MAIN TRUNK LINE by PURUPUSS RATED FRC

Author’s Notes: There is nothing quiet about this story. In fact my muse has gone quiet over anything relating to “A Quiet Year”. Instead, she fed me this brief (by Purupuss standards) tale.

Thanks to quiller, D.C., Professor Ali, Red Hardy and ejb for their help and encouragement.

Anything and anyone relating to the TV series Thunderbirds is the property of Granada. Anyone else is mine, and the locations belong to New Zealand.

Sorry if some of the place names tie your tongues into knots. English ones, such as Auckland and Wellington, may roll off the tongue easily; but the Maori ones like “Ruapehu” (roughly Rooa-payhoo) you may find a bit more tricky. At least “he” had someone to explain them to “him”.

F-A-B

:-) Purupuss

In memory of those who lost their lives Christmas Eve 1953.

My dear friend

I’m not sure if you’ll believe this tale I’m going to tell you. I’m not sure I believe it myself. But I need to get it all down on paper, if for no other reason than to try to make sense of what happened.

Where should I begin?

“At the beginning!” I hear you say.

You are right; and I will.

The day started ordinarily enough, with a sense of muted expectation. Expectation because I’d been looking forward to this trip for months. It’s not every day that you get to travel the length of New Zealand’s main trunk railway line by steam train. From Auckland to our nation’s capital, Wellington, I would be travelling in the most romantic way possible; behind a ‘living’, ‘breathing’, steam locomotive. Not that I was expecting any romance. This wasn’t a cruise. It would be over eight hours of listening to a rhythmical tattoo as spectacular scenery slid by.

So why were my expectations muted? Because this was such a special trip, its passengers were encouraged to dress in period costume; of the style worn soon after the Main Truck Line was opened in 1909. What if I were the only one dressed like someone who’d come through a time warp?

How embarrassing that would be.

Because I’d chosen to stay at accommodation a couple of blocks away from the Britomart Railway Station complex, I’d got there early... Far earlier than anyone else. And so I sat there alone in the cool dark of an Auckland morning, dressed in my ‘Edwardian’ finery, waiting for reassurance that there were others as mad as me.

I was greatly relieved to discover that there were.

There was something of a community feeling as we grouped together, laughing at how ‘ordinary’ people were staring at us, commenting on how wonderful each of us looked (I didn’t mention that my petticoats were made out of old sheets), and pretending to behave as we imagined people of the early 1900’s would. We entered through the grand entrance of the former Central Post Office into the Britomart and then descended the escalators down beneath the earth, to where our transport waited for us like a somnolent beast.

There we handed our suitcases into the baggage car and signed ourselves on board. Even the train staff had entered into the spirit of the day, and were dressed in uniforms of the time. There were lots of ‘sirs’ and ‘ma’ams’ and doffing of caps. I was escorted into my carriage by a helpful attendant who carried my bag for me. It was only a little thing packed with the bare necessities that a lady of my time might carry: purse, handkerchief, camera, spare batteries, tripod, cell phone, flash drives, laptop...

I like to travel light.

I was fortunate to have been allocated a window seat, and I was especially pleased to discover that I would be travelling on the left side of the carriage. This meant that I would have an excellent view of the volcanoes of the Central Plateau. I’d checked a geographic website a few days earlier and it had told me that the North Island’s highest mountain, Mount Ruapehu, had a volcanic alert rating of two, meaning that there were signs of volcanic unrest. With any luck I’d get to see smoke rising from its water-filled crater above the snowy peak...

That’s if the weather co-operated.

The carriage slowly filled as people filed down the aisle checking their tickets against the seat numbers on the wall. For a while I was hopeful that my aisle seat might remain empty, before a handsome young man, who’d entered into the spirit of the day as much as I had, stopped beside me. He gave me an engaging smile, lifted his hat, and said: “Good morning. I believe that we are going to be travelling together.”

That one sentence was enough to tell me that he was a foreigner; possibly an American, but I’m hopeless with accents. At least if he was an American I seemed to have been spared the stereotypical tourist. He wasn’t loud, chewing gum, wearing a baseball cap, and his clothing wasn’t overbearing and was devoid of glitter. I smiled back at him and said hello.

His carry-on luggage consisted of a satchel and he stashed this in the compartment above our heads.

As we waited for the journey to start we exchanged the usual pleasantries. As is not uncommon in situations like this we didn’t exchange names. He was tall and extremely good looking. His hair was brown and he had a moustache that was obviously fake, judging by the number of times that he fingered it throughout the trip. This didn’t strike me as odd since facial hair was more common at the beginning of last century than in our current time and I assumed that he’d donned it to add authenticity to his costume.

The steamer strained, lurched forward, and we were on our way.

Apart from the waterfront area, the rail corridor of Auckland looks like the rail corridor through most other cities; lots of industrial buildings and the backyards of people going about their daily business. Occasionally our unusual form of locomotion attracted people’s attention and we waved at a multitude of children who ran to catch a glimpse of a vehicle they’d only read about in books.

Then we reached the Waikato. I’d always found this bit of the journey to be the most boring as it was mile after mile of grassy farmland populated by cows and sheep. During this time my companion and I chatted idly. He was, I learned, an engineer.

“Not one of those,” I groaned.

He looked surprised. “Don’t you like engineers?”

“I’m office manager of an engineering factory,” I explained. “It’s bad enough dealing with engineers during my work day, without having to deal with one on my day off.” Fortunately he laughed along with me.

“So what’s wrong with engineers?” he asked.

“I’ve decided that they can’t see further than their own pencil.” At his shocked expression, I hastily added, “and you can take that any way you like it. They can’t seem to realise that there’s more to the creation of whatever they’re making than a hunk of steel and a welder. They forget that someone has to order the steel, the gas, and the welding tips; and that the purchasing manager is not going to do that unless they realise stocks are getting low. It’s no use starting a job and complaining that you’re out of 3mm mild steel plate, just because you used the last of it to make a jig and then didn’t tell anyone.”

“You have a point,” he admitted. “I hope I’m more considerate than that.”

“The exception that proves the rule?” I teased.

“Of course!” He smiled. “I help with the administration of the firm I work for so I have a better idea than most engineers of what goes on behind the scenes.” He was, he told me, a kind of trouble-shooter who travelled the world to wherever his services were required. As I’d known people whose job consisted of flying off to distant shores to repair their company’s equipment, I had no reason to question his explanation. “That’s why I’m in New Zealand,” he explained. “I’d been called to a place north of Auckland, and when I heard about this trip I jumped at the opportunity to take a couple of days vacation. My brother’s going to meet me in Wellington and we’ll fly home tonight.”

“Home being not in New Zealand?” I guessed.

“What gave me away?” he laughed. “No. Home’s not New Zealand.” He didn’t say where precisely ‘home’ was.

“Do you come to New Zealand often?”

“You know how it goes. I might stay away for years and then find myself back here several times in the space of a couple of months... Why are you on this trip?”

“I love history and I love trains, especially steamers; as simple as that.”

“Oh, yes,” my companion agreed. “There’s nothing like a steam locomotive. I helped rebuild one as part of my engineering training. Now I work on some of the most modern machines available, but none of it compares to the satisfaction of hearing that 100-year-old girl puff into life for the first time in decades.”

“Steam locomotives seem to be alive,” I agreed. “You can understand why they capture people’s imaginations more than other forms of transport.”

He smiled as if enjoying a joke. “Don’t tell my brother that. If you can’t fly it he’s not interested. The spinning of a propeller excites him more than the surge of steam pump ever could.” He began to tell me about the restoration of number 1236, or “Myra” as he called her. Then he stopped. “Sorry,” he apologised. “I think I got a little carried away there.”

“That’s alright. It’s nice to listen to someone who’s an enthusiast.”

Our hostess appeared at his shoulder and offered us a newspaper each. He accepted his with thanks, while I declined and pulled my laptop out of my bag. I set it up and switched it on.

He was engrossed in his paper for a long time before he realised what I was doing. The sight of me dressed in my Edwardian finery typing on a computer obviously tickled his funny bone because he put down his paper and retrieved his satchel from the overhead compartment. He pulled out a tablet PC and started sketching.

I finished my diary entry about my trip so far and looked up to find my companion looking at me in between strokes. “What are you doing?”

“Drawing,” he admitted. “I’m drawing you.”

“Me?!”

“Yes, you. You’re dressed like something out of last century, but typing into what looks like a fairly modern computer.”

“In that case, if you’re going to be drawing me, then you’re going to have to let me take your photo later,” I retorted.

My companion became serious. “I’d rather you didn’t. I know it sounds silly, but I don’t like having my photo taken.” He seemed embarrassed by his admission. “I suppose we’ve all got our irrational fears.”

Uncomfortable, and unable to look at him, I concentrated on shutting down my laptop.

“Please, don’t turn it off just yet.” My companion indicated his tablet, “and I’ll beam this drawing over to you when I’ve finished.”

I didn’t say anything. I kind of felt our discussion over photographs had erected a wall between us; and I’d been enjoying our conversation.

He finished his drawing with a flourish, lined his computer up with mine and sent the image across. It flashed up on the screen and I couldn’t help but gasp. “You’re good!”

“Thanks,” he said as he put away the tablet and reclaimed his newspaper.

I saved my journal and his sketch onto a flash drive, which I hung around my neck beneath my blouse, and then put away my laptop.

He noticed my precautions. “A backup copy?”

“Yes. I like to be a good Girl Guide and be prepared. I’ll save my photos on here too, just in case something happens to the laptop.”

“That’s not a stupid idea.” He reclaimed his tablet PC and copied his sketch onto a flash drive which he pocketed. “You know, I’ve got a friend who’d love your outfit.” He indicated my matching blouse, skirt and gloves. “She likes the colour pink too.”

“Ah,” I smiled. “She sounds like a woman after my own heart.”

We were moving out of farmland and into more interesting and varied scenery.

My companion looked at his watch. “Time for morning tea, I think.” Maybe he felt guilty about putting a dampener on things earlier because he added, “would you like me to get you something from the buffet car? I’ll pay.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I protested.

“It’s not a problem. I could do with the exercise.” He stood and stretched. “These seats don’t give you a lot of room to move.”

“One of the advantages of being a little shorty.” I laughed.

“At least I can reach these compartments,” he noted as he put his satchel away. He smiled down at me. “You can read the paper while I’m away, if you like.”

“Thanks.”

He was back a short time later carefully balancing our drinks and muffins on a tray. “These trains aren’t the smoothest I’ve ever been on.”

“It’s our track’s narrow gauge that’s the problem,” I informed him. “The width between the rails in New Zealand is three foot six, whereas in the States the gauge is four foot eight and a half.”

He gave me a curious look. “You know your stuff.”

“Not really. I forget more than I remember. I couldn’t tell you what those dimensions were in metric.” I took my tea and muffin and handed him back his newspaper. “I was just reading about International Rescue’s rescue in Orewa, north of Auckland. Those guys are amazing!”

“They’ve got good equipment,” he corrected.

“And the skills to use it. I’d love to see them in action,” I admitted. “Though preferably not as the person being rescued... Where do you suppose their base is?”

“I’ve heard all sorts of places suggested.”

“Me too, but I guess it’s better that no one knows where they come from.” I recollected our earlier conversation. “I suppose your brother would love to see their Thunderbirds.”

He laughed. “I’m sure he would.” He looked at the map that had been provided that outlined the course of our trip. “Some of these place names look like real tongue-twisters. They’re Maori?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the Spiral?”

“There.” I pointed to a spot halfway down the North Island. “South of Lake Taupo.”

“Tor-po...” He enunciated. Then he sighed. “My brother’s the one who’s good with languages. How do you pronounce the name of the Spiral?”

“Raurimu? Roughly ‘row’, like an argument, and ‘remoo’. Rimu is a type of red pine that was milled in the area.”

“Have you travelled over the Raurimu Spiral before?”

I nodded. “Several times. It always fascinates me. Wait till you see the terrain the workmen had to deal with.”

“You do realise that Robert Holmes, the man who designed it, was an engineer?” he teased.

“A different type of engineer,” I reminded him.

He read the pamphlet. “The spiral’s made up of a horseshoe curve, two hairpin bends, two tunnels and a complete circle, enabling the locomotive to traverse what would otherwise be a 200m climb.” He read some more. “Instead of travelling two kilometres as the crow flies at a gradient of 1 in 24, we’ll be travelling 6.8 kilometres at a gradient of 1 in 52. That’s quite a feat.”

“Especially since the guy who designed it couldn’t view it from anywhere. He had to visualise it all in his head. And this was in the days when all the work was done by pick and shovel.”

My companion gave a low whistle. “My father would be impressed.”

“Is he a civil engineer?”

“Yes.”

“He’d be interested in the viaducts on the Main Trunk then?”

“Yes, he would.”

“I think it’s criminal the way so much of New Zealand’s railways have been ripped up when you consider the blood, sweat and tears that went into laying them.”

“You had family who worked on the railroads?”

“No,” I admitted. “Not that I know of.”

We’d been travelling for some time and I was aware that my cup of tea was having an effect on me. While I’d eschewed historical accuracy in favour of comfort and had decided against wearing corsets and pinched shoes, I knew I was going to run into a few problems with my long skirts... Starting with trying to negotiate a way around six foot plus of masculinity. He accepted my apologies and let me past.

When I returned from my struggle with several layers of material inside a cubicle that seemed smaller than a pencil case, he was in my seat gazing out the window. “Sorry,” he apologised, and went to stand.

“Don’t move,” I told him. “You can sit there for a while I do some more typing.”

“No.” He got to his feet. “It’s my turn to go. Where is the bathroom?”

“Bathroom?” I queried. The euphemism was one of my pet-peeves and I could never resist the opportunity to point out how stupid it was. “There aren’t any baths on this train. There aren’t any showers either.”

Something about my manner must have told him that I was joking, because he indulgently played along. “You know what I mean. Where you’ve just been.”

“Trust me; there wasn’t enough room in there for a bath.” I grinned. “If you mean the toilet, then say so. I can’t understand why people are so happy to use one particular word out of context, that crudely means what they do in there; but are too embarrassed to call the receptacle what it is!”

“Huh?” He looked confused. Then his face cleared. “Oh! I understand... Point taken. Now. Where is...”

I took pity on him. “It’s at the beginning of the next carriage.”

“Thank you.”

He returned just as the announcement was made that we were drawing close to the first of several photo stops of the day. “You’d better keep behind me,” I told my companion, mindful of his dislike of being photographed. “Because as this locomotive goes past I’m going to be snapping away like crazy.”

“I’ll remember that,” he replied.

In fact I lost him in the crowd of people that disembarked from the train and then jostled for the best vantage point. If I’d been wearing my usual slacks I would have been happy to do a bit of climbing to gain some height, but I was finding my skirts and shoes inhibiting. I was developing a new respect for the women who had worn this costume and more, and yet had still managed to conquer landscapes more inhospitable than this.

When its passengers were all clear, the locomotive slowly backed away until it was out of sight a mile back down the track. While we waited, cameras at the ready and breathless with anticipation, I chatted with an elderly man who leant on a stick for support. His father had been an engineer on the railways and this was his one chance to retrace his dad’s ‘footsteps’.

There was a puff of steam before the associated toot of the whistle meandered along a good five seconds later. That was our signal that the train was about to return. Despite all that happened subsequently, I still remember the thrill of seeing the locomotive with a full head of steam thundering towards us. It was a stunning example of raw power and it was hard to imagine anything more awe-inspiring… But then we didn’t know what else the day had in store for us…

That was a couple of hours into the future as we re-boarded our carriages and made our way back to our seats. The elderly man struggled into his, dropping his cane in the process, and I picked it up for him before retiring to my own seat where I fired up my laptop and started to download my photographs.

My friend was one of the last to board and I was beginning to become quite worried about him until I saw him striding down the aisle, humming a triumphant tune, and looking quietly pleased with himself.

“You’ve been in the locomotive!”

He looked surprised at my accusation. “How’d you know?”

“You’ve got soot on your cheek.”

“I have? Where?”

“There.” I dug into my bag and retrieved a mirror, which I handed to him. “See!”

“Oh, yeah…” He examined himself in the mirror. “Guess I’d better go and have a wash in the toilet.” He gave me a cockeyed grin.

I laughed.

“Did they actually let you ride in the loco?” I asked when he returned.

He looked smug again. “Yup.”

“What was it like?”

“Noisy.” He rubbed his ears. “They let me blow the whistle,” he added with obvious pride.

We decided that it was time for our pre-paid lunch and made our way down to the buffet car. The attendant, in keeping with the theme of the day, was dressed in regulation navy trousers, white shirt, a gaily striped waistcoat and a straw boater. He engaged us in light-hearted banter as he nuked our meal.

I spent much of the meal being entertained by my friend trying to deal with not getting food caught in his unfamiliar moustache. Eventually I asked him why he didn’t just remove it.

“It’s got a special adhesive and I’ve left the dissolver with my other things,” he admitted. “And I don’t like the idea of ripping it off without dissolving the adhesive first. I’m not a fan of unnecessary pain.”

“But you can handle necessary pain?” I teased.

“Oh, yes. If it’s in a good cause: no problems.”

The King Country countryside was markedly different to that which we’d left behind in the Waikato. Instead of the pale green of endless grass, now we were into the darker olive tones of New Zealand native bush. The in-train intercom announced that we would shortly be arriving in Taumarunui where the locomotive would be refuelled with oil, the water-tank topped up, and a diesel locomotive would be hitched on to aid our steamer on the long pull up the Raurimu Spiral.

When we got to Taumarunui, the town appeared to have gone all out to celebrate our arrival. Locals in period costume wandered up and down the platform to greet us, and a five-piece brass ensemble, clad in white flannels, striped blazers and boaters, regaled us with tunes from the beginning of last century.

I fully expected to lose sight of my friend again as he disappeared to enjoy the machinations of two locomotives being prepared for our ascent, and was pleasantly surprised when he seemed happy to join me in the museum that was part of the station complex. There we pored over historical snippets and memorabilia about Taumarunui (Tor-ma-roo-noo-ee, I explained); the famous Raurimu Spiral; and the tragedy that occurred on Christmas Eve in 1953. That evening a trainload of passengers, heading home to their families for Christmas, had had their journey brutally cut short when the rim of Mount Ruapehu’s water-filled crater had collapsed, creating a lahar. The river of fast moving volcanic mud had washed out the bridge at Tangiwai sending most of the Express tumbling into the chaotic Whangaehu River. 151 of the 285 people on board had lost their lives.

“What a disaster,” my friend sighed.

“Yes,” I agreed. “And at that time the population of New Zealand was small enough that almost everyone knew someone who’d been affected by the tragedy.”

After that sobering reminder of events gone past, we emerged into bright sunshine and the jaunty sounds of the band, who were in the process of telling us about Tam-ra-nooee, on the Main Trunk Line. I was about to explain to my friend that the song was a few decades younger than the period we were re-enacting, when he, caught up in the joie-de-vivre of the moment, grasped my hands and led me in a little dance on the platform. I doubt that anyone in the early 1900’s would have been caught behaving in such a fashion, and it certainly wasn’t common in this day and age, but there’s something about being dressed in costume that sets you free of normal, societal constraints; and no one seemed to mind…

…Including me.

And yet I still didn’t think to ask him his name, and he still didn’t ask me mine.

The double-headed locomotive pulled up alongside our platform and everyone climbed back into their carriages. Soon we would be ascending the Raurimu Spiral.

My friend nudged me. “Let’s watch it from the observation car.”

“But what about the smoke and soot? And the sparks! Don’t forget we’ll be travelling through two tunnels.”

“Live a little.” He treated me to a roguish wink. “It’ll be more exciting than watching it from in here.”

I thought briefly. Why not? My costume was made out of modern materials; guaranteed fire-resistant, hole-resistant, and probably steam locomotive-resistant; and there was something about his manner that inspired confidence. “Okay!” I grabbed my camera and followed him out to the open deck.

The icy winds bit at my face and I was glad that I’d left my hat on my seat as the turbulence from our travels raced past. The intercom said something, but we couldn’t understand it over the noise of the train and the rushing of the wind.

It was exhilarating!

We practically had the observation car to ourselves as we passed through the township of Raurimu, once thriving, but now barely clinging to existence. Up above us to our left, parallel to our present course, was the other leg of the hairpin bend that marked the beginning of our spiralling ascent.

We rounded the tight corner and looked down on Raurimu before it disappeared from view as the train slewed to the right and then right again. Looking up to the skyline, we could see the row of poles that marked the electrified track at the top of the spiral. Bracing myself I tried to get photos of the remarkable engineering feat, but soon gave up trying and decided to simply enjoy the experience.

We held our breaths as we entered the first tunnel that marked the beginning of the circle. Smoke, steam and sparks swirled around us. We only had time for the briefest of breaths before we were into the second, shorter tunnel. We emerged, gasping for breath and laughing.

We were still climbing as the track crossed back over the first tunnel and completed the circle. We were now well above Raurimu and on the North Island Volcanic Plateau. The weather was clear and it looked as though I’d soon get my wish to see Mount Ruapehu and its shorter, but still mountainous neighbours, Tongariro and Ngauruhoe.

We returned to our seats.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked.

His eyes were shining. “Definitely...!”

“Me too! That was awesome!” I gazed out the window.

“What are you looking for?”

“Mount Ruapehu. I’ve always wanted to see an erupting volcano and I’m hoping that Ruapehu will be smoking.” I turned back to him. “Have you ever seen an eruption?”

For some inexplicable reason my friend suddenly became wary. “A couple.”

“Really? Where...? There it is!” I pointed out the window to where, in the distance, sat Mount Ruapehu. Gratifyingly it was covered with snow and from its summit a trail of smoke wafted towards the heavens. “Wow!”

The train started to slow down.

We had reached National Park. Everyone disembarked, exclaiming at the shock of the cool winter air after the warmth of our carriages. I immediately set out to find the best vantage point to photograph not only the slightly flattened shape of Ruapehu, but also the deceptively taller, more conical cone of Mount Ngauruhoe. My friend disappeared; presumably to get away from the cameras and closer to the engine.

Having done its duty double-heading up the spiral, the diesel locomotive was uncoupled and the steamer prepared for its final ‘downward’ leg to Wellington City.

I was so excited at seeing an active volcano, that this time I was one of the last to board our train; having used up a large portion of my camera’s memory card. My friend had been watching me from the window and, grinning, he stood to let me reclaim my seat. “You enjoyed yourself, did you?” he asked.

“Oh! Yes! That was magic! Something I can cross off my list of things to do before I die.” I pulled out my laptop to download my photos, there was a jolt and we were on our way again. “Would you like copies?” I asked, slightly wary of his possible reaction.

“I’d love it.” As I copied the photos to my flash drive my friend told me that he’d found some old railwaymen and they’d got talking. Of course these men were too young to remember the age of steam, but they’d been quite happy to reminisce about stories they’d heard many years ago as well as tell their own tales about excursions such as ours.

As I transferred my photographs to his flash drive I looked out the window again. “They say that Ngauruhoe is a vent of Tongariro. How do you suppose they know that?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ve got a friend who could probably tell you.”

“Does he study volcanology?”

“Among other things, yes.”

We reached Tangiwai.

When we crossed the Whangaehu River, as a mark of respect our train slowed while we passed the spot where so many lives had been lost all those years ago.

“I wonder if this disaster happened today, now that International Rescue is in existence, if more people could have been saved?” I mused.

“Not many more I should think.” My friend looked grim. “Things happened too fast. WInternational Rescue would take too long to reach the danger zone.”

“Do you think even their super-fast aeroplanes wouldn’t be quick enough?”

“Probably not, even though there are now seismographs and other early warning systems on the mountain. International Rescue might be alerted earlier than they could have been in 1953, but I don’t know if it would make much difference.”

I looked out the window and Mount Ruapehu loomed on the horizon. “Do you know what Ruapehu means?”

“Is this a trick question? No.”

“Rua means pit and pehu is to explode. It’s one of the most active volcanoes in the world.”

He gazed past me at the dozing stratovolcano. “It’s well named then.”

“Yes.”

It seemed so peaceful, that snow-capped summit of Mount Ruapehu with its feather of gently rising smoke, that at first I didn’t comprehend what I saw next. But what I did see is forever seared into my brain.

There was a flash of almost unbelievable brightness and Ruapehu appeared to split into two. The image was still burnt into my retina, when the whole scene was obliterated by a thick, black cloud of smoke. At least I thought it was smoke. That was until I realised that that ominous cloud was rolling towards us.

My friend fingered his watch. “Pyroclastic flow,” he muttered. He didn’t need to tell me. I’d seen enough natural history documentaries to know what danger was thundering in our direction. Superheated volcanic gases, ash, and boulders were heading our way; and yet, initially, I felt detached from the events that were unfolding. It was as though my window was the glass of a television screen and I was watching a muted TV show.

That was until about a minute later when we were assaulted by a roar of such indescribable intensity, that I won’t attempt to describe it. But I will say that the magnitude of the sound waves sent our carriage rocking. I’m sure that our wheels must have left the tracks, but, in the first of many lucky breaks, we didn’t derail.

That was when fear set in.

I was getting some idea of the terror that the people of Pompeii must have experienced in 79AD. I’ve always believed that panic achieves nothing. I still believe it. But believing it didn’t help much when everyone around was screaming and panicking and my natural inclination was to join in. It was only through a great deal of willpower, several deep breaths, and the calm, reassuring presence of the man beside me that I didn’t become a screaming maniac.

My friend took it all in his stride, as if such calamities were things that he faced every day.

We were shunted back into our seats as the train accelerated, but I knew there was no way that our century-year-old locomotive would ever be able to outrun a 700 kilometre per hour pyroclastic flow.

We were done for.

The authorities had deemed that 80 kilometres an hour was a safe maximum speed for a passenger-towing steam locomotive on the New Zealand rail network, but I had no doubt that we were travelling much faster than that now. I could imagine the firebox glowing red and the boiler overheating and exploding…

Would that be a quicker death than being engulfed in superheated volcanic tephra?

We were roughly 20 kilometres away from Mount Ruapehu, and that distance was increasing by the minute as we followed the restrictive layout of the tracks. One minute what remained of the mountain was behind us, the next I had a frighteningly clear view of our impending doom, and then a second later we appeared to be racing to meet the approaching menace head on.

We turned and once again the surge was flanking us. Heading, it seemed to me, straight for my window seat. I could hear an ever-increasing roar as air was pushed relentlessly ahead of the flow. The destructive force was nearly upon us.

I got a shock when my friend suddenly bellowed, “get below the level of the windows and cover your heads!” I don’t know if the rest of the carriage obeyed, but I had no choice as a strong arm reached across my shoulders and pushed me down towards the floor.

It had been two minutes after the initial eruption when we got the next of our lucky breaks.

That was when we discovered that we’d reached the edge of the surge and that much of its energy had already dissipated. That didn’t mean that when the pyroclastic flow hit, it didn’t pack a wallop; merely that we weren’t instantaneously fried, crushed, and sent spinning to kingdom come.

Our third lucky break was that most of the train had managed to sneak into a cutting as the surge assaulted us; shielding us from the worst effects of the maelstrom.

I said most of the train. I was in the last carriage. The carriage that hadn’t quite made the relative safety of the cutting before Armageddon struck.

There were screams: from tortured metal as the coupling was sheared in two, and from other passengers. The outside panes of the double-glazed windows shattered, but the interior ones held. Wall panels buckled. I was thrown against the wall of our carriage, becoming the meat in the sandwich as my friend was forced in the same direction. Which was up? Which was down? Were we facing north, south, east, or west? Were we alive or were we dead?

We stopped moving.

We were upright.

We were intact.

We were alive.

But for how long?

People were yelling, crying, screaming, praying and above it all I was surprised to hear a composed, authoritative voice. “Keep calm, everyone. Don’t panic. Keep still!”

It was my friend.

He turned to me. “Are you all right?”

I responded with my typical lightning-fast erudite wit. “Uh... Ah... Am... Uh... Yeah.”

He squeezed my hand reassuringly and then he was out of his seat and down to the front of the carriage. “Calm down, please,” he repeated, “and remain seated.”

“Remain seated!” someone exclaimed. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

I had to agree with that person. Now that the ash outside was clearing I could see that a good portion of the rear of our carriage was suspended over what appeared to be a bluff above what would once have been a flowing river… Or it could have been an optical illusion through the grimy, cracked windows, and it was in actuality a deep culvert. Whatever it was, now, like the rest of the landscape, it was thick with grey ash. I had the impression that we’d been flung upwards into space and had landed on the moon.

“We can’t leave yet,” my friend told the frightened group. “We’ve been hit by a pyroclastic flow. The temperature of the flow could have been anything up to 1000 degrees Celsius, but I’m assuming that this one was closer to two hundred and fifty.”

“How do you know?” someone challenged.

“The fact that our carriage is still in one piece. But even if it is the ‘cooler’ temperature, it’s too dangerous to step outside… And just as dangerous remaining in here.” As if to emphasise his point the carriage groaned and shifted, and my friend took a slight step forward to brace himself against the sudden incline. “Any sudden jarring movement could result in this carriage sliding backwards,” he informed us all. “So we must have an evacuation procedure ready for when it is safe to leave. First... Is anyone hurt badly enough that they are going to need help?”

I was relieved to see that no one put up their hand.

“Good... Now, you and you...” he pointed at two young, apparently fit and unharmed men, “are going to be the first to evacuate. You can help everyone else climb out of the carriage.” Both men nodded their agreement. “You...” This was another youngish man. “Would you be willing to take care of this gentleman?” My friend indicated the elderly man I’d been talking to earlier.

“Yeah. I can do that, no sweat.”

The elderly man inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“Now...” Fascinated I watched as my friend detailed the evacuation order. It was almost as if he’d spent the entire trip planning what to do when we were struck by a volcanic outflow. I realised that I wasn’t to be one of the first to leave, but was pleased to note that I wasn’t one of the last either.

There was another groan and the carriage slipped again. I felt myself pushed backwards in my seat.

My friend laid the back of his hand on the door. “No. Still hot,” he grunted. “Is there anyone here with no footwear or shoes that are likely to fall off?”

A woman raised her hand. “I’m wearing Jandals.” She extended her leg, displaying the thin plastic-soled sandal, held on her foot by a thong that passed between her toes.

My friend thought quickly and then opened one of the end overhead compartments. In it he found a pillow. He ripped off the pillowcase, pulled a pocket knife from out of his pocket, and slit the ‘case into two diagonally. “Do you know how to tie a triangular bandage on a foot?”

“I do,” the woman’s friend said.

“Good. Leave her shoes on; she’ll need the protection against the hot ash. Use this,” my friend handed over the two pieces of the pillowcase, “to hold the shoes in place. It won’t last for long, but you should be able to get out of here without losing your flip-flops.”

All this time I’d been listening to this man in amazement. For someone so quiet and softly spoken he was now issuing instructions with an assurance and authority that had mesmerised the carriage. I began to wonder just what kind of “trouble-shooting” he did for a living.

“Take the cushions off the seats,” he was demanding and I removed the one that had formerly been his before attacking mine. “Pass up any spares.” He jammed them under the seat nearest to where he’d braced himself. “Right! You two come here.” The first two young men made their unsteady way to the front of the carriage. “I’m going to open the carriage door. I want you to pass me these cushions. I’m going to throw them onto the ground for you guys to stand on. Try not to stand on the ash or mud, it’ll still be hot. Okay?”

The two men, their eyes as wide as saucers, nodded.

The door to the carriage was yanked open. We were swamped by the choking smell of hot sulphur, and ash filled the train.

Looking through my cracked, grimy window I could see clouds of ash stirred up as the seat cushions were tossed onto the dusty ground. When a platform big enough to hold several people had been created, the first of the two young men jumped onto it. He stumbled on the uneven surface, managed to regain his balance, and then turned to help his associate. More cushions were passed down and a bigger, more uniform, ash-free area was created.

My friend approached the elderly man. “Your turn, Sir,” he said.

“Thank you,” the man replied, and stood with as much dignity as he could muster. Together my friend and the man’s appointed carer assisted him against the increasing slope to the exit. I watched as the two men outside, with as much care as was possible under the circumstances, assisted him to the relative safety of the cushions. His carer jumped down and my friend returned to the carriage.

“Right. Time for everyone to get out of here... You first...”

Time is a funny thing. It seemed an age between the initial explosion and when the shock waves hit us. Then the two minutes between the start of the pyroclastic flow and when it struck had seemed both interminable and immediate. Now, waiting for my chance to escape and well aware that our carriage was tipping backwards towards the ‘chasm’, time seemed to drag.

Finally it was my turn. I manoeuvred myself out of my seat, and clutching my cushion, began the climb up to the exit.

The carriage slipped.

I was prepared for such an occurrence, and after clinging on to a seat back for a moment to steady myself, prepared to continue my climb. But people behind me were getting impatient…

Maybe impatient’s the wrong word and I don’t want to appear unkind and unfeeling towards my fellow captives. There was certainly a lot of fear about and I don’t blame people from being desperate to get out to relative safety.

But they didn’t have to climb over me to get there.

I found myself sliding back down the incline towards what was now the bottom of the carriage. I tried to grab something, anything, to stop my decent; but I couldn’t get purchase, landing in a bruised heap at the bottom with my cushion on top of me.

Now I had the challenge of getting myself back up the ever steepening ascent. My problem was that my skirts had decided to hamper me. Not only was I finding a definite lack of mobility with the ankle length material, my skirt had hooked on something, trapping me.

They say that fear, combined with adrenaline, has the capacity to give a mere mortal superhuman strength.

Don’t you believe it.

I pulled and pulled at my skirt, willing it to rip free before the carriage fell or Ruapehu erupted again, but the modern, super-tough materials that I’d been so pleased with were living up to their manufacturer’s expectations and disappointing mine.

I could hear a terrifying roar coming towards me.

Terror gave me more urgency, but didn’t supply me with more strength. My brain was racing, but I wasn’t thinking coherently. I’d always imagined being cool, calm, and collected in a crisis, but it wasn’t happening.

Wikipedia describes a lahar as a type of mudflow or landslide composed of pyroclastic material and water that flows down from a volcano, typically along a river valley. I’d describe it as the roar of a thousand ravenous polar bears all converging on me with one thought on their minds. Though why a northern hemisphere carnivore should come to the mind of a southern hemisphere native at a moment of high stress (as opposed to a penguin or some similar South Polar creature) I have no idea; but then I don’t know that I would be terrified of a horde of ravenous penguins, and New Zealand doesn’t have any carnivores of any size designed to invoke terror into the hearts of humans, except for Haast’s Eagle, but that was extinct. Of course if you ventured out into the seas you could find all manner of human eating sized beasts, but I didn’t think they roared, even if they did live in water, a great muddy surge of which was presently roaring towards me like an aurora of polar bears ...

It’s strange how your mind works when you’re in a panic.

The lahar hit, knocking the carriage sideways and me onto all fours. The lahar dropped the carriage to the bottom of the chasm; which, fortunately, was much shallower than I’d feared. But now the creek bed was filled with litres of thick, roaring mud. Mud which broke through the train’s defences. I tried to scramble back to my feet as a runny-concrete-like liquid poured in through the cracked and broken windows and swirled around my lower extremities.

I couldn’t tear my skirts free, my legs were being swamped by thick porridgey ash, and I was trapped. I didn’t know what to do!

“Don’t panic,” a familiar voice said.

It was my friend.

I grabbed his arm. “My skirt’s caught on something! Help me!”

He prised my fingers loose from his sleeve. “Let me try,” he yelled over the roaring mud. Trying not to get sucked into the muddy deluge himself, he grabbed great handfuls of material and yanked. But no matter how hard he pulled, he had as much luck as I did. “Take off your skirt!”

Under normal circumstances I would have forcibly reminded him that no gentleman would ask a lady to perform such an action. Had it been a more romantic atmosphere his demand may have been looked on more favourably. But as at this moment I was looking death in the face...

If I’d had any doubts about this before, they were banished when I heard another roar outside.

Fear flooding my system I fumbled with my buttons and my skirt slipped free. My cotton petticoats, held together by a multitude of safety pins, were a different proposition. I tried undoing one, but was all fingers and thumbs. My friend solved the problem by ripping the waistband open and at last I was freed from all of the entrapping material.

Something ‘thunked’ against the side, or what a few hours ago would have been the roof of the carriage. The whole structure shook from the force of the blow, but by some miracle we didn’t topple into the swollen torrent. I’d thought that it wasn’t possible to be even more terrified, but I was proven wrong.

Desperate for help I made a grab at my friend and flung my arms around his neck. “It’s okay,” he soothed. “We’ll be out of here soon.”

I like to think that he gave me a little squeeze of affection and reassurance as he lifted me out of the sucking mud and placed me onto the back of one of the seats.

Despite the forces our carriage had to withstand, it was still standing tall with the locomotive end pointing up towards the sky. Our only hope was to exit through the door that our fellow travellers had used to escape earlier. We were lucky that our orientation meant that the rows of seats had become a kind of ladder.

I started to climb.

It wasn’t easy. The mud had sucked one of my shoes off, which gave me more purchase but meant that my stockinged foot came into contact with bruising, narrow, hard steel whenever I had to stand on a seat brace. I don’t have a lot of upper body strength, and by the time I’d reached the top of my makeshift ladder, my arms were trembling with the effort. It was only my fear of the churning mud below and the knowledge that my hero was following close behind that kept me going.

I reached the top and sat on a seat back, drawing my legs up and hugging them. “Now what?”

My answer came from an unexpected quarter. The door above us, the one that had provided access to the next carriage, was wrenched open. Then the sky was partially blocked by two heads. “International Rescue!” one head announced. “We’ll have you out of there shortly.”

I didn’t have time to digest this information before my hero was telling me to stand up.

I did as he instructed, standing on the relatively level back of seat 1B (aisle). “I don’t think I can reach,” I whimpered, knowing that all my strength had been sapped out of my arms.

I should have known better. A harness was lowered down and, acting as if he knew what he was doing, my hero helped me into it. “Take her away,” he called up to the two men.

A pair of arms reached down to me, guiding me through the narrow door and out into the hazy sunlight. As soon as I was able to stand on the train, my harness was unhooked by the fairer of our two rescuers.

“Get into the elevator car,” the dark rescuer instructed.

I was surprised to realise that, precariously balanced on the edge of the carriage, was what appeared to be a large box. Looking upwards I discovered that the box was connected by a thick cable to the underbelly of a monstrous number two. Still feeling vulnerable I didn’t stop to contemplate this new revelation. Preferring the relative security of the ‘elevator car’ I allowed the fair rescuer to assist me inside, before he returned to assist his associate. I huddled in the corner and waited for the three men.

Both rescuers lay down and reached through the door towards my hero as I watched, heart pounding, willing him to appear. When he was pulled clear a short time later, he looked muddy, but otherwise none the worse for his adventure.

If today hadn’t been surprising enough I was astonished to hear the dark rescuer say, “I thought this was supposed to be a vacation.”

My hero disconnected his harness. “Gotta keep in practise.”

At least that’s what I thought they said.

The fair rescuer indicated the elevator car. “Age before beauty,” he offered.

Without comment my hero accepted the offer. He crouched down beside me with a concerned expression on his face. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I think so.” I managed to give him a smile and struggled to my feet; drying mud cracking off my legs. “Well,” I added, and somehow managed a shaky laugh. “The trip certainly finished with a bang.”

He gave a quiet chuckle. “Here, wear this.” He slipped out of his jacket and held it open so I could put it on.

Grateful for the offer of warmth and the chance to regain some dignity, I accepted. “You do realise that I’m getting it dirty?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied. “I don’t need it back.”

He approached the barrier that had closed off the elevator car and watched as a huge magnet-like device disengaged itself from the roof of our train carriage. His eyes followed it upwards and, as it retracted into the aeroplane, he gave a small nod of what could have been satisfaction.

The fair rescuer smirked and my hero glared at him. The smirk disappeared.

I pretended that I hadn’t observed this silent interaction. Easy to do as the lahar finally claimed our carriage, sending it toppling into the churning torrent where it disappeared under a shroud of mud.

Feeling a chill wash over me, I plunged my hands into the jacket’s pockets and felt something there. I pulled out my hero’s flash drive. “You might want to keep this.”

“Thanks,” he said as he accepted it. “At least I’ll have something to help me remember today.”

That was the moment when I knew I’d never see him again.

I was saddened by the realisation. I’d enjoyed his company and had thought that we’d become friends in the brief time that we’d known each other. But I was beginning to understand why he had to make this break. Besides, if he’d been willing to risk sacrificing his life to try to save mine, then I was willing to make this sacrifice in return.

While I contemplated these thoughts and emotions, we were pulled into the body of the aeroplane ourselves.

“Let’s find you something a bit more practical to wear,” the dark rescuer suggested. He gave me some overalls made out of thin, white material.

I didn’t want to relinquish my hero’s jacket, but nevertheless offered it back to him after I’d put the new outfit on over my remaining stained and dirty clothes.

He shook his head and gave it back to me. “It’s a bit warmer than those coveralls.” Grateful, I put his jacket back on and wrapped it about me, feeling it tighten around my knees. There was something about this garment that gave me a feeling of security.

“We’ll be landing soon,” the dark rescuer announced. “If you’d care to sit here...” He indicated a seat.

Without an apparent need for instructions, my hero found a seat of his own and did up his safety harness. The other men followed suit.

There was the smallest of bumps when we landed. I noticed an equally small frown from my hero and an amused glance between our two rescuers.

I scratched at a spot of mud on my overalls.

Three harnesses were undone and the men stood. Another, dressed in the same blue uniform as the first two, bounded into the cabin. “Everyone okay...?” He grinned at my hero. “I like your pet caterpillar. Is he going to be a permanent fixture?”

He received twin glares from my hero and the dark rescuer, while the fair one tried to hide yet another smirk.

I did my I haven’t seen anything suspicious act.

Our pilot (I assumed he’d been the pilot), seemed unaware that he’d done anything wrong. “There are a couple of the local rescue guys waiting outside.”

“I guess we’d better go and see them then,” my hero suggested. He held out his arm to me. “May I escort you, Ma’am?”

“It would be a pleasure, Sir.”

Leaving the other two in the aeroplane, our dark haired rescuer led us over to where some people, all wearing neon yellow Civil Defence jerkins, were waiting.

I was the first to report in. As I gave the Civil Defence warden my personal details I could hear my hero and our rescuer whispering behind us.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Sign in, let them know that I’m all right and then join you guys. You’re going to need my help.”

“Are you sure you won’t blow your cover?”

“Relax. I booked in under an alias and I’m in disguise.”

“I know.” There was a chuckle. “I would never have recognised you.”

“Yeah, right.”

I stepped back and my hero moved in to take my place. I walked away, not wanting to appear nosey, but unsure what to do and who to talk to. A Civil Defence warden offered to take me over to our transport; a four-wheel drive of the sort that looked like it was actually designed to work off road. I guessed that my chance to say goodbye was gone.

The warden indicated my hero. “Friend of yours?”

“No,” I replied. “I only met him today. He saved my life and I’ve never even asked him his name.”

“You can ask him on the drive into town,” the warden suggested. He looked up at the gigantic green aeroplane before us. “You’ve got to hand it to those International Rescue blokes; they must have some of the fastest planes in the world. They were on the scene so quick that I would almost think that they’d known you were in trouble before we did.”

I didn’t tell him that I would almost guarantee it, or that I thought I knew how they’d found out.

“Hello?” The warden frowned. “That’s odd...”

What the Civil Defence man found odd was that rather than walking towards our vehicle, my hero was walking beside our rescuer towards the giant aeroplane. I watched him go; my feelings a mixture of gratitude and sadness. Then, to my surprise, he stopped and turned.

He looked right at me, smiled, and laid his finger on the side of his nose.

I gave him a smile of my own in reply, nodded, and laid my finger on my lips.

Bowing, he pretended to doff his long since lost hat.

In return I curtseyed and blew him a kiss.

Then he was gone. Thunderbird Two lifted off into the air to rescue goodness knows how many other people.

I’m sure you have followed the news as avidly as most of New Zealand, if not the world. I’m sure you’ve heard that an agent of International Rescue was suspected of being on the commemorative train that had been hit by the pyroclastic flow from Mount Ruapehu, and that that person was instrumental in saving many lives.

After some digging, reporters discovered that I was the last person rescued by this mystery man; and that, even more exciting from their point of view, I had been seated beside him for much of the trip. I kept a low profile as much as possible. And when they did find me, my post traumatic shock was so acute that it had wiped all memories of that day. After a while, realising that I was unable to offer them any more information, they gave up and left me alone.

But the media did find one thing of interest. Apparently the seat next mine had been booked by someone by the name of Bob Holmes. I wasn’t surprised. It made sense to me that my hero would have wanted to share his name with the man who had designed the remarkable Raurimu Spiral.

But as I said, I never asked him his real name...

And even if I knew it, I wouldn’t tell you.