A TRIP TO MAORI GULLY.

Greymouth Evening Star, Volume XXXI, 11 February 1901, Page 4

A TRIP TO MAORI GULLY.

Given a fine day, a good spanning team of horses, and a few gonial companions, and there are in my worse things than a trip to Maori Gully ; indeed there is ranch to <*nj-»y. T • the closely confined tow i man it afT./rds uOi -j.fiy pi • J -’ ,r '- but health and relaxation. Under such conditions a party consisting of Messrs Oxenham, Bignell, Gittoes, M’Queeu, Scully, Tennant, Forsyth, Ponsonby, Chalk, Smith and Petrie, comfortably seated in two waggonetes left town on Wednesday morning lor this once famous diggings, where in days gone by the sharp sound of the bushinan’s axe, the driving of the pick and grating noise of the shovel were to be heard in all directions, as hundreds of miners in their search for the bright yellow metal turned the virgin bash into veritable gravel pits, sand hihs and ca ros of stone. These evide 'Ces of past activity are about all that is now -efo to mirk that former hi\e

of industry. “ A pleasant drive,” some of the party remarked, as jolt, jolt, went the conveyance over some parts of our delightfully irregular and angular County roads, “ just what I require to shake my liver up. “ Oh ” remarks another as an extra jolt brings his elbow into violent contact with an iron upright. “ I wish you and your liver would would stay at home if this is what you desire. We reach Dobson and there sec Dobson No. 2 dredge in mid-stream, lifting the gravel and again heaving it overboard, after retaining all that is precious. “Pity the ladders arc not longer,” remarks one.

“ Never saw such a lot of bungling, rejoined a second. “It s really wonderful that any of our dredgers succeed n( all; nothing hut misfits and miscalculations.”

“Yes, there’s the Grey ladder also too short, not getting near the bottom, puts in another expert, “ and the Leviathan machinery aint right, and the Waipuna s going wrong, and Ford’s Creek.” “Well, what about Ford’s Creek ; I’ve been trying to find out myself. “ Isn’t getting much gold or we would have heard of it.” But while the growl goes on the Dobson dredge works away quite unconcerned. Our horses soon carry us on to Brunner, and conversation drifts for the time from dredging to coal-mining and a sketch of the early days is given. “ There,” remarks one, “is the old tunnel where George Martin and Dent and Batty used to bring the coals from.” “ So it is ; the tunnel is there ; but the three arc not,” mournfully states another, who was proceeding to read us a lesson upon the shortness of human life and the endurance of coal tunnels when ho was peremptorily told to “ shut up,” that we did’nt come out for a fit of the blues. Through Brunner and past the tunnel and the Grey dredge comes in view, hugging the Westland bank of the river and a good long way up stream. She is working away but not bottoming, consequently she can’t got muck. “Why don’t those directors lengthen the ladder? It wouhl’nt cost much,” remarks the fault finder of the party. “ I expect they will do it soon. They expected t 6 have bottom before now,” is the explaination given. And so we arrive at the cross-roads — the city of Stillwater—very appropriately named; for as we drive up there “not von soul to bo seen ’ceptvon doag.” All is calm and peaceful. Even the fine new hotel erected by Mr O’Brien has a look of sadness about it; and yet this is the spot when in years gone by hundreds of navvies nightly congregated ; sang, danced, and imbibed, alas too often, not wisely. But, fiddlesticks with such moralising ; for what is that sounds clear and bell-like on the morning air. ’Tis the well-known voice of Mr Oxenham : “ Bull up, boys, we’ll water the horses here.” We pull up; the horses are watered,—and we proceed. And now we are on the Maori Gully road, that once magnificent avenue through an unbroken forest of rare beauty. “ Civilisation ” however, has been at work and the beauty has gone for ever, Trees hacked down, ground turned over, and here and there a delapidated hut to mark “the passage” of man through this part of the West Coast.

Up the lull and we sec the' Stillwater school, the teachers in the playground, looking as fine and healthy looking a ' lot of children as could be seen anywhere — a typical West Coast groupc. The school, too, looks well cared for, and makes one of the party remark, <■ Veil, they do look after the youngsters education in this country.” Hut on wo go and now we face the abodft.of the dead ; sec the great grave wherein was laid 31 of the miners killed in the Brunner mine. There stands the cold, hard stone, telling of the calamity. But its for life we arc out and we make no comment. The road is fairly good or otherwise would be if the authorities would fill in the rut tracks that shake the bones of the passengers as they arc purposely ,olted over the worst parts. But soon we reach Messrs Baxter Brothers’ Sawmills. Here is evidence of enterprise and industry: A score of hands rolling, cutting and removing timber. In goes the lo" and soon arc run out the planks and boards that find a ready market. Passing Mr Kennedy’s hostelry we pause for a few moments to rest and water the horses. Then round the turn and un the hill to opposite Kokiri State School, where a grand, rosy-cheeked lot of children are enjoying themselves—as only children let out for ten minutes can enjoy themselves—comes in view. Maori Creek is at length reached, and we get out, stretch our cramped limbs, and are welcomed by Mr and Mrs Hcnninghan. What a cosy, comfortable hostelry, a perfect picture of neatness, not a speck of dirt to be seen. « G an we have lunch ?” asked the paym^ S Certainly,” replies the hostess. « }[ ow long will we give you to get it ready?” ~ . , “You can have it now; say in ten minutes.’ XJp to time we had our lunch—Ye gods, purely such a hungry crowd never sat down before. And such a lunch, just what we could most enjoy. Boast beef and plum pudding with a foaming tankard of ale. For the space of twenty minutes there was silence in that noisy crowd as they attended to the wants of the animal nature. But creature enjoyment ends and wo are again out doors looking round the “ Town ’’ prior to inspecting the claim. The town now consists of Mr. Hennichan’s neat and well kept hotel, an empty 8-hool bouse, and a hut—only this and no'ihin" more, to mark where in days gone by a dozen hotels and many business places “ drove a roaring trade," Where evening by evening hundreds of mii'ers with well-filled purses used to con"re“ate, and discuss.every conceivable aubieot°; laugh, sing, and dance, in all the wide of health and manhood. A rare lot they wore, hardy, self-reliant and free ns the winds of heaven. The township has gone, and those fine specimens of 2o vLrs avo are now old and feeble, many dead. The Gully should be a favorite Xco for tourists and pic-mc parties ; the scenery is delightful while all the com- >. forts of a city hotel can be had at Mr. Hannighans. |