Eliza McCartney
MY SPACESHIP
In the house I grew up in we had a wonderful backyard with many native trees. As siblings do, we decided we would each have our own tree; one brother chose the karaka, the other the tōtara, and I chose the tītoki. I knew this tree inside out, the shape of each branch, each lump and bump, nook and cranny. And even better, I knew that it was secretly a spaceship. There was the perfect arrangement of branches to create a seat with a steering wheel and pedals; everything needed to fly a spaceship.
Anybody who knew me as a child knows how much I loved to climb trees. The jungle gym that a strong mature tree provides was the best playground I ever found. Some days all I wanted was to be alone and climb as high as possible till the whole world was
below me. Other times I wanted nothing more than the pure excitement of climbing through a tree with others, playing all sorts of games, and embarking on imaginary adventures.
I’ve never forgotten the fun we had in our native trees, and how lucky we were to have them in our backyard. My love and appreciation for our native flora has only grown, to the point where studying environmental science at university now feels like a hobby. Native trees bring so much joy, whether it’s from the resident birds, the bright flowers or maybe just the laughter of children exploring them. Even though I’m too big to fit into my spaceship now, I’ll always have the memories of happiness my tītoki gave me.
Behind the sand dunes where the bach sat with its lawns, gardens and trees, was a flat, hollow area protected from the summer’s sea winds by the dunes and high pines. It was a place of quiet heat, dry, where plants crackled in the noonday sun: a “rift valley” with a serene air, quite separate from the surrounding world. Rabbit bones sat in bleached piles besides fresh droppings while clumps of marram grass and scrawny plants stood forth as outposts in the dry sea of sand and rock reefs. My brother and I would often cross this wilderness to further pine forests with our ever present dog. Once, when one of those inordinately long summer days was simmering down to evening, I walked out alone across my desert.
Pushing through some unfamiliar trees, suddenly I found myself in a seldom-visited neck of land beside another clearing. As I stood quietly, I began to feel myself drawn toward a particular tree – a tree very different from the surrounding pines with its fuller, softer leaves and drooping branches. I seemed gently invited into its presence, and somehow found myself sitting beneath its looping arms in a particular spot. It was as if the tree and I were breathing quietly together. I was overwhelmingly happy. Time and time again throughout that holiday I would return alone to my tree and sit under it.
Grey light, softened by misty rain. No one else around. No wind, no sound, not even a bird calling. With an hour to spare, I had taken a detour on a gravel road off the main highway. Someone had said Trounson Kauri Park was worth a visit. The car park, grassy picnic area and the kiosk, with its information about a guided night walk to see kiwi, were ordinary. The start of the walk was also ordinary – scruffy secondary growth overhanging the path, mud underfoot, the slimy planks of a rickety bridge over a rivulet. It was chilly, and moisture was already seeping through the soles of my shoes. I fell prey to a growing sense of disgruntlement.
And then, ahead of me, looming out of the mist, my first ever glimpse of a kauri grove, mature trees in their prime. Five of them, all the same size, massive columns spaced 3-4m apart. Each kauri stood alone, nothing growing around its base. Four to five hundred years old, these stately trees were unbranched until they reached the vaulted roof of the forest at least 10 metres above me, their foliage obscured by the eddying mist. Uncluttered by fern, lichen or liane, each imposing trunk was scrolled and scalloped in rich browns and subtle greys, each with its own distinctive pattern that brought a chiefly tattoo to mind. Overawed, discomfort forgotten, I walked slowly on, passing through more groves of similar-sized kauri, every tree a dignified and individual presence.
Kauri, separator of earth from sky, bringer of light and life to the world, the magnificent tree that features in the creation myth told by northern Māori. Although 17 years have now passed by, my first surreal encounter with kauri, king of kings, te rākau rangatira, remains a vivid memory.