The cause of glaciers—Formation and structure—Motion—Moraines: Lateral, medial, and terminal—‘Surface’ moraines—Crevasses—Moulins—Glacier cones—Glacier tables—Surface torrents—Avalanches—Cornices
In a work of this nature it may not be out of place to briefly describe some of those interesting features and phenomena which accompany the world above the snow-line.
Here is a quotation from a recent review of Professor Heim’s work[2] by a prominent member of the English Alpine Club:—
‘Some thirty years ago a systematic résumé of all that was known up to that date about existing glaciers appeared in the work of Professor Albert Mousson, “Die Gletscher der Jetztzeit,” since which, with perhaps the exception of Major Hüber’s “Les Glaciers,” no attempt has been made to collect into a focus the light which numerous able observers and theorists have subsequently thrown upon the question. The intricacy of the problem has, indeed, increased almost in proportion to our enlarged knowledge of its conditions; and in spite of the labours of a large and very distinguished body of investigators, not only do many important points remain matters of dispute, but the very materials for a complete solution are still wanting.’
[2] Handbuch der Gletscherkunde, von Dr. Albert Heim, Zürich (Stuttgart: Verlag von J. Engelhorn, 1885, 18 francs.)
CAUSE OF GLACIERS
The joint cause of glaciers is precipitation and cold. A low temperature alone can do nothing without moisture, and this fact quickly disposes of the popular notion that glaciers invariably exist in cold countries. Thibet, for instance, and also some parts of Arctic North America are destitute of ice streams, though eternal cold may be said to reign supreme in these parts.
Imagine for a moment the higher mountains clear of snow and ice, and then watch for the formation of a glacier. Snow falls and fills up all the valleys and gullies, avalanches descend from the higher parts, and a great accumulation gathers in all hollows. By constant repetition of snow-falls (always provided a greater quantity is deposited than can be melted by the sun’s rays and by the natural warmth of the earth’s crust) great pressure is put upon the lower portions by the superincumbent accumulation, and aided by the infiltration of water and refreezing (or ‘regelation’ as the correct term is), a large body of ice is formed which at once begins to move down the valleys containing it.
GLACIER ICE
Glacier ice is not like the solid blue ice on the surface of water, but consists of granules joined together by an intricate network of capillary water-filled fissures.
In exposed sections and upon the surface of the ice can be observed a ‘veined’ or ‘banded’ structure—veins of a denser blue colour alternating with those of a lighter shade containing air bubbles.
The cause of this peculiar structure has been the subject of much theorising amongst investigators, but hitherto I believe the greatest authorities consider that the explanation of the phenomenon is yet wanting.
GLACIER MOTION
The motion of glaciers is yet another bone of contention, but it is generally admitted that the cause of it is to be found mainly in gravitation, and is also partially accounted for by the strange property of ‘viscosity’ in what appears to the casual observer to be nothing more or less than a rigid solid.
Recently observations for ascertaining the rate of progress of the Tasman, Murchison, Hooker, and Mueller Glaciers have been made by the New Zealand Government Survey Department. Some of the results were embodied in a paper by Mr. J. H. Baker, the Chief Surveyor of the Provincial District of Canterbury, and will appear in the ‘Transactions of the Australasian Association for the Advancement of Science’ for 1891. At the late meeting of that body a committee was appointed to further these investigations, and a sum of 25l. voted for the aid of the same.
Before long, therefore, there will be put before the scientific public reliable measurements of the motion of several of the largest and least-known glaciers in temperate regions.
MORAINES
There is a remarkable feature of the glaciers of this country which stamps them as unique in one respect—I refer to the very extensive moraines. I write feelingly of this, for my acquaintance with them has been a very close one, and they have impressed me very deeply—in more ways than one.
The large glaciers of which I have written in this work are completely moraine-covered over their lower parts.
‘SURFACE’ MORAINES
Moraines may be divided into four sections: ‘Lateral’ moraines, fringing the sides of the glaciers, their outlying portions often being ‘dead’—that is, at present unmoved by the action of the ice, and forming banks, as it were, for the ice stream to flow between; ‘medial’ moraines, which begin at the junction of two streams of ice and often continue for many miles to the terminal face; ‘terminal’ moraines, formed by the depositing of detritus at the melting point or end of the glacier; and, lastly, ‘surface’ moraines (so called by Professor Hutton of Christchurch, N.Z.), which are the combined accumulations of the first two divisions in the lower parts of the glacier.
It is these ‘surface’ moraines that are such a characteristic feature of the glaciers situate on the eastern side of the chain in New Zealand. Of those on the western side I am not able to speak with authority, never having visited them myself; but I understand that they do not carry such a large quantity of detritus as those of the eastern slopes.
This disparity remains to be accounted for and awaits an explanation. I have a theory of my own upon the subject, which, however, as yet I would not like to put too strongly forward.
On both sides of Mount Cook, on Mount De la Bêche (ten miles further along the chain), and on a peak just north of the Hochstetter Dome (ten miles still further north) I have observed enormous exposed sections of the rock strata, which in each case dip at a steep angle from east to west, presenting slab faces, not easily disturbed by the action of the frost, to the westward, but broken and fast denuding faces (‘basset’ faces, as they are geologically termed) to the eastward. I am hoping at some future time to further investigate this interesting subject.
As the western glaciers, however, must descend steeper valleys than the eastern, I make no doubt that their rate of progress will be eventually ascertained to be greater than that of the latter, and this would militate largely against an accumulation of moraine upon the ice.
THE SURFACE OF A GLACIER
All sorts of queer notions as to what the surface of a glacier is like exist. Indeed I have often heard people inquire if it would be possible to skate upon it!
Let us for a moment imagine ourselves at the head of the great Tasman Glacier, 8,600 feet above sea-level. All around us is snow, either freshly fallen or merging into névé. We begin to walk down, and at first, upon the steeper slopes, cross a few large crevasses and bergschrunds by means of snow bridges; then, as the incline becomes less steep, we walk for six miles or so upon a smooth surface of névé, or perchance knee-deep in fresh snow, and scarcely a crevasse exists. At the beginning of the great turn we gradually leave the névé and find ourselves upon hard, white ice, and soon transverse crevasses appear; these are a little further on cut by longitudinal crevasses forming the surface into huge squares, not flat on the top, but hummocky. A perfect network of crevasses cuts up the whole of the surface, but those parts on the outside of the curve are infinitely more disturbed than those on the inside, owing to the tension put upon them by the faster rate at which they have to move. After rounding the turn the glacier again consolidates and few crevasses appear, only the surface is covered with old wounds—if I may coin such a term—from the rents which have occurred at the turn, and presents a very undulating appearance. The little gullies are formed into watercourses and intersect the glacier in all directions. On our right, now, is the medial moraine formed by detritus from Mount De la Bêche, brought down partly by the Tasman and partly by the Rudolf Glaciers, and it stands up 100 feet or so above the surface of the clear ice on either side of it, owing to the protection from the sun’s rays afforded by it to the ice beneath, so preventing ‘ablation’ or waste going on so quickly. We follow down for another four or five miles, and then cross this moraine (which has in the meantime joined that on the northern side of the Hochstetter Glacier) on to the Hochstetter on our right.
SURFACE TORRENTS AND MOULINS
We are now immediately below the great ice-fall, and the surface of the glacier presents an appearance not unlike the back of some enormous caterpillar wrinkled transversely by crevasses, which close up as we proceed downwards, and furrowed longitudinally by two large or main watercourses whose icy banks are in places 100 feet above their respective torrents. These two small rivers are fed from every direction by minor watercourses, and a mile or two further down discharge all their contents into crevasses and moulins, or water-shafts in the ice.
GLACIER TABLES AND CONES—THE ACTION OF WARMTH
The locality of the glacier on which we now are is very interesting, for Nature’s mills are here seen at work day by day. Glacier tables—blocks of rock perched upon pedestals of ice formed by the protection from the action of the sun’s warmth—are of frequent occurrence. Glacier cones—heaps of sand and small fragments of rock raised by a similar agency (after having been washed to one spot by water)—are in places all around us. Then, strange and contradictory as it may seem, we see thousands of holes, each with a stone at the bottom and filled with the bluest of blue water, formed also in the first place by the rays of the sun warming the stone and causing it to sink in the ice. It is well-known in physics that water at 39° Fahr. is at its heaviest, and as soon as the warm stone—the dark colour of the stone having absorbed more heat than the surrounding ice—begins to sink the warmer water follows it, whilst that in the neighbouring temperature of 32° Fahr. rises to the surface and becomes in its turn re-warmed, and so on. This peculiar current often bores the holes in the ice to a depth of many feet, and is only checked by a preponderance of cold. It is the larger stones, therefore, which rise upon the ice, and the smaller ones which sink.
‘SURFACE’ AND ‘TERMINAL’ MORAINES
We walk on down the ice stream, and soon the moraines on either hand close in upon us and we find ourselves on a mere wedge of ice, at the point of which we step on to the ‘surface’ moraine. Here the swearing begins, and it lasts right on to the terminal face four or five miles below, for it is one continual repetition of walking on loose and tumbling rocks, up one hillock, along a ridge, jumping from
Rock to rock with many a shock,
down another hillock, now and then starting a whole avalanche of many-sided and sharp-edged stones down a treacherous slope of ice, which we take for a surface deeply covered and sound of footing.
Skate on the surface of a glacier?
‘Not much!’ (as the Colonials say).
AVALANCHES
Very strange notions also exist amongst the uninitiated as to the nature of avalanches. The popular idea of an avalanche is derived from heartrending accounts of great sweepings away and annihilation of whole villages, and few of the general run of people seem to realise that in Alpine work almost any little descending mass of rock, snow, or ice is dignified by the name of avalanche. Snow avalanches are most frequent after fresh falls of snow followed immediately by warm weather, and after a little experience amongst the mountains one soon learns to detect their customary tracks. Ice avalanches are mainly caused through the overhanging portion of ice at the terminals of secondary glaciers—that is, glaciers which break off before descending to the valley or to the parent glacier below. The tracks of ice avalanches are almost invariably unmistakable and are swept night and day without cessation, and very frequently at regular intervals.
Rock avalanches are more treacherous, and one never knows when to expect them from above; generally in the early morning the frost holds the stones above in an icy grip, but as the sun melts the ice in the chinks the hold is released and a stone will descend into the couloirs or ditches which scarp the mountain side. If one happens to be below then it is a case of sauve qui peut and a rush for the nearest protection, for there is no saying how many tons, or indeed how many hundreds of tons, of loose rocks or stone may start in a wild and dusty rattle down the hillside.
But some snow avalanches almost crawl down the couloirs, and make a strange and ever-continued hissing as they move. These are composed of heavy and sodden snow, and begin after the sun has been up for some hours, continuing until nightfall. These are not so dangerous on a gentle slope, and one can often waddle or half glissade down in the midst of one with perfect safety, though they make one uncomfortably wet.
CORNICES
Cornices are a frequent source of danger to the mountaineer. They are formed by the snow drifting over one edge of a ridge and forming a hanging mass. It is needless to say that one soon learns to walk some feet away from the outer edge of a cornice, for after poking one’s axe-handle through three feet of snow, and peeping through a blue hole down a precipice of perhaps 1,000 feet or so, it is not difficult to fancy what the result would be should the cornice break.
The Waimakariri—The enormous rainfall—Descent of the Waitaki River—The Tasman branch—Lake Pukaki—Leaky canoes—The Pukaki Rapids—The Waitaki Gorge—Out on the plains again—Sixty miles’ paddle to catch the train—Home once more
Canoeing on the New Zealand rivers is desperately exciting work. On the west coast of the South Island there is a canoe club, whose members build boats in watertight compartments specially suited for the rough journeys which they undertake. Some of these men are adepts at canoe-sailing, and think little of going out to sea in their cockle-shells and even making long coastal journeys. The brothers Park have established quite a reputation by their adventurous journeyings. On one occasion they crossed the South Island with their canoes, towing up the Teramakau River, crossing a saddle of 1,700 feet at its head, descending the Hurunui and then coasting fifty miles down to Christchurch. On another occasion the crossing of Cook Straits was effected by them.
On the eastern side of the island not much canoeing has been done, with the exception of the navigation of two of the largest rivers (the Waimakariri and Waitaki) from their sources to the sea by Mr. Dixon and myself.
I well remember how universal was the outcry against our attempting to descend the Waimakariri in 1889, upon which occasion we conveyed the canoes up to the head waters in the Southern Alps, and came down ninety miles of rapids at a tremendous rate, going through the celebrated gorge fourteen miles in length. Dixon reached Christchurch in one day—a wonderful feat—but I was not able to accomplish more than half the distance, and took two days over it. This involved a descent of 2,550 feet in altitude from the starting point.
In the following year the Waimakariri was again navigated by myself and three other kindred adventurous spirits, when a number of line photographic views of the scenery in the gorge were secured.
The descent of the Waitaki River, however, promised some exciting work, in addition to giving a grand insight into the story of the ancient glacier formation—a subject of great geological interest.
The rainfall in the New Zealand mountain districts is enormously heavy, as much or more than 150 inches per annum being registered in some parts. The rivers consequently carry a phenomenal amount of water for their length, and the calculations as to their discharge give wonderful results. The Clutha River in Otago—the largest river of the South Island—discharges as much water per annum as the Nile! It seems a strange statement to make; but such is the fact, the calculations having been made by competent men.
The day following our return from Aorangi we left the Hermitage at 9 a.m., and by 1 p.m. had begun our exciting journey of 140 miles to the sea.
The Tasman River takes its rise from the Tasman and Murchison Glaciers, and is soon joined by the Hooker, which drains the Hooker and Mueller Glaciers. Its course from Mount Cook to its delta at the head of Lake Pukaki is thirty miles in length, and the fall is considerable, the terminal face of the Tasman Glacier being 2,456 feet above sea-level, whilst the altitude of Lake Pukaki is 1,717 feet. The first mile or two of the journey was marked by several strong rapids, and we could not avoid shipping much water; and, added to this, we soon found that some old cracks in the canoes had opened out through exposure to the sun, although they had been carefully covered over with sacking during our absence in the mountains. This gave us some cause for anxiety, and the discomfort of paddling in boats which were half full of water soon made itself painfully apparent. Indeed, there is nothing more calculated to put a man out of temper with all the world and his surroundings, to goad him to strong language, and to give him an uncomfortable and miserable time generally, than to have to sit for hours in a boat that floats like an unmanageable log, to say nothing of the increase of danger to which he is consequently exposed in some parts of a river such as the Tasman, running, as it does, something approaching ten knots in many places.
I don’t think Dixon and myself are likely to forget the tortures of the four hours which we passed through on reaching the lake. Here the cracks in my boat, which was decidedly the worse of the two, had to be jammed up with handkerchiefs, &c., before we dared to venture on a journey of eight or nine miles to the ferry at the other end of the lake, where is situated the exit of the Pukaki River.
As we scraped over the sandy shallows and pushed off into deep-green water, my heart sank within me at the idea of having to cross the lake in its present rough state (for a strong nor’-wester was blowing) in our frail canoes, which were not built in watertight compartments, and were quite unsuited for the work. Every ten minutes or so I would have to stop paddling and bale for dear life with the lid of the ‘billy,’ and the craft would immediately swing round broadside on to the seas, which seemed to do their best to upset her.
At first we kept edging away for the southern shore, and about half-way down the lake succeeded in getting within reasonable swimming distance, which, to a certain extent, we retained for a short time.
In the distance we could make out the island close to the ferry, with some trees on it, and from our direction there appeared to be but three. My thoughts at once flew back to the island on the Lake of Geneva, which Byron has immortalised in his ‘Prisoner of Chillon,’ and on which poor Bonnivard would gaze with sadness and yearning for freedom and life.
I made sure my hair would be grey, like poor Bonnivard’s, before this lake was crossed; but soon the wind dropped, and we paddled ashore at 9 p.m. close to the hotel and called for brandy and water hot, and seldom was the indulgence more justified.
At Pukaki Ferry we enjoyed a well-earned night’s rest, and on Sunday morning we effected repairs to the leaky canoes, in which operation we received much valuable advice and assistance from Mr. John Gibb, artist, who was spending a few days in sketching at this point. By 1 p.m. we were on board again and looking forward to reaching Rugged Ridges—Mr. W. G. Rutherfurd’s station on the southern bank of the Waitaki—before nightfall. But we little knew what was ahead of us.
A survey of the river from an eminence of the old moraine through which it has formed a channel, revealed, as far as the bends of the stream could be followed, a rushing, seething mass of foam-covered water, with numberless blocks of rock barring the clear passage of the current, and though we shot the first two rapids below the exit from the lake it took us until seven o’clock in the evening to navigate six miles of the river’s course.
It is not easy to describe the wild course of the river in its descent through the enormous ancient moraine deposits, some of which might almost be classed as mountains, and must rear their tops to a height of 1,000 feet above the level of the river. Such an immense body of rushing water, receiving, as it does, the whole of the drainage of the Southern Alps, from the head of the Mueller Glacier to that of the Murchison, necessarily creates great havoc amongst the glacial and fluviatile deposits through which it descends, and, as a matter of course, all the smaller stones are hurried and rolled along to form shingle on the river-beds further down, leaving the larger ones, which alone can stand against the force of the flood. The natural consequence is a stream of the most broken and impetuous character, a stream whose rushing, roaring, and foaming drowns all sounds contiguous to it; rapid after rapid of seemingly tempest-tossed and crested billows, of whirlpools and eddies, of back-waters and heavings into surface currents, and never a still pool to be found anywhere.
Imagine, then, the troubles of two canoeists in navigating this stretch of water. No canoe or boat in the world would have the slightest chance of going through, out in the current, without being smashed into match-wood and its occupants infallibly drowned, for swimming would avail a man nothing in such a place.
All we could do, then, was to keep close to the bank and let our frail boats down by the tow-lines amongst the rocks in the comparatively shallow water. Now shoving them off into a fair stretch and hauling them up short in time to avoid contact with some ugly rock in front, then scrambling along ourselves and coiling our lines as we advanced, clambering over water-worn and slippery rocks, tearing our way through the Wild Irishman scrub, or wading a few steps middle-deep in the turbid water to the points where we had brought our respective canoes up. Then repeating the same performance over again and again, bruising our legs against rocks, slipping down amid the slimy stones, scratching the skin off and receiving numerous thorns from the scrub, wishing we had never been born, lamenting the hardships of our lot, anathematising canoes, ropes, paddles, river, rocks, scrub, and everything in creation.
No, that seven miles journey was not all that could be desired; but having put our hands to the plough, we both made up our minds that we would go through with the undertaking, even if we had to repeat the same performance down to the sea every day for a week, and the worse the river got the more pig-headed we became. We had beaten Mount Cook, and we meant also to gain a victory over the Pukaki and Waitaki, if it cost us our life-blood. At some places where a number of large rocks were congregated close to the river’s bank we would be compelled to take the boats out, and shouldering them, climb round the rocks on shore, and launch them afresh in better water below.
At one time, Dixon, who was leading, accidentally dropped his paddle, which was whisked away by the current in a trice. He made a great effort to recover it, and plunged in up to his armpits in the turbulent water, but failed to reach the truant paddle. Seeing his difficulty I pushed my boat out to him, and he seized my paddle and, jumping into the canoe, gave chase to the one he had lost. I ran along the bank, but could not keep near him; and in fear and trembling I watched him nearing a horrible fall amongst some sharp teeth-like rocks. I thought his last moment had come, but just before reaching the danger he overtook the lost paddle, which he grasped with one hand, and, jumping out of my canoe, held the tow-rope and brought the boat up within a few feet of the fall. The whole affair was the work of a few moments, and was a wonderful exhibition of smartness and presence of mind.
By 7 o’clock we began to think that we had had about enough for the day, and, putting the boats ashore, we walked back, over the old moraine and along the rabbit fence (which, by the way, I hear is doing its work splendidly), to the Pukaki Ferry for the night.
By 7 a.m. next morning we were again with the canoes, and once more performing gymnastic feats along the rocky bank. But our reward was now near at hand, for after an hour or so we got on board and sneaked down the quieter sides of one or two pools. The moraine deposits gave way to those of fluviatile origin, and the size of the stones in the river-bed decreased rapidly; consequently we soon began shooting the rapids again and were making grand headway. The country on either hand opened out; from our left came in the Tekapo River, and soon after, as we sped on under Ben More, on our right the Ohau. Now we were in the Waitaki, which is formed by the junction of these three rivers. ‘Waitaki,’ or ‘Waitangi,’ means ‘Crying water.’
The hydrographic area of the Waitaki Basin is 4,914 square miles, more than three times as great as that of the Rakaia or Waimakariri, and it drains most of the principal eastern slopes of the Southern Alps.
The eastern source of the river drains the Godley and Classen Glaciers with their numerous tributaries, forms the Godley River, and flows into Lake Tekapo (some fifteen miles in length); it issues from the southern end of the Lake and curves a channel for itself through the ancient moraine, when it becomes known by the name of the Tekapo River, which, flowing for a distance of about twenty-five miles, joins the Pukaki; all these, with the addition of the Ohau, the junction of which is a few miles further down, form the Waitaki River. The Hopkins and Dobson Rivers drain that part of the Alps immediately south-west of Mount Sefton, and flow into Lake Ohau. The stream issuing from thence, under the name of the Ohau River, runs for a course of thirteen miles, and joins the Pukaki and Tekapo as before mentioned.
After the union of these three systems of drainage the course of the river runs through a wider bed for about five or six miles before entering a gorge some ten miles in length. Down this fine stretch of water we now enjoyed a delightful paddle, and soon we sighted Black Forest sheep station, with its rows of green willow trees, on our left.
Here various kinds of river birds lent an aspect of life and gaiety to the scene—gulls, terns, paradise and grey duck, teal, dotterel, stilt, and red-bill soared over us, or rose in startled dismay as we shot by.
We had left the snows behind us and were fast being closed in by the foot-hills. We neared the gorge at 11 a.m. and paddled ashore on the Otago side and boiled the ‘billy’ for lunch.
It seemed a delightfully quiet hour after all we had been through; we sat and smoked in happiness and watching the rabbits skipping about amongst the bracken. We were certain, if only by that, that we were in Otago, where rabbits are the monarchs of all they survey.
The Mackenzie country hands had told us that we should find the gorge a little rough, so we knew we were in for it presently; yet for a couple of miles we found the river good going, though some ominous spurs of bed rock now and then entering the current—the first bed rock we had met with since leaving Mount Cook—foretold what we were coming to.
After going round a few ugly corners the white water became more frequent, until suddenly we were brought up by an awkward rapid into which we dared not venture.
A survey from the cliffs, sixty feet above the stream, disclosed a tongue or groyn of rocks running out into the stream in an oblique direction from the Otago side, and shooting the main body of the current on to the rocks opposite. A long stretch of straight water followed, but the whole stream was confined in rocky banks so close together that one might throw a biscuit across, and the pace of the current was something terrific. For half an hour we considered the situation, finally determining to shoot the rapid. There was really only about eight or ten feet of safe water close to the point of the groyn of rocks, and this was right in the body of the current. On either hand were eddies and whirlpools of the most formidable character, which, in the event of our making a bad shot, might swirl us among the rocks on one side or the other, and had such been the case we trembled to think what would have been our fate. However, at it we went, Dixon as usual leading, with a head as cool as a cucumber, and I following, like a spaniel after his master. One wild rush, a few strokes of the paddle, a mad tossing about in a sheet of crested foam, half-a-dozen bucketfuls of water on board, and we were through, breathing again as we tore down the hurrying, but straight and safe, current below.
Though we met with no greater obstacles to canoeing than this rapid in the gorge, such performances were several times repeated, and we had to land now and again to survey the course ahead.
To describe the mad plunging of the river through the gorge is not an easy matter. Here and there, perhaps, a long even stretch is met with, but for the most part the river makes a succession of bends bounded by rocky cliffs on either hand, now and then masses of rock crop up through the water, against which the stream is banked up by the force of its mad career to a height of ten or twelve feet; immediately under the sides of the rock there are vicious-looking heavings, eddies, and whirlpools, which, if one chances to get into them, twist the boat about like a feather when blown upon the water’s surface. A black swan and three cygnets kept ahead of us for the last six miles of the gorge, but as we entered with relieved feelings upon the more open country, they eluded our further pursuit in a backwater. Another few miles and we reached our destination for the night—Mr. W. G. Rutherfurd’s station, Rugged Ridges—where a warm and hospitable welcome made us feel that once more we were in the regions of civilisation.
Leaving next morning at 4.30, we gave ourselves eleven hours to catch the train for Christchurch, at Waitaki, a distance by water of sixty miles. Four hours saw us in Duntroon (thirty miles), where we astonished the natives in disgracefully tattered boating attire, and indulged in that from which we had long been estranged—‘a long shandy’—and by 9.15 we were off again at eight miles an hour, shooting down the most beautifully safe and rippling rapids, scaring ducks, plover, gull, stilt, swan, and all manner of wild fowl; now and then startling a mob of horses or cattle from their peaceful browsing, or astonishing some slow-going shepherd or cowboy as they stared open-mouthed at such an uncommon sight as two madmen in cockle-shells of canoes rushing down their boatless river, until we put the final touch to the whole enterprise by carrying our boats up to the station at Waitaki South (to the amazement of four railway navvies), at 1 p.m., having averaged eight miles an hour for sixty miles, allowing for one hour stoppages.
The distances by water, allowing for sinuosities in the course of the rivers from Aorangi to the sea, may be roughly summarised as follows:—From the end of the Mount Cook Range to Pukaki Ferry, thirty-four miles; from the Ferry to Rugged Ridges, thirty-eight miles; and from thence to the railway bridge near the sea at Waitaki, sixty miles; a total distance of 132 miles.
If it were not for the Pukaki Rapids the trip might be comfortably accomplished in three days, and at a stretch could be done in two; but the way to enjoy it would be to travel in a good staunch canoe, with watertight compartments and such accessories as the west coast canoeists are in the habit of using, and spend a week over the journey.