STEWART ISLAND.

Evening Star, Issue 12061, 4 March 1907, Page 8

STEWART ISLAND.

THE PEOPLE’S OWN HOLIDAY RESORT. [By Mabcos Supbebus.] No. 11. Water, water, rippling water—water, sun-kissed, dancing, sparkling water—sliming. silvered moonlit water, flirting with the golden shores—such the picture; but if ever thus, tho manly island sailors had not been. Nay! stormy, wind-swept, raging, maddened seas long since taught these men of the wondrous deep to grasp the tiller with an iron hand and ride the storm. Alanv, many a time have their brains and muscles been pitted in a life-and-death struggle against the blind fury of the merciless waters of Foveaux Strait. We are proud of them No vain boasting on tl'cir part of their prowess on water —no, a modest, unassuming, vet thoroughly capable band of seamen, whom any country might he proud to number among her sons. Of such kind were the crow who 'manned the yacht Mihhnoana—the product of tho embryo shipbuilders of Stewart Island. We ga'vo the ever popular Captain Bragg some hearty cheers as he stepped on board this yacht to wrest, if possible, the chief honors at the Bluff regatta. With tew words, the captain returned thanks, assuring us that he and his crew would do their best. Away she skims like a white bird on the water, to return a tew days later a conqueror, with the coveted silver challenge cup (the gift of Sir J. G. Ward) wrested from the hands of the Bluff regatta men—themselves yachtsmen of no mean order. The young fellows of the island are bom sailors; even little boys paddle about on small boards. It was very dark one Saturday night. We had been in the township getting supplies, and met two little chaps of come twelve years. They kindly offered to row us back to tbe camp. Ont of curiosity to see how they -would handle their craft, wo went to the wharf and got aboard. It was a whaleboat, with 14ft sweepers. We took our seats, my mate calmly sitting down on tbe butter, as we afterwards discovered ; but it was very dark—ho was not drunk. There was a considerable swell on, but the little fellows pulled as to the manner bom, keepuTg clear of tho surf on tlic rocks, and landing us safely on the sandy beach. Then they pulled out into the darkness, and their boyish voices wore the only signs that two little specks of humanity were tossing on the waves. —Yachting Trips.— With such a fine body of seamen inhabiting tho island, it is small wonder that cruising trips form one of the great attractions to visitors. Unlike tbe captain of tho tug, the captains of the various yachts recognise that their passengers are beings who inhabit tho land—aro air-breathing animals, in fact—who object to wuter except at stated times and in limited quantities. The powers tbat provide tbe Theresa Ward to convey people to Stewart Island have evidently classed tbeir passengers as penguins or sea lions, and treat them right royally to tbe water the latter love so much. Parties of from twenty to thirty arrange to take one of these yachts for the day, and a jolly time they have. Let ns suppose the trip is to that magnificent sheet of water, Paterson’s Inlet. Wo arrange to start early, eay at 8 a.m. The party meet on the beach, with an imposing array of billies and baskets. Nature is pleased to smile on us, and we accordingly smile cm one another and on the pleasmt sailor who tells us to step into his boat, which has put off from the yacht lying at anchor in the bay and is now alongside. Soane of the ladies are rather timid, but there are gallant young men to come to the rescue, and soon tho first boatload is being rowed slowly towards the ship; a second, and then a third, and we are all aboard. Tho sails hang limp, for there is npt a breath of wind. The rattling noise of the anchor chain ceases, and with a snort the oil engine comes into play. We swing round and are off. As wa glide through the smooth waters of the bay cur musical friends delight our earn with song. A light hrroeze now gently fans our faces, tho sails begin to flap, and scon to tug, the breeze strengthens, and the yacht heels over to tho delight of all—a cheer goes up, tho snort of the oil engine censes, and we are off at a fine rate. We hold on our course seaward for some time, and then turn into the inlet —a huge expanse of water, capable of holding, the fleets of tho world. We cruise about and visit many of tho enchanting nooks—“ Big Glory,” “Little Glory,” and many another. The snn is now high in tho heavens, and it is intensely hot, so Captain Bragg decides to put us ashore for hmch. Soon the fires are blazing and the billies boiling, and all eat heartily. The bush and ferns now woo us to them, but a bugle call from the yacht tells us that we must be on the move again, and we hasten to tbe beach to see the first load already halfway over to the ship. All aboard! We are off, heading for Ulva. the most southerly post office in the world. Again we go ashore, and wander about, drinking in the bewildering beauties of nature. And thus we spend the day—a truly Utopian band. Mount Angiem is another favorite trip. A pleasant sail of ten. miles up the coast takes you to tbe base of this mountain—the highest in tbe island. The climb of some three hours is most enjoyable. For some time the track leads through dense bush. Here the kaka, pigeon, tui, and many other native birds find undisturbed rest. Then out on to the scrub, and finally to races. It has been a stiff climb—some of the party have dropped out at various stages like seeds of kindness, but

' a lew, including some daring ladies, reach the summit, and are rewarded with a magnificent view. The mountain is really an extinct volcano; the walls of the crater are still plainly seen descending on one side some hundred feet. The crater itself is now occupied by a, placid lake of some considerable magnitude. We scramble down the mountain track again, and reach the shore, to find the sea very rough. But all the ladies, after ' a few screams, get safely aboard by means' of the dingey. It is getting late, but the moon is up, and as we glide along through the silvered water, with the dark outline of the coast on our starboard quarter, a serene gentle .calm takes possession of one’s soul, for the busy world seems to be asleep. Such trips are almost innumerable. One, which will long bo remembered, was to the Hatton Bird Islands. These ace little gems scattered in the great Southern Ocean. One may walk round one of these islands in less than an hour, and in the evening the mutton birds can be seen coming homo in thousands. They dart past one's very face, into their holes in the ground, to be met by a gabbling chorus from the young ones. —Land Trips.— ■■ But for those who do not relish the sea and all its mighty works, there are trips innumerable to be taken on land. Tracks are cut to Horseshoe Bay, Ringa-Ringa, Golden Bay, Leo Bay, Port William, and to a host of other places. Port William is some ten miles from Oban, and a more delightful walk it would be hard to imagine. The track leads all the way through dense forests of rimu, totara, miro, and tree ferns—the native poka. Here Nature has lavished her wealth indeed. The path runs right along the sea coast at some considerable elevation, and every now and then, through the foliage, we catch glimpses of the sparkling ocean, which looks at this height like a sea of glass. We walk on like enchanted beings, each step revealing now beauties which beggar description. To the man who loves sport the island is still attractive. He need only get off the beaten track to get in touch with wild cattle. Led by a genial Maori, we once wont in pursuit, and came across four fine fellows, one of which, a cow of some four years, we secured. It was most comical to see our photographer scramble up a tree with camera and all as the wild beasts came careering through the undergrowth. —lncidents of Camp Life.— But apart from all these attractions, camp life in itself has many fascinating features. The huge log fires, round which the party sit at night, singing and reciting, or telling of their day’s experiences, are things to bo remembered. The sound of stringed instruments and of sweet voices greet our ears—it is a party from one of the boarding-houses come to wrist us New Year greetings. But amid all this happiness one poor fellow, who is known to have a weakness for sharing his joys with the fairer sex, was sad indeed. The starving Tantalus was the more tortured bv having food and water placed just out of his reach —this young fellow was in a like predicament. Here was not only a wealth of luxuriant vegetation, but also a galaxy of amiable young ladies. The eim had begun, to bo unkind, and had blistered his face. He watched it ruefully day by day as the trouble spread. He was far from happy, but the climax came when one morning after a specially bad outbreak wo saw our mate sitting disconsolately at tho tent door surveying his face in a looking-glass, and murmuring fiercely to himself “ What an ugly sinner I am !” A voice from the blankets informing him that if that were so, he was just wltat ho had over been, did not seem to soothe his ruffled feelings. But time goes apace, and wo must close. The fortnight is up, and wo must strike camp. It is a busy morning. The tents are down, and the green is onoo again bare. Bundles aro hastened to the wharf, and all get aboard that dreadful tug. Tho party got up by the bridge, but two of tbeir number are missing. Speculation <s rife. It is supposed that they intend missing the boat, for they were last seen wending their way towards that ever-en-chanting bush. Tho -second whistle has gone, and the third is just about to be blown when the two erring ones are seen running over the brow of the bill. They reach the wharf breathless but radiant, to be greeted by three ringing cheers from the party. The last whistle blows, the tug casts off. a fluttering of handkerchiefs, a few last farewells, and soon, this island of dreams fades from our sight.