The Camper’s Friend

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 103, 22 July 1927, Page 8 (Supplement)

The Camper’s Friend

A Truck Solves Many Problems Touring Over Mountain Roads (By 11. Makarini—for THE SUN).

fT'HE motor-truck has come to stay. During the preparations for the Winter Exhibition trucks came, and went incessantly at the entrance to the buildings. Seen under such conditions, they would be pronounced essentially commercial vehicles, but say what you like to a certain number of people, la YVHAT they know was learned on ** the warpath. Under the stress of travel a truck made a camping trip a pleasure where otherwise it would have been a nightmare. And as there were certain hesitant ones who advised that the truck could be done without, it may be as well to start at the beginning. One has to go back a long way—several weeks —to the genesis of the trip. Between the first suggestion and the realisation intervened weeks of preparation and organisation, but w'hen there were a few defections from the original list of candidates it was suggested that the truck could be done without.

Tangiwai station, near Karioi, was the jumping-off place for the journey, and it was there that the party gathered the night before the start. Two cars were agreed on, and it was not until a friendly card game had been disposed of that some genius came to light with the suggestion that the cars could take both passengers and luggage, and that the lorry would therefore be superfluous.

There we sat and fought it out. First of all one against several —and then one or two coming round, until finally the truck won, after a long and hard battle of wits, stubbornness and logic.

Yet we had not gone twenty miles, next day, when we realised that without the truck we should have been undone. First of all there was enough luggage to give, the truck a comfortable load. The two cars could not possibly have held it all. So we started off, four passengers in each car, two in the cab of the truck, and a freight of luggage, bedding and provisions on the loading platform behind. ADVENTURES BY THE WAY

Of the adventures that befell there is much to recite. We headed south for Waiouru, under the long shadows cast by massive Ruapehu. Near Waiouru homestead, which stands at the railway end of an 80,000-acre tract downed by Mr. R. Lysnar, is a signpost showing the way to Taihape or to Tokaanu. The way lay to Tokaanu, but if we had known the condition of the road ahead we should most certainly have gone back round Waimarino.

The Waiouru-Tokaanu road lies between Ruapehu and Ngauruhoe, on the one side, and the Kaimanawa ranges on the other. On a bit, we came to the Wangaehu River, an infant stream chattering round the flanks of the mountains, and later crossed the Waikato, flowing in the opposite direction.

Clouds veiled the buttresses of the mountain, but the moorland was baked beneath the scorching sun. Thus far the road was smooth and fair, and all was well. We passed a rabbitter’s hut, and the decrepit shack w'hich was formerly a post station for the Waiouru-Tokaanu-Taupo coach service. Then we ran suddenly on to moist road surfaces and our troubles began. During the next nightmare five hours we travelled five miles, and each

who learned by experience, and you will not alter their conviction that a motor-truck can be a pleasure car, and the true camper's friend. You can advance for preference the claims of innumerable devices, patent fireplaces, lunch-baskets, tents or camp beds, but the truck will still retain their unswerving ijalty. vehicle was bogged at different stages. It was a dispensation of Providence that not all were bogged at once. We progressed by hauling one > car with

another, and the truck was our salvation. Apart from its traction value it kept the gear away from dirt and disaster, and left the cars free for the accommodation of the lady members of the party, who looked on and cheered as the men toiled to extricate the cars. We were overtaken by a mountaineer on his way to the Waihohonu huts. He said a powerful touring car had not been able to get through a few hours before, and he counselled us to return, to go round via Waimarino. We heeded him not, but gave him a tin of benzine, for which he gave us a slip whereby we might claim a tin in return from his friend, Judge Ostler, who was at Tokaanu. Then he walked on, and I hope he i ay read this and realise that a light car and a light truck got through where his big touring car had failed. Toward afternoon, free of the morass, we neared Tokaanu. It was

a road inexpressibly rugged. The truck swayed, and the passengers bounced in the cars. Beside the road were prisoners clearing the scrub from the primitive countryside. Further on were work-

men building the cosy camp for the Duke and Duchess of York. Then the Waikato passed beneath our wheels, and we began to skirt the shores of Lake Taupo, lovely in the glow of evening. But thoughts of the serenity and beauty of the landscape fled when the Tongariro River proved too much for one of the cars. The mechanic of the party was at the - ' .eel of the truck, and back he came to the rescue. Another involuntary halt came at the Waimarino River, which sprawls across chains of river bed, and is treacherous in the crossing. They say that the Maoris living handy put up deceptive sticks, which lead the tourist to cross at the wrongspot. Then along comes Hori with his horses, charging “ten bob” per car. But the invaluable truck was

our horse, and a willing steed, and we were independent of the wily Hori. TAUPO’S LOVELINESS The drive round Taupo in the lowering twilight is a dream of loveliness. Poplars and willows mingle with the native vegetation, and the lights of sunset play upon the lake. On the bosom of the waters rests Motukaiho, the mysterious islets of skeletoiis and shags’ nests, and away beyond loom the cliffs of Karangahake, rising 1,000 feet above the wavelets on the distant western shore. Waitahanui and Hatepe, the little native settlements, flit by in the semigloom, and ahead lie the cheery lights of Taupo township. In Rangatira Bay moves an odd light or two, like fireflies on the water, showing that out there the trolling parties are still busy, and that even at night the fishermen cannot rest.

I Days at Taupo go by swiftly. Hours on thfe lake, excursions to Wairakei and the Huka Falls, langorous bathes at the Spa, and assaults on the lofty fastnesses of Tauhara, the conical mountain rising over Taupo—these give wings to the feet of time.

By the time we left Taupo we were able to review in what further directions the truck had been useful, and as we rolled over the Rangitaiki Plains, heading for the east and Napier, we recollected that it had served as a sleeping apartment for the ladies, and had given them a greater degree of comfort and more immunity from mosquitoes than we hapless men possessed in our lowly tent. The Taupo-Napier Road has the charm of variety. First through desert and moorland, then .through the mountains, and then in that long glide down through the Esk Valley to the sea, it delights the traveller. Three staggering mountain walls test the engine of every car that makes the trip, and the roads that clamber 'over the hills —named successively Ohinekuku, Turangakumu, and Titiokura are monumental in their loftiness and

steepness. Turangakumu must be one of the finest bits of road engineering in the Dominion, and from Titiokura the view either way .eastward to Napier and the sea, and westward over the Mohaka Valley, is inspiring and magnficent. THE LUCKIEST TRAMP It was on the run to Napier that we picked up the luckiest “swagger” in New Zealand. At least we decided later that he could be so classified. Not far out of Taupo the tarpaulin on the truck’s freight was blowing about a lot, and twine and boulders did not hold it down very effectively. So, when we came on this lone pedestrian we picked him up and sat him on the billowing canvas. He was glad enough of the ride, and said, when we asked him, that he was going to the Rangitaiki, 20 miles distant. When we reached the Rangitaiki he had changed his mind; Tarawera would do instead. So we took him to Tarawera, but now he had decided on Te Pohue. He got a fearful shaking up on tile rough road over the summit of Titiokura, but did not seem to mind, and at Te Pohue had determined that he might as well go on to Petane, which is near enough to Napier.

And at Petane we dropped him. Opposite us was the inviting tavern door. We sidled in, and our friend followed. “A bob in,” said someone, and by the time the whole bar had contributed there was a respectable sum in the pool. It was certainly the swagger’s lucky day. He won that “bob in,” got a free drink, and left us with cordial thanks for his 100-mile ride. Tea in Napier that night was a riotous affair, and we read our first newspaper for many days. Andrews had won the New Zealand tennis championship, we discovered, and other events of national significance ha-, occurred. But we had little time to spare for them. Our final destination for the day was Te Awanga, out near Cape Kidnappers, and there we camped in a hollow square formed by three vehicles and a convenient fence. Next day, early, we moved off to Cape Kidnappers, where the gannet rookery is worthy of anyone’s inspection. The truck again broke records. I believe it is the first motor-truck to have been driven along the beach to Cape Kidnappers. Only at low tide could such a feat have been accomplished. As it was, our return was a race against time, with gentle breakers lapping at the wheels. SUNNY HAWKE’S BAY Hawke’s Bay held other delightful items for our programme. Waimarama, 20 miles away, charmed us with its golden beaches and the contrast of the blue sea with the white walls of Bare Island, which Cook named when he cruised by in the Endeavour many generations ago. Back at Napier we tasted social delights. It was a very heavy night in Napier, and an enthusiast in our party was “flagged” by a traffic inspector for speeding on the Marine Parade. Fortunately he was able to persuade the man with the notebook that all was well, and was also able to keep him from noticing that tue rear number had dropped off. |

Only a strong man could say fare- [ well, without reluctance, to Hawke's Bay and its sunshine, its scintillating sea, and its long ranks of green poplars, with here and there a lone sentinel isolated from the big parade. Our way was through the heart of the Hawke’s Bay pastoral country, past big stations, retained in the same families for generations with almost feudal tenacity. Otatara, the home of Mrs. M. A. Perry, stands on a hillside near the Waiokihi golf links. Further on is Crissoge, once the home of Mr. G-. P. Donnelly, a very wealthy grazier. Then you come to Okawa, the beautiful home of the Lowry family, where the captain of the New Zealand cricket team first handled a bat, and where Desert Gold, the heroine of many race tracks, now enjoys well-earned leisure in the station fields. Let it be known that we were now heading for Taihape, over that Napier-Taihape road about which much has been written in letters to Government departments. It climbs from the smooth pastures of Lovjer Hawke’s Bay to the giant mountain barricade which raises its teeth to the western skies, and in among its spurs and its defiles the road is almost a lost trail, little traversed, until this summer, by motor traffic of any kind. THE WINDING ROAD As we rose up that winding road past Sherenden, Tunanui, and beautiful Mangawhare homestead, we felt like pioneers, and as we stopped on the slopes of the Blowhard and looked hack on the view from the first of the big hills we felt as, according to Keats, the first discoverer of the Pacific felt when he gazed on the wide, calm ocean from a peak in Darien. It had been a dry ride from Napier, and there was other business than rhapsodising afoot. Soon we were away again, still climbing. The character of the country changes with remarkable suddenness. Now we were in territory of the wildest character. High peaks, barren and wind-swept, loomed above us, and scrub lashed the sides of the cars. Against the-clear sky sharp eyes spied a deer, and in the wilderness at the roadside wild cattle occasionally stampeded away. Looping into gorges, climbing out again, dipping round corners, and trailing down chasm walls, the road pursues its hectic course. Without good cars beneatlvus this would have been a nightmare journey and without the truck, which relieved the cars of the luggage they would otherwise have had to carry on their running-boards,

■ it would have been finally and definitely impossible. Great gorges cross the road where the Ngaruroro and Taruarau Rivers flow in silent depths between uplifted ranges, and the climbs from out' these river-beds are stupendous. Gentle Annie, where many a car has met its doom, was evidently named by a humorist. As I sat beside the driver of the truck I could have tossed a penny from beneath my feet into the chattering waters of the Ngaruroro. Sheer rock faces drop into the stream from the edge of the road, and mere man feels a very tiny speck in the scheme of the genral vast arrangement. RUAPEHU IN VIEW Haying camped in the gorge of the Taruarau, which is a wild and lonely place indeed, we went on next, day to Moawhango. More heavy hill work meant no trouble at all to the gallant fleet of Chevrolets. They were now three, another having brought friends from Tangiwai to meet us. Over the remaining 50 miles of uplands we wound in a stately procession, with the long ragged line of Ruapehu’s crest visible over the mountain tops to our right. Where a dark line crossed the plateau, on which sheep were grazing—for we were now In the neighbourhood of Otupae station —flowed the head waters of the Rangitikei in a deep and peaceful valley. Beyond was Erewhon, said to be the highest homestead in the North Island, and after that we passed a succession of pleasant farmsteads until Moawhango Crossing was | reached.

This, with the private chapel owned by the Batley family, and its telephone post adorned with a multitude of road signs, meant the end of our pioneering. The trip over many miles of lonely and often little-known roads had been a wonderful experience. We had traversed mountain spur and riverbed, the shingle beach of Lake Taupo and the rocky foreshore of Cape Kidnappers, and our most valued servant all through was the truck, which never jibbed at anything, and was a bedsitting room, dining table, luggage van, and an economical means of transport —all of them rolled into one.