Amazing Starling

Starlings are common in New Zealand and they are far from 'adorable'. They were introduced, I think, from Britain and while farmers find them to be useful in the control of grass grub - generally they are perceived as pests.

Mostly, they are messy and persistent nest-builders, finding all sorts of places to nest - even blocking chimneys. They carry nesting material and drop it all over the place, and even if you remove it, they will replace it.

Then they crap all over the place. Tractors in sheds are a common target but they make a mess where there is room for them to roost.
Gregarious when not nesting, they mob together in trees to roost making a gaggling noise that becomes tiresome if it is near your house.

But I want to tell about a pair of Starlings that built a nest in my tractor. Under the cowling, on top of the radiator. Now I don't use the tractor for major agricultural work, just as a work bench around the nursery. But I move it around a lot.

Well the eggs hatched and I was tempted to toss the small, wiggling, open, yellow-edged mouths out. But then I thought, ' you have to admire this tenacity'. The parents follow the tractor around and feed their infants as I work. They are cautious of me of course and wait their chance to slip under the cowling.

Makes you think though - nature will always win in the end!

Possums

The Brushtail Possum was introduced to New Zealand from Australia to provide and industry based on skins. Well with no natural peditors, the possum thived and has become a pest by eating [decimating] indigenous flora and eating eggs of indigenous birds, and very young birds.
Although they are a very clean animal, they carry TB, which is a threat to New Zealand's agricultural industry.

To date 1080 poison has been the most preferred method of control by the authorities but the use of the poison is controversial and has recieved widespread protest.
I probably do have an opinion and I did have certification to use the poison. The most important property of 1080 is that it leaches very readily in water becoming ineffective.
The green colour is supposed to deter birds from consuming the bait but clearly some birds do eat it. If dogs ingest 1080, it is a terrible death for them. But 1080 does do a good job on possums and they usually have just one offspring per annum (with one on the way), birds are able to produce several.
Just between us though, much of the opposition to 1080 is with vested interest - many are hunters. Hunting deer and perhaps pigs, thar, chamois is their passtime and for the poison is effective on those animals too.

But I'm not debating 1080, I liked to hunt possums for their pelts.

I used to hunt possums as a winter/spring activity and to make a few dollars. Never a fortune, but I did by our first colour TV set from the proceeds of possum hunting.

Possum hunting is hard work, but it is also interesting if you love the bush and take an interest in your surroundings - and, every dead possum is of some help to the indigenous forest.
You cover some difficult terrain and your hands hurt after skinning 20 or 30 possums - and that is an easy day.
Where possums were plentiful, I used cyanide poison with a lure of flour laces with aniseed and other concoctions from peanut oil to oil of roses. In some instances the possum was killed by smelling the poison - dying almost instantly. There may be five of so possums at one bait! On one line, maybe you lay 100 baits.
I remember a time when Matheson laid baits around a paddock of turnips - there was a truckload of possums for them to skin. There is no need to skin them straight away - sometimes I would set the line one weekend and pick up the possums the next.

Sooner or later the possums become bait shy and I had to resort to trapping using the dreaded 'Gin' trap. So then need there was to set the trap (I hope everyone knows that possums are nocturnal) and collect them the next morning - as early as possible. Gin traps usually hold the possum by a leg - sometimes the possum struggles and the bone is broken. The animal goes into shock and is usually asleep when I arrive at the trap.
Now the animal has to be killed. Some may shoot it, some bash their skulls in with a blunt instrument. My method was to stun the animal with a hit on the head using a heavy stick, then severing the jugular vein. I carried string with me and tied the animal to a tree branch - by a hind leg. The skin cannot be taken while the animal is warm because it will rip, the skinning was the next day. Seldom, the jugular was not severed and I would find the possum still alive sitting on top of the branch!

Skinning the animal could be tough work - especially the big red bucks! Late in the day, if I found one of those - I would throw it away to save my hands! Basically I would start by opening the skin across the front legs and 'punching down inside to remove the skin from the chest muscles.
Then across the inside of the rear legs and usually punching out the area just above the tail to make room for my boot to fit through. Then I could stand there and pull the skin from the hind legs, right off like a sock and keep pulling to tear it off around the face. You need big, strong hands to take the tail skin off - two fingers each side of the base of the tail and pull upwards. I had my own way using a piece of chainsaw starter cord and making a loop to fit around the base of the tail and pull much easier.
40,50 or more skins in a pack - I used a sugar bag - are heavy after a while.

There were always losses - other guys would discover your line, or a pig would follow it eating as many possums as it took to fill him.

I had my possum hut where I stretched and dried the skins. I stretched them on to specially cut 4 x1 timber [metrics 100 x 25] with a staple in the top to hook into a nail set in the rafters.
First you need to turn the tail inside out, so cut the very tip off and poke a length of no.8 wire through [deftly] and this does the job. Then turn the rest of the skin inside out and slip it over the board. on the thin edge at the top you tack the top of the skull and at the bottom, the underneath part of the tail. Turn the board around and tack the legs to join. Just leave the tail hanging. On the flat of the board tack the face parts.

Now you need to take off any meat or fat without cutting the pelt. This is why you do the punching when skinning - the better the job, the less meat/fat there is to remove. Mice and maggots can do some cleaning but they don't quite know when to stop.

Once the pelt is dry - - say 3 weeks, remove the tacks and with a sharp knife cut from top to bottom the leg joints and belly - this opens the skin. Then the tail - there is a dark line where the possums prehensile tail grips things, there is not hair there. You cut straight down there and you have a pelt.

I used to brush them and clean them up, but doing that did not increase the price by even one cent!

The price depends on colour, but there are black patches on the pelt. This is damaged fur regenerating. White skin = high price, black skin = zilch. So the amount of black denotes the grade.

The possums at Herbert Forest had generally lower grade skins which I put down to the gorse - but maybe that is wrong, maybe it was warmer in the forest.

I used to travel down to Green Island to meet with Fred Barclay to sell my possums. Selling the skins is a ritual and the grading is watched carefully. And without exception you were happy with the price until you met with contemporaries who always inflated the price they were given.
Old Fred was pretty straight as were the other buyers.

Many dodged the taxman by stating their name as the Prime Minister. or some important figure. Some saved a lot of money that way, but I had the feeling of Mr Taxman looking over my shoulder, so did not succumb to the temptation.

I guess if I tallied up, I would not have made money, but it was a pastime, and a way of spending those dark, winter nights profitably. It gave me cash that I would not otherwise have had.

And of course there were those adventures. My first born decided he would like to try possum hunting, so I took him to my trapline. I held the first possum by the tail while he had the hefty stick to crack it on the head. I received the crack on my head! So the novelty wore off quickly for him. Oh, don't worry about my head - hasn't cracked in many a year.

Dorothy the Grader

This is Dorothy the Gallion grader. Old Bert used to driver her and capably at that. It was a small, light grader powered by an International engine the same as a TD9.

Dorothy was named after Gib Green's daughter - mainly just for fun.

Large rocks in the road would cause Bert trouble and he would talk me into operating the rock drill. This was a crowbar with a cold chisel tip on it.

One would hold the drill and the other would hit with a heavy hammer - after each hit, the drill was turned a quarter of a turn. When there was enough rock dust in the hole created, a few drops of water went in and the wet dust, now mud was fished out with a 'spoon' made out of the flattened end of a piece of No.8 wire.
When the hole was big enough, half a plug of Gelignite was stuffed down there and a detonator/safety fuse attached and lit. Boom the rock was no more.

A box of detonators was perhaps 100mm x 100mm and about 60mm high. This one box used to arrive at the Otepopo railway shed in a wagon all by itself. I used to laugh at that.
More than once though when we were forming a road through rock, we would blow up to two cases of explosives and join them with cortex so it would go off with one detonator.
I had a tooth removed which made crimping the safety fuse to the detonator easier. The gap was just the right size!
We used the yellow safety fuse and lit it on a box of matches by paring half of the end away to expose more powder to the flame. Never ran, always walked and whenever Bert was there, he would always light his pipe half way away from the lighted fuse to show how calm he was.

Old Lenny

Lenny seemed always to be a grumpy old bugger who thought the world was agin him.
I have known him for years, and he has recently been made redundant from the nursery where I too work, and redundancy does not help the demeanor.
But I got to think about him and how the whole world has not been against him - being an example of some people unable to count their blessings.

Let's go back.
I first knew Lenny when he worked for the Rabbit Board - he used to putter around on his motorbike (which caught fire in McMillan's paddock) or his old blue Holden.
He lived up the road from us and I came to know him and his wife because their child was around the same age as ours, so they attended school things together and other village associated happenings.

Lenny was a farm worker and as such at that time was not paid well but compensated for by free accommodation and meat. So I offered to help him out by letting him tag along with me possum hunting. He kept the skins he worked on and we sold them at the annual sales so he had some extra pocket money. We worked together this way for a couple of seasons.

Lenny decided he wanted a change, so I gave him a job on the forest and he thoroughly enjoyed life there. He bought a house and as it had no laundry, he was in a fix and could not afford to call in a builder. We had carried out a thinning to waste operation on the forest and some of the logs were sawlog size - not extracted because of limited access.
I had an old TD6 crawler tractor, so we went up there and salvaged a couple of loads of logs and had them milled a Bert Bennett's sawmill. With the timber, I took a few weekends and built their laundry for them.

During this time I had a contact where I was able to camp at Lake Ohau, so we invited Lenny and his family to share some holiday time there with us - three years running.

We were all made redundant from the NZFS and I branched into a nursery managerial role. Lenny and a mate used their redundancy money to buy sawmilling machinery and set up at Reidston. The venture failed because they could not get resource consent, and they were unable to reset the machinery.
I saw little of Lenny until he left his job as a farm worker and was looking for work. I gave him a job and he remained there when I left for Africa.
On my return, Lenny was still there, but the nursery operation was split and he was with the other 'lot'. Later things changed and the nursery became one again, but redundancy again loomed for Lenny. Nobody wishes that on anyone and it remains little consolation even if you are at retirement age.
But the world is not against anyone that is only a perception. Lenny, enjoy your retirement and find joy in those grandkids who are now a big part of your life.

Cave in South Block

The two Trig points in the center of the South Block are remarkable in that there are large rock formations and the actual Trigs are marked by extensive rock-work. Below them are some small caves and I took a newspaper reporter to view one of them.
The actual geology of the area is a mystery to me because it appears that the conglomerate rock has been molten and actually flowed and burnt into tree roots to take place of the root in the soil - then the soil [often] has been eroded away. Now I know enough about geology to doubt that conglomerate rock can be molten, but anyway that's what it looks like to me.

After the picture was published, someone wrote to the paper saying that it looked like I was talking to a Troll.

Diamond Hill Hut Is Moved

Mick Hill asked if he could move the miners hut on Diamond Hill out on to Matheson's, Glencoe Run.
He, Sam Kennedy and Merv McCabe pulled it out on to Table Hill using Merv's tractor, and they carried out modifications to make a hunting lodge [in the broadest of terms].

Four wheel drive vehicles were needed to gain access and that was provided by Mick's Willys Jeep - an ex army one. At one time we took out a Trekker - made I think by Skoda - to test its capability. We were not too sure about this machine because the rear wheels were turned in at the bottom, the more the load, the better the alignment. We thought it might tip over easily on a sidling. Well the vehicle could surely climb - we gave it a good tryout! Up a steep incline, the only thing to stop us was the tree roots, lifting the front wheels off the ground, thus losing traction. We took it spotlighting through the worked up paddocks.

One Easter we all went out to the hut for a weekend's hunting and adventure. Well most of the adventure turned out to be in the hut or in the vehicles. We never shot any animals, due largely to the flagons of sherry the others took with them! For some reason sherry had become the drink of choice [only for a while] and they took more than enough. I didn't touch the stuff! But it made them sleep in in the mornings and disinclined to walk far. We saw a large number of deer, but they were not prepared to stalk them. So we basked in the sun chatting and telling tales.

Merv had bought a big Dodge 4x4 and tried it out. The area we drove across was soft and once the grass surface was broken, it was easy to become stuck - even in four wheel drive! The Dodge with its big, baggy tyres managed fine but became stuck in a shallow gut because the bumper was jammed against the opposite side bank.
Mick would pull it out with the Jeep!He struck a soft patch and could not get forward motion, so we three pushed - and pushed. With no room for Sam at the back, he leaned his shoulder to the drivers door to push. Mick turned the steering wheel slightly and covered Sam from head to toe with mud in a strip about as wide as the tyre. The mud was almost black and his white eyes were round with shock. His open mouth completed the picture.

It was getting dark so Mick and I decided to go and get the D6 to pull both vehicles to safety. Once through the creek and on the flat [now a worked paddock] Merv came with a torch to show us the way, and Mick chased him! Merv ran from side to side, struggling through gorse and matagouri. Revealing cuts and welts later. All but he were amused!

We pulled the vehicles to safety and parked up for the night.
We had all sorts of food and ate well, mind there was no pork or venison! Later with a cup of tea, Sam brought out the Malt biscuits and I showed how decadent I could be by plastering condensed milk on them. Merv was quick to try this too and as he was about to take a bite, Sam got his revenge buy pushing the condensed milk covered biscuit into his face! What a mess!
Too much sherry seems to make the face a purple shade, and the hangover didn't appear to be too good either.

I left early to drive the Dozer back into the forest the next day and later Mick picked me up, then dropped me off at home. A totally fruitless, but most entertaining weekend!

Poachers

We used to call people who took pigs and deer from the forest without permit 'poachers'. They were never really poachers as such because after all the animals needed controlling and they had no real effect on populations anyway.

I'm really talking about local young men, who's recreation was to go out into the hills, bag a deer or pig and later have a few beers.
Nig Gloag though was more of a professional as his income came largely from the land. Possum hunting and selling deer or pigs. His Landrover was well known and I remember he took it down a ridge on the South Block right onto the river bed. Showed exceptional driving skills!
This track was the old pack horse track to Dunback that Moeraki Station used. Old Gib Green used to take pack horses over there. [That's why you find broom there]. It might have been the main road to Central Otago but the Pig Root turned out to be an easier route.

They were mainly young guys from Hampden. We used to try to keep them out of the forest, but they were resourceful and always found a way in - mainly by lifting a gate from its hinges. Never damaging things or stealing anything - more it was a game between them and me. I knew them well.

Bill Pile was a fisherman who used to help muster sheep and cattle - he had dogs and used them to find pigs on his expeditions. He would on occasion give me some blue cod or crayfish because he enjoyed pig hunting and was not looking for trouble. Bill took us out to a drilling rig once to deliver fresh vegetables to the workers - just as a friendly gesture and enjoyable boat trip for me.
Sorty Hyland also had sheep dogs and a Landrover which allowed him to use the forest effectively for his pig hunting. He been used to hunting when Bert Fraser owned the South Block and essentially kept going. Shorty purchased a trawler and operated out of Moeraki and Colin & I went fishing with him a number of times. As a fisherman, it was good to go hunting when the weather made to sea to rough to go out.
Andy Patterson lived at the end of Mile Flat Road farming there. He had quality trial dogs [and the trophies] and would use them for pig hunting. He had a lame leg and his friends called him 'Hoppy' - not unkindly. Famous for the phrase 'no lollies for naughty boys' when he was warned off for being too frisky with his wife after drinking a little too much. Andy left the others to kill and carry out game - just commanded his dogs by whistling instructions to them.
Nobby Jameson was also among these guys and they particularly liked to go out spotlighting at night. Some people would ring me because they saw the light, and perhaps some were a little jealous that someone else was taking their sport. I never went out chasing spotlighters as I know myself, I could go out there and nobody could catch me.

Things a different these days and we have all moved on. Those guys [as well as me] are doing different things, but when we do meet up, it is just like meeting up with old friends.

Oops I Made a Splash

One drizzly day, as I went out to the wood heap, I noticed a wisp of smoke from the south side of Diamond Hill.
I was not too concerned about a fire spreading, because of the drizzle, but there remained the need to check it out.
I climbed into the old Commer truck, much like this one, but NZFS yellow and with a canopy on the back. This old girl had a crash gearbox, so you had to drive it. It lacked power too and was temperamental - the heater blew cold air when going down hill - but that is just what I liked, because nobody else wanted to drive it, it was always available to me. Low geared, it was no speed demon.

I charged up the hill and did notice a group of people standing at the bottom of Breakneck Road, but took little note because I was on a mission.

The wisp of smoke and it was coming from the bottom of Road 15B and that was a dirt road, therefore if I drove down there, I would not get out because of the wet. I walked down.

After rounding a corner, I saw there was a vehicle and tent with a camp fire and the young couple inside the tent were doing what young couples do - well in the circumstances there was not much else to do!
With no intention of startling or embarrassing them, I retraced my steps a little and then returned and coughed at a safe distance. There was a certain amount of quick movement and a red-faced guy poked his head out of the tent flap.
The obvious line was, 'What are you doing?' but I decided against that preferring, 'Hi there, sorry but this area is State Forest, and you are not allowed to camp here.'

The couple had been looking for somewhere to camp and had driven down this road but were unable to drive out because of the wet. I could see they were telling the truth because there were tyre marks there to prove it.
It was unwise to allow them to stay, so I told them I would return with tyre chains to put on my truck, then I could pull them out.

On my return down the hill, a guy was standing in the middle of the road forcing me to stop.
'You splashed my father before,' he said, 'now his trousers are wet.'
My reply was not polite and I drove off.
I have the greatest respect for older folk, but I had none for this guy. Well the guy who had stopped me had built a small house down the road and had stolen fence posts from our heap that was stored in the paddock. I knew they were the posts because ours could not be purchased anywhere. So this old guy [in my book] got wet because he was standing close to a puddle as I passed. Well there is some justice.

I returned for the couple and extracted them without incident and they set up camp in the Forest HQ area where there was a water tap and a toilet. They were happy for their rescue.

The Waianakarua Garage

One of the only things for sure in life, is that there will be change and the Waianakarua Garage is one of those things that is now in the past - though the building is still there.

Jim Robertson and Bert Bennett started the garage, Jim was a mechanic and Bert an auto electrician. They ran a workers' bus into Oamaru and it was well patronised.
It was a different era then. Those older cars and machinery, older style petrols and oils and the need to fix things. The Waianakarua Garage served the community and was an important service because their work was to a high standard - and practical.

When I came on to the scene, Bert had started the sawmill and had sold his share in the garage back to Jim (affectionately known as 'JR'). JR had a mechanic, Jim Jameson (Nobby) and a grease monkey, Reg Moses. Reg did not remain at the garage for long - a young fellow moving on, I supposed.

Nobby was a very good mechanic but was not qualified [people said that he did not like to study]. However his expertise was exceptional and he took the D6 apart completely and fully reconditioned it - track rollers and all! NZFS had its own workshops - Conical Hills Workshop - and we never trusted them even with a wheelbarrow! Most times things came from there, they needed to go to the Waianakarua Garage to be fixed properly!

On wet days local farmers congregated there for a yarn or minor repairs to bit and pieces they had now found time to have repaired. It frustrated JR and Nobby because they were not able to operate efficiently.
I managed to win the right to purchase our petrol there instead of going into town with a 200 litre drum.

When our sons were born, JR took money from the till and gave it 'to add to their savings'. He was a generous man.
My old Commer Cob station wagon would from time to time be covered in pig/deer blood and JR would wash it out with disinfectant, claiming that the vehicle stunk! Well I thought that the disinfectant was worse than the dog and blood smell.
Once after a grease and oil change, I took to the forest looking for pigs and noticed the oil pressure light had come on. I stopped the vehicle and dipped the oil - none. I rang JR telling him that maybe the sump plug was not tightened properly. He came and town the vehicle back to the garage - will I had hit a rock and torn the sump plug off completely!

Another time I lent the old Commer truck to some student foresters who were staying at Hampden - they rang to say that the gearbox had seized. Nobby to the rescue this time and he found the gearbox to totally dry, no oil whatever. I drove that truck daily and had noticed no problem.

Times changed and JR could no longer afford to keep Nobby on and he went truck driving for Hampden Transport. He met a tragic accident and was killed. Nobby had been a bit of a larrikin in his time and I know a story or two about him, but one time we were hunting together and I shot a very large deer. We were going to auction it off in the Hampden pub, so had to carry it a long distance to the vehicle. Nobby and Mick had their turn at carrying the animal across their shoulders and winking at each other they lifted it across mine. Well my legs gave out so the deer and I formed an untidy heap.
Later in the pub, after having sold off the deer, we enjoyed a few moments together. Constable Cruikshank came to talk to us - as was his duty - and we had a chat. During this chat, I had an urge to collect one of the silver buttons on his tunic and he laughed at the suggestion. I drew my Green River skinning knife, but thought better of it and just gave him a wide smile. Try the same thing today....

JR sold the garage to Robert Hutton who kept the garage running successfully for a number of years. Later Robert came to work for me on the forest and he enjoyed his time there until we all faced redundancy.

Robert managed to sell the garage as a going concern but all who bought it failed because of the changing times.

I am sad that the garage has gone and also some of the good people. I hope this serves to remember a little of that past.

The Annual Cricket Match

On Breakneck Road, just East of the Forest Headquarters was Bennett's Sawmill. The mill was owned by Bert Bennett (H.J.) and his Sawyer was my mate Keith Gibson.
Bert sold the sawmill to Fletchers, who were trying to muscle in on the industry and they in turn later sold it to Burnie McMullen when Keith became the Manager - later his son Steve took over.

Back then the forest was too young to supply sawlogs to the mill but we were sort of colleagues in that we were in the same industry and from time to time we cooperated in fire training. But gradually as the forest matured we had a closer relationship.

I have no idea who's idea it was, but Keith made up a trophy using an old saw blade and we were to play a game of cricket for it.
We prepared a wicket by mowing the grass and removing the stones from an area on the paddock Bert Moir leased off the NZFS and Colin, who was a keen cricketer supplied secondhand bats, wickets, keepers gloves, pads, balls and the bag to keep them in. All courtesy of the MCC - ah no, not them, Maheno Cricket Club (now in recession).

The match became an annual affair and was contested fiercely. All who came played, or had the opportunity to do so. Even wives should they want, but most wives just enjoyed the spectacle. Everyone had to make a run, everyone had to have a bowl - and no quick bowling. One young fellow called Grant bowled a quickie to Wayne Coleman and smashed his glasses! It didn't matter that Bert preferred to bowl underarm, or Albert bowl with a chuck. The ball was seldom lost and the paddock was large enough for sixes to be a rare and wonderful thing - worthy of celebrating even! When batting, old Bert Moir even took his pipe from his mouth! Most of us missed at least one catch (in my case to allow someone to make his mandatory run!)

The drinks breaks were for beer and it was not necessary to have a break as the fielders took beer with them. So the toss winner would bat first because the fielders' became a little impaired as the game progressed.

It was great! People ran who you would never really expect to run, and people really tried to catch the ball - perhaps for the first time in their lives!

Generally it was fun times, enjoyed by all and often, later in the evening there was a barbecue to round off the day. These matches continued until the demise of the NZFS 1987.

Tree Marking

Tree marking was deemed to be an important task to ensure tree selection was accurate. Trees needed to be selected because high stocking numbers were planted and about a third of them were selected for low pruning - most of which were to be high pruned and kept as final crop, while the others were culled - thinned either to waste of for some sort of production.
There was a certain science in selection, and every tree was considered. These days there is virtually no marking done. Tree breeding has contributed to an evenness in tree growth/form and most work is done on contract with quality control. Not always the best but cost effective in these times.
It was mandatory to mark.

Our crew was very experienced and were able to carry out self selection while working on a bonus rate. Sometimes I would mark some outside trees [after pruning sometimes) just to keep Geo Wilkinson happy. (or off my back)

But there were times we marked for pruning over a wide area - sometimes one dot for low pruning only and two a later high prune.
Usually Colin and I did the marking and occasionally Colin would do the lion's share with me contributing from time to time. You had to be fit because it involved a lot of walking. Pushing through gorse and blackberry - once I wore out the legs of a new pair of corduroy trousers in one day due to blackberry!

Of course we played those childish games such sharing sweets and keeping a corner of a sweet to 'luxuriously' eat it in front of the other! Or hiding the toilet paper so the other had to use the shiny label off the paint can! [Colin thought I used it - never did becuse grass or pine needles were markedly softer.]
Sometimes I would mark a few of the trees on Colin's row - just to annoy him. It would interfere with his spacing plan because after all spacing was important in the mix too. He would retaliate in a similar way but on occasion he would climb a tree and wait for me to catch up, then try to pee on me trough the branches. The smell usually gave him away before it got me, but I wore the odd splash from time to time!

Old George Mitchell would growl at us if we marked a tree that was difficult to prune and we would often purposely mark a tree covered in bush lawyer [hooked prickles] just for old George.

The marking was a good supervision tool for the post cutters and I caught them out often. Marked trees were good for them because they were big and straight, and of course they did not need to trim them.

Spacing was important but not only as a management tool for the crop. It was better to leave a rough pine tree in a gap rather than allow the gorse to grow, so we left a tree in the gaps - good form or not.

Venison

Writing about shooting deer reminds me of Albert.

I had been out with my .22, to shoot rabbits that had been destroying some young plantings. As I came to a small clearing, there was a stag standing there.
I did not like to chance aiming for the head, instead I aimed at the neck [windage was ok I was concerned about elevation - rifle sight]. The deer did not drop, and I emptied the magazine of five shots into the deer's neck.
While I stopped to reload, the animal moved into the trees. I followed and found the dead animal.

After butchering it, I took it down to HQ and Albert suggested I keep it in his freezer at home. Good idea - not!

Every now and then Albert brought a flask of hot stew and at lunch time he would inform me that it was venison! I didn't click until too late, and when I did ask for some of my meat, he told me it was all finished.

Sounds bad but I'm grinning. Albert has done many a good turn for me and I've sampled a lot of his food. Really it was a joke.

I'm no angel. Albert kept an address stamp in his drawer, one of those that you use a pad to apply the ink. Now Albert was bald and wore a cap - my challenge was to quietly open his draw, then quickly grab the stamp with my left hand, whip off his cap with my right and apply the stamp to his scalp - then run! Not always did I succeed because he was no willing party, but sometime he was addressed to go to Dunedin!
He took his share of revenge!

A bit more on hunting

There were plenty of times when we went hunting - 'to control the animals'. Mick Hill and I had our dogs and we would go together. Colin and I would also go together and we had interesting challenges as well.

There are those who think killing animals for sport is gross and a bad thing, but for young men to go out and challenge themselves to pound the hills, fight the vegetation and pit their cunning against wild animals who's senses are more intune than their own is surely a good thing. We had a great amount of fun. Now I'm personally not so interested - I guess you do move on.

Mick and I challenged ourselves to go out without a rifle, which means we had to dispatch the pig with a knife - I used a short Green River knife to cut their throat - jugular vein.
Well the dogs caught the pig alright and Mick took hold of its hind legs to roll it on its back. To make it easy for me to kill it. But every time I went to use my knife, the pig kept snapping at me. I looked at Mick and he was grinning from ear to ear. He was turning the pig so it was always attacking me!

Another time, after Hughie Muldrew, the meat buyer had asked me not to cut the pigs throat too much because in Germany they sit them frozen in the window to look 'alive'. As a display, I guess. So this day the dogs held a big boar pinned, by its ears [a dog on each]. I was going to use my knife by sticking into the pig's heart. This did not kill, or even slow down the pig! I guessed the knife was too short, so I pushed it in - handle and all! The pig was by no means dead, and the dogs let go. I straddled the big bugger and held on to his ears! He bucked, but I stayed put! Mick had not turned up - he was a slower runner than me! I yelled for him to hurry and he came with his rifle. But he sat down on a rock and watched as I was bucked among the gorse! Grinning widely, he finally shot the animal and I retrieved my knife.

Colin always complained to me that dogs killed the piglets and therefore ruined the hunting. He also had the theory that he and his rifle could bag more pigs than I could with my dogs. So we went out together to test it.
We were going to test two hour each with us walking with my dogs and then the pair of us walking without the dogs. Well we didn't get on to any pigs.
As we drove around Queen's Road, a large boar ran down the road in front of us. 'Right' I said as I stopped the truck, 'here's your chance - shoot it!'
Buy the time he was out of the truck, the pig had disappeared into a stand of Macrocarpas. I let the dogs loose and they soon had the pig.
Smugly I said nothing, but the next day I had my gloat when I told the story [with the necessary embellishment] to our co-workers.

Colin was a really good shot and cool with it.
We had seen a lot of deer sign on the planting area that bounded on to Glencoe Run. So we went up there on those frosty nights with a hand light - me with the light and Colin with his rifle. We regularly bagged a deer and always left the guts where the workers would find it - particularly Doug Turner who was vocal in his envy [but never went out himself]. I was well aware that he checked my boots for blood splats each morning.
One night we spotted a small mob of pigs, and as I held them in the light - pigs don't dazzle easily - I was aware Colin was taking his time taking aim.
'Shoot the bloody thing!' I muttered.
Finally he fired and two pigs dropped! He was purposely lining them up so he increased the possibility of hitting two with one bullet.
Then another night he carefully took aim at the glowing eye of a deer. Bang, the eye did not go out. I held the light steady. Bang again - the eye still did not go out! I told him to take another angle and the eye went out.
His first two shots had hit the deer just in the joint of the jawbone no more than a centimeter apart. This can happen - a shot animal can just stand there; shock I suppose. The other shot had been right on the eye. Colin was a very good shot!

Old HQ

The old Forest Headquarters was Rodman's homestead and it stood on the corner of Rodman & Diamond Hill Road. It was a fine old house with two roof ridges parallel to each other; it was built of Matai, Rimu and Totara, presumably logged from the forest.

Surrounding the homestead was a paddock used for the house cow and probably horses. Around the homestead building were Ngiao trees - possibly natural, but maybe planted. The tradition surrounding these trees is that they only grow where they can 'see' the sea. They could.
There were large Eucalyptus trees, globulus and one housed a wild beehive in the trunk - Colin Bartrum robbed the honey from time to time by cutting a square into the trunk and covering it with a piece of ply that could be removed.

There was a large barn/shed that had a sliding door - this was an amazing pioneering building. Adzed boards/slabs of Rimu and Miro - about 30cm wide and 30mm thick, placed vertically. The frame, including the rafters was made from trimmed poles of what was then called Black Matipo and Red Matipo. The old guys misidentified the species. Black Matipo is Pittosporum tenuifolium while the Red is Myrsine australis, not that it matters particularly.

Of course there was no electricity there and I suspect there was a problem with water. Rodman harvested rainwater from the roof and had piped water from a spring up the road - I never saw it carry water. Down on the flat area at the start of Pa Road there had been a cattlestop erected and there was a well dug. Unthinkingly Albert and I from time to time filled it with rubbish!

Sadly all this has gone now. The house was used as the first Headquarters for many years until 1965 when the new Headquarters was set up on Breakneck Road near the sawmill. Now that's not quite right. The old cadastral maps reveal that the road is actually Middle Ridge Road, which continues up to Glencoe Run - somehow the road became known as Breakneck - which actually starts where Middle Ridge turns to climb the hill.

Then for many years the Old HQ became a wet weather shelter until a new one was built on what is now the camping ground.
Sadly I did not know Rodman or any of his kin nor have I heard of any of them - there will be many happy memories of that old house and no doubt challenges too.

I was responsible for removing almost everything there. First it was my job to establish trees in the 20 acre house cow paddock. This involved aerial spraying the gorse with 245T. We flew from McLean's Hill (North of Herbert Township). John McDonald was the pilot of the Fletcher aircraft and as it was a single-seater, I sat in the hopper and rattled around as he took off. Uncomfortable and probably illegal. But you have to show the pilot where to apply the chemical.

After the spray had dried the gorse, we burnt it. This was a challenge because part of the fenceline was too steep for the bulldozer to form a firebreak. So we cut one by hand. During the fire, Colin became hot so hung his woolen jersey on the fence - the fire became so intense that when he lifted it off, it fell to pieces! Beyond the fence was the young forest - small Radiata Pine growing in gorse, highly flammable! We were so lucky that it did not ignite because it surely would have burnt the whole catchment beyond!

One wet day some new Porter Pruners had arrived. These are long handled loppers. Old Russell began to annoy the rest of the forest workers by clacking the pruners in their faces. He clacked too close to Bert however and cut a nick in the join between his nostrils. Blood dripped slowly, drip, drip.
Bert stuck his pipe to the side of his mouth and sat in a chair so the blood dripped on the floor - not cool to show any pain. 'Silly old bastard.' he muttered.

On wet days there were always challenges - mental as well as physical. Not showing pain was part of the aim and bulldog clips would go on ears and noses. And there were wrestling matches. Colin managed to break one of Bert's fingers, but nobody knew until months later, when Bert's wife let the cat out of the bag.

It was comforting to those hard men though to go into the old HQ on a cold day, start the fire and smoke, talk and drink tea. Their tactic was the same even when they used the new shelter. They would take turns to come and annoy me until I told them they could go home!

The old building became a ruin and sometimes pig hunters and others took shelter there. It was dangerous because one day it was bound to burn down - so we demolished it and the workers took the good materials home - the rest was bulldozed and buried. Oh but I have a very old bottle from there.

Going back to Pa Road. We built a log bridge over Hoods Creek - that's gone now too - and while the road was new and the edge still not compacted, Old Russell driving 1140, the old K Bedford - full of men - drove too close to the soft edge. Slowly the truck began to tip over - slow? Bert had time to take his pipe from his mouth and place it safely in his pocket. The truck flopped over on its side rolling twice - nobody was seriously hurt except from hobnail boot marks as Albert wanted to be first out!

Just a note

During a conversation, I recall my two old mates having heart problems. Bert had thin blood and was taking medicine to make it thicker while Gib had thick blood and his medicine was to make it thinner.

We were working in the gully behind Dr. Douglas' property - cutting lines in burnt gorse - and during the one day, both collapsed and we had to carry them out. To be honest, looking at them then, I thought their days were numbered. Not so, through the miracles of medicine they slowly improved and worked more, then to happily retire.

The Soap Man

On a weekly basis my father [mother too and on holiday, me] would travel to the Belfast Freezing Works to buy our weeks' supply of meat. Among other things this would usually include a side of hogget.
How we consumed so much meat I'm not too sure, but we kept the rendered fat the cooking process produced in a 4 gallon tin.
When the tin was full, I had the task to load the tin of fat on to my bike and take to Mr Rawlings, the Soap Man. He lived just off Milton Street and had a factory there where he rendered down fat to make bars of soap. I would exchange the fat for a bar and half of his grey, unscented soap.
I think he was semi retired and 'modernity' was slowly forcing him out of business.

He would often talk to me and I would listen and not always understanding what he was on about, as it was usually 'the government' or the council.
However I do recall that he was fighting the City Council. He lived at the end of Roker Street and the council wanted to take his land to continue the street south. He told me that he was quite prepared to sell the property, but he had taken umbrage to the 'council chappy' who had called on him and tried to boss him around. So he dug his toes in and stayed!
I have not been back there for years, but looking at the map, the road still has a gap in it. How he did that with the Public Works Act and its powers, I have no idea.
Mr. Rawlings, the Soap Man was a stubborn man!

Old Jimmy Grant

My father had a friend called Jimmy Grant, so I guess he was my friend too! I was but a lad then but I remember him well, however, Jimmy was one of those countless people who are forgotten and of the past.

Jimmy was a council worker who drove a horse and cart picking up rubbish from the side of the road. Sweeping by hand the gutters and cleaning the gratings so storm water would flow away thus preventing surface flooding.
Sometimes as I walked home from school, I would encounter Jimmy and his horse as they were heading homeward too - he lived at No.1 Domain Terrace - he would give me a ride on the cart. He walked beside his horse.
I have no idea if the horse was his or the council's but my father grew a small paddock of potatoes and he would get Jimmy to plough the area, mold up the shaws and scuffle the rows to keep any weeds down.

Just how my father came to know Jimmy, I'm not too sure and I have no idea of the old fellow's history. My father respected him and that was enough for me.
I have no doubt that when Jimmy retired - or maybe he was made redundant - he faced financial hardship, so my father had him work in our very large vegetable garden or on other projects. He didn't take too kindly to be paid - the respect thing again - so Dad would top up with produce. We kept hens too, so he took a few eggs.
Jimmy taught me to kill and dress chooks [poultry]. From time to time we would have a chook for Sunday dinner and Jimmy would prepare it - because Dad was too squeamish! Usually there were two and one would be given to Jimmy to take home.

Jimmy became too crippled with arthritis to cycle the distance to our house, but Dad would send me in our old Austin 8 truck to visit and take produce.
Jimmy lived with his two sisters - I thought they were spinsters, but I don't really know. They were lovely people and always made a fuss of me. One sister was handicapped - a problem with her leg. But they cared much for each other and seemed to love caring for each other - genuinely.

The House was neat and old fashioned. I can't be sure that they had or used electricity. The interior walls were polished wood veneer, stained rather darkly and their heating and cooking was by a magnificent coal range - shiny black and as clean as a new pin.

There was a slow-flowing river at the back of the house and the cut grass sloped down to it and they liked to feed the ducks and watch the ducklings.
The oldest sister used to worry that her handicapped sister might slip and fall into the river and often warned her. But disaster pays tricks and it was the older sister who fell in and the handicapped one who found her!
Of course old Jimmy was used to his able bodied sister looking after him, and he was unable to nurture his ailing surviving sister and she soon gave in.
Jimmy too missed the company and I knew that while he could see, his eyes were vacant and his broken, empty heart took him.
Walter Brennan's song makes me remember. 'One of these days I'm gonna climb that mountain'.

Posts & Post Cutters

Thinning trees for some sort of production is economically sound - on paper at least. Usually though the material available is not that good because thinning is done to enhance the crop trees, the best of the trees. The other thing that counts against post production is the time it takes to to thin the area. If the area had been thinned to waste, the value of the extra wood grown can often outweigh the value realised in the through post production.

These points are true at least as far as we at Herbert were concerned because we were really on a smaller scale.

We liked to provide employment and generate revenue, so we generally were not too concerned if the thinning was a trifle late. In fact the pruning was late anyway. This was because at about age 12 the gorse was suppressed and easy to push through - so we developed the technique of doing a one hit lift 0 - 6m at age 12. This was against the idea of 'good forestry husbandry' but pushing guys into green gorse and a visit to a tree three times [o-2m, 2-4m & 4-6m] did not seem the right thing to do in our circumstances.

Still not always were the post of good quality - straight and fat.
The new wooden posts were in demand because the gorse hedges were being removed and post & wire fences replaced them.

There were areas of Pinus nigra var laricio [generally called nigra these days] that were not fully stocked so at about age 15 we began clearfelling those for posts - they had a marked taper but were of good quality.

There were two main players in the market:
a) Concrete Products - later to become Waiareka Industries, then Great Southern. These people were making concrete fence posts and had turned to these wooden ones. They had their own treatment plant and Charlie Crisp was the owner and his assistants were the Stanaway boys - Doug was to become the manager of Waiareka Industries. These guys used a Skilling post peeler.

b) McCullum & Co - later to become Fletchers with various name changes to become Placemakers. This was a building supplier and hardware company and they later bought and sold the Herbert sawmill. Bernie McMullan was the manager and his sidekick was Stuart Renalson. Their peeler was a Cundy.

The first post cutter on the forest was Frank Ford who contracted to McCullum & Co. - he was Adrian's older brother. Frank had done things the hard way and he had a wheel tractor with a modified trailer to haul the posts out to the fire break. Manual work - those green posts are heavy. He would peel the post on the firebreak and stack them to dry.
I recall he employed Mike for a while, and one day Frank said to me, 'Mike's bloody rough! he seems to be always breaking something!'
Mike told me, 'Frank's patient, I'm trying to get him to sack me - but he won't!'.
The situation was that if Mike was sacked, he would be entitled to an unemployment benefit, but if he quit, he would have to stand down for 6 weeks!
I facilitated a happy end.

Talking about ends - the payment for the posts was by the cubic metre ( well foot in those days). So we had to measure the small end diameter of each post and apply volume tables. Later we took a sample of 100 post and measured them to gain an average, them just counted the posts.
Frank used to stack the posts to dry and sometimes it was difficult to find which end was the small one, then difficult to tell if you had tallied them all!

McCullum & Co had a truck to transport the dry posts to the treatment yard, and Skippy was the driver (Skippy was an Auzzie). He used to load the truck by hand! I suggested to Bernie that they purchase a Hiab, a sort of crane built on the truck. They bought on and I found Skippy loading the grapple manually. I suggested that he work it how I had seen in my travels - I had never operated one! He became an excellent operator and could almost make the machine talk! One day a log slipped out of the grapple and smashed his leg - after that he preferred not to operate the machine.

We had some adventures along the way - one time he left his Hiab up! The bridge over the Waianakarua river had a frame on top, and the Hiab smashed into it! Never hurt the bridge at all! Another time he had too many posts on and became jammed under the bridge frame - so we let his tyres down and that got him across but we had to pump them up again at HQ.
He lifted the concrete slab I had made for my water tank stand - one of the eyes I built into it for lifting slipped out! But good old Skippy managed to wangle things for a good outcome.

When Frank Ford moved on, the team of Ross Ewing (Russell's son) and Henry Wedderall took over. These were a team of hard workers and hard players as well. Prone to taking the odd crop tree as well. But these guys had targets and worked hard to achieve them.
Perhaps they did the odd dopey thing - one time they were following me up Queen's Road. I was driving the old Commer with a load of men, so progress was slow and I had no where to pull over. So they attempted to pass! With no room to do so, there truck toppled over the road batter. We checked to see if they were ok - they were drunk but otherwise fine. We left them to it. [You would wonder why they were drunk at 8 o'clock in the morning, but anyway.
They used a Cat D2 crawler tractor and a trailer to extract the posts. And later changed to various types of tractors. Their tenure was long and they earned enough money to buy starter farms and contributed to the wider community.

Along came Brian Arbuckle. He was working for Waiareka Industries and had bought a near new 4X4 Ferguson tractor that he modified for the job. Brian was a bit of a larrikin really and he employed a few as well! They could produce a few posts as well but Mondays were a loss because they were 'too crook [with the piss]' to work. But they usually made up for it. The Skillings peeler worked off the PTO and so was quite powerful, but reduced the size of the post considerably. Much later he bought a Skidder and because such machines have a winch, it was possible to extract posts from much steeper areas.
Arbuckle ended up working on his own or with his son and they used to take advantage of the forest access to hunt for deer and pigs - illegally really. Brian lost a leg in a logging accident [off the forest] but continued to operate his Skidder.

Bob Clark, Max Speed and Chopper Johnston took on the Fletchers contract and they were a stable hardworking crew - reliable. They too bought a Skidder (first a Timberjack from Bert Bennett) One time we were looking for an access track through a steep area of bush and the Skidder could not back out! Bob was driving and he was an expert. We tried hooking trees on to the winch, but they were simply pulled over. We had to dig a trench and put in a solid log as a dead man. This pulled the machine out.

Of course the demand for fence posts petered out and the people moved on - Fletchers/Placemakers went out of timber treatment. Posts became a byproduct of the larger logging operations.
These were colourful times and the people involved were colourful but those times have largely been forgotten.

Uncle John

\Jack Williamson was appointed O/C late 1966 and he came up from Conical Hills Forest where he was in charge of post production - for the uninitiated, that's felling trees to be cut into fence posts, or larger - telephone/power poles.
Old Jack had done his time, starting at Hanmer Forest, working in the bush and had seen the evolution from horses, tractors, bulldozers & skidders to extract the logs.

I was asked to 'look after' Jack as this was his last assignment before he was to retire and from our first meeting we knew we were going to have a good relationship.
Jack was a wiry, balding man with a large nose and a warm smile. His bones were stiffening because of the work he had done and the cold conditions he had worked in. The reason I was asked to look after him was that he had not been trained in a managerial role so I was asked to help him with the nuts and bolts that was involved there. Things like yearly estimates - budgets.

Quite quickly we three in the office became a team - Albert, Jack and myself. We had some adventures that may now never be known - suffice to say 'we were good mates'.

Jack always kept a store of Oddfellows, large peppermints on hand and his main delicacy was a thick slice of fruit cake (baked by his good wife) that he ate daily. He didn't eat much else and I suspect his health was not that good, but he never really shared that with us. He took his responsibilities seriously but generally left me to do the day to day running of the forest.

The forest workers soon came to know him and he was well liked. We all called him 'Uncle John' and never hid the fact.
I could always tell if there was a problem, or if he was upset because he would hum and perhaps rub his forehead. I would try to read him, figure out the problem as he saw it and address it as best I could.

One day at the top of Hoods Creek we were siting a water tank as a quick-fill for the Wajax tankers. Skippy drove the Waitaki Transport truck loaded with the tank, but the site we had chosen was too difficult for him to get to without the danger of the concrete tank slipping off. We had a number of men there and they all had their suggestions of what should be done. Mick was there too with the D6.
Old Jack began to hum and rub his head, not sure of what should be done.
I told the men to have an early smoko, but told Mick to stay. Instead of the original position, I suggested we level a closer site with the D6. Make it like a loading bank so the truck could back into it, put a strop around the tank and pull it into position using posts as rollers. Jack was happy there was a solution and left us to it. Well it worked fine and the tank was soon in operation.

From time to time we held a Forestry Ball in the Herbert Hall and these were attended by the locals. We used to enjoy it when Jack, encouraged by a couple of whiskeys, would sing for us. This embarrassed his wife, but actually he was very good. He used to sing at our end of year drinking sessions as well.
'Old faithful.' was one of his favorites followed usually by 'Take my books off when I die.'

Old Jack was very sheepish when the day after we had been burning off on the Fraser's Block, he showed the D.fir plantings below the Headquarters was burnt out!
He and Albert had decided that it was such a good day for burning that they would burn off the cut gorse on the area that later became a picnic area. It was a good day for burning all right! The fire quickly became out of control and of course we had all the fire suppression gear with us at the proper fire! Actually once the cut gorse and the D.fir area were burnt, there was nowhere else for it to go so it simply burnt itself out. It took the pair a long time to live that down.
Jack enjoyed the Headquarters site and teamed with Albert they carried out a lot of the development and planting over perhaps 10 acres.

The day of Jack's retirement function showed the esteem he was held in because the 'Big Noises'
from District and Conservancy offices as well as O/Cs from other forests attended. They gave me a budget to buy drinks, but I had coerced the forest workers to bring food and we had hired a tent.
Oh well, the visitors wanted a tour of the forest didn't they? This left the forest workers with two hours to fill in - and there was all that food and drink! Spencer King's mother had make a huge bacon & egg pie 3" thick! It was gone by the time we came back. The keg was three parts empty and during the speeches a beer-fueled, Herbie complained to the visitors that this forest did not receive the resources it should. Three times I tried to shut him up and pull him away but each time he gave me a gentle shove, saying he had not finished yet.
They took it in good humor though and at least we could offer them a cup of tea!

I'll not forget Jack, he was one of God's gentlemen.

I Built a House

Sometime in 1967 I bought an area of land just on the south side of the Herbert Hill. It was in two blocks, one on each side of Breakneck Road (though the cadastral map says it is Middle Ridge Road). I bought the land because I was interested in raising animals, mainly beef-breed cattle. It never entered my head that I could make money from it and actually you don't make much out of a small block of land.

The top block was 8 acres and across the road was 14. I remember it was 1967 as decimal currency came in then and my lawyer, Margaret MacKay could not get her head around the purchase price because she was more used to pounds.

Some people advised me against farming cattle because of the drought. It was the tail end of a five year dry spell and our local MP Alan Dick had sourced funds to try seeding clouds with CO2 ice in an effort to make it rain. Well it did! At the end of the drought!
Freddy Robertson had farmed cattle - Jerseys. He had a show bull and treated it as a pet, often seen giving it hugs and kind treatment. He didn't believe the adage that Jersey bulls could not be trusted, so he did - and it killed him!
Eddy Thourghgood farmed dairy cows and sold cream to the butter factory, I think in Waitati.
So I didn't see the problem in raising beef.

The property was not actually on the market, but had been abandoned because of tragedy. Don Blakebourgh had built a sailboat with his kids and took it to the Waianakarua River mouth on its maiden sail. Three of their children were drowned.
Margaret MacKay was his lawyer too and when I went to him - in the signal box at the railway where he worked - he was pleased for me to take the place off his hands.

There was a cottage on the property and it was in a dilapidated state. It had no value to me, and I largely ignored it until Mags came along and I chased her until she caught me!
The old cottage was going to be our home and I needed to refurbish it, but a builder's quote made me rethink. It was going to be a huge cost.

So there were three very big Rimu trees close to the road on Diamond Hill and they would be burnt during our land preparation fire. So I felled them and hauled them with the D6. Bert Bennett was going to saw them into timber for me, and Bob Yates arrived in the GMC logging truck to load the logs. The Hiab could not lift them, so we used the D6 to dig a pit and backed the truck into it, then, using the D6, rolled the logs on.

Bert Bennett and Bob Yates are characters of other stories.

The sawmill had not been updated in those days, so my mate Keith Gibson, used the breaking down bench to cut flitches that the breast bench could handle. They produced some very nice timber for me - 6 x2, 4 x2, and 6 x1 (inches as we weren't quite into metrics yet).
Mel the builder was going to work with me for a week, then I was to carry on by myself. I actually hadn't built a house, but poverty is a magnificent teacher.

While the timber was drying, I tore down the old part of the cottage. Albert helped me when he had the time - I used to help him too. There was not much salvageable and the renovation became a rebuild!
But the cottage was very old! The studs and top & bottom plates were 4 x 4 Totara held together with dowel, rather than nails. There were newspapers lining the walls and they were old Otago Witness! Sarking on the walls was Kahikatea - riddled with borer. And scrim slackly held the wallpaper in place.

Well I learned about building and bought the window frames from Smiths City Market in Christchurch. Albert helped me fit those and I did the glazing myself. A mate did the wiring and another did the plumbing. I had intended to use the 6 x1 timber for weather boarding, but the expense of dressing (planing) put me off, so I nailed them on a 45 degree angle covering 50% and then covered it with tar (building) paper and netting, then roughcast the outer wall. Lex Kennedy taught me about roughcasting.

By the time we were married, we had a kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. The rest I completed at night after work - that's how I did the first part as well. I usually worked to 9:00 pm.

One of my cows was sold so Lex could make a nice fireplace in our lounge. Just to point out that all was not plain sailing, I lost three cows moving them from the Hill Block to the River Block. They were on the railway line when the express (steam train) came roaring around the corner. It killed the three outright!
I rang an Oamaru butcher to see if he would take 'farm killed beef' and he said he would. So with a system of blocks and rope and my tuck, I hoisted the the carcasses into a tree where I skinned and butchered them. The smell of the meat was not too good in my truck, but I took it into my butcher.
One look and he said, 'This meat has not been bled properly - bruised meat does not bleed well!'
He pointed out that if the beast was not bled properly, the meat can be toxic.
So I rang the Rabbit Board who had a lot of dogs - they would not pay for the dog tucker, so I donated it to them. Those dogs did not know what a feast they had!

So I learned little techniques that have stuck with me over the years, ways of doing things - that may not be the way trained people do it but more importantly, not to be daunted about anything! Perhaps I did it the hard way, without the proper gear, but I got it done!

Ergot

At my workplace part of our business is producing trees that have edible fungi growing on their roots. For those who do not know; trees need a fungi - mycorrhiza - to help locate food and this fungi has a fruiting body, either a mushroom or a puffball, is edible. Not only edible but in some cases greatly sought after!

One day while talking about the uses for fungi, Ergot came to mind. Nobody knew of it, and I have asked around and it seems that I am the only one who remembers about it. That won't be the case, but in my little circle, nobody knows about it.

I only ever heard about it as 'that's what was done in the past'. Ergot is a fungi that grows on ryegrass and cockfoot seed heads. It is like small blackish brown specks. Now this fungi was used to treat burns and help to coagulate blood.
It was easily found on road verges in the countryside and during the war years, it was collected by children as their contribution to the war effort.

Now I do not know any more about it - how much was produced and where most of it came from. All I know is children in the area ot Herbert township used to collect it.

I would be interested if any others have heard about this or have collected it. This is one of those small things that becomes a forgotten part of history.

Funny thing though, if you research Ergot, you will find that it is a source of the drug LSD and as a fungus it is dangerous to ingest. It may also have has a role in the bubonic plague (of all things).
I suspect it is the cause of 'ryegrass staggers' in cattle and this can cause death.

So the collection of Ergot is now a bit of a mystery and something interesting to contemplate.

Strange Things

There is a rich history wherever you go - a recent visit to the UK reinforced the fact to me - and just talking today made me remember some things worth recording.

Andy Paterson lived with his wife, at the end of Mile Flat Road - just on the Southeastern boundary of the South Block (previously known as Fraser's.
Andy had a lame leg and he was affectionately known as 'Hoppy' to his friends. Andy was a keen dog trialist [for those who don't know - competitive use of dogs to round up sheep to make them behave appropriately - to go through gaps and into pens. The dogs are worth a lot of money!] He had a cabinet full of trophies including some of his father's who also had the passion.
Andy was also keen on pig hunting and (I thought) put expensive dogs at risk in this pursuit. He had a few mates who joined him from time to time - Jim Jamieson, Shorty Hyland, Bill Pile and Nig Gloag to mention a few. Of course when we took over the Fraser's Block, they were deprived of hunting area - so they just carried on hunting the area - some may say 'poaching'. Not really though, I knew they were doing it and were doing no harm nor annoying anyone.

Actually we all became friends and hunted together - swapping yarns.

Anyway... when Andy built his house, he logged some Rimu trees from his property and had them milled, then used the timber to build his house.
Time went by and poor old Andy died. His house was rented out by a Maori fellow, whose name eludes me. His son thought that his bedroom was haunted! This happening was frequent and sometime the boy received injury. There were several attempts at exorcising the place but this seemed to have no effect. So the family decided to move out.
Now I'm not into the spiritual world but things have happened that made the hair on my neck stand up - so I have an open mind.
However, I read later that those small insects the wood borer when attacking Rimu timber, give off a gas that is hallucinogenic. So could that have happened in this case? I have no idea as I haven't been able to make a followup.

Then there were the brother who went hunting together and stopped in the bush gully below the beehive. Somehow one brother's rifle discharged and his sibling was hit. In panic and without thinking, the first brother fatally shot himself! The real tragedy was that the first shot was a graze to the head and he came to finding his brother done this terrible deed.

Oh the Beehive was a big bluff, yellow in colour that could be seen from the coast. It is now quite overgrown by gorse. When we were roading and carrying out land clearing, we found many artillery shells - with lead shot (shrapnel I guess) and timers. During the war years, the reservists used the bluff for target practice from batteries by the coast. We did find some that had not gone off but on checking we found them to be safe/unarmed.

Albert William Moir

I have fond memories of Bert Moir. He was drove Dorothy the forest grader but first was employed as a Rabbiter.

I respected Bert for his guts! He had a fearlessness and control that earned my respect in the early days - and I have a tale or two to tell about him.

He was a scrawny old bugger. Short, skinny and bandy with it - always smoked a pipe [Sherlock Holmes type - and he smoked it until he had to give up for health reasons] and always wore a hat - a bit like Indiana Jones!

Strange thing though - Upendo reminded me of him! Nah, not by looks, by attitude - guts if you like. Upendo, a graceful young woman, but prepared to clean out the cow manure form the cow's banda/hut using her hands.

Bert should have been born a century or so earlier. One night drinking with his mate Doug Wilkie, they had this argument, a serious one actually. Bert challenged Doug to a duel using .22 rifles. They were to meet on the hill at 7:00am the next morning. Bert waited there for Doug next morning - in vain. They remained friends.

Bert and I used to walk our dogs to the hydatid dosing strip. This was a strip of land where dogs were sampled (stools) and dosed to prevent the disease occurring in humans. All the farmers took their dogs and the Council man did the dosing/testing. A social time for the farmers and the dogs!

During one of those walks, Bert told me how practical Doug was. If his sheep were getting out (onto the road), he would find the hole in the fence and shoot the first sheep he saw going through it. This did two things - first it killed the leader making the rest unlikely to follow; next it automatically plugged the hole in the fence. Most would repair the fence - not Doug, he used his logic!

Some buffoon made the decree that hard hats had to be worn by everyone [on the forest] all the time! There was resentment about this because in the heat of the summer, there was no air in the gully bottoms and a hard hat just made life unpleasant. I made representation to had the decree lifted. Even Bert had to wear his in the cab of the grader! But he loyally did - not to suck up to the [twits] head office people, but for me - he felt that if he set an example, then the others would follow. And he was right! His actions made things just a little easier for me. The decree? Like most, we just forgot about if and continued to wear hard hats in hazardous conditions.

Bert was my regular firelighter. He would carry the knapsack pump [those bass ones] filled with kerosene, or sometimes diesel to light the fires for our burn-offs. He was reliable and because we clicked, he knew exactly what I required and would light up accordingly.

The County Council established a rubbish dump in the dip on Breakneck Road. This was the cause of distention as it attracted rats and the toxic juices flowed into the Waianakarua River. Environmentally bad - but not as bad as dumping straight into the sea as previously. Bert and I discussed the need for a fire in the dump many times. Well one day Bert was having a cup of tea with neighbors Keith & Pat Gibson, and they were talking about the dump. Bert said nothing, but left his tea and walked the short distance to the dump. There he lit a fire. He returned and said nothing. Well we were called out to put the fire out but we did not expend much energy doing so because of the 'toxic smoke'. We knew it couldn't go far. This of course caused the County to find another location for the dump. Bert never 'fessed up' - he could keep a secret.

Reminding me that he was keen to 'play fight' and often with Colin Bartrum. One day Colin broke one of Bert's fingers, but he said nothing and nobody would had know had not his wife made mention of it.

He didn't like to show pain. One day at the old headquarters, he was taking shelter from the rain with the rest of the workers and Russell Ewing brought in a new pair of Porter Pruners - loppers if you like. Russell was flashing them around because they were a new tool on the forest and snipped them too close to Bert! He nipped the piece of skin below Bert's nose dividing his nostrils. He never moved a muscle, just took out his pipe and allowed the drip, drip of the blood to his the floor.

'Stupid old bastard.' he muttered, waiting for the blood to congeal there by itself.

Bert had a farm on the forest boundary, but he was a rough farmer. He could put an immaculate fence up for me, but his own was as rough as guts! There was a lot of gorse and we helped him by bulldozing it and burning. He used gorse though because young, soft gorse is nutritious for lambs and lambs also like to eat gorse flowers. The trick is to keep it short!

He liked horses and he had one that silhouetted by the bright sun, you could see through it's ribs! Well it was skinny!

Bert told me of a time that he was working with a horse and it kicked him in the chest knocking him out. When he came to, he kicked the horse back, but it kicked him again, knocking him out!

I would often look after his place while he was away and he would look after ours. I had the odd adventure there.

He had bantam chooks including a mad rooster who used to attack. Bert would catch him and hold him under the water in the small creek nearby - once he screwed its head around and let it go like a wind-up toy. One time I was in the hen house and the thing attacked but few up my Swandi [for the uninitiated a bush shirt that is fairly long]. Well he was flapping up there and I was jumping around trying to get rid of it! It was quite a performance!

His ram was a problem too - I took my son with me, who was a toddler and we had just shut the gate when the ram charged us! I tossed my son back over the gate and cleared it myself, just as the ram crashed into it!

Then there was the prison escapee - he had been seen walking down the the railway line, so as I was in charge at Bert's, I rang the police to tell them there was nobody home and the baddie could be hiding out there. They asked me to go and have a look - not me! I may be silly, but not that silly!

I have enjoyed jotting this down for Bert is a hero and one of mine!

Oh I want to add this. His mother called him 'Sonny' or 'Sonny Jim'. We heard about this this, and we too called him 'Sonny' but the ever inventive Mick Hill changed that because Bert was not afraid to 'pop you on' or have fisticuffs, so he was given the name 'Liston' after the boxer.

There is every chance I will add to this because old Bert was one of the guys who helped shape my own character.