The Beavers of New Zealand

(photographic proof)

No one knows for certain what brought him here; certainly the north end of South Island was not on any tourist brochure in the 1850’s.  In fact it was just about the point where you would fall off the end of the earth.

Some say that he was on the lam and others believed he was on a mission of love. Either way, Pierre La Foot turned a lot of heads back in the day. Proudly he galloped on his trusted stead, Belle, his blonde hair and buckskin jacket flapping in the breeze.

Our story unfolds in a trashy tavern in Wrangwingwkamgara (sp), a tiny coastal town of dubious reputation. This is where Pierre first met Mickey. They were shooting pool and pounding bad whiskey with beer chasers. Daily problems slipped away and all was good in the world.

Mickey Conley had been deposited in New Zealand aboard a convict ship and had the scars to prove it. Pierre was from some frozen place far, far away. As you can imagine, verbal communication between the two was not crisp. They got on well despite the fact that they understood not a word of each other’s peculiar dialect. A friendship was forged with hand signals and gestures. The whiskey helped.

They parted company with Mickey inviting the stranger to stop in and meet his family.

“How will I find you? Eh”

“Tis the wee hut where the Opawa River bends south”.  chimed Mickey.

Weeks passed and life went on as it always does.

It was a rainy afternoon when Pierre and Belle appeared over the horizon. What he found surprised and shocked him. There was Mickey’s hut as he described it in the bend in the river but much closer to the river than seemed practical. Belle was knee-deep in mucky river water well before they reached the modest hut.

In fact the thatched roof was only a few feet above the high water, and it reminded him of something he would see in the ponds at home.

He could hear muddled voices from inside. He called out. Yes, it was Mikey and his family. They were huddled on their bunk beds as the river invaded their soggy abode.

“Mais oui !  Just  like beavers huddled in a den!” Pierre chuckled.

They seemed accustomed to their lifestyle and it never occurred to them to move to higher ground. Some people just get comfortable where ever they land and never see brighter days just over the ridge.

Pierre said his adieux. Scratching his head, he moved on sensing that there was little for him here.

In a few miles, he came across a beautiful young woman who was slowly sauntering home towards the river. As a gentleman, he dismounted his stead and in his best English chatted the lady up.

As it turns out this was Mickey’s oldest daughter, Kaitlin,returning from town. Quickly it became clear that this was a sad young lady who despised her life. She felt trapped living with the beavers. Don’t they know that there is a better life out there?

Pierre was a sly fox and swiftly enchanted her with tales of chateaux in the forest.  A land where everyone had a dry bed, and a warm fire.

It took only a little more persuasion and Kaitlin was on the back of Belle, embracing Pierre and her new life. She did not look back as they rode off to some distant dream land.

Years passed and Pierre and his young bride were living in the woods outside of Chicoutimi in Northern Quebec. Pierre had built them a sturdy log cabin on high ground and Kaitlin was pleased.

 Oui, the bed was dry but thank god there was a warm fire! Here the rivers don’t flood; they just freeze up for 7 months of the year! Their young son was healthy and raised on French Toast and organic Maple Syrup. On Saturday nights he played goalie for the local team.

Pierre provided a comfortable lifestyle for them by hunting and tending to his trap-line. The irony was that his steadiest source of income was the beaver he caught. You see, while the beaver was admired for its relentless work ethic, it was much more valuable as pelts on its way to the tannery where its pelt would become part of Paris haute couture. Kaitlin was appalled by the inhumanity of it all.

And then, like the wind, he was gone. The call of the gold rush was too much for Pierre and he upped stakes and headed west. That was last she saw of her buckskinned stud-muffin. She stayed on and found work as a bar-maid in town. The loggers were friendly and the tips were good!  Later she went on to become a founding member of – Save Our Beaver society. S.O.B. grew into a nationwide organization  with chapters coast to coast. It’s members were the Vanguard of the environmental movement.

Back along the Opawa River life went on as before. (It would be generations before the locals realized they could produce the World’s Best Sauvignon Blanc). Pierre’s tale of the beavers huddled in their den had stuck in the local lore. With a sense of indifference, the residents grudgingly became known as the beavers of Beaver Station.

Round about 1878, another stranger rode into town and settled at Beaver Station. Newcomers from away were finding the region very fertile and the growing season long.  The district was slowly attracting new blood.

Bucky was his name, a handle his father had given him, a handle he wished he could shake. Since leaving his home in Chicoutimi,  the young man had wandered across many continents. He was drawn to this area hoping to find a community where he might fit in. It was, after all, the place of his mother’s childhood.

Not much was known of Bucky. Out here in the new frontier, folks did not pry much into another man’s background. Everyone had a story, most of them better left in the past.  

It was rumored that he had relatives in the area but this was never confirmed. Some said he looked like old Mickey who use to live at the river’s edge. Mickey and his wife had cleared off and headed to the city when their daughter vanished.

Bucky took up residence on a ridge well up from the river. He felt at home here, he put down roots. He ambitiously started a saw mill and lumber yard. Business was good and thanks to his influence, decent homes could now be built. The beavers went “upmarket” and spread out to higher ground.

He worked hard, treated people fairly and was well respected.  It wasn’t long before he found himself elected Mayor of Beaver Station.  His first order of business was to pass a motion to change the name of the fledgling community. Lingering memories of the father that abandoned him had left a sour note in the mind of the new Mayor.

It was ultimately decided that they should honour a fallen soldier from some distant war. The towns people unanimously agreed that any address would be better than Beaver Station.

And that is how the bustling, vibrant town of Blenheim, Marlborough was founded.

P.S.  With new found confidence, Bucky officially changed his name to Robert Douglas Chatham. Friends and neighbours called him Bob and that became the final footnote of The Beavers in New Zealand.