by Focus
© 2002 Focus, all rights reserved
North Head sits at the mouth of the Waitemata harbor, and guards the Hauraki Gulf. Because of its strategic location, during the late 1800s and the World Wars New Zealand's military heavily fortified the area. Now the outdated guns have been removed. But the tourist still can view the sites of the old batteries, gun emplacements, searchlights, and tunnels.
Don, a military history buff, wanted to see all that. As the official tourist of our group, I simply wanted to see whatever I could. Margo prefered another excursion, but as she had never visited North Head before, she willingly accompanied us.
As soon as we arrived, Don headed for an old tunnel. Margo and I followed him. An iron gate barred the tunnel entrance, but Don and I read the posted history. Margo soon grew bored with that, and wandered off. Naturally, she found her way to the beach.
North Head, an extinct volcano, rises sharply from the sea. To get to the water, Margo found and descended a steep set of steps. Low tide had exposed the rocks at the base of the cliffs, and she made her way out as far as she could. When Don saw her, he bounced down the steps and hurried out to join her. I made my own way with considerably less speed and more trepidation. I need a banister to negociate steps with any confidence. Besides, I stopped now and then to snap a photo. But eventually I too reached the bottom of the mountain, and saw the beach close up.
To my right rose the green cliff I'd just descended. The wet sand to the right clearly submerged at high tide, like the rocks my daughter and son-in-law explored. Across the water I could see Rangitoto, Auckland's newest, and largest, volcano. Dramatically beautiful, the view took my breath away.
To my left the scene was tamer. A long curving beach stretched out in front of the community of Cheltenham. A few people, and a few birds, waded far from shore, checking out what the tide had left behind.
But what impressed me lay right at my feet: shells. The beach was thick with shells. We just don't see that on California beaches - beachcombers at home quickly pocket any stray shells, to use in crafts, to treasure as souvenirs, or to sell to tourists. Here, the shells formed the beach. I could not walk without stepping on them, and they crunched beneath my feet! I wanted to sit down right there, to gather shells, to play with them, to chose the most perfect, and to fill my purse with them. But for some reason, I did not. The shells lay where they belonged, somehow, and I left them there.
Don and Margo came back. After a brief conversation, they dashed up the steps. Don actually ran! I followed slowly after them, trudging up those 50 odd steps, and pausing every ten feet or so to catch my breath. By the time I reached the top my legs had turned to rubber. I collapsed on a bench as Don galloped up and down the volcano, checking out fortifications and chattering happily to his wife. When I could stand up again, I chose a more horizontal route, and walked around the perimeter of the volcano, admiring the views of the harbor.