# Through South Westland/Part 2/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII.
LIFE ON THE MATUKITUKI.
Out from the hut at break of day,
And up the hills in the dawning grey;
With the young wind flowing
From the blue east, growing
Red with the white sun’s ray!
In vivid softness serene,
Pearly-purple and marble green;
Clear in their mingling tinges,
Up away to the crest that fringes
Skies studded with cloud-crags sheen.
S. Jephcott.
It was Sunday. I looked out on a lovely still morning, the eastern light stole blue and silvery over the mountains to the river-bed; the streams and waterfalls sang hymns of praise. Not a leaf stirred; not a cloud was in the blue; absolute peace was over all things. There are days when the mere fact of being alive in the sunshine fills one with complete happiness: we sat eating our breakfast out of doors at seven o’clock, feeling it was very good indeed to be alive.
We laughed at the vagaries of the marauding falcon, who had been summarily chased from their shingle-spit by the terns, and was sheltering himself under the over-hanging bank of our creek till the storm rolled by. They could not make out where he was, and, after wheeling and screaming overhead, went back to their river, and as soon as ​the coast was clear, out he came and made off to the bush.
I had a special tidy-up that morning, and put fresh greenery on the mantel, and made our place as smart as possible, for we were expecting visitors. Then I got ready to give our guests lunch; put the billy to boil, and had just finished when Transome watching the ford through glasses, announced a buggy and pair were at the crossing. We soon were welcoming our friends from Russell’s Flat. They had brought the baby, and were very ready to share our lunch: tea, of course, was ready; chicken-and-tongue shape, fresh scones, preserved pears, and other delicacies were set out on the table—and they did full justice to all.
They left us later to go on and see Mrs. Macpherson, laughing at the idea it was too bad a track for a buggy! They told us if we would cross the river we should find quantities of fruit run wild, and this we accordingly did, riding some four miles down the river-bed, and then dismounting, roamed about where once had been a homestead. The house was gone, the fences had mostly fallen, the raspberries in the garden formed an impenetrable thicket, into which we broke our way with difficulty. There were both red and white raspberries—beautiful fruit. Gooseberries of all kinds abounded, and currants, too; but the loveliest sight of all was a cherry tree, so covered with bright red fruit shining in the sun that it almost hid the leaves.
Here we spent the long hot afternoon, and when ​we saw our friends’ buggy slowly making its way down the wide river-bed, we hailed them and helped to gather as much fruit as they wanted; and then they departed, leaving the valley empty once more, except for ourselves. In the peaceful evening light we rode back, carrying a supply of fruit, and ate our supper as the long, purple shadows of the mountains leaned across the river-bed, and mounted slowly over the opposite forest.
Next day we started to climb the mountain immediately behind the homestead. We had viewed it from a distance, and could see that it rose by a succession of gigantic stairs with very rugged outlines, to black rock and snow some 6,000 feet above us. Transome had already gone up some distance on one spur, where quantities of the magnificent Ranunculus Lyallii grew among the rocks. This gigantic white king-cup will not grow to any perfection on the plains, but just below snowline attains an immense size. The stems are much branched, and the flowers are often two and three inches across, the leaves frequently attaining fifteen inches, and carrying in their cup-shaped hollows quite a quantity of water.
We made our way by the waterfall and up through fern and undergrowth for the first 1,000 feet, and then through an easier bit, where the trees had been burnt and stood dead and stark. From here we got a better view of the ledges; the cliffs between appearing to be several hundred feet and much broken. As we sat resting, a kea ​circling overhead settled on a stump quite near us, and we could see his beautiful red-and-yellow under-wings. A beautiful bird: his glossy green-and-black plumage with turquoise pinion-feathers, make him the gayest among New Zealand birds in colouring. Alas, he is doomed. His newly-acquired habit of harrying the sheep puts a price on his head, and already he is confined to the less-frequented mountain solitudes. Yet the keas had never seen a sheep before the date of Captain Cook’s arrival!
Next morning it was still very hot, and we decided a day off would be pleasant. I had a regular clean-up, and washed our clothes in the creek; and after lunch we rode slowly up the flat to visit the old saw-mills. The mill itself was gone, but the house was standing, despoiled of everything except a stool, a battered basin, and two bunks. Large enclosures had been fenced in, and the grass, soft and velvety, looked almost like a lawn with groups of beautiful trees scattered about. What a site it would be for a summer outing! A river came out of a gorge between forest-clad cliffs, and behind them an amphitheatre of black rocks held a great glacier, hung between heaven and earth, with a fringe of waterfalls hanging like icicles to its broken face. We planned to explore this another day, and rode on to a placid ford on the main river—that is, placid for a stream which in most of its length races along like an express. It was a lovely spot, bush growing to the ​water’s edge, little beaches of silver grey sand, the river itself light-blue, and circling deep and silent round some immense blocks. Taking off the saddles we rode the horses in till they were swimming, and then leaving them to graze along the edge of the bush, we enjoyed a delightful bathe ourselves, much to the distress of a family of paradise ducks. The mother, in great agitation, packed off her five little flappers up stream, and got out near us on the shingle, trailing an apparently broken wing, and vainly tempting us to follow over the stones, while her husband flew downstream with loud cries of anger. As we did not give chase they both flew back, and alighted bang in the middle of the ducklings, who were diving and popping about quite unconcerned. It seemed little short of miraculous how anything could make headway up the river; the old birds forged their way against the current, but the little ones progressed by successive dives, and presently they all vanished round a bend.
We lingered long in this lovely spot, and then, when the sunlight was cut off by the big snow peaks above the glaciers, we rode back to the Old Homestead by the disused bullock-track, watching, as we rode, the rabbits popping about in hundreds. I had left one ready in salt and water to cook for our evening meal, covering it carefully with mosquito netting. Alas! when we got back the horrible flies had got to it, and were tumbling thick and black in the pot! I took the whole, like Tom ​Thumb’s mother and the pudding, and threw it away! The pièce de résistance being gone, we supped off green peas and potatoes, scones and red-currant jelly, and agreed, as we were leading the simple life, any meat was superfluous luxury.
Next day, for the first time, islands of silver-white cloud appeared in the blue, and sudden puffs of wind came from the north-west. We were up early, and by seven o’clock were riding over the flat, the bunnies popping about in all directions, and the river singing its loudest, as it does in the mornings; by afternoon it will be full two feet deeper and will have ceased to sing. We crossed near the entrance to the “Gate of Death,” and rode along a bridle-track beneath the Bluff which juts out at the meeting of the waters. Plenty of good grass grew all along the foot and up the lower slopes, and I now discovered what it was that gave it the yellow appearance I had seen from a distance. A common species of St. John’s wort has taken possession of this side of the valley, and is fast destroying the pasture. Here was another forsaken homestead; the garden run wild—and from it the plant had come originally, from a few seeds planted by the settler’s wife, which some one sent to her from home in a letter. She treasured it till one day a stranger, passing up the valley, said to her: “You will rue it if you keep that plant in your garden.” Forthwith she threw it over the fence, and now it has spread in dense yellow patches for miles in this fertile valley. Two or three poplar ​and elder bushes still marked the site of the garden, but most of the trees were dead, and the little stream that ran by the homestead has changed its course. The settlers are gone years ago, ruined by snows and floods, and only the St. John’s wort flourishes after their years of toil.
We cantered steadily, a tearing hot wind chasing us and raising clouds of dust all the way down the river-bed. I was thankful to get to Mrs. Ross’s clean, nice kitchen; and after the parching heat and dust, her ginger-beer was very refreshing.
How strangely odd it felt to sit down to lunch at a table laid with a spotless cloth, and in the centre a bunch of sweet peas in a glass; and the roast lamb and mint sauce, vegetables, and blackcurrant tart, seemed a feast indeed! Haymaking was going on, and the men had all to hurry back after dinner, for these north-west storms end in violent rains in these parts. How quickly everything was washed and put away, the little girl laid down to sleep, and Mrs. Ross, in her pretty blue and white cotton dress, busy with the batch of bread as soon as we had finished tidying-up. I discovered some of this was meant for us, and a roast leg of lamb had been set aside too, and I do believe she imagined we were starving! Then came tea, with delicious shortbread, and time for a chat; and then, as the wind was dropping, we said good-bye and set out, absolutely laden with good things.
It had become much colder—the sky was over​cast with driving clouds, and the winds made Tom very foolish, for he bolted twice, and I had to hand him over to Transome, and ride the Scorpion. The ford at the Niger Hut was high, and we were glad to cross safely and get into our quarters, very tired and sleepy.
That night the herd of cows roamed round us uneasily, and an old, mangy red beast knocked down all my pots and pans outside, and found my precious soap, which she chewed. At last I heard Transome dragging his things inside, routed by her persistent attempts to take his rug; then peace fell, and I knew no more till morning. When I went out then, I found everything tumbled about, and after searching for my precious soap, picked up a dirty, unrecognizable lump, which the mangy cow had found too strong for her. This I thankfully recovered and washed in the creek.