A RIDE IN TARANAKI.

Otago Witness, Issue 3414, 20 August 1919, Page 65

A RIDE IN TARANAKI.

By F. B. Forester. Sunset—and a glorious evening after the glowing heat of the summer's day. Away there to the north-west the giant peak of Egmont rises clear-cut against the opaltinted sky, the roseate hues, caught from the reflection cast by the sinking sun, faintly staining the snow which still crowns his summit—an object of beauty almost unearthly. Lower down, slope after slope, in shades of blue of indescribable loveliness, sweep majestically down until they merge into the green of the surrounding country, and thence in long ranges oi pasture to the Tasman Sea. What a magnificent view lies yonder, as the gaze roves round the horizon, the last gleams of the sunset reflected in a sky shot with bars of gold and crimson, fading away into a mist of palest opaJ, rose and primrose, and clear tender green, until blotted out by sombre masses of dove-grey cloud rolling up from the sea. But the horses are ready, and time flies fast. Into the saddle and off, slowly at first, for the heat of the day lingers still, and for a few minutes there is an exquisite enjoyment in the fresh breeze of evening blowing strongly against one's- face, the consciousness of easy movement without effort, and the freedom and springy action of the most perfect exercise in the world. Then, as the glory of the sunset pales and passes, the glow dies from the grey, and the wind, freshening, brings a sense _of renewed vigour with it, the horses, im-Ea-tient of restraint and already drawing ard. against the bit, quicken their pace, and break; into a swinging canter. Steady on the right, there, steady! Yonder fern-clothed slope looks close at hand, it is true, but in reality the road just there drops off into space —a. sheer descent of sixty feet, with a torrent foaming below. A torrent assuredly, for the time being, since much rain has fallen of late, with the result that, a quarter of a mile further on, to the complete blocking of motor and all other traffic, there lias been a "wash out," and the road has in consequence fallen away, leaving only a narrow track, just wide enough to allow a horse or bicycle to pass. Will the horses venture? With snorts and sniffs . and sidelong steps they approach the dangerous spot, distrustful of their footing, and ready to refuse at the slightest sign of danger. But the least timid of the three has set hoof on the narrow ■way and crossed in safety, and the other two follow like lambs. Here, where the road twists and turns, first uphill and then along the level, is a glorious place for a gallop, and the horses are as eager to be off as their riders. What matter that a trestle bridge intervenes, spanning a mountain river? In a couple of strides it is spurned beneath the flying feet, the thunder of tho galloping hoofs on the planks awaking echoes far and near. There is nothing like this I What in life is there to equal the exultant Joy of a gallop on a good horse! —the spring of the powerful shoulders beneath the rider, the consciousness of the bounding vigour of life, strength, and _ courage that seem attuned to the swift rush through the strong fresh wind, salt-laden and pure from countless leagues of ocean. Something, too, in the surroundings adds to the fascination of this evening ride, for 11 ts all Maori country here, and every stride of the horses seems to be on enchanted grounds,. abounding in historic lore and touched with the Erlamour of old romance. Away down south, where the last stragglers of the bush end on the edge of the Waimate Plains, is the historic battleground of Te Ngutu o te Manu, "The Beak of the Bird," yvbere the gallant Pole, Gustavus von Tempsky, met his death; and nearly every road around com\memorates in name one or other of the brave men who fought in the exciting days of the Native war of the 'sixties. And right ahead, loming dark and threatening now through the mirk of oncoming night, rises the sheer bulk of Egmont, a thing alike of stupendous beauty and of terror.

Already the road has narrowed, and the far-flung amis of the bush, stretching out long fingers, have bordered it with a riot of ferns and pungas, lifting graceful heads above the swampy undergrowth; while, rising pillar-like above the fallen logs that bestrew the onlv partly cleared paddocks, the bare, bleached trunks of the half-burned trees stand like skeletons erect above a field of slain. And through the encroaching bush the road runs straight and true, bringing one at last to the gate opening upon the vast enclosing ring of bush surroudinjr the base of the mountain, known as the Government Reserve.

It is an .uncanny, almost a weird experience, to ride a mile or so on horseback at the meeting time of daylight and dark up the winding road that leads through some four miles of densest bush to the Mountain House, above Dawson's Falls. Even in the blaze of noon the light beneath is dim and religious, for the giant trees almost meet overhead, and, however fiercely the sun may beat down on the green canopy, all is cool and shady below, the quivering- pencils of light making only more dimly • mysterious the shadowy recesses beyond. But at night! To right and left of the track the bush stands like a black wall, a df>nse, impenetrable screen of shadoivs shrouding the mysterious unknown.

Up and up along the fast-darkening road, conscious all the time of a delicious sense of fascination, a sort of fearful joy in venturing where, on foot, one would never dream of going at such a time, bold in the strong and abiding sense of security drawn from being mounted on the horses. The silence is something to be actually felt, and yet it is not entirely unbroken, for from time to time a shrill, weird crv rings out of the darkness, and from the mysterious wall of blackness comes a strange distant booming noise, its source unknown, but easily to be transformed by Imagination into the far-off bellow of one of the wild cattle known to inhabit the

reserve. Only a few years ago it was no uncommon thing for the pedestrian to be held up in the nearest tree by some savage and threatening bull, sullenly resentful of the intruder on his domain; but since the advent of motor cars these dangerous denizens of the bush seem to have left the neighbourhood of the road and retreated to the denser and unexplored solitudes. The noise, whatever it may be, has no effect on the horses, who continue to advance briskly, though certainly with cocked ears, up the gloomy track. But there is something in the loneliness, the blackness, and the underlying intense silence that has a strong effect on the nerves of their riders, and it is with a sense of relief that the horses are turned on the down grade and headed for the reserve gate. Recalling the stories heard of wanderers who, having strayed but a short distance from the track, have been lost in the awful solitudes of this same bush, remembering, too, a saying current in the neighbourhood, " The mountain gets one each year," it is difficult not to believe that some Presence, unknown, unseen, and sinister, is waiting there beyond the black shadows: and it ia with a sense of downright relief that the gate is once more sighted, and beyond it the long white road leading to light and civilisation, and humanity.

Later comes a halt at the house of a friend, and while the horses stand in the cool shade beyond the verandah there is talk and music and the delightful colonial hospitality before the last " Good night " is said, and the horses are mounted for the final ride home in the moonlight. Inky black stands the shadow of every stump and tree in the silver light along the narrow and no£ a sound comes across the sleeping paddocks except now and again the bark of some watchful dog. And now the road, which has been descending gradually, takes a sharp turn, and suddenly there lies before the eyes a scene destined to live long in the memory. Straight in front, the road, rough and boulder-strewn, goes down through a rocky gap, and the rush and murmur of water strikes on the ear. To the right, all silvered by the witchery of the moonlight, stands a patch of bush, and out of it 3 dim shadowy mystery, stealing and sliding, comes a mountain river, to splash and swirl and glitter in snowy foam-drops over the stones in its bed. A dream-like crossing, there in the stillness and solemnity of the night, the water, icecold from the snows of Egmont, and clear as when it plunged over the rocks at Dawson's Falls, swirling and foaming round the horses' fetlocks as they splash through the shallows to reach the further side.

Then comes the last of the long, enjoyable ride, the swift gallop home, the horses, their heads turned for their paddocks, covering the long white road at almost racing speed, awakening the echoes of the countryside and the sleeping township beneath the thunder of their hoofs. What in all the life in England has one known to compare with all this?—the abounding sense of freedom to live one's own life, of the wide open spaces, of room to live and breathe in, away from the confining bricks and mortar, and the no less cramping restrictions inseparable from an older civilisation. Not for an instant would one breathe a word in disparagement of the dear Homeland: vet it is none the less impossible to deny that out here—at all events in the country, for Auckland (where these words are written) is In many respects too much like an Old Countrv city—there is a sense of freedom, of the sheer, keen joy of living, that in England was never known.

It is over at last, and, dismounted and ■weary, one stands for a minute outside the house in the- moonlight, listening to the departing beat of hoofs as the horses are led away, and, drawn still by an irresistible fascination, casting one last glance at that vast snow-crowned cone rising in" silent majesty among the stars. But again and again, after the lapse of years, comes back the remembrance and the delight of that ride, and never, as long as memory remains, can one forget the unearthly loveliness of that mountain river stealing out from the dim shadows of the bush, or the unrealitv of fording it in the darkness, with the cold, clear water swirling round the hoofs of the horses, and the solemn witchery of the moonlight on silver water and dark, rocky banks hung with an overgrowth of shrub and fern.