CHAPTER VI.
THE BLUE RIVER HUT AND THE CROSSING OF THE HAAST.
Before us stretched the pine-trees’ sombre miles,
Soft lay the moss, like furs upon the floor;
Behind, the woodland’s green monotonous aisles,
Closed far away by sunset’s amber door.
League after league the same. The sky grew red,
And through the trees appeared a snowy gleam
Of lonely peak and spectral mountain head,
And gulfs that nurse the glacier and the stream.
After all our straying it was very pleasant to be guided in safety to a night’s resting-place. Candles and lanterns flitted out of the house, held by dark figures, and kind Irish voices bade us welcome, and lamented over me: “Sure you must be tired out; we’ve been looking for you all the afternoon; however did ye miss the track?” I was led in and divested of hat and knapsack, and we were soon sitting down to a hot tea-supper. Everyone wanted to talk, and we could hardly get on with our eating. At last the mother ordered silence: “Let them alone, can’t you—till they’ve done, and then we’ll talk.” I really was a novelty down there—the first lady traveller—and they could not do enough for me; I hope they knew I was grateful.
When morning came we found we were in a valley, among the usual high-forest-covered hills, with deep, purple gorges, and higher mountains beyond. Along the river were paddocks and grazing land, but behind the house the bush came to the very doors. The heat seemed tropical in that closed-in valley; everything was saturated with moisture and the mist hung low on the hills. So far we had scarcely been troubled by mosquitoes, but now we were in a country infested by them. Much discussion took place as to our next stage, and they strongly advised resting the horses a day, and then pushing through the next fifty miles in one stage. The alternative was a night spent in a hut en route, whither we would carry some provisions with us.
“You won’t sleep much in the Blue River Hut,” they laughed. “Don’t you think of such a thing!“ “Why, the mosquitoes could lift ye up and carry ye away!“ “They just swarm“—and so forth. But we were bent on going on, if possible. While the discussion was in progress heavy rain fell, and we decided to push on, for this hot and close valley was terribly enervating. One of the daughters offered to ride with us for the first nine miles and see us over the Paringa river, and the whole family gathered to watch the start.
“You’re just a little bit of all-right,“ said my hostess, hugely delighted with a waterproof cover I drew over my hat. “We live in the wet here all the year round, and we none of us has inventions like that!“ “Mind,“ said our host, “and don’t be for going to cross the Haast the two of ye; it’s a bad river is the Haast, and it’ll sweep ye away.” We promised caution, and set forth. We crossed the flat and entered a narrow path where high grasses brushed our knees as we rode past, and every few yards streams ran across it in inverted culverts of punga logs. Now our companion's horse was used to these novel kind of drains and took them in his canter, while ours pulled up at every one they came to, slipping about on the rounded logs, so that we soon were left far behind. However, we got out of this into open country, more like a moor than anything we had seen. The mountains falling back into the distance seemed much lower. The Paringa river was easily crossed, the water but reaching to the saddle-flaps; then on we went across a wilderness of tall flax and scrub, where a bittern rose and flapped away down stream. This bird will stand for hours, his long bill pointed heavenwards, quite invisible among withered grass and reeds—his fawn plumage and darker markings blend so perfectly with his surroundings, hat if he did not rise one would never see him. Here was a little house where dwelt two old brothers, who carried the fortnightly mail on pack-horses to the Haast. One of them was very ill, and I went with our guide to visit him—she had brought him a big bottle of milk and some other things. We found him sitting in the house they built themselves years ago, when they came from County Waterford, and we were soon deep in talk of the Old country. He had no hope of getting any better, and soon after we heard he was dead. It was a lonely spot, and when the other brother was away with the mails there was no one but his friends at the Mahitahi, nine miles off, to hear whether he was alive or dead. We parted here with Miss Condon, the last link between us and the settlements behind, and striking across a green, swampy meadow, plunged once more into the bush for eight dismal miles. The track, winding ever upwards through dripping trees that towered black above our heads, seemed as if it would go on thus for ever. Range beyond range the forest-clad hills stretched away interminably. All seemed impenetrable—monotonous—divided by tumbling torrents in deep bottoms—heard but unseen. It was weird enough riding through the white wrappings of the mist, in an atmosphere heated like a fernery at Kew; but when the wan daylight died, and the narrow track grew inky black, and we had to trust the instinct of the horses to find it, then indeed it became awesome. And as we wandered on, no hut or any land-mark was there. I felt we might be lost, and wander thus for ever in these dim shades.
Anxiously we questioned, could we possibly have passed the hut? But no, our directions were plain enough: “to look for a ford above where a suspension-bridge for foot-passengers was thrown across the ravine.” I began to wish we had stayed at the Mahitahi, and wondered, _(14596990117).jpg)
through dripping Trees
We set out into a world which was still wrapped in that weird white mist. Only a few yards of track were visible ahead—always ascending through the trees. But we were gradually getting to the top of a 2,000 foot saddle—it grew brighter every minute, and as we left the night clouds below, we knew that up among the peaks there would be a cloudless sunrise:
“Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,
And bosom beating with a heart renew’d.
Thy cheek begins to redden thro’ the gloom,
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,
And shake the darkness from their loosen’d manes,
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.”
Gradually the fresh, cold air up here waked up our energies, and I began to forget the tired feeling induced by trying to sleep in one’s boots and gaiters in “Mosquito Hut.” When Transome teased me by reviling the forest for its lack of human interest, enough spirit returned to contradict; but, in very truth, that is just what strikes one so forcibly. League after league, range beyond range—
“A land where no man comes nor hath com
Since the making of the world.”
Not even natives inhabited these solitudes in the past, nor any four-footed beast—nothing but the birds. The Maori invaders from the north, who came for the precious greenstone to be found in the river-beds, made no settlements among the hills, and left but a few small ones along the coast. Perhaps it is the only country in the world without history. Even the heart of Africa or Greenland has its traditions and folk-lore—here it is writ only in the rocks and immemorial trees. Its lords were the spirits of mountain and river—their Temple the house of the Forest.
To-day a new order slowly creeps in; bit by bit the forest will be conquered; bit by bit the Temple must be despoiled. The columns in that Temple seem up to now almost to defy the hand of time. There is the matai or black pine, whose growth is so slow that it may almost rank with the giant kauri of the North Island, which takes a thousand years to come to maturity. Living or dead it is well-nigh indestructible. Buchanan, the botanist, tells of a black pine found lying in the bush, over which three broad-leaf[1] trees had grown, enfolding it in their roots. He calculated these trees to be 300 years old—yet the matai was perfectly sound and was split up for fencing posts. The black pine is another illustration of that curious difference between the old and the young in the same tree. It first appears with two cotyledons, as in any broad-leaved tree, and grows up with a drooping, almost weeping, habit. At this stage it bears scattered leaves of a coppery tint, and was for long regarded as a distinct species, till trees showing both stages of development in the same specimen were found. In sixteen to twenty years the branches begin to grow upright and "spiky," and become covered with dark-green, very narrow leaves. And, lastly, we get a spreading forest tree equalling the red pine in height. At certain times of the year the bark peels off, and then the Temple columns are splashed with crimson and scarlet—wonderfully beautiful.
Surely it is this continual finding of surprises that make one’s progress through the bush so fascinating? Everywhere one sees those strange black ropes, jointed and polished, hanging from the roof in straight lines, or tying tree to tree, twisting and coiling, with neither beginning nor end that one can find. They render the bush impenetrable and even with a sharp knife it is hard work to cut one through. Yet that snakey rope is a lily—the "“supple-jack”"[2] of the settlers. Looking more carefully, one discovers dark-green foliage, with a metallic lustre on the leaves; tendrils that curl and wave through the air, seeking new supports, and the most unlily-like spray of greenish flowers. These are succeeded by oval, pointed berries of a brilliant scarlet—making up for the inconspicuousness of its blossom. The most reviled, and at the same time one of the most beautiful, of the climbers is the “bush lawyer.”[3] It is armed, on stalks and leaves alike, with barbed hooks, by which it climbs, clutching everything within reach and orming dense jungles. Hooked to one’s clothes it rends them to pieces, for it is almost impossible to extricate anything that gets into its clutches. The Maori name “Tataramoa,” means a “heap of prickles.” The beauty of its light-green leaves and sprays of yellowish flowers, makes one almost forgive the barb-like spines—as long, that is, as they are not imbedded like fish-hooks in one’s person. Later on it will hang out clusters of red and yellow fruit like minute raspberries, but of small value to the hungry wayfarer. There are four well-known species which climb to the very tops of the trees, but Rubus parvus is found only in South Westland at the head-waters of some of the rivers. It is one of the few New Zealand plants which puts on autumn tints, and is a beautiful object when its leaves turn to bronze and gold. Another tree which sheds its leaves is the ribbon-wood.[4] Once the track led us under a grove of these trees—a very fairy-land of beauty as the sunshine glinted through the light-green leaves on the pendant bunches of fragile blossom, like cherry.
At times our road grew very dangerous; the usual waterfalls and streamlets poured across it, but frequent landslips had occurred, and at last we got to a place where the mountain had slipped down bodily. It was called the Blue Slips, and here I very nearly came to an end of the tour. The little track, not two feet wide, wavered like a scratch across the face—in and out, appearing round great buttresses, to be lost sight of again as it crept inwards skirting deep furrows worn by the torrents. Bluish-grey mud and rocks had in places overwhelmed trees still rooted, leaving only their tops sticking out of the débris. Far, far down, a river was roaring white at the bottom of the ravine. What followed happened so suddenly and unexpectedly, I was taken completely off my guard. Whether the screaming ka-kas frightened him, or whether I touched him with the spur, I can’t say: Tom bolted—here, where there was not an inch of room to spare—where that narrow scratch bent in and out at such sharp angles. I felt every moment I must be flung off at a tangent. I remember on the outward curve, as we swung madly round it, seeing the river below what looked like a grey fall of lava, but in a flash we were charging apparently into a blind gully; it seemed an eternity, and why we did not both shoot over the edge, off the track, and roll to the bottom, I know not. There was a terrible curve in front I felt sure would be our last. I still pulled with all my strength, but a snaffle-bit with single ring is of little use on a bolting horse. To my intense relief he slowed down before we reached that buttress. I waited for Transome, somewhat shaken, with a feeling that the sooner we got out of this the better. There was just room for him to pass me, and he took the lead, and we started the long descent very soberly.
We began to catch glimpses now of a vast tree-grown plain with high hills round it, forming a wide amphitheatre. Far away a faint-blue melting into the whitish sky showed where the sea lay. It looked a fair and beautiful land. And now the hills changed character: the forest ended on their lower slopes; bare rumpled outlines, clothed with yellow grass, took the place of the tangle of the bush. Blazing sunshine here reigned supreme, the trees no longer dripped with moisture, and the ground was dry. It was two o’clock, and for two hours we rode across the flat, sometimes crossing gentle streams, where plenty of soft green grass grew under the shade of spreading trees. Fat red cattle raised curious eyes, and gazed enquiringly as we cantered past. But no sign of farm or dwelling was there in all that wide land of plenty. And then quite suddenly we had left it all. This beautiful land of shade and sunshine and rippling water gave place to a vast flax swamp, waving before us for miles. Here and there ragged pines secured a foot-hold on some knoll, and manuka and "wild Irishman"[5] (that very objectionable thorny scrub) caught at us with leafless branches as we passed. Brown water lay between, whose peaty depth it was impossible to guess. And as to the Main South Road, it meandered in and out of bog-holes, marked very rarely by a bit of rag tied to a flax blade—flax so tall that even on horseback it grew high over our heads. Once, a few stones had been thrown down; then a brown water stretched right across the only opening. In went the Scorpion, very cautiously. It swallowed her, and I watched her swim across, wondering if Tom would do the same. He chose his own crossing and walked through on a firm bottom. This peril past, through more flax and scrub we came to a strange place. A rude foot-bridge was thrown across another sheet of coffee-coloured water, and beyond that there was a tangle of dead trees lying partly submerged, heaped in confusion. Could horses get through that? Surely we had missed the track? But no, there was the evidence of that tree-trunk bridging the water—there was no other path. The Scorpion, in her matter-of-fact-way, crashed through, breast-deep in the coffee-coloured water, and Tom followed, and than at the critical point took a panic. I could feel him poised with all four feet gathered on a log. He utterly refused to climb trees, whatever else he might do for me. But we could not stay there—with a slide and a flop he splashed in among the submerged brandies, and we got across. We found ourselves on the sandy shores of a little lagoon, whose blue waters lay in a setting of bright green reeds. Black swan and duck were on its placid surface, a little patch of beauty and peace. Just outside the Pacific thundered, and when we climbed the sand bank we stood above the great white curlers, and along their edge black-backed gulls as large as geese were digging out shellfish, and fighting and screaming over every morsel. They took no notice of us at all—war, and tumult of waves outside; utter peace and stillness within. Then we turned to look down that lonely shore. Far as the eye could see it was lined with the white skeletons of forest trees, bleached by sun and wind—packed in an impenetrable chevaux de frise imbedded in the sand. Here and there a black one or a mass of seaweed deceived us with its resemblance to a man on horseback, and for long we watched one, as we thought, riding towards us. Over all, the heat-haze shimmered and danced. The distance between us and a far-away blue headland seemed illimitable. Swamp on our left, the thundering Pacific on our right; between, that stretch of shifting sand. How had the Main South Road fallen from its high estate! It was slow going in the loose sand. The afternoon sun beat fiercely in our faces, and those phantom riders ahead caused us many disappointments. We tried riding among the sand dunes, and after a time we struck a long green alley sheltered by a growth of creepers and stunted trees from the fierce glare. Here we could canter. We knew we must be nearing the Haast, though the river was hidden as yet. The swamps had given place to good land, bush-covered, but with open grassy spaces, and through this, about half past five, we came to the great river. The wide bed stretched a couple of miles perhaps in front of us, divided into long shingle islands by blue, hurrying streams. The farther shore was misty blue in the heat; purple tree-clad hills, surmounted by bare, rocky mountains, made a fitting gateway whence the river issued, and at its mouth lay a lagoon some miles in extent. Where the river finally reaches the sea there is a sand bar, utterly ruining what might otherwise be a harbour. When we saw these streams that swirled silently seawards in their irresistible might, we understood the cause of those miles of bleaching trees we had ridden along. In the wild storms and floods they are swept out to sea, only to be hurled back by the Pacific, tossed backwards and forwards in the broken water that extends for a league or more at the Haast mouth, and gradually piled along the beach by the tides. Beyond the first stream we could see a kind of beacon erected on a desert island of stones and shingle, and we splashed through easily enough, hoping against hope to find a telephone or bell, or some means of communication with the farther shore. There was only a broken wire. We took out the field-glasses and scanned the belt of flax and broken ground, where we could see a few signs of habitation. I tried hard to persuade Transome that I saw a woman waving to us. “Here,” he said, “take the glasses, I told you there was no one there,” and when I looked it was an old white horse waving its tail. We rode on, and came to the next stream, but it was altogether too wide and deep for any horse, and we turned up towards the hills thinking possibly it branched again. We remembered our host at the Mahitahi and his warning, “It’ll sweep ye away”; and a hungry, treacherous river it looked. We rode with handkerchiefs tied to sticks fluttering overhead, but, apparently, there was no one to see us. The heat was grilling, wafts of hot air off the stones smote our faces, and I longed inexpressibly to be out of the saddle. Also, except for a little cocoa and a crust of bread at eleven o’clock, we had had nothing whatever to eat.
About a mile up, the stream branched into three. The first we forded without difficulty, the next was deep and swift; five times the Scorpion refused it, and finally her master brought her out, and we rode back along its edge, anxiously looking for some means to get over. We arrived at a place where the two streams became one; the ruffle on the water going over some imbedded drift wood, showed there was bottom for at least some way across. Here the Scorpion was made to understand she had got to go over, for her master had made up his mind. I sat on Tom, and we both watched—he apparently as anxious for his companion’s safety as I was for mine. Very cautiously she entered the water, and for a third of the way over she was still in her depth. Then the fierce current seized her, the light blue water swept horse and rider away, lifting him from the saddle as if he were but a feather. She gave one mad upward plunge, beating the air with her forefeet, and sank. I held my breath, it had all happened so suddenly—but yes, there were still two heads, and a panama on one of them! Transome had caught the stirrup, how I don’t know in that swift rush of water—laden as he was with camera, knapsack and field-glasses. They were going down stream at a terrific pace, but the mare was striking for the farther shore. She made for a backwater behind a curve of the bank, and as soon as she touched bottom stopped, waiting for her master to mount. He, poor man, was still up to the chin in water! He made her move on, and I saw him mount. He shouted and gesticulated to me—no doubt telling me not to cross. Then galloped away.
He was too far off for me to hear what he had said, and anyway, I had no desire to try. The feeling of intense thankfulness and excitement suddenly gave way; I felt limp and weary, and inclined to cry—to cry in the midst of so much water! It was so hot too, and I had eaten nothing since eleven o’clock. I was all alone in that desolate shingle island, with the rays of the level sun burning on my face . . . . soon it would sink, and I should be in the dark . . . . and supposing a snow-flood came down . . . . what then? Patient Tom stood stock-still watching where his comrade had disappeared; did he think she was drowned, or could he see the farther shore? Gladly I would have got off, and sat in that one tiny patch of shadow cast by his body, but there was no stone or trunk to mount from, and he was a tall horse—gymnastics were beyond me just then. The evening wore on. Bit by bit the scene I had just witnessed passed before me—over and over again in my tired head. Well, it had ended well. The Haast had tried to do its worst, but it had failed. Was nobody ever coming? I bowed my head till it was nearly on Tom’s neck, though I still, from time to time, waved my flag of distress. Hours seemed to pass. Then a long way off, near the lagoon, I saw a man. He was in his shirt sleeves, and was coming along in leisurely fashion; but he was on the opposite bank of the arm which we had crossed together. I turned Tom and rode back towards him. Then he stopped coming on, and waited. This I took to be a signal to cross, and without going so far as our original ford, I just put Tom in where we were. In less than a minute he was swimming! The water came up about my waist, but we got across easily till we reached the other side. Here the bank shelved, and I did not see how we were going to climb out. But, with a mighty effort, Tom broke it down with his fore-feet and heaved himself up, still with me on his back. And the young man remarked laconically he “didn’t know there was a deep hole there!”
He led me a long way down, answering my questions about the river; but he was a man of action rather than words, and quite suddenly he reached up, and lifting me out of the saddle, set me on my feet. I gasped, but by this time I was so tired the effort to dismount would have been the last straw, and I was grateful. His boat was tied to a stone. The wide lagoon lay in front of us; with quick, gentle hands he took off the saddle, put it in the boat beside me, and telling me to hold the bridle shoved off. Tom followed with a little coaxing, his eyes fixed on the stern of the boat, and when his hoofs touched bottom again the look of relief in his face was human. Then my ferryman mounted his mare (which was tied near by) and rode with me to show me his brother’s house, where we were to stay. A little way on we came up to Transome in déshabillé—all his possessions hanging on someone’s clothes line. He was peacefully smoking, and the panama still triumphantly on his head—why it survived when a really useful hat would have been lost, I can’t say. He assured me he was perfectly all right—a little tired, but refreshed by the swim, and his sole anxiety all along had been for the camera films—the precious records of our trip. _(14781152134).jpg)
And this is the true version of the crossing of the Haast. The other, told to us on our return, was a fiction.