THE YELLOWSTONE OF NEW ZEALAND
Mark Twain said Pittsburgh looked like “Hell with the lid off.” I
have come to a part of New Zealand that looks like “Hell with the
lid on,” save that there are a thousand and one holes in the cover,
from which all sorts of poisonous gases, malodorous smells, boiling
springs, and other infernal manifestations are pouring forth. I am in
the Yellowstone Park of New Zealand, a land of volcanoes, geysers,
earthquakes, and lakes of boiling mud, a land in which old Mother Earth
seems afflicted with perpetual colic and is ever vomiting forth hot
paint, or belching out steam full of alum.
This region is situated near the centre of the North Island, one
hundred and seventy-one miles southeast of Auckland. It is about thirty
miles wide and one hundred miles long, covering almost two million
acres. The crust upon it is so thin that in walking or riding over it
one seems to hear a thousand devils grumbling and raging below, and
almost expects to crash through into Hades at any moment.
Here the face of the earth changes from week to week. Great cracks
open, new boiling pools burst forth, and there are frequent
earthquakes. One spot is known as Earthquake Flat, because it shivers
and shakes regularly every ten minutes. On top of a mountain in the
geyser field there is a great hole called the “Safety Valve of New
Zealand,” out of which constantly roars a column of steam. Now and then
a mountain breaks into eruption. Some of the volcanoes are active, and
no one knows when one of those now dormant may spring into life, as
Mount Tarawera did in 1886. In that year, on the 10th of June, several
native villages were covered to a depth of sixty feet by a deluge
of mud. Both houses and inhabitants were destroyed as were those of
Pompeii and Herculaneum by the eruption of Vesuvius centuries ago. The
bottom of a big lake was blown out and in its place came a roaring
crater, which sent up a column of steam to a height of almost three
miles. The earth broke open. There was one crack nine miles long. New
lakes were formed, clouds of ashes and dust turned noon to night, and
throughout the region there was a downpour of water, mud, and stones.
The noise of the explosion was heard five hundred miles away.
The eruption destroyed the famous pink terraces of the New Zealand
Yellowstone. The terraces were in the form of basins made by the
sediment from the mineral waters of a geyser one hundred feet above
the lake. They were filled with the clearest of boiling water, blue
at the topmost terrace, and changing in colour to a lighter hue as it
fell from basin to basin. The walls of the terraces seemed to be made
of jewels, some pink, others white. The water played over them in tiny
cascades, and when the sun shone the hillsides were alive with showers
of diamonds, pearls, emeralds, and rubies. Since the great eruption,
terraces have not formed again, as it was hoped they would, though
small and imperfect basins of similar structure are occasionally seen
to-day.
In my journey here from Auckland, the train climbed to an elevation
of about one thousand feet above the sea. As we entered the volcanic
region the earth seemed hollow, and it rumbled and grumbled as the
cars went over it. I saw steam coming forth from the cracks here and
there and wondered if the crust might not break and drop us into the
bubbling, boiling, steaming mass that evidently lay below.
We passed the village of Koutu, which is almost hidden in columns of
steam pouring forth from the ground, and skirted the shores of Lake
Rotorua to the town of Rotorua itself. Rotorua is the most famous
health resort of the South Seas. The country about it is clouded
with vapour from pools of boiling water, each of which has medicinal
properties. There are hotels and cottages and all the surroundings of
similar resorts in the United States or Europe. The government has
charge of the springs and fixes the rates for baths and accommodations,
thus preserving the use of the place for the people at reasonable cost.
There are public gardens in which are the great bath houses and other
buildings. On the grassy lawns tourists and health seekers may bowl and
play tennis and croquet. There are long borders of beautiful flowers.
The town is laid out in broad streets shaded by oaks, pines, and gums,
through which the blue waters of Lake Rotorua may be seen sparkling in
the sunlight. It is no wonder that tens of thousands of visitors come
every year to this spot.
Many of the baths have curious names. One, owing to the beauty it
gives the complexion, was years ago named after the famous French
actress, Madame Rachel. Another is called the Priest Bath, another
the Painkiller, a third the Coffee Pot, and a fourth the Blue Bath.
The Lobster Bath is so hot that it turns one the colour of a boiled
lobster. The names sound queer at first, and when I was told I could
have a half hour at The Priest, I felt like protesting I was not a
Catholic, but a cast-iron Presbyterian.
[Illustration: Rotorua, the Yellowstone of New Zealand, with its hot
springs baths and geysers, is the chief health resort of the Dominion.
The hotels and even the sanatoriums are controlled by the government.]
[Illustration: Wairoa never plays unless it is given a barrel of
soap--then it usually goes up in great style. But except on special
occasions the government does not permit it to be dosed, as this
weakens a geyser.]
Joking aside, the baths are wonderful. The Rachel is a boiling cauldron
of enormous depth with a flow of fifty thousand gallons daily. The
water evidently contains much sulphuretted hydrogen, for a smell of
bad eggs fills the air all around it. The visitor is usually disgusted
until he steps into the pool. Then his skin seems to have turned to
satin, and he is as comfortable as though on beds of rose leaves. The
Coffee Pot pool is covered with an oily slime and the water is thick,
brown, and muddy, but it gives great relief to any one suffering from
rheumatism. In the Spout Bath, the patient goes down into a sort of
cave, where the warm water pours on him from a spout above. The boiling
water from one of the springs is mixed with waters of a cold lake to
make the temperature endurable. Others of the baths have such strong
mineral properties that one must be examined by a doctor before he can
enter them.
For my guide in visiting the geysers, I have one of the Maoris, many
of whom live in this region. I chose a woman who spoke fair English
to take me through the crackling, steaming, rumbling, spurting region
about me. She leads me from one wonder to another. Here is a pool of
boiling, bubbling mud which now and then shoots a column high into
the air. That great round vat with the white walls is made of the
silica and other minerals thrown up by a geyser called the Brain Pot.
That vast pool in which the yellow fluid seethes and boils is known
as the Champagne Pool; its contents fizz like so much champagne, and
the gases now and then throw the water up to a height of six or eight
feet. The walls are of different colours, here white, there dark red,
and there yellow with sulphur. We go to see the Pohutu Geyser, which
formerly twice a day sent a majestic column of water high into the air
for from twenty minutes to three hours at a time. But today Pohutu
sulks and is entirely unreliable, though a way has been found to make
it perform on demand. When some distinguished visitor comes along, the
officials give the geyser an emetic of several barrels of soap, and
then it plays up in great style. And that reminds me of the Pack-horse
Mud Geyser, so named because it was not active until one day a pack
horse fell into it. Before that it was simply a quiet pool of mud
containing sulphuric acid.
One of the most remarkable of all the geysers of this whole region was
the Waimangu, which during the years of its activity was undoubtedly
the greatest wonder of the kind in the world. It was not discovered
until 1901 and for five years after that it played almost every day.
It was fierce “play,” though, for, unlike the ordinary geyser, the
Waimangu flung up black mud and stones, as well as scalding water,
sometimes to the height of fifteen hundred feet. Then suddenly, for no
apparent reason, it stopped, though it is believed that it may at any
time break forth again. Once two girls and a guide were caught in the
flood of scalding mud and were killed. Now one sees there only a hollow
of some two acres covered with black, steaming water.
But come and take a trip with me into the mouth of Hell itself. This
is a region about twelve miles from Rotorua. We sail across the lake,
passing over what was evidently once a volcanic crater, then take
horses across country to Tikitere. As we near it we see great columns
of steam rising into the air. We tie our horses and, staff in hand,
plunge into the vapour. We are in the midst of acres of boiling springs
separated by thin walls upon which we walk, looking down into the
terrible commotion below.
Here is a whirlpool. The water is as black as ink. It boils and steams
and bubbles and spits. It is hotter than the “burning fiery furnace”
into which King Nebuchadnezzar cast Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.
Watch out, for if your foot slips you will be scalded to death.
Now we are on a great yellow mound looking into a sulphur pool, the
gases of which almost sicken us as we stoop over. The pool is filled
with boiling mud. The steam is so thick we can hardly see through it.
Be careful where you step. A girl slipped into that vat the other day
and came out cooked.
Look at this hole! See how it churns up mud and oil. It makes a noise
like running machinery and the Maoris have named it the Donkey Engine.
See the white stuff on which you are standing. It looks like salt. You
have passed out of the sulphur fields and are now on hills of snow,
which glisten in contrast with the boiling mud about you. Pick up some
of the snow or salt and taste it. How it puckers your mouth! Your lips
and tongue wither as though you had bitten into a green persimmon. The
stuff is neither salt nor snow. It is alum. There are bushels of it
here, mixed with other minerals, and in some parts of New Zealand there
are cliffs of alum and springs that flow alum water.
But let us take a look at the Inferno. We walk through a stream over a
thin crust of sulphur and gaze down into a great vat twenty feet deep
and so large that you could drop a native house into it. It seems to
be filled with boiling paint, and as it seethes it now and then throws
up a column of mud. The odour is nauseating and we give our hands to
the guides and beg them to lead us away. We go out through clouds of
camphor steam from the Devil’s Punch Bowl, and on into the open, where
there are green hills, blue sky, and the good earth of every day.
[Illustration: White Island is a roaring, steaming sulphur pit, and has
a lake of hot, acid water. The earth is treacherous and corrosive, and
there is no sign of life except the birds of the air.]
[Illustration: The government restaurant at Lake Taupo is designed
after the typical Maori house, with its wonderfully carved columns,
walls, and rafters. Such houses took years to build and were often
fifty feet long.]
[Illustration: Much of the charm of the _poi_ dance comes from the
flash and play of light fibre balls on short flax strings. The balls
are swung in time to the soft crooning of the Maori women as they
dance.]
[Illustration: In the hot springs district Mother Nature helps the
Maori housewife by providing outdoor fireless cookers. Vessels of food
are placed over holes or in the hot pools--and that is all there is to
it.]