When I first set eyes on that lake of the woods, Waikare-iti, sleeping there among its ancient forests in a silent basin of the Urewera Ranges, it seemed to me that it might well be christened anew Lake Solitude. In those days, more than thirty years ago, few people saw Little Waikare. There was a rough bush track to it from the eastern bay of Waikare-moana, and a dinghy had lately been sledged up there from the larger lake so that the islands that rose like tree groves from its glimmering waters could be explored. Most travellers who found their way to Waikare-moana contented themselves with boating around its bays and exploring that enchanting western arm Wairau-moana. But Little Waikare lay little disturbed, among its bird-teeming forests and its fold after fold of hills clothed everywhere in a soft garment of unfading green.

There was no human habitation on its shores, not a Maori whare, not a tent even. No camp-fire gleamed in its bays. It was as quiet as could be, unspoiled, untouched; it seemed to have slumbered there, with its little parks of islands, for a thousand years, and more. Moss-bearded ancient trees leaned over the dew-clear water. The islands duplicated themselves in the lake—the green of the nearer hills merged into blue; wisps of mist lay on the more distant ranges that rose into grey-blue jumbles of limestone mountains, the sacred mystery-land of Maunga-pohatu. The night fogs lifted before the sun was high; but all day long a gauzy veil of summer haze, tenderly blue, suffused the landscape—Little Waikare lay there a maiden lake unconquered.