me and ask me to drink, to which, bearing in mind the journey I have before me, I assent. Besides, I remember what an unknown Western poet said:—
“’You see, it was the custom then
To shoot as quick as wink,
If any man should dare say “No!”
When axed to take a drink.
“’But folks out thar was posted up
In all them social laws;
And very few was ever shot
For that particular cause.’
I hope I shall never ‘die in my boots’ for refusing what down South we styled ‘the courtesies customary amongst gentlemen.’ I am on the road to the unknown (to me) West Coast. Wild and lawless in the old days by repute; a country of rough miners, quick, perchance, to take offence. I will give them no cause for such, but will obey their ‘social laws,’ and sacrifice my principles and my liver by imbibing their fusel when called upon! We start in triumph amidst the cheers of the whole population of Springfield. The departure and arrival of the bi-weekly coach is an event to them. We bowl along a good road, with a gradual ascent. All the way from Christchurch the rise has also been gradual, so the mountains do not look so high. The snow is lying about in patches. There is no bush, and the brown tussock grass has a dismal look, reminding me of the hills round the Clutha. A few miles out and we are at the bottom of a very steep incline, the road winding round the face of the mountain before us. Then the pleasant driver halts and seductively asks, ‘Will any of you gentlemen like to walk up here?’ I do not know why it is that I have not moral courage to refuse. I have paid £4, 10s., the fare from Springfield to Hokitika, and now I am asked to walk up the hardest pinch! However, as they all alight, I do likewise. ‘I shall be at the top waiting for you,’ says our Jehu, and he gallops his horses round the mountain, while we take the short cut by the old road through ‘Porter’s Pass,’ the only practicable route discovered from the Canterbury Plains.
“A winding road through a narrow deep gorge. Nothing on the hillsides but snow patches and tussock. The mountain in many places casts a heavy shadow—the sun’s rays do not reach us. The road is frost-bound. The streams which in summer would be babbling and breaking into a thousand ripples, are now sealed in the sleep of winter. Great icicles hang down from the banks. The path is covered with frozen snow and ice. The cold would be intense but that the hard exercise warms me. I am fain after a time to take off my thick coat and rest on a clump of hard grass. . . . It is a hard and stiff pull, indeed, of a mile and a-half, till we join the coach again, which has to go some twice the distance. We must have ascended 1500 ft. to 2000 ft. in a very short time, as we are now at the summit of Porter’s Pass, 3400 ft. above the level of the sea. Close by is the highest telegraph pole in New Zealand. After this feat of walking over the pass I begin to think I shall yet be fit to ascend Mount Cook. The Excelsior spirit grows on one!
