A Vanished Stream

On thing that has always struck me about Wellington is the absence of rivers, especially compared to Christchurch where the Avon is the focus of the city. I read on a plaque at Te Aro park that a stream once flowed through here, and I was intrigued to find what traces remained after 160 years of earthquakes, reclamation and urbanisation.

The Course

I'm not sure of the exact course of the Waimapihi stream, but by reading plaques, books, the council's Te Aro Heritage Trail and some early maps, it's possible to piece together a rough idea. The stream still rises in the southwest, among the hills that separate Brooklyn from Karori. From there, it flowed down the Holloway Valley and Aro Valley before snaking out across the formerly waterlogged Te Aro flat. In the 1860's, it passed through the intersection of Ghuznee St and Cuba Mall, beneath a footbridge that was christened, not without some irony, "London Bridge". Finally it reached the Te Aro beach at about the point where the Plaza International and James Smith carpark now stand.

The Remnants

Nothing remains of the Waimapihi Stream anywhere in the Te Aro flat, nor through the developed part of the Aro Valley. The stream disappears underground at the head of Holloway Rd, joining the anonymous flow of storm water through concrete pipes to the harbour. But if one ventures up the Aro Valley to the Waimapihi Reserve, it's possible to walk beside the headwaters of the stream, and imagine it as it would have been in pre-European times.

The stream and its surroundings are not entirely untouched by humans. But some of the human activity here has left signs that are perhaps eerier and more intriguing than the works of nature.

Waimapihi Reserve

As one leaves behind the wooden cottages and shacks of Holloway Rd, passing the wooden pallisades at the entrance to the Waimapihi Reserve, the first sighting of the Waimapihi stream is a little disappointing. A sluggish trickle crosses through some swampy and malodorous ground before falling through a rusty grating into the sewers.

On the right bank, through some well-kept gardens, is an old shed known locally as "The Lighthouse". The map in Holloway Rd had called this an "interpretive centre", but it was locked, and looked like it had been unused for some time.

The Forest

Upon entering the forest, the change in mood is breathtaking. It feels like stepping into a green tunnel: the mahoe trees that reach up from the banks to close above your head are covered in green moss, and the leaves of the mahoe and punga filter dappled green light over the whole scene.

The wind that moans in the canopy above you seems to be miles away, and the leaves that carpet the ground absorb your footfalls. Even the birds seem hushed, and the tiny stream itself makes only the quietest of trickling sounds among its rocks and pools. It almost feels like being underwater.

It's easy to lie back among the leaves and watch the light change as it falls through clouds, leaves and branches. It feels peaceful, but also a little eerie or out of place. It doesn't feel like the New Zealand bush: more like an Old World forest, or even something out of Middle Earth. Perhaps someone should tell Peter Jackson.

One of the strangest things about being here is knowing how close we are to the city: only about 3km from Courtenay Place. Apart from the occasional bridge across the stream, the forest seems almost untouched. But when we did come across overt signs of human impact, they were more suprising and moving than we could have guessed.

The Waimapihi Witch Project?

Just as we thought the forest was thinning and the magic was ending, we came across a bizarre assortment of artefacts. There were crude tripods strung together with rags; ribbons tied in the foliage; candles and logs that had been alight in the not too distant past; and a wind chime fashioned from scrap metal. We trod very carefully: in all seriousness, these looked like the trappings of some strange ritual. The forest took on a new chill.

But not all of the objects were so outré. There were also plastic butterflies and fish among the trees, along with paper flowers and wooden cats. The assortment came to seem not sinister, but almost kitsch.

It wasn't long before the answer became clear. Attached to one of the trees was a plaque dedicated to one "Fletch": Stephen Fletcher, born 1967, died 1994. So the site did have a ritual purpose, but one that was perhaps more personal than mystical. It seems that Fletch's friends or family still return to this spot to remember him, and that the odd paraphenalia are simply part of this remembrance.

We found later that this place is known as "Spirit Hill". I don't know whether this name preceded Fletch's memorial, why Fletch died so young, or whether he may indeed be buried nearby. There are many intriguing questions, but such curiosity seems banal beside the devotion of Fletch's loved ones.