Note: Dave, our landlord and new friend, sent me the following message a few days ago: “Hi Jessica, So far this January, we have had 274 mm of rainfall.” 40mm today. Last year at this time, we had had 37 mm, which is the average for January.”
So sorry I didn’t upload a post yesterday. I had written that we’d be offline for a bit due to necessary “bookkeeping tasks” tied to upcoming travel, but somehow I failed to hit publish. Nonetheless, we’re back today, hearts a bit heavier, to share a sobering story from New Zealand’s North Island. Relentless rain has soaked the land beyond its limits, triggering landslides that swept away homes and, tragically, claimed lives. Our thoughts are with those facing loss, uncertainty, and the long road toward recovery.
The North Island of New Zealand recently experienced rain so relentless that the land itself seemed to give way beneath its weight. What began as a stubborn grey sky, like an old bruise across the horizon, turned into days and days of torrential downpour. Rivers swelled beyond their banks. Roads vanished under brown torrents. And steep hillsides, soaked through to their foundations, finally surrendered in catastrophic landslides. The scenes unfolding across the island feel surreal, yet they are painfully real.
Somewhere between two and a half months’ worth of rainfall fell in just 12 hours in parts of the Bay of Plenty, where the earth, saturated and weary, could no longer cling to itself. Grass, trees, and soil loosened like pages from a well-thumbed book, tumbling down with a noise locals likened to moving thunder. At Mount Maunganui Beachside Holiday Park, a beloved campground perched at the foot of Mauao, “The Mount,” the hillside let loose. Tents and campervans were crushed, and in their wake, people went missing. There were moments, desperate and human, when rescuers and bystanders heard voices from beneath the rubble only to be forced back by unstable ground.
I find myself thinking about those voices, faint, hopeful calls for help carried on rain-muffled air, and what it must feel like to be trapped under earth and sky at once. To be held by the land and yet at its mercy is a strange, harrowing duality. New Zealanders call these slips… slips, a modest term for something that can rip homes from foundations and forever alter landscapes. But on this scale, with entire sections of hillside sliding into chaos, the term feels too gentle.
Two lives have already been lost, precious human stories cut short, and at least seven others are unaccounted for as emergency crews, dogs, heavy machinery, and helicopters comb the debris. One individual was swept away near Auckland when floodwaters surged without warning. These numbers, sparse though they may seem against the backdrop of an entire island in crisis, represent families, futures, and the profound fragility of everyday life.
And it hasn’t been confined to one place. “States of emergency” have now been declared across multiple regions, from Northland to the eastern Bay of Plenty and Waikato, a chorus of alerts that feels like a nation calling in its deepest breaths, waiting for the next sky-borne assault. Rivers have carved new channels through farmland; highways and bridges lie closed or unstable under the unyielding water. Thousands remain without power. Homes stand in ankle-deep, muddy pools, while, far from the floodplains, hills tremble with the threat of further slides.
Amid the fear and chaos, though, there are stories of compassion and courage. Communities have rallied to support rescue crews. Strangers shared food and shelter with those displaced. And first responders, exhausted but undaunted, work long into the night, searching for signs of life. The Prime Minister, Christopher Luxon, has pledged all possible government support, urging people to heed safety warnings and look out for one another with quiet resolve.
This is not just another storm on another island; it is a stark testament to how weather can reshape the texture of daily life in an instant. For those of us who travel, who study landscapes with awe and affection, it is a reminder of both the beauty and the ungovernable force of nature. Rain, which falls in gentle, life-giving showers one season, can turn into something ferocious, reshaping the world and leaving deep wounds in soil and soul alike.
As the North Island slowly begins to dry, to rebuild, to search and grieve, I’m left with the echo of rain pounding on the roof at night, a sound that once lulled me to sleep on summer nights now carries the weight of loss and the promise of renewal in its wake. And as always in Aotearoa, the Māori name for New Zealand, the land will remember, and slowly people will again walk these hillsides, footprints returning, inch by careful inch.
Although the landslide occurred far from where we are staying, living day to day in this very hilly landscape brings the reality uncomfortably close. Each morning, we look out at steep slopes softened by rain, their edges blurred and darkened, and we’re reminded how little separates beauty from danger. The land here is stunning, generous, and alive, but it is not passive. After days of relentless rain, every hillside feels watchful, heavy with possibility. It’s a quiet reminder of our vulnerability, of how temporary our sense of safety can be, and how deeply we depend on the land’s willingness to hold us.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, January 23, 2016:
