Kids into Books: The Lies of Harry Wakatipu

Suddenly the Hopuruahine was full of visitors. Possum trappers from the Southern Urerewas came hissing into the hut for a brew. The Dry Creek hermit limped in with one big toe in his hand. As I sewed it back on, he reckoned it had been bitten off by a mosquito but I couldn't see Wiki.

Disoriented surveyors called in for directions. Wildlife rangers stumbled in led by confused Labrador dogs.

Garrulous high country musterers appeared with silent eye-dogs. Scarred pig hunters with loquacious holding-dogs. Even a couple of Forestry timber cruisers strayed out of the pines on the Kaingaroa Plain and ended up at the Hopuruahine.

We'd just get back from fly-camping, and the hut would begin to fill with strong silent men. Gumdiggers from the kauri forests of the Northern Ureweras, with climbing irons buckled on bare feet; moonshiners from the High Huiaruas whose whiskey is so unstable it explodes below ten thousand feet; whalers from the western end of Lake Waikaremoana where they live in snow houses and marry seals.

*Tomorrow: See Kids Into Books in the weekend Herald's TimeOut section.