Although we could only lead our horses through the forest, it was necessary to ride them whenever we came to the crossing-places of the Manganui-a-te-Ao, since at these points the water was in most places over their backs, and often nearly over their heads, when they got into the big holes that everywhere dotted the rugged channel of the river. At the sixth crossing-place we had mounted to an altitude of 1460 feet, and here we were nearly coming to grief. The course across the river was, like all other places, strewn in every direction with enormous masses of rock, and the water came sweeping swiftly round a great bend, where the cliffs rose up like a stupendous wall on each side. The river here was about 100 feet wide, and in order to get across, it was necessary for our horses to climb over a series of huge boulders, and then on to the top of a big rock with a flat top, from which they had to plunge off into a deep water-hole, with a rapid only a few feet distant on the lower side. Turner, on his plucky pony, took the first leap, and my own horse following, the snowy waters, fresh from the glaciers of Ruapehu, nearly swept us out of our saddles, and, for a moment, it seemed as if the ominous joke made by old Hinepareoterangi before our departure, were about to become true. At the seventh crossing-place the bed of the river was at an altitude of 1541 feet, and here, as usual, we had fresh difficulties to encounter. The masses of rock were of great size, and, while most of the larger impediments of this nature were of trachytic formation, I noticed several water-worn boulders, composed of a fossiliferous rock, containing particles of shells, but all of which were too broken to be easily recognizable. These boulders appeared to have been washed down by the river for some distance.
All along the course of the Manganui-a-te-Ao the scenery was of the wildest description; the steep cliffs and mountains towering above us in the grandest confusion. In many places the colossal trees reached their broad branches over the precipices that bordered the stream, in a vivid canopy of green, while the foaming cascades beneath echoed with a roaring sound through the deep valleys as the blue, dancing waters swept onward in their precipitous course along the winding, rock-bound ravine that formed the channel of this remarkable river.
Leaving the course of the river for a time, we made a wide détour to the north, and passed along a range of rugged mountains which marked an altitude of 2900 feet above the level of the sea. Here the whole country was very broken, and it was nothing but one continuous ridge after ridge and gully after gully, while we had to take our horses along precipices where there was scarcely room for them to move along, especially where they had to round the trunks and roots of the stupendous towai-trees, which grew in wonderful luxuriance in this elevated region. Night fairly overtook us on the mountains at a point which marked an altitude of 3500 feet above the level of the sea. The rain poured down incessantly, and we could hear the river roaring in the distance somewhere beneath us, although we had not the remotest idea where we were. We named this elevated point "Mount Towai," on account of a magnificent tree of that species which grew close to the spot where we pitched our tent.
We were up by the first streak of dawn, and, climbing a tree that stretched out its trunk over the precipitous sides of Mount Towai, looked anxiously to see whether we could get a glimpse of the open plains, which we knew to be somewhere in the east. Beneath us wound the deep ravines, covered with their primeval forests, and above the hills in the distance we got a glance at a patch of open country through the dense foliage. This seemed to us like a bright oasis, which had at last come to break the dull monotony of the forest wilderness. We struck camp at once, and descending 500 feet by a steep and slippery incline, we gained the margin of the Manganui-a-te-Ao, and crossed the winding stream for the ninth time, as it rolled down a deep gorge from its source in the regions of eternal snow, as rugged and as rapid as ever.
Once on the opposite side, we climbed a steep ascent, and gained the broad, open table-land at an altitude of 2850 feet. Thus, to arrive at this elevation from Ruakaka, we had travelled over hills and mountains the whole way, and yet in a distance of about thirty miles the country had risen over 2000 feet from our point of departure, which stood at an altitude of 800 feet.
Now that we had done eighty miles of forest travelling since we had left the Murimotu Plains to reach the valley of the Whanganui, and had spent eight days in the primeval wilderness, it is impossible to describe with what delight we hailed the grand open country before us. During our journey through the forest—that is to say, since we first entered it from the Murimotu Plains—the weather had been mostly wet, and even when the sun shone, the moisture kept dripping from the trees like a perpetual shower-bath, and the dank, heavy feeling of the air, caused by the endless vegetation through which we could never see a hundred yards ahead, produced in the long-run a feeling of intense weariness. Now, however, all nature looked radiant before us, and the colossal form of Ruapehu, rising close to us on our right, looked grander than ever. We now viewed the great mountain from the north-west, an aspect from which we had not beheld it before, and the forests on its sides were interspersed with patches of open country, while the snow since last we had beheld it had crept down almost to the base, and, mingling with the green of the vegetation, produced the most beautiful effect as the mists of morning rolled away beneath the glowing power of the sun.
The fine grassy expanse covered with a thick coating of white frost we had now entered, we afterwards found was known to the natives as the Waimarino, from the name of the river running through it, and which had its source in Haurungatahi, a large, densely wooded mountain which we could see in the distance to our right, and which formed an attractive and beautiful object in the surrounding scenery. These plains immediately to the north-west of Ruapehu were the same we had seen in this direction some weeks before, when making the ascent of Tongariro. We had been told by the natives at Ruakaka that if we kept across the plains to the south-east for about ten miles in the direction of Mount Haurungatahi, we should reach Ngatokorua, the pa of Pehi Hetau Turoa, one of the principal chiefs of the Whanganui tribes. We therefore directed our course towards this place, the plains as we rode along opening out into park-like expanses, fringed with dense forests on either side.
When we arrived at the pa, early in the day, we were received by Pehi and his people with a true Maori welcome.
One of the most remarkable features in connection with this place was that everything about it had a neat and tidy appearance, unlike all other settlements we had seen. It was situated at the foot of Mount Haurungatahi, whose steep sides, clothed with dense forests, towered up behind it. This mountain, we learned, was personified by the Maoris as the wife of Ruapehu. The view in every direction from the settlement was most enchanting, forest, plain, and mountain all combining to add variety to the surroundings.
We were given comfortable quarters in the wharepuni in which the chief's family dwelt, and which consisted of a spacious building constructed of totara, and spread about with clean white mats. We found Pehi's family to consist of Ngaruma, his wife, a pleasant woman with an almost Grecian cast of countenance, although a pure Maori; Te Wao, the chief's henchman, and his wife Ngawini; Turongoiti, with his wife Rauia; Rene, another native; and Hinekura, Rora, and Pureti, the chief's three daughters. We were invited by Pehi to remain as long as we liked, and the three days we sojourned with the old chief formed the most agreeable stage of our long journey. There was only one drawback, and that was that we had to sleep with thirteen others in the wharepuni, and as there were always two charcoal fires kept burning, the heat was at times—especially during the first part of the night—intolerable, the thermometer often reaching as high as 100° Fahr., while outside it indicated from four to six degrees below freezing-point. Unfortunately, it was always dark by six o'clock in the evening, when the wharepuni was closely fastened up, and we would have to remain twelve hours in the stifling atmosphere until daylight.