May 9, 2002

Plains Folk: The Boundary Hut

Tom Isern, Professor of History
North Dakota State University

OK, my maps and gear are a lot better than my vehicle for this expedition. I'm starting up the Thomson Gorge equipped with topo maps and heritage survey inventories and the best digital gizmos in this country. Of course, it's a pretty small country, New Zealand. And so is this rental car, which is what has me worried.

This segment of my annual junket to the grasslands of New Zealand takes me over the Dunstan Range via the route trod by a hardy and eccentric Scot, the surveyor John Turnbull Thomson. My first stop after departing the Omakau Hotel is the junction where I leave the improved road and set out across a series of sheep stations.

The holders of the first station have posted a hand-lettered sign intended to keep lost or curious travelers from disturbing their peace. "Please leave the gates as you find them," it says, "many of them are boundary gates. There are about 21 gates (so we hope you have someone to open them for you). This is not a shortcut. It is rough in some places and horrible on windy days. Enjoy your trip!"

Really, the track isn't so bad. It is switchbacks and hairpins and sharp dropoffs and no room for error or backing up, and there are at least 21 gates, and about six shallow fords, but the scenery alone is worth the trouble. As is the solitude, for this is a road less traveled. Where it gets rough is when I leave the road.

My information is there is a boundary hut near the top of the track, not far from the road. I see it clearly on my map. It should be in plain sight across the grasslands, maybe a half-mile away on my left, about a thousand feet above me. Where is it?

A boundary hut was what we on the plains of North America called a line shack. During the summer high-country grazing season a shepherd and his dogs would be stationed at the hut to turn back sheep inclined to wander onto the neighboring station. The shepherd likely was a lank Scot, his passage from the homeland having been paid by the English station owner, who would pay extra if the Scot brought his own border collies.

I start up the slope on faith. This is tussock grassland, and not rank, because it has been burned during the past season; the cores of the tussocks still show char. The other grasses and clovers between the tussocks are lush, though; it's fine range.

As I climb higher I leave Indian summer behind and ascend into winter. Sleet patters my hat. I have on good boots, but snow soon accumulates, making treacherous footing.

Wait, there's the hut. Or could that be it? It is nothing but a crevice in the schist rock, with a flat rock laid atop the crack, and a hole left in the back for smoke to draw.

Approaching, I see that to get to the hut, I must crouch and pass through a natural arch of stone--like going through some petrified garden trellis-gate. Passing through the front rock garden of the boundary keeper, I take shelter where he did, the first time some 140 years ago.

Peering through his front entry, the scene is spectacular--down to Thomson Creek, across to another ridge of the Dunstans, snow sifting down. Utterly pure air, and not a sound other that the drip off my hatbrim. Good God, what manner of man made his living keeping watch here?

Believe me, I spend plenty of time in stark places and have no aversion to lone landscapes, but still, I am stilled. This is not some contrived wilderness experience. This is the daily life, year in and year out, of a man exiled 12,000 miles from his native land. I hold my hat in my hands for a few minutes.

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Source: Tom Isern, (701) 799-2941, tom@plainsfolk.com 
Editor: Tom Jirik, (701) 231-9629, tjirik@ndsuext.nodak.edu 

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