THREE WEEKS' CARAVANING IN OTAGO.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XIX, Issue VIII, 14 August 1897, Page 231

THREE WEEKS' CARAVANING IN OTAGO.

(By

P.M.)

(CONTINUED FROM PAGE 201.) f I yiE site where we camped that night lacked nothing in picturesqueness. We were on the edge of a deep ravine, out of which tall birches shot up their heads, the lake peeping through the lofty branches here and there at ns. Onr bed of ent ferns was very comfortable, bnt again we found our blankets not sufficient to keep out the cold. Steadily jogging along, we reached Mount Crichton Station next morning, and according to promise called again. We followed the British instinct within us and gave three good cheers for the station and its people after finally saying * good-bye.’ Walking slowly, for the sun was shining brilliantly, we reached Bob's Cove at tea-time, when a wood-cutter boiled our billy and sold us a pot of jam. Poor Cook ! The sandflies assessed him as more valuable than any other of us and paid him considerable attention. His hands were so swollen that the knuckles had disappeared entirely. The flies were unusually numerous here, and the afflicted one bolted his food and then bolted himself. Reaching our friend’s (the miner’s) place, we stayed in his hut all night once again, and as he very kindly insisted on lending us blankets, and we lifted the iron sheets, our night’s rest was much more pleasant than before. Cook’s ill luck still pursued him. He was fondly carrying in his pocket several stones which he had taken from the bottom of creeks, and which he assured ns con-

tained specks of real gold. * It’s gowld right enough,’ said the miner, * bnt it’s the kind yees call newchum gowld, and ain’t worth nothing.* By noon next day we were back into Queenstown, somewhat travel-stained after our walking tour, but feeling that our labour had been amply rewarded. We were now in possession of two horses, and the question was how to make use of both. ‘We’ll have to drive taudem, boys,’ said Driver. ‘lt will look a bit odd, but that’s nothing.’ After some inquiry at the livery stables and saddler’s we succeeding in hiring collar, traces, etc. The collar was too large and the traces too short, but we bandaged the former with cloth, and a blacksmith lengthened the traces by attaching short chains to them, and he also screwed hooks to the ends of the shafts. A clothes’ line was purchased for reins, and our turnout was in good going order, as the auctioneers say. The rest of the afternoon we spent in idly strolling about, walking through the park by the lakeside, and lying under the shady trees. Oh, what a glorious sunshine, and how pure and exhilarating the atmosphere ! Over us seemed to come a feeling of contentment, and a forgetfulness of the troubles and worries that beset this mortal life. ‘ I say,’ said the Amateur as he lay on his back and looked up into the cloudless sky, ‘I should like to live here always, wouldn’t you ?’ And a murmur of assent went ronnd. In the evening we harnessed up and drove through the Shotover Gorge, passed Arthur’s Point, so-called because one Arthur obtained here in an afternoon several pounds’ weight of gold with only his knife and pannikin. That night and for part of next morning we travelled through

the fertile little district of Malaghans, and then we came to Arrowtown. Like other places in Otago, it has had its day. Few persons passing through this quiet and steeply little place would imagine it was once the scene of all the various excitements and tumults that are attendant on the congregating of thousands of men together, eager in the quest for gold. From the bed of the river at the foot of the slope on which the town is situated almost incredible quantities of gold have been got. Before the great rush set in one party—Fox’s —got 4olbs weight in two weeks; McGregor’s actually obtained Bzlbs in about the same space of time, and another party of only three members took out nolbs in four and a half weeks. Not far from Arrow the road takes over the Crown range to Lake Wanaka, but we had to forego through lack of time our intention of visiting this beautiful lake, and so rejoined the road we had originally come by, so as to return to Clyde, thence we would strike north and travel to Dunedin by a fresh route. Merrily we spun along, the pots and pans in the van tingling and jangling an accompaniment to the driver’s gee-up. For the second time we camped in the Kawarau Gorge. The only suitable place we could find on which to pitch the tent was a flat producing an abundant crop of Scotch thistles, which we had to scrape away with the tomahawk before we could set up our canvas house. As the evening shades descended, the loneliness and wildness of our surroundings made an awesome impression upon us. The rocks we were amidst assnmed fantastic shapes and forms, and the gray precipitous hills looking down upon us became undistinguishable black masses, save for their jagged tops that stood clearly out against the starlit sky. Naught broke the silence save the steady munching of our borses as they partook of their allowance of corn, and the sullen roar of the river dashing along its narrow and rocky channel. To dispel the oppressive feeling that was fast seizing us Cook was besought to bring us his violin and play his liveliest tunes. ‘There’s nothing for breakfast,’ said Cook when we got up. ‘All the bread’s eaten and I can't find any cake.’ And such a lugubrious countenance he had as he imparted this doleful information. But bidden away amongst some miscellaneous luggage we discovered a vagrant plum duff, and our breakfast was substantial, if not orthodox. It was midday before we left. We spent a lot of time loitering about, but when we did set about matters and Driver had gone to his horses, Cook to his particular duty, and myself and Amateur to take down the tent, very little time sufficed to see us on the road and ready to start. At Cromwell we separated, I on one of the bicycles striking off to visit friends at Lowburn, the others continuing down the Dunstan Valley, where they spent the major portion of the afternoon shooting. At night we rejoined again at the Clyde and camped on the property of ‘ Dave,’ whose acquaintance we had made on our upward journey. He promised to take us goat hunting on the morrow, and Cook and Driver were greatly elated at the prospect, and in their sleep shot innumerable billies, which they could not find next morning. Minus coats and bats, and in many respects resembling Italian banditti, we clambered up Cairn Muir next morning. From the top there was a splendid view of the plain below encircled with mountains and divided in twain by the Molyneux rushing along in its eager race to the sea. Here and there patches of water gleamed like silver, and homesteads surrounded invariably by green poplars dotted the plain. The two Nimrods of our party satisfied their ambition and knocked over one animal apiece. The rest of us did not persevere, for the sun was hot, and the air dry, and it was much more comfortable perching on a rock and basking in the sunshine than scrambling as they did for miles over rocky hills. Leaving Clyde next day, we travelled north towards Naseby. The roads immediately improved, and were almost without exception in splendid order right to our journey’s end. Old Sol soon persuaded us to doff first our coats, then our waistcoats. Cook and I cycled along, now leaving the van away in the rear, occasionally loitering behind it. Driver looked enviously awhile, and then signified his wish to exchange his seat in the trap for that of one of the machines. But we were somewhat reluctant to allow him to leave his post, as when Amateur, who acted as his understudy, took the reins, the horses acquired a zig zag gait, and only flicked their tails when he threatened unutterable things. However, we allowed him to gratify his desire, and immediately he bolted his machine down a steep hill and endeavoured to break his neck. Was ever there such base ingratitude ? Along undulating and bare country, save for the eternal tussocks and matagouri scrub we drove, and then came to Ophir. I think everyone who travels in New Zealand must feel the absence of that romance and historical incident that is attached to almost every town, hamlet, or district in the Old Country. Here we have no old castles with their

traditions, no ruined and ivy-covered monasteries, haunted ruins, or battlefields where brave men died for honour and the liberty we now possess. I mav just say of Ophir that it possesses the generality of shops, hotels, churches, that gold has been and is being got in its vicinity, and that’s about all. The trade of the town received a decided impetus from us, for butcher, baker, and grocer were each interviewed in turn, until we felt proof for some time against the demands of our remarkable appetites. Beyond the town we had to cross the Manuherikia River. We all got into the trap to ford it, and packed two bikes on iop of the dog, who was lame and a passenger before we noticed him. However, ‘ Vic ’ lost no time in calling attention to the mistake. Then we stuck in the middle of the stream, but were disinclined to put our shoulders to the wheel, as per Hercules’ advice, for the water was rather deep. Instead we all shouted, * Hed-dup,’ and ‘ Ged-dup,’ and the horses pulled desperately, whether in their anxiety to get across or to escape from our noise I know not, but, at any rate, they pulled us over without any further hesitation. At lunch time the grass at the roadside ignited from our fire, and the flame spread like wildfire. It was * all hands to the pump,’ or rather to the bucket and billies, for where the fire, if left alone, would have ended, goodness knows. As it was a great black patch of smoking tussocks was left as the result of our carelessness. Passing Beck’s, and fording the Manuherikia for the second time, we pitched our tent close to Blackstone Hill station. The * Driver and I * volunteered to get water and milk from the station. We came to a small house first, and looking through a window saw a collection of unkempt, unshaven individuals playing cards ; but they were only the station hands enjoying the end of the week’s rest, and not brigands and cut-throats as our imagination wanted to picture them. Getting water here, we went to the homestead for the milk. We knocked and shouted, but no response, though we could hear someone softly playing what, remarkable coincidence, was the hymn, ‘ Wait, Meekly Wait, and Murmur Not.’ We knocked till our hands were sore, and then called into requisition a bicycle wrench, and presently footsteps were heard approaching. To this day I cannot say what instinct made us look to see if the billy were presentable, but we did so, and to our horror found it contained remnants of the chops we had nought that afternoon, and frantically we endeavoured to get rid of them before the young lady answering our knock arrived, and it rejoices me to say we just succeeded. ‘ It will be a bad winter for the stock ; feed is so scarce,’ was the cry we had heard all along our journey, and the truth of this had been driven home to ns by our having to pay pretty stiffly for the chaff for our horses. One paddock of oats we saw next day had been so dwarfed by the drought that the heads barely reached to the knife of the reaper that stood melancholily amongst them. At Hill's Creek, said to be the highest township in Otago, we were taken by some people for itinerant photographers. * I prefer that to “ hawkers,” anyhow,’ said Amateur, looking somewhat consoled. Wedderburn was the next township we came to, and a battered and indistinct finger post a little farther on indicated to us that Naseby was comparatively close at hand. We were into the latter place almost before we knew it. Perhaps I had better not tell too much as to our losing ourselves in the town, mistaking a blind road for the main one, of attempting to turn and retrace our steps, and the wheels of the van getting locked in the turning and refusing to budge. And all Naseby (it seemed to us) had assembled to witness our discomfiture. I wonder if they thought we had a waxworks show or a cyclorama inside the waggon ? But we escaped at last and took refuge in a quiet little corner on the outskirts of the town, and ‘ far from the madding crowd.’ Naseby is one of the largest of the inland towns of Otago. It is at an altitude of 1,900 feet, and already the mountains adjacent were beginning to assume their coats of white To a person standing on one of the hills flanking it, the town appears to lie in the centre of a huge honeycomb, for on every side has the hand of the miner delved into the ground. The clouds were looming darkly over us and we set to work with right good will to pitch the tent and dig trenches around it, and when the rain fell, we were inside and happy and comfortable. From Naseby to Kyeburn the road practically drops all the way, and Cook and I had a splendid spin of twelve miles. We two had got into the habit of riding ahead for several miles and then stretching ourselves on the warm tussocks, reading or dozing until the van overtook us, when we scorched ahead again. This day we were in front a good distance, when we espied a rocky basin into which a stream ran, and in a few minutes we had both stripped and were swimming and splashing about. But on going back to don our clothes, we found them dotted all over with ants, whose nest we had apparently

disturbed whilst undressing. Imagine some uncomfortable feeling, say that of a person on his way to a dentist to have a tooth pulled, and it may be realised how we felt as we pulled on the most necessary part of our costume. after which we removed a safe distance and completed our dressing, carefully examining and shaking each article before resuming it. Leaving the Maniototo plain behind, we entered the hills, and by night had reached the head of the Shag Valley, down which we proceeded next day. Oh, what a different prospect now! We had left behind the blotted landscape and discoloured streams of the mining country. Nature assumed an altogether fresher garb. The hills were greener and the little streams clear as crystal as they rippled along bordering soft grassy plots, that invited us to stretch ourselves upon them. The soil was tilled, not wrecked, and fields of yellow corn and trim cosy farms greeted us. Then we came to Palmerston, with its cone-shaped Puketapu hill overtopping it, and here we turned our faces south towards Dunedin, and journeying on reached Waikouaiti at the sea-side. Both are fairly large towns on the main road from Dunedin. The latter place was a whaling station long before the capital city of Otago was thought of. We camped by the Waikouaiti river, and Cook, recognising that it would be his last opportunity to distinguish himself, bestowed a lot of pains on a rabbit stew which he would term an ‘ Irish ’ stew, though the bunnies were colonial without doubt. ‘Och, and it’s a broth of a stew,’ said the Amateur, and a little bone forthwith got into his mouth and nearly broke a tooth. For the last time we pitched our tent, spread out our blankets and folded our coats for pillows, feeling just a little sad as we thought that soon our gipsy life would be a matter of memory only. About daybreak in the morning a strong wind rose, and four pair of eyes gazed anxiously up at the ridgepole of the tent, which earlier in the night had cracked ominously. The owners of the said eyes were not left in doubt very long, for a stronger gust than usual snapped it in twain, and four heads dived under the blankets with marvellous rapidity to escape the broken pieces as the pole, and the tent with it, collapsed. There we were enveloped in a mass of tugging canvas, which threatened to pull out the pegs, blow away, leaving ns exposed to the vulgar gaze. Somewhat ignominiously we had to rise, and two at a time held up the folds of the tent while the others dressed as best they could. Continuing our homeward journey down the coast, we came to Merton, then climbed the steep Kilmogbill, the bane of many a cyclist. Cook and myself prudently walked down the steepest part of the opposite side, and not unwillingly, for the bush on either side was very pretty, to us doubly so after the treeless and barren interior. Just before we came to Waitati, a little township at the foot of Mount Cargill, which lay between us and Dunedin, it commenced to rain. Then more than ever did we appreciate our caravan. Packing the bicycles away, we all four jumped inside the waggon and comfortably ascended the hill, beguiling ourselves with song, story, and merry chat. Arrived at the top, we stayed to drink in the grand panoramic view of Port Chalmers, Otago Harbourand Peninsula, and Pacific Ocean that there presented itself. Truly people sometimes have at their own doors sights exceeding in beauty those they travel miles and miles to see. Then Dunedin hailed in sight, and rattling down the steep road, we were soon at our journey’s end, and at home relating to sympathetic and interested ears our adventures in a three weeks’ caravaning tour.