Oakley Creek

Mount Albert, just ten minutes from downtown Auckland, is a clumsy sort of suburb. Old villas, blocks of former government housing, a smattering of bungalows, as well as a range of takeaway shops, barber shops and op-shops make old “Alberton” a slow-seeming community where only Great North Road and a few other roads disturb the general quiet of the area. Despite the drawn curtains and quiet streets, the members of this community give another impression. During election time, a large billboard advertising the party in power has a local contribution in the form of a new slogan: “Where are your tax cuts, bastards!” Everywhere else, you see spray-painted signs posted on fences and to trees condemning the city’s proposed motorway extension which would see some six hundred residences demolished. The multiple-lane freeway will connect the Southern motorway with the Northern and would provide a noisy backdrop to several schools and daycares if it goes ahead. It is a hot topic among Mount Albertons.
It is in this neighborhood, on an early-winter day, that we follow a leave-covered exposed aggregate concrete pathway along Oakley Creek. Once the therapeutic backdrop to a psychiatric hospital, Oakley Creek and its trails are dedicated to Beverly Price. A feisty bachelorette and avid alpine climber, she died with her mother in 1979 in an Erebus plane crash in the Antarctic. Kicking aside some damp, moldy leaves and a loose stone, and surveying the cracked, uneven paving, I’d bet she’d have something to say about the condition of her trail.
The narrow trail forces us to walk one behind the other, so we tramp along quietly. The sound of our heavy breathing and swishing windproofs disturb the critters who take shelter beneath the drooping palms, then the gurgling of the creek drowns us out. Before us, a long set of deep concrete stairs lead down into a clearing beyond the cover of the trees. There, we find Auckland’s sole natural waterfall.
Far from pristine, the stream emerging from the deep pool is littered with debris suggesting drunken visitors and teenagers on serious energy highs. But the ducks don’t seem to mind. They’re happy with the micro-organisms and plant-life they peck from between the moss-covered stones and enjoy a game of ducky-tag.
Brandon crouches at the edge of the pool, adjusting and readjusting the functions on his camera to get the perfect shot of the falls, while I walk the edge of the creek inspecting the vibrant plant-life that thrives despite the cooler temperatures.
Earlier that day, we’d stopped at Hard To Find, my favorite bookstore where used books line nearly every horizontal and vertical space in the two-storey shop. It’s easy for me to hide from my “librophobe” husband between the musty stacks of classics and Kitsch. He goes into fight and flight response when he finally finds me seated amid piles of Irish gold. But they’re cheap, I say, and that’s when he drags me by the elbow to the street to get some fresh air. But on this particular day, it was Brandon’s turn to buy a book. “Urban Walks,” published in 1988, is little more than a cleverly stapled pamphlet. The cover matter unapologetically states the maps are not accurate but they “give you the idea.”
Smiling, the thought of the disclaimer reminded me of the first ten minutes of our tramp when our pauses and uncertain glances revealed our lack of confidence in “Urban Walks.” Still, we knew the falls were there, somewhere. An even older source, our eighty-four year-old British neighbor, forty years in Auckland, knew of the falls. But he wasn’t so sure we should seek it out. With one wiry raised eyebrow, he tapped his forehead with his forefinger and warned us of the crazies said to walk the trails in the dark. Later, I’ll happily inform him there were no crazies to be found.
We squeezed past a man and his young son as the former pointed out some foliage across the creek, identifying it as an introduced species. Another father offered his thanks as we stepped off the trail, allowing his bike and huffing-puffing self to pass us on an incline. His two boys followed, pushing their bikes, their bodies a severe angle against the trail. Thanks were issued between labored breaths. An older couple trod ahead of us at a leisurely pace, arms linked, in their woolen sweaters and hiking shoes. A muddy dog occupied with the sights and smells of the trail-edge, skipped, paused, and waddled alongside them.
We smiled at each other and wondered that this natural beauty was all but hidden from the main streets of this old community. But as we left the sound of wind and water for the fume and traffic of Great North Road, I sighed. What a shame to lose such a magical natural place to make way for the incessant emissions and seeming relentless sprawl of yet another thoroughfare.