OVERLAND TO MILFORD SOUND
The walk along the Milford Track from Lake Te Anau to Milford Sound
has been described by a New Zealand writer as "the finest walk in
the world." It is a walk of thirty-three miles, through scenery of
ever-changing variety and beauty, and is now undertaken annually by
hundreds of tourists during the summer months.
Milford Track is in the South Island, among the lakes and fiords
of Otago, and goes through an uninhabited and unexplored country
of dense forest and inaccessible mountain. Tourists go by train to
Lumsden, a small lowland township, and then on by motor coaches.
These run for forty miles on a rough and stony road, almost
impassable after heavy rain by reason of the mud and swollen
creeks. At first it is rather an uninteresting drive, with flat
"tussock" country on either side, and in the distance low hills;
but gradually the scenery becomes wilder, the low hills give place
to mountains bearing patches of never-melting snow, and the great
lakes behind which they rise are surrounded by miles of untouched
forest. The road here dwindles to vague ruts leading through the
foothills of the more distant mountains, and tourists are taken
for another twelve miles in wagonettes drawn by horses, to an
accommodation house beside Lake Te Anau, where they spend the night.
Next day comes a further journey of thirty-three miles on a
small steamer to the other end of the lake, and here in a little
forest clearing is another solitary house and Post Office--Glade
House--the starting-point for the walk.
I had gone with a friend, and we found eleven others all anxious to
walk to Milford Sound, so we were a party of thirteen--five women
and eight men--one happy family for the time being, all intent on
enjoying everything as it came. Whatever luggage we took had to
be carried on our backs, so we packed as few things as possible
in stout canvas "swags" provided by Government for intending
pedestrians, were rowed across a river in high flood, and plunged
at once into the heart of the bush.
[Illustration: CLINTON RIVER--TE ANAU LAKE. _To face page 30_]
It was a delightful sunny day in midsummer. Before we began our
walk there had been five days of incessant rain--every leaf dripped
with moisture, and all about us was the noise of hurrying waterfall
or river. The Clinton River, whose course we followed, was a wide
torrent, rushing angrily over great boulders, or pausing for a
while in deep quiet pools of clear green water. Numberless small
streams flow from the mountains to join the Clinton, and many of
them cross the track; sometimes they are bridged by a moss-grown,
slippery tree-trunk; in other places they turn the track itself
into a stream. There is no way round these creeks--you must simply
wade through them; for my own part I did not wade through many, as
one of the men of our party carried me on his back over all the
worst of them. After the first two miles, this same kind friend
insisted on taking my swag as well as his own, and I found that
though I invariably began the day's tramp with swag on my back, I
was not often allowed to carry it far.
The track is a narrow path, and green with the daintiest mosses,
lovely to see and soft to tread upon. In places there is a good
deal of native grass, and not infrequently grass from England
too--cocksfoot or Yorkshire fog--and fallen beech leaves make a
pleasant rustle as your feet brush through them. I had seen New
Zealand bush in Stewart Island, and very pretty it is, but it
cannot compare in grandeur or variety with the forests of Otago.
In New Zealand, the plants are still to be seen in the societies
in which they have naturally grouped themselves through many
generations of plant life--one group of plants in the river
valleys, other groups by the sea coast or on Alpine heights; and
wherever you go, you find fresh trees, ferns or mosses to admire,
and always there is yet a chance of finding a plant that no one has
seen before.
For several miles of the Milford track the prevailing tree is
the black beech, one of the handsomest of the forest trees, with
tall dark trunk and head of spreading branches, crowded with
tiny, glossy, green leaves. Below the beeches grow other trees,
at first somewhat thinly, but crowding more closely together the
more deeply we penetrate into the forest. Among the trees are
elegant tree-ferns in colonies of a hundred or more; through trees
and fern-fronds gleams the sunlight; and beyond the overarching
branches you catch fascinating glimpses of high mountains, their
rugged summits sharply outlined against bright blue sky. Only the
summits of the mountains for a few hundred feet are bare; steeply
as they rise, in fact almost perpendicularly from the valley, they
are yet clothed with trees in all shades of green, relieved here
and there by great patches of rata blossom--the "red glory of the
gorges"--and it is a constant wonder how the trees contrive to
cling at all, much more how they can grow and flourish in such
difficult circumstances.
Close to the track are fuchsias, which in New Zealand develop into
big trees, and have pink ever-peeling bark, leathery grey-green
leaves and flowers of dull purple. By the fuchsias grow veronicas,
as tall as the fuchsias, now, at the end of January, in the full
beauty of their abundant flower spikes, white or mauve; and
with these are many trees of the compositæ family--olearias or
senecios--all bearing bunches of white daisy-flowers. Many trees
of the forest undergrowth have inconspicuous green or whitish
flowers, and many-shaped leaves of glossy green--such are the
broadleaf and the so-called fig and holly, growing side by side
with the lancewood, whose leaves are saw-edged, grey-green swords.
Everywhere too you find creepers and lianes--the tough black stems
of the "supple-jack," and the trailing brambles of the "bush
lawyer." The lawyer is a creeper which has hooked thorns on every
little stem and leaf, and attaches itself relentlessly either to
hair or clothes, like a dishonest solicitor, from whose clutches
escape is difficult.
After a ten-mile walk we reached our stopping-place for the
night--Pompolona Huts--two huts of corrugated iron, boarded
throughout on the inside. One is for the men to sleep in; the other
is divided into three rooms--ladies' bunk-room, dining-room and
pantry. The dining-room is also the kitchen, and has a huge open
fireplace and a "colonial oven" for baking bread, and over the fire
is fixed an iron bar from which dangle hooks and pots. The food
provided for us was the tinned meat and fruit usual in all camp
life in New Zealand, with the addition of potatoes and hot boiled
pudding.
The following morning we left Pompolona for McKinnon's Pass--the
hardest bit of walking along the track. In fine weather the walk
to Milford is easy enough, but going over the pass you are always
liable to get caught in a blinding blizzard. Even in the valleys
there is sometimes danger: a river or creek may rise several feet
in a few hours, an insecure bridge may be loosened and washed away,
or an unbridged stream suddenly become too high to ford.
After leaving Pompolona Huts, the path goes through country less
thickly wooded, with occasionally wide open spaces, and little
tarns of placid brown water. The ribbon-wood was in perfection in
these open glades, bearing great trusses of delicate white flowers
with a faint sweet perfume; they reminded us of cherry blossom,
though the petals are more fragile, and the ribbon-wood actually
belongs to the mallow family. The bark of the ribbon-wood is
stripped off by the Maoris, and an inner layer, which looks like
fine white lacework, is used in strips for making ornamental
baskets. Little native flowers grow in the open: pale-mauve
campanulas; tiny white daisies, and small yellow buttercups; a
small, white cranesbill; and other little white things; and high
in the sunlight stand masses of hardy, wiry bracken. Soon we are
back in the forest, climbing gradually upwards under the trees.
Throughout this walk one is continually amazed by the absence of
bare, brown tree-stems; nearly every tree is covered all over with
moss; trunks and branches fairly drip with it, as frost-laden trees
do with icicles--moss of extraordinary beauty; some of it hanging
in slender, swaying sprays, over a foot long; some short, with
thick stems and feathery tufts--all of it in varying shades of
green or brown. Among the mosses nestle fungi in strange diversity
of shape and colour--white, pink, green or orange. Ferns, too,
adorn the tree trunks, and often pale-green lichens, which from a
short distance look like bunches of palest flowers.
There is a curious scarcity of birds. Stoats and weasels brought
over from England and introduced into the bush in the hope
that they would kill some of the superfluous English rabbits,
have destroyed many native birds and their eggs, and it is now
impossible to get rid of the stoats and weasels. The rare "kiwi"
the wingless relation of the extinct "moa," lives still in these
forests and is sometimes seen at night; I only saw it alive in the
Wellington Zoological Gardens. We saw a number of "wekas"--Maori
hens--brown birds about the size of a small pheasant, with very
short tails and only rudimentary wings; they are not able to fly,
but they walk very quickly through the fern. They had no fear of
us, but walked across the path in front of us, or stood watching in
the shade, and at night they prowled round the huts, looking for
scraps and making weird calls to one another. We saw a few pigeons
fluttering among the tree-tops, and some tits and tiny native wrens
hopping from branch to branch; and by Te Anau were brown fantails,
native cuckoos and a few small green-and-yellow parrakeets; and
sometimes we heard the bell-bird's musical note, or the night owl
hooting "more pork." English birds are now to be found in most
parts of New Zealand--skylarks, sparrows, thrushes, blackbirds,
starlings and goldfinches. I saw none of them on the way to Milford.
Butterflies are rare, though we did see a fair number of native
ones, with dainty many-coloured wings, mottled in red, brown or
yellow; and the lack of bird notes was in some degree made up for
by the lively chirping of a black-and-yellow cricket. Very few
insects were to be seen as we walked, but whenever we stopped,
sandflies, tiny black flies whose bite is as bad as a mosquito's,
came swarming round--eager for our blood.
Our only other enemies were the "biddabids"--the New Zealand
substitute for an English burr. They are low-growing plants, the
flower stalk a few inches high, and each flower stalk produces a
dense brown head of seed, each little seed vessel furnished with
four fine hooked claws. After brushing carelessly against a patch
of these plants, stockings, skirt or jersey are found embroidered
thickly with "biddies," and very difficult it is to rid oneself of
them.
Towards the top of McKinnon's Pass, the mossy path becomes a stony
track, winding on and up among Alpine flowers--white gentians and
ourisias growing side by side with tall white or yellow mountain
daisies. Then the track leads through brown tufts of snow grass,
while almost at the summit you again find tarns of quiet brown
water, in whose depths snowy mountains are reflected.
Here we breathed invigorating mountain air, and had a clear view
of the mountains which before we had only partially seen through a
fretwork of green. The top of the pass is more than three thousand
feet above sea level--a narrow, rocky saddle blocking the head of
the Clinton Cañon, and on the opposite side giving access to the
valley of the Arthur River. Around the saddle are rugged peaks,
rising to a height of five to seven thousand feet; some bare,
others piled thickly with snow: and as we watched, avalanches
came thundering down from one of the glaciers into the valley
beneath. We could see the whole of the Clinton Cañon up which we
had walked--a narrow valley, only half a mile wide, shut in by
precipitous walls of four to seven thousand feet. Their rugged
summits were all rock and snow; below they were clothed with dense
forests reaching down to the valley, where the river wound in and
out among the dark trees like a thread of light green ribbon.
Looking down the Arthur valley, which is much wider than the
Clinton, we again looked over miles of forest backed by other rocky
heights.
Below the pass, nine miles from Pompolona, are the Quinton Huts,
our next resting place.
Near these are the Sutherland Falls, said to be the highest
waterfall in the world, falling in three gigantic leaps from a
height of nearly two thousand feet. They come roaring down over the
steep hillside--a mighty volume of water ever thundering on brown
rock fringed with luxuriant forest growth, and scattering showers
of spray over the trees and over the grassy knoll on which you
stand to watch them. They were only discovered in 1880, by a man
named Sutherland, a settler from Scotland in the early days, who
had a fancy for exploring.
At Quinton's we met another large party on their way back, and that
night the huts were overcrowded: we were eleven ladies, with only
nine bunks, so two slept in the dining-room. Next morning we all
contrived to dress in perfect good temper; no one dreamed of making
a trouble about anything, and it might have been excusable, as
there was comfortable floor space for two, not for eleven; we had
one small washstand, a small, square mirror hung on the wall for
our only looking-glass, and a bench to serve as table and chair.
There is no telephone in working order beyond Pompolona Huts, and
the arrival of so many visitors at Quinton's was unexpected.
The flour stored there had become damp, and could not be used in a
hurry for baking by the men in charge, so at breakfast we ran short
of bread: the ladies had as much as they wanted, but the men made
up with biscuits and ginger nuts, and said sweetly that they liked
them for a change.
The last day's stage is a walk of fourteen miles, on through the
forest, beside the green Arthur river, and for five miles of the
way skirting the edge of a lovely lake.
The river is twice crossed by long bridges: one a suspension bridge
made of three flat planks, with strands of wire for protection on
both sides; the other of "corduroy" planking--the planks all unhewn
logs--supported in midstream on an enormous boulder.
The forest scenery grows greener and the ferns and mosses more
abundant as you draw nearer the coast. Giant pines replace the
beech trees. You now see thick clumps of mositure-loving "crape"
ferns, whose long transparent fronds curl over at their tips like
the heraldic Prince of Wales's feathers. The track is edged by
frail bracken of palest green; ferns like filmy green lace drape
the trees. Of such marvellous luxuriance is all the forest growth
that trees and creepers and perching plants are inextricably
interwoven, and often you cannot tell to which stem or trunk any
branch belongs.
Ever since we left Glade House we had seen waterfalls, large and
small, hundreds of them pouring down the mountains, culminating
in the magnificent Sutherland Falls. Still as we walked we saw
more waterfalls, none so high as the Sutherland Falls, but many
exceedingly beautiful--some mere glittering threads of feathery
white; others, which fell close beside the track, were falls
both wide and high, crashing through the trees and breaking into
seething white foam on huge grey boulders, resting at last in deep,
green pools.
That day we had lunch in a tumble-down hut, where we found tea,
a fireplace and enamelled tin mugs. We boiled the billy on the
fireplace and then drank our tea out of the mugs, which one of the
men thoughtfully rinsed in a lake close at hand: they were not
clean, but nectar in golden goblets could not have tasted more
delicious.
At the end of the track there is yet another hut, and usually a
man in charge of it, who summons a motor launch from the head of
Milford Sound, by letting off a charge of dynamite.
We met this man on the track taking a lady to Quinton Huts, and
received full instructions as to where a small rowing-boat was to
be found: so some of the party went on ahead, found the boat, and
rowed across the sound to summon Mr. Sutherland and his launch,
while the rest of us had afternoon tea and a rest.
The launch came and conveyed us safely to our journey's end--a
lonely accommodation house with a Post Office, at the edge of
forest and ocean. The house is a one-storied building of wood,
with corrugated iron roof and a verandah: there is a garden,
with vegetables, currants and raspberries. Grass grows right up
to the house. Sheep feed on the grass, and stroll even into the
bathroom, which has a door without a lock. The house is comfortably
furnished, and considering its distance from anywhere, surprisingly
well supplied with food and other necessaries. It is even possible
to buy shoes here.
The following morning we chartered the launch and were taken down
the Sound and out on the Pacific Ocean.
Milford Sound is ten miles long. At its narrowest it is only a
quarter of a mile wide, but where it joins the ocean about two
miles. The whole sound is a deep narrow channel, formed originally
by glacial action. Mountains rise straight out of the water,
covered thickly with bush for some four thousand feet, until the
trees stop abruptly on reaching the line of winter snow: you here
see a wonderful contrast--green leaf and crimson rata-flower on the
brown rock.
Here again are waterfalls. One falls sheer in a narrow unbroken
column for five hundred feet; another falls in two great leaps; the
higher of the two leaps curves far out from the rock and was turned
by the sunshine into a golden halo.
On one side of the Sound is Mitre Peak, over five thousand feet,
with bare pointed summit: opposite stands the Lion, his massive
rounded crest slanting down to a narrow ridge among the forest;
and behind the Lion, far away, beyond a narrow tree-girt cove, is
a yet higher peak, snow-laden above the green. As we sailed out to
sea, we saw black cormorants watching for their prey; gulls--white
with brown bars on their wings--came flying round the boat; and,
scrambling out of the water and up the rocks at the side in most
ungainly fashion, were small and terrified black-and-white penguins.
In winter time, when for many miles the overland track lies buried
in snow, a small steamer plies up the Sound once a month with
provisions and letters for the inhabitants of the one lonely
house, and sometimes a Government boat goes to Milford and other
Sounds to visit lighthouses and a few scattered settlers.
There is said to be one old man who lives quite alone in a hut on
one of the West Coast Sounds, and to whom the Government steamer
regularly takes his old age pension changed into food and clothing;
the Captain always gives orders to the men who take food for "Maori
Bill" to go provided with a spade and a Prayer Book as well, in
case the poor old man should be dead.
We could only spend two nights at Milford before beginning the walk
back to Glade House, which we reached two days later, one happy
family, as we had set out.
[Illustration: LAKE WAKATIPU. _To face page 47._]