OVERLAND TO MILFORD.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19952, 20 November 1926, Page 9

OVERLAND TO MILFORD.

ASPECTS OF THE WALK. VARIOUS SIDELIGHTS. Written for the Otago Daily Times. By F. M. So many people boasted to me of bow they walked to Milford Sound and what they saw and did and wore on the Milford Track, and there was such a pitying, superior air about them when they liscovered that I was one of those miserable, cribbed, cabined, and confined individuals who had not gazed upon Nature in all her moods—her grandeur, her majesty, her beauty, her softness, her harshness —and in all her various garbs—smiling sunshine, and green trees and undergrowth, snow, naked rock, and black thunderclouds, rivulets and waterfalls — all this as exemplified in the trip to Milford Sound, that I lost no time, when the season opened on November 1, in repairing this lamentable deficiency. And, like half or three-quarters of the people who have gone and seen and been conquered, T am here writing about it. My excuse? I have none. There were a few tourists on the first day who- were not very favourably impressed with the trip up Lake Te Anau. It was a rough lake, very rough and illmannered, and the boat dipped and dived like an erratic switchboard; so much so that reference to cold pork by a tactless fool ho had never suffered pangs of seasickness inspired only a few groans, while two passengers at least looked ns though their self-confidence had been badly shaken. We drowned him. however, and the afflicted ones took fresh heart. All that day it rained, and when the pioneers of the season reached Glade House the edict of the manager of the track (Mr Cheriton) that there would be no walking that day was accepted without demur. That Tuesday it looked as though the rain were an institution. The following day everything in the garden was lovely, and the stroll along the banks of the beautiful Clinton to the Pampalona Huts was an easy 10 miles. Even around Glade House one could get a good holiday. It is like a great garden where all life is tame. Paradise duck waddle confidently around the house knowing well that there indeed is sanctuary : wckas stroll nonchalantly by; waterfowl sail up and down the river'hardly bothering to move out of the way of the “hearse,” ns Mr Cheriton calls his little black-painted boat: beautiful shining cuckoos allow th msclves to be admired from the distance of a few feet, and fantails, bush robins, and tomtits know little of fear. But alas, most of these native birds, the wekas in particular, have an evil foe —the weasel, which darts by like a sinister shadow and attacks by stealth. His depredations are ruinous, and there is not a mile of the country where his tracks cannot be found. He has even got as far as the McKinnon Pass. Now and again tourists have caught a glimpse of a kiwi, and one has been heard lately in the vicinity of Pompalona Huts. The last one was seen, T believe, in the vicinity of the Sutherland Palls. Kcas are plentiful, and they , have come down as far as Glade House and perched on the clothes lines. THE WEKA’S STORY.

It was in the course of the ten miles to Pompalona that I met and interviewed what I learned was a weka. I was alone at the time when a queer little brown fowl scuttled across the path. Well. I grabbed hold of this weka, and imagine my surprise when he turned round and swore at me in “a few wellchosen words.” “That’s right, you big clumsy goat; ruffle up my feathers, break my legs, and poke my eyes out! I don’t mind.” From which I concluded that he did mind, very much so. After stroking him the right way for a few minutes I managed to pacify him, and it was not long before I had engaged him in a more or less rational conversation. Except for a habit of lying on his back and kicking his legs in a paroxysm of mirth whenever the word “Tourist” was mentioned, and an occasional jab with his beak at my coat buttons and wrist watch, I found him quite easy to get on with. But it was very evident that his recollections of a few tourists he had met must have tickled him immensely. So I made inquiries. “Oh, yes, I get a lot of fun out of your sort,” he said (slightly personal, but I overlooked it), “and the more I see the more I laugh. An English colonel gave me a great time last year. Tall, dignified old chap, as frigid as the North Pole in midwinter and as approachable. He brought out a wonderful set of fishing gear that must have cost him a small fortune, and he started to whip the Clinton at Glade House. All he caught was harmless. The fish just slid to the other side of the river when they saw his cast drop over the water, and they gave him a right-of-way for a few hours every day he was there. And then, to cap it all, he had trout for breakfast at Glade House. I was watching through a crack in the wall at the time, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. The weka paused suddenly to swallow a berry. “I take my meals when I can.” he explained. “Another funny sight,” he went on, “was a man who tried to do the trip on a bicycle. I followed behind to sec if anything would happen, and it did. He had gone two or three miles when he hit a root and shot over the handle bars. He got going again, and by and by there was another root. This time he turned a complete somersault, and actually landed on his feet. But he had given up the bicycle idea, and, amid a stream of bad language, he hurled his mount into the bushes and reclaimed it a few days later on the return trip. One man, I believe, did take a bicycle over the track, and was photographed on top of the pass with it.” The weka told also of people who carried flasks with them, and “planted” them in the undergrowth on the way over, only to find on the return trip that the country looked a bit different than it did before. He laughed gleefully at the picture he drew in his mind’s eye of some of the tourists beating the bushes in high annoyance, and he told also of the times ho had been chased vainly through the undergrowth by irate travellers who had | detected him pilfering spoons, watch chains, corkscrews, and openers, and other shining objects. Shamelessly, he confessed that ho had quite a collection of trinkets which ho had confiscated in accordance with his unscrupulous principle that “finds is keeps.” All at once ho stiffened and peered anxiously into the undergrowth, and detected a .streak of brown fur as it slunk through the bushes. Angrily the weka turned upon me, and with his beady little eyes flashing wrath j he expressed his personal opinion of the I individual who was responsible for the introduction of “those sneaking coyotes” j into the country, adding that he apolo- i gised to all decent coyotes for associating their name with a weasel, but that he was stuck for words. “He had my brother for breakfast yesterday,” he said, “and if I hadn’t seem him first he would have had me for dinner.” The bird recovered i his good humour, however, after a minute i or two. and he' gave an interesting ac- : count of some of his amusing experiences while watching travellers on the track. At Pampolona Huts, for instance, bo had seen a party of grown-up men and women playing blind man’s buff to pass away the evening. One was an elderly gentleman from England, and his description of another tallied with a man fairly well known in Dunedin. But that may only have been one of the woka’s little stories. A bird with such loose ideas of the sanctity of personal property would hardly , stick at tellihg a few tall tales. I

Suddenly a loud squawk sounded nearby, and the weka sprang to his feet. “That’s the wife calling,” he said, “I’D have to be off,” and with that he stretched his neck forward and scampered out of sight. That was the last I saw of him. Later I learned a bit more about wekas, but although I tried often enough, I never could induce another one to say a word. A few of them winked knowingly when I looked their way, but they always edged away whenever I approached them. Somewhow, I could not bring myself to tell the party of my experience with the weka. This is such a sceptical world. THE MACKINNON PASS. The track to Pompalona was in splendid condition, and the miles rolled easily and rapidly. Silver waterfalls leapt and plunged from the heights on each side of the canyon, and in one or two places there were great banks of dirty ice many feet deep that had come down in recent avalanches. The river flowed lazily along, breaking occasionally into rapids, and in the silent depths big trout basked in the penetrating rays of the sun. They were trout that had grown big in their wisdom. No alluring minnow with silver-spinning neck, no fly with gorgeous plumage that had sharp hooks, could entice them from their lair. The weather did not hold, and from Pompalona the trip was a direct contrast. Little streams became roaring torrents, and the mountains sprang to life in a thousand roaring cataracts. For the first two or three miles the travellers stepped gingerly over the stones when they came to the torrents, but as the rain continued discretion flow to the winds, and no bones were made about wading right through in places. The approach to Mackinnon Pass lay through an avenue of beautiful, moss-covered trees, with a luxurious growth Of ferns and creeping plants, and as the climb proceeded this gradually gave way to more or less open stretches of country- It was a strange circumstance that although «most of the party were thoroughly wet, no one was cold or uncomfortable. On the top of the Pass a young blizzard was raging, and the view was impaired by great banks of swirling mists that would sometimes break apart and reveal “a drop into nothing beneath you, as straight as a beggar can spit,” and an occasional glimpse of snow-covered mountains on the other side. But the driving sleet would close iu again and leave a wall of white that the eye could not pierce. It is dangerous to deviate from the track here in bad weather. On the other side, Roaring Meg proved a formidable barrier, but the boulders wore negotiated in the course of time, everyone being a little wetter for the crossing. A four-mile walk down hill followed, and just round a bend the Quintin huts came into view, and what troubles there wore wore disappeared flash. Of the remainder of the journey much has been written. Everybody knows the Sutherland Falls are the highest in the world, but only an actual view of them can do them justice. Beautiful Lake Ada was crossed by boat in wet weather the following day, and the Sandfly Huts, or the Milford Huts, ns they have boon renamed, concluded the journey for the season’s first tourists. Mitre Peak was inspected from the fine motor launch on the Sound, and the 1,000,0015 t photograph was taken of it, whereupon the Peak hid its head behind a bank of cloud. The beautiful Bowen Palls and the Stirling Falls were also photographed, and seemed none the worse for it, and Joe, the tame seagull that visits the launch every time it is out, was photographed and fed. The return trip was accomplished in beautiful weather, and the tourists were fortunate in traversing the Pass through 18in of snow that invested the country with an appearance of extraordinary beauty. From the mountain sides all round avalanches were falling like thunder. and gathering great masses of the rock and ice as they went. It was in wonderful contrast with the previous experience of the Pass, for the sun shone brightly and the view was unimpaired. On one side the .Tcrvois Glacier, ending in the Roaring Meg, which runs down the Arthur Valley—on the other side the Clinton Canyon, with range upon range of snow-mantled mountains as far as the eye could see. THE STAFF. It might be said in conclusion that the track staff deserve every praise for the manner in which they carry out their respective duties. There is a warm welcome at each hut, and the trackmen and the launchmen are always willing to give whatever assistance and informatin they can. It all helps to make one feel that the trip is well worth while.