BUSH SETTLEMENT.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 5726, 23 October 1905, Page 5

BUSH SETTLEMENT.

HOW THE PIONEERS LIVE,

HARDSHIPS OF THE SELECTOR

MUD-BOUND WHANGAMOMONA,

No. I.

“This is first-class,” said tho Driver cheerfully, as tho gig humped from side to side, and was finally dragged in desperation right out of tho road on to tho stump-covered bank. “ Wait till wo get to Masson’s Cutting and Tho Saddle. This is nothing to it.” This happened about seventeen miles from Stratford, and tho ideas of tho Townsman had undergone several modifications in that journey. It was blowing a bitter, sleet-charged gale from the south, and was wretched enough already. But so far there was civilisation close at hand. There was “made” country all about. The beautiful green downs of Toko and Ornru, some of tho finest dairying country in New Zealand, stretched away to low hills on either side. Tho road was a good cno. Hard metal sounded under tho hoofs as far as Toko, and white shell rock for some miles later. More than that, tho rail ran alongside tho road, and tho dairy farmers of (his beautiful rolling country could fed comfortable .ill the year round in alternative means of access to civilisation. “Wait until wo got to tho roads,” tho Driver had been saying, and tho Townsman waited, wondering.

Tho cry from Macedonia “ Como aud help us!” is only a tradition compared with the wail of anguish that has for years past been homo from tho hackblocks of Taranaki to Wellington. It was closer and nearer to tho heart than tho injustices of tho Far North. It was a cry from our own backyard, long and persistent, like tho cry of an animal in real trouble. When, therefore, about tho fiftecn-milo post on the Main East road, the gig'.dived off tho edge of the shell rock into a wallow of mud, the' Townsman felt that ho was about to find out something that would bo of real value to tho dwellers of tho cities, something new, aud perhaps inconceivable.

A TARANAKI ROAD 1 The reality soon unfolded itself, as a horse of sixteen hands straightened his hack and tried to pick his steps, with the lightest of gigs behind him. Ho was a town horse, and it was a matter of a few minutes before ho found that the mud was utterly impartial. It was just as easy to walk where the Driver wanted as where ho wanted himself. The feet and wheels of earlier passers had worked up the papa surface into a sticky batter varying in depth from six inches to upwards of two feet. It occupied the whole twdth of the formation, watpr-tables, and all, and looked strictly impartial throughout. From the appearance of the surface none could tell whether the horse would find a footing at three or eighteen inches; whether the trap would ride fairly clear or plunge down to the axle. The wheel-marks of predecessors were effaced. But their passage had been a stormy one. There, were marks in token. The little crater edges standing out of the surrounding pug showed where other animals had trodden. Long shining marks on the side of the cliff showed where vehicles had sought hottom in the water-tables; and skids and slides on greasy patches showed that there was treachery even where no mud was.

Tho road crosses tho Strathmore Saddle in a long riso at an easy grade. Hero and thoro is a patch of absorbent sandstone. Elsewhere is the same persevering river of mud. Hi© body of the trap bangs from side to side, striking the ax 1 o each way; tho wheels grow], against the splash-board each time they drop into a hole deeper than the rest; and every second the horse’s feet, landing in one of the mud-cups made by others, send up showers of mud and water. Now and again we strike a smooth patch of clay from which tho water has run away. Tho horse makes for it instinctively, only to add a few narks of his own to tho yard-long hoofslides that have gone before, while the wheels skid off again into the mud. On a rare patch of sandstone it is possible to trot for twenty yards at a stretch, and then with a shower of mud tho hprso plunges in again knee-deep. ' & VICTIM OP THE MED. Plop! flop! flop 1 Tho clay falls off tho rising spokes like butter from the blades of a churn, and the feet splash and, suck in the mud. For miles and miles there is not an ounce of metal to ha seen. Papa is the only thing that happens, and in its natural stato this is Quite uncompromising. Near tho top of the saddle—victim of the mud, waiting for tho summer—is a waggon sidetracked in a turnout, resting on its elbow, with one wheel lying on tho ground underneath, and grass growing on the floor. The grass Las grown since the road became too had to move a broken vehicle.

On tile floor of a bridge, under which, the Mangatoki slides full and dark, tlie Townsman gets breath to look ahead. There are two Maori ponies zig-zagging through the mud. The riders, splashed with papa to their clerical hats, are clergy, wading back to civilisation from a tour of the back-hloeks. Now we are face to face with a five-foot cutting and a floor of mud. We do what tho King’s Mail does hero—leave the road altogether, and try to pick an untrodden track amongst tho stumps on tho roadside. Even if stumps, logs, and roots bump the cart about at precarious angles, tins is better than tho road. The horse, at any rate, knows when his feet will find bottom. When the mailcoach did this it had to be held down with ropes to prevent capsizing. A chain or so farther on tho fence jostles us back to where the formation-gangs worked last summer, and with tail out and back straightened, tho horse plunges in.

THE ABOMINATION OF DESOLATION.

After a few miles of this the Townsman has lost completely the pleasing expectancy of meeting anybody. He feels as one feels at sea. There is no need to scan a' new reach of road for a human figure. There may he a few' cattle grazing in the Long Paddock that reaches from here to the King Country, but that is all. It is months since stock were moved along the road. Tho weather has practically closed it since May, and the passengers are a dozen or so a week. Hence we are able to give tho whole of our attention to the arrangement of tho body for encountering fresh bumps, and rearrangement afterwards. This is not a colourless ride by any means. There is humour in it, for at places where the smooth floor of a bridge allows the Townsman breath to

look about, bo buds familiar proclamations, printed in black on white calico, signed by Ministers of the Oown, and showing that, in spite of conclusions formed otherwise, this long and weary mudway is in reality a road within cognisance of tho Government. It is the Oh urn Main road, extending from Stratford to Kawakawa, a distance ol 110 miles; and for nearly a hundred miles, from tho point where we fell reluctantly over tho odgo of tho shellrock, it is subject to four square foot of regulations. These sob forth that bullocks are not to bo used for traction from May Ist to November Ist, but on this very day, October 11th, they are actually being used by authority of the Minister signing the decree! It is set forth, that not more than half a ton is to bo carried for each pair of wheels, as if anybody who knew would venture to carry as much. In a mass of pains and penalties for tho preservation of this ffnwdway, thoro is not a word about the children cutting up the road by playing marbles or spinning tops on it. It seems as if tho accommodationhouse at Strathmore, five miles from tho end of tho metal, must bo quite tho end of everything. Yet there is a troop of Maoris ponies outside waiting to have their packs fixed up for a journey.

‘'Where aro they off to?” asks the Townsman.

“Aw, just up tho road a bit,” is tho answer, and an hour lator, when lunch has been swallowed, and tho gig is on tho road again, tho ponies can bo seen stringing their way along a deviation, to avoid tho road itself. It is evident this is the only road that leads anywhere.