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Transcript of Hugh’s 1950s radio talks, # 4
In the very early days, the only method of transporting the logs was by water. This meant that only the very handiest of timber was worked. That is to say, only trees growing near a gully or stream would be taken. The logs would be cut, sniped, and probably barked, and shot downhill through the green bush into the stream or main gully.
Other methods were the rolling road, skidded road, dams, or building a chute.
The chute was made from two logs set 3 to 5 feet apart, just above ground level, and a third set between them just below ground level. Each set of three logs was notched into what we call a sill. The logs used were generally Kauri Rika. Rika, of course, is the name for the young Kauri. The Rika is a beautiful tree, a tall narrow cone shape, quite different from a mature tree with its crown of branches and long thick clean bole.
But I’m getting away from the chute I was telling you about.
Long Rikas were set in the ground, as I’ve told you, in the form of a cradle for the log to lie in. Set after set carried on in that formation for as far as you could get a fall. When a barked log would be jacked into the chute, it was amazing just how fast and far it would travel.
Now the rolling road. This was anything up to 30 feet wide with all stumps cut down to ground level. A lot of loose skids would be laid on the ground running in the direction the timber was to travel. Logs were then rolled along the road with jacks, usually two men to each log.
The bushman’s timber jack was an indispensable part of his equipment. They were made at Price’s foundry in Thames, weighed approximately 70lb and were capable of lifting seven tons.
Another method in the very early days was squaring the logs to a proud edge. This served two purposes: it disposed of most of the sap timber, which had no value in those days, and when the timber was loaded onto the ships as it was in bulk, a much bigger load could be carried. Not only because the useless sap was removed, but because the log was now squared. Squaring to a proud edge meant cutting the log to a square shape until there was no bark showing on the four corners—in other words, the four corners were sharply squared.
All this preparation was done at the stump when the square method was used. Before we had bullocks, these logs were jacked to the creek.
With the advent of the bullock teams, more accessible trees could be got out. This called for a general system of reading to the whole area to be worked. The usual way was one main road right through the area to the landing on the riverbank, with innumerable side roads out of the bush to the main road. The side roads were known as breaking-out roads, and the main one was invariably the skidded road.
The breaking-out roads did not call for much engineering as they were really just glorified tracks cut through the bush. The most essential points were to make them as straight as possible and cut all stumps to ground level. The skidded road did entail quite a bit of engineering and a lot of work. In building it the main points to avoid unnecessary bends and to find the best grade possible—to have as little uphill pulling as possible.
The skids were round saplings from 6 inches to a foot in diameter, and about 9 feet long. These were laid across the road, slightly embedded in the ground to keep them in position, and about 6 to 8 feet apart. Care had to be taken in laying these to ensure they formed a true running surface on top, similar to railway sleepers. These skids were what the catamaran travelled over, carrying the logs.
In going round corners the skids had to be extra long to allow the tail of the catamaranto swing out when turning the corner. On the bank side—that is, the upside of the road—there would be short pieces cut from the skids, driven into the ground, and standing up against the bank in front of the skid. These were called bobbies and were used to prevent the catamaran from jamming against the bank of the road.
The skids were also set on a slope at corners, slightly higher on the outside ends.
The catamaran, more commonly known as the cat, would be anything up to 30 feet long and made with two runners (which were usually rata), and a bolster about 5 feet long bolted across the runners at each end. A short chain with a ring in the centre and a hook on each end was hooked onto both runners. This was called the bridle chain, and it was into this that the drag chain was fastened for the team to haul by.
You may have heard of greasing the skids. Well, this was a job on its own and usually fell to the new chum, more or less as an initiation. Fat was melted in a kerosene tin over a fire and put on the skids with a rag mop on a long stick. The new chum would go along ahead of the bullocks to rub the hot fat on. This, of course, did not appeal to the bullock driver because the team, walking over the skids, pushed a lot of the fat off and put mud on, thereby destroying a lot of the value of the grease, which meant harder work and furious adjectives on the part of the driver. However, it did not take long for the greaser to learn the art of standing on the front of the cat itself to apply the grease on the skids ahead as fast as he could reach them. That meant the bullocks walked over the greased skids. The catamaran travelled at a slow walking pace.
Having got the logs to the creek or main gully, as the case may be, the stream may have been too small, even in flood time, to float the logs out. This necessitated the building of a dam, which, when filled with water and released, would actually wash or drive the logs downstream, where they could then be floated away on floodwater. Dams were also built where bullocks could not be used, as in high broken country.
The building of a dam was a specialist’s job, having consideration for the holding capacity required, the nature of the ground, the actual span, the pressure, stresses, and timbers required. However, these points presented no serious difficulty to such men as Big Jim Sutherland and Kemp (both of ), my brother Robert McCarroll and Hugh Sutherland (father of Big Jim). We had another champion, Peter—oh, I can’t think of his name—but he was an Irishman and built five dams in the Tangahui bush.
Hugh Sutherland built a huge pile dam for us on the Taipuha stream, the only one I ever saw or heard of. It was a great dam, and drove 10 million feet of timber out. Naturally, very heavy timber was required, and it would be either pit-sawn or squared with an axe.
The gate in the centre, which opened to release the water, would be one of two types—that is, either a solid structure or of loose planks. The gate would be about 12’ x 16’. When the dam was built and the gate closed, a simple but unique system of bolsters and bars would hold it in position.
When the time came to trip the dam—that is, open the gate—it was simply a matter of knocking one end of the key bar out from behind a cleat, and a most spectacular scene occurred. Logs crushed and crowded through the opening, and the water boiled angrily as it roared and seethed, full of logs, down the gully.
While the dam was filling, it was inevitable that quite a bit of leakage would occur through crevices in the planks. Where possible, strips of wood would be driven into the openings, but the final sealing was done by tipping into the water a quantity of the special leaf mould and vegetation found around the roots of the Kauri tree, commonly known as Bukau. The force of the water would drive this into the cracks and seams, where it would swell and stay.
As a lot of dams only filled when heavy rain was on, it was not at all unusual for a couple of men to go out in the middle of the night to do this job of packing. The only light would be a candle in a bottle. The only reward was perhaps the privilege of tripping the dam in the early hours of the morning.
The first dam I ever saw was well over 50 years ago. It was what was called a sill framed dam, built by a man called Peter Burns in what was known as Hewlett’s Bush at Mareretu. My brother Robert pit-sawed the timber for it and helped with the building. It was to get logs out into a main valley with a larger stream in it, where normal floodwaters would float the logs away in flood time.
It was just a matter of waiting for a flood, and then a gang of perhaps five or six men would start off, rafting the logs right away to tidal water. In my experience, this was a two to three weeks’ job, and the distance travelled would be as much as 100 miles by the stream.
Usually, a flat-bottomed punt was used to carry food, bedding, change of clothes, a kettle, axe, jacks, and pike poles. The last through trip I did was a small lot of about 150 logs, and two of us did the job. Instead of a boat, we had three small logs tied together with wire as a raft. It was hard work, long hours, and wet all day long.
A night, the camp was built very quickly. One pole was tied across between two trees and other poles leaned up against this one on the wind side, and the tarpaulin stretched over the poles, making a lean-to. Then a huge fire was built in front to dry clothes, cook the spuds, and make the tea. On the coldest night, the heat from the fire kept us warm under the lean-to. The food for this trip consisted of meat, potatoes, bread—till it got too stale—ship’s biscuits (the old hard cabin bread), butter, tinned milk, and jam. It was necessary to carry enough food for the trip, as there was no way of getting anything on the river.
If it was a good flood and did not fall very quickly, the timber would travel fairly well, but with thousands of logs in the water, there would be continual jams to be broken up and the logs restarted. This would go on all day. Some logs would be left high and dry on the top of the flood; these had to be jacked into the creek. It was quite usual to meet up with another gang of men with timber, who had come out of some other stream into the main river, and by the time tidal water was reached, there would be up to 20 men with thousands of logs.
All logs were branded at the first landing; this is where they were dispatched by floodwater. The owner’s initials were the usual mark, sunk about an eighth of an inch into the end of the log. Now here’s a strange thing: people have been known to cut 6 inches off the end of a log and change the brand, yet the original mark could still be seen! The log number, its length and girth were also marked on it.
When the logs reached tidal water, they were taken to sawmills in various ways. My experience was always on the Manganui river [incredibly meandering course!], and at the mouth where it ran into the Wairoa river. The stream was boomed, and the tugboats came there and made the logs up into rafts, and towed them away to the sawmills.