Mixt their dim lights, twixt life and death,
To broaden into boundless day.”
With the first streak of dawn I set about the putting on of my boots, which I had discarded during the night for tennis shoes; but I now found them hard frozen. However, by sitting on them, one at a time, for ten or fifteen minutes, I thawed them out sufficiently to permit of my getting my feet into them.
With the daylight we saw our route clearly enough—not fifty yards from where we had spent the night. We were not long in hurrying down to the tent. Once again beside the cheery camp fire we felt happy, and not one jot the worse for our strange experience and our five-and-twenty hours on the mountain, though inclined to agree with one of Crockett’s characters that “a reeking dish of porridge is the delightsomest of scenery to a famished man.”
After breakfast we lost little time in packing up, and then we marched back down the valley through the forest primeval to Milford Sound. From there we commenced the long trudge back over the pass and down the Clinton Valley to Lake Te Anau. The weather, which had been remarkably fine for the past three or four days, showed signs of breaking, and by the time we had crossed Lake Ada we saw we were in for a drenching. We had very hard work getting the big boat back up the Arthur River to the upper landing, and at several places in the rapids the four rowers had to get out and push, waist-deep in water. Once or twice we thought we should have to abandon our task altogether, but eventually perseverance and determination won the day. A gentle rain had begun to fall, so we hurried on to the Beech Huts, where we arrived in a rather moist condition early in the afternoon.
Next morning we again shouldered the inexorable swag, and started off up the pass. Before we quitted the huts we had a “cleaning-up,” and left the place in as orderly a condition as we could. It was raining heavily as we commenced to climb the steep incline into the bush—heavily and hopelessly, and not even the Mark Tapley of our party could prophesy a change for the better. The mountains had shrouded themselves, and the waterfalls were riotous. But above us, in the branches of the trees, undeterred by rain or storm, the birds sang cheerily, and now and again a kakapo blundered across the track, blinded by the daylight. Before we had gone far we were soaked to the skin, and the track was naturally heavier and more difficult to climb. Soon we got out of the forest into the low scrub. Then came the steep pull up the tussocky slopes, down which, ten days before, some of us had attempted to glissade. Now there was no remnant of the snow that then lay so thickly on the pass, but the foot sank deep in the marshy ground, and numberless little noisy streams bore witness to the heavy rains and melting snow.
On the top of the pass a strong wind was blowing, ruffling the sullenly grey surface of the tarns, and whistling through the tussocks. Near the cairn built there we went to the edge of the great wall of granite which falls sheer to the valley below. Far down lay the Mintaro Lake and hut, mere specks in the misty distance. The mountains in front of us loomed up through the mist, that, lifting a little, gave us a glimpse of the spun silver of a waterfall or the rugged grandeur of a granite peak. But there was still some distance to go before we reached our little haven, and on we trudged, serenely conscious that by this time it was quite impossible to get any wetter. A little care was necessary in the descent, but soon the Clinton River was waded, and the Mintaro Hut reached. There, before a blazing fire, a council of war was held as to the advisability of going on farther that day. It was urged that the next hut was more comfortable and drier, and could easily be reached by dusk; so, after some hot tea, we took up our swags and plodded on down the Clinton Valley, now a wonderful sight with countless waterfalls streaming over the dark rocks. Wet and a little tired with the heavy walking, we reached the half-way hut at 6 p.m.
There is a delicious feeling of virtuous well-being when—after a weary tramp—clothes are changed, and, pannikins in hand, all gather round the huge log fire that crackles so cheerily up the great wooden chimney. No tea—even be it the finest Pekoe, enriched with the thickest of cream and sipped from the daintiest Dresden—tastes like “billy” tea. We had quite a festive appearance as we sat round the fire that evening. One man especially, who sported a white “sweater,” gave a gala air to the proceedings, and my wife’s pink-and-white dressing-gown was, at any rate, a piquant contrast to her “business suit” in which she had climbed the pass, waded the swollen streams, and cheerily held her own in the long day’s march. Tea over and the dishes washed—lately we had hit upon the idea of this being taken in alphabetical order—four of us settled down to whist. The others read, smoked, talked, or lounged in their bunks. For the labour was all but over. To-morrow was a mere afternoon stroll: to a certain extent our ambitions had been realized, and our expectations fulfilled, and though the rain continued and the jealous mists still hid everything up and down the valley from us, we were happy. Hot cocoa and then early to bed was voted the correct thing, and all slept soundly that night.
In the morning the rain was still steadily falling, and there was little hope of its clearing. We waited two or three hours, and then started for Te Anau. On the way down I stopped to take a photograph of Quintin MacKinnon’s Hut, standing lonely and tenantless amid the tall beech trees on the picturesque banks of the Clinton River. As we neared the lake we heard the steamer’s whistle echoing up amongst the mountain heights, and a few minutes later, with a fervent “Thank Heaven!” we slung our swags on the floor of the hut at the head of Lake Te Anau.
This being our last night in the wilds,—for to-morrow we should be, winds and waters concurring, in the comfortable hotel at the foot of the lake,—we resolved to have a concert—a smoking concert. After a substantial tea, and the usual whist contest, seats were taken on the bunks, the table, and a bench, which had an amusing habit—amusing, at least, to the onlookers—of tipping up suddenly unless it were evenly balanced. Everyone had to sing, no excuse being taken. Medical certificates, physical disabilities, were of no avail; each was to give one verse, to which was to be appended—by the whole company—the rousing refrain of “Rule Britannia!” One could scarcely imagine a more unmusical set than we were, taken as a whole, but everyone did his best. One warbled a love ditty in a voice that was perhaps tremulous with emotion; another—from a dim corner, where he blushed unseen—a sailor’s song; while the last man, when it came to his turn, made a hasty retreat to the door, only to be brought back forcibly by his coat-tails. When he again took his seat, he brought down the house by a spirited rendering of “The Man who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo,” displaying a talent which none of us had ever given him the credit for possessing. An encore was insisted on, and by the time we had all sung again we were certain of at least one thing—the refrain of “Rule Britannia.” The captain and the engineer, who were in the steamer, had been asked up to join in our convivialities, but they did not put in an appearance. Away down in the dim shadows one could now and then catch the notes of the latter’s flute, and I have no doubt they could hear something of our so-called musical attempts. To finish up our concert, Kenneth was called upon for “The Wild Colonial Boy,” as sung by him on Mount Tutoko. I can see him now, his handsome bronzed face and dark eyes lit up by the firelight, waving his pipe backwards and forwards in time to the tune, and singing the lawless ditty with the greatest vigour, while all of us, in a delightfully promiscuous way, shouted the refrain—