ACROSS THE SOUTHERN ALPS—_concluded_
“The’ was ’bout half a minit when I’d hev sold out mighty cheap an’
took a promise fer the money.”—_American Author._
When dawn came, Fyfe was still tossing restlessly in his sleeping
bag. We got up at 5 a.m., and partially undressed for the crossing of
the river. We got over the first branch without difficulty; but the
second stream ran swift and deep. Fyfe got near mid-stream, hesitated
a moment, and then plunged ahead. But he had scarcely gone a couple
of yards when he was swept off his feet and was at the mercy of the
current. His swag was over one shoulder, in one hand he carried the
Alpine rope, and in the other his ice-axe. I never expected to see
swag, ice-axe, nor rope again, and I was just on the point of rushing
down-stream with a view to intercepting Fyfe at a bend in the river
before he should be carried down to the gorge, once into which there
would have been no hope for him. Many years ago a man was drowned
while attempting to cross this same river below the gorge. Fyfe,
however, with grim determination stuck to all his belongings, and,
after a stroke or two, he came to the surface again and floundered
into shallower water. The current there was still strong, and he was
knocked off his feet for the second time. But in two minutes he had
got through the worst of it, and as he gained the farther shore he
turned round and laughed. He told me afterwards that, though he had set
his teeth with grim determination, and was all the more minded, after
his involuntary sousing, to get even with the river, he would not have
cared—so great was the pain from his wound—had he been swept into the
gorge, whether he got through it dead or alive.
It was now my turn to cross, and as I looked ruefully over the broad
stream at my dripping, half-clothed companion, I realized that what he
had so narrowly escaped might, perchance, happen to me. Fyfe came back,
as far as he dared, into the current, and endeavoured to throw one end
of the Alpine rope back to me; but the stream was much too wide, and he
failed in his efforts. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to make
the attempt, and I waded in. By going a few yards farther up-stream, I
took the current at an easier angle, and, though it was touch and go at
one time, I crossed in safety. At that early hour of the morning, both
the water and the air were icy cold, and when I reached the farther
bank Fyfe’s teeth were chattering. We lit a fire to dry our wet things,
and between the process of undressing and dressing we were attacked by
myriads of sandflies. Ahead was a steep hill covered with dense bush,
up which we had to climb, and we knew not what was beyond. Moreover,
we had to be content with tabloid tea and saccharine for breakfast, as
we wished to keep our last bit of bread as an emergency ration. While
we were drying our things a small wren came hopping about, in quite a
friendly way, and, though it went to my heart to do it, I killed him
with my catapult. Still, in the event of my having to leave Fyfe, one
or two of these birds, small as they were, would not be amiss.
One cannot make a very full meal of tabloid tea sweetened with
saccharine, and it is scarcely the sort of food for a climber when he
has to go through dense forest, and up a steep hill, with a swag on his
back. At one time we thought of abandoning our swags so that we might
make quicker progress. Fyfe’s leg pained him at every step, and he told
me afterwards that he was busy wondering during all this morning why
he had ever been born. On gaining the top of the hill we found several
gullies running in the direction of the river. We crossed near the head
of these, and arrived at a comparatively flat area on top of a ridge,
but could see nothing owing to the tallness of the trees. At length
with a joyful shout I came suddenly on an old disused track on which
were the recent footprints of a bullock.
We presumed that the animal was being used by some lonely miner as a
means of transport to his “claim,” and came to the conclusion that if
we followed the tracks we should find food and help near at hand. A
closer examination of the tracks, however, revealed the fact that the
bullock had gone up and down the path, and we could not tell which
prints were the newer. Moreover, look we ever so closely, we could
find, nowhere, any sign or trace of the presence of man; and, finally,
the mystery was solved, and our hopes again dashed to the ground, by
the sudden appearance of five or six wild cattle, big and fat, and
with great horned heads, that went tearing past us through the forest,
and vanished over the brow of the hill into the valley out of which
we had just climbed. The noise they made, as they crashed through
the undergrowth at close quarters, startled us somewhat, and the
first inclination was to dodge behind the trunks of the splendid trees
that grew in such luxuriance in this forest primeval. But it was soon
apparent that they were much more frightened of us than we were of
them, so we continued our weary march down the narrow, half-overgrown
track, which led us out of the forest and back to the river a little
way below the mouth of the gorge. Here, on the beach, the first thing
that met our gaze was the footprints of a man! We would have given a
great deal to have found that man, but, like the footprints of the
bullock, his tracks, also, went both ways, and it was impossible to
decide at which end of his journey he was. I tried very hard to make
out which were the more recent footprints, but there appeared to be
no difference. They had apparently been made on the same day. We
afterwards found that the man was a miner and that he was working hard
by.
Here we halted to have some warm tea, and we now ate all our bread
except about two cubic inches, which we kept as a memento of the trip.
I also plucked and cooked the wren, grilling him at the end of a stick.
He was a tender morsel, but very, very small! At this point there was
some debate as to whether we should swim the river to the left bank or
proceed down the bank upon which we now were, so, while Fyfe rested,
I went exploring, and, at the mouth of the gorge, found an old and
rickety footbridge made of fencing wire and saplings suspended high
above the water. As Fyfe’s leg grew still worse, I now threw away the
blanket out of my sleeping bag, and, to ease his burden, took most of
his things in my pack. We crossed the bridge in some trepidation, for
it swayed ominously and looked most insecure. On the other side of the
river we found another disused track, in places completely overgrown
with ferns and scrub. It led us to the river-bank a mile or so farther
on, where we came upon the footprints of a man, a horse, and a dog, and
we followed these down the valley. Sometimes the tracks were along the
shingle beach, at other times they went into the bush. Occasionally
we lost them altogether. Then one of us would suddenly come upon them
again, and cry out, “Oh, here’s the horse!” while the other would,
perhaps, remark, “Here’s the man,” or “Here’s the dog also.” In this
manner we made our way down the valley, where there was, as yet, no
sign of cultivation, nor of any habitation. The river was now a stately
stream, flowing over a broad shingle bed. Indeed, it is the third
largest river on all the West Coast, only the Buller and the Haast
exceeding it in size.
About eleven o’clock I was overjoyed to see the head and shoulders
of a horse appearing above one of the gravel banks in the river bed.
We found a small but very intelligent boy in charge, and immediately
subjected him to a running fire of questions. He told us he was the
son of Alex. Gunn, of the Wataroa Ferry. Now it chanced that I had a
letter of introduction from the late Mr. Seddon, then Prime Minister
of New Zealand, to Mr. Gunn, so we made haste down to his house, some
three and a half miles farther on. We spoke of leaving our swags for
the horse to carry, but on second thoughts we decided to finish our
contract in style, and left them on our own backs, regretting all the
time that we had done so. At 12.30 in the afternoon we walked into what
is marked on the map as the township of Rohutu. It consisted of one
house!
In the house we found an elderly man with his wife and a large family,
the youngest of which was only three months old. In this home we
received a most kindly and hospitable welcome, and remained several
days in the hope that rest and hot fomentations would heal the wound in
Fyfe’s leg. But the leg got no better, and after a time it was decided
that I should go south some forty miles to Gillespie’s Beach and return
to the Hermitage via Fitzgerald’s Pass, while Fyfe went on to Hokitika,
where he had his leg opened up by a doctor, and two or three pieces of
bone taken out.
We said farewell on Wednesday, February 24, he going north, and I going
south in company with the mailman, on horseback. It was raining heavily
when I left the Wataroa Ferry, and I had no overcoat, but Mr. Gunn
rigged me out in true West Coast fashion, with one sack tied round my
loins and another fastened round my shoulders. Then we started off down
the wonderful and historic West Coast, where the climate is as wet and
the liquor as fiery as any in the whole wide world. The pack-horse that
carried the mails was a particularly obstinate brute, and while I was
helping the mailman to drive it along it suddenly lashed out vigorously
with its heels and kicked me on the leg. In a few seconds the leg was
terribly swollen, and the pain was so acute that I feared the bone had
been injured. Luckily, however, the iron shoe had just missed the shin
bone, and my leg was to some extent protected by the putties I was
wearing. Otherwise it had gone harder still with me. Here was a nice
state of affairs—to be laid by the heels in this manner on a level road
after all one’s adventures amongst unexplored glaciers, mountains, and
rivers! However, I decided to ride on to Okarito, and, for the next
few miles of the journey, was able to reflect on the fact that all our
original party except my wife were now _hors de combat_ with injured
legs. It seemed doubtful if I should now be able to return alone over
Fitzgerald’s Pass. An injured leg is not the best of companions on a
solitary mountain journey.
After we had proceeded a few miles through the bush we came upon some
men who were driving cattle, and, strangely enough, one of these young
fellows had just been kicked on the chest by the horse he was riding.
Such accidents are among the little troubles that the pioneer has
to put up with, and as there is usually no doctor within a hundred
miles one simply damns the cause of the injury, applies the ordinary
simple remedies—or even a horse embrocation—leaving Nature, with the
assistance of plain living, to complete the cure. It is wonderful how
many things can be cured by simples and how well you are when the
doctor is a hundred miles away!
We arrived at Okarito in the evening in the pouring rain, and for one
night we enjoyed the luxury and comfort of an hotel. Here I met quite a
character who was locally known as “Billy Barlow.” He had been a “star”
in the halls in London many years ago, and could still act Hamlet and
sing a good comic song.
On Thursday we made an early start for Gillespie’s. The Main South road
from this point was, in places, more imaginary than real, so we kept to
the sea-beach. The heavy rain had ceased and the sun shone brightly on
the shore, while inland great masses of cumulus cloud piled themselves
above the mountain-tops. Our spirits were high, and the horses, too,
seemed to revel in the glorious morning as they galloped along the
firm, wet sands. The breakers came tumbling shoreward; above us were
the cliffs of the sea-beach, covered in places with beautiful ferns
and shrubs, through which, at intervals, the silver streak of some
waterfall flashed in the sunlight. Beyond, the tall trees rose on a
sort of tableland, and the forest stretched away to the foot-hills,
above which gleamed the long line of glory of the Southern Alps. Peak
after peak I recognized. Here were all our old snowy friends with their
backs turned on us, but looking grander than ever in their stateliness
of beetling crag and gleaming cone, above the sombre green of their
forest setting. In riding along the beach to Gillespie’s the traveller
has to study the tides. In places there are bold rocky bluffs that
cannot be passed at high water. We were late enough at the last bluff,
and Hughie Thompson, the mailman, shook his head dubiously as the
foaming breakers came thundering amongst the big rocks. We waited some
minutes, anxiously watching, and then made a dash for it, I, who came
last, just escaping a big wave that broke as I passed. The pack-horses
used in this mail service are, however, wonderfully sagacious animals.
On occasions they have been left to their own devices whilst the
mailman has taken a safer route along the rocks higher up. At such
times they will be seen patiently watching the receding waves till a
good opening occurs, when they will dash along to a safe standpoint,
there to await another opportunity before dashing on again. Several
men, however, have been drowned while rounding these bluffs, and their
horses dashed to death on the rocks by the remorseless surf. In other
cases the horses have escaped by swimming. The turbulent, unbridged
rivers, too, have claimed heavy toll of the daring pioneers.
Gillespie’s Beach is a small mining settlement with one hotel and a few
diggers’ huts. I had to wait here for some days, but did not grudge the
time, as both my leg and the weather were bad. Eventually I moved on
farther south, and stayed in a hut with four miners and an entertaining
young Maori named Friday. The hut was on a small cattle ranch owned by
an old West Coaster who was then in the Hokitika Hospital. His nephew,
Dick Fiddian, a strong, bright, Lancashire lad, was in charge, and,
as I was not very sure that my leg would hold out, I engaged him to
accompany me part of the way on my return journey to the Hermitage. All
the people I met on the way down shook their heads gravely when they
learned that I purposed crossing the Alps alone; but I knew if my leg
held out for the first two days I should be all right. I was rather
pleased than otherwise that the weather continued bad, for the enforced
idleness gave my leg a chance to mend. Much bathing with warm water and
rubbing with a horse embrocation, a panacea for all outward ailments in
these parts, had considerably reduced the swelling.
One night we were visited by a severe thunderstorm, and the rain fell
in torrents. But we made merry inside the hut, and, after a supper of
boiled fish and potatoes, held a grand concert. “Friday,” with a Maori
song, some parts of which, I am afraid, would not bear translation, was
the hero of the evening. Even “Billy Barlow” would have had to play
second fiddle to our man Friday. I can still see his expressive dark
features and his expansive grin, revealing a set of beautiful pearly
teeth, and hear, in imagination, the strange songs that were sung. I
can see again young Foster, and Head, and Wick, and the Maori, and a
quiet old Scotsman sitting round the big log fire that went roaring
up the capacious chimney, all keeping time with their feet as they
drawled out a melancholy chorus to each verse of an interminably long
love-song:—
“I’ll take you home, Kathleen,
Across the ocean blue and wide;
To where your heart has ever been,
Since first you were my bonnie bride.”
Kathleen was evidently an exile in a strange land, and, apparently,
could not get used to her new surroundings.
Fine, bronzed, broad-chested fellows the singers were, leading a
healthy, happy life in these western wilds, and I shall never forget
their kindness to the lonely pilgrim who had chanced within their
domain.
My leg mended slowly, but I spent the time in delightful idleness, by
day fishing for flounders and mullet, and by night mainly occupied
in hunting—the quarry being that diminutive species of chamois so
humorously described by my old friend and fellow-traveller, Mark Twain.
But the more one slaughtered the more there seemed to be. No sooner had
you killed one than you found a hundred prepared to come to his funeral!
At last the time came for me to turn my face again towards the
mountains, for I knew my wife, who was waiting at the Hermitage, on
the other side of the great mountain chain, would be getting anxious
about my non-arrival. So one fine morning Dick Fiddian and I got horses
and rode to Scott’s Homestead, situated on a little island between the
forks of the Karangarua River. We were warmly welcomed and pressed to
stay the night, but I decided to hurry on. Here I purchased two loaves
of bread, four dozen hard-boiled eggs, some bacon, cheese, tea, sugar,
and butter for my journey. The butter, unfortunately, owing to the
heat, melted and ran out of the tin in which it was enclosed into the
blanket in my sleeping bag. It was not at all pleasant getting into a
buttered sleeping bag, and I would much rather have had the said butter
on my bread than on my bed. However, there was no use crying over spilt
milk, or spilt butter, and we ate our dry bread with a good grace, that
atoned, in a measure, for the absence of the butter.
We camped the first night under an overhanging rock near Architect
Creek, several miles up the Copland, which is the right-hand branch of
the Karangarua River. My companion was an excellent bushman and a good
hand with a swag.
He had built a large fire close by the side of our bivouac; but I,
who had not of late been used to such warm quarters, found it mighty
unpleasant, and lay sweltering in my sleeping bag, warding off the
attacks of mosquitoes, and vainly endeavouring to sleep.
The next day we went right up to the head of the valley—a good day’s
march, as the blazed tracks made in the bush were in places completely
obliterated by slips from the hillside or new vegetation that had
grown since they were cut. Our bivouac this night, near Mount Sefton
and the Marchant Glacier, at the head of the valley, was as cold
as the previous night’s was warm, for the temperature was below
freezing-point, and without an axe we could get no suitable wood to
build a big fire.
Next morning, early, I said good-bye to Dick, and started up the
valley alone. This was the first crossing of the pass from the West
Coast, and there was little data as to the line of route. To add to
the difficulty the last thousand feet had to be climbed in a fog; but
luckily I had, before the fog descended, taken a compass-bearing of the
general direction of the pass, and this stood me in good stead. The
summit of the range was gained after slightly more than two and a half
hours’ climbing. Here I waited for an hour till the clouds had risen,
when I was able to enjoy the views on every hand. Then I commenced the
descent. It was quite clear weather on the eastern side of the divide.
There was a bit of rock work to begin with, which, seeing I was alone,
I did very carefully. Then I crossed the top of a glacier and got
some good glissading down snow slopes and shingle shoots, till, in an
incredibly short space of time, I found myself eating a second luncheon
on the old moraine of the Hooker Glacier. I was in splendid form, and
my leg had stood the strain well so far. The whole descent occupied
only an hour!
There can be no doubt that this pass, discovered by Fitzgerald, a
member of the Alpine Club, is the best route for tourists proceeding
from the Hermitage to the West Coast.
On the old lateral moraine of the Hooker Glacier I gathered some very
fine edelweiss, which I took with me to the Hermitage. I arrived there
early in the afternoon, but was in no plight to be seen, for my knees
were sticking through great holes in my knickerbockers, my coat was
torn, and I was bronzed and bearded, if not like the pard, at least
like a man who hadn’t shaved for several weeks, which is perhaps
worse, though I do not know for certain, never having seen the pard.
I tried to slink into the Hermitage by the back way, but the rattle
of my pannikin against the ice-axe drew the attention of one of the
sun-bonnet brigade in my direction, and I had to run the gauntlet of
their hearty congratulations, while at the same time I had to walk
backwards into the house, because it was not only the knees of my
nether garments that had suffered on this particular expedition!
In a very few minutes I was steeped in a luxurious hot bath, and an
amused listener to the remarks on my personal appearance made by the
Hermitage maid—“I’m glad ’e’s back, Mrs. Ross; but ain’t ’e a sight.
Lord! mum, no tramp could look wuss!”