MILFORD TRACK

Otago Witness, Issue 3899, 4 December 1928, Page 6

MILFORD TRACK

A SYDNEYITE’S IMPRESSIONS AND EXPERIENCES.

By

R. M. B.

(Special for the Otago Witness.) After 40 years’ residence in the Commonwealth one might be possibly described as an Australian, so what 1 may have to remark regarding “ the finest walk in the world” will be. purely from the Australian viewpoint. Prior to crossing the Tasman, I had read every available piece of literature on the subject, and was ready for almost any surprise one might spring on me. But this I will say, that all that has ever been written or said regarding this tour falls immeasurably short of the actual reality. It has different effects on different natures. Some feel depressed, some could shout for sheer astonishment and delight, others are subdued at the thought of the insignificance of humans before such sublime i majesty and power. The party to which I belonged conI sisted of four —three ladies and a man. One was a Melbouniite, one hailed from Christchurch, and the third lady was Scotch, being on a world tour from Kirkcaldy. We boarded the Tawera on Lake Te Anau early one morning—a morning without clouds. The scenery on the western shore gave a foretaste of what was in store further ahead. Here, indeed, were the “ pathless woods, the lonely shore,” but beyond and far above the green slopes towered the immense beetling ramparts of the snow-clad monarchs, creating a combination that no artist could conceive and no poet describe. Mile after mile the scene continued, growing ever grander and more inspiring, and whatever others might say regarding the speed of the old boat she could not go too slow for our party. When at last the flat eastern shore gave place to similar tree-clad slopes and frowning cliffs we felt that our capacity for Nature’s wonders was indeed more than satisfied.

Nearing Glade House, after 40 miles of eye-feast, we were inclined to partake of quite another kind of feast, so after a beautiful walk of half a mile through the rich birch forest we found ample provision had been made for us at the well-appointed accommodation house. Soon we were shod and clad as become the mountaineer, and shouldering our rucksacks were presently ferried across the lovely Clinton, and, aided by stout walking sticks, entered the woodland aisles that follow the course of the Clinton to Pompalona.

If there is another such combination as this 10-mile trek affords we should like to know where to find it. The bush is glorious. One is in semi-gloom as in a shaded greenhouse, with the wealthy riot of foliage overhead, through which patches of bright sunlight freckle the path carpeted with fallen moss and leaves. Indeed, the path is so soft that I did it in sand shoes, having slung my hob-nailed boots over the rucksack. The mosses and ferns everywhere were a revelation. There was not a single inch of bare ground, even the trunks and limbs of the birches being covered thickly with moss and climbing ferns. On the right the clear, rushing Clinton crooned sweetly over its bouldery bed, or at rest in some deep pool reflected the trees and mountain slopes as in a mirror. On either hand not many hundred yards away rose the steep ribs of the towering mountains, green for some thousands of feet, then grey and purple to the snow and ice line, thence white. Issuing from the far-away glaciers count-

less .waterfalls and cascades came foaming down to join the brimming river. We crossed dozens of these streams on stepping stones, and some by bridges, and to drink of their clear pellucid water was a great temptation often yielded to.

An ice cave about half-way was the first we had encountered at close quarters, but it was much fouled with earth, weeds, and rock, and had evidently been hurled piecemeal from a parent glacier far above. At times we had an open view of our surroundings only to plunge once more into the dense jungle.

Longing for an introduction to the weka, we were not disappointed, for as we rested a pair appeared from among the wild raspberries and began pecking at one of our packs. We proffered some crumbs, which were eagerly snatched almost out of our hands. We felt it good to be trusted so by the wild creatures, and hope that the New Zealand Tourist Department will always protect the bird life of the Dominion in all places under its control. Of other birds we saw but few, and formed the opinion that in this respect Australia is more highly favoured. Of native animals we saw none. I believe there are none, which is greatly to be regretted, although deer and weasels have been imported, the latter being a doubtful acquisition Rising gradually all the way we found [ ourselves at last in sight of Pompalona huts, and were not at all loath to ease our backs of their burdens and rest. Here we met a party of tourists returning. That they hailed from every portion of the globe was evident by their speech, but all were loud in their praises of what was in store for us further on. These huts are just the thing on such

a journey, and the arrangement of the sleeping accommodation, a la ships’ bunks, makes for friendship and fellow-feeling. The catering is all that one could desire, considering the difficulties of transport, and as for the appetites—well, ask the married couple in charge. After dinner we followed a brawling creek to the mountain face, and discovered a fairly extensive glacier, with two streams issuing from twin tunnels in the ice. The roofs of these caves were in continual drip into the stream below. We left just in time, seeing we had not gone more than a few hundred yards when, with a report like heavy artillery, a mass of ice shot over the cliffs and fell some thousands of feet, being pulverised into small fragments ere it came to rest on the lower glacier. This was the first of many such experiences, which alone would be worth the journey to see and hear.

So far our journey nad been a comparatively easy one with ideal weather, but we were destined to experience something of an entirely different order. No sooner had night fallen than the rain began to fall, and it continued steadily right throughout the night. It was a comfort to be able to lie in our bunks and listen to it drumming on the iron roof, but the comfort was somewhat marred by the thought of the next stage. The Clinton by morning was in high flood, while the numerous waterfalls near the huts were augmented to such an extent that the whole neighbourhood sounded like a huge grinding mill. Breakfast being over, we were in grave doubt as to the advisability of proceeding, but being assured that there was no danger, and knowing that every party is expected to keep moving in order to make room for the following one, we made a late start, the rain still falling merrily. One realises that where 200 inches of rain falls per annum it must of necessity rain very often, and it does.

We presented a draggled picture ere we had covered the first mile. The going was now more rocky, rising steadily towards Mount Balloon, which was covered in thick rain cloud. Soon the water was coursing merrily down our backs, and oozing from the lace holes of our boots, but with it all we kept our spirits up by song and joke, and never felt it really cold. It would never do to admit defeat, as we were being followed by a mere baby of four and a-half years old, the daughter of Mr Chereton, of Glade House, who walked the total distance eventually. Seeing a hut close to Lake Mintaro, we entered and boiled the billy, as it would have been madness to attempt to do so anywhere in the open. Even here the dampness had penetrated, so that the firewood took some starting. Thus refreshed, we made a fresh start intQ what looked a proper cul de sac. The cliffs had closed in, and a'few hundred yards ahead seemed to end in a rounded amphitheatre. Here, indeed, was a weird place—wild and lonesome rock-ribbed walls rising for thousands of feet into the eternal ice and snow above, and tons of water coming out of the mysterious cloud canopy, all joining to form the head waters of the Clinton.

No one would guess the possibility of ever getting out. We felt like ants in a teacup. It was thus we plodded on, wondering what manner of man Quintin M’Kinnon could have been to explore this trackless region alone, and so make it easy for us and all who venture hither.

Crossing the boisterous Clinton by a sapling bridge, we now plunged into a denser jungle than we had Jiitherto passed through. The mosses and ferns were utterly indescribable. Dead limbs and trunks lay feet deep, giving nourishment to the living trees they had given birth to. Nothing grows to a great size here, being too near the snow line. To be sure, snow was found at a much lower altitude even in the month of February, but in all cases this snow or ice had been hurled from cliff glaciers far above, there being a very considerable admixture of earth and rock in its composition.

A steady pace of a mile an hour brought us at last to the end of the timber, and much as we admire the lonely New Zealand bush, we were giad to get out of what had the appearance and feeling of a cold shower-bath. Here also on the bare mountain face we had the opportunity of viewing our surroundings, as foot after foot of altitude was gained. The view from there baffles the pen to describe. We felt privileged indeed to have had the opportunity of seeing “ the fountains and the white mists rolling by.” Gaining the summit proper, we were utterly staggered by the scene spread out in all directions. From the saddle we could faintly see the Pompalona huts on the one hand and Quintin on the other, these being separated by nine miles of rough yet possible going. To right and left rose huge, solid mountains of granite, covered in snow and ice, and nartly hidden by dense masses of cloud. Some may desire clear weather for such an expedition. We were delighted to have viewed this scene, plus all the wondrous cloud effects, which must be seen to be appreciated. The deep canyon of the Arthur River, with its mountain ribbed sides, was seen at intervals as the clouds parted only to close in again and add to the mystery of it all. Delay was dangerous, as we were sodden wet, yet we had not come thus far with the intention of missing anything worth while. A slight detour to

the left brought us to the cairn erected to the memory of Quintin M'Kinnon, where, with bared heads, we paid respects to his memory. Resuming, we were delighted to find tlie rain had ceased and a sharp wind had sprung up. This had the effect of driving away the clouds, so that soon we had an uninterrupted view of Balloon, over whose ribs we were clambering. The Arthur Valley on our left was cledr and distinct for miles, till the overlapping mountain slopes hid it from view. If the rain had good effects, it also had its disadvantages, as we presently discovered. Reaching Roaring Creek, we were confronted by such a volume of turbulent water rushing over huge boulders that we doubted the wisdom of attempting to ford it at the usual crossing. Up-stream it seemed less rapid and shallower, so, taking the ladies’ ruck sacks, I made bold to cross, feeling for the bottom with my faithful grass-tree stick. It was cold work and wet, yet had to be overcome somehow, so one by one I conducted my fellow-travellers to the further side, where we landed in a moraine of rocks brought down by the ice, and left in a higgledy-piggledy mass at the terminal face.

Rejoining the track with no little difficulty, we had gone only a few hundred yards when we encountered the great moraine creek issuing from a fairly extensive ice-field shed from the Jervois Glacier. As in all cases, this glacier was found to be hollowed out by a considerable stream which issued from a cave or tunnel of considerable size. About here we passed through a lovely alpine garden, such as no human being could conceive or construct. The names of the blossoming plants were unknown to us, but were none the less beautiful to us in our ignorance. One of much prominence was, however, recognised as the ribbonwood, and lower down, where the trees became thicker, we found the rata in all its glory. If anything, the bush we now entered was the most wonderful of the journey. The greens and browns were so rich and charming to the eye. Unlike our Australian bush the New Zealand green is much deeper and much softer, having a beauty approached only in what is known as the brush in northern New South Wales. The birches, especially,

look beautiful in the mass, with their giant maidenhair-like foliage. Here we first so the wonderful Prince of Wales’s feather fern, which is very aptly named. Down, down went the narrow track, wet and muddy, or rocky in places, but withal creditable in such country. Arriving at the Quintin huts we must have presented a pretty sight to the inmates, what with mud all over and pockets full of water. Well we dubbed it “the finest waddle in the world.”

A roaring log fire in both sleeping huts soon had the effect of thawing out our benumbed members, and soon our wet garments were emitting a generous cloud of steam as we hung them up to dry out. Nothing daunted, when the welcome meal was over we set out to visit Sutherland Falls, which, from here, can be heard, but not seen. After such a downpour we expected great things, but not half as great as the reality. It looked as if a fairsized river had broken loose from near the moon, as a huge volume of water hurled itself over the 1904 ft drop. The effect on the air was such that a swirling mixture of wind and spray was felt a-quarter of a mile from the actual falls, and here again we got more than gloriously wet. Judging by the stream draining the falls, one would be well within the mark in estimating the volume of discharge at 5000 or 6000 cubic feet per minute. No one could venture under the falls in such circumstances, as the force of the descending waters was tremendous. We counted it a rare privilege to have seen the “ highest falls in the world ” under such conditions, and, well satisfied, made our way back to dry out a second time. With all this wetness we did not seem to suffer the slightest ill-effects, as, after a night’s rest, we were in the best of trim for the remaining day’s tramp.

Leaving the Quintin huts early next morning, we were privileged to be favoured with ideal conditions —a clear sky and warm sunshine, with the river and numberless waterfalls glinting and sparkling all along the track. We came across several wekas wandering along the track, one being followed by two fine chickens. On rainy days we discovered that they sought shelter under the various huts, but many of them just grin and bear it in the thick undergrowth. Of other birds we saw perhaps more here than on any part of the journey. Tuis, bellbirds, and some large pigeons were from time to time seen or heard as we trudged on steadily. Reaching Lake Ada, we met a returning party just off the boat. Together we discussed our lunches and billy tea in the shelter hut. Might I suggest that a few seats placed here would come in handy. As it was, there was a total absence of anything to rest on or place cups and lunches on. The same applies to much of the track. A rustic sapling seat here and there would be a boon to weary ones.

Lunch being over, we boarded the Lake Ada motor boat and began what may be well described as the finest aquatie cruise in the world. Though only five miles long, Lake Ada has in that short run a feast of beauty and grandeur unequalled anywhere the world over. The still, clear waters reflecting every tree, every slope and snow-clad summit with such fidelity that snaps taken look

equally as well upside down. The tree tops of the sunken forest over which we were gliding could be clearly seen for 10ft or 12ft, and lazily swimming among their trunks giant trout or other fishl The lake was brimming full after the recent rains, so much so that the bush on its margin was partly submerged. Arthur River, which drains the lake’ was found to be a seething cauldron of white, rushing water in a rock-strewn channel, forming a two-mile series of cascades, calm only as it mingled with the waters of Milford Sound. The last two miles after leaving the boat were found to be replete with every imaginable species of tree and shrub, many of them in full bloom, scenting the air. Arriving at Sandfly huts, we were met by the couple in charge with a cheery welcome, and soon were enjoving the cup that cheers. The surroundings here are of a totally indescribable nature. Tq attempt to picture them baffles the writer, who can only advise all who can possibly do so to go and see for them? selves. All that Nature can produce iq her most romantic mood is lavishly assembled within a few hundred yards. A view from a dense tropic jungle tq th? steely cold of the everlasting ice, with every gradation thrown in, can be absorbed from the front of the huts. Huge waterfalls come leaping down thii hard granite slopes, driven in some in? stances into fine spray reflecting all the hues of the rainbow. Bowen, Stirling, and other countless waterfalls keep up a cortinuous soothing murmur night and day, punctuated at intervals by the noise of ice coming hurtling down the cliffs from Pembroke or Tutoko, soon to melt and mingle with the waters of the Sound. A day down the Sound on thq Manganui is an unforgettable experience, The loneliness, the vastness, the beauty of it all on a perfect day is beyond words. Yet the charm of billy tea' and lunch on the rocks at Greenstone Point (where we were fortunate enough tq witness the Manuka enter on her trip from Melbourne to the Bluff) served to fill to overflowing our cup of enjoyment, so that we could truly say as did one of old, “ the half was never told.”