CENTRAL HOLIDAY

Otago Daily Times, Issue 23108, 6 February 1937, Page 19

CENTRAL HOLIDAY

AN UNPRETENTIOUS EXCURSION By C. H. Fortune I. This is an account of a leisurely three-weeks' trip through the Central Otago districts. There were few important departures from the beaten track during that journey, but even on the beaten track it is possible for new things to be seen. And so this article resolves itself into a record of mild impressions and of something bordering on the realms of adventure. No matter where one goes the individual impression always varies. A man may walk along George street and receive impressions that another man would fail entirely to obtain. So it is with long distance journeying. In this age for speed and an almost insane desire to be there — Wherever that "there" may bewithin a few moments of starting from one place, the average tourist fails to receive any impressions. Indeed, these circumstances do noc permit of his forming any. There may be a sense of achievement, something gratifying to the senses, in being able to say that one accomplished the journey from Dunedin to Queenstown in three hours, but the breakneck speed of more than 60 miles an hour over roads that are' nightmares of steep ascents, descents, and hairpin bends, would be completely devoid of attraction to any wishing to see the intervening country. Our intention was to see what there was to see. Undoubtedly we did see a few things others have not seen. Most undoubtedly we formed impressions alien to those of many; but this was our holiday and we enjoyed it our way. We invaded the Central by means of the Pigroot. It doesn't matter how you assault the Central you cannot avoid apparently unending hills, with wild, uprising sweeps and breathtaking descents; with, in a score of places, death awaiting the skid, or careless manipulation of the wheel.

We had travelled the Pigroot before, but observant eyes this time saw a hundred things unseen before. Tricks of light and shade, different angles of perspective, vagaries of growth, the very mood itself, all these things provide differences—personal differences to an extent, perhaps—that in themselves make the repetition of even the most frequented route something of a novelty. This time fog awaited us. We could possibly have beaten the fog, but the password of the tour was "leisure," and so we rested often by bubbling streams—tributaries of the Waihemo —which, had we the finer subtleties of imagination, we should have known were telling us tales of wonders undreamt of by us patterned humans. But our perceptions, so regrettably limited really, would permit only a superficial appreciation of quiet beauty spots, with green sheltering trees—imported, be it said—and a benignant sun. When we started to climb in real earnest we found the shades of night falling only too fast, hastened by lowering fog that surged ominously down valleys and through gorges. There was a suggestion of the obscene about these banks of fog which dissolved miraclously just as they threatened to engulf us for all time. But the grey fog was not to be defied for ever. Insidiously, it crept down to the road level, tasted of its dusty joys and, finding them to its liking, stayed—stayed content, but causing us worry and unpleasantness. There is no fighting fog. It holds the whip hand. It is cold, clammy, penetrating, productive of fear and uncertainty., It paralyses. Be it comparatively light one laughs and speeds on, but this fog that descended on us was a blanket, and hung suspended on the radiator. The lights of the car finished suddenly against a soaking mist-wall jeering defiance at us. Distance is unending under such conditions. Only a quick sluggishness of the engine and a rapid change of gear bring the realisation that the road is making a sharp upward trend. How far in this? We didn't know. There were the Brothers and the Red Cutting, two of the steepest pinches, to be surmounted. , The night would be everlasting, yet somehow we had to reach Ranfurly. That was our destination to-night. So, lost in a world of our own, a world peopled with grim, grey, swirling phantasmagoria, we.moved on, literally feeling out way. A strange, dull sound penetrates that impenetrable wall. A car! Anxiety is raised to fever pitch. Where? Before? Behind? And we are on our wrong side, hugging the hill. A slow incline to the left side of the road, a strident bellow from our horn; an answer, then pinpricks of light loom before us, and almost before it would seem possible another car is beside us, crawling as might a snail. A strained voice reaches us: " It's hell further up! " And having spoken its cheery message this car, a true ship of the night, has passed. Yet, uncompromising as that message might be termed, there is left a feeling of satisfaction, of communion again with fellow-men. We are not, after all, alone in a cheerless world. Somewhere in this grey desolation there are others struggling, others uncertain and lost. And if there is hell further ur>—well, someone has passed through it safely. On, with renewed courage, though even yet silently dreading the worst over the Brothers and the Red Cutting, where undoubtedly the car will have'to cut every inch of its way. There isn't a lessening in the depressing conditions, but still we advance. Strange, our speedometer shows a mileage that indicates we should be near the Maniototo. Where, then, are the Red Cutting and the Brothers?—those two terrible poirits. The fog is wearing thinner . . . we are crossing a long, white bridge, why—why—can it be? Yes, we have negotiated the Pigroot, we are crossing the bridge near Kyeburn, we are actually on the Maniototo Plain! We may be in no hurry to repeat that trip—it was little short of an ordeal. Still, it seems that the terrors we had feared so much were proved not terrors at all—or, at least, only terrors of the imagination, which are, perhaps, when all is said and done, the worst terrors of all. ( Dry and dusty as it is in the summer, it is hard to reconcile the Pigroot with the much-maligned road it becomes in winter, when every second night the radio announcer utters a gloomy, " Motorists are advised to use chains on the frozen Pigroot. ... It is snowing heavily on the Pigroot." But in the short, cold days of winter little sun penetrates portions of the valleys through which the road runs. Pigroot? Why the name? I amused myself making inquiries, but no one appeared to know. And strangely enough—yet perhaps not strange when considered —nine out of ten people believe the name is spelt Pig-route. Two reasons are uppended. Perhaps someone who reads this may be able to advance a new, a.better, theory. Many of the official place-names of- Otago

were bestowed by Mr J., T. Thomson, chief surveyor and engineer of Otago. Among the names he chose was a list 1 pertaining to the various streams and creeks of the Maniototo district, and this list comprised all euphonious Maori names. The Pro-, vincial Council, in considering the names, decided they were too dimcult to pronounce, and sent the list back to Mr Thomson with instructions to alter. Indignant, Mr Thomson changed them to .the unpleasing Wedderburn, Kyeburn, Gimmerburn, Eweburn, Mareburn, Cowburn, Hogburn, Sowburn and soon, maintaining that anybody could surely pronounce them! The Provincial Council approved and the names are in use to-day. It has been suggested that the queer name " Pigroot" saw its birth in this list. Another suggestion lies in the fact that one time wild pigs were particularly prevalent. These pigs lived largely on spear-grass, which they pulled up with their tusks. The grass itself did not have any great appeal to them, but they found the roots particularly satisfying. Kyeburn is at the top of the Maniototo Plain. At least, in our ignorance, we referred to it as the top. But we have been told so often that we must come to believe it, that the Kyeburn-Naseby end of the plain is the bottom end, and that the Patearoa-Styx end is the top. The Naseby end is the northern, hence our confusion: we preferred to refer to the northern end as the top end. The northern end, however, is the dark end; the Kakanuis see to that So, while the southern end revels in warm sunshine cluring the winter, Naseby freezes and is snowbound. Waipiata Sanatorium, high on the hills above the Taieri River, knows the sunny end. The recordings of sunshine there are remarkably high: for 1936 Waipiata Sanatorium had one of the highest recordings for New Zealand.

It is so recently I have referred to Maniototo, Naseby and St. Bathans in the Daily Times that I do not intend to dwell further on these places here. In one or two instances our welcomes of a previous trip were repeated with a measure of reserve and a slightly reproving, "Do you think it wise to travel from Dunedin at the present time? " ' The fear of epidemic we found strong in some quarters, but others laughed and looked, rightly, in the light that the scare was unnecessarily emphasised. To be able to pass on comforting news in accordance with our views was pleasing. Infection and clarified Central air do not go hand in hand, and as we got further inland we found the fear of infection less worrying—a cheering discovery. Fear brings infection; one is as contagious as the other.

The most serious things of life provide amusement at times. The almost herculean task of digging a 30ft well in a Central country district would seem only a matter for perspiration, not merriment. Actually when we found the source of operations the well was dug, and huge concrete cjdinders were being placed in position as lining for the well. By means of a crude'windlass and rope these cylinders were lowered into position. It takes a fair number of cylinders to line a 30ft well, and the process of getting them into position is slow. The performance, however, seemed devoid of little more than casual interest, until suddenly the rope broke. A cylinder crashed downward, canted over, and wedged firmly in anything but the position it should have, halfway down the well. To get that cylinder back into a more normal position demanded the expenditure of considerable time, patience, labour, and perverted King's English. It was done, ' however, and the rope was repaired. Another cylinder was gently lowered; suddenly the rope broke. The cylinder crashed downward, canted over, and wedged firmly in anything but the position it should have, halfway down the well. As we appeared to be the only persons possessing a sense of humour we left them at it.... # I have come to one conclusion, nossibly reached by others before me. It is becoming increasingly difficult to obtain information pertaining to the early history, gold mining, settling. The old-timers are passing on. The younger settler of to-day has not the interest in the past. He lives from day to day. Even where electric power does not reach, he has his radio and he is in touch with a world largely unknown to the settler of 20, 30 years ago. He has his fast car which, in a manner of speaking, brings' the cities to his back door. Newspapers are delivered to the most remote spots a few hours after publication. News is brought to the settler of today; he does not have to seek it out. History is no longer being made ; as it was in the early days. Gold mining, prospecting, the earlie? hardships of roadmaking and rail-track laying, have given way to -the prosaic routine of farming, which, in normal circumstances, is hardly history-making. Where the oldtimers talked willingly, also, glad of the chance to live for a while in a day gone for ever, those who might be in a position to provide information to-day look with suspicion upon the idle inquiries, and sometimes give expression to their suspicions: " You're a reporter? Writing for the newspapers,, eh?" and the suggestive leer that accompanies this says plainly, "I deserve a share in the return!" Still, some people talk readily enough even to-day, and to them thanks are due. If little that is new in the way of information can be derived, it is because so much already has been written.