As the last traces of dusk slip over the Southern Alps, five DXs lift a short 18 wagon coal train away from Otira's top yard with less drama than usual. Sitting in a deep valley, the megatropilopolis of Otira is comprised of this quaint old 1920s wooden station, an even quainter and more dilapidated pub, a sprinkling of houses, a generous sprinkling of bad weather, and no cellphone coverage when I was there last. Not a bad place for a railfan to get away from it all really.
