Our Southern Coast.
Off The Beaten Track In The South Island.

(By Dorothy Wiseman.)

We New Zealanders frequently hear of the glories of our West Coast. Our East Coast, too, gets its share of the limelight. Of North Coast, of course, we have practically none, but of our very interesting and quite extensive Southern Coast we scarcely hear a whisper. Far down “at the bottom of New Zealand” it lies, Murihiku, where one of the canoes was beached at the first coming of the Maori, and along which and about which we had an opportunity some little time ago, to make a leisurely and entrancing journey.

From Balclutha, that flourishing South Otago town, we motored over a fine metalled road to Waikawa at the northern end of the South Coast, and the real starting point of our journey. The road from Balclutha takes the traveller through magnificent bush and coastal scenery, notably the Catlins River district, named after an early pioneer, Captain Edward Catlin, of Sydney, who, following the profitable practice of many others, early on the scene in New Zealand, bought 650,000 acres of this country from a Maori chief for £30. It was then densely forested, and still has large areas of splendid bush.

Waikawa, whence our journey was to be continued on foot, on horseback, and occasionally by car, was once a busy whaling station. Now it is a sleepy little village, prettily set on the coast among beautiful native trees.

We did not linger in little Waikawa, but rode off down the beach next morning to Curio Bay. That glorious three-mile ride over firm white sands, on a heavenly morning was something to be remembered, and so indeed was Curio Bay, when at length we came to it. This tiny bay has been visited by geologists and scientists from all over the world. It presents the extraordinary features of an extinct forest which was buried in the mud during the jurassic period. Here are the petrified stumps of trees, solid fossils showing all the natural markings that the trees had before they were turned to stone, and one finds on the beach fragments of rocks containing perfect fossil forms of ferns and other plants. Geologists say that millions of years have passed since these forest relics were living things. A great many of Curio Bay's fossilised trees and shrubs have, of course, gone, piece by piece, into the insatiable maw of the souvenir hunter.

So down the beach we rode again to Slope Point, and here we turned inland through bits of beautiful bush scenery. Temporarily we were leaving the Southern Ocean behind us, for we were now to spend a few days at a Southland farmhouse. Here, besides learning among other interesting things that the Southland “swede” (turnip, of course) stands practically supreme among the turnips of the world, and that modest little Southland also makes some of the world's finest cheese, we were fortunate in meeting and talking with Mr. John Ross, to whom, with his brother, belongs the distinction of having discovered, in 1898, the last found specimen of the Notornis or takahe, that rare native bird which inhabited the wild mountain country of South-western Otago, and of which only three specimens had previously been found. This particular one was caught in the vicinity of Lake Te Anau by one of the Ross brothers’ dogs, and unfortunately too badly hurt when recovered for its life to be saved.

(Photo., Thelma R. Kent).
A view of Lake Howden, showing the Humboldt Range in the background, South Island, New Zealand.

Being students of bird life the Rosses realised that their find was a valuable one and lost no time in sending it to Invercargill to be correctly treated. When the fact was established that the bird was a specimen of the rare takahe, the Rosses offered it for sale to the New Zealand Government, who asked for a fortnight in which to consider whether or not they would buy it. During that time several cables were received by the Ross brothers from Rothchild's, offering them more and more tempting sums for their find. They kept faith with the Government, however, to whom they had offered the bird in the belief that it ought to remain in New Zealand, and when at the end of the fortnight the Government elected to buy, the bird was sold for a very modest sum indeed, and may be seen in the Otago Museum at Dunedin to-day.

To these two brothers belongs the further distinction of having been the very first guides on the Milford Track, and Mr. Ross has many a wonderful tale to tell of his years there, when the famous track was lonely, isolated and splendid indeed, and when none but a real he-man might tackle its rigours.

Southland abounds in bird life. Tuis and bellbirds and other natives generally thought to be growing rather scarce, are a common sight along these country roadsides. The pretty little shining cuckoo, with his gleaming bronze wings and his barred breast, here sits on the fences and heralds page 32 the spring quite openly and cheekily, and in spring, too, come the funny little long-legged dotterels, all the way from Siberia, to scratch together a few stones in the open paddock, and in this light-hearted apology for a nest, set up their casual housekeeping. Hosts of sea-birds, too, frequent these southern shores—penguins, mutton-birds, mollymawks. It is a wonderful field for the student of bird life.

But we must be moving on—to Wai-papa Point and Fortrose. Down to the sea once more. At Waipapa Point there is now a lighthouse, for it was off here that the steamer Tararua was wrecked in a thick haze on the morning of Friday, 29th April, 1881. Down behind the yellow sandhills we found the burial-place of those of the hundred and thirty-odd victims whose bodies were recovered from the sea.

Upon the beaches in these regions sensational finds of ambergris have been made from time to time. Of course, ambergris is not now what it once was as a commercial proposition, though it is still well worth finding, but in the past, fortunes have been made from the discovery and sale of a sizeable lump. A story is told here-abouts of a certain farmer, the owner of a good, though heavily mortgaged farm. This man was riding along the beach one evening when his horse shied violently at a dark chunk of something lying on the sand. The farmer, enraged at this flightiness, used his whip till the animal was forced unwillingly to pass. Two young-men riding a short distance behind, idly curious as to the cause of this little episode, dismounted and investigated. The dark lump was a large piece of ambergris, and with the proceeds from its sale—some thousands of pounds—the two brothers purchased the property of the farmer, who, if he had not been so preoccupied with making his horse behave, could have paid off his mortgage twice over with the object of its fears!

Fortrose was once a busy whaling station. Now, it too, sleeps beside the sea—a cluster of cottages, a store or two, the yellow gorse, and a battered little cemetery.

From Fortrose there is a glorious view across Foveaux Strait to Stewart Island, whose highest point, Mount Anglem, rises a soft deep blue between sea and sky, and far down upon the horizon lie the titi or mutton-bird islands—faint, blue, mysterious, as isles of faery.

The road from Fortrose to Inver-cargill, a distance of some forty miles, is rather unimpressive, though one crosses on the way one of the most prolific whitebait rivers in New Zealand, the Titiroa, on whose banks parties of whitebaiters live in huts for the whole of the whitebait season. To these men whitebaiting is no idle sport, but a stern matter of business, as much as £4 or £5 a kerosene-tin full being realised at the beginning of a season. Also noticeable on this route are some of Southland's country schools, all painted a pleasant buff colour with white facings, and with the name set in a prominent position in black letters on a white board, all very neat and natty.

In Invercargill, a flat sensibly-planned and wholly admirable city, we did not linger, but sped on our way to Bluff, seventeen miles away. Immediately one leaves Invercargill, there bursts upon the view the solitary great hill of Bluff, the bluff, of course, and also that impressive landmark, the Awarua Wireless Station—towering from the plain—a four hundred foot latticed steel mast, built by Telefunken Ltd., a German company, just before the War.

(A. Vaughan).
In Milford Sound, South Island, New Zealand.

Maoris are plentiful in Bluff, though there are few of them now who do not show some admixture of pakeha blood. On the outside walls of all their houses may be seen hanging the kelp bags in which the mutton-birds, those highly-prized delicacies, are stored.

The taking of mutton-birds forms part of the inalienable rights of the Maori. No white person may accompany the expeditions which leave every year when the season opens for the titi islands, rocky uninhabited islets scattered in and about the waters of Foveaux Strait. On these islands the mutton-birds breed, and it is early in page 33

(Photo., The'ma R. Kent).
The ice-fields and summit of Graham's Saddle, Southern Alps, New Zealand.

April, just before they are ready to start on their annual migration across the Pacific and the young birds are fat and tender, that the expeditions of the Maoris take place. The Government conveys the parties to and from their hunting-grounds where they remain for the season, and the “fare,” we were told, is paid by the Maoris to the Government in mutton-birds, so many sacks out of the total catch being earmarked for this purpose.

Quaint little Bluff! Many a pleasant hour we spent there gazing from the sunny hillside across the Strait to Rakiura (Stewart Island), “Land of Glowing Skies,” while the surface of the ocean was clouded with flocks of mutton-birds and gulls, or we would sit on the beach and dream and plan, as one does when on holiday, and eat hot fried oysters and potato chips, sultana biscuits and buns, washing down this dietician's nightmare with copious draughts of beer, ginger or otherwise, and feeding on our left-overs the hordes of greedy seabirds that hopped about the rocks on their slender red legs.

It was with some regret that we left Bluff at length to continue our journey. Back to Invercargill we went, and out through Otatara where the golf links are, to Oreti Sands, a firm white sandy beach, one of the finest in New Zealand, upon which the long rollers of the Southern Ocean break and roar, and where, they told us, the inimitable toheroa is to be found.

It is possible by riding or walking round this beach to reach Riverton, the oldest settlement in Southland, but instead we drove the twenty-four miles to Riverton over a good road. It is a picturesque little town situated on the estuary of the Aparima River at the point of its confluence with the Pourakino, and as far back as 1836 was established as a whaling station by Captain John Howell. The names of many of the old whalers are perpetuated in the place names hereabouts, a rather noteworthy one being “Gummie's Bush,” named after a notorious old character, who amongst his other attractions had scarcely a tooth in his head. Hence !!

From Riverton we now drove on through Colac Bay and Round Hill, certainly the roundest hill one could possibly imagine, to Orepuki on the coast once more. In the romantic “early days” Orepuki was one of the “gold” towns, unique in that the gold, over £1,000,000 worth, was mostly recovered by beach-combers from the shores of Te Wae Wae Bay, on which the town stands. Since the gold days, extensive shale deposits have been found in the neighbourhood and worked with varying degrees of success from time to time.

(Photo., Thelma R. Kent).
Mountain lilies which grow in great profusion in the Southern Alps of New Zealand.

Still following the coast for some distance we now made for Tuatapere. The character of the country here began to change rapidly. The level, fertile plains were left behind, and hills appeared once again, growing taller and more rugged as the road proceeded. There was heavy bush—Tuatapere is the largest saw-milling centre in Southland—and there were too, alas, large areas of sheer gaunt desolation, caused by bush fires. Tuatapere is a very bushy bush township, literally hacked out of the forest. We began to realise here amongst the dense forest and the grim grey hills, just a little of what the mountain country of the south-west, whose fringes we were now barely touching, must be like.

Tuatapere stands upon the Waiau River, outlet of Lake Manapouri, and the swiftest river—and one of the most beautiful—in New Zealand. Overhung by heavy bush, the Waiau whirls along, powerful, deep and menacing. At its mouth, six miles from the township, it is responsible for page 34 page 35 a curious formation. In its swift arrogance, the river seems to come unexpectedly upon the sea, and in a violent effort to avert its fate, turns at right angles and flows, speed and volume unabated, along the beach parallel with the sea. Between sea and river there has formed a high, narrow bank of stones. On one side of this flows the sullen, hurrying stream, while on the other booms the angry surf. At last, of course, the unequal struggle must be relinquished.

The Waiau has excellent trout, and is, besides, the only river in this country frequented by that wonderful fighting fish, the Atlantic salmon. In the spring and early autumn the salmon may be seen leaping three or four feet out of the water on their way up the river. Wonderful flounders, too, are caught at the river's mouth.

We were now almost on the last lap of our journey. We had determined that we would reach Puysegur Point at the westerly end of the Southern Coast, and though we had no idea before setting out just how we would do so, we trusted that some way would present itself. Now, however, we were told very firmly that it was quite impossible for us to go any further than Port Craig, the very last outpost before the inaccessible mountains of the west begin. Port Craig is a large sawmill and practically nothing else, on the western shore of Te Wae Wae Bay. Even that we could only reach by launch, as the beach was soft and treacherous and in many places barred by rocks.

Reluctantly then we gave in. We took the launch across the bay to Port Craig “away down under,” and quite literally the last place in the South Island. Here we had a ride on the sawmill train, great high unwieldy object, locally known as the “pie-cart,” which lumbers along on wooden rails, and we had an interesting talk with an old Maori who lamented the fact that there was now scarcely a pure-blooded Maori left in Otago or Southland. Most of them, he said, could trace their first white ancestor to one of the whalers who once swarmed about these southern shores.

Many of the place names, too, that passed as Maori were not true Maori—Orepuki, Tuatapere, Monowai, all showed the pakeha influence—even Manapouri should be Manawapouri.

And so our holiday was over! We were a little wistful about our failure to reach Puysegur Point, and thus round off completely our journey

(Photo., Thelma R. Kent)
Rushing waters of the Hollyford River, Eglinton Valley, South Island, New Zealand.

along the Southern Coast, but, we reflected, if we had not seen this, the point of land first sighted by ships coming from Melbourne to New Zealand, we had seen much else that was “rich and strange,” and some day perhaps, who knows, we shall be experienced enough to take that track.