a sheltered area, stumbled upon a large group having a debrief. Funny, we’d counted only three cars in the car park and already passed three lots of people coming down. We’d decided we were the only ones up there.

But as it turns out the boy scout group’s presence was a god-send. A man stationed a little further along on the final summit stairs leading up to the look-out rock, was rigging an anchor rope and said we could be his guinea pigs for the group below. He tied the rope to us and we fought our way as far as the top step before I hastened the kids back down to shelter and safety.

“You want a photo?” he called out.

Sure, why not. I’d come all this way for the view but it wasn’t exactly the type of weather to stop and enjoy it, let alone take a picnic.

Tying the rope around himself, he followed me out onto the rock. 

“I’m Alan, by the way,” I think he yelled, before the wind whipped it away.

The boy scouts were now ready to come up so we took leave. On the way down, we passed two elderly men going up.

“It’s blowing a gale,” I thought I should warn them.

Five minutes later, we were on one of our regular lolly stops when we saw them coming down through the bush.

“Quick,” I said to the kids. “Let’s get going so we don’t get stuck behind them.”

We shot off but it soon became apparent we’d have to pull over to let them past.

 “Did you not go to the top?” I asked.

“Yeah, we went to the top, we saw the Scouts you mentioned. We do this quite a lot,” they called back amicably as they left us in the dust.

Even though we were under two hours and I was super-proud of my troop, I take back what I said about the elderly.

But next time we’re doing it in one and a half.

The Gambler

My Mister Nine has always been a bit of a miser – for the last three years he’s been saving for a house.

Even the bank teller was impressed when I banked his latest savings instalment.

But then along came Ninjago lego and his owning his own home plan got side-tracked.

“Mum, after dinner can we all have a game of Uno?” he asked one night this week.

“Ok,” I eventually agreed, trying not to think about how much I had to get done and remembering how fun these spontaneous activities can be.

We carried on going about our evening, then: “Mum, when we play Uno, I’ve made a rule that everyone has to pay $1 to play and then the winner gets to keep all the $1’s.”

“Ah, isn’t that gambling? Who taught you to gamble?!”

Thinking back to earlier that evening, he had been asking me ways he could earn more money and complaining about his weekly rate, which admittedly is pretty poor but, for the amount of ‘work’ he does, is probably an over-payment.

After his sister came and informed me while I was taking a shower that big bro had been trying to coax $1 out of her to play his Uno card game so he could buy some more Ninjago, I pieced it together and realised he’d had his eye on the prize all along.

He must fancy himself as a bit of an Uno champ or else he hadn’t thought of the consequences of losing – I shudder to think how that would have gone down.

I quickly quashed the gambling idea – not that his no-longer ignorant brother and sister were going to cough up with their money anyway – and I was pleased to note that Master Nine was still keen to host a family game of Uno with no money changing hands.

I was called to his room where the three of them were sitting in a circle on an array of strategically-placed cushions waiting to start the game.

I took my pew on the purple sequinned star cushion, lent for the occasion by Miss Six, and we had a lovely healthy family game of Uno in our pjs, further proving the theory that all  children want is a little of our time.

So the house deposit, to-date, is safe in the bank gaining interest while this Ninjago lego phase (and the, no doubt, subsequent ones) lasts. Meantime, I’ll keep nurturing his entrepreneurial streak the good old-fashioned way.

Now, where was my spring cleaning list?