It was just like watching something in slow motion, running through your mind again and again, every time you think about it. In this case, a line of people falling over like dominoes, one on top of the other, each shouting individually as they went down; and then an eerie silence, as all tried to comprehend what had just happened. As a witness, fortunately just behind, I will never forget the circumstances – and the outcome. Richard, our son, (Prep 1985-89) has citizenship of New Zealand, and working on a huge salmon farm near Twizel at the foot of Mt. Cook, the highest mountain. Due to work commitments, he was unable to join me, thus I booked onto a small group tour, during a return visit to see him, my wife staying home (Lavenham) this time.

It was Day 3, moving down to the southernmost tip of South Island in New Zealand, ultimate destination the rodent free nature reserve island of Ulva, and a night search for the brown kiwi on Stewart Island. Since leaving Christchurch in a rather elderly but serviceable Mercedes minibus, the 9 of us had explored each other’s backgrounds, and ‘homogenised’ as it were.  A mix of retired Kiwis, and a charming French couple (Francois spoke no English, a chance for me to practice my schoolboy French, Mr Sullivan would have approved), Randall, a Dutch/Maori/Kiwi driver/leader; and me. Our host that day was a 90 year old trustee of the land that we were tramping (an NZ term) through, a large section of intensely thick podocarp forest, every leaf dripping down into rivulets which were draining into a nearby estuary. The rivulets were bridged by short, narrow blackened boardwalks covered with wire to prevent slipping in the constant wet and moss. Through nearly midday, the darkness of the forest was all pervading, with a certain degree of malevolence. Impossible to manoeuvre in anything but ‘Indian file’, we carefully snaked through between the lichen covered trees, alive with secondary hosed ferns. Francois and Justine at the front, reached and climbed a short run of timber steps, stopping at the top. Everyone caught up, standing in a line ready to climb the steps.

And that’s when it happened. Joan, the first, started up the steps but slipped and lost her balance off the third step; she fell onto Marice on the first step, who in turn fell backwards onto Jim; Jennie was next down; and finally, Ian and Pat; Ian was a large man, and his wife Pat the opposite. Just like a set of dominoes one by one. Pat screamed out at Ian for falling on top of her, but he had no control. Little by little, everyone kind of very carefully rose from incumbency, all helping each other. Pat, bottom of the pile, had tumbled onto the forest floor of millennia of leaves; however, she had been crushed by her husband’s weight, and lay there, unable to move.The first arm of the emergency services to arrive was the (voluntary) St John’s Ambulance Service, who had to park a mile away and be led through the forest to the scene, then back to the vehicle for lots of equipment, then again to the scene. Next was the local Fire Brigade, again all volunteers, and the same double process. A second team from St John’s Ambulance, with same requirements. By now there were three full stretchers and 15 extra people in a minute clearing in the depths of the forest. Finally, an air ambulance arrived from Dunedin, with a crew and another 2 stretchers to be carried with even more equipment to the tiny clearing. This is when I wore the aircrew helmet as my arms were already full, carrying cases of medical gear. Pat was assessed as having broken her pelvis, plus multiple crushed ribs, and taken by air to Dunedin, around 40 minutes away.  Marice couldn’t stand and was taken to hospital in Inverary where we caught up with her the next day. After all this, the depleted group were delighted to eat a delayed lunch, with our host showing us several bones from the extinct moa that he had found on a sandy beach, and our tour continued onwards with less dramatic, but more pleasant, experiences.

Written by Michael Warner (OI 1953 – 65)