Jane and I recently spent a wonderful and fascinating three and a half weeks in Vietnam as we made our way to Amsterdam to catch up with our middle son who works and lives there with his partner.

That first day in Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC) is quite a revelation, as any Kiwi who has visited will tell you.

You must see the volume of traffic to believe it.

We 5 million New Zealanders spread ourselves around 268,000 km², whereas the 98 million Vietnamese cosy up in their 332,000 km².

They have about 60 million scooters and motorbikes and it feels like the 10 million residents of HCMC have more than their fair share.

At some point on your first day, you can no longer just keep circumnavigating your own block but must grasp the nettle and determine to cross the road.

It is wall-to-wall scooters and cars, and they don’t stop for anything.

With your nearest and dearest gripping your arm, you step from the relative safety of the pavement into this ceaseless and relentless flow of traffic.

Drummed into your brain by every tourist that has gone before is that you walk evenly and do not falter.

I found looking into the eyes of this torrent of oncoming humanity worked well and much like the Red Sea parting for Moses, they deftly and subtly changed their bearing and magically flowed around us as we crossed.

Over those weeks, the only injuries I sustained were finger bruise marks on my right arm.

It would not be uncommon to see three and sometimes a family of four on a scooter and all manner of goods including livestock being transported.

There appeared few road rules, but it worked well.

Their death rate per capita is half that of ours, so who am I to criticise?

There is a lot of rubbish about, although as you head north towards the more communist adhered regions, there is less, and the infrastructure is better.

Is this because of a different mindset or perhaps Hanoi doesn’t fund the south as well?

We were in Vietnam on April 30^, which is Reunification Day, and this year marked the 49th anniversary of the fall of Saigon in 1975 and the end of the Vietnam War.

Correction, the end of the American War, as they quite rightly refer to it; it had followed on from the French War and when the Chinese foolishly decided to have a lick in 1979, they call that, “the war against Chinese expansionism”.

The Vietnamese are polite and friendly but think twice about invading them – they are proud and tough bastards.

We were keen to see the impressive Ho Chi Minh in his funeral splendour in Hanoi but sadly that day he was not having anyone to visit.

He had requested a simple cremation, but his devoted and appreciative successors over- ruled his wishes and built him a massive mausoleum where he lies except for an annual excursion to Russia for a bit of sprucing up.

It doesn’t feel communist because rampant capitalism is everywhere you look as folk fill every niche to make a living.

The only footware I’m travelling with are an old pair of sneakers with a small hole in them, which I plan to wear out and then discard.

I was sitting at a table having a beer when before I knew it a fellow had my shoe off and was wanting to fix the hole. We had a tussle over the shoe before I got it back on, unrepaired.

After that, I always had my eyes out for the shoe repair men. They could spot the little hole from across the street and were always undoing my laces and fighting to fix the hole that I needed to get worse so that I felt my old companions had finally fulfilled their purpose and could be laid to rest. I’m still wearing them as I walk around Europe.

United States Air Force general Curtis LeMay was a great fan of bombing the hell out of other countries, hence the nickname “Bombs Away LeMay”. He threatened to bomb Vietnam back into the Stone Age and during the American War, the US dropped 5 million tons of bombs on Vietnam or more than twice the amount the US military dropped in all of World War II. As well as 400,000 tons of Napalm and 19 million gallons of herbicides for good measure.

This continues to cause suffering and deaths through unexploded ordinance and the genetic consequences flowing down the generations from the chemicals.

Recovering from this and the communist mismanagement meant that by 1990, with a per capita gross domestic product of $98, Vietnam was the third poorest country in the world.

It was receiving a lot of aid and importing rice.

It then followed China’s lead and rapidly moved to a market economy.

It’s now booming and feels like it despite the world’s recession. It is the 35th largest economy in the world by nominal GDP. 

With one of the world’s highest growth rates, it could become the 10th biggest economy by 2050.

No longer importing rice, it is the third biggest exporter behind India and Thailand.

This is an example of a remarkable turnaround and why we are building improved relationships with this remarkably resilient nation.

Vietnam is a stable vibrant country that New Zealand is keen to further increase trade with and of course visit.

Yet another example of the futility and pointlessness of war.

When the water started to flow into his mouth, Rod Vowles regained consciousness.

The Hawke’s Bay farmer was still half in the side-by-side, but he knew he needed to get out before he drowned.

His chin was on his chest and he couldn’t lift his head. He knew his neck must be broken.

But his legs and arms still worked so the spinal cord remained intact.

By holding his left shoulder blade with his right hand, he was able to prop his chin onto his bicep to raise his head enough to see how to get out of the bike and creek.

Once out of the water, his overriding concern was for his three dogs, but they didn’t appear to be under the side-by-side which miraculously was back on its wheels in the creek having tumbled into this steep gully.

Rod had survived a nasty accident, but he was still in serious trouble.

Cyclone Gabrielle had occurred two days earlier at dawn on Thursday, February 13 2023.

Rod’s farm is on the Pourere Road in the Tamumu district, only 3km from the Tukituki River. The farm had over 300mm in this brief event, which was less than the rainfall further north, but the intensity had damaged a lot of tracks, wrecked several nearby council bridges and taken out power and communications.

He had spent some of Friday on the bulldozer trying to open up track access around the farm, but it was slushy, and he hadn’t been able to clear a culvert.

Early Saturday morning after shifting lambs, Rod travelled back to the problematic culvert but decided he wouldn’t chance going through the water and slush that was still covering the track.

He reversed the side-by-side 20m up the track where it was a bit wider, and backed up to turn back in the direction he had come from.

He felt the vehicle going over the edge and instantly knew he was in serious trouble. He gripped the steering wheel with all his might.

It catapulted end over end several times, 50m down into the sharp gully, and that’s where he found himself some time later when he came to.

Once out of the side-by-side, Rod searched for the personal locator beacon that had been in the bike, but it was gone, probably down the creek.

His cell phone was in his pocket but wet having been in the water – and even if it had worked, there would be no service in this gully.

There was no sign of his beloved dogs, and their wellbeing was front of mind despite his pain and predicament.

Rod lives on his own and with no one else due at the farm for a couple of days. Even if they were on farm, they would likely assume he was out working and have no idea where he could be found. The bike wasn’t visible from the track.

He knew that if he was to survive this, it was going to be by his own means.

For now though, because of the pain and shock, all he could do was lie there in the gully and rest. He felt absolutely buggered, but he was unable to fall asleep and the day passed.

Later his heading dog reappeared and stayed with him, which soothed him and gave him great comfort.

It was hot all day and his legs got burnt but the sun dried him and kept him warm.

Then it was night and he slept fitfully through the night but didn’t get too cold.

Sunday morning dawned and it was coming up to 24 hours since his accident.

He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in that time.

Rod knew that if he stayed there he would die.

The slope he had crashed down was very steep and he wasn’t able to walk forward as he needed one arm to try to support his head due to the broken neck. However, he was never aware of the acute peril he was in with an unsupported and exposed spinal cord.

All he had to hand was a pigtail. 

“I couldn’t walk forward because of my neck. And so I had to sort of turn around and on my back and crawl up backwards.”

He finally got back to the track and found that now he was on level ground, he could walk – still clutching his shoulder to cradle his head – and be able to see where he was going.

It was extremely slow progress and required regular stops to sit and rest.

At the closed gate, he was relieved to find his other two dogs still safe and sound.

Rod estimates it took some five hours to travel the two or three kilometres from the accident site to his home.

Perhaps as an indication he still didn’t quite appreciate his dire situation, he stopped at the house to get the generator back on to keep the freezer operating while the power was off. He didn’t want his food to spoil.

Driving with difficulty because he struggled to keep his head up, he travelled the two or three kilometres to neighbours Sam and Chrissy Spencer and asked them to call an ambulance to fetch him from his house.

They took one look at the state he was in and pointed out the roads were impassable and that he would be wise to lie down while they got help.

Chrissy drove to cell phone service and within 30 minutes, the Lowe Corporation Rescue Helicopter arrived. Twenty-seven hours since the accident.

The doctor wanted to put a needle into Rod, but he resisted as he said he’d prefer the pain. He’s no fan of needles. The doctor asked him what his level of pain was and doubted that Rod’s estimate that it was five out of 10. After some negotiation, the doctor was finally able to give him some pain relief.

“You’d be the toughest old bastard I’ve ever met given you’ve got a broken neck,” was the doctor’s verdict on the flight to Wellington.

Another helicopter collected him from there and he was flown to Burwood in Christchurch.

What followed was months of recovery in Christchurch and then in Hawke’s Bay Hospital.

Rod has nothing but praise for the health system, ACC and all the folk involved in his rescue.

He is now very wary of backing his side-by-side anywhere and advocates that the personal locator beacon be worn on your belt.

“That’s been a good lesson for me – anyone who’s got a beacon make sure it’s on you. Physically on you.”

The seasons have been kind to the farm since the cyclone, although Rod says it’s getting harder to plan that it used to be.

“It’s been a funny season. We all thought there was going to be a drought. And look at us, we had a huge amount of rain yesterday. And it just it makes farming very difficult because your seasons are not what they used to be in my time. I’m pleased my son’s doing it now.”

In the movie Cast Away, the character played by Tom Hanks has only one companion for the four years he is stranded on an island.

Wilson the volleyball helps Hanks’ character get through the torment.

That heading dog was a great comfort to Rod during his own ordeal and the now-beloved pigtail sits in pride of place in the corner of his living room.

When Chris Ward saw that the heifer trapped in the hallway blocking their escape was now desperately thrashing around as it drowned, he decided it was time he and his house guest, Julie, got out of the house. 

They were crouching on the supertub in the laundry with water up to their necks and only a foot of headroom to the ceiling. Chris broke the window, the dog bolted out and was swept away with the current, then Julie and Chris followed.

Chris’s house is on Dartmoor Road beside the Tutaekuri River, two minutes’ drive from the iconic Puketapu Hotel in Hawke’s Bay.

He had retired from sheep and beef farming to this idyllic horticultural and lifestyle community 20 minutes from Napier.

Cyclone Gabrielle had brought heavy rain all night into the early hours of February 14 2023.

Chris was woken by the unusual sound of the toilet bubbling, and he looked out in the dark to see that there was water around the house.

He went out to get his hunterway Bucko from his kennel and by the time he got to him, the water was up to the dog’s neck.

He put the dog onto a couch on the deck and went back inside to wake Julie, then started putting items onto tables and benches.

He saw the couch floating off the deck with the dog and went back into the water while it was still dark and retrieved him.

The water was coming up very quickly and Chris realised that the river must have breached. 

He went back outside and was able to throw the two fox terriers and cat up onto the roof.

Back in the house he procrastinated for several minutes as he knew that during Bola water hadn’t flowed through the house.

He was waiting to see if it would begin to drop. 

There was so much silt in the water that the doors in the house became impossible to open or shut.

The water was pouring in through the cat flap. The pressure finally broke the ranchslider when it was halfway up and the level inside the house began rising rapidly.

Suddenly it was at chest height, and not long later at neck height.

It was still only 30 minutes since he had woken.

Dawn was breaking and they saw cattle being swept past the house in the flood.

One managed to find its footing on the raised gardens and climbed the house steps and came through the back door into the hallway, which Chris and Julie had already eyed as their escape route.

The 300kg heifer jammed in the hallway then began panicking as the water level rose.

They could hear Julie’s horses drowning in the nearby shed.

Chris was able to reach a meat cleaver in a cupboard and smashed the window.

Bucko swam straight out and was carried off. He turned up the following day “clean as a whistle”.

Chris yelled to Julie to ask if she could swim.

“Not for years,” she said.

“You’d better remember quick,” he told her.

 They now had to go under the water to get out the window. They both got mouthfuls of water – “It was like a spoonful of sand,” said Chris.

Outside he got her to climb onto his shoulders and onto the roof.

By the time it was his turn to get on the roof, the water had risen so rapidly, he was floating at gutter height and just slid onto it.

So there they were with two fox terriers and a cat on the ridgeline surrounded by a large, fast-flowing river. Chris noticed the cockroaches pouring out from under the garage roofing iron to take their chances in the current.

The water started moving up the roof and large trees were being swept past.

Then just as fast as it came up it started to go down.

He was to learn later that a dam had burst further upstream in the Mangaone River above the Puketitiri Bridge, which, like the Puketapu Bridge below them, was swept away in the deluge.

Chris got off the roof when the water was back to chest height and managed to find a ladder. He helped Julie and the animals off the roof.

They had to stay on the platform of the house because the mud and silt was like quicksand and impossible to get through without getting stuck.

Helicopters went over them throughout the day but without landing. Chris discovered the header tank in the ceiling still had some clean water in it and that evening was able to find uncontaminated sealed food in the water-filled deep freeze, which he heated over the resurrected BBQ with one burner still operating.

It was a surreal experience as they ate their dinner of bacon and eggs while gazing at the destruction around them.

That night was a grim experience as they attempted to sleep on wet couches with wet bedding. They were cold, filthy, and plagued by mosquitoes, along with headaches from lack of fluids.

Early next morning a helicopter from Dunedin signalled for them to move to an area where it could land but they both got stuck in the process.

Chris finally managed to extract himself by making like a starfish on the surface of the mud but the rescuer from the helicopter also became stuck when he got to Julie.

The helicopter hovered above those two and lowered a cable and eventually all three of them were extracted and delivered to Scott and Jenny Wedd’s home on a hill. They had no electricity or water and a lot of people to care for. 

Some hours later another chopper came for six of them and evacuated them, along with several dogs, to Hastings.

A few days later Chris met up with good Samaritan Vance Mackie, who dug his way with his digger to the house and with great difficulty extracted the dead heifer from the hallway.

Chris for now lives in a caravan park in Hastings and travels to his property as he puts it and his life back together.

The house is a write-off.

In Focus podcast | 9 February

This month marks one year since Cyclone Gabrielle ripped through the eastern North island. Farmers, growers and communities faced a massive recovery as they worked to rebuild infrastructure, supply chains and get the land back into productive shape.

For this week’s show, Bryan sits down with Rod Vowles, who farms just east of Waipawa a few kilometres from the Tukituki River. His story of survival is astonishing.

Then, Karen Morrish from Apples and Pears NZ to see how Hawke’s Bay growers are faring as the harvest gets under way.

And, Federated Farmers national board member Sandra Faulkner shares how Tairāwhiti farmers are getting on up the coast.

Harvie and Chrissie Beetham live on the hills looking down into the Esk Valley in Hawke’s Bay.

During the afternoon of February 13 2023, Cyclone Gabrielle began to bring in heavy rain.

Their power went off, so Harvey got a generator going for the evening. 

It heavily rained all night and in the hour before dawn, at around 5am, Harvey’s cell phone sounded a Civil Defence alert.

He drove down to have a look at State Highway 5, then returned for another look once dawn made it a bit safer to be out.

This time, he was surprised to see geysers coming out of the water running over the road – the result of water pressure from below the seal forcing holes up through the road.

He walked in a way and decided he could probably drive through it in his ute. Harvie had made 82 years of age by that time and had always taken plenty of risks – calculated ones. Mostly.

Out on the main road the water was a bit higher. He used the top of the marker posts as guides.

It was a bit before 6am and there was no one else about. Just water.

Then he saw a group of people waving frantically from their house. It was the Doggy Farmstay Centre folk, who had been in water – sometimes up to their necks – for several hours.

They made their way to him through the water and mud.

An older lady was having trouble, so Harvey went to help.

He asked her how old she was – 73. He told her:

“Seventy-three eh? Well, I’m 82, so get cracking.” 

He got her, her daughter, a teenage girl and her boyfriend as well as several dogs out of the flood water and up to the Beetham house.

They were in shock. Harvie convinced them after some negotiation to shed all their wet and mud-soaked clothing outside and gave them a good hosing down before sending them in to Chrissie to find clothes that might fit and get some hot food into them.

In the following days, Harvie worked with his modest-sized digger, clearing silt and debris from around the Eskdale War Memorial Church.

He’s not a churchgoer, but he recognised the historic and sentimental significance of the historic building, which had just turned 103. And you never know, some catch-up credits for what might come after may be useful.

That night 700mm fell on the Esk Valley, but it was also the vast volumes that fell in the headwaters that caused the devastation and mayhem.

Two of the eight people who lost their lives in Hawke’s Bay that day were nearby in the Esk Valley when that torrent swept through.

Eleven people in total were killed by Gabrielle – and the valley’s people know that the death toll could quite easily have been very much higher if not for the many brave rescuers, people’s own resourcefulness and a large amount of luck.

In Focus podcast | 9 February

This month marks one year since Cyclone Gabrielle ripped through the eastern North island. Farmers, growers and communities faced a massive recovery as they worked to rebuild infrastructure, supply chains and get the land back into productive shape.

For this week’s show, Bryan sits down with Rod Vowles, who farms just east of Waipawa a few kilometres from the Tukituki River. His story of survival is astonishing.

Then, Karen Morrish from Apples and Pears NZ to see how Hawke’s Bay growers are faring as the harvest gets under way.

And, Federated Farmers national board member Sandra Faulkner shares how Tairāwhiti farmers are getting on up the coast.

Bryan the editor kindly rang me the other day for a catch-up and to see how I was after the bout of leptospirosis.

I was able to tell him that, other than an annoying persistent ringing in my ears (called tinnitus apparently), I was fully recovered and fortunate compared to others from this region who also caught it after the wet year we have had.

Then Bryan asked me if I had an idea for an occasional column and I said, ‘Yes, if you have the space and I’m not bumping anyone else out, I do as it happens.’

It began with a generous invitation from my old sparring mate Jamie Mackay to join his NZME golf team at the annual Norwood Charity Golf Tournament at Wairakei to raise funds for Farmstrong. Farmstrong is doing fantastic work during these challenging times.

No golfer would ever turn down a round of golf at Wairakei, one of this country’s most picturesque and wonderful golf courses. And besides, Jamie and I have been playing for a trophy for over 20 years. It’s known as the Choker’s Trophy because neither of us has ever won it. The other guy inevitably chokes at a critical moment and all is lost. 

At this point, I was one match ahead and keen to increase my lead.

I even had a rare lesson and practised in the lead-up to the day, so keen was I to play well on this course. There seemed to be an inverse relationship between the work I was at last putting into my game for improvement and the actual outcome, which was annoying.

Sure enough, on the day I played badly but so did he. However, I performed worse to see him easily snatch the trophy and even up our two-decade rivalry.

Towards the end, I was so disconsolate after hitting yet another ball into a lake that I simply walked in shoes and all to fetch it but had the consolation of coming back with 20 other bad golfer’s balls.

Anyway, this is all just setting the scene for what was to come.

I like to support charity events by doing a bit of spirited bidding, more to push others along to pay a fair price. Sometimes I end up with something that I didn’t really want and must hide from Jane when I get home.

There were also a number of items in a silent auction and at the beginning of the evening I noticed no one had initiated one so without reading to see what it was, I put my name down with a starting bid of $300.

Just before the auction proper and the close of the silent auction, a mate congratulated me on my purchase. I shot out to see what had gone wrong.

No one else had placed a bid.

Now a Valvoline Firepit is a fine thing I’m sure and $300 was way too low.

But now that I’m an unpaid shepherd in our business, I’d given Jane the talk about financial probity and care. No more paintings on walls already crowded, or shoes. You know, the talk that never goes down well and is often counterproductive.

Coming home with a hard-to-hide firepit was not going to be well received.

I grabbed the form and started working the room to get at least a $301 bid. Desperation kicked in and I began to offer it for my bid sum and $50 cash thrown in.

Then the auction started and in my defence, I did have a decent go at a Manawatū golfing package.

As the auction concluded, I strode to the lectern and announced I had one more item and that I fancied my auctioneering skills.

I set to rid myself of this awkward conundrum.

I was surprised how difficult it was to get bids even when I told them it wouldn’t cost them more than $200, an absolute bargain.

There seemed to be a great deal of amusement from the crowd, though, at the unfortunate and tricky situation I’d gotten myself into.

Turns out auctioneer Morty Mortensen and Mackay were behind me signalling the crowd not to bid.

I signed off with an expletive of exasperation, only to hear from Morty that having extracted $300 from me they would now proceed to auction the firepit, which went for a healthy $400 to a now keen owner.

I may not have had to hide a firepit when I got home but it was discovered that I’d paid good money for something that I never even ended up with, which was an even worse situation.

The event, sponsored by Norwood and many other businesses, was an immense success and raised exactly $80,000 for Farmstrong.

My consolation being that Mackay chipped in $300 to match mine to get it to the $80,000 total.

First published in June 2016: In honour of Steve Wyn-Harris retiring his weekly From the Ridge column after decades wielding the pen, Farmers Weekly dips into the archives for another taste of ag New Zealand’s favourite scribe.

Empty nest syndrome.

Not a term that had crossed my consciousness until recent months.

Matt, our youngest of three sons, left home in February after a solid 18 years filling our house with noise, mess and fun.

Preceding him were his two brothers who, like him, went to the local college – so here right through – and also noisy, messy and lots of fun.

For the past quarter of a century we have been pretty preoccupied with all that goes with bringing up children.

Feeding, dressing and washing them. Changing nappies, toilet training and getting them to wash their hands and brush their teeth.

Doing homework and reading to them every night.

Watching them play sport and coaching various teams across several codes.

Going on all the school camps and later on many Duke of Edinburgh tramps.

Teaching them to drive and watching with anxiety as each eventually drove down the drive on their own for the first time.

Hosting and enjoying the myriad of mates who ended up here staying over.

Entertaining, minding and teaching them all the stuff they will need to know to equip them to face the world on their own.

Ann Landers said: “It is not what you do for your children but what you have taught them to do for themselves that will make them successful human beings.”

Matt wasn’t even born when I first began writing this column. Those early years of the column were filled with the joys and pleasure of bringing up kids on a family farm. I’d do lambing beats with two lads sitting on the seat in front of me on the two wheeler and the youngest in a backpack on my back.

Gumboots would be forever falling off and hats flying off in the slipstream. We’d stop for close inspection of dead animals or to throw stones into dams. Certainly the best of days.

Later they would become useful, helping me with docking and weaning.

Then suddenly they up sticks and go just like that.

I was better prepared for it than Jane. With sons and a father, it is an increasing battle for supremacy. Nature saturates teenage boys with testosterone and consequently a belief they are now the top dog. Around 16 or 17 they would point out they were now stronger than me (although this was never proven as I refused to wrestle or arm-wrestle when I knew my number was up) but I would firmly state that in the 21st century it was he who had the money that remained numero uno.

And each of them was more than ready to leave home and go out on their own journey.

All the same I miss them – but not as much as the mother. Jane has been doing it tough but gradually getting used to the sudden halt in nurturing.

Here’s a good quote from Erma Bombeck: “When mothers talk about the depression of the empty nest, they’re not mourning the passing of all those wet towels on the floor, or the music that numbs your teeth, or even the bottle of capless shampoo dribbling down the shower drain. They’re upset because they’ve gone from supervisor of a child’s life to a spectator. It’s like being the vice-president of the United States.”

However, she still sends off the odd Red Cross parcel and I’m certain I’m being fed better as a surrogate.

So a new chapter in our lives has begun. And they still come home for the odd visit and pampering by their mum.

Leptospira is a bacterium that causes a blood infection called Leptospirosis.

Recently I became well acquainted with this little critter and would like to share with you the experience as it may be of benefit should you be as unlucky.

It was a cold afternoon, mid-August on a lambing beat, but I was still surprised how frozen I felt despite being well wrapped up.

When I got home I was shivering and said to Jane that if I’d been wet, I think I would have been in trouble.

I spent a long half hour in a hot shower and got some soup and warm food into me before I finally came right.

The next day I felt uncharacteristically lethargic as I checked ewes and moved some cattle breaks.

I started getting a headache and aching all over and finished the lambing beat dry retching because I felt so bad.

I figured I had a virus, got home, had another hot shower and went to bed.

During the night I went from shivering fits to intense sweating where I’d be so wet I had to change my shirt and dry off with a towel.

In the early hours of the morning, I googled the symptoms of Lepto as I’d heard there was a bit about and was now certain that was what I had.

The next morning, I was able to get to see a GP and when I told him that I thought I had Lepto, instead of reminding me that I had an agricultural degree and he had a medical one, he agreed –  although he listened to my lungs as the symptoms are similar to pneumonia. We are very fortunate here in Central Hawke’s Bay to have a small health centre that is able to accommodate people when they really do need help.

He sent me off with a prescription for doxycycline, which is an effective antibiotic for the infection, and paracetamol.

I’m usually stoic about pain but I took a lot of paracetamols over the next few days to try to manage the headaches, muscle pains in my back and control the bouts of shivering and sweating.

Blood and urine tests a few days later confirmed Leptospirosis. The prompt antibiotics and enforced rest were exactly what had been required, but it still took 10 days before I was able to return to light duties.

I’ve since heard stories from other farmers who didn’t recognize the symptoms and struggled on trying to work, and paid the price by ending up in ICU and having to spend weeks if not months recovering.

The disease is correlated with wet conditions, so it is not surprising that in the drought year of 2021 there were just five notified cases in Hawke’s Bay. Then the very wet year last year saw a tripling of the disease to 15, and the two cyclones and subsequent waterlogged farms have seen 35 cases so far this year. It’s a notifiable disease but these figures are only those cases that were recognised and don’t include those who weren’t diagnosed.

Given it has dried out recently, the risk of contracting the disease will have diminished – but it has not gone away, as infected animals will still be shedding the bug in their urine.

That is how I likely caught it – from lambing a ewe without wearing gloves.

I should have known better as the property where I was doing the lambing beats had an annoying trickle of abortions, with those ewes looking hard and unwell.

Cleverer farmers than me would have been using gloves and washing their hands with disinfectant and soap and taking care not to get any water or fluids in their eyes, which was easier said than done given how wet it was this winter.

Leptospirosis causes a million cases in humans worldwide and kills between 5 to 10% if medical attention is not available.

It’s a disease to be respected and avoided at all costs.

Take it from me.

• This PSA from Steve is a one-off and not, unfortunately, the return of regular dispatches From the Ridge – Ed

I’ve just been joined by a whole bunch of workers on the farm. They should be great. There’re hundreds of them and they will toil day and night. All going well, they will get it on and then there will be thousands of them.

They are good for the environment and are going to make the world a better place. I don’t have to pay them wages. I don’t have to worry about accommodation, meals, personal grievances or annual leave. All I must do is make sure they have a plentiful supply of fresh cattle crap in front of them, which shouldn’t be too difficult with several hundred bulls out there.

They are dung beetles, of course, and I just liberated what looked like many hundreds of two different species out onto the ranch.

I first came across the little critters at a conference about seven years ago in Taumarunui. Dr Shaun Forgie gave an impassioned delivery about these insects and how they could help New Zealand agriculture improve its environmental game by assisting with the disposal of the 100 million tonnes of dung dropped onto our pastures each year.

By incorporating the dung into the soil,  faecal runoff into waterways is greatly reduced and the soil benefits by aeration, mixing of nutrients and helping to feed other soil life like earthworms.

The fellow was infatuated by dung beetles and his enthusiasm was infectious. We all wanted some but at that stage Landcare had gone through rigorous consultations and approvals and had got several species into the country and was conducting trials such as making sure they would have no negative impacts.

Since then the company Dung Beetle Innovation had been formed and was busy breeding up and – over the past year or two –  selling and distributing beetles around the country.

Last year our little valley set up the Upper Maharakeke Catchment group to work together to improve the waterways that contribute to this spring-fed stream which flows into the Tuki Tuki south of Waipukurau.

The fellows on a neighbouring farm had recently heard Shaun speak and were fizzed up about the benefits that the introduction of dung beetles to our valley could have on our waterways. They would certainly be one tool in the toolbox.

They have worked diligently on getting several of us to commit to buying farm packages of these little fellows and today mine arrived.

When dropped off by the mailman, they didn’t look too energetic in their plastic boxes. I took them directly out onto a central paddock on the farm that had bulls in it.

It must have warmed up or they sensed freedom and smelt fresh dung because they were now frantic to get on with business.

The trick was to drop them in large groups into a fresh cowpat and quickly cover them with a portion of the bucket load I’d scrapped up from around the paddock before they flew off.

However, it seemed if they didn’t fly off between when they were dropped out of the container and they hit the proverbial, then when they did fall onto the motherload, they knew what it was and weren’t going anywhere in a hurry.

These were my first two species as part of the package with another two to follow later. Apparently, a range of species are required to cover different seasons and day and night activity.

So, my job now is to make sure there are plenty of cattle in the vicinity as it is only the fresh stuff that attracts them by smell, otherwise they might fly off into oblivion.

From August 2016

Years ago I bought a good-sized mob of yearling bulls on the other side of Takapau and thought to save some money I’d walk them home instead of trucking.

It was about 15km but the small village of Takapau was in the way.

In those days it still had its own traffic cop. I knew this fellow quite well. Tony had taken me for my first driving test the day I turned 15. I’d chosen Takapau as it has no hills and I had yet to master a handbrake start, which was part of the test in Waipukurau.

Instead he took me down this ridiculously narrow road and asked me to do a three-point turn. On the backing up bit I managed to put the car into the water table. No amount of pushing and shoving would get the bloody thing out of the ditch. We had to walk to a farmer’s house and get them to tow it out with a tractor. Tony wasn’t too impressed.

Needless to say I failed. Not wishing to face Tony again, I learnt how to do a handbrake start and passed in Waipukurau.

Some years later I thought it prudent to get the nod of approval to trot my cattle mob through the township. But Tony informed me I would have to follow the stock route, which put several kilometres on the drive instead of several hundred meters along Charlotte Street. Indeed, one could see the turnoff heading for home at the other end of the street from where the mob was going to have to take its detour.

This seemed a ridiculous requirement so I pondered the dilemma.

Very early next morning I went and picked up my Māori mate Dean, who had offered to drive my old car in front of the mob. Dean and his new wife Chris had invited us to their wedding in Pātea, where we stayed on the marae with most of the Pātea Māori Club, which had been a great experience.

It was still very dark when I collected him and I can still remember both of us gazing up in awe at the perfectly shaped Halley’s Comet as it left the inner regions of the solar system heading back out to the Oort Cloud, not to return for 75 years.

We drove into the still-asleep township and past Tony’s house, relieved to see the traffic car still parked there with no sign of life.

We collected the yearling bulls from the vendor’s holding paddock and set off with the first touches of dawn painting the sky.

As we neared Takapau, Dean drove ahead to check on the sleeping policeman. He came back in great anxiety to report that the patrol car had gone.

I made a captain’s call and said that we would risk the shortcut. As we closed in on the pub I fired up the dogs and our bulls took off. There were so many gateways but we trusted that the speed of the run and luck would work in our favour.

The mob thundered down Charlotte Street much as they do in Pamplona. A scattering of bull manure fell in their wake but they held a true line and before we knew it Dean was turning them at the Takapau Golf Course onto Oruawharo Road.

I ran to catch up and then let them drift along and graze whilst Dean and I had a deserved coffee from a thermos and watched Halley’s Comet disappear into the sky as the sun rose.

Read Part I here

It was a balmy still day in May when I set off to view 70 rising yearling bulls that my long-term stock agent PJ had organised with another of his clients.

I knew Andrew the vendor well and was sure that the bulls quoted would be fine so didn’t need to see them as usually I just buy on specification, but as they were just 12km down the road I thought I’d save a few dollars by droving them home.

Leaving Hinerangi Road, where we live, I headed down Woburn Road, where our other property is, and turned at the crossroads up Ngahape Road to Andrew’s farm.

The bulls looked good and as we were weighing them on the farm, I took the opportunity to quarantine drench and give them a six-in-one clostridia vaccine at the same time.

As we finished my part-time but excellent shepherd Jane arrived from tennis coaching. She was prepared to drive in front with her hazard lights flashing but said she didn’t want to take all day doing it.

I pointed out that it was warm so we couldn’t push them too hard.

The stock agent and farmer ribbed me about being miserable and not getting a truck but I replied I’d rather have the $800 in my pocket and besides there is nothing more relaxing than a gentle stock drive.

We got them out onto the road and they were off. I didn’t need the dog, so she sat on the back of the ute as the bulls trotted along the road.

We rounded the first corner and there on the left was a large paddock with some very big two-year-old bulls. I sensed trouble.

Sure enough, the big bulls came thundering over to inspect this incursion into their territory. I was expecting one of them to leap the fence but they didn’t.

A few of mine crossed the water table and walked beside the big fellows’ fence.

Then without any reason or sense, one of them did an Eliza McCartney vault over the fence.

Except he didn’t quite make it, and ended up with his hind leg caught between the top two wires.

This wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t started to bellow every second and a half. 

Judging by the anguish and strength of the bellow, this electric fence was going a lot better than any of mine ever had. I could hear the crack of the shock as he was perfectly earthed on the fence.

He wasn’t going to last long so I leapt out of the ute, sprinted to the fence and hurdled it in a most impressive fashion.

(Hurdling, high- and long-jumping had been about the only things I’d been much good at in school and they have been useful skills in a farming career. I was still high-jumping conventional fences in my late forties wearing gumboots but desisted when I misjudged finally and my pants caught on the barb wire, bringing me to a graceless and painful stop.)

As I got to the foolish beast I picked up a fortuitous stick and held the outrigger down off his belly. Not only did these people have an impressive voltage but their outrigger wire was strained tighter than most of my fences so I wasn’t able to get it down to the ground and stand on my stick to free my hands.

The big bulls gathered around me and the stupid bull, and were very interested in the proceedings.

Every now and then my strength would falter or the bull would shift and he’d get another decent whack.

Jane couldn’t see me as she had rounded a corner. My cell phone was on the seat of the ute. The dog watched from the back of the ute in puzzlement and did nothing about some of the bulls that turned around and headed back in the direction we’d come.

I was starting to get hot, and tiring of holding this bloody wire down as hard as I could.

I was there for a very long seven or eight minutes and couldn’t believe how what had been a busy road just before was now deserted.

Finally, a car came and despite my obvious predicament the woman just looked at me and drove on.

Then my stick broke in two, the bull got a couple of satisfactory whacks and bellowed with gusto while I got my now shortened stick back on the wire. Now I was at risk of getting shocks myself given the proximity of my hands to the wire.

I’d just paid $800 for this bloody beast and having owned it for a mere 15 minutes was determined to keep it alive.

He looked at me and I looked at him as we were in close proximity. As in the past I wondered if animals had any sense of regret.

Then I got a heck of a shock, yelled and let the stick go. This startled the beast so that he finally pulled his leg out and took off, pursued by a dozen large bulls intent on having their wicked way with him.

It was at this stage that the young woman farmer turned up on her bike and I asked her if she would be so kind as to bring the bulls over to the road gate so I could cut mine out.

I tested her fence and it was an impressive 10,000 volts.

The animal didn’t show any signs of his ordeal so the dog and I went back and collected up the runaways and caught up to the rest of the mob and an oblivious Jane.

The rest of the drove went per plan.

Originally published in November 2016