TRANSPORT TROUBLES.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 88, 15 April 1933, Page 1 (Supplement)

TRANSPORT TROUBLES.

PROBLEMS QF 1900.

THE SMALL STEAMER,

;<By M.E.S.).

"Tie Passing of the Small Steamers." The farmer read the paragraph casually enough, then glanced at the name of the boat. It would convey little enough to the casual reader—merely another derelict tufa sunk in the Straits—but the reading of it brought a throng of early memories to him, for in the early days of the century that small boat had been almost his only link with civilisation. When the coast farmers first took up their big sections, with hundreds of acres of virgin forest and no road access at all, they were entirely dependent, for the purchase of stores and the shipping of produce, upon these gallant little boats that ran so many risks of weather and tide, negotiated treacherous bars and braved innumerable westerly storms. It took hard work and hard cash to keep the larder filled on those coast farms 35 years ago; small wonder if the struggling farmer watched his stores anxiously during those long winter months. With potatoes and flour at a pound a bag, and sheep and wool at bedrock prices, life was a continual battle. Nor was it a question of money only. The stores had not only to be paid for —they must be transported as well. Those transport problems! To reach the nearest store the settler must ride, leading his pack horses, ten miles or so through bush tracks, crossing and recrossing treacherous streams; must then lea.ve his horses and take- a' boat for miles down a tidal river and acrbss the rough waters of the harbour. He was fortunate, indeed, if wind and weather allowed him to make the return journey in the day, fortunate if neither sea nor rain, careless pack horse nor slippery track, did damage to that precious load of stores. Sheep Transport. Nor was it for stores alone that the farmer was -dependent on those tiny boats. This was the only way to get the sheep and cattle that meant his livelihood. Glancing again at the paper in his hand, the man remembered the first trip he had made in the brave little ship that was now to be consigned to oblivion. He bad travelled with that first precious consignment of ewes, bought in the south for the farm he was carving from hill and forest and swamp. He had waited and toiled for those sheep. The first year had brought bitter disappointment, fcfr a wet season had prevented the burning of those first acres that liad cost so much to fell and grass. He bad not given up heart, but had felled another hundred acres next winter, leaving only enough capital to buy grass seed, and the sheep needed to graze the bum. He had not dared this time even to contemplate failure, and to-day his heart still beat a little faster as he remembered that hour of anxiety, that watching of leaden skies and waiting for wind. Would the 'burn go before the rain came? But it had gone, -and had even swept the ridges of last year's bush; he had sown it while yet the ashes were warm, and a splendid crop of soft turnips and grass had been his reward. And so in the late autumn he had gone south to buy the sheep he needed and to ship them north in this pitching, rolling, seaworthy little craft What an epic trip it had been!_ The sheep were duly bought and waiting at the port when a storm blew up; "No good. Can't risk the bar with sheep on board," the captain had told him. "The trouble is that we've got to keep the hold open to let 'em breath, and we may ship water." So the farmer had held them in the township for ten desperate days, grazing them on any little paddocks he could secure, upon any quarter-acre sections, upon the racecourse, and occasionally—and accidentally—in the night watches upon the gardens of the suffering citizens. They had lefi at last, travelled 24 hours through rain and storm, to bo beaten again, turned hack from the northern bar. Once more the hungry sheep had streamed out along the narrow port street in search of grass, and once more the householders had rushed to shut gates and to protect their precious vegetables and their choicest flowers. Another three days of anxiety had followed, made all the worse, it seemed to the young farmer, by the horrid persistence of a nagging tooth that kept him awake at night, and added to his miseries by day. The Doctor's Share. At last the wind dropped, the sheep Were hustled aboard, and the run north was quickly and safely accomplished. Arrived at port, the next trouble was' to transport the stock across the harbour in pontoons and up the tidal river that bounded his farm. To him, a stranger in the district, the problem of arousing the Maori launch-owners to take the situation seriously, and rise at six, so as to catch the morning tide on» the river, seemed insoluble —and always that aching tooth made the situation more unhappy. And then the local doctor had come amazingly to his aid. At the time he did not know that this rough-voiced, gentle-handed man superintended all the enterprises of the town, from wharflumping to choir-singing —nor did his language vary noticeably in either capacity. Very gratefully did he agree»"to leave it all to the doctor"—nor had he any reason to regret it. The burly G.P. went the rounds of the township at 5 a.m., woke the launchmen's wives, swore at their tardiness, the keeper of the boardinghouse at which the farmer was staying, lit the fire himself, and at 5.45 burst unceremoniously into the stranger's room with the words: "We'll catch the tide yet —hullo, what's wrong with your face?" An Admirable Crichton. As soon as the sufferer confessed to toothache he was whirled to the kitchen sink, the tooth extracted, the mouth rinsed, and a comforting cup of tea presented within the space of five crowded minutes. At last they had shoved off from the launch, three launches towing three crowded pontoons, and his last memory of the doctor was a triumphant shout: "Punctual to the minute. You re right now." And right they had been, nosing their way cautiously up the river to the last bend, where he caught sight of that hillside of dazzling green that meant his farm—reward of those years of toil, precious fruit of his labours. He had 6tood watching the sheep stream off the pontoon, his heart swelling with pride at the sight of his first stock. "Stock. . . ." The farmer started from his reverie and his eyes wandered hack from that same green hillside, now showing years of careful cultivation, tt> the paper in his hand. He smiled grimly as he read, "Prices of sheep lower than ever." If youth but knew —but no. Far better the" high hopes, the gallant endeavour.