Nigel Williams doesn’t seek the spotlight. On a golden afternoon by the Tōtara River, before the trail opens, he sits with arms folded; a reluctant subject for a story about himself. Behind us, the farmhouse where his mother, Melva Dalkie, grew up stands quietly, a silent witness to the dramatic changes this land has seen. When his mother’s family lived here, the outlook was quite different: the Tōtara River linked to the Ōkari further north, and flooding was a constant threat. On at least two occasions, the family was forced to climb onto the roof as floodwaters surged through their home-a testament to both the river’s power and the resilience of those who called this place home. It is clear that both the land and its stories are deeply woven into Nigel’s life.

After his grandfather passed away, the family farm was eventually sold, a decision that still lingers as a regret among the older generation, who wish it could have remained in the family. Yet, Nigel is gradually making his way back to his roots. With his partner, Salu, he is building a future here, overlooking the same land that shaped generations before them, and in doing so, renewing the family’s enduring connection to this place.

For Nigel, the lessons began early. He left school at 15, and his father, a seasoned logger, made sure there was no time for idle hands. Alongside his uncle, Nigel learned the old-school ways of bush work: up Madman’s Valley and the Four Mile, days were long, wet, and dangerous. He remembers the day a massive washout blocked their path. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to hope that this might mean a rare break from work. But there was no such luck, his father and uncle simply grabbed picks and shovels, carved a way through, and the workday carried on. The men of this family led by example, a quality that’s clearly reflected in Nigel’s own work ethic.

As the era of native logging drew to a close, government policy in 2000 brought a complete halt to native timber milling on the West Coast, forcing workers like Nigel to find new paths. The government’s $120 million transition fund and the creation of Development West Coast offered some support but did little to assist those at the coalface. For many, it was simply a case of “time to move on.”

Nigel’s love for heavy machinery was already taking root. He spent time logging in Nelson; his saws, built for the mighty rimu, were now overkill for the smaller pine trees. He rose quickly through the ranks, his understanding of land and timber running deep. Years of physical toil took their toll, so he took a job at Stockton for Kaipara, where he was “the best-paid broom pusher in the country.” But the call of the digger was strong, and after more mining experience, he was snapped up for the construction of the Old Ghost Road and Paparoa trails. These projects demanded constant problem-solving, something Nigel relished.
Compared to those epic builds, the Kawatiri Coastal Trail might seem straightforward, but the land had other ideas. Some sections, especially through the Tōtara, held unexpected challenges. When planners decided on a route, Nigel would quietly point out what the land would and wouldn’t allow. “The land dictates the route, not the people,” he says. Adapting to water flow and shifting ground required the expertise and ingenuity of this experienced team, qualities that have enabled them to forge walking and cycling trails through places once thought impassable.

Working through the first section of the Tōtara with his cousin Ross was a deeply meaningful time for Nigel, as they shared both the construction work and the stories that connected them to the place. Together, they shaped previously unknown terrain, strengthening their bond through a shared generational connection to the area.. Nigel often reflects that completing the journey down to what was once the family farm together would have been a special milestone. For Nigel and Ross, the Tōtara is far more than just a place; it is a living link to their family history and the strong connection they both feel to this land.

Ross remembers those days fondly:
“Nigel is very humble, has a ton of patience, and is an absolute wealth of knowledge and experience. I used to say to him all the time: ‘You’re a real piece of work, mate.’ He would ask why, and I would respond with: ‘Because you make everything look so easy when it’s not, it’s bloody annoying.’ I cherished my time spent with him as I learned so much and will be forever grateful. I wish I was still there working with him. He has a good sense of humour, and anyone that can put up with me like he did deserves a lot of praise.”

Nigel’s character cannot be captured in a single conversation. But it lingers in the trails he’s helped create: the careful lines, the thoughtful design, the way each path seems to belong to the land as much as to the people who walk it. The culmination of the trail construction evokes a mix of emotions: a profound sense of accomplishment intertwined with the sadness of the skilled team dispersing and the closing of a significant chapter. Yet, as these stunning landscapes become accessible to all, Nigel remains grateful. “I got to live it,” he reflects simply.