ADVENTURES IN SEARCH OF MOUNT COOK.

West Coast Times, Issue 4925, 6 June 1885, Page 1 (Supplement)

ADVENTURES IN SEARCH OF MOUNT COOK.

A chatty and agreeable writer under the initials of J.G.D. has been lately describing a holiday trip through New Zealand in the columns of the 1 Argus. Arrived at Dunedin, he made it his headquarters from which to explore the country round. The first of my trips (he writes) was my expedition in search of Mount Cook. This seems to imply that the mountain was lost, but that is not my meaning. I only wanted to see it I asked a Dunedin friend how this wa9 to be managed. "Nothing simpler," he replied. "Take the train for Christchurch, and when you are just beyond Timaru look to the left, and there you are." So I took the train, and sped northward by the express, at a rate of rather more than 15 miles an hour. Past Blueskin, where I almost wished the train wou!d go Blower, as we rushed round the point on a narrow ledge, with the sea boi'ing beneath. Past farm and station, plain and hill ; past Oamaru ; past well-tilled fertile volcanic rises that recall Barrabool ; past Timaru.

And now, I thought, the time has come. I looked to the left, and there, far away in gathering clouds, I saw a snow-capped range. "At last," with reverent eyes. I gazed at the far-famed mountain. Emotion found its vent in song :— " Mount Cook is the monarch of mountains,

They crowned it long ago; Bnt whom they got to put tbe crown on,

I really do not know."

I was so delighted with this poetic effort, it has such a Byronic — albeit Smithic— ring about it, that I repeated it aloud, pointing to the mountain as I did so. " That ain't Mount Cook," eaid a rough voice behind me. It ■ was the guard, who bad come unto the platform unperceived, "You can't see him from here." " But I wa3 told you could. I have come here on purpose." " Well, on a very clear day, if you know exactly where to look out, you might see him for about five minutes ; but you couldn't to-day. 1 ' My poetry had been wasted on a nameless range.

But I wasn't to be beaten so. At the first stopping-place I determined to get some information. "Guard, could you take a little refreshment?' ' I could sir, only my inspector is on board ; but I could drink your health another time. Thank you." "Where should I go to see this blessed mouatain?" "Fairlie Creek is the railway station nearest to it. You had better go there."

I went. As we were approaching the station I confided to a bucolic fellow-pas-renger that I waa going to Bee Mount Cook from Fairlie Creek. He smiled, and Baid, " You can't, for the same reason that the Spanish fl-.et could not be seen ; it's not in sight." Noticing my look of disappointment, he added, ' ' But you go to Silver Creek ; that's your place." I went to Silver Creek. I walked there against a head hurricane. I inquired for Mount Cook. No Mount Cook. But I was told to get a horse and ride through Burkes Pass to Lake Tekapo, and then I would he all right. I got a horse. A sudden thonght struck me as I was about to start. "Can I see Mount Cook from Lake Tekapo?" "Oh, dear, no. But if you get another horse and a guide tbere, and go to Blenheim, and if the weather should happen to be fine"— This was too much. I turned back without a word. I never saw Mount Cook. Mount Harris is its proper name. " I don't believe there aint such a mountain."

It was on thiß trip that I saw the celebrated Canterbury Plains. For a couple of hundred miles the country from the mountains to the sea, a distance of some fifty miles, is one unbroken level of waterworn shingle, more or less lightly covered with soil. Here and there a mile-wide riverbed, with a network of rapid, shallow rivulets in it, is crossed, and you can see with your own eyes some portion of the process by which the great plains were formed.

I have mentioned that I passed through Oamaru on my way north. I was delighted with its appearance. The white marblelike stone of which the town is built, and the form of the buildings themselves, which harmonised with the stone, gave it, to my eyes, a classic air, I grew quite excited. Surely that sea is the blue JEgean. Pan is not dead. It is ancient Athens that I behold. Here is the Temple of Victory, and there Athena's altars rise ; that mistshrouded height must be the Acropolis. As the train whirled me by a vision of such bright beauty lingered with me that I determined to visit the town as I returned. In an unhappy moment I did so. Whether it was the weather, which was detestable, or my liver, or my temper, I don't know, but everything was changed. The Parthenon was a wool store with greasy loafers hanging round ; the Temple of Victory a hank with clerks behind the counter ; the Acropolis an ugly hill crowned by a wooden shanty. The bleak, wide, empty streets affrighted me. 1 shuddered and fled to tbe railway station.