FROM WELLINGTON TO TAUPO

Press, Volume LI, Issue 8726, 23 February 1894, Page 2

FROM WELLINGTON TO TAUPO

By Harry B. Vooel.

,r We«kly Press and Kefcrce."

There 19 no romance in the first part of the journey. There is some beauty, but you do not see it. It is pitched at you at the rate of miles per hour. So you givo up admiring and read and sleep and eat yourself to Hunterville. This is also mixed with two chances of train. Tho first is at Palrnerston North, the second is at Marton Junction. You feel sorry for Harton Junction—almost as sorry as you feel for yourself. It is a miserable, bleak, open spot, without tbe alga of a cottage or house. The train you leave is a big one, with a large engine and nice carriages, and plenty of light. Very important it is, because it ia going to Wauganui, which is a bigr town—at least, it says so. The train for Hunterville I* a horrid little thins; I do not believe there are more thau four wheels on the engine. The number of wheels is a great sign of importance, too. Then the carriages only have one out of every two lamps lie. aud they jolt; hence, you feel yon are only on a branch line and are utterly insignificant. But it is coming—Marten's future I mean. The little branch Hue to Hunterville is the beginning of the North Island Main Trunk Bailway. and in days to come —or years to come—or centuries to come the young snan of the city of Marton junction will do like the youug men of the town of Palmers ton North, which live on station platiotms and meet trains and people. Then will the glory of the line to Hunterville be great and the engine to Wanganui will only have four wheels. Borne was not completed in a day. nor is the journey from Wellington to Hunterville. You leave at C.30 a.«n and arrive at 9 p.m., which is three hours on the wrong side.

Therefore you arrive tn the dark and get up early to see the city. You also always intend making an early start. Early starts are splendid thing-;, bub like everything else of that deecuyciou, eomewhati rare. You must have a Cook's ticket and a guide to make an early start. I have never left Hunterville yet before t en, and I never went to bed the day before without arranging to be out of the place by six. Therefore Cook's tickets arc Rood. When you wake up and look out of your bedroom window you can see Hunterville —all of it. Also plenty of mud in winter, and dust in summer. There is one etreec with two attempts, one at each end cf k. There are also two stores and two publichouses, therefore also many chorchua ; ako a bridge and a railway station aud a Bank of New Zealand and a manager aud lots of overdrafts and no footpaths!. The vehicles are mostly horses which stand outside the publichouses. You do not often see Maoiis in HuntervHle, but occasionally, n» 'hey pass through on their way toinlauii f,,l <»ja from Tβ liouhou, a settlement »•*"■••• eight or niua miles further dowv ~n Y Raugitikei river. Of course there , H „, considerable amount of bush arouml ate place, and even in the middle of the town there are sections covered with great fallen logs. It looks lonely like tbe old bush on the hills because tlie green grass and open eky is eating into its heart and cutting out the silence and the shadow. It is doomed, all of It, and at a fuw miserable shillings per acre; and it seem^bknow. Ac last yon »ie off. Horribly late bocause you have forty miles before you aud at least a big thirty the nest day. * About half a mile off you cross the railway, and as it were say good-bye to the height of civilisation.

The road winds up a long gully ending in a sfceepish lull kuowa as Vinegar Hilh It is a well fanned, though somewhat narrow road, only it is not metalled. In summer it 13 good to travel upon, but in winter an almost impassable bop;. The soil is extremely clayey, and when damp is exactly like putty. Often the horse is floundering an to his belly. It dries wonderfully fast, which is the only good point. From the top of Vinegar Hill yon see the Rangitikei in its deep precipitous channel. At the bottom of the hill is a large flat many acres in extent.. It stretches from the river on the right-of-way to the hills on the left, and is eighty or one huudred feet above the level of the river, perhaps more. These flats are the strangest features of this part of the country. You go down a steep hill and find yourself on one of them. Then you cross a stream and climb up to find yourself on another. And there they are, these plateaus, each of them from one hundred to two hundred or three hundred feet above the level of the Rangttikei as level as pancakes and covered with heavy bush, chiefly Kali ika tea (white pine) and matai. In wet weather they become terribly muddy, in fact, far too boggy even to ride through. Nine miles about from Hunterville you come oat on the top of a long rise. The view from here is often splendid. On the extreme right i*a billy, heavily timbered country. "Winding down from thedietance is the KangitikeJ, making a sharp sweep to your right at your feet. On the lef b the Makohine joins It from out a deep wooded '' valley. Opposite, starting up from the junction o£ the two waters,, is a high level plateau, and far and far beyond one sees the grey, misty, curiosity of shape called Aorangi. Strange, fantastically formed and lonely it stands sentinel over miles and mile* of bush.

The road climbing up from the Makohine is somewhat steep and is cub out of the side of the cliff, up which it sidles. High up from the bridge—not a pistol shot away—you see the navvies at work making ugly cuttings and destroying the look of the old clilf where the railway is to run. At the top of the hill you find Oh'lugaito, a new township just bora in the middle of the bush. But you pass on after you have perhaps eaten At the accommodation house —an hotel is now opened. The road stays near the railway until at a spot known us Powhakarua they part; for the former climbs the great cliff, whilst the other has eaten its way through. At. length you reach the top, and away and away as far to the north—and to every quartet that has a north Iα it—you see bush. But you are yet on white man's soil, and the axe and the navvy near you still strike the discordant music of civilisation and progress and money. So you tide down the hill and at its very foot you step into the great Awarua block. And now for miles and miles you will travel through nothing but that one block, and then from block to block Until you are in the heart of JMaoridom.

A great Kahikatea flat comes right up to the boundary. Straight is the road and level and bogey. At the end there i* a

tiny fire acre clearing, which tells you what the worth of the land is. Miguifi* cent feed simply. But you do not stop, for the sun ia speeding and you have still a good twen ty-eeveu miles to go. After leaving; Manugatawheka—that is the clearing which some call the " Three-log where" clearing—you climb and keep alon« the side of the hill,?. The Kangitikel i< away below yon. You know that, but you cannot ace nor even hear him, for ho is down, down through densest bush hundreds of feet below you. But he is there : terribly there when you want to cross to tho other side. A bad river, and one that seldom lets a year slip» by without some victim. Deep, silent and swift 1 If you miss the ford or lose your footing (he great slimy papa cliffs laugh down at your poor efforts to cling to them. And tbe current drags you out aud then sweeps you back almost to where you might perhaps land. Bat you are sucked, out again, until at laatthe cliff* and the riv«r have grown tired and the funny-looking, white-faced, lifeless thing is pitched down the rapids and out Ton to the shingle, or poked, under ?orae sunken euajr. . About five miles beyond tfangatawheka through an opening In the bash you am see away and away aerobe far eastwards In the distance the Buahtne tower gloomy and sulleo-lUfe, and the black bosh comes sweeping down unbroken save in one large β-ajbt catted T»rarei,Lthat look* greeu and small because, it i» far off, an old country for New Zealand--eoiibtry., Scene* U»e wildest arid fivcett have taken place under the shadow, of sltese hills. Red, very red, has that land been dyt>o. Peace waa never known there, for it was the I great battle*around of the Maoris from I Heretaunga or Hastings on the Eaat, away to the coast on the West. Now not a solitary soul dwells in any part. Lonely and departed tbe winds and ihe trees piny melodies to the memories cf the dead chiefs and the days of blood and warrior*. It will seem strange to the old cliffe to bear the echo, the wills of the axe, and the cranh of the falling- timber instead of the shrill criut and the thunder of the war dance, and the bleating of sheep instead of the sob* of wounded and dying. Meanwhile they echo nothing and are

Belovf you,.for you are jusfeonn thon sand feet above ih*-river, on Vho opposite side there 1« a emuJf 'rtitt\«rtth'a cottage and woolshed ttaririiMKi m% ittyHi but strangely, vith, a lAigu jpktch of aroand them.

; The road cHmbe up two big gullies, and then comes ouc on to another large fiat, called vefy ilmßftr to Xhm Jota>g»t»wheka flat. , After thu>one you meet another aod jet another, until *t last ran diop down to the brldgv aeroas

the Hautupu River, whibli !rtn..jt About eleven tnllee farthec on you denly «cc m the dhtance toward Vft d ' nghc a great patch of open eoa£t*eS M nnd lovely. In a tiny way you r*»lf«f leriI eri Stanley must 1-nve tilt whenhea"L h °* reached the Ujht of the open ] and s} many miles yvu have ttoftinV b tt t big' busb, bush, and tho clear hllwSS* , . country ia a wskome change. %&*&■ leugth you reuch it you branch off 2. *♦ the road and make JourTay ow'S hills to Moawhango. ' w »»» ■ Tho road you have lofb wlnda »v until at last It m«ou the o»« frot jgS* at a spot someUve uuleafroin MoaVhan™ From the track to ecrSM'L 0, " grass land Is about seven »,it ea l v ||J B S* and uutil you know it, it ia very £ft Now you see tho eplendour at *k» country. Great rolling hill* *s green «« new billiard cloth. Here and m,L* patcheso/d«rk brown, wliera thef ern hit grown and is spreading. Never a «i?m»i handful of B ee(i has been S J n * Q n f£ you flud clover and English graven mlor le« 8 thickly from end to endTStSSeir enough, too, you have ouly to burn off fern andeow, and the grass grows andl takS? abaoluto posseaslon. It is a- p<535 delusion, fostered by a wise « n I ail-seeing Government Department, that the lands of the Maoris lie utterly ffi True, ye gods, a* to bush land, but 0 J th J opeiicountr> of Inland Patea the M aO r I have no less thun 00,000 sheep; shed too, and sheep yards, and good woSl Lavish, too, they are in their employment of labonr, and many a white man eau Maori money-and thrives. There are »« fences, and uo one has done anythbe £ improve the land. That is because 1? m Iwlougatoall of them, ana aono of X least no known piece of it-belongs (0 aif» one or any known one of them. * Thi-* produces excitement when feh* sheep are mustered at shearing tima They bring m the animals (kat to cut and dock and generally tend. Then they »« brought in again to be ehorn. "Each owner, of course, has his own ear-mark and has a representative who identides his sheep. The trouble is ft 3 to the lanZ Competition arises as to whose earrtnaVk a good lamb nhall bear. The careful obse£ ver will readily perceive what a fleld foV unlawfully acquiring other men* Drooertv tho nystem preseuts. It is merely thShat trick on a large scale; you take oneartlcl. and leave belnud a similar—only worae Moawhango Itself is old. It has been there for years and yenre, only it fa not one of Ihe really old original pahs or kaln* gae. The houses are mostly cuttaaee ar painted. Maoris live iv them, on either bank of the Moawhniigo river. There are three Btores, one on the western bank, the other on the eastern. There is an acoommodation house, which was an hotel antll it lost its license. That was through apoint of law which proved (hat there wttt was a license. Sucu are tho luyeteriea of the law!

There are fences in Moawhango or aronnd it, wire ones chiefly, with cereals growing on either aide of them. For ' twenty years have they cropped these fields, and yet they bear aad are dean There are ao very nice houses, save perhaps one. It is a mile away, and i» • really pretty well-built one-etorey bunnalow, with verandah, bow window, and three or four coats of paint and nine or ten rooms. There is a modern and fashionable fence around it, and tyro or - I three acres of land well planted and laid 1 out with grans and paths. It belonjii to an old Maori woninn who ovraa many thousand sheep and is well off,. Opposite there ia an old wharo and behind that when I was • there, an old tent. The bungalow in empty save for a splendid drawing-room suite, and always' has been. The tent contain* the old lad; when the whure does not. She was building a large wbarcruuanga when I wa« ' there last, half European nod half Maotl. The first thing It; will do will probably be to fall to pieces. Ie will not bo wantea until then. Then she will go back to the tent and the whare, which, will never fall te pieces. Ah least, this is what 1 thought until something happened which ton cause the new whare to be used after all, It happened because they decided the old ' wharo wanted moving.- The view wa« used up and a chauge was desired. JBesidee they found that they had bullft tht new whure so that tt stared right,. Into the chimney of the old one " aud thus bud no outlook. So when I returned I found they bad moved the old hut and hurt it. They had first hoisted it on to two small trees. These were to act as runners, as It were. Then they harnessed all tho bullocks' they could find aud a calf or two and they pulled. 16 went ''" — chimney first, and sot left behind; also several slabs oub.of tbe j y eide of the house and numoroue etndt. 11 The only thing that remained in slatu qua '*" wa* the sledge affair. Then there arose much talk, fcod wisdom flowed from many mouths from men aad women, nay, from babes and sucklings, even aa the water floweth in great torrents from the moun-

tain springs and enows. Then at length they built up the whare afresh upon the runnern, and spoke and shouted and whistled aud .joked, and prodded the calves and tho bullocki, so that they all advanced six feet. And then there arose the qaestioa of where it was to be taken to, and the women and men and tho babes

and the sucklings reconnoitred. Forth with a youtb, anxious to excel, seized upon the whip and stirred up the kloo, rq tli»fr they went, hut at an angle, and vent; forty feet. Tho whare went nix Incheebackwards, and dropped a slab or twowd broke budly. This, event caused uo aujßr, but more wiedoni—much more, and'tbe 4 w hare was refdjusfceU—or what rctafctned of it. But it went only a fow ytrde further, and then the experts, only tWO were not experts, one a dummy ana the other a fat old Maori, who looked witfl diadaiu upoa the whole affair, that the whare's health forbade furiper travelling. Some time during the »•** ten years they will have decided troeteef to pull it down and re-erect it or to muH a further effort to sledge it. Mew«uu<»t like a storm-tossed ehlp, it reefc* awaßi battered and broken and ehlmoO»atfa slabs and bits of rafters etd ituds bestrew its path and raw*, m journey it has taken. Wlthln> the tail weeds and grass seem to wear a triumpn ant smile and nod fanajtliarly to thapueing draughts—and you. They are Jfteweo at not havlnu been kUJad tbe toaw, that passed over them. They fcnoty tw« the root tbatU above them, and tbrt ; will shield aud protect them. Only beneath the runners we cr»«hed ana, WJ broken, and seem all sad and dying. And the new v< hare will stare at, the old and look erand because it hoWb *«*? people, and the other is empty aitdoelffp save by the draughts and the weeoa.- ;* {To be evnii/nued.) ■~