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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 68

Wanderings in Lakeland.; — I.—Manapouri and the Matterhorn Mountains

page 24

Wanderings in Lakeland.;

I.—Manapouri and the Matterhorn Mountains.

Away down in an out-of-the-way corner of Western Otago lies Manapouri, or more correctly speaking Maniwapouri, "the lake of the dark influence" or "sorrowing heart." It is perhaps the most beautiful lake in all the world. "Lovely," is the word that best describes it. In the days that are past it was no doubt a favourite camping ground of the Maories. Their rude stone axes and greenstone ornaments are still to be found on its shores. The tribe that fashioned them has vanished. The graceful beech trees now nod over the graves of stalwart warriors and dusky waihenas, the tall slender manukas bend with the western wind o'er shady nooks where once the dark wanderer sought his meal of fern roots; but Manapouri, the lonely, the beautiful, glistens there in the sunlight as of old, lapping the bases of the great mountains with its restless waves, and stretching its long thin arms far away among the frowning fastnesses in the direction of the western sea.

The stranger who has permitted himself to be jolted for hours over the vile road that leads to the lake is well repaid long before he gets a glimpse of its blue waters, for e'er half the journey is completed he finds himself in an amphitheatre of noble snow-clad mountain stretching far beyond the northern fiords of Te Anau. Then, as he approaches Manapouri, the view is narrowed down, and the stem rocky buttresses of the Cathedral Peaks, with their deep snow-filled culoirs rivet his attention. Let him go there on a summer's evening, when the sun is sinking, and he is indeed a poor-souled man if he be not entranced with the poetry of the scene.

Late one December day, just as the sun was sinking down into an inky cloud, that came slowly creeping up from behind the dark mountain masses, our party, hastening forward on a sorrowful expedition, reached the shores of the lake. For a few minutes the sky was ablaze with colour, and then the azure and gold slowly faded away, leaving only the neutral tints of the dull grey clouds, and the dark waters of the lake losing themselves in the dim twilight. We were not long in getting to the little hut, which—the sole habitation on the lonely lake—stands hidden among the leafy beech trees,; where the broad silent waters of the Waiau issue forth on their long journey to the sea. It is rude accommodation this, but somehow is in harmony with the surroundings, and one naturally prefers it to the luxurious comfort of the palatial hotels which must eventually find a place in this spot. Having discussed our pannikin of tea and home-made bread and mutton chops, we take a look out of doors and find the moon cutting through the dark fleecy clouds, and shedding a page 25 golden band of light far across the waters. The tall, graceful beech trees form a fitting foreground, and the lake with the moonlight on it, seen through the leafy branches, is like a bit of fairyland. The wind sighs softly, the moon sails on, gilding the lake with its beams; and one stands there and gazes, and longs that it would sail on thus for ever. But it must not be so. There is sunshine and shadow, calm and storm alternating at Manapouri. In those dim glens in the distance, where the snow-flakes gather, the wind sometimes shrieks, the thunder rattles, and avalanches slide down over the dark precipices with an awful roar.

Taking a boat, and proceeding up the lake, we pass several low wooded islands, near Hope Arm, and then sail on between Pomona and the mainland at Grebe Arm. A few miles farther on, the North Arm stretches away on our right, and, nearly opposite, there is a fine stretch of pretty beach gleaming white in the sunlight. The green waters lap lazily on the snowy strand, along which the little flakes of mica are glistening like diamonds, and fine beech trees fringe the shore, while the feathery fronds of the tall tree ferns give a tropical look to the scene. The strong wind which is sweeping down the western arm, ruffling the bosom of the lake, comes not in here, except in gentle puffs, which barely ruffle the quiet waters of the bay, and just stir the beech tree leaves. The scent of the olearia is in the warm air, and the meek-eyed wood pigeons, sitting motionless in the branches, coo down upon the stranger a mild remonstrance at his intrusion. This is the" Fairies' Grove." It is surely a veritable arcadia, where one could lie long, basking in the sunshine—listening to the swish of the waters, the rustling of the leaves, and the soft cooing of the pigeons—forgetting all about the little worries of life, and the turmoil and bustle of the great world of cities. Some day I suppose it will be a favourite resort, defiled by the prosaic excursionist. Up till now very few have been privileged to see it, and it lies secure in a lonely solitude. Hastening on, the surroundings increase in grandeur, and the strange Leaning Peak, nearly 5000 feet high, and other tall mountains, are seen coming straight down to the water's edge, hemming in the lake on every hand. We camp for the night at the very head of the lake, and of all the camping grounds in existence, this must, I think, be one of the worst. It is a regular inferno. The ground is low and damp, and millions of hungry sand flies nearly drive the traveller mad. With the dusk, the night birds come out. The shrill whistle of the weka, the softer cry of the kiwi, and the harsh croaking of the kakapo, come up from the dim weird solitudes of the bush at intervals; and altogether the traveller, if he be not used to such scenes, is inclined to think that he has chanced on the most uncanny spot in existence.

We leave the lake behind and struggle on, after a night's rest, through the pathless forest, with heavy swags slung on our backs; we flounder and stumble on over rotten logs, knee-deep sometimes in dead leaves and mosses, till, after a couple of hours' hard work, we emerge into an open space on the side of a little stream, near the banks of the Mica Burn. Looking ahead from this point the grandeur and beauty of the scenery are most impressive. Over a foreground of tall beech page 26 trees, whose sombre shade is relieved by the more delicate greens of the pretty ribbon wood, the eye wanders on up the valley, to where a huge dome of snow, capped by a sharp rocky peak, rises at the head of the valley. At first you can barely distinguish its outlines against the pale blue of the northern sky; but soon the eye becomes more familiar with its grace and purity, and looks long without tiring. On either hand of this great white Southern Mosque, rise two steep rocky peaks, contrasting strangely with their white-robed sister. People talk about the dome of St. Peter's, and go into raptures over the beauty of the Cathedral at Milan; but where was ever a dome that in grace, or purity, or grandeur of proportion, could equal this spotless peak, with her two dark minarets standing sentinel on either hand? Over a tall precipice to the left, a waterfall a thousand feet high comes thundering down to join the Mica Burn, while other little streams—

Born of a yesterday's summer shower,
Hurry along with a restless motion,
Silent or whispering every hour,
To lose themselves in the great lone ocean.

It now approaches mid-day, and the Mica Burn, swollen with the melting snows, comes tearing along over the boulders. It is no child's play getting through the dense bush now. Sometimes we literally cut our way through with billhook and axe, and at other times we chose the bed of the stream, though it is waist deep, in preference to the exertion of getting through the bush. Occasionally, however, we are driven to the banks, for the stream gets deep and dangerous, and a safe footing is to be preferred although it involves greater exertion. At length, just as the shades of night and a drizzling rain begin to fall, we reach the junction of the Disaster Burn with the Mica Burn, and hurriedly pitching our tent, camp for the night. We are wet to the skin, and tired with the rough journey, but a draught of strong whisky and a hearty tea put us to rights, and we lie down on our bed of beech branches and fern-fronds, with the roar of the rushing waters, and the strange cries of the kakapo and kiwi resounding in our ears.

Next morning there is a toilsome journey up the Disaster Burn, and the remainder of our time is spent among scenes of grandeur that well repay for all the trouble of seeking them out. Under the spreading branches of a fine beech tree we have pitched our tent, and the smoke of our big camp fire curls gracefully through its branches. We are in a narrow gorge where the mountain tops are crowned with snow, and their bases clothed with trees, through which beautiful waterfalls descend to the swift waters of the stream, hurrying on with its long monotonous roar over the stones, a few feet from our tent pegs. A quarter of a mile up the gorge the stream divides—one portion of it issuing forth from the snows on the right, while the other comes over a bushy precipice in three fine falls, which find their way through the impenetrable scrub at the foot of the cliff, and meet again lower down. Above this is a small plateau, and then, rising over an intervening knoll, we come suddenly upon the dark waters of the beautiful little Main waring Lake, nestling at the foot of Brown peak, with no visible outlet, and locked in on either side with page 27 fine snow-clad peaks. Streams come rushing into it from every side; but, so far as can be seen, it has no outlet. Flanked on all sides by the everlasting mountains, its shores untrodden by foot of man, there it has lain, who knows for how long, with the cold white snows creeping down to its shores in winter, and thousands and thousands of beautiful delicately-flowered mountain lilies and pretty golden-eyed celmesias, smiling on its little waves in the summer time, nestling among all that is beautiful in alpine scenery, it lies, secure in its inaccessibleness from all defilement—a gem, a picture, and a poem!

Leaving the lakelet, and climbing up a few hundred feet, over grassy slopes and snow-filled gullies, the highest point of the saddle is reached, and a scene of surpassing grandeur gradually opens out before us. Mountain is piled on mountain, Ossa on Pelion, with gleaming glacier and high waterfall, while down at the bases of these tall mountains rest the dark waters of one of the long arms of Doubtful Sound, ruffled here and there by a passing breeze. Far down in the deep glen, a thousand feet below, the capricious mist comes and goes, now wreathing itself in a tender embrace about the tops of the dark beech trees, anon hanging over the brink of some grim precipice, only to fade away as mysteriously as it came, till "some strong enchanter charms it into fond returning, or binds it fast within those bars of bough." A great bank of dark cloud creeps up the sound, obscuring the distant mountains, save where their snow-crowned summits, gleaming with a ghostly whiteness in the upper sunlight, pierce through into a clearer atmosphere with magic effect. Then suddenly, we too, poor puny things in this upper world, become wrapt in the thick mists, and can see no farther than our noses. Carefully we begin to creep back to our tents. We do not fare sumptuously for the next two or three days, but so long as we can get biscuit and water, or perchance the leg of a grilled kakapo we are happy. Lying there, all the night long listening to the rain pattering on the tent, and the roar of the Disaster Burn, as it hurried along over the boulders past our camp we often thought of him* for whom we had come to search in vain. Had he wandered away among the cold, bleak, inhospitable mountains? Had he met his death in the seething torrent that was now rushing madly past our tent? Or was he quietly sleeping his last long sleep, far away from sorrowing hearts, under the cold snows of yonder avalanche? We could not tell, and the troubled stream, ever sounding a dreary monody, refused to give up its secret. In despair, we prepared to depart at last, leaving a small cairn and a wooden cross, wreathed with beautiful celmesias and alpine lilies, to mark the spot where he was last seen. Another page of mystery had been added to "the lake of the dark influence," and perhaps no man will solve the problem. Well, maybe it is as well so: and he, if he could speak, would perhaps pray now that his bones should be left among the lonely mountains to rest peacefully in their beautiful tomb.

There let us leave him, for his shroud the snow;
For funeral lamps he has the planets seven;
For a great sign the icy stair shall go
Between the heights to heaven.

* Professor Main waring Brown, lost in the mountains on Thursday, December 6th, 1888, and never heard of.