Suddenly the curving foam of the Bowen Falls flashed into sight, and an involuntary shout of delight and admiration arose from both boats. Then, rounding the last promontory, we came from the dark mountain shadows of the narrow valley into the gleaming sunshine of the open sound.
The stay of a few days in Milford Sound was greatly enjoyed by the non-climbing members of the party. My wife writes of it:—
“The exquisite weather—true Indian summer days—the magnificent surroundings, the genial hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland, and the feeling that there was no need to be ‘up and doing,’ all increased the lazy enjoyment of those halcyon days. Perhaps even the knowledge that our comrades, while we basked in the sunshine or rowed on the calm water, were toiling through the matted bush, or cutting their way up their mountain, also added a sharper relish to our pleasure. Many a time our thoughts of them were tinged with anxiety, and we followed their course in imagination. From the hour we came in sight of Sutherland’s, lying in the afternoon sunshine of that perfect day, with the white curving flash of the Bowen Fall on our left, and the great mountains far above, to the morning when, with many a wistful backward glance, we left it, silent and seemingly tenantless, we had ideal weather. After the excitement and bustle of starting the climbers were over, and after the return of Mr. Fyfe, who had to be put under medical treatment for neuralgia, we decided to go fishing. It was most exciting. The boat, to begin with, was leaky, and I was very thankful that I had no skirts to get draggled and dirty. One had to keep baling half the time, and another rowing to keep the boat in position. As there were only two of us in our boat our fishing was spasmodic, but in Mr. Fyfe’s case successful. He stood with quite a professional air in the stern of the boat, and caught four or five fish—some blue cod, and two or three of a large frill-backed kind called teraki, which objected extremely to have the hook taken out of their mouths, and flopped most alarmingly about my ankles. Some little red fish, called ‘soldiers,’ were not considered worth catching at Milford, where so many finer varieties may be hooked. In other places they are thought very good. The water seemed teeming with fish. The line was scarcely out before there came a tug, and occasionally some of our party caught two at once. As the afternoon wore on, a tiny breeze ruffled the surface of the Sound, and it began to feel chilly. The sun had set, and the silvery pallor of the mist wreath across the Lion, veiling its precipices, was changed to rose. From the water’s edge towered the great mountains, gloomy in shadow, but above, the higher peaks were still glorious in the sunlight and glowed with living gold.
“When we got back to the roaring fire and comfortable tea Mrs. Sutherland had provided, we did full justice to both. It was the first time I had tasted kid cutlets or stewed kaka, and both were very good. And then, after, we gathered round the blazing logs and told stories, and listened to Mr. Sutherland’s yarns amid the curling smoke of the evening pipes. He told us among many other things that there were in the Sound fish he called grampuses—‘grampi’ sounds more correct—that when at play jumped out of the water 20 feet, sometimes turning a somersault in the air. He said they were often 12 feet long. A recent visitor to Milford City had said Mr. Sutherland’s yarns were on a par with the scenery—‘tall’; and we, metaphorically, of course, winked at one another as he volunteered this statement. Time proved it to be quite correct, however. Next morning the three men of our party started off to try to climb the Mitre, and left me to my own devices. It had been dark a long time, and there were no signs of their return. I was feeling a little anxious, as they had to row five miles in the leaky boat. At eight o’clock Mrs. Sutherland and I went out and listened for the plash of their oars, for that, on a still night in the Sound, can be heard over a mile away. The moon was up and making a silver glory of the water. The muffled roar of the hidden Bowen Fall came to us across the little inlet. In front towered the Mitre, grander yet in the misty moonlight. Suddenly across the silence of the sound came a cheer, and some nondescript noises, afterwards explained to be singing, and in a little while we welcomed the wanderers back. They were exultant, for they had filled their boat with fish, and excited, for they had been chased for miles by ‘grampuses,’ ‘quite 12 feet long, and that jumped at least 20 feet out of the water just alongside our boat.’ To judge from the slightly incoherent accounts, these monsters must have chosen this fine moonlight night for a game of leap-frog, and have wanted an audience. Fortunately, though they dived underneath and jumped quite close to the oars, they never touched the boat, but evidently the minds of the gallant crew were not free from apprehension. The next day Mr. Sutherland showed us these same fish spouting five miles away, near the Stirling Falls.”
CHAPTER XVII
IN KIWI LAND—continued
“My summit calls. Its floors are shod
With rainbows laughing up to God.
But ah, the jagged ways and bleak