Rambles on the Golden Coast of New Zealand/Chapter 13
WESTPORT TO NELSON OVERLAND.
CHAPTER XIII.
RAVELLING from Westport to Nelson overland now-a-days is a very different thing to what it was fifteen years ago. During that time the tracks and roads, and means of conveyance have undergone marked changes. Facilities for travel are now provided which were then undreamt of. I remember the first trip made by Antonio Zala, the prospector, to the Lyell, when he discovered the famous Alpine quartz reef. Many a weary journey he and his mates had in that direction before a stamp head or a water right was heard of. Zala is undoubtedly entitled to the credit of discovering and opening up the Lyell reefs. His indomitable perseverance, under the most adverse circumstances, is well deserving of special mention amongst the prospecting pioneers of these parts. When the Lyell township was in its early infancy, and when one or two quartz reefs in that direction were making much talk in the neighbourhood of Westport and Greymouth, a special reporter from the Westport Times was despatched to report upon the richness or poverty of the land, as his fancy or belief might suggest. He scanned the Lyell, the township, the road, and the claims, minutely, and proceeded onwards to Nelson. Some uneasiness was felt for his safe arrival at the latter place, but after an absence of three weeks or so, the first of his notes, or “all that was left of them,” reached the medium through which they were published, and thus his story was narrated.
“Mr Editor,—Permit me to make a few preliminary suggestions. When you again start a special correspondent to the ‘remote interior,’ please not to start him, or to let him start, before you are perfectly assured that he is perfectly ready. In particular, be particular about his boots. See that they are neither too old nor too new. Read the Scriptures on the subject of wine and bottles—which latter were in ancient days made of leather—and be benefited thereby. A disregard for the easiness of his boots will be culpable on your part; and to him the results may be most melancholy, according to the tenderness of his epidermis, or to the extent to which, in the early agricultural periods of his life, he may have cultivated corns. Beginning with his big toe, he may, by some repulsive order of progression—for particulars of which see Darwin—develop into some hideous form of the genus Blister. To the grief of his friends, his enterprise, like others of more pith and moment, may turn awry, and he, in temper, may turn exceedingly nasty. Were it not that you might mistake it for a play upon words, and might believe that I said it not in all seriousness, I should say that, minus good boots, his mission might prove altogether bootless.
“For a few days before he starts, feed him moderately, but well. Let him eschew colonial beer in quantity, and entice him not to partake of that which, in infinitesimal doses, is infamous in quality. On the morning of his departure, study his appetite as gaolers and gaol chaplains do study the appetites of distinguished but doomed criminals. Let not his breakfast consist solely, as mine did, of soda-water. See that he had not previously supped solely on sixpenny cigars worth nothing, and colonial-made cognac worth a great deal less. Weep with him, if you will, but wine not. Let him ‘do his spiriting gently.’ As his mission involves questions of muscle and lungs, let him have a short course of reading relative to Harris and Hewitt, and give him a round with the gloves; they are admirable substitutes for the stethoscope. Speak to him like a Polonius and act to him like a father. Put a ten or twenty pound note into his pocket, and present him with a spare pair of socks for his poor feet. Kiss your favourite bar-maid ‘for his mother.’ Accept his paper collar as a token of his regard and of his temporary abandonment of all the amenities of civilisation. And having departed him-which is an American neologism made at the Lyell-measure not his miles by the map or the distance-table of the almanacs, for there be hills and bogs, and things too numerous to mention, which, as you sit at home at ease, enjoying the cud or the ‘kids’ of domestic bliss, are not dreamt of in your philosophy. Have great faith as to the contemptible quantity of correspondence which you will receive, and verily you shall not be disappointed. Believe, as I tell you, that he that expecteth nothing will receive lots of it.
“These are a few ridiculous reflections which came into your humble servant’s head as the mass of adipose tissue extending therefrom to his sadly fatigued feet lay stretched upon a sofa in Sloan’s hotel, Lyell township, after four days of the hardest walking that the said feet had undertaken for a long time before. I hope they satisfy you. They were intended as the beginning of a series of moral reflections, more or less ridiculous, which were certain to suggest themselves during a solitary and weary walk from Westport to Nelson. They were inserted in my note-book, as a sort of sherry-and-bitters for you, before you should have to partake of the heavy diet of practical observations on reefing which I had prepared for you during a two days’ visit to the Alpine Reef, up the Lyell; and they were succeeded by many more notes of an equally discursive character which you might have taken as cheese to this diet of practical observations, or as any other condiment which you may be in the habit of patronising. Unfortunately for you, Sir, a misadventure overtook these notes and your most humble and contrite servant. They came to a premature but probably a deserved end. They were sacrificed at the shrine of Necessity. They were made the material of a burnt-offering to the human instinct of Self-Preservation. Gushing descriptions of scenery which almost exhausted the dictionary of its adjectives-records of administrative remissness the possession of which might have made my life unsafe at the hands of the Nelson Executive-a nautical log of soundings taken during the voyage on the Buller road-memoranda of many things most worthless, no doubt-all these, with the paper which contained them, were made matches of, in the unfortunate absence of a sufficient supply of the article from Bell & Black.
To speak less figuratively, Jack Doherty and I and two horses got both bogged and bushed up the Matakitaki River one dark and rainy night. He is a little fellow, but ‘game,’ and knows a bullock. But he doesn’t know, any more than I do, where to find six-to-the pound candles in the bush, these luxuries not being available, like manna, in the desert; so he and I burnt all the pocketsful of papers we had about us, first to get out of the bog and then to prevent our Rosinantes and ourselves from falling over precipices which do there abound. It was a discovery also that a little bit of burning paper added picturesqueness, if not cheerfulness, to the scene as we sat, smiling at our own grief, in the midst of mud and water, with saddles over our heads as a slight substitute for the shelter shed which the Government had failed to provide at that particular spot. The reporter’s best assistant—his note-book—had to be burnt with the rest, and, memory being a treacherous and lazy servant, it is compulsory on me to compromise with you by sending, meantime, some notes relative to the Lyell reef only, for these I preserved. At another time you may get some memoranda of the surroundings of the sources of the Buller, of the circumstances under which they were seen, and of the remarkable places and people which are to be encountered in a journey overland. You may.
“The Lyell is not a river. It is a creek—a little creek. By the miner it would be estimated, during ordinary circumstances, as containing just a few Government heads of water. By your correspondent it was estimated as just being big enough, in one or two places near the township, to afford a comfortable, if somewhat cold bath of a morning. But when the rain falls, as it can fall sometimes in these parts, the peculiarities of the country through which the Lyell runs assist the rain in converting it into a roaring mountain torrent compared with which even the rush of water in the Buller seems subdued. Running in a narrow course by the foot of high hills, and stemmed by the Buller, it often rises 40 ft., and roars in proportion. Its outlet is narrowed by a steep rocky spur, which is most precipitous on the side next the Buller. On the creek side of the spur there is some slightly sloping ground, and upon this slope is built the small township of the Lyell. The township, as seen from the ferryhouse on the opposite bank of the Buller, consists solely of Sloan’s hotel, and Sloan’s hotel is a little snuggery such as you do not see or enter, either before or after, during the whole journey from Westport, until you reach the order and civilisation of the Nelson side, first represented at the head of the Motueka Valley by Mr M‘Farlane, his house, and his probably significant signboard ‘Let Glasgow Flourish.’ Built of galvanised iron, and situated on the summit of the spur, Sloan’s small house is prominent, and, amid the sombre surroundings of dark green bush, rather pretty. But it does not constitute the entire township. When you have been ferried across the Buller by Joe Sullivan—a competent boatman of continental birth and of unpronounceable name, which his wife and friends have thus abbreviated, regardless of the feelings of his mother and his country—you ascend a steep sideling, and enter the township proper. Excuse for a few sentences the language of the showman. You see before you the main street of the town. It is at least thirty paces in length. To the right you behold the store formerly kept by Mr Florian Adank, and now in charge .jpg)
“One’s first instinct, after refreshment, is to inquire of the landlord how far it is to the reef, and in what direction lies the road thereto. He takes the anxious inquirer to the gable of his house, and points to a series of spurs or mountain sides which form the western watershed of the Lyell Creek. He points to the biggest and most distant of these, and indicates a spot somewhat near the clouds as the probable height to be attained and the distance to be overcome. He subdues one’s exaggerated notions as to the distance by stating that it is only two miles and nine chains; but be not deceived thereby. No doubt he may be literally and actually accurate, for he measured the track by tape, but consider always the difference between walking two miles up a ladder and walking the same distance on a horizontal plane. After an intimate acquaintance with the road, I venture to say that any of your readers would, for the same money, prefer to walk six miles of decent road than climb these two. I speak from experience. ‘If any one doubts my word,’ let him go and do likewise. How men can, for month after month wearied with working all the week, and with hope deferred making the heart sick, carry back burdens of mining materials and provisions over these hills as a species of Sabbath rest, must be incomprehensible to any one who has not read and believed that ‘by faith you may remove mountains.’
“I started with little Willy Sloan, the host’s son, as the best available Alpine guide. In charge of this noble young person, I went on my way to the reef. For the first half mile or more, the track is on the right-hand side of the Lyell, going up, and it is a fair sideling till you reach a low spur formed by a sharply dipping reef of slaty rock. This is in the vicinity of a place known as the ‘Maori bar,’ where rich pockets of gold were picked in times gone by. I cross the creek by a log which spans the stream, and the intelligent guide introduces me to what he indicates to be the continuation of the track. It seems to be standing on its end, with a slight tendency to overhang, but it has to be mounted, if the journey is to be made, and ultimately it is accomplished, after a free use of lungs and language. The existing difficulty of this portion of the track could, however, be easily overcome, by the construction of zig-zag sidelings—provided always that this is the route which the engineers would select. Having ascended the spur we follow a narrow table-land till we reach a sideling on the shady side of the range. The sideling becomes steeper and softer, and we became weary and wet, but we are gratified by occasional glimpses of the wide expanse of Manuka Flat—once a grand old lake—and of the row of ranges which form a magnificent outline on its eastern side. We are scarcely less gratified by hearing the barking of a quadruped, whose voice my friend Young William recognises as that of ‘Davie’s dog,’ and in a few minutes we are made grateful by a hospitable invitation from Davie himself and from his mate, Tom Blair, who pipe a duet from their hut, some distance below, in the welcome words ‘Come down and have something to eat.’ Tom and Davie are the representatives of the holders of claim No. 2 South, and they had just finished the clearing of the ground, the construction of their hut, and the driving of the first few feet of their tunnel.
“We eat. And on this subject let me say something. Mutton, preceded by potato soup and followed by tea and a few whiffs of twist, is, no doubt, delectable diet. But every rose has its thorn. And the metaphorical thorn in this case is the consideration that all this ‘tucker’ has to be borne on the backs of men along the track over which we had just succeeded, with difficulty, in dragging our poor bodies, more in the condition of a mass of perspiring pulp than in the proper semblance of the noble human frame. For the two days I was on the ground, I was the recipient of the hospitality of the prospectors, and owe them an apology for the shocking appetite which I exhibited. Like Macbeth, when the words of prayer hung upon his lips, I should have been conscience-stricken, and apostrophising a potato, have ordered it to stick in my throat rather than be swallowed after the sweat of other brows. However, they owe your correspondent an apology also for encouraging him to drink so much tea at unseasonable hours, thereby disturbing his natural rest, and leading him into flights of imagination, the very mildest of which was, that he was Aladdin, and that their tunnel was the golden cave. But, seriously, if visitors to the reefs become numerous, they should also, from the considerations which I have mentioned, become their own providores.”
The metaphorical mantle of honour and responsibility which Master Willy Sloan had so manfully worn as the correspondent’s guide to the reefs, was next day transferred to the more aged shoulders of Albert, the Swiss, who became his courteous cicerone, and one of his hospitable hosts for the following twenty-four hours. Albert was an old acquaintance, and a year before had been encountered as an enthusiastic exponent of the attributes of the Lyell, in regard to the formation of “specimen gold,” and as a prophet of the now proved fact that a rich reef would some day be discovered there. Albert and he went thoroughly over the ground, picking and shoveling surface quartz, and into tunnels, sniffing their strong sulphury atmosphere, and ogling the stone where gold and mundic were visible. The observations then made by the correspondent in detail need not be here published, nor will I ask my readers at this date to follow him through the prospectors’ claim, or the claims then known as Nos. 1 and 2 South and North, as the names and the descriptions of each are long since changed. In place of being held by private parties, they are nearly all since formed into large mining companies under the Mines Act, the shareholders in which have witnessed many fluctuations, to their individual loss or profit, as luck directed. Neither will I ask my readers to plod over the ground from the Lyell to Nelson, as was accomplished in those days only by wearied and long-suffering pedestrians. Suffice it to say, our “special,” after much endurance, extending over a period, as far as memory serves, of ten days, reached his destination, Nelson, where he subsequently took part in the doings of the Provincial Council as the representative of the Buller constituency.
I have chosen rather to furnish some later particulars of the road between the Lyell and Nelson, in order that travellers taking the journey now-a-days may be acquainted with the stages, distances, and accommodation to be met with on the way. With this object I now append an account, kindly given me by Mr Moynihan, solicitor, of Westport, of a journey recently made by him on horseback, making the starting point that at which I have left off—the Lyell.
Having been put up very comfortably at the Empire Hotel, Lyell, we pursue our journey to Nelson along the left-hand side of the Buller River. The road here is cut out of the side of the hill, and immediately below him the traveller beholds the surging waters of the largest river on the West Coast of this island. Our horses instinctively seem to know the result of a false step or a capsize over the side. No signs of cultivation appear on the surface of the wild and mountainous country along this road to Fern Flat. Nevertheless there is that which will amply repay the traveller for undertaking such a journey, the surrounding scenery being grand and imposing in the extreme. The noble Buller may be seen careering fiercely and madly on its onward course, to be merged in the South Pacific, such force being caused by its narrowness, and the heavy volume of water swollen by many a mountain torrent. But as it becomes wider, so it becomes more tranquil, forming a complete contrast to its previous state. Higher up, the traveller’s eye is arrested by the most beautiful waterfalls which imagination can conceive, falls which would delight a Turner or a Gully, and worthy of their strongest efforts. Some of them are 150 ft. high. The upper falls form almost a regular and beautiful staircase, as from step to step the water rushes on, a sight to be remembered. If the traveller hath music in his soul, he cannot fail to be impressed with the singing of the various native birds abounding in the neighbouring bush, happy in their liberty, warbling forth their morning praise to the great Creator. Going from the Lyell to Fern Flat, a distance of eighteen miles, there are very few places of human habitation; about seven miles from the Lyell there is an accommodation house kept by one Carter. Opposite, on the right-hand side, most of the digging operations are carried on, principally as the water can be more easily obtained, and we suppose the gold is perhaps a little more plentiful. Arrived on the top of a small hill, about seventeen and a half miles from the Lyell, we are relieved by the prospect which now is about to open before us. In a few minutes the houses and green fields—so pleasing to the eye, wearied by the monotony of the bleak mountain view— indicate that we are once more amongst civilisation and cultivation. We find ourselves in Fern Flat, and it may be curious to note that the very thing which it took its name from, viz., fern, has now altogether disappeared before the hand of the husbandman. Here there are two accommodation houses, one kept by O’Loughlin, recently tenanted by the well-known Alf Smith, the other by S. Oxnam, which has been established ever since the settlement of the locality. There is some excellent agricultural and pastoral land in this district, which supplies the settlers with sufficient sustaining elements. It was somewhat surprising, in this out-of-the-way place, to notice a neat and well laid out race-course. They have their yearly carnival, occupying two days, during Christmas. The wild men (as they are called) from Matakitaki, and all the miners about, roll in to the sport, and frail mortals finish up the jollification poorer but wiser men. Having enjoyed themselves, they go away, and work contentedly for another year. About five miles from the race-course, or eight miles from Fern Flat, the Long-Ford, or the crossing of the Buller River, is reached. Here you leave the Nelson road to the left, and cross the river to go to Glenroy and Matakitaki, so called from the width and shallowness of the river at this point. Just before arriving at the Long-Ford, going from the Lyell to Nelson, there is a narrow bridle track cut leading from the right-hand side of the road towards the river. By following this track for about three-quarters of a mile, a Telegraph Office is reached, situated cosily in the middle of the bush. This office is of much benefit to travellers along the road. To arrive on the Nelson road again one need not return to the bridle track, but in front of the Telegraph Office is a road, which, after following for about a quarter of a mile, brings you on the main line.
Keeping the Buller River to the right, the road being very fair for travelling, the scene is unchanged until you arrive at the Owen River, a tributary of the Buller, ten miles from Long-Ford. This is crossed by means of a well-constructed and substantial bridge. There is a small temperance accommodation house kept by John Oxnam. The country about is somewhat unbroken. Around the homestead, Oxnam has some very good land laid down in English grass and clover.
About nine miles from the Owen, the half-way halting place for stage coaches between the Lyell and Nelson is reached, called the Hope Junction Hotel. This is really the most comfortable resting place on the whole route. The coach leaves here about 5 a.m., so as to arrive at Belgrove in time to catch the mid-day train, which reaches Nelson at 2.30 p.m., on Wednesdays and Saturdays. About two miles from the Hope Junction Hotel, you lose the Buller River to the right, where, about twelve miles back, it takes its rise in Lakes Roti-iti and Rotorua, near Kerr’s Station. From the Nelson road to the lakes there is a very good track, and many of the Nelson residents at Christmas time leave the busy life of Sleepy Hollow for a few days’ vacation at Kerr’s Station, where fishing, pig hunting, and other sports are indulged in.
The country along the road from the latter hotel is of an undulating nature. Small creeks, beautiful and clear, meander along here and there. In the sides are marks of old camping grounds, where the weary and footsore travellers drank and slumbered. Now and then a stray bullock is seen, but beyond this, and the birds of the bush merrily singing, very little life is discernible. The road now becomes good and level. Six miles from the Hope Junction Hotel, the Hope River is crossed, and, ten miles further on, we reach the base of a high range where the houses of a few cockatoo settlers are situated. The traveller now begins to ascend this range, which winds about in the most tiresome and fantastic manner. The road to the summit is very long, but not steep. On the opposite side the descent is of a corresponding nature, but, owing to the greater and thicker growth of bush, is more sheltered. When the summit is reached a good view of the surrounding wild and romantic country is obtainable. Very little clear ground is visible, and in looking backwards towards the road recently trodden, nothing is seen except bush-clad hills and valleys. On a warm day, the journey down the range is very pleasant, the delicious coolness caused by the dense bush preventing old Sol’s scorching rays from falling too hotly on the devoted head of the traveller. Bounteous nature has been also profuse in her beauteous gifts. On the left a beautiful little stream glides calmly and peaceably by, seemingly enjoying itself in its onward course. In its bed you can discern sands of various colours, and on its bank ferns of different species, and plants and leaves of various textures. Three miles further on, that is twelve miles from the foot of the Hope Saddle, brings you to the Motupiko Valley Accommodation House, the proprietor being Mr Fogden, formerly of Nelson. Six miles from this, the Motueka River is reached. There are two accommodation houses here—Hopgood’s on the coast side, and Bramall’s on the Nelson side, of the river. After leaving Bramall’s we continue our journey along a good hard road; on the left are portions of Spooner Range, covered with fern, and on the right, green pastoral fields. Travelling on a few miles we reach the foot of Spooner Range, the ascent and descent of which are somewhat similar to those of the Hope Saddle, but as regards bush or scenery, there is absolutely none, with the exception of the tall fern and a streamlet here and there. On reaching the summit, the scenery is really magnificent. Below is seen the charming valley of the Waimeas, Wakefield, etc. The Port Hills, which are the only obstruction preventing a sight of Nelson itself. The high mountains of Collingwood, Takaka, and Motueka to the left, Blind Bay in the centre, and away in the distance that intricate but romantic passage, the French Pass, can be clearly seen. At the foot of the Spooner Range the first real settlement is reached, viz., Belgrove, the present terminus of the Nelson railway. Twenty-two miles from this by railway, brings us into Nelson. Passing on our way, Fox Hill, Upper and Lower Wakefield, Spring Grove, Brightwater, Hope, Richmond, the latter place being Nelson’s largest inland town, and rapid strides towards its further development are being made by its pushing and enterprising inhabitants each year. After leaving Richmond, the next station is Stoke, one of the prettiest little spots in New Zealand. Four miles further on Nelson is reached. And there ends a long but pleasant journey, which in the early days of the West Coast frequently entailed a month’s labour, but which now can be accomplished in a couple or three days, but which, let us hope, will yet, and before many years, be ridden over by the iron horse daily.