arrived with a pleased grin and a gleam in his eye that meant entire satisfaction with the whole proceedings; he gave me a word of thanks as he passed, which left me feeling I had been just decorated with a D.S.O. There was a bitter wind blowing, so we scuttled across the pass and down the other side as quickly as possible. We were soon in the balmy air of the West Coast, with ten miles to walk before we could reach our bivouac. I had not been over the Copland since my first visit in 1910. Since then things have been made considerably easier for the tourist. The track now comes right up to the snow-grass, and the old battle through the scrub which was such a waste of time and temper is consequently done away with. It is only a tiny track at present; when finished, however, it is to be good enough for a pack-horse, and there is to be a hut on the Westland side of the Copland Pass—luxury indeed for the climber of the future.
The opening up of the bush by this track not only gives a charming peep of the Copland River and snowy summits, but also allows a little more air to penetrate into the dank forest, taking off some of the feeling of being in an overheated glass-house, which is so distressing to people not accustomed to a warm, moist air. In spite of these improvements, we were rather a limp party by the time we reached Douglas Rock. Here we had to gather up some sleeping-bags and blankets, as the new hut at Welcome Flat where we expected to pass the night was not yet finished or in any way stocked. Each laden with something, we proceeded on our way, and at last emerged out of the forest on to the grass flats. The river was full from bank to bank owing to the late rains, and flowed like a streak of silver through the forests. On the right-hand bank the ribbon woods overhung the water and showered their sweet-scented white blossoms into the swift current. On the left they were interspaced with the dark green of rata-trees, whose glossy foliage was crowned with
