BIRDS OF THE 

 WATER, WOOD, AND WASTE 



The Lake 



I HE lake on Tutira may be 

 considered the heart of the 

 run. It is the centre of all 

 the station's life and energy; 

 all roads, sheep paths, pack 

 tracks and stock routes lead to it. The 

 little homestead, the married shepherds' 

 houses, the men's quarters look on to it. 

 On the peninsula, Te-rewa-a-mapoutunoa, 

 which almost bisects the lake, stands the 

 woolshed. Every one of us sees the lake 

 first thing in the morning, clear and shining 

 in the sun, or still wan and clay stained 

 for weeks, and even months, after one of 

 the torrential rain storms that strike this 

 part of Hawke's Bay and bring the hill- 

 sides down like melting snows off a roof. 



We see it last thing at night, the moon 

 marking its narrow silver path, or in dark, 

 clear weather the stars reflecting themselves. 



