How Your House Comes to Auckland

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 300, 10 March 1928, Page 26

How Your House Comes to Auckland

BULLOCK TEAMS DRIVEN BY DOGS BRING TIMBER FROM THE BUSH COUNTRY

(Written for THE SUN by PETER DRAX) ■N this mechanical age in which steam has ousted sail from the seas and the übiquitous motor has driven horses from the roads, it was refreshing and restful to strike a bit of country, just 50 miles from Auckland, where tractors are unknown and so many span of bullocks replace both horse and engine-power. From the foothills, where tea-tree on the heights alternated with tree fern and palm in the gorges, a figure appeared, riding a stout pony. On either hand was heard the crashing of startled bullocks, accompanied by high-pitched barks, the cracking of a stock whip and shouts of encouragement from the teamster.

Down they came, lumbering through the breast-high tangle of grass and tea-tree, on to the clay road by the side of which was ranged a rough, four-wheeled timber wagon, and on the ground yokes and chains. The eighteen beasts obediently lined up in pairs. The teamster dismounted and, leaving his pony to roam unchecked, set about the heavy job of yoking up. The dogs, glad of respite, retired to the shade of the bush. For some time the business of inspanning proceeded without event, if slowly, when two beasts in the centre began to play up. It was then that I realised that every bullock had a name, and a definite position in the team. Two, Lion and Billy, had decided that things were going much too quietly, and that that morning they would not work together; the result of some little disagreement of the night before, ot perhaps because I was watching, and an audience, even of the smallest, should receive its due in full measure.

In a language as strange as Arabic the teamster gave them his views on the subject, and called on Bob, a small black and white collie, to assist him. Bob barked and nipped their legs. Other bullocks which had already been yoked up forced the unruly pair and the teamster still talked in Arabic. As soon as the yokes were in place Lion and Billy decided that that was that and gave no more trouble. They were philosophers in a way, it seemed, and now, obedient to command, the long line of beasts moved off and, turning, stopped with the wheelers in position by the pole of the wagon. I offered my assistance, which was courteously refused. “They don’t know you—that’s the way of it. Might get ’em scared. Anyway, here’s Mr. Johnson. He’ll give us a hand with the pole; thanks all the same.” From a cloud of dust emerged another team with a load of three giant

logs—kauri, rimu aud kahikatea. The teamster in charge shouted an order, applied a screw brake to his wagon, and came over to help with the pole. We left our friend to make his way up to the hills for his load, and followed Mr. Johnson, who was bound for the creek a mile or two farther on. As a restful means of progression and as a lelief to the “concrete scorchers” of Auckland, let me recommend a walk behind a bullock team. Just to watch the slow, deliberate lift of their hooves and gentle swaying is to realise their hidden power, and to observe the teamster handle his charges is to learn a new meaning of the words patience and understanding. For it is by no means as easy a job as it sounds, bullock driving, nor exactly a lazy one, despite its speed—or lack of speed. When one thinks that all is going well the keen eye of the teamster will have noticed that Sam is not pulling his weight, and then a sharp command and a crack of the stockwhip, and Sam mends his ways. Invariably is this sufficient. I have never actually seen the stock whip used.

Half an hour later we reached the creek. High up on its banks were piled logs of different woods, awaiting the launch, when they would be rolled over the bank and towed down to the sea. Here a tug would be waiting and the logs secured at one end to the tow rope, forming these long rafts which are such a common sight in Auckland Harbour. At the mill they are arranged in pens, and there allowed to season—sometimes for years. From the slipway of the mill the owner picks out his requirements, a wire is secured and the logs are hauled up by a winch to the screaming saw, which completes the destruction of what was once a thing of beauty and of strength, and disgorges planks, weatherboards, floor, rafters to order . . . with which your house is built and furnished.

Give thanks then, as you journey through the country where only scattered, blackened stumps testify to what has been a noble forest, that foresight and feeling have saved such as the Waipoua Forest and the Trounson Park from destruction.