AN AUTUMN RUN

Otago Witness, Issue 3882, 7 August 1928, Page 76

AN AUTUMN RUN

By

G.C. Sandford.

(Special fob the Otago Witness.)

In the autumn Central Otago is, in my opinion, the best part of New Zealand. There the year grows old beautifully. When other districts are becoming bare and chilled at the approach of winter, this sunny region takes on a new, richer beauty full of colour and warmth.

Therefore, hasten from the smoky hills and the dirty, crowded streets of Dunedin, and set out with us from Queenstown for the long run through the Kawarau Gorge. It is an autumn morning, .with a suspicion of frost, and the air is keen on our faces as we speed eastward. The brown-leafed birches and the golden poplars proclaim the season more clearly than could be done by any calendar. Along by the Frankton Arm the lake shows smooth and cold under the ragged outline of the Remarkables. A little early snow has powdered the highest mountain peaks, so that they stand out more clearly from the chill blue sky. Near the Kawarau dam a few patches of mist linger in the hollows of the foothills, untouched as yet by the morning sun. Our way w’inds on across the swirling Shotover and past the quiet shores of Lake Hayes, where red crested pukekos strut daintily in the rushes at the shore.

Half-an-hour’s run brings us to the mouth of the Kawarau Gorge, where the deep-cut channels of the Arrow and the Kawarau Rivers unite their streams to make one swirling current that passes on down the valley. The road now enters the gorge itself, and runs, narrow and twisting, about 40ft above the roaring torrent of the Kawarau. It is a good, firm road, sometimes cu? out of the rocky hillside, sometimes built up with boulders to round a jutting slope. Always it winds in and out, crossing little mountain creeks or spanning the river itself by an iron suspension bridge. For a time we feel the cold in the valley, and we envy the sunshine that the scattered peaks enjoy, far above our track. Soon, however, the sun’s rays pour into the gorge, flooding it with warmth. At times the valley broadens somewhat, and we come out on little sheltered plains, where old stone farmhouses show through the yellow leaves of the surrounding poplar trees. Rabbits scuttle suddenly across our path, and contented sheep browse on the coarse grass by the roadside.

Then we are forced to the very edge of the river, as the hills close in again. They are always bare and stony, of a reddish brown colour, with no vegetation other than thick tussocks and stunted matagouri bushes. The whole gorge is a veritable storehouse of history. Every ruined cottage and every old bridge tells a story of romance and adventure. Over rough tracks, where the level road now runs, thousands of miners have tramped, prospecting and digging, or bent for Queenstown and the neighbouring goldfields. By the water’s edge lies a broken, disused cradle, a reminder of the days when men fought the river for its gold with only crude, homely tools. The hillsides are scarred and cut where prospectors have been at work with pick and shovel. Of more recent interest are the little survey pegs, marking off newly staked claims, for this is the gorge that the builders of the Kawarau dam hope to glean of its gold. Again by the brown waters of a small creek at a bend in the road stands a rough stone building, with broken windows and scattered thatch. Formerly a prosperous hotel, this is now a farmer’s stable, and hens and pigs wander round where scores of miners once crowded.

After we have been on our way for nearly an hour, the hills become steeper, and we enter a narrow ravine. The road is now nothing more than a rocky ledge, and follows in and out of shadowed gullies and sunny promontories. To the right, the Kawarau roars unceasingly as it tears at the boulders in its path. We pass a row of wooden huts, the homes of a road gang; then the gang itself metalling a dangerous corner, draws aside to watch our car. Then we cross “ Roaring Meg ” and “ Gentle Annie,” two rock-strewn creeks, everlasting memorials to two famous barmaids of the mining days. We see no signs of civilisation for miles, except a ruined hut, or the rusty pan of a bygone miner, till we sight the irrigation works, a narrow concrete channel and a pumping station on the far bank of the river. These supply the nearby district with the life-giving waters of the Kawarau, refreshing and enriching the arid soil more than any chemical manure. We round the last headland, and are out in the Cromwell Valley. Before us stretches a level plain, gleaming yellow in the mid-day sun, and surrounded by high hills, sloping gradually upward, rocky and crumbling. To the north show’s a lofty mountain barrier whose steep, towering sides shine with a covering of early snow’. ■ At the foot of the eastern hills a belt of golden willows marks the course of the Molyneux, flowing to its junction with the Kawarau »t Cromwell.

The road gets smoother, and tile fine dust flies up in clouds under the wheels of the car, for it is still like summer in this sheltered valley. We speed on, past rows of young pines, past a large orchard, where the last of the red apples

are being picked into narrow’, wooden cases, past a paddock where they are cutting the last crop of clover hay. Then we come down a little rise, and draw up in front of the hotel at Lowburn Ferry, where our journey is to end. The long, low, white building, facing the dusty ribbon of road that stretches aw’ay towards Lake Wanaka, and surrounded by lofty poplars and willows in the full glory of their autumn foliage, is a welcome and picturesque finishing place lor our long run.