# Through South Westland/Part 2/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII.
THE ROB ROY.
Drinking fresh odours, spicy wafts that blew,
We watched the glassy, quivering air asleep,
Midway between tall cliffs that taller grew
Above the unseen torrent calling deep!
Till, like a sword, cleaving the foliage through,
The waterfall flashed foaming down the steep,
White, living water, cooling with its spray
Dense plumes of fragile fern. . . . . .
W. P. Reeves.
Two days later we made an expedition to find the Rob Roy glacier. Our way led us through the “Gate of Death,” past the Lone Shieling, and up the western Matukituki. It was but a poor sort of a path, among débris and boulders rolled down by the torrents that came from the mountains on our left. The river-bed was inaccessible, the water swirling along between jagged rocks; but a few miles up it widened out into several streams, and we got across safely. We were now at the opening of a gorge, that looked as if the mountains had been cleft by some terrific force: on one side they rose black and precipitous, with trees clinging wherever they could find a little soil; but generally they were sheer walls of rock. On our side the mountains were clothed to within a few hundred feet of the top with dense bush, out of which their summits rose in sharp, slatey ​points and walls. From the very start we had hard work.
Leaving the horses tied below, we began a toilsome ascent through a belt of tutu—a stout herb growing as high as our shoulders. This bit was very steep, followed by a belt of fern; then across screes of slate-shale and faces of bare rock, with only cracks for footholds, where we clung by our finger-tips. Slowly we worked our way up a deep gorge, the opposite mountains seeming only a few hundred feet away, and towering up five or six thousand feet. The heat grew greater every moment, and the glare from the rocks scorched us and made us terribly thirsty as we worked our way from gully to gully. Each one we climbed into we hoped would be the last; but they were interminable, and no water in any of them—each was a fresh disappointment.
We were obliged to keep high up because of the rank vegetation lower down, which really looked impenetrable. After a tedious climb, at last we saw the head of the gorge—a wonderful sight on which not many eyes have gazed. It is closed by a semi-circle of cliffs, precipitous and black; and wedged as it were between three mountain peaks, lies an enormous glacier.
On one side of the main mass, a black precipice jutted out, and over it, in a single stream, shot a glorious waterfall perhaps 800 feet high—the water scattered into smoke and drifted across the face of the rock long before it reached the bottom. From every point it looked absolutely impossible to reach the ice, flanked as it was with precipices. Above the ice rose black and jagged peaks—not my Silver Cone—that were terrible in their grim savagery, and the snow could only lie in patches, so steep were they. From where we stood, the gorge trended away to the right, and a huge abutment of the mountain hid a large part of the main glacier from view. Below us were the treetops, and bush so dense and tangled even to cut one’s way through would be next to impossible work; and hidden beneath the trees the river thundered, tearing its way over masses of rock and stone, unseen from above.
Still we pressed on—if only we could see round that buttress; but every dry water-course was but a furrow in the mountain’s face, and we but ​scrambled out of one, to climb into another. The day grew hotter and hotter, and ahead of us stretched a horrible patch of burnt bush, where some forest fire had swept through dry manuka scrub, leaving the wiry stems and branches stiff and black: we emerged with hands and clothes blackened, and more parched than ever—was there no end to these gullies?
Time was getting on, and we decided to descend and see what lay at the foot of the ice-fall. Each time we could see to the opposite side of the ravine, it seemed to change its face: at one moment we were opposite that fairy waterfall, then in a little it had moved away; and when the great ice-field of the glacier came in view it seemed in a totally unexpected quarter. The descent into the bush was terrific—no other word for it. We swung by lianes and creepers, sliding and slipping; hanging by a branch to let ourselves down over moss-grown boulders, holding to ferns and anything we could lay hold of—often to find the branch or tree we held hollow with rottenness; and the whole would plunge downwards, and we be left clinging to the steep slope. Yet all the time the never-ceasing roar of the river seemed to be at a great distance, and it was long before we ceased looking through the tops of the trees below us, and began to look through their mossy stems to the opposite side.
Now and then we caught a glimpse of a tumbling cascade of foam; or an opening showed the precipice ​beyond rearing itself up behind the trees. When at last we reached the river the fresh, cold air off its tumbling waters was like a cooling draught; we bent down over it, we wet our heads and plunged our arms in it to the elbow, and cooled ourselves in the icy waters.
And what a heavenly spot we had got to out of the heat and glare above. Enormous boulders, twenty to thirty feet high, were strewn along the bottom, and round and over them rushed the foaming waters; little dells of green grass and moss lay among the over-arching trees, and a wealth of ferns of many kinds drooped among the mossy stones that strewed the sides of the gorge. The sunshine poured down from a cloudless sky, and made play of dappled light and shade; no wind stirred, save the current of air from off the water. We chose a flat rock jutting out into the torrent; overhead, a tree with delicate light-green foliage and white, cherry-like blossoms sheltered our heads from the sun—and here we sat and rested, while we ate our lunch, feasting our eyes on one of the loveliest and grandest views I shall ever see.
For from below we gazed straight up to the jagged, green-blue edge of the glacier poised over the black cliffs streaked with waterfalls—all round us was the noise of other falls; and while the bush acted as a dark green setting to the awesome crags and precipices, the spaces above the trees was intensely blue. Nor was beauty of detail wanting in a hundred rare and lovely shrubs and ferns, and ​even flowers; for there, just beyond the torrent was a mass of Senecio Lyallii just like beautiful creamy cinnerarias, while the ribbon-woods hung their cherry-like blossoms overhead. No sign was there anywhere of former occupation, or attempt to penetrate the gorge. I think we were the first, at any rate, to reach that spot, though we knew others had climbed along the top in the far-off days of prospecting and exploring.
We came to the conclusion there was no possibility of going further to-day; we must bring up sleeping-bags and spend the night if we wanted to explore further, and so about two p.m. we turned back. Transome proposing we should follow the river, we began scrambling over the big boulders along the torrent; but we soon found this quite impossible, and had to take to climbing through the bush—a trackless labyrinth, where no foot save our own had ever been.
My remembrance of the next two hours is of a breathless, well-nigh hopeless struggle against obstacles too tremendous for my powers. The innumerable gullies were much deeper and wider down at the bottom, and they nearly all contained water—although dry above; sometimes we could hear it running underground, and one and all were choked with semi-tropical tangle.
Transome went to bathe, and I led the horses out to a grassy place, where they could graze till he was ready. Then we rode back to Mrs. Macpherson’s for supper, and if we had not done all we hoped to, we had seen what few but ourselves had looked upon. There was a sumptuous feast spread for us, and we lingered long, answering questions and planning further excursions; and ​the light was failing when we said good-bye, and rode down to the river.
One picture more of that day dwells in my mind: the tiny cottage with the group at the door, cows and calves straying about, Duncan Macpherson’s dogs standing sentinel on the rise before the house—all framed by the lonely mountains, purple-black in the gloaming, and the crescent moon hanging in the opening of the gorge.