Excerpt from a new book

Frank sat atop a rusted Massey Ferguson tractor. It chugged along in a parched field, towing a hay baler which spat out prickly cubes. The morning sun painted shadows on the Rangitoto ranges behind him. Down the race, towards the Waipa River, he spotted a dust cloud approaching. Frank took a deep drag from his cigarette, before taking the shuddering behemoth out of gear and dragging back the hand brake.

“Bugger,” he said, wiping the sweat from his eyes.

Stumping out his cigarette he dismounted and took a seat on a bale. His eyes were fixed on the approaching cloud, from which had materialized a convoy of four-by-fours.

“Bugger, bugger, bugger,” he mumbled.

Frank was a man accustomed to life’s little set-backs. Just one glance at his face and you could see the struggles etched across his leathery skin. His nose was crooked, never having been set correctly after a scuffle over a gun, his eyes owned wrinkles beyond his years, and the sinews on his arms were almost abstract art. He wore nothing but a pair of loose shorts, work-boots, and a singlet tied about his head to protect his bald patch from the sun. Frank never once contemplated running as the markings of the police cars grew more visible. He simply sat and waited, his eyes sweeping the Rangitotos, enjoying every valley and peak. He had roamed the ranges as a kid, building huts, tracking pigs, climbing trees- he shivered at the thought of the logging operations tearing scars across the ranges.

“The hell are you doing Frank?”

Frank was flanked by four-by-fours, police officers were stepping out and staring at their surroundings in stupefied awe.

“The hell Frank, what are you doing?”

Frank turned to the speaker, “How ya doing Dave?”

Dave was a thick-set officer with a wild beard. He looked at Frank in utter bewilderment and then said, “You know you’re gonna have to go back to jail now?”

Frank shrugged, “Ain’t got enough criminals to lock up so you gotta go after the farmers, aye Dave?”

Dave stepped back and gestured around him, “I’ve heard of the term pot farmer, Frank, but this is a bit extreme.”

As far as the eye could see, from the Waipa River to the base of the Rangitotos, hundreds of small bales dotted the pastures. Frank had been a busy man.