Saturday, March 30, 2024

PULPIT: A stationhouse yarn

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Salmon fishing in the braided Canterbury rivers did not come by chance. The Acclimatisation Society introduced smelt where they quickly established and now, decades later, we find it difficult to think of the Rakaia and Rangitata without thinking of salmon. Fish traps are set by rangers in the upper reaches of the rivers to catch adult salmon. They strip the roe and fertilise the eggs by ‘milking’ the ‘jack’ fish so that new spawning grounds can be established in yet other streams.
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Always, in the early part of the season the condition of the salmon traps is excellent, the fish still fit and angry. Always, station hands, tired of skinny mutton, give a good deal of thought to a variety in their diet when the salmon runs begin.

There are heavy fines if anyone gets caught raiding fish traps. Our station hands knew this, but it somehow added spice to the activity.

Pitchforks, heated and suitably doctored in the smithy shop and a spotlight torch were the only tools required to persuade 15 good-sized salmon to ‘leap’ at the invitation to tea on a chosen autumn midnight. The fish were hung in the slaughterhouse to await daylight and the filleting knife.

At breakfast, the routine of station life was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of the Acclimatisation Society ranger; a red-faced man inclined to be wider around the waist than the chest. The ranger had long suspected his trap was being raided at irregular intervals, but no one could have imagined him getting up to seek his quarry this early in the morning.

“Any of you fellas been at the fish trap last night?” he asked. He did not expect an honest answer.

Fortunately, most of the men had their mouths full at the moment he fired his question. It was also lucky that Tony, the cook, had his back to the ranger, which hid his consternation.

Tony, who seldom left the homestead to deal with suicidal cattle or obtuse sheep, runaway tractors or flash floods, kept his brain alive with betting on the gee gees whenever he could at an occasional race meeting or show week in Christchurch. He was a gambler by nature and now an opportunity presented itself.

Putting on his best greasy please-the-boss smile, Tony slipped a couple of eggs and rashers of bacon onto a warm plate and beamed at the ranger. 

“Sit down, sir,” he said hospitably, “you’re just in time for breakfast and when we’re finished we’ll show you where we’ve hidden your fish. Isn’t it too bad, boys,” he continued, beaming around the startled faces, “he has us dead to rights this time”.

Turning back to the ranger, he warmed to the topic: “I bet you never thought you’d catch us red-handed, sir, you’ve hit the jackpot today. Your boss will be pleased, my word, yes, you’ll be the toast of the society, champion poacher-catcher.”

Here he threw a theatrical hand in the air as if in royal salute.

“Sit down, eat up man, and then we’ll take you down to the slaughterhouse where the fish are,” he said.

There are no bones in eggs but notwithstanding that, several musterers choked silently on their soft fried yokes. But momentary stupefaction gave them time to register the outsider ‘horse’ that Tony backed. One by one they glanced at the ranger and grinned at him, shaking their heads almost imperceptibly as they turned back to their bacon, eggs, toast and tea. Hector, head shepherd and champion fish-forker, pulled back a bentwood chair and invited the ranger to sit in honour at the head of the table. 

“Have a seat, sir,” he said deferentially.

The ranger was stunned into silence. He had been certain these men were culpable, but instead of sullen looks or hot denial, they were freely admitting their guilt. For a moment or two there was nothing but the clatter of dishes and scraping of knives.

‘Down in the slaughterhouse?’ he said as much to himself as anyone. 

“Yes, sir,” replied Tony with a rueful smile.

Looking around the table, the ranger thought he detected suppressed smirks on the musterer’s faces. These men were not guilty. They were taking the Mickey. He felt a sudden embarrassment at the menacing thoughts he had harboured against them as he drove up the gorge that morning. Now, the hot breakfast looked good, it smelled good and, as he discovered a moment after the first mouthful, it was good.

The atmosphere relaxed. The men returned into their usual quiet chat until Hector raised his voice to announce the day’s work. Taking his cue from Tony, he added that they should return a little earlier tonight because there was “trap” salmon for tea and they would need to go out again after dark to restock. Then, turning to Tony, he said firmly, “Don’t forget to take our visitor down to the slaughterhouse and show him the 15 salmon hanging there.”

The musterers chuckled audibly as they shuffled out of the cookhouse and, warmed with hot food and hot tea, the ranger joined in their merriment.

In the way that senior men do when they have managerial matters to discuss, Hector and the ranger, sauntered shoulder to shoulder out to the ranger’s truck, deep in conversation about the onset of winter and the low water table for this time of year. Without so much as a glance towards the slaughterhouse, the ranger drove off. 

“It must have been those bastards from Erewhon,” he mused as he bumped through the station gate.

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