Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, OVER THE RANGES, by DAVID MCKEE WRIGHT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

OVER THE RANGES, by                    
First Line: Says allan machardy, 'beyond the high ranges there's land for the men
Last Line: "is, ""may god help him then!"
Subject(s): Deception; Mountain Climbing; Travel; Journeys; Trips


SAYS Allan MacHardy, "Beyond the high ranges there's land for the men that first
track their way through—
Sheep-country in plenty: Ben Pemberton told me of miles of the good open
tussocks he knew.
I'm on for the venture—say, Jack, you'll be with me; we stockmen should go
where a digger has been!
A run like a county, a lease for the asking, and Scott and MacHardy can laugh at
the Queen."

I looked at the ranges, the white snowy ranges, all faint in the sunshine and
backed by the blue;
No white man had crossed them but one blow-hard digger, and all that he told us
might not be too true.
I saw the black gorges, the grey shingle faces, the river with death in its blue
foamy track,
And I said, "I'll be with you—we'll face it tomorrow, though it's odds on
it, Allan, we never come back."

He laughed. "Well, we'll chance it! We've chanced it too often to show the white
feather and sit here and rot!
There's only one dying, and if it must happen, I'd as soon have a grave on the
mountains as not."
I looked at him speaking, the tall, active figure, the heavy brown hair and the
dare-devil eyes,
And I thought, "It's a rough kind of course that will stay him when he's once in
the saddle and goes for the prize!"

At daybreak we started; he rode the big chestnut—old Taipo we called
him—and I rode the bay!
Through the deep scrubby gullies we pushed to the open and out on the desert of
river-bed grey;
Then into the gorge of the wild Makaruru, where the hills were like walls
climbing up to the sky,
And the flax bushes bloomed on the points of the ledges, and a ribbon of blue
was the stream rushing by.

All day we rode onward—slow work on the boulders, and rough on the horses,
and worse on the men;
The shrill keas cried from the rocks high above us and the wild echoes answered
again and again.
The night came on stealing, black shadows grew round us, the river roared
louder, the ducks whistled by,
And the starlight came brightening the crest of the mountain far on to the
westward against the pale sky.

We tethered the horses where stray tussocks whitened, boiled the billy and
feasted on damper and tea,
Then rolled in our blankets where shingle seemed softer, and slept the good
sleep of the tired and the free.
We were up with the light and once more in the saddle; the valley grew rougher
each mile that we rode;
The walls shut in darker and higher and wilder, and nearer and nearer the
mountain peak showed.

We left the two horses, they couldn't go farther—we knew we could trust
them to find their way back;
Before was the peak and a wild rocky saddle, and over the saddle we knew was our
track.
The hot sun above us, the glare of the snow-drifts, the toil and the thirst of
the long weary climb!
It was no picnic party—far rougher, I fancy, than what it appears in the
swing of a rhyme!

But we got there by evening—MacHardy was leader—I followed him blindly
the best way I could;
It's long since it happened, but still I could shudder to think of the neck-
breaking places we stood.
We crossed the rough ice, and we clung to the faces of rocks that would crumble
away in your hand,
But before it was dark we were safe on the saddle, and saw the dim hills of the
fair promised land.

We lay in the lee of a rock that had fallen far down from a cliff that ran up
out of sight;
It was colder than winter, the wind whistled through us, and sleep didn't give
us a visit that night.
But the dawn came in splendour, the snow-peaks were flaming, the mist was below
like a great rolling sea,
Till it lifted and showed us the land we were seeking, the broad smiling waste
where our station would be!

It was rough climbing down, but we laughed at the danger, with luck on our side
we would keep our necks sound,
And we talked on the edge of a hundred-foot chasm of the name we should give to
the run we had found.
Then we reached the safe level, the bush and the tussocks, the broad rolling
slopes where our flocks would be fed;
It was Paradise—"Paradise Peaks" we had named it—and we shouted the
name to the rocks overhead!

Could that be a cooee? and Allan looked startled; we gazed in the way that the
shout seemed to be.
A dog and a rider—"There's someone before us!" said Allan, and turned in
his wonder to me.
"Lost your road, boys?" The shepherd rode up to us smiling. "You ain't the first
chaps that got lost on this run.
The homestead lies yonder, just down in the hollow—the Hazelmere
station"—we knew we were done!

There's smiling sheep country beyond the white ranges, the ranges that Allan and
I battled through,
The white snowy ranges all faint in the sunlight, beyond the black gorges and
backed by the blue.
There's a grog-drinking digger called Pemberton somewhere—I've asked for
him often of wandering men,
It's "Look out!" if I meet him; if Allan drops on him—well, all I can say
is, "May God help him then!"





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