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New Zealand Journey

Margaret Macpherson

New Zealand Journey
VII.

Please get out your thick woollen undies. Don your heavy sweater and your furlined coat. We are going up into the King Country. As a matter of fact, the King Country is gloriously warm in the summer, but in the winter (which is the season in which I saw it) it is cold.

“Bracing,” say the inhabitants, sturdily. But bleak as it was, I could not help seeing that Ohakune was beautiful. I stayed at the King's Court Hotel there, and the view from my window was something one never forgets. There, the hills compete with each other for height, grandeur and beauty. The closer hills are bush-clad in a hundred different greens; the further ones are blue with shadowy snow, but the topmost ones are gleaming white, glinting crystalline and opalescent in the sun

Thirty years ago Ohakune was a dense primeval forest. When the Main Trunk Railway line was put through it, it suddenly became a commercial proposition—a vast source of wealth. The tall trees which had been for centuries the home of bellbird and tui, were now seen as material for the homes of men. Sawmills were quickly established all along the line, hundreds of men were employed, wages were good, and a happy and prosperous colony of men and women took charge of the lonely forest clearing.

The forest giants issued their challenge to the axeman, and he valiantly responded. In a few short years the landscape became plentifully dotted with spirals of steam-exhaust from the busy mills. Where all had been silence for thousands of years, now all was noise—the whistle of the saw as it slid quickly and easily through soft wood, the harsh scream it gives when it rips its way through harder timber, the short sharp bark of the log-hauler as it dragged its burden from its ancient bed, and, above all, the deep-voiced singing of the men at work.

But now the steam spirals are gone, leaving a certain desolation in the landscape. The mill was a remorseless foe to beauty, and it left the country littered with stumps and small trees usually battered and ragged looking, depressing beyond words. But some courageous and far-seeing souls have already started to tidy up the debris. What was formerly forest is now emerging as beautiful dairying land. Root crops grow to perfection in the ash which remains from the fire which the farmers put through the gutted bush. When the rest of the North Island was stricken by drought and most root crops had failed at the beginning of this year, little Ohakune sent 1,490 tons of greens and potatoes to the various markets. Ohakune is gradually becoming famous as potato land. Ten tons to the acre is not exceptional, and a crop of seventeen tons to the acre is authentically recorded. Whilst there, I was told of one man who made £100 an acre (gross) from peas during a good year. So, you see, though the forest is done, forest land is not. The King Country has still a great future ahead of it.

And now I must introduce you to my friend, Mr. Johnnie Murdie, who drove me all over this district. Johnnie is a small farmer with a large intellect, and a dry sense of humour. He took me to the place on the railway where the line going South joined the line coming North long ago.

“Sir Joseph Ward drove a gold spike to commemorate the half-way mark,” he told me. “There's still a sort of memorial stone with the spike embedded in concrete in memory of the great day.”

“I wonder you don't go and remove it,” I said.”

“Two reasons why I don't,” said Johnnie quizzically, “First, it isn't real gold; I tried it. Second, you can't get it out; it's too firmly set in the concrete.”

“You tried that, too, eh?”

“Look at that hillock,” said Johnnie, disregarding my question. “That is one of the highest points on the New Zealand railway; it is 2,457 feet above sea-level. It is called Horopito.”

We came to a viaduct built at a dizzy height above a wooded gorge.

“This bridge,” said Johnnie, “is more than 200 feet above the ground, and if you drop a hammer off the bridge it takes you a whole hour to climb down and fetch it.”

“Why a hammer? Why not a stone ? Does a hammer fall slower than a stone?”

Johnnie grinned. “I mention hammers because that's what we used to drop when we were building it. I was one of the carpenters. When we got sick of the bridge we used to take an excursion into the gorge, after dropped hammers.”

The day we went to National Park, Johnnie lost his best cap and borrowed page 33 his sister's scarlet knitted tam-o'-shanter. He looked exactly like an executioner of the French Revolution. We had tea at the Chateau Tongariro. Johnnie, wearing the blood-thirsty headgear over one eye, was loath to enter the Chateau. When I insisted, he said, “Well, you can pretend I'm the chauffeur. I can't go about as your friend in this hat.”

“If you imagine for an instant that I would have such a disreputable, villainous-looking man for my chauffeur, you're mistaken,” I said. “But as a friend of mine you're quite de rigueur.

So in we went. Mr. and Mrs Cobbe, hosts at the Chateau, received us kindly and showed us all around. The lounge is particularly fine—a lofty, imposing room with plate glass windows larger than any I have ever seen. These windows frame the landscape—beautiful views of Tongariro, Ruapehu, and Ngauruhoe. The room is furnished fatly and voluptuously, and in the centre of it is a very good floor where the young visitors may dance o' nights.

Mrs. Cobbe took me upstairs to see some of their more sumptuous rooms, including the royal suite where Prince Henry stayed early in the year. The bedroom had two beds, a double and a single one. The carpets and hangings were of old rose, the furniture of beautifully figured walnut. The bathroom adjoined, a simple affair of white tiles and chromium plating.

We went to inspect the bridal suite, which I liked better. The two beds (one double, one single) were of silvery ash and sycamore; the furniture matched, the hangings were bright and cheerful. It was not so imposing as the royal suite, but it was considerably more pleasing.

Then, with Mr. Cobbe, we went to visit the ski-house and the cellars where people dry their clothes after coming in from the mountain. Everything necessary for mountain sports may be hired at the Chateau—skis and ski-sticks may be had for half-a-crown a day. Waterproof capes may be had for 1/6, so may boots. Strides are hired for 2/-, socks for 9d., gloves for 3d. If you go for a day or two it pays to hire them; but those who stay long usually take their own.

There are six guides attached to the Chateau; they will go with you and direct a mountain ascent for £1 a day; also they teach ski-ing. The chief guide is Carl Risberg, a Swede, a wonderful mountaineer and a delightful personality.

Mrs. Cobbe offered us afternoon tea which I accepted with joy. Johnnie Murdie hesitated.

“If we take their tea, we're the guests of the Government,” he growled, taking me aside.

“Uh-huh.”

“But I'm against the Government. I'm against the increase of the police force.”

“Well, you can't do anything about it till the election. If we eat two shillings-worth of their cakes, they'll have so much less to spend on the police.”

Johnnie sat down at the table.

“Pass those sandwiches,” he said firmly.

The next day Johnnie invited me to go with him to the local sheep-dog trials. Reader, you had better come with us. Put on your oldest tweeds, and bring your shooting-stick or a rug to sit on when you get tired. Ready? Off we go!

The sun sparkles with a sort of crackling brilliancy. The air is like iced champagne. The hills seem to have heaped themselves a little nearer to the town and the road is thronged with bronze-faced men. They are all going to the dogs.

Have you ever been present at sheep-dog trials? If you have not, you have still much to learn of what Kipling calls “the true first friend.” No dog is quite so wonderfully specialized in his intelligence as the sheep-dog. Another sort of dog will do wonders in the drawing-room or on the garden lawn. Command him to “beg” and he will beg your dear wee pup to be, or bid him “die” and he will die with great solemnity.

A sheep-dog is unique in that he can be controlled when he is half a mile away. At the trials we saw this done time and again.

On this green circle, which is outlined by upturned sods, stands the shepherd and his dog. Far away on yonder brown hill are three white specks—the sheep. Ready? Off!

“Whee-hee-oo!” whistles the shepherd, meaning “Go and fetch them!”

The dog bounds away, through fences, over hills, down gullies. Suddenly, on a rise, he stops, crouching, and gingerly slinks off to the right. He has seen the sheep. So as not to frighten them he makes a wide detour and works round behind them.

“Whee-hee-oo!” whistles the shepherd.

The dog drives them down towards us. He is trotting rather too quickly, and the sheep are stampeding.

“Whoo!” whistles the man, meaning “Stop.”

The dog stops. The sheep slow up; the dog walks forward sedately. The sheep come quietly over the hill, down the gully, through the gate. Now they see the man and run wildly to the right.

“Whee!” goes the whistle and the man points to the right. The dog trots quietly round and heads them off.

“Whoo!”

The dog stops, one foot in the air, alert, poised. Then very gently, very quietly, he drives them into the turfed ring. The man stands in the middle. The sheep go round as in a circus, the dog gently driving them and stopping like stone when they become frightened.

“Reverse!” calls the judge.

The dog turns and gently heads the sheep the other way, round and round. Ah, wonderful, wonderful… .

The spectators clap and cheer, But I cannot clap. I stand there wringing my hands, my eyes glazing. There's something about a dog that goes right to my heart.

“Whoo!” whistles the man, meaning “Stop.” But Rover does not stop. Not he! The sheep are in a panic. They scatter all over the face of the hill.

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“Split sheep,” writes the judge in his little book.

“Whee-hee-oo!” whistles the man, meaning “Fetch them here.” Rover turns and barks defiance at his master.

“Rover, you—–!” yells the man.

“Wait till I catch you!”

“—–—–—–!!”

Rover brings the sheep. His tail is a-quiver with merriment. He laughs aloud. The sheep run among the spectators. Rover flops down and fairly splits his sides at the joke.

“Time!” calls the judge.

“Damn!” says the man.

The training of a sheep dog is a labour of patience, tact, and discrimination. The well-trained dog does not bark and stampede the sheep, but moves about with precision and restraint. He will stop immediately upon command, sometimes with one foot in the air as he was about to step; but there he will stay, as if carved from stone, until his master's whistle releases him. Sometimes sheep, being headed, will turn upon the dog and stand at bay, and here is where the dog shows his admirable self-control. Crouching patiently, he backs the sheep, inch by inch, until they are in the required position. An ill-controlled dog, on the other hand, will lose his temper before an angry ewe. When confronted he will bark, snap or even bite. In judging the trials points are given for silence and for the master's command of the animal.

I had the pleasure of seeing a champion dog at work. If his owner could control his own right hand as he controls his wonderful dog he would be a master of any handicraft.

The two old mates chanced to meet in Auckland Domain and got talking about the old days. “I 'member the time,” said one, “when you could buy a prime leg o' mutton for a bob.” “Ah,” said the other, “and I mind the time when beer was threepence a pint and bacca sixpence a ounce. Not this here toasted bacca 'most everyone smokes now, of course.” “Not likely,” agreed his mate, “toasted's diff'rent to other bacca. I been smoking it this dozen years—and can you beat it?” “There's nothing to touch it!” declared the other with emphasis, “and mind you it couldn't do you no 'arm not if you smoked a pound of it a week. That's what toasting does!” This being carried unanimously the pair lit up and toddled off in quest of “'arf-a-'andle.” “Toasted” certainly has an irresistible appeal for smokers. Look at the demand for all five brands: Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold, and Desert Gold. Yes, and look at the imitations!—and avoid them!^*