Ken Nolan — a Coaster who knew how to live well

Press, 21 February 1978, Page 17

Ken Nolan — a Coaster who knew how to live well

It was New Year’s Eve on the West Coast, and the sky had fallen on Okarito. The noise of the rain on the unlined iron roof was deafening as I produced the first four bottles from what had been the wood cupboard until the day before.

The stocky, red-faced man across the table rose without a word and lunged through the doorway, out into the downpour. “We’ve got plenty,” 1 called after him. There was no immediate reply. Then he was back, much dampened, bristling with bottles, and laughing. “Rip it into you,” he chortled. That was Ken Nolan. The New Year’s Eve in question passed into history 10 years ago and now, alas, Ken Nolan has, too. He died in the recent holidays when a car in

which he was a passenger rolled off the road just south of Whataroa.

With his passing the Coast lost one of its genuine characters — a broad, jovial fellow who made you think Christmas lasted all year round. He lived only 47 years, but he probably got more out of life in that time than most people would in a century. There are 18 people scattered around the country who would agree with that assertion unhesitatingly. They were travelling, io ones, twos and threes, towards Franz Josef one New Year’s Eve. Obediently, they turned off the main road when they encountered a detour sign at the Forks, a popular hostelry whose importance could be gauged by the fact that the road des-

■ribed a 90-degree turn round its walls.

Those 18 people finished up in Okarito, which is a dead end in South Westland. That was Ken’s doing. He erected the detour sign because he and the other inhabitants of the remote ghost town wanted company for their party and to swell the chorus for Auld Lang Syne. The population of Okarito (Oak-a-ritter, according to Ken) was four in those days. Thre was Jim Carruthers, who was dubbed “the mayor,” Ken, “the sherriff,” and Mr and Mrs Black, “the citizens.” Ken had an imposing address — No. 1 The Strand — and here he sat in a large black leather chair, reflecting on the sunny side of life.

“I’m often asked «’hy ’ don’t start a hotel or motel here,” he sa.u uncu. “My answer is' the sandflies would kill the kids.” “Are you affected by sandflies? " we asked him. “No, I’m immune,” he laughed. “But they like a bit of new blood, you know.”

Ken variously busied himself with farming, black-sanding, and tending to the needs of the white herons and Royal spoonbills in the Waitangiroto creek, nine miles to the north. He was part-time ranger for the colony for 22 years. “I get $4B from the Government for four months a year as ranger,” he said on that rainy night 10 years ago. "Yes, I’ve had that for 15 years, and that’s a record.” Then his eyes twinkled: “I can’t

get any more because the Government’s broke.”

Ken was not particularly enamoured of the graceful white herons — he called them "the scavengers” and was emphatic that they were in no danger from logging operations in the area.

He made the trip to the kotuku twice a week and always started by rowing across the lagoon to the spit, where his faithful horses were quartered. “Faithful” was an adjective not used idly where Ken’s horses were concerned, for on several occasions they bore him home along the six miles of dust}’ road from the Forks hotel to Okarito when he had ceased to take much interest in proceedings. Once when he was due to escort the author Temple Sutherland to the heron colony, one of his horses brought his somnolent person into The Strand at 7 a.m. An hour later Ken. revived by an hour’s slumber, whistled up his reliable horse and started the trip. Ken leased a strip of Crown land on the spit, and reckoned it was just about the toughest area to farm on the Coast. He could never be described as a keen student of modem farming techniques,

Stories bv

JOHN BROOKS

Photographs by

and his cattle and sheep had to possess good sidesteps to dodge the clumps of gorse. But he always cracked hardy. “I make a quid, you know,” he would say. “I’m not here for shirt buttons.” There was another way in which Ken made a “quid” — black-sanding. He was an expert at winkling out the precious specks of gold along the beach whenever he needed a “hundred or two” for provisions or a few beers.

Ken’s keen eyes could quickly select the most potentially lucrative area on the beach after a storm or a big tide had washed away the top layers of sand to reveal the distinctive black sand of the South Westland beaches. The Five Mile, which, as might be guessed, was five miles south of Okarito, was the richest area of beach mining on the Coast in the roaring 1860 s.

His tools of trade for black-sanding were a wooden cradle, a baby’s bath-tub, and a shovel which, in its off-hours, was imbedded in a tin of cow manure to retain its tarnish. Ken could get a "colour” for a favoured visitor in short time in his sheltered working area between the dunes and the flax.

ROSS BAIN

His best yield, — and that was more than a decade ago — was in three hours. He would have dined well that week. “There’s as much gold now On the West Coast as there ever was •— only its harder to find.”

In spite of his farming, black-sanding, white-bait-ing and heron-minding, Ken always had time to exchange a little banter with a visitor. In fact, he seemed to have a lot of time. Jim Carruthers was once asked what he did in Okarito after retiring to the ghost town in his midthirties. “Nothing,” he replied bluntly. “But.” he added, “I reckon I do more than Ken.”

Jim was 10 years older then Ken, and Ken was 10 years older than Graham Peate, a young man who was bravely attempting to make a living as a fulltime gold prospector along the bush-lined creeks at the back of Okarito. They were bachelors three. "All the best girls are gone,” Jim said sadly.

One of 13 brothers and sisters from a well-known South Westland family, Ken Nolan sat down that New Year’s Eve 10 years ago and worked out how many nephews and nieces he had. The count was then 58. "You know,” he

confided, “I don’t know the names of a lot of them."

Ken always had a kingsized thirst, and he was naturally dismayed when Okarito’s last hotel, the Royal, was razed in 1957. From that time until a few years ago, the Forks was the nearest oasis. Then that establishment lost its licence and Ken had to move even further afield, to Whataroa, to get a drink.

“I’ve never smoked,” he used to say with a grin. “It allows more money for beer.”

Things had a habit of burning down in Okarito. Plenty of business establishments had a fiery end in the old days, and the trend continued when the Royal went out with a glorious blaze 20 years ago last June. Later the old dance hall and Ken’s house burned down on the same evening, and Ken barely escaped with his life by diving through a window.

He lived for some time in a caravan with a tent attached before his new house was built. All through his time at Okariot Ken Nolan tended for himself, although once he toyed with the idea of hiring a cook. On a visit to Hokitika he arranged for an old woman to enter his employment. “But,” he said, eyeing her grey hair, “you’ll have to get those locks tinted.”

The old woman was sufficiently impressed by the offer to obtain cooking hints from the proprietress of a Hokitika hotel. She was packed, ready for

the journey south, wht someone told her Ke could not have beet serious.

Ken was a convivial fellow, an amiable host, ami a kindly man with a special soft spot for animals and children. Visiting youngsters never went short of lemonade or sweets while their parents sampled a headier hospitality. He laughed at everything, except increases in the price of beer. Few people who met him did not envy him his seemingly carefree existence and his refreshing outlook. Now Ken is gone, and the harsh calls of the seabirds sound more mournful than before. But Okarito seems more securely on the map than at any time in the last 20 years, at least. Surfcasters seeking schnapper; kawhia and herring have their seaside baches; a motel has been built; and electricity has at last come to the tiny outpost. The ghost town seems to be assuming a new substance. Ken Nolan would have liked that.