# Through South Westland/Part 1/Chapter 5

CHAPTER V.
THE FOREST WORLD.
. . . . . . . the forest world, its wealth of life, Its jostling, crowding, thrusting, struggling race, Creeper with creeper, bush with bush at strife, Warring and wrestling for a breathing space; Below, a realm with tangled rankness rife, Aloft, tree-columns, shafts of stateliest grace.
W. P. Reeves.
The bad weather had spent itself, and as we got ready early next morning, a cloudless sky above the snow-peaks betokened a glorious day. Goodbyes were said, and we fared forth once more down the Main South Road. It made a brave show with wide, cleared margins for a couple of miles or so, then deserted us in a river-bed, and when we picked it up again, it had become a pack track. This very soon dwindled to a narrow footpath, winding into the heart of the hills. The sun slanted down through the great trees over head:
“Their forest raiment . . . . . . from crown to feet that clothed them royally, Shielding their mysteries from the glare of day.”
Here, we were in a world untouched by man—save for that narrow, winding track—where the very birds seemed scarce to heed our presence, and the big bush-pigeons sat and looked at us from the miro trees—too lazy to fly away. The very loneliness but added to the wondrous, ​mysterious charm of this forest world. On and on we rode in the dewy freshness: round steep mountain flanks, up deep gorges, along rock-cut ledges where the yellow sunshine lay bright and warm on the rocky way, catching at times vistas of high mountains towering above us, shrouded always in impenetrable bush—it was, above all things, a forest ride. Always there was the crowding undergrowth beneath—that riot of green-life, of forms strange to our eyes, beautiful in their infinite variety. And everywhere were ferns. Who shall tell of the exquisite beauty of that fernery? They seemed to grow in colonies, sometimes of one kind, sometimes of another; and every fallen mossy trunk was covered with delicate hymenophyllums, like green lace. They climbed along the living branches, they draped the brown stems of the tree-ferns from base to crown—there they live and die uncared for, generation after generation, perfect in their beauty. There are as many as twenty-nine of this species alone, from H. rufescens an inch long, to H. dilatum growing to a couple of feet or more. In shine and shade alike the kidney-fern hung out its glossy lobes of satiny-emerald, shaped exactly as its name implies. They vary from an inch across to three or even four. They creep up the trees and over fallen logs, each separate leaf on its brown, hair-like stem, the delicate edge set with tiny, bead-like seed vessels. When the sun ​shines through their fresh green, they seem almost transparent, and now and again one finds a lobe of golden-brown or coppery-red. As one gazed into dim green recesses, so shadowy and cool there seemed always something new to catch the eye. One was never satiated.
Where else does one see ferns growing in stories like a pagoda—whole colonies of them, two or three feet high? The settlers call it the umbrella fern; and perhaps a little farther on grow huge clumps of the Prince-of-Wales’ Feather, its tips bent exactly like an ostrich plume. Other ferns, so fine they are like a skeleton leaf or dainty lace, grow in the bush—Davallia, and many another whose name I never knew—and over them everywhere drooped the tree-ferns, straight shafts thirty or forty feet high, crowned with curving fronds, often twenty feet long. Ceathea dealbata grows even to a height of fifty feet with broader fronds not so long. Their under-side is silvery, and it is said when the Maoris planned a night attack, they would lay a pathway of these ferns in the bush, to guide them to the enemy’s pah—certain it is, at night a broken frond on one’s track is easily visible. Dicksonia, slenderer than these last, and with longer fronds, grew in groups, all in their first freshness of summer—the central fronds still curved inwards like a coronet of huge, brown caterpillars. But what use to try to write of the wealth of fern-life in the forest? It is ​scattered broadcast with so lavish a hand, clothing and re-clothing the living and the dead, one must wander away into the heart of this green Westland to realize it. Sometimes the path skirted deep ravines where we heard the river far below, but saw it not for the trees. Waterfalls came leaping down the mountain sides, scattering their spray over the nodding foliage. It was not altogether an easy path, and there were places where the waterfalls had eaten great holes, tumbling the stones in heaps at the bottom—where one trusted the horses to find a way through, rather than tried to guide them.
There was much red pine or rimu in this bush, one of the most magnificent and valuable of the forest trees. High in the forks of the various pines—eighty or a hundred feet perhaps above us—hung great masses of ghee-ghee with sword-like leaves, three or four feet long, of a light green colour. From the centre springs a silky panicle of sweet, creamy or purplish blossoms, several feet in length, not unlike that of a cabbage tree. This is followed later by beautiful sprays of berries, red, yellow, and green, intermingled. It has a curious capacity for collecting and retaining water—not needed, one might imagine, in this damp forest, but pointing to its origin in drier lands. It is an epiphytic plant, native to Australia, Tasmania, and the Pacific Islands, but six of the species are peculiar to New Zealand. And this ​tropical-looking plant is a lily, which has adopted this method of getting the necessary amount of light and air. Plants like these, together with the lianes which closely resemble those of Chili, give that strangely tropical look to the bush, which, after all, grows in a temperate climate.
There was always that upper-world of utterly unfamiliar forms calling to one as one rode. All sorts of parasites, climbers innumerable, struggling for existence among the stately pines—sometimes one of these would be so clothed with ferns and other guests, it was impossible, at first sight, to recognize the original tree. And the pines themselves are a constant puzzle to the stranger, and one seeks in vain for the familiar forms called to mind by the name. There is the totara with foliage of a brownish hue and stiff, pointed leaves; from single logs of this tree the Maoris hollowed their war canoes, seventy feet in length; and so highly prized were large trees, that they became heirlooms and even led to tribal wars. The miro is a different looking tree altogether, with larger leaves, set in two rows on the branches; its red fruit, as large as a small plum, is beloved of the bush-pigeons. They grow so fat and lazy on it, they will hardly fly away in the remote solitudes where they have not learnt to fear a gun. Sometimes the foliage resembles the yew as in the matai (black pine), or it is merely scales as in the ​kahikatea (white pine), or as in the rimu, clothing trunk and branches alike with what are no more than light green prickles, growing round them in spirals. Only a few pines bear anything resembling a cone. In the case of the red pine its fruit is a fleshy, acorn-like cup, brilliantly red with a blue-black seed embedded in it; in the black pine it is a small-black plum with one seed; while the white pine carries its blue-black seed outside on the tip of a bright crimson berry. They are all very pretty, and a few are eaten by the Maoris, but they tasted too much of turpentine for our palates.
Melanesian species are largely represented, so again are Australian and Tasmanian, and many a tree and plant has its nearest relatives in South American forests, or the lonely islands of the Southern Pacific.
For a long time we had been ascending, and must have reached a height of a couple of thousand feet; and now the view below us gradually unfolded. Hill beyond hill, the forest undulated away to the foot of stately, snow-clad mountains, whose domes and peaks glittered in the sunshine. We knew the Fox glacier came down there from the ice-fields between Mount Haidinger and the Haast Peak, with the Douglas Peak (10,107 feet) lying to the north, but we could not see it. The plain spread out below us for thirty miles, dotted with clearings—blue streams from the glacier wandering through it. There was the Cook river, which gives its name to the flat. The view was bounded far away by more tree-clad hills and unopened country, and the wide river-bed of the Karangarua lay at its further side.
It was a fertile, beautiful land, lying spread out at our feet.
Transome was a long way ahead, for I could not hurry: I wanted to look and had dismounted for ​the long descent to the plain. It was the hottest part of the day too, and Tom and I were leisurely coming along the narrow path when I heard a delightful whistling. I was quite prepared to welcome any new and beautiful sight or sound, and looked all round for the bird. Still the whistling came nearer, and turning, I saw behind me a young man in shirt-sleeves and bare legs, wheeling a bicycle. I was so astonished at the sight, I stared in amazement, and drew Tom in close to the bank to let him pass. But my whistling bird stopped, and greeting me in friendly fashion, announced he had something for me. He drew out a little packet from his breast, saying I had left it behind at the Waitaha, and he had been on our tracks ever since—I was glad to find not specially to restore my property! I asked him what he was doing with a bicycle in such a country, and how he got through the rivers. He laughed, and said he carried it on his shoulders, or a friend might lend him a horse when the fords were deep. “It’s a sight quicker than walking, and there’s a wonderful lot of the track you can ride.”
Then he disappeared down among the trees. I followed and found Transome near a very rough torrent-bed, where the water plunged across the way in noisy cataracts. My “bird” had just got over safely, with his bicycle held aloft—and we both agreed we preferred a horse.
Presently a road took the place of the track, and led us out on to the plain, and up to the ​Williams’s pleasant farmstead. Beautiful grasslands cleared of bush, and tenanted by sleek Herefords; enclosures with gates, and fine horses knee-deep in lush grass, gave an air of prosperity. Yet, sixteen years before, this was virgin forest. There were seventy calves in a big paddock near the house—for this was, perhaps, the best cattle-farm on the Coast. The owner came to meet us, and he and his wife gave us the usual hearty welcome, and the children soon made friends. There being seven, a beneficent Government regards them as a school and allows a teacher, and a wooden shed erected in the yard represented the school-buildings. However, it was holiday time just then. My hostess was kindness itself. She often made me laugh, telling me of the shifts she was put to in this outlying corner. Some time back she had sent to Hokitika for a new outfit of glass and china. Two pack-horses carried the crates by the very road we had come, and all went well apparently till close to home, when the horses crowded each other in their haste—the packs collided, and to the dismay of the waiting mistress, when the crates were opened her wares “All ran out on the ground like water,” as she described it, and since then there had been no opportunity to get more.
That same afternoon my whistling gentleman offered to conduct us to the glacier. He armed himself with a hatchet, borrowed a horse, and we set out.
​Some six miles off was a hut where we left the horses. We warned him of the Scorpion’s straying propensities, as he fixed up some very shaky slip-rails, but he assured us his horse would stand all day, and one would not stray without the others, so we left them. We soon found he knew no more than we did about the glacier, and we got into some strange places, and I was hauled up, and let down, and helped over many difficulties, amid much laughing. However, we did at length get on to the main body of the ice, and continued till we could see the Victoria on the left, only separated by a black wall of rock (behind which it has shrunk) and the Fox branching to the right. The whole surface hereabouts was much easier than the Franz Josef, and we did not need the hatchet at all. As at the Waiho, the gorge is filled by the ice, and the mountains are clothed with vegetation to the snow-line. I think its surroundings are grander than the Franz Josef: the mountains run up in jagged peaks and domes of snow, and one gets a better view of them from below, not being so closed-in by the mountain walls of the gorge.
“You’re not the first lady has gone south,” they said, “but they none of them get further than the Karangarua; you’ll never get through! We’ll see you back before the week’s out!” But I waved them a gay farewell: “I’m going into the Haast whatever befall, and you won’t see me back this year; but I’ll come and see you again.” And so we rode out over Cook’s Flat to the Karangarua river. ​Here there is an accommodation-house, and we stayed for lunch, and then some of the men convoyed us across the stony desert of the Karangarua. It is two or three miles across, one of the worst rivers when it is in flood, but that day we rode safely through its many streams. We could see the purple mouth of the gorge whence it issued, and the men told us there are several boiling springs up it, rarely seen by any but the Coasters. The high mountains were cloaked in mist; gorges and foot-hills were cut off by a level band of cloud; nothing to be seen but grey stones near hand, and distant purplish forest afar, under the soft, billowy mist. Later it cleared, and about five o’clock we were riding down to a lovely still ford, lying blue and fair in the sunshine. Long reaches of quiet water stretched under over-hanging trees, leading the eye up to distant blue mountains, across which lay the last wreaths of silvery cloud. Beyond the ford the land was cleared, and a few small settlements were dotted about. Truly a peaceful, lovely spot. I believe that it is the only quiet ford in South Westland—and we splashed through carelessly; and as I rode up to a wide, low house, I wondered why on earth we had arranged to go nine miles farther, when here was such a haven for the weary!
We waited till they came up to us—clattering the stones to right and left in their wild career. They drew rein with friendly greetings, telling us they had been to meet us by a new track, cut lately through the bush, and finding we had passed it unseen, had galloped to the river-bed to ​find us. It was a great relief to be thus taken in charge, and extricated from the river-bed! They led us through many ups and downs of rough ground on the edge of the bush to the homestead, where, they assured us, we had been expected all the evening, and here we were met with right hearty greeting by Mr. Condon.
* ↑ Trichomancs reniforme.
* ↑ Gleichenia Cunninghamii.
* ↑ Todea superba.
* ↑ Dacrydium cupressinum.
* ↑ Astelia Cunninghamii.
* ↑ Podocarpus totara.
* ↑ Podocarpus ferruginea.
* ↑ Podocarpus spictatus.
* ↑ P. dacrydioides.
* ↑ Sophora tetraptera.
* ↑ Pseudo-panax crassifolium.