The threads are starting to pull together. A former colleague, a fierce activist for Māori rights and education, introduced me to Paraikete Whero and this beautiful, heavy concept of art as resistance.
“Because protest isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it is one act. Quiet. Grounded. Done in aroha, love, and wairua, spirit. And that one act can shift everything.”
It makes me wonder about my mahi toi and my project. How can my weaving tell my story? A story of solidarity with the tangata whenua of this place I’ve chosen as home. It needs to hold the discomfort, maybe even the shame, of where I come from. But it also needs to hold a growing acceptance: I can’t change history. I can’t undo what was done. I can still find a way to be proud of my heritage while putting my hands and my energy into supporting decolonisation right now, in the present.
Can a piece of art hold all of that? The shame, the pride, the solidarity?
So, having gone down this path of thinking, I wonder if that is my kaupapa?
Something that represents my solidarity with the indigenous people of the land I have chosen to call home, a piece that may also represent my sense of discomfort or shame with where I come from, but also a growing acceptance that there is nothing I can do about what was done, that I can still be proud of my heritage and I can do what I can now to support decolonisation.
Oof! That’s a bit heavy…. How will I do it?
I also want to consider the idea of weaving as art and as kōrero, so creating an ‘installation’ as well as a practical, functional piece. Maybe more than one piece that incorporates an abstract art piece that represents where I come from, a kete whakairo with a pattern that represents the conflict I have, and a pākē that brings everything together? The three together show my evolution of thought, identity and learning.
“Because protest isn’t always loud… Sometimes, it is one act. Quiet. Grounded. Done in aroha.”
My act of weaving this story is my quiet protest against the erasure of history.
Tuakiri:
A piece to represent my early life in England, my connection to the earth as a “playground” (caving, climbing, fells), paired with the weight of realising the global impact of British colonisation.
Maybe a long kupenga made of fairly stiff harakeke that represents a cave opening, with a narrow entrance.
Maybe something like this, but with wider whenu and less of a cylinder, rougher and a narrower neck. Inside, it will have stones, which represent the weight of the discomfort I felt (and still feel) as someone from England who learned as a sa teenager about the colonialism that built an Empire!
The stones also represent the connection to the land (I have some fossils; maybe they would work as they have that even deeper whakapapa to the land?) I would incorporate sheep’s wool, which represents the Yorkshire Dales, but also Leeds, as this was a textile town, where wool was spun and woven.
Weaving Techniques & Materials:
Use harakeke, but keep it raw, stiff, or heavy.
Incorporate elements like sheep’s wool that represent both the wool trade in Leeds, where I was born (a textile town), and the Yorkshire Dales, intertwined with the harakeke.
A kupenga that has a tight, constricted opening and is deliberately distorted, which represents the discomfort and shame I felt about English colonisation
Keeping the whole thing deliberately rough represents interacting with the land without yet fully understanding an indigenous connection with it.
Tautohe:
A piece to represent my growing understanding of colonisation, the impact it had on Aotearoa, and my commitment as tangata tiriti to ‘decolonise’ myself and support tangata whenua.
This could either be an artistic piece like a triptych – 3 panels, or a kete whakairo or even three small kete whakairo, with patterns and colours that show the growth but also the ‘unravelling’ of my thought and the debates I have about who I am as tangata tiriti and what I can do, but with strong threads that stay connected. Colours – red, black, natural – Paptūānuku, Ranginui, Te ao Marama
Materials:
Harakeke – prepared, hapine-ed, dyed – red black and natural – Papatūānuku, Ranginui and Te Ao Mārama
Muka – because the process of creating it means scraping away the outer leaf to reveal the strong, inner fibre, which symbolises decolonisation – scraping away the layers of colonial conditioning to find the truth.
Red wool or blanket strips to represent the blood of history, the spark of activism, and the “quiet protest” of Te Paraikete Whero and the concept of art and resistance.
Tūmanako:
A Kahu, which represents where I am now (sort of!) More settled and more confident about who I am and my role as tangata tiriti. A growing acceptance of my heritage and my active, daily commitment to supporting decolonisation through my work and life in Aotearoa. This is more flowing than the other pieces; it is functional as well as artistic – I could wear it proudly.
Materials & Techniques
Harakeke, muka, wool or mopstring,
Colours – earth tones- deep greens, grey, red/clay that represent the land in both the Yorkshire Dales and Aotearoa.
Technique – maybe tāniko? Have I got time?? Or can I incorporate some taniko into a harakeke woven panel? I want to leave the bottom of it long, with a flowing, unwoven fringe to represent that I am still growing my understanding and constantly learning – I would use a poutama pattern to show my learning.
After 5 years of learning te reo Māori, I reached my limit – at least for the time being. To be able to give learning te reo at Pinakitanga level, I really needed to give it mana and time. Working full-time and trying to study full-time at the same time is just not possible. But I didn’t want to leave wananga altogether. I still needed to be part of the whanau. I decided to turn to mahi toi. I had always been fascinated by weaving. I come from a family of crafters, knitters, sewers, creators of planes, trains, and boats!
So, I signed up for Toi Maruata – Level 3. Two years on, and I am now studying Level 5 – Toi Paematua. We have to create something for our final exhibition piece, something that has meaning to us, connected to whakapapa, inspired by artists whom we have researched. This has really got me thinking.
Rangahau | Ideas & Research
I am struggling to find inspiration for what I want to do – so many ideas around my head that I think I simply need to focus.
Simi just asked me if I had decided on my artists for my rangahau, and I faltered. I initially planned to stick with the two I researched in Level 4, but after exploring ideas further, I’d like to look at other options. I am still keen to continue with Andrew Goldsworthy as the mahi he does is grounded in my whakapapa, my kainga whenua, and his philosophy aligns with my own in many ways.
But whilst I love the mahi that Veranoa Hetet does, I feel she doesn’t really represent the ideas that I have to develop my mahi.
I started looking at other artists and love the mahi by the male kairaranga in this exhibition called “Tracing Change: A Continuing Lineage of Māori Male Weavers” by Karl Chitham (Ngā Puhi, Te Uriroroi). Just as in places all over the world, men played a key role in weaving and knotting, especially in the creation of fishing nets, lobster and eel pots. Now they are reclaiming a space in what has become, in the last 200 years, more of a female domain and weaving is now seen as an art rather than a craft.
Art or Craft?
Which begs the question: what is the difference between an ‘art’ and a ‘craft’? After a bit of searching in dictionaries and elsewhere, I understand that art is more about expressing our personal emotions and conveying our ideas and philosophy on life and anything else, whereas craft focuses on developing technical skill to create objects that serve a practical, utilitarian, or decorative function.
For me, though, there is a symbiotic relationship. Can we have one without the other?
On the other hand, art without craft is purely a concept. A creator might have a brilliant idea, but without the skill to realise it, the final piece will fail to convey the meaning they envisioned.
Craft without art is pure technique. A creator can be technically flawless and produce a beautifully made object, but without art, it lacks a personal voice, a message, or a unique perspective.
Interestingly, if we look back in history, the divide between art and craft didn’t exist. In ancient Greece, the word ‘techne’ applied to both a sculptor and a carpenter. The boundary between art and craft emerged during the Renaissance, when the individual genius of a painter or sculptor was seen to be more important than an artisan or weaver. Nowadays, artists are using traditional crafts like ceramics, textile arts, and weaving to convey deep emotional and political messages
I learned the balance of art and craft firsthand through my dad. Growing up, we did a lot of photography together. He was the master of craft, teaching me the technicalities of photography, the rule of thirds, f-stops, exposure times, and light ratios. While I struggled to master those technical mechanics, I naturally possessed the artistic eye. I could “see” a great shot, spot the perfect natural light, and instinctively know how to frame a subject.
Whenever I tried to capture it alone, my lack of technical skill got in the way. But together, we were a complete artist. I brought the art, he brought the craft, and by teaching each other, we created some great photographs.
I found this mahi of hers, which made me think about what I might create for my project.
For last year’s mahi, my inspiration was the story of Te Wehenga o Papatūānuku rāu ko Ranginui, and the formation of the first wahine (Hineahuone) from the red earth, red because it was stained with the blood of Papatūānuku as Ranginui was torn from her.
I also wanted to represent the landscape that I enjoy being in so much and which grounds me, so the colours I used were reds, browns, oranges, and yellows – the yellow representing the sun touching the tips of the mountains as it rises in the morning.
Kiriana’s mahi ‘emerges directly from the earth, from Papatūānuku,’ but also speaks to her sense of belonging. Her choice of colours, red, black and white, speaks to the persistent tension that Māori women experience as deeply politicised and as the whare tangata’. They are the colours of the Tino Rangatiratanga flag designed by Linda Munn, Hiraina Marsden, and Jan Dobson in the 1990s. ‘The colour palette of black (Te Korekore), red (Te Whei Ao), and white (Te Ao Mārama) have become synonymous with Māori resistance movements for self-determination and is symbolic of (among other things) the creation story with Ranginui above, Papatūānuku below, and Te Ao Mārama in between’.
Red is a colour that has been used politically more recently to protest against the assault on Te Tiriti o Waitangi by our current government. “Paraikete Whero isn’t just an art project, it’s a movement. A protest stitched by hand, grounded in te ao Māori, the Māori worldview, where creation and resistance live side by side. Where art is not a luxury, but survival. Ceremony. Fire.” (Phoebe Davis) https://kettering.org/paraikete-whero-a-small-act-a-global-echo/
“At the time of Te Tiriti o Waitangi, the treaty signed between Māori and the British Crown, red blankets were handed out by British officials. Sometimes they were gifts. Sometimes they were tools of manipulation. But we’ve taken them back. Now, the red blanket is a statement of sovereignty. Of bloodlines. Of tapu, sacredness. Of protest. These paraikete are taonga, sacred. When we stitch, we speak. We remember. We take responsibility for the ones who came before us, and for those still to come. Our mokopuna, our grandchildren, are watching.”
I was privileged to have been invited to join this rōpū of wāhine toa by my friend Pheobe Davis and was introduced to Frances Goulton at Waitangi. I stitched my own paraikete, although mine is not red. As tangata tiriti, I wasn’t comfortable about whether using a red blanket was appropriate, so I decided to use a grey army blanket from my cupboard, which had come from my parents at some stage. It carries a different sort of meaning; it is a symbol, maybe of the colonising force of the English. I chose instead of a red blanket to stitch in red, black and white. I chose to stitch whakataukī and statements that represent my position as tangata tiriti in support of my hoa Māori.
“He paraikete whero, he kōrero toa: Stitching resistance in the face of erasure.”
England. My homeland. Born, raised, and rooted there until my mid-40s. Growing up with my family in a large northern city, and then moving in my twenties to the Yorkshire Dales—living, working, and breathing those hills. Climbing, walking, canoeing, and spending hours deep underground, caving.
But there’s a shadow there. I remember being sixteen, learning the brutal reality of colonisation and what the English did across the globe. It was a massive shock. I felt this intense urge to reject that heritage, so I leaned hard into the Irish side of my family instead. A safe haven, or so I thought. But later, I found out the Irish side were likely colonisers too, probably descended from the English who invaded Ireland and settled. There was no escaping it.
I’ve always been drawn to the land, but back then, it was a playground. I wanted to play in it. It’s only recently that I’ve truly begun to understand what the land means to indigenous people—not a playground, but a place of deep, foundational connection and respect. I’ve always been a conservationist, and I hope I always tread lightly and respectfully in those spaces, but the paradigm shift is real.
“Because protest isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it is one act. Quiet. Grounded. Done in aroha, love, and wairua, spirit. And that one act can shift everything.”
It makes me wonder about my mahi toi and my project. How can my weaving tell my story? A story of solidarity with the tangata whenua of this place I’ve chosen as home. It needs to hold the discomfort, maybe even the shame, of where I come from. But it also needs to hold a growing acceptance: I can’t change history. I can’t undo what was done. I can still find a way to be proud of my heritage while putting my hands and my energy into supporting decolonisation right now, in the present.
Can a piece of art hold all of that? The shame, the pride, the solidarity?
“Ko enei paraikete – he paraikete kōrero” — the weaving of stories of loss and grievance.
Uncertainty. Tangaroa ā-roto. Inner emotional travel. Solace in uncertainty. That was the moon phase we were in.
We definitely felt uncertainty today, and fear, and exhilaration, and relief, and weariness.
After spending yesterday in our preparation phase – the start of the Tangaroa phase of the moon in the Māori maramataka is all about looking to the future – we were ready to go. Our future yesterday was fairly immediate. Planning for the tomorrow which is now today! We had packed our rucksacks, pored over the map – I love a good map, especially a real paper one that I can spread out on a table and look at properly. I like the digital one on my phone so I can see in the moment where I am. But there is something about spreading a paper map out and identifying features, estimating walking times and making the connections between what we see physically on the ground in front of us and what is drawn on the paper.
We had also read several different accounts of the route we planned to do, so we could lock the description into our heads. We were clearing the way so that we could visualise the challenge.
All of that helped to prepare us, but it also served to sow seeds of doubt and a touch of anxiety. Was this challenge going to be too big? I always have a sort of nervous energy before embarking on a big challenge – it’s natural, and I think also a good thing to have – it stops me from being over-confident. But this time seemed different – more anxiety and less excitement, or at least, the excitement was muted. The more I read about the ‘clavijas’ climbs – ‘almost vertical’, ‘challenging’, and considered the suggested walking time of 8 hours to do 17km, and looked at the elevation gain over a very short distance, the more I wondered if it might be too much for us. We are in our 60s after all!
I think this time, though, it was, ‘yes, I’ve done this sort of thing before, faced challenges, experienced the unknown and plunged in anyway, but that was long ago when my body was young and strong.’ My nervousness today was less, ‘Can I do it?’ and more ‘Can I still do it?’
After checking the description and the map, we had decided that we didn’t need the harnesses and cow’s tails we had arranged to hire. It seemed that the ‘Clavijas’ sections we were doing were not so steep and sustained as the Clavijas de Cortadueros. We also took heart in the description on one account that said it was suitable for children.
Ah! But I haven’t even said what our adventure was going to be! A circuit in the Parque Nacional de Ordesa y Monte Perdido, Los Pirineos, would take us up to La Faja de Flores, along the cliff, across the limestone pavement to the Goriz Hut, where we would stay the night and then walk out past La Cola de Caballo waterfall and back to the Pradera where we started.
Dawn – the other side of the valley
The early morning drive from Oto to Torla was in darkness, but the sky started to lighten during the bus ride from Torla to La Pradera. By the time we started walking along the valley in the forest in the half-light of dawn, the morning sun was starting to hit the uppermost tips of the mountains, bathing them with a bright golden glow.
Sun on the very top of the peaks
Nervousness was now giving way to excited anticipation of what was to come. We moved steadily up through the forest listening, smelling, breathing it all in. We were alone. Peace. Quiet. Just the natural sounds of the forest.
We had glimpses of the cliff on the opposite side of the valley through ‘vegetation windows’ as we climbed. A strong smell of urine, which we decided was goat, around the shelter was unpleasant, so we didn’t linger. We started to hear voices ahead and behind us – it’s amazing how sound travels in the mountains, but we didn’t hurry. Our pace was steady.
As we came out above the treeline, we could see around us – cliffs looming on both sides of the valley and above us. Which of them was the Faja de las Flores? The path levelled out for a short while, and then we zigzagged up through the meadows. It was still early, and there was still a nip in the air, but the sun had almost worked its way onto our side of the valley.
Sun kissed peaks
Zigzagging up the pradera (meadow)
We caught up with a father and his daughter, who, like us, were looking for the way up. We had reached a small stand of young beech trees; the path seemed to go through it, but then petered out at the foot of some rocks. No sign of any ‘clavijas’, but it seemed like the way on. A mini climb to warm us up! It was more of a scramble up the limestone blocks, and then the path was clear. By this time, the pair had disappeared ahead, but we managed to keep an eye on them, which helped us in our route finding.
Eventually, we came to the first of the climbs. Nigel went ahead while I waited below to check he was ok. I’m not sure what I could have done if he hadn’t been ok or if he had fallen, but he was more nervous than I, and had done less climbing in the past. He made his way carefully up, and then I followed. Not too bad – a couple of dodgy moves – I tried not to make too much use of the ‘clavijas’ as they were quite shiny and I thought they may be slippery. There were plenty of natural hand and foot holds, but it was good to have the security of something bombproof to hang on to if needed.
The first clavijas climb
Onwards and upwards to the next climb. By this time, a group of 4 young fellas had almost caught us up. This climb was more vertical, and there was a bit of a chimney. We discussed our strategy first, noting that we didn’t want to get wedged in, especially since we were carrying sizeable packs. It was definitely a bit more of a struggle. There are advantages of going first – the person below can point out foot and hand holds, but there are also advantages of going second – being able to see where the first person has gone and the route they took. Nigel made it up, and then I followed. I was very nervous as I climbed, again, I wanted to make as much use of the natural holds as possible without getting caught in the narrow chimney. As I huffed and puffed and wondered about a move which was going to mean swapping my feet on a small ledge and trusting that my arms and hands could hold me as I did so, I heard/felt someone coming up hot on my heels! No time to prevaricate, I needed to go for it! Pressure was not what I needed, or was it? I breathed in and went for it. Phew! But, ‘what the heck!? Why didn’t he wait until I had got to the top?’
Nigel navigating his way up the climb
We topped out and made our way up to some slabs with an epic view down the valley. It was time for a rest, some kai and photos! We ended up chatting with the young guys (actually not that young, probably in their late 30s, early 40s, but definitely younger than us!) We took their photos, and they took ours. Of course, it was a perfect spot for a handstand, and they were suitably impressed! We ‘let’ them go ahead and didn’t see them again until we reached the hut later that evening.
Me coming to the top of the climb
La Faja de las Flores
The next section took us across the limestone pavement for a while until we wound around to the start of the ‘Faja’. Faja means girdle in English, but in the context of the environment, it refers to a natural, horizontal ledge or band on the cliffside, formed by erosion of softer rock layers. The faja paths in Ordesa traverse different parts of the canyon at varying levels, and we had been looking up at them all the way, wondering which one we were going to traverse!
Another WOW moment
Another handstand op! #HandstandsInHighPlaces
Nigel at one of the WOW spots!
My word of the day was ‘WOW’! Oh, my goodness! (can’t swear in my blog, but I did lots on the walk!) It was amazing. The sheer size, massiveness, openness of the sky, the cliffs, the landscape. Looking down was dizzying, looking up was mind-blowing! When we reached the start of the track, as we had read, it didn’t seem as bad as it looked from below. Yes, it was narrow but not too narrow. Yes, there was a sheer drop off to the right, but there was a bit of space, and so we weren’t teetering on the edge. The sense of exposure wasn’t as great as if there had been the same drop-off on both sides – somehow, the overhanging cliff provided some security.
WOW!
Nigel coming along the faja
Nevertheless, we proceeded with caution whilst also remembering to look up and around and say ‘wow’ every now and again! The ledge is about 3km long, and so it was mentally hard maintaining focus and concentration so we didn’t trip, but it was easy walking. At one point, it was even wide enough for me to do a handstand!
I found a wide spot to do a handstand
The ‘flores’ part of the name refers to the flowers that abound at this level of the Pyrenees, and although it was late summer, there were still plenty of them around. I thought I had read somewhere that ‘flores’ also referred to the fossils in the rock at this level, though I can’t find any reference to that now. If you want to know more about the geology, this site is interesting.
Flores de la montana
Nigel at the end of the Faja de la Flores
As we came out of the end, we could see where the shorter round trip would have taken us – down the next set of climbs, which would have required climbing/descending gear. But we were heading upwards and onto the limestone massif. Before that, though, a brief rest and a bite to eat.
Looking down to the Clavijas de Cortadueros
We found a flat rock between grikes and settled down to eat our typical Alpine/Pyrenean picnic of bread, cheese, cured meat, fruit and madeleines. We watched the lizards scooting around and talked about what we had done already and what we still had to do. We mistakenly believed that all the hard work was done!
LaBreche de Roland
Looking up to La Breche de Roland from our lunch spot
We could see La Breche de Roland from our lunch spot. We had vaguely entertained an idea that we might climb up towards it to find Casteret’s ice cave, but 4 hours into our adventure and not even halfway, we decided that it probably wasn’t on the cards! Norbert Castert and his wife Elizabeth, are a couple of my heroes – intrepid cavers and adventurers and they also played a huge part in the French resistance and the safe guiding of refugees across the border between France and Spain. La Breche de Roland is an impressive natural gap in the rock and is a key route between France and Spain.
Nigel making his way across the limestone pavement
It proved to be a bit of a guiding star as we made our way across the limestone pavement, as we knew that the path went close to it. Now that we had gained most of the height, we had assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that the path would be more straightforward and we would make faster progress. Haha! Although it was a main route, it was just that – a route and not a path. We have been lulled into false securities by the New Zealand mountain paths, which are clearly marked, and we had forgotten all that we had previously learned about European mountain paths! There was a plethora of cairns dotted all over the pavement, which helped in some way, but really, we just followed the map and the visual signals, such as keeping to the left of a hill we had identified and La Breche de Roland. The route took us down into the deep grikes, along them and then back up onto the pavement. We knew, from looking at the map, that we needed to traverse a sort of hanging boggy valley, turn right and then into another before carrying on to the hut.
Limestone pavement – no obvious path just pick and go
We were mightily glad that it was a clear day – not sure how we would have coped in low cloud and limited visibility. There were a few people around too, doing much the same as us – wandering around the pavement looking for the way on. Eventually, we made it to the boggy flat valley. Woohoo! A bit of level ground, soft underfoot and easy to walk on! At some point just after lunch, I had gone over on my left ankle, righted myself, but fallen heavily on my right leg, twisting my knee as I fell. I lay there like a beached whale, (or maybe a turtle!) pack on my back, unable to get up until Nigel came to help. By now, over 6 hours in, my knee was starting to complain a bit.
The start of the hanging valley
My elation at flat, easy walking (I even ran for a bit!) was short-lived as we approached the end of the valley. There was a cliff to climb to get out! This had not been documented in any of the reports we had read! No clavijas to help us. A veritable wall to climb with no support. We watched as others made (struggled) their way up the different routes. A French couple we had overtaken sat there too. The lady was anxious. So were we! Her husband told her she had to do it or she would have to go back the way they had come!
Nigel topping out of the climb
I have to confess that I was seriously concerned at this point. We were tired, and this was an unexpected challenge that our heads weren’t prepared for. I went first this time – not sure why! There were two possible routes – one went into a chimney, the other on a sort of arete. I knew from climbing in the past that chimneys can offer false security, but I really wasn’t up for the exposure that the arete offered. I opted for the chimney and nearly regretted it when my backpack wedged in as I tried to move upwards on a precarious foothold. I breathed deeply and told myself I had to move, or my leg would go into mega shakes, and I would be done for! A little shimmy and a re-adjustment of my pack. Phew! Up and then onto the ledge and safety! From above, I was able to offer encouraging suggestions for Nigel of where to put his feet and handholds, not that he seeemd to take any notice. To be fair, in a situation like that, you just have to do your own thing!
Looking ahead – no obvious end in sight!
The next 5km was interminable. Mentally, we were a bit over it by now. However, the scenery was still amazing, and the ‘wow’ factor was as wow as ever. Our excitement as we came across caves brought back feelings of old exploring limestone landscapes. We were in a little group of couples in the same headspace as us, leapfrogging each other as our energy ebbed and flowed, exchanging comments about the scenery, the route, how far we thought it was, were we even on the right path?
A stream falling into a cave
Looking ahead at one point, the whole landscape seemed to be moving. When we looked closer, it was! A flock of sheep were making their way across the col between two hills.
The moving hillside – sheep on the move
Marmots scurried across the limestone pavement, disappearing down holes – strange wee things they are – to me they look like a cross between a guinea pig and a dachshund!
A marmot scurrying across the landscape
Somewhere down there is our destination!
We trudged on, not on the simple path the map seemed to suggest but up and down the troughs and peaks of a limestone landscape. We saw the hut in the distance and headed towards it for a while, but then it vanished as we wound our way up and down, round and about, navigating little climbs which seemed to take us away from our goal.
Up and down, navigating the terrain
Nigel – still putting one foot in front of the other!
By now, we were tired, mentally and physically, but the environment was still amazing, wow factor! And then, all of a sudden, we saw the hut again! Within striking distance! We (well, I!) could ‘smell the hay’ as it were, and I had a new burst of energy which propelled me on.
Goriz Hut in the distance – still!
We had made it! 11 hours after setting off. 19km (on Nigel’s watch, 17km on mine – we’ll go with his!) And there was beer! Never has a beer tasted so good!
Looking down through the mist from the summit road
Kunanyi (Mt Wellington) is considered a special place by First Nations people. It is described in the original ‘creation stories’ passed on orally through the generations. “For Palawa woman Sharnie Read, the natural land mass is considered a sacred place where ancestors’ spirits are laid to rest.”
I didn’t know anything about this beautiful, special place before I saw a Facebook post by Ali Pottinger from Squadrun asking if anyone was keen to run in the Kunanyi Mountain Festival. When I watched the promo video, I was hooked! As I said to Ali in the conversation I had with her for Dirt Church Radio, it was the ‘sexy, skyline ridge’ that grabbed me! I love getting up high, looking down on the world and seeing it in all its splendour. It grounds me when I see how vast the world is and how small I am.
The 46km Alpine Marathon was a first for 2025, with only 100 entrants, and we had to show that we were capable of navigating challenging terrain with little or no support. The legs were long, remote and exposed. Could I? Should I? I wanted to!
It was also my birthday the week of the event – what a great way to spend it – in Tasmania – a bucket list destination, and pushing myself to take on a challenge. It was my sort of event, heaps of elevation, rugged and varied terrain, ‘sexy skyline ridge’, some scrambling and some running. I wouldn’t have to run the whole thing – plenty of excuses to walk!
I hit ‘enter’ on the 46km Alpine Marathon in one of those ‘do or die’ moments. If I thought about it too much, I would talk myself out of it – too old, not good enough, too challenging, too difficult …. Once done, there was no going back, and I just had to make sure I could get to the start line!
I’ll fast-forward through the next eight months of training. It was a mixed bag, as training often is: some days were great, others were, to put it mildly, ‘stink.’ Summer saw me in Te Wai Pounamu climbing every steep, bouldery, technical hill I could find and loving it, getting stronger every day. The Goat Tongariro was great preparation 6 weeks out, and I had a great run. Despite a sore left foot, I was feeling fine. Until I wasn’t. The sore left foot didn’t improve, and I had to stop training for a couple of weeks to let it settle. Then just as I was getting back into it, I fell – tripped up on a blooming paving cobble – and injured my shoulder. Two weeks out from the event, I felt like the decrepit old lady I am, trying to convince myself I am not! I couldn’t sleep because I couldn’t get comfortable, work was manic – travelling all over, so no time to get to a physio. I had to take heart in the training I had already done, reminding myself that there was nothing more I could do now. My only option was to suck it up, get to the start line, and see what happened.”
Kunanyi behind the remains of what was the Female Factory
Kunanyi is present everywhere in Nipaluna, Hobart. It stands proud and imposing. It is majestic, and I can understand why the Palawa people regard it as a special place. I am still processing how my need to stand on top of mountains is counter to the relationship indigenous peoples have with the landforms that they live among. Is it my Western upbringing and worldview, the need to conquer and dominate? When I am in the mountains, walking or running through the forests and then standing on the summits, I feel connected to them. I draw strength from them by being within them. I feel healed and renewed. I feel awe and wonder. But I need to be on top!
So, back to the event. I had been surprised, coming from Aotearoa where Māori culture and practices are visible in many places, to find little or no evidence that Aboriginal peoples ever existed in Hobart. Indeed, as an old friend whom I managed to catch up with said, as soon as they arrived in Hobart, 20 odd years ago, they felt at home. I had felt that same familiarity, as if I was coming home when I first saw it. Grand, sandstone buildings in the same architectural style as in the north of England, where I grew up. But, no sign of the ancient culture that was there well before the British arrived.
Nipaluna Hobart – transplanted from 19th C Northern England!
I was heartened by the invitation to a cultural welcoming to the event. The “Welcome to Country‘ is a relatively new thing in contemporary Australia, and I believe that the practice varies from region to region. In Nipaluna, Hobart, the Palawa people have a smoking ceremony. This is a spiritual practice involving the burning of native plants to produce cleansing smoke. This smoke is used to welcome people to the land, acknowledge ancestors, and purify spaces. It then drifts across the land and advises the ancestral spirits that “we are now on Country”. After an elder spoke to welcome us, and he and a younger tribal member chanted and used sticks to create rhythmic sounds, we were invited to walk through the smoke, breathe it in and waft it over our bodies. It was a beautiful, spiritual way to start. I felt calm and ready to go. It helped me focus on what was in front of me, and it gave me the strength to face the challenge.
The first ‘Welcome to Country’ on the opening day of the three-day festival. Each race also had its own before the start.
I had decided to walk with a running friend who was also rather under the weather – she had been sick in the run-up to the event. Given the small field and the forecasted poor weather, we planned to roughly stay together. On the first 12km up the mountain, Sarah went ahead. I stuck to my plan to take it really easy in the first part of the event and reached the summit about 5 – 10 minutes behind her. What a climb it was! Up through the bush to start off with – a few wallabies around but no snakes – steady climbing on wide fire trails. Then we doglegged up and across some huge, dolerite boulder fields – we just had a view through the swirling clouds to the harbour below. At this point, I held a little hope that the forecasted rain would not come.
Dolerite boulder fields with Nipaluna and the harbour below
Running under the Organ Pipes
The first part of runnable trail came as we crossed the road and onto the trail beneath the Organ Pipes. Spectacular! And so good to run instead of fight my way, making sure my feet weren’t going to slide off or between the boulders. It was a glorious 2 km until we started to climb, hands on knees, up the ZigZag track – it has a very apt name. As I climbed into the mist, the temperature dropped, and I stopped to put on my jacket. Into the aid station, passing Sarah on her way out, a quick bite to eat, refill my bottle and then down the road to the longest, most remote section. The clouds cleared again as I descended, and I caught a glimpse of the city and harbour below. It would be fabulous on a sunny day!
A landscape of stunted trees and rocks
I caught up with Sarah just as she was about to enter the Thark Ridge Track. It was very gloomy by now; the rain was starting to fall (my vain hopes of earlier good weather well and truly put to bed!), we could hardly see the path, and certainly not much in the way of views. We decided to stay together. It felt like we were the only ones out there! It was also strangely beautiful and we talked about how it felt vaguely familiar – a bit like some of New Zealand’s trails – the stunted, layered trees that are on the higher slopes, blown sideways by the prevailing winds. But also very different – we were making our way through reddish rocks that became increasingly large as we went. It was cold! We had all our clothes on, and they were all sodden!
Picking my way through the rocky path
Reddish rocks – they seemed very red, but it was the lichen on them that made them that colour
It is difficult to remember what order everything came in, as it all merged into a misty, wet mess! The ‘sexy skyline ridge’ was felt rather than seen! We climbed humongous boulders and stood atop one of them with white space and a sense of nothingness on either side of us! Eerie and amazing and scary all at the same time! The exposed, rocky terrain gave way to forest and tall grasses that drenched us even more than the rain as we ran through them. Despite the grim weather, we talked about how much we loved it – perverse, I know. We both rose to the challenge of the varied terrain, enjoying the climbing, the route finding, and the unpredictable nature of the course. This was exactly what we had come for!
We had a lot of fun! Sarah defying the wet and cold weather.
Cresting one of the climbs on the ‘sexy skyline ridge’!
Nothingness on both sides!
Down to the aid station where we ate and drank, sorted out our gear and prepared ourselves for the next big hill. The run description says – “head up a short(ish…) steep climb.” Short-ish is highly debatable! It went on forever, it seemed! Up and up, steeper and steeper, more and more slippery and very muddy. But it did indeed come to an end, and then there was 7km of what might have been very enjoyable flat fire trail. However, it was at this point that we decided we weren’t really enjoying it any more! There is always a slump in a race, and this was it! I think because we weren’t having to struggle against the elements and the terrain any more, we sort of gave in. It was a bit of a grind, so we walked for a few hundred metres, then ran, then walked and kept up a pretty steady pace. By this stage, we were counting the kms and ticking off the waymarkers. We reminded ourselves to take notice of the surroundings and be grateful that we were here in this amazing place.
The aid station at Silver Falls was a big goal – we wanted to arrive in time for hot soup! We did! It was so good! We didn’t linger, though, as the end was in sight! In theory, according to the description and the profile, it was all downhill after the aid station at Silver Falls. Jokes! Well, it was, but the terrain was rough underfoot, and every step when my feet didn’t go down flat was excruciating! My ankles were toast! My knees were toast! My hips were toast!
Sarah was struggling by this point, and she urged me to go ahead. But we had been together for so long now, I wasn’t going to leave her in the last few kms. So on we went together. We could hear the finish line from way off, and it urged us on. The last bit is through paddocks, and suddenly, we were there, coming through the finishing chute. We grabbed each other’s hands and ran through, arms aloft. We had done it! 10 hours and 26 minutes, relieved, happy, proud and humbled to have shared such a tough, beautiful, and culturally rich experience in a place like no other. We came 77th & 78th out of 81 runners. I ws first in my age group – you’ve got to be in it to win it!
Will I go back? I would love to. I want to see it in the sunshine, the ‘sexy skyline ridge’ in all its glory is still waiting for me. Laters Kunanyi!
I came across this sign on a recent tramp on Kapiti Island and it sparked a thought that has been burling around in my head for a while. Some research and kōrero I have had in the last few weeks have added to that wee thought. It’s about language and names, about when it’s appropriate to change names, adapt names, or create names.
“Ko te Waewae Kapiti o Tara Raua ko Rangitane: the full name given by Māori to Kapiti describes the island as the meeting place of the boundaries of Tara and Rangitane. Tara and Rangitane were the son and grandson of Whatonga who, in 1150 AD, divided the country by making a boundary from the southern tip of Kapiti Island straight across to the east coast of the North Island.” Department of Conservation
Names of places tell us of the people and their history in that place. How they lived, what they did, who they were. In Aotearoa New Zealand as in many countries where there have been contests over land or that have been colonised, there are often multiple stories connected with a place. The question is which story do we hear and see when we look at its name?
What does the name New Zealand tell us about this place? Let’s look at the words. ‘New’ as in the opposite of ‘old’, ‘Zealand’ is an alternative spelling of ‘Zeeland’ a place in the Netherlands, Europe. Adventurers, discoverers, colonialists – call them what you will had a habit of naming the places they ‘discovered’ after the places they had come from. So, when Abel Tasman ‘discovered’ this land he chose to call it New Zeeland as that is where he came from. Tasmania which he also discovered was named after him. There was little consideration to finding out if it already had a name.
Hamilton, which is the city I live in was named after Captain Hamilton who was a soldier in the British Forces that were involved in the Land Wars in New Zealand in the 1800s. He was killed at the Battle of Pukehinahina (Gate Pā), in Tauranga Moana which is a place about 100km from Hamilton. He never even set foot in Hamilton! So how did he get to have a place named after him? And what was wrong with the name that the place had when the British forces arrived here after defeating Māori at Rangiriri?
Kirikiriroa Pā was one of the largest Pā sites on the banks of the River Waikato. It was well-fortified, there were well-established papakainga (villages/settlements) and gardens which fed the local inhabitants as well as providing trade with other villages as well as the British troops in Tamaki Makaurau (Auckland). However, when British troops arrived in 1863, it was empty. Word had been sent from Rangiriri that the British were on their way and since all the men and women of fighting age were at Rangiriri, the only people left at Kirikiriroa Pā were women, the elderly and children. They wouldn’t have been able to defend themselves so they fled to their tribal lands at Hukanui and beyond.
What this place and what happened here not only tells the journey and settlement of the area, it also reveals how best to partner with the place and realise the potential of all who live here.
Phoebe Davis
A cultural narrative recognises the historical relationship between the area and its mana whenua. It describes what is unique about the place and the people who live in it. It helps build a common understanding of heritage, traditional and spiritual connections, and values.
The renaming of places was a conscious and deliberate act of colonialism.
Wally Penetito talks about “Starting where our feet are” and asking ourselves “on whose land do we stand?”. It is important that people have the opportunity to tell their own stories and we have a responsibility to listen to them and acknowledge them, There is often a tension between anger and hope – one side remembers the suffering, the other side doesn’t know the real stories, or they are not interested or ambivalent which makes dialogue difficult. This means that there is an unsettled state of the relationships between Māori and Pākehā which is partly due to the stories that are not known or ignored or avoided by both Māori and Pākehā as a result of colonisation. Often there is a separation from our locality because most of us don’t know about where we are from. This is compounded for many whānau who are displaced in temporary housing sometimes in a different location from where they originally come. For those of us who are privileged enough to know where we come from we have a responsibility to understand the part we play in maintaining or challenging the status quo. With knowledge comes power – what will we do with the knowledge we gain or already have to challenge ourselves and others to think differently?
“Place-names are an important aspect of culture and identity as they provide a location where history, events, landscapes, relationships and people are remembered, celebrated and reinforced.”
The virtue of street names as a means of preserving history in modern society is underestimated in the planning process. Whether the name encapsulates a generally known or unfamiliar past, all who use them are governed by the power of its name. This power lies in its inherent ability to create a version of its own history, an authenticated element of reality as it is constantly experienced, perceived and interpreted on a daily basis.
The document from which the quote above is taken discusses the ways that places in Aotearoa were named. The explorers didn’t think to ask if there was already a name; they assumed there wasn’t or were so arrogant they dismissed the importance of those names. Of course, those new names also tell a story, but they only tell the story from the point when that name was given. Previous history is ignored. Efforts are being made across Aotearoa to reclaim original Māori names, in many cases they are being given ‘dual toponyms’, that is, the Māori name is used alongside the English name. There is debate still happening about Kirikiriroa, Hamilton and indeed Aotearoa, New Zealand. There are some who believe using both names is too much of a mouthful and those who don’t like the Māori name will continue to use the British name and vice versa. There is a school of thought that says we should bite the bullet and use only the Māori names. However, if we are to acknowledge that history is, in fact, many stories then, should names reflect all those stories? Kirikiriroa, as a name for what is now Hamilton, is also contested. Kirikiriroa Pā was only one, albeit the biggest, of many papakainga along the river Waikato. Present-day Hamilton encompasses all of those, so using Kirikiriroa for Hamilton ignores or doesn’t take into account the existence and the stories of all the other hapū and iwi.
View from Tuteremoana
So, let’s go back to the original ‘place name’ that prompted my thinking. “Te Ara o Trig” is a literal translation of “Trig Track” because there is no Māori word for trig – which in fact is a shortened word for a ‘trigonometrical point‘. The linguist in me was affronted – if there is no word for trigonometrical point in Māori, do we just use the English or do we attempt to describe what a trig is. “Te Ara o Trig” is effectively meaningless – it has no sense in te reo Māori, so it doesn’t convey meaning, which is what language is all about. So what do we know about ‘trigs’? They mark significant geographical points and create a triangulated network so that positions of key places can be located. They are often placed at high points so that they can be easily seen.
The trig at Tuteremoana
So, how did iwi and hapū locate themselves in relation to others, move around, know where they were, and communicate with others? They had boundaries, they moved across the whenua, and some iwi spent summer months in one place and winter months in another. What were the triangulation points that they used? They would have used mountain tops, rivers, springs, and geographical features that stood out. So given that the trig on Kapiti Island is on top of a hill, it’s likely that the hill had a name. Surely a better name for the “Trig Track” would be the name of the hill, Tuteremoana. So, Te Ara o Tuteremoana would tell us that this is the path to the summit of Tuteremoana. You will see from the photo that Tuteremoana is indeed mentioned on the sign with the word ‘summit’ underneath it. Given that the translation of Te Ara o Trig (Trig Track) was underneath it, if I followed the logic of the sign, I might think that Tuteremoana was simply the Māori word for ‘summit’ and didn’t carry a whole whakapapa and history attached to it. So, what is the story of Tuteremoana?
Tuteremoana
Tara, Whātonga’s son, was the great-great-grandson of Kupe, the Polynesian explorer. On his voyages, Kupe had himself visited the Wellington Harbour region, leaving his name at various sites.
Tara had a son called Whakanui or Wakanui, who had a son called Tūria. Tūria married Hinematua, and they had a son called Te Ao Haeretahi, who married Rakaimāori. They in turn, had a son called Tūteremoana who became the paramount chief of Ngāi Tara. His name has been given to rocks on a beach just north of the Whanganui River, to the highest point of Kāpiti Island, and to a fishing rock just south of Barrett’s Reef in Wellington Harbour.
It’s not just a case of translating English names into Māori or vice versa, it’s about paying respect to the stories of the people who have shaped this land. Acknowledging, recognising, and understanding that they carry meaning, they tell of the lives of people and their relationship to the land.
We began on the sand. A soft, unassuming start; the beach sun warming our backs, the promise of a journey rising with the land.
Soon, the track began to climb, zigzagging through spongy grass, water overflowing the water table, soaking into our soles and our senses. Each step felt saturated with something older—something watchful.
We paused at the WWII radar station—concrete relics nestled among roots and trees. Ghosts of fear lingered here. The threat of Japanese invasion once hung heavy in the air. How real was it? How real the fear, or the fear remembered?
And then the words, graffitied in bold rebellion: “Don’t die wondering.”
An invitation? A challenge? What drives someone to climb this steep, unforgiving path just to leave those words behind? A need to be seen, to defy, to inspire? A determined defiling of memory, or simply the sheer hell of it?
We climbed higher. The path turned muddy, gnarled roots snaked across our way like veins—natural obstacles and inner echoes. For Jo, the challenge was layered: brain said no, muscles said maybe. A flashback stirred. Rational met irrational. Courage, determination, doggedness.
Upwards. Always upwards. The stairs were steep—so steep we crawled on hands and knees to avoid tipping backwards. We clambered. Balanced. Laughed. Slipped. Cursed. Oh, how we cursed!
“Zero views,” we were told. But they were wrong. Through shifting windows in the vegetation, the ocean winked at us—bright, blue, vast.
At the summit, a rocky outcrop. A final boulder to conquer on legs now trembling from 500 metres of climbing. But the reward—what a reward! The ridge stretched behind us like a spine. Ahead, the peninsula sprawled, dotted with white boats like scattered teeth, a distant power station, jagged rock towers, and tiny islands adrift in an endless blue. I stood—no room for a handstand, but arms outstretched to Ranginui from my perch atop Papatūānuku. An upside-down handstand. A moment of balance.
And then, the descent. Snakes and ladders. Always descending—except for the bits that still climbed. There are always ‘ups in the downs’!
The last 800 metres—down, down, down the steps to the hut hidden in the ngahere.
Lunch on the beach. Cold fingers, good food, satisfied hearts. Birdsong: Kiwi. Ruru. Pīwakawaka. Kererū. Kōtare. They watched us without watching.
We stayed present. In the now. Grateful. Whakawhetai. E waimārie au. How lucky I am to be here, in this place, doing this thing. Rongoā. To see. Listen. Feel. Smell. Taste. Heal.
And then, a final gift— A night walk under the moon. The beach glowing like daylight, silver-bright and steady. Ohua. A very good day for planting.
