DOWN WESTLAND WAY

Hokitika Guardian, 3 August 1929, Page 3

DOWN WESTLAND WAY

(By 'ELSIE K. MORTON, in the “ Auckland Herald.”)

, At a time when the main thought centred on Westland is one of dire catastrophe and tragedy, it is well to remember that, despite widespread devastation in the northern part of the province,. South Westland has come through, the ordeal unscathed. The . Buller route is closed, and tourist traffic from Nelson at a standstill, but ac- , cess to Hokitika and the famous Franz l Josef and Fox Glaciers via the Otira tunnel is in no wise impeded, and holi-day-makers in the coming season will make the trip to South Westland with the same ease and comfort as before. Here in Westland is' New Zealand’s most beautiful, most wonderful playground, a land of virgin forests, glaciers, hot springs, fakes, mountains,, and open sea-shore where the liarcli mountaineer may test his courage and! endurance in conquest of the Ice-Kings 1 of the Alps, where holiday-makers,, mounted or afoot, may find unending enjoyment in following the forest roads,, visiting mining townships of the past, in picnicking, by seashore and lakeside, or in the ascent of the shining glaciers that surge through narrow,, , rock-walled gorges from the world of ice and snow above.

From Waiho Gorge, in South Westland, one may make a variety of trips' unexcelled for beauty and interest anywhere in New Zealand. World-famous l is the forest track that leads to the foot of Franz Josef, four miles from 1 Glacier Hotel, one of the few remaining tracks that still retain their primitive beauty, cut by hands that know and love every twist and turn, its! beauties jealously guarded through two' generations, still held sacred from intrusion by noisome motor-cycle and honking car. Long may the matchless' beauty of the Franz Joseph forest track be preserved from the desecration that lias overtaken so many of New Zealand’s lovely forest ways, driving the' tiny feathered people of the bush far back into hidden sanctuary. The unique beauty of South Westland’s forest roads has not yet won the fame it merits. Throughout New Zealand and far overseas tourists hav spread the fame of Buller Gorge, many a day will' pass ere traffic is resumed down that rugged mountain road. Although the beauties of the Buller have been destroyed, perhaps irrevocably, there remains another Westland road, the 100-mile run from Hokitika to Weheka, at the foot of Fox Glacier, before which the far-famed attractions, of the Buller dwindle to insignificance. Loveliest of all portions of th'is Main South Roadris the 18-mile stretch between Waiho Gorge and- Fox Glacier Hostel. It was only a year or so ago that this forest road was opened to motor traffic, the treacherous waters of the Waiho River having only recently been bridged. Now the road is traversed daily by service cars and private cars, and the old isolation of Cook River Flats and settlements south of Waiho Gorge, is happily a thing cf the past. ~ A late summer afternoon was drawing to its close 1 when we set out on horseback for Weheka, and 4 as we mounted the first of the three great bluffs, each over IOOOft. high, over which runs the Main South Road. Down the steep mountain sides came the last red waves of sunset, lighting the snowy crests of the Alpine peaks across the valley,, throwing in strong relief the dark forest walls above us.

With nightfall came the lighting of a million tiny lamps, vast cities of glowworms, hidden behind "The ferns that dropped from the overhanging banks, a glittering, twinkling rope of lights, that stretched mile* after mile, up the hills and down. The beauties off that ride, the witchery of moonlight stealing down through the forest aisles, lights of the road workers’ camps twinkling a welcome in the darkness, the • ripple of mountain streams and glimpses of distant snowy peaks, white in the moonlight—they are all with me as I write—but how far short of such a revelation off beauty must fall any mere, threading of words! . . All too soon the hills were left behind, the little fairy lamps extinguished, and we came down out of \vonderland into the calm, moonlit beauty of the valley below. Another day we rode to Waiho Beach, eight miles from Waiho Gorge, an easy ride through the forest, down the shingle bed off Doherty’s Creek, with the Main Divide of th Alps rising in snowy wall behind, and- the blue ocean ahead. Very lovely were the quiet reaches of that Westland river, fernfringed, deepening in still pools, over which the toi-toi waved creamy pennants, the placid depths giving back in minutest detail all the snow-crowned glory of the mountains. Down the beach we rode after lunch, in behind bold Omeroa Bluff, to a chain of lagoons, where black swans sWam in stately line, and seagulls wheeled overhead. And stilt behind us rose the glorious barrier off the Alps, running in silver line of peaks and crests from Klie de Beaumont to La Perouse, with Cook and Tasman towering over all. . . For the true enthusiast, Waiho reserves a very special trip, a- motor run at daybreak to Okarito trig station. 1 miles distant, on the seashore, to see the sun rise over the rim of the Alps. I did not see the sunrise, alas, but T saw the picturesque • old waterwheel that runs the timber mill at Okarito Forks. I climbed the forest track to the trig, looked down upon a glorious 50-mile panorama of virgin forest, mountain, glacier and ocean. When I came down I prowled around lonely, deserted, little Okarito, set on the very