THE MOHIKINUI, KARAMEA, AND NORTHWARD.
CHAPTER VII.
OME years later than the periods referred to in the preceding chapter, my wandering inclinations led me to take a short outing northwards from the Buller. Scanning the coast-line in the direction of Rocky Point, the spectator, from the heights of Mount Rochfort, will observe a series of picturesque headlands projecting far into the sea, and between them deep indentations. These mark the courses of the Mohikinui, Wanganui, Karamea, Matiri, Wangapeka, Takaka, and Aorere streams, which traverse country scarcely yet open to civilisation, save on the banks of the first three named, and of which is now offered brief description, premising that the traveller in such direction goes there rather in search of practical knowledge of the country than in anticipation of a pleasurable excursion. In good sooth he will find the way rough and rugged, and his pedestrian powers and physical endurance well tested. Getting to the Ngakawau and fortifying for the journey before him at M‘Nairn’s snug hostelry, he will cross the stream, which at low water is barely knee deep, but at full tide will float a craft of 150 tons burthen, and, landing on the northern bank, will see, when the tide is out, a long stretch of smooth and firm sandy beach, along which locomotion on a fine day will be found most pleasant; especially if he travels at early morning, in the roseate glint of the newly wakened daylight, the fresh ocean breeze giving vigour to his stride, and bird life in the bush which skirts the shore stirring into harmony.
A seven mile walk will bring him to the banks of the Mohikinui, and amidst piles of driftwood, tons upon tons, in thousands, he will perceive traces of human habitation. Penetrating the circumvallation of ocean-tossed waifs and strays, borne by flood along the southern rivers, and thence by the ocean currents bearing northward, until left by the receding tides high and dry on land, an exhaustible supply of firewood, the traveller will suddenly find himself amid strange surroundings—the melancholy wreck of what was once a bustling little township. A half score or so of weather-worn wooden buildings, about as many adult inhabitants, some children, a few stray cows and horses, a multitude of geese, goats, and fowls, the people unkempt and patchy in attire, little recking how the world jogs, hugging to their breasts the despondency of their own disappointments. On the stranger they will gaze curiously, wondering what has brought him thither, but in rough and ready fashion they will make him welcome, and, if inclined to listen, they will not be slow to tell of past prosperity, of present unrequited hopes, and withal a sturdy reliance on future good luck. They will tell how, in the
