For 42 years, Bruce Masson has looked after a large tract of some of Dunedin's wilder and more remote countryside. The man in charge of the source and catchment of Dunedin's water supply told David Loughrey of adventures in rivers, pipes and snow.
The farthest Bruce Masson has had to crawl into a 76cm underground water pipe to deal with a leak is 6.5km.
While the water that usually flows to the pipes from Deep Stream and Deep Creek, west of Clarks Junction, was turned off during these claustrophobia-inducing crawls, Mr Masson says sometimes "you just had your head out of the water when you're doing the repairs''.
If that seems terrifying, he says: "It is, especially if you hear an eel slapping around.''
The Dunedin City Council water headworks operator said he got used to that aspect of his role looking after the source of Dunedin's water supply.
"Once you went in, you kept your mind on the job, I guess.''
But not everybody could stay calm in that situation.
He remembers one man who, once inside, felt unable to turn around to get out of the pipe.
"I thought, 'This is a bit serious', 'cause there was only one way out where we were.'
"I said, 'If you don't turn over mate, there's going to be trouble'.
"You had to relax and let your shoulders drop, and semi-roll as you were doing the turn.
"If you were tense you couldn't do it.
"There were others who wouldn't go in. They got to the hole and then that was it - wouldn't go into the pipe.''
Those experiences of the most oppressive confinement neatly juxtapose with the open vastness of the rest of the environment in which Mr Masson works.
He is in charge of council-owned land that includes two dams which send water to the city, and the catchment around them.
And the job is not without benefits.
One of those was the freedom he experienced in the treeless tussock-covered rock-strewn country inland from the Taieri.
"Probably the freedom to think for yourself,'' he said of the good things about being water headworks operator - "achieving a goal. Out here you've got to set yourself goals.''
That attitude came for the Mosgiel-born man after some hard early lessons when he arrived in 1973.
After stints at freezing works and abattoirs in Bluff and Burnside, and work as an engineer and mechanic in Nelson and Dunedin, Mr Masson found himself in his mid-20s working as an overseer at Mosgiel Woollens.
"They [the company] didn't look good, so I applied for this job, which was quite a shock.
"When I arrived here the house was very dingy and dark and I never realised how cold it was ... a very lonely place, especially for families.
"I guess you lose your children very young, because they go to college.
"The Deep Stream pipeline was in the process of being built - I was looking after Deep Creek only - so I had a lot of time on my hands and I really got into the drinking, which isn't hard out here, and I had some very willing neighbours.
"I quickly realised that this wasn't the way to go, so I started to work a lot harder, and put my energies into other things.''
That was not the only lesson to be learnt.
Looking after the intake meant every time it rained he had to respond, making his way through rain or snow, at any time of day or night, to clean the dam's screens.
That meant fording Deep Stream to get there, something that one night about 25 years ago almost had fatal results.
Mr Masson headed to the dam in a Land Cruiser at 1.30am.
"When I came back one and a-half hours later, you couldn't see how much the river had risen.
"It was quite high.
"It got up to the bonnet, and I went to put it into reverse and nothing happened.
"I couldn't hear a thing, the lights dulled out, and I felt myself bumping along, hitting things.''
In almost absolute darkness he was just able to make out a willow tree his vehicle had floated into, and managed to drag himself out of the SUV to safety.
"I don't know how I got out, but I let out an awful scream.
"I was very lucky.''
"I became much more circumspect about the river.''
When the river was not conspiring against an easy existence, the hard winters that often left Mr Masson, his first wife and four children cut off without electricity for days on end were doing their bit.
"It's been a fairly hard lifestyle, more from the family perspective.
"In the winters you ask yourself why you're still here.
"It's very hard to get motivated when it's -10degC or -12degC outside.
It was hard at times not to become reclusive.
"You find yourself crossing the road to avoid people when you went to town; it's pretty horrible.
"You don't always like your own company either.''
But Mr Masson has stayed and thrived at Deep Stream, "possibly because I like the area''.
"I basically love the outdoors.''
The location meant he could enjoy fishing and shooting, the latter in his role as pest controller.
It's another story, but Mr Masson is also keen on photography and filming, and has created two fishing programmes that were broadcast on television about 15 years ago, Back Country Fly Fishing and New Zealand Trophy Waters.
Filming was where he met his second wife of 11 years, Virginia Duncum, "a very keen angler, she's also a crack shot with a rifle''.
Since Deep Stream was commissioned in 1977, and the council bought surrounding properties to protect the catchment, Mr Masson has had a large area of land to look after.
There is a 28km stretch of river bank to spray for weeds, on foot with a backpack of chemicals ("we're pretty careful with sprays we use'') and many hectares to keep clear of gorse, broom and pests.
"We've put a big effort into maintaining that, and it's virtually gorse and broom-free.
"She's pretty rugged [country], but it's well worthwhile, and we're on top of it now.
"I feel pretty gratified that we're winning.''
Machinery to clear dams of rubble during storms can be activated using a tiny computer screen rather than a large pole to manually turn a huge wheel.
But the track to the Deep Stream dam is of the sort that would terrify those prone to vertigo, and Deep Creek still requires a trek on foot through summer heat or winter snow.
With his 70th birthday coming up, Mr Masson is thinking about retirement but has no plans to leave the home he bought from the council 25 years ago.
"I don't see it [retirement] as too far off.
"We'll stay here until we find it too difficult for health reasons, or whatever,'' he said.
And for a man who weathered the storms of isolation in an unforgiving landscape, it is perhaps no surprise his happiest memory of his role was a time of collegiality.
It was the late 1980s, when there were big projects in the catchment, when teams would meet in Mosgiel to discuss what had to be done.
Council staff member Rob Cockburn (since deceased) led the team and "really galvanised our group''.
"We did some really huge jobs: we would sit down and have a chat about it, and he would make the final decision.
"It was a team.
"We all knew what we had to do, and we got to it and did it.
"That was what I really enjoyed abut the job.''
