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Uncle John takes us through
the hills on a tramp to the reservoir.

We follow the creek for three hours.
I lag behind with my uncles aunties

and parents who find it tough going.
We see clearings big enough for houses

and a ponga log whare stuffed with
moss which looks like dope (nope).

We see a course where logs from chutes would
meet the stream. We fall far behind the others.

I keep going on my own till I catch them at the dam --
two logs thrown across each bank (an anticlimax).

Much later to my relief we meet up with my
uncles from Karetu who brought their wheels.

John and a few staunch cousins won't give up.
They jog home on the gravel in the dust.


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