Colac Bay to Nugget Point

After breakfast we explored the beach at Colac Bay, where we discovered strange creatures lurking in the tidal pools.



We drove to Riverton in search of Something Special, a craft store recommended by a weaver in Colac Bay. Sawyer wanted to find some yarn for Grandmum Chris to knit him a new sweater—one that “looks like a sheep.”

Riverton is an old whaling town and the only safe harbor in the Foveaux Strait, which separates the southern tip of the south island and Stewart Island further south.

For $5 we filled our water tank at the Riverton Caravan Park & Holiday Homes. “So, it’s your campervan making all that noise!” said the proprietor on her way to the laundry room (probably to notice someone’s pocket change rattling in the dryer). I had thought the engine sounded a little rough, but I was hoping it was just my imagination.



At a local petrol station down the hill we relieved both tanks: the grey and the brown, which to this point had remained yellow. Don’t let my gleeful countenance deceive you: next time we are packing waders and a gas mask.

Across the bridge and into town we stopped for fish and chips and diesel.
Brandon, a friendly but green mechanic, diagnosed our excessive engine noise: a loose serpentine belt. He confirmed his diagnosis by spraying the belt with noise enhancer. Unfortunately, his shop had no tensioner—whatever that is—and sent us squealing to the Ford dealership in Invercargill where Bruce, a truck whisperer, stuck his head in the engine.

“Careful!” I almost said, but stopped myself when I remembered he was a mechanic.

“Do you have a tensioner?” I asked smartly.

“Nah, this van has an autotensioner,” said Bruce with his ear on the engine block.

Autotensioner? Sounded like a marketing campaign in need of a product. What’s next? Memory foam?

Bruce removed his head from my hood. “You need a new belt.”

The dealership had no replacement belt in stock, but Bruce removed the belt and ran it over sand paper. When he put it back on the noise was gone.



We were soon on our way through the Catlins, a mix of hilly wood and pasture, to Roaring Bay to look for yellow-eyed penguins, the world’s rarest. A newly build blind on the steep hillside above the beach affords a glimpse of these rare birds, which come ashore in late afternoon to feed their young.



Yellow-eyed penguins don’t march in flocks. Like tuxedo-clad marines, they stealthily emerge from the surf, only to preen for a minute or two before disappearing into the bush.



A stone’s throw up the hill is Nugget Point, site of the Nugget Point Lighthouse. We had dinner in the parking lot before taking a walk to enjoy the panoramic view from the lighthouse perch. As night fell we watched seals and sea lions lounge on the rocks below and a fishing boat, lit up like a Christmas tree, haul in its catch.



When we returned from our walk, our van was the only vehicle left in the parking lot. Too tired to obey the no camping sign, we turned in for the night and listened to the eerie call of the morepork owl.


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Milford Sound to Colac Bay

The tourists quickly thinned out south of Milford Sound on the Southern Scenic Route where SH99 winds through rolling pasture.



We stopped at the now out-of-service Clifden Suspension Bridge for a late lunch/early dinner. The one-lane bridge crossing the once mighty Waiau River was a big deal when it was completed in 1899. At the time, it was the longest bridge in New Zealand and a major trade route. But no longer. Now it’s a quiet picnic park for locals.

Sawyer walked about halfway up to the east tower on the massive bundle of cables supporting the south side of the bridge before I told him to get down—“before you fall and brake your neck.” As he slid down on his butt I realized what gave the cables their bright red color. Grease!

I groaned. The stuff was all over his hands, shoes, and pants. As I stood by the campervan wiping grease off his shoes, a man who looked like a service station attendant from the 1950’s rode past on his bicycle. “Good day,” he said with a grin. The bridge must have been convenient way home from work. “A father’s work is never done,” he continued without interrupting his pedaling. I brightened and watched him disappear around the bend. Was that my conscience? I wondered. Ghostlike, he seemed. Whoever he was, he reminded me my job actually is to prevent my children from falling off bridges and to remove grease from their shoes. And that I should rejoice in the privilege of doing it on holiday in pastoral and remote New Zealand.

Here's Ivy giving the cables a shot.



On we drove through this desolate but beautiful landscape. We had not passed another vehicle for at least an hour. When the Waiau River spills into the Pacific at Te Waewae Bay, the highway heads east. Here, Antarctic winds batter the southern coast so relentlessly the trees look like they’re scrambling for cover.



We stopped at Colac Bay, a little fishing village with a great sea view but no tourists to admire it. Modest bungalows lined the road opposite the beach, but there was nothing going on. The town was spooky quiet. So quiet, in fact, we hesitated to park for the night at the deserted beachfront Department of Conservation campground. In my experience, free, beautiful beachfront destinations are packed with annoying tourists. Where was everyone?

We aimed the back campervan windows toward the sea to admire the view.





The drizzle let up long enough for us to watch the sun set behind the hills. Magically, as we watched cattle grazing on the hilltops turn to silhouettes, a rainbow appeared in the other direction over the bay. When the sun went down we ate chocolate and listened to rain lick the roof and waves lap the beach.





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