# With axe and rope in the New Zealand Alps/Chapter 11

CHAPTER XI
CANOEING ON THE NEW ZEALAND RIVERS
Canoeing on the New Zealand rivers is desperately exciting work. On the west coast of the South Island there is a canoe club, whose members build boats in watertight compartments specially suited for the rough journeys which they undertake. Some of these men are adepts at canoe-sailing, and think little of going out to sea in their cockleshells and even making long coastal journeys. The brothers Park have established quite a reputation by their adventurous journeyings. On one occasion they crossed the South Island with their canoes, towing up the Teramakau River, crossing a saddle of 1,700 feet at its head, descending the Hurunui and then coasting fifty miles down to Christchurch. On another occasion the crossing of Cook Straits was effected by them.
On the eastern side of the island not much canoeing has been done, with the exception of the navigation of two of the largest rivers (the Waimakariri and Waitaki) from their sources to the sea by Mr. Dixon and myself.
​I well remember how universal was the outcry against our attempting to descend the Waimakariri in 1889, upon which occasion we conveyed the canoes up to the head waters in the Southern Alps, and came down ninety miles of rapids at a tremendous rate, going through the celebrated gorge fourteen miles in length. Dixon reached Christchurch in one day—a wonderful feat—but I was not able to accomplish more than half the distance, and took two days over it. This involved a descent of 2,550 feet in altitude from the starting-point.
In the following year the Waimakariri was again navigated by myself and three other kindred adventurous spirits, when a number of fine photographic views of the scenery in the gorge were secured.
The descent of the Waitaki River, however, promised some exciting work, in addition to giving a grand insight into the story of the ancient glacier formation—a subject of great geological interest.
The rainfall in the New Zealand mountain districts is enormously heavy, as much or more than 150 inches per annum being registered in some parts. The rivers consequently carry a phenomenal amount of water for their length, and the calculations as to their discharge give wonderful results. The Clutha River in Otago—the largest river of the South Island— discharges as much water per annum as the Nile! It seems a strange statement to make; but such is the fact, the calculations having been made by competent men.
The day following our return from Aorangi we left the Hermitage at 9 a.m., and by 1 p.m. had begun our exciting journey of 140 miles to the sea.
I don't think Dixon and myself are likely to forget the tortures of the four hours which we passed through on reaching the lake. Here the cracks in my boat, which was decidedly the worse of the two, had to be jammed up with handkerchiefs, &c., before we dared to venture on a journey of eight or nine miles to the ​ferry at the other end of the hike, where is situated the exit of the Pukaki River.
As we scraped over the sandy shallows and pushed off into deep-green water, my heart sank within me at the idea of having to cross the lake in its present rough state (for a strong nor'-wester was blowing) in our frail canoes, which were not built in watertight compartments, and were quite unsuited for the work. Every ten minutes or so I would have to stop paddling and bale for dear life with the lid of the 'billy,' and the craft would immediately swing round broadside on to the seas, which seemed to do their best to upset her.
At first we kept edging away for the southern shore, and about half-way down the lake succeeded in getting within reasonable swimming distance, which, to a certain extent, we retained for a short time.
In the distance we could make out the island close to the ferry, with some trees on it, and from our direction there appeared to be but three. My thoughts at once flew back to the island on the Lake of Geneva, which Byron has immortalised in his 'Prisoner of Chillon,' and on which poor Bonnivard would gaze with sadness and yearning for freedom and life.
And then there was a little isle, Which in my very face did smile, The only one in view. A small green isle, it seemed no more, Scarce broader than my dungeon floor; But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing Of gentle breath and hue.
​I made sure my hair would be grey, like poor Bonnivard's, before this lake was crossed; but soon the wind dropped, and we paddled ashore at 9 p.m. close to the hotel and called for brandy and water hot, and seldom was the indulgence more justified.
At Pukaki Ferry we enjoyed a well-earned night's rest, and on Sunday morning we effected repairs to the leaky canoes, in which operation we received much valuable advice and assistance from Mr. John Gibb, artist, who was spending a few days in sketching at this point. By 1 p.m. we were on board again and looking forward to reaching Rugged Ridges—Mr. W.G. Rutherfurd's station on the southern bank of the Waitaki—before nightfall. But we little knew what was ahead of us.
A survey of the river from an eminence of the old moraine through which it has formed a channel, revealed, as far as the bends of the stream could be followed, a rushing, seething mass of foam-covered water, with numberless blocks of rock barring the clear passage of the current, and though we shot the first two rapids below the exit from the lake it took us until seven o'clock in the evening to navigate six miles of the river's course.
It is not easy to describe the wild course of the river in its descent through the enormous ancient moraine deposits, some of which might almost be classed as mountains, and must rear their tops to a height of 1,000 feet above the level of the river. Such an immense body of rushing water, receiving, as it does, the whole of the drainage of the Southern Alps, from the head of the Mueller Glacier to that of the ​Murchison, necessarily creates great havoc amongst the glacial and fluviatile deposits through which it descends, and, as a matter of course, all the smaller stones are hurried and rolled along to form shingle on the river-beds further down, leaving the larger ones, which alone can stand against the force of the flood. The natural consequence is a stream of the most broken and impetuous character, a stream whose rushing, roaring, and foaming drowns all sounds contiguous to it; rapid after rapid of seemingly tempest-tossed and crested billows, of whirlpools and eddies, of backwaters and heavings into surface currents, and never a still pool to be found anywhere.
Imagine, then, the troubles of two canoeists in navigating this stretch of water. No canoe or boat in the world would have the slightest chance of going through, out in the current, without being smashed into matchwood and its occupants infallibly drowned, for swimming would avail a man nothing in such a place.
All we could do, then, was to keep close to the bank and let our frail boats down by the tow-lines amongst the rocks in the comparatively shallow water. Now shoving them off into a fair stretch and hauling them up short in time to avoid contact with some ugly rock in front, then scrambling along ourselves and coiling our lines as we advanced, clambering over water-worn and slippery rocks, tearing our way through the Wild Irishman scrub, or wading a few steps middle-deep in the turbid water to the points where we had brought our respective canoes up. Then repeating the same performance over again and again, bruising our legs against rocks, slipping down amid the slimy stones, ​scratching the skin off and receiving numerous thorns from the scrub, wishing we had never been born, lamenting the hardships of our lot, anathematising canoes, ropes, paddles, river, rocks, scrub, and everything in creation.
No, that seven miles journey was not all that could be desired; but having put our hands to the plough, we both made up our minds that we would go through with the undertaking, even if we had to repeat the same performance down to the sea every day for a week, and the worse the river got the more pig-headed we became. We had beaten Mount Cook, and we meant also to gain a victory over the Pukaki and Waitaki, if it cost us our life-blood. At some places where a number of large rocks were congregated close to the river's bank we would be compelled to take the boats out, and shouldering them, climb round the rocks on shore, and launch them afresh in better water below.
At one time, Dixon, who was leading, accidentally dropped his paddle, which was whisked away by the current in a trice. He made a great effort to recover it, and plunged in up to his armpits in the turbulent water, but failed to reach the truant paddle. Seeing his difficulty I pushed my boat out to him, and he seized my paddle and, jumping into the canoe, gave chase to the one he had lost. I ran along the bank, but could not keep near him; and in fear and trembling I watched him nearing a horrible fall amongst some sharp teeth-like rocks. I thought his last moment had come, but just before reaching the danger he overtook the lost paddle, which he grasped with one hand, and, ​jumping out of my canoe, held the tow-rope and brought the boat up within a few feet of the fall. The whole affair was the work of a few moments, and was a wonderful exhibition of smartness and presence of mind.
By 7 o'clock we began to think that we had had about enough for the day, and, putting the boats ashore, we walked back, over the old moraine and along the rabbit-fence (which, by the way, I hear is doing its work splendidly), to the Pukaki Ferry for the night.
By 7 a.m. next morning we were again with the canoes, and once more performing gymnastic feats along the rocky bank. But our reward was now near at hand, for after an hour or so we got on board and sneaked down the quieter sides of one or two pools. The moraine deposits gave way to those of fluviatile origin, and the size of the stones in the river-bed decreased rapidly; consequently we soon began shooting the rapids again and were making grand headway. The country on either hand opened out; from our left came in the Tekapo River, and soon after, as we sped on under Ben More, on our right the Ohau. Now we were in the Waitaki, which is formed by the junction of these three rivers. 'Waitaki,' or 'Waitangi,' means 'Crying water.'
The hydrographic area of the Waitaki Basin is 4,914 square miles, more than three times as great as that of the Rakaia or Waimakariri, and it drains most of the principal eastern slopes of the Southern Alps.
The eastern source of the river drains the Godley and Classen Glaciers with their numerous tributaries, forms the Godley River, and flows into Lake Tekapo ​(some fifteen miles in length); it issues from the southern end of the Lake and curves a channel for itself through the ancient moraine, when it becomes known by the name of the Tekapo River, which, flowing for a distance of about twenty-five miles, joins the Pukaki; all these, with the addition of the Ohau, the junction of which is a few miles further down, form the Waitaki River. The Hopkins and Dobson Rivers drain that part of the Alps immediately south-west of Mount Sefton, and flow into Lake Ohau. The stream issuing from thence, under the name of the Ohau River, runs for a course of thirteen miles, and joins the Pukaki and Tekapo as before mentioned.
After the union of these three systems of drainage the course of the river runs through a wider bed for about five or six miles before entering a gorge some ten miles in length. Down this fine stretch of water we now enjoyed a delightful paddle, and soon we sighted Black Forest sheep station, with its rows of green willow trees, on our left.
Here various kinds of river birds lent an aspect of life and gaiety to the scene—gulls, terns, paradise and grey duck, teal, dotterel, stilt, and red-bill soared over us, or rose in startled dismay as we shot by.
We had left the snows behind us and were fast being closed in by the foot-hills. We neared the gorge at 11 a.m. and paddled ashore on the Otago side and boiled the 'billy' for lunch.
It seemed a delightfully quiet hour after all we had been through; we sat and smoked in happiness and watching the rabbits skipping about amongst the bracken. We were certain, if only by that, that we ​were in Otago, where rabbits are the monarchs of all they survey.
The Mackenzie country hands had told us that we should find the gorge a little rough, so we knew we were in for it presently; yet for a couple of miles we found the river good going, though some ominous spurs of bed rock now and then entering the current—the first bed rock we had met with since leaving Mount Cook—foretold what we were coming to.
After going round a few ugly corners the white water became more frequent, until suddenly we were brought up by an awkward rapid into which we dared not venture.
A survey from the cliffs, sixty feet above the stream, disclosed a tongue or groyn of rocks running out into the stream in an oblique direction from the Otago side, and shooting the main body of the current on to the rocks opposite. A long stretch of straight water followed, but the whole stream was confined in rocky banks so close together that one might throw a biscuit across, and the pace of the current was something terrific. For half an hour we considered the situation, finally determining to shoot the rapid. There was really only about eight or ten feet of safe water close to the point of the groyn of rocks, and this was right in the body of the current. On either hand were eddies and whirlpools of the most formidable character, which, in the event of our making a bad shot, might swirl us among the rocks on one side or the other, and had such been the case we trembled to think what would have been our fate. However, at it we went, Dixon as usual leading, with a head as cool as a ​cucumber, and I following, like a spaniel after his master. One wild rush, a few strokes of the paddle, a mad tossing about in a sheet of crested foam, half-a-dozen bucketfuls of water on board, and we were through, breathing again as we tore down the hurrying, but straight and safe, current below.
Though we met with no greater obstacles to canoeing than this rapid in the gorge, such performances were several times repeated, and we had to land now and again to survey the course ahead.
To describe the mad plunging of the river through the gorge is not an easy matter. Here and there, perhaps, a long even stretch is met with, but for the most part the river makes a succession of bends bounded by rocky cliffs on either hand, now and then masses of rock crop up through the water, against which the stream is banked up by the force of its mad career to a height of ten or twelve feet; immediately under the sides of the rock there are vicious-looking heavings, eddies, and whirlpools, which, if one chances to get into them, twist the boat about like a feather when blown upon the water's surface. A black swan and three cygnets kept ahead of us for the last six miles of the gorge, but as we entered with relieved feelings upon the more open country, they eluded our further pursuit in a backwater. Another few miles and we reached our destination for the night—Mr. W.G. Rutherfurd's station, Rugged Ridges—where a warm and hospitable welcome made us feel that once more we were in the regions of civilisation.
Leaving next morning at 4.30, we gave ourselves eleven hours to catch the train for Christchurch, at ​Waitaki, a distance by water of sixty miles. Four hours saw us in Duntroon (thirty miles), where we astonished the natives in disgracefully tattered boating attire, and indulged in that from which we had long been estranged—'a long shandy'—and by 9.15 we were off again at eight miles an hour, shooting down the most beautifully safe and rippling rapids, scaring ducks, plover, gull, stilt, swan, and all manner of wild fowl; now and then startling a mob of horses or cattle from their peaceful browsing, or astonishing some slow-going shepherd or cowboy as they stared open-mouthed at such an uncommon sight as two madmen in cockleshells of canoes rushing down their boatless river, until we put the final touch to the whole enterprise by carrying our boats up to the station at Waitaki South (to the amazement of four railway navvies), at 1 p.m., having averaged eight miles an hour for sixty miles, allowing for one hour stoppages.
The distances by water, allowing for sinuosities in the course of the rivers from Aorangi to the sea, may be roughly summarised as follows:—From the end of the Mount Cook Range to Pukaki Ferry, thirty-four miles; from the Ferry to Rugged Ridges, thirty-eight miles; and from thence to the railway bridge near the sea at Waitaki, sixty miles; a total distance of 132 miles.
If it were not for the Pukaki Rapids the trip might be comfortably accomplished in three days, and at a stretch could be done in two; but the way to enjoy it would be to travel in a good staunch canoe, with watertight compartments and such accessories as the west coast canoeists are in the habit of using, and spend a week over the journey.