"Well," said Old Colonial, "there's no time now; but we've got to get some schnapper for supper to-night, so you and I will go and fish down the Arapaoa yonder; then I'll tell you."
In the evening we were sitting in the boat, anchored in the river nearly opposite our much venerated show-place. We were fishing with line and bait, diligently securing a supper and breakfast for ourselves and the rest of the company who make our shanty their home. Every now and then either of us would pull up a great pink slab-sided schnapper, a glistening silvery mullet, or a white-bellied whapuka; we were in a good pitch, and the fish were biting freely. Our minds were relieved from the anxiety of a possible shortness of provisions. The scenery around us is truly magnificent, if only it were possible to describe it. I must, however, try to convey an idea of its outlines.
We are lying in the Arapaoa Firth, at the point where it loses its distinctive name and divides into three heads. These three lesser firths, together with the main creek that flows into each above the point where the tide reaches, are respectively the Pahi, the Paparoa, and the Matakohe.
Our boat seems to be floating in a lake, rather than in a river, for here the Arapaoa is between three and four miles across. Looking down to the right we see it stretching away, between bold, high banks of irregular outline, flowing down to the harbour and the sea thirty miles off. To our left is our own river, the Pahi, narrower than the other. It is, perhaps, a mile across at the mouth. Its shores present a diminishing perspective of woods; and, as mangroves line the beach on either side, the leafage and the water seem to melt into one another. Five or six miles up, the ranges rise higher and run together, so that the beautiful Pahi appears to lose itself in the forest.
The opposite shore of the Pahi ends in a high bluff that, from our point of view, appears like an island in the expanse of gleaming water. Round the base of the bluff are gathered the white houses of Te Pahi township; and the masts of several small sailing-craft are seen off the beach. Behind and above is a bold sweep of dark woods, forming a background to the baby town.
The township bluff hides from us all view of the Paparoa, which lies just behind it. But we have a full prospect of the wide reach of the Matakohe, which has quite a lake-like look. Just within it, on the further shore, are some low mud-banks, partially covered with stunted mangrove. Here great flocks of grey snipe continually assemble, together with kingfishers, shags, wild duck, teal, and other waterfowl. The high bank conceals all behind it; but in one or two places we catch a glimpse of some settler's house, cresting the bold bluff, or half hiding in its orchards.
And now we face to the east, with the setting sun behind us sending its rays full upon the central interest of the view, and thus we gaze our fill upon Te Puke Tapu. A small but deep bay forms a bend in the shore of the river, guarded by steep heights on either hand. On the left a long promontory runs out into the Pahi, as though to meet the township bluff upon its further shore. On the right a towering scaur shows the abrupt termination of the range behind it. The tide in the Arapaoa flows swiftly by, but within the bay the water lies smooth as glass.
Between these two points may be a distance of about a mile straight across. The curving line of the shore, sweeping round from one to the other, forms a complete crescent. No rocks or mangroves, no mud-banks or oyster-beds spoil the effect of a narrow belt of white and glittering shingle, which lines the beach of the little bay. And right at the edge of this border-line begins the mingled green of fern and forest.
The land slopes upward gradually from the beach, rising by regular steps into a grand semicircle of heights. The general shape is that of an amphitheatre. And here so rich is the soil, so sheltered the situation, that all the wild vegetation of the country seems growing with magnified luxuriance.
The colouring is brighter and more brilliant than it often is in the bush; and there is a more extensive mingling of different trees and shrubs, a more picturesque grouping of forms and tints. There are emerald feathery fern-trees, copper-tinted "lancewoods," with their hair-like tufts, the tropic strangeness of nikau palms, crested cabbage-trees, red birch and white ti-tree, stately kauri, splendid totara, bulky rimu, dark glossy koraka, spreading rata, and half the arboreal catalogue of the country besides.