Campbell arrived, having been delayed by one of his horses being bogged in the snow.
In the morning, again, as early a start as possible. Fresh horses; Rowntree, the driver, myself, with a packhorse. Snow had fallen in the night, but the sun was out, with the promise of a fine day. Going carefully, in single file, myself last, suddenly Rowntree fell headlong in a drift, all that was visible of him being a pair of legs. We decided to walk and lead. A bitter wind sprang up, driving frozen particles of snow before it, coating us and the horses with ice. We had but twelve miles before us to the next hotel, but including Porter's Pass, nearly as high as the Otira, though not nearly such rough country. As we neared Lake Lyndon, the highest lake in Canterbury, a fine sheet of water, completely frozen over, we saw in the distance five figures approaching, wading through the the snow, with long-handled shovels testing its depth, T. McKay, who has charge of the pass, keeping it in good order for coach traffic, with four of his men.
"Glad we've found you; there's a lot of fresh snow on the pass; all our tracks filled up again. Hearing by wire you had started, I said to the men, 'Who will volunteer to go and meet them? if they tackle the pass alone they'll leave their bones in the snow.' Twelve came forward, but before we topped the Pass all but these four turned back. We only just managed it, and there's nothing for it but to try and get back; but—'twill be a meracle if we do."
Scarcely encouraging! We started with them, the leader prodding the snow for soft places, often more than knee deep; the labour of lifting one's legs was such that we were sweating within, whilst the outer
