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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 9, Issue 1 (April 2, 1934.)

Pictures of New Zealand Life

page 41

Pictures of New Zealand Life

The Pathfinder.

It is a good, descriptive adventurous word, pathfinder, a title that takes one back to the romantic pages of Fenimore Cooper. We have had many splendid pioneers of wild New Zealand, but none better deserved to be termed pathfinder and discoverer than the late Sir Arthur Dudley Dobson, of Christ-church, whose useful life ended at over ninety. He was the frontiersman at his best, and the story of his life, which was told in the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” a few years ago, is in its way an inspiration to the young man to be up and doing. Dob-son was only twenty-two when he struct out as a leader of men, to survey the great unknown coast of West-land, meeting with many perils by sea and shore, but cheerfully conquering them all, and crowning his first professional undertaking by discovering the now famous Otira Gorge route across the Southern Alps. The name of Arthur's Pass imperishably commemorates his successful effort to search out a practicable route between east and west.

Sir Arthur Dudley Dobson was one of those men who preserve to the last the cheery and enthusiastic manner, the heart of a boy. He began a self-reliant career early, he was still actively interested in his profession at ninety. He knew the real New Zealand as few know it, he loved the ancient mountains and the fragrant glories of the bush; he was an intimate of Nature, a man full of camplore, wise in all the ways of the snow country, the dangerous rivers, the forest where one had to rely in emergency on the wilds for food. In his profession he was highly skilled. He knew many of the notable scientific men of three generations ago. No New Zealand pioneer did more to make the country fit for traffic and settlement. He played his part well, in his own way, on the New Zealand stage of life, in the great story that we may call the “The Breaking-in.”

Ploughman's Perils.

I had just been reading Sheila Kaye-Smith's latest novel of English country life, “Ploughman's Progress.” Co-incidentally, there comes to me from a friend in the Waikato a note on a relative's pioneering adventures on the Old Frontier, a very different kind of life from rural England's. The old-timer with whom he talked on the subject was a hardy lad of eighty-two, who had just straightened up from a game of bowls. In his young days on the land he was an expert ploughman.

The veteran, then a youngster of barely twenty-one, had taken a contract to plough an area of unbroken land on Grice and Walker's estate at Roto-o-Rangi and Puahue and on towards the Maunga-tautari ranges. Part of this large stock run lay on the Maori side of the Confiscation boundary and was held on leasehold from some of the Maori owners. One day he drove his team afield, to begin his ploughing, when a party of armed natives suddenly appeared from the fern and manuka. They pointed their guns at him; they ordered him to go back. “This is our land,” they told him; “off with you or you will be killed.”

The young ploughman did not argue the point. He turned his team about, and presently reported to the manager of the station. The Maoris, or their leader, had a legitimate grievance; all the owners of the property had not been included or consulted in the deal. The warnings were repeated. Our ploughman did not return to the attack on the disputed soil; but other station hands were sent out on various jobs across the frontier line; and at last the Maoris struck. They shot and tomahawked one Timothy Sullivan, chopped off his head and cut out his heart, and carried those trophies through the King Country like a fiery cross.

It was a fearfully anxious time on the frontier farms. All thought it was the prelude to another war. Settlers and all were armed; but happily it did not go beyond military preparations; in a few months all was quiet again. That was in 1873. “Ah,” said the old-timer, “the farmer on the outskirts had something more to worry about then than a drop in the prices of his produce. His head didn't always feel quite secure on his shoulders.”

Our Mountains, Hot and Cold.

One of the attractive things about our volcanic peaks in the Tongariro National Park is the knowledge that changes are always possible there, that dramatic happenings may come along at any moment. That feeling should not make people nervous; on the contrary, such a place as Ngauruhoe crater should be regarded as a great safety yent, and a periodical little blowout or blow-off is in the nature of relief to a volcano's pent-up inner self. A good head of steam issuing from the great crater or from such a hot shop as Ketetahi is really something to welcome.

The Red Crater, on Tongariro Mountain, has had trouble lately with its pipes, and according to a report from a party of climbers, has coughed out a mass of rocky obstruction, and has altered its contour and surroundings somewhat in the process. The Tongariro craters have always seemed to “Tangiwai” the most interesting spots in the National Park region. Most of them are dead, but the still steaming orifices are always places to watch for reminders of the fact that, in the words of the sailors' chantey, “There's fire down below.”

In the other mountainous direction, our Southern Alps, it was pleasing indeed to read Dr. Walter Williams recent eulogy of Aorangi's majesty and beauty. Dr. Williams, of Missouri, President of the World's Press Congress, is a much-travelled man, and he places our Mt. Cook region ahead of Switzerland, the Andes and the American Rockies for mountain glory. We should think all the more of Aorangi for that compliment from a competent authority. Surely we may describe it now as the Peerless Peak of Alpland.