With Axe and Rope in the New Zealand Alps

by George Edward Mannering

Of gentle breath and hue.

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.