THE FOX GLACIER.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIX, Issue 21136, 19 March 1932, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE FOX GLACIER.

f ' A RIDE TO GILLESPIES.; v BY ELSIE K. MORTON. We came down from the forest and the mountains 011 a lovely autumn morning, warm and bright, and our guide from Scott's met us again at the Architect with horses. Gladly would wo havo walked' those splendid miles of forest track to Karangarua, but a change of weather Avas indicated, and we wanted-to get back to Weheka and Fox Glacier, and then out to Gillespies Beach, on the ocean shore, before returning to Franz Josef. Again and again as our sure-footed horses plodded down tho narrow track, I pondered 011 the amazing • beauty of this little-known South Westland, 011 the glories of tho mountains where we had briefly sojourned, the fascination and beauty of the swift-running rivers by whose banks we had ridden, tho Cook, Karangarua, and Copland, 011 the wonders of the great glaciers that surge down in to the forest-clad valleys, and.on the lovely still lakes that lie beside (lie South Westland Road. Why was it that New Zenlanders spent thousands of pounds every year journeying to all parts of the earth in quest of old-world beauty, when beauty such as this, unsurpassed throughout the world, lay at their doors? And I had seen only a fraction of it! Away "down, still farther south, lay that untamed, magnificent stretch of country extending from the south-western coast into Otago, the rugged splendour of the Haast Pass, and tho high adventure of that 150-mile ride over the Pass, from South Westland to Makarore, 011 the northern shores of Lake Wanaka. Not all may take trips such as this, nor experience the thrill of the climber making his way up alpine heights, but the Westland roads are open to all, and the beauties of forest, lake and glacier are ever calling to tho holidaymaker. We reached Scott's in early afternoon, and after a brief rest and change of horses, set out on the eight-mile_ ride backto Fox Glacier Hotel. Strange it seemed, after our stay in the little mountain huts, to come back to a modern hotel, with electric light in. place of a candle, a sixcourse menu instead of billy and frypan cuisine, shining bathrooms instead of the open-air hot-pools of Welcome Flat! Yet the snow-peaks were still just there behind us, and from the wide road below the hotel we could see the Fox Glacier plunging down into tho dark forest. On the Ice. Next day we picnicked on the glacier, boiling the billy beneath the great ice waves of the lateral moraine. The threemile walk through the bush to the glacier held all the beauty of the famous Franz Josef track. Close to the foot of the glacier, a landmark even in this region of toweling mountains and precipitous cliffs, rose The Cone, an enormous rock, five hundred feet high, with perpendicular sides, ?ill scarred and riven by glacial action in ages gone by. Formerly the approach to the Fox was rough and difficult, over enormous boulders and up the steep shingle-slopes of tho moraine; a track has now been cut round the foot of the Cone, leading the climber straight on to the ice. llere are no perpendicular razorbacks, pinnacles, and awesome precipices, such as fashion the terminal face of Franz Josef. The surface of the lower reaches of the Fox is smooth and of a lovely blue, and it is criss-crossed in strangest manner by pressure ridges that look like wheel marks. Yet stranger things than wheel marks on a glacier there yet may be in this region of wonders, for not long since horses were taken on to the Fox. Glorious indeed was the view that opened out as we made our way across the glacier. On either side, mighty rock walls penned ice-river within the narrow gorge; mountain cataracts plunged a thousand feet from tho snow-fieids above, ribbons of silver mist floating softly downward in the sunshine. Far above rose the shining wall of tho Chancellor Ridge and the upper world, where snow-kings, Tasman and Cook, lifted their regal heads, hidden now in shrouding mists. Next morning the mists were lower stilT, and white clouds filled the gorge, and wove misty veils about the tree-tops in the forest. So we lost no time in setting out on our ride to Gillespies Beach, fourteen mile's distant. No mountains, no turbulent creeks, nor stony riverbeds were there to traverse this time, but mile after mile of well-formed forest track. At last we came through the forest and saw ahead the long, dark lino of the ocean, laced with white as the breakers came pounding down on the hard, grey beach. A Dream of Long Ago. Gillespies!—what a story of adventure and romance could be woven about those deserted shores, where once a thriving settlement lay. and several hundred families lived in comfortable homes on the ridge of sandhills facing the ocean. And it has all passed like a dream; the homes have vanished as completely as though they had never been; the procession of pioneer gold-seekers, men/ women, and little children, has stepped quietly across the pages of the great unwritten romance of Westland's Golden Age, and left not a trace. The only homestead now remaining at Gillespies is that of the Bagley Brothers, two pioneers who still sift tho ■grey sands and follow the quest for gold, offering to all who pass their way the ready hospitality of the CoastNear by their home once stood a little church, for many years a feature of interest to all visitors to Gillespies. Picturesque it was still, when I rode down to tho bench that autumn day a year ago, yet pathetic beyond words with its empty windows and little tottering cross blown all awry by the great winds that come roaring across the Tasman. Shortly after our visit, there came a terrific storm that razed the ruined church to the ground. But sweet memories of the early days, and of services of prayer and praise, will ever live in the hearts of men and women who were once the little children of Gillespies. j Camping in the Sandhills.. Close in among the sandhills we found the little grey hut, built by the proprietors of the Fox Hotel for the use of their guests. Here again were unexpected comforts, three rooms, camp stretchers instead of bunks, and a whole cupboardful of crockery and cutlery. The horses were turned loose in the enclosure, and after boiling the billy, we made our way to the beach. At tho far end was a lagoon, with waving toi-toi leaning over the still waters, and deep, deep down was. a picture of entrancing beauty, the mist shrouded peaks of the Alps, and leagues of forest, all reflected in tho shallow waters. . Round tho bold headland we passed to a rough and slony beach beyond, strewn with snow-white qiftrtz pebbles of all sizes. High up the cliff we climbed bv a disused track, and came, to a tunnel, through which, in tho old days, ligj-ses were driven from the Five-mile, when the tide was too high for them to take the beach. The sides of the tunnel were crumbling in, ferns were springing up everywhere from roof and sides —strange It was to think that once tho tido of life and movement flowed deep and strong round these rugged, deserted cliffs, lonely beach and empty sandhills! We climbed up the old track above the cliffs to tho Trig, but the clouds had selfied over forest and mountains in a white pall, blotting out the glorious vista of glacier, snow-peaks, and ocean. .We made our way back to the hut. as the sun was setting in-a sullen flare of dusky red. Bad weather was coming; the waves broke in booming thunder on the grey beach, the gulls wheeled above in uneasy circles, with harsh, plaintive cries. -Tho shadows of darkening night fell swiftly over land and sea; in tho grey gloom, one tiny, steady point of light burned bravely ahead, a beacon shining out into (lie lonely night from the window of the little cottage of the aged brothers, the last of the pioneers, to whom Gillespies is still home.