Molesworth: the very name is romantic to anyone interested in New Zealand farming.
Molesworth is the biggest farm property in the country, nearly half a million acres of high country at the head of the Awatere, Clarence and Wairau Valleys. The property runs only cattle from the homestead in the head of the Awatere almost through to Hanmer Springs in Canterbury. They have about 2500 mostly Angus cows, roughly 700 heifers and around 1100 steers, although in those days the cattle were mostly Herefords. It’s a vast operation in delicate, erodible country with the high altitude meaning long winters and a relatively short growing season. The homestead is at 1000 metres above sea level, and most of the property is higher than that.
The property originally ran thousands of sheep, but a combination of rabbits and the harsh environment saw the last private landowners walk off in the 1930s. The government took over and the iconic Bill Chisholm managed the great run, with cattle only, for the next 40 years, gradually restoring the eroded land. Over those years, hundreds of young musterers from all over New Zealand spent one or more seasons at Molesworth, always a point of interest on their curriculum vitae, although they never called it that.
Run by Lands and Survey, then Landcorp, until about 2000, the property is now owned by the Department of Conservation, who lease it to Landcorp, the government-owned corporate farming company.
Because of my time spent on farms, my Agricultural Science degree from Lincoln College, and my professional interest in soil conservation, when I arrived in Marlborough in 1979 I was well aware of Molesworth and its history. Best of all, it was in the Graham Vet Club’s area, and I knew that sooner or later I would get there.
As an aside, one of the vets I worked with at the Vet Club was hard-working, but at times vague and distracted. Dave was once taking a call from Molesworth. They wished to book in pregnancy testing for 600 cows. The call book for farm work always sat on the front counter, and at the same time a client came to the counter and wanted to discuss her sick cat. Dave, interrupted, talked patiently to the woman, then as she left wrote in the day book ‘pregnancy test 600 cats’. It caused much hilarity in the practice, not least at the imaginary scene as he tried to hold and rectally examine each cat.
I apologise for the digression.
I had been at the Graham Vet Club for about three months when my chance to visit the famous cattle station arrived. Molesworth had had a problem with fertility in their cows for some time, and in particular, low calving percentages in their heifers, the maiden three-year-old cows. After a lot of diagnostic work, the vets who preceded me at the Vet Club had discovered vibriosis, a disease of the genital tract of bulls and cows. At thetime I believe (although I’m open to contradiction) this was the only property in New Zealand with vibriosis, a bacterial condition caused by Campylobacter fetus fetus.
A programme of total vaccination of heifers against the disease had been initiated after discussion with the management and with Lands and Survey staff. It was our job to do the vaccinations.
I believe that date was 8 February 1980. In New Zealand, this is the time for the best weather. It is nearly always settled, with large, stationary high pressure zones sitting over the country for days on end.
Marlborough is in a rain shadow, surrounded on all sides by mountain ranges which take the rainfall before the dry winds sweep over the province. Every second year is a drought year here and at times these droughts are serious, going on for several years. As a result, our farmers are careful, conservative people who have learned from hard experience to keep stocking rates down and conserve what feed they have in autumn. With the droughts can come extreme temperatures. Indeed, the hottest temperature ever recorded in New Zealand is still listed as 42.4°C at the Jordan, a property halfway to Molesworth, up the Awatere Valley.
On the day in question, it was going to be hot. A big high pressure system was sitting fair on top of the province as I drove to Marlborough’s small Omaka aerodrome. I was being flown to Molesworth by pilot Dave Bishop, in the station’s own beautiful red Piper Cub, the best bush strip aircraft for many years.
We took off in lovely conditions and headed up the Waihopai and Avon Valleys, and then through the saddle at the head of the Avon into the upper Awatere. As we went, Dave laconically told me about the properties we were flying over. He knew them all and the people who farmed them and it was a fantastic education on Marlborough for me. Twenty minutes up the Awatere, we flew over the Molesworth homestead, but we were heading westward to Tarndale, a major outpost of Molesworth.
As we came in towards the strip, I could see the cattle yards, full of hundreds of heifers milling around. Men on horses were bringing the last mobs in and then tying the horses up in the shade of some willows. It was very, very hot as I climbed down from the little aeroplane. It was my first meeting with Don Reid, who was in his first full season as manager. Don had worked on the property for some years and had married the boss’s daughter, Anne Chisholm. Whether that had been influential in his new appointment, I wouldn’t know, but Don was stepping into the very big boots of Bill Chisholm, and it was seen as a signal honour for a young man of 32 to be only the second manager since the government took over the property 45 years earlier. Don subsequently became something of an icon himself on the property, and remains a friend of mine.
He was a very good, disciplined and highly organised manager, who ran a tight ship. He also has an excellent sense of humour, something I only uncovered in later years as I came to know him. But on that first meeting, he seemed stern and serious, and was clearly going to be watching the new vet closely. I got the impression mistakes would be pointed out quickly, and not tolerated.
Also at Tarndale that day was Bill Chisholm himself, along with an old friend, a retired judge from Wellington, but they were up at the cookhouse and were in charge of food.
As I slipped my overalls over my shorts and shirt, I could feel the mid-morning heat already burning on my back. It was going to be a screamer. Don and his men all had big hats, Aussie Akubras, standard stuff on Molesworth, but I hadn’t brought a hat at all.
I unpacked my first vaccine pack from the chilly bin and loaded the multidose syringe. From memory, you could get 20 doses in the syringe. The job wasn’t difficult. The men pushed eight or 10 heifers into a long race and I walked alongside, vaccinating under the skin in front of the shoulder. It was important to be precise and accurate as the vaccine was expensive, and the station needed their cows to be protected from the disease. You couldn’t afford to miss one.
After two hours in the heat, I was panting. It really was hot, the noon sun beating mercilessly on my unprotected head.
‘Dinner time,’ said Don, and after emptying the vaccinated cows from the race, I joined the seven or eight men in the walk up to the large hut at Tarndale. A welcome surprise followed. Two flagons of cold beer were produced, and we all sat outside the cookhouse, yarning and rehydrating for 15 or 20 minutes.
Suddenly there came a call from inside. ‘Lunch is up’ yelled old Bill, and immediately disappeared back inside. In an instant the staff, including Don, were up and racing inside. I followed carefully, not wanting to be pushy on my first day on a new property.
The scene inside was Dante’s Inferno. The cookhouse, a hundred years old, and built of the original cob — a mixture of mud and straw — was well insulated. It could be hot or cool as you wished. The problem was the roaring open fire in the old fireplace at the end of the building. On the fire, hanging from big billy hooks were a large camp oven and another great and ancient pot. It was very hot anywhere near the fire. A long table ran the length of the cookhouse towards the fire.
And where was the only spare seat? Right at the end of the table, right beside the fire. Two rows of grinning faces welcomed me into the building.
‘You sit there, Mr Pete,’ growled Bill, and there was no choice.
Tradition dies hard in the back country and Molesworth is no exception. Lunch consisted of boiled mutton — ram, I believe — boiled spud and boiled cauliflower, all piping hot from the fire.
I sweated my way through that meal, making polite conversation when talked to, and listening to the high country men talking their own lingo.
It must have been 50°C in there, and by the time it was time to go back to work, I was wringing wet and whacked. It was a relief to get outside, where the mid-thirties seemed positively cool, and I discarded my overalls for the afternoon session. Later, as I packed up and climbed back into the Cub for the trip home, Don shook my hand.
‘Nice to meet you. Hope you’ve enjoyed your first trip to Molesworth.’
Was there a faint glint of humour in the eyes? I never found out but some years later when I was fishing with Don, he well remembered that day. ‘Bloody hot, wasn’t it?’ he said.