Through South Westland/Part 2/Chapter 1

by A. Maud Moreland

CHAPTER I.

THE START.

To youth there comes a whisper out of the west
O loiterer, hasten where there waits for thee
A life to build, a love therein to nest
And a Man’s work serving the age to be.

Peace, peace awhile! before his tireless feet
Hill beyond hill the road in sunlight goes,
He breathes the breath of morning clear and sweet
And his eyes love the high eternal snows.

Henry Newbolt.

For some months we had been sojourning in the City of the Plains, and as summer drew on and wide roads grew dusty, and the freshness faded from trees and gardens, a great longing grew up in our hearts for the cool, dim forests, for the snow peaks, and blue glacier rivers: and little by little the plan grew. The first seeds of it were sown far away in South Westland by our black-bearded friend at the Haast. We remembered how he had fired our fancy by his glowing descriptions of a region where scarcely any one but their Survey party had penetrated; we remembered his talk of ice-caves and waterfalls, but above all we remembered how he talked of “a great Silver Cone against the blue,” and in the dusty city that Silver Cone drew us irresistibly. We would go and see it.

Nothing to me comes up to these free wanderings by forest track and river-bed, far among the silent mountains, whose loneliness is one of their greatest charms. The inner room of memory is hung with pictures, some few of which I have tried to make visible to others. . . .

If they feel the fresh breeze blowing, and the flood of sunshine, and the blue of New Zealand skies above them as they read; if they see the climbing tangle of forest on the mountain flanks, the snows above the mighty cliffs, and the swift-rushing glacier rivers, I shall feel it was worth while to have tried to share with them these memory pictures.

And so I began collecting stores, books, cooking things, etc., and a medley collection was stowed into a deep sailor’s-bag and a sack, and with rope and axe we sent them down south. Sleeping-bags were purchased; they were of a cool sea-green colour, all in keeping, it seemed to me, with a couch on a glacier. Of information as to routes or camping ground, we could get none. No one apparently lived there, except a semi-mythical Highlander, and we had to leave matters till we should be nearer the scene of our adventures. Then we sent on the two horses—the Scorpion and Tom, and so it came about that on Christmas Eve we were speeding south, leaving the dust and glare behind us, our spirits rising moment by moment as we neared the long, blue barrier of hills, and knew that beyond their utmost purple rim lay all of which our friend had told us.

A year had passed since we four—the horses and ourselves—had gone on the long trail together, and well they knew when the packs and oilskins were strapped on, it meant long days on the hills, pleasant rests by streams where juicy lush grass grows, and every inn and stopping place was a well-remembered landmark.

Only yesterday we were in the City of the Plains. We had left those sun-scorched yellow plains behind, with their formal clumps of dark fir and light green poplars. At Timaru we changed into a dawdling little train with its toy engine, which brought us the forty miles up among green pasture hills, by a wide valley where wheatfields waved all golden, where we slowed down and threw out Christmas parcels to waiting horsemen, and drew up at little stations where a buggy or two, or a horse tied to the fence, awaited friends coming to spend their Christmas in the country. Nobody hurried, least of all the engine-driver, who frequently had to get down for conversation with his acquaintances, and it took us till seven o’clock to cover forty miles, and we had started at 4.15! The day had been sultry though, fortunately for us, it had been cloudy, and now we felt we were really at the beginning of our journey. All the rest must be done on horseback, and before us was nearly a week of travelling, for we should not try to do more than thirty miles a day. We found the horses looking well and happy in a good grass paddock whither they had been sent some days ago, and the stores, gone south by steamers, coaches, and carriers, should meet us at Pembroke on Lake Wanaka.

Fairlie’s wide streets and little white houses looked nearly blistered with the heat, and nothing could less resemble a northern Christmas.

Very early next morning I drew up my blind and looked out. The glorious Christmas star hung like a globe of fire near the low moon, wreaths of white mist lay along the distant hills and mountains, and the east was flushing rosy—it was only a little after three and I went back to bed. About seven we strapped on the packs and set forth. The first stage was but six miles, to a little school-house where a Christmas service was to be held at eight o’clock. Some children on bare-back ponies came galloping up, and their brother, whom we knew, took our horses, and tied them to the fence, while his little sisters took me into church. I think the congregation numbered ten all told, but we sang a Christmas hymn, and when we came out everybody shook hands and wished each other the Season’s greetings. Rain was falling gently, like June rain at home. We rode to an inn for breakfast, and later paid a visit to and had Christmas dinner with our little friends. That night we slept at Burke’s Pass, some 2,000 feet above the plains. The air was deliciously fresh after the stuffiness below, and we strolled up the pass before bedtime. There is a graveyard at the top, and it seemed as if the pioneers of these regions must have mostly met violent deaths. On one stone we read: “Killed by the kick of a horse”; on another: “Found in the snow”; on a third: “Found drowned.” The wind grew cold and moaned fitfully in the gloomy firs that have grown all too thick among the graves, and we turned back to the cheery inn, clean sheets, and comfortable beds.

Glorious sunshine greeted us next morning. We had only thirteen miles to get over, and rode away joyously through the tawny tussock hills, down to a plain bounded by violet distance. The mirage shimmered on its farther edge, the breeze swayed the tussock grass and changed it from golden to dusky grey, as the cloud shadows passed along the hills. We mounted a ridge, and there lay Lake Tekapo, whose waters are always turquoise blue, though a smaller lake behind the encircling hills is deep indigo. Beyond, the line of the Southern Alps had come in sight; peak beyond peak, sharp and jagged in outline, the higher ones white and pure; and even at forty miles off the great glaciers were visible. There was Mount Cook, towering above them all, who looks down east and west, on yellow plains and billowy forest, two worlds divided by a mighty wall.

We got to the inn just as it was getting unbearably hot. It is close to the lake shore, very convenient for bathing, but the water on the hottest day is cold as the glaciers which feed it. The outlet is a deep cutting through which the and swirling beneath a suspension bridge. That afternoon we had a long walk, and later sat by the lake watching the hills change from blue to pink, and then to grey, and the last ray of sun touch the highest peak of snow. Then, as all the sky grew red, and the colours on earth faded and grew dead, we strolled back to supper, and to bed.

There were long, white bands of mist curling down over the hills next morning, but the sun shone gloriously over the lake, and we started—not so early as we might have—for Pukaki. Of that ride across the plains my remembrance is one of painful endurance. The nor’-wester was as the breath of a furnace and drove the dust in clouds along the track, or tracks, for the highway was at least as wide as four ordinary roads, and is simply made by driving on it. It was a thirty mile stage, and we cantered fast lest we and the horses should be grilled. When we came in sight of Pukaki we felt we must be at the end, but the road wound interminably round the wide bays, among enormous boulders, ice-borne in the days when the great glaciers reached out much farther than they do now. It was with intense relief we saw a patch of fir trees and the red inn close by the outlet of the lake, where we rode the horses into the water and got rid of the dusty sweat, and found we were in time for the mid-day meal. The place was full of shearers and tourists, and a bustle of coming and going. Later we went out and I got two sketches of the lake with its green, opaque-looking water, and the magnificent mass of Mount Cook rearing up out of its upper end, looking quite near, though still forty miles away. The lake receives several snow-rivers, among others the Tasman, from the seventeen-mile long glacier. On either side were bare mountains, and at sunset we watched the colours flame out on their crests and die away, and the sky turn pink, then slowly fade, and the ghostly snows gleam out from the dusk.

By five next morning we were cantering over the Mackenzie plains, determined to cross these shelterless stretches before the heat grew unbearable. They are bounded by level terraces of river formation, and stretch from ten to fourteen miles between encircling hills, and to the eye appear almost dead level. There was but one spot where trees sheltered the road, and there the shearers were mustering to breakfast; the tents stood in rows, and the cooks were busy frying chops—a cheerful scene. We had six miles more to go, and we rode fast, for though not eight o’clock the heat was overpowering on these treeless plains. As we splashed through the many branches of the Ahuriri, winding like blue ribbons edged with green, we and the horses revelled in the clear, cool water, and came in fresh and very ready for breakfast. Even at this hour the thermometer registered 84 degrees in the shade and 110 degrees in the sun.

It is little short of amazing that anyone should have selected Omarama as a settlement. It lies on the edge of the plain, with hungry, brown red hills rising round, and the far-off Ben Ohau range shutting out the view of the high Alps, which here and there show a snow peak, peeping over as it were. The plain is burnt bare, and is a uniform dull brown, riddled with rabbit-holes, and the only green is the patch of poplars and willows by the river. Looking closer, one sees that there is a thin covering of green on the bare hills, but the sun was fast taking all the life out of it. The road south wound away among these hills, sun-baked and dreary—one could have imagined the scene in Central Spain: the same hard blue sky, bare brown hills, and sunburnt road. The shelter of the inn was exceeding grateful, and so was a breakfast of fresh trout; and after that I reposed most of the day, till the afternoon brought a slight coolness and the blue river drew us irresistibly. But even when bathing, one was obliged to wear a hat.

We had made up our minds to push on that night. The plains were too unutterably hot and wearying, and ahead was coolness and blowing breezes on the hill tops. And so by seven o’clock we were riding over the last eight miles of plain, a hot wind blowing; and the horses left a long cloud of dust as we cantered across. In front was a bare range, rising abruptly from the level, which cut off the wind as we got nearer, and we fairly sweltered.

The colouring grew more weird and strange every minute. Behind Omarama the hills turned to reddish violet, the Ohau range hung like a dark wall in front, and over it the snow peaks peeped, flaming orange as the sun touched them. The nearer hills faded from blue to black, and when we left the plain and entered the river valley, dusk was falling. After a few miles we turned into the gorge of the Lindis and passed a desolate-looking station where there had been a great muster of sheep. Thousands were penned in paddocks waiting for the shearers. The air was filled with the long-drawn baa’s from those many throats, the dogs kept up an incessant barking and yapping, and the hands stood about smoking, or finishing penning the last batch. Just beyond this busy scene we rode up to what looked like a troop of horses that scattered in sudden flight dashing up the hills, and we saw they were red deer; beautiful creatures with heads half grown and bodies round and fat as heifers.

Then the dark fell, and the purple night closed us softly round, and we could just see the track winding up among dark hills with a strip of starlit sky above us. All detail vanished, the wind dropped, and not a sound broke the stillness but the beat of the horses’ feet and the tinkle of a little stream beside the path. We had been told of a flat some two hours up the pass, where good English grass and clover grew. In the starlight it was difficult to discover, and Transome got down several times to look for it, but when we came to it the little white dots of the clover heads were easily visible, and there was no doubt about the horses’ appreciation when we took off the bridles and let them rest for an hour. Their satisfied cropping mingled with the murmur of the stream; no other sound save the cry of a night bird now and then, disturbed the utter silence. I stood about watching the stars, and though we had been up since before four o’clock, scarcely felt sleepy. When we mounted and rode on again we got among still higher hills, dark and mysterious in the night, but always the ribbon of road wound duskily white ahead of us. About midnight I grew desperately sleepy, snatches of dreams were every now and again disturbed by a stumble or change from down-hill to up-hill. The horses varied their pace but little and travelled steadily. When we came to a long boundary fence with a gate, we tied them there and getting out the oilskins, lay down on the springy bracken for an hour-and-a half’s rest. I remember watching the stars for a little and then knew no more till I wakened stiff and tired, with my feet very cold, and inclined to question the luxury of a bed on the hillside.

Then we mounted for the last stage of the thirty-six miles to the Lindis. A white light was growing up behind the black outline of the hills, and soon the moon rose and the long descent began. Now that we had more light we could canter occasionally, but for the most part we walked in the uncertain light. By a little after three we were at the Morven Hills station, and in the dawning light one could imagine it was white with frost—an old-world Christmastide. The stream, down which the road runs, had increased in size since we crossed the watershed, and had become a noisy river between rocky defiles. We crossed it at a shallow ford where the homestead lay on a wide flat; weeping-willows and English trees lined the banks, and a shady road led past the house. And now we saw the cause of the whiteness. Every place was covered with dog daisies; river-banks, roadside, everywhere an advancing army crept over the hills. Sleek cows stood and lay about waiting for the milking. Among the station hacks a fine stag was grazing, who dashed into the river and disappeared over the hills, disturbed by our approach; a white horse whinnied at us and one or two dogs barked enquiringly, but otherwise the station was silent, wrapped in sleep. The shearers’ camp, a long row of white tents, seemed to have been newly pitched, the flaps up for coolness sake—let us see the men and packs lying about inside. We rode through them, and not a man lifted his head, and on across the flat where we saw another small herd of deer, which bounded away at sight of us.

There was only an hour’s riding from here—less if we hurried. But it was Sunday morning, and we did not want to disturb the people at the inn so early, so we dawdled along down a rocky defile by a gushing river, just like a Scotch trout stream, and at five o’clock came to the Lindis Hotel. The little, long stone building was fast asleep, but the door was open; we unsaddled, carried in our things, and Transome led away the horses to feed them. I got out a wicker-chair and went to sleep in the sun.

A little after six I went round to the back of the inn and knocked at a window, and, fortunately, at the right one ! for the hotel was full of shearers. Mrs. Carthy recognized my voice (although I had stayed but a night here the year before) and called to me to come in, and she would have tea and a room ready in no time. But, taking my things from my pack, I went instead to the river, and came back from my splash as fresh as paint, to find Transome talking to the innkeeper over a cup of tea. He was protesting we should have come in last night, and declared he “Never got to bed till two o’clock with these shearers coming and going.”

I found a room ready, and was glad enough to lie down, and at ten Mrs. Carthy called us to a famous breakfast of fried trout and scones. I have often had trout in New Zealand, but those huge pinky-yellow fellows out of the Lindis river seemed to have a special flavour. And here I must confess for the first and only time I saw a trout shot (and eat it too); indeed they are so fat and lazy they despise bait and flies, and netting is the only way to take them—unless. . . . . but we must draw a veil over the rest.