Cambridge

The light began to change as we left the velodrome. The town centre receded behind us; houses thinned and grass and trees took their place. Cloud sat low and the air cooled. Our next stop was Sanctuary Mountain Maungatautari. The name had made me imagine something mysterious and imposing. What actually stopped me was a line on an orange sign by the entrance: a 47-kilometre pest-proof perimeter fence. The sanctuary protects about 3,400 hectares of native forest. Apart from native bats, New Zealand originally had no indigenous land mammals. Rats, possums, mustelids, cats, deer, pigs and other introduced animals arrived with people, entering an ecosystem whose birds and forests had never evolved alongside them. Standing before the fence and its measurements, I understood the idea physically for the first time. The fence had to be high, the mesh fine, the top resistant to climbers and the base secure against animals burrowing underneath. Building it was only the first step. Introduced mammals inside still had to be removed or controlled, while the perimeter required constant inspection, repair and monitoring. We entered the forest. Its sounds were quiet but distinct. Branches crossed overhead like a net slowly drawing closed. Katherine walked ahead, stopping for a tree, then for an information board. One described rimu, its photographed cross-section opening ring after ring. Wooden walkways spiralled upwards among the trunks. It was easy to become quiet here, not because we were trying to be silent, but because the forest was so much older than us. I photographed from below. Surrounded by trees, Katherine looked very small.

The tūī from the cafe mural was resting in the branches overhead. The sky had brightened when we emerged. Katherine looked back once. “It’s quiet inside,” she said, “but that fence outside is not quiet at all.”