OF the other island groups that I visited during that pleasant year or two of wandering—strange Fiji, exquisite3 Norfolk Island, the wicked, unknown New Hebrides—I have told elsewhere. But before the great P. & O. liner carried me away from Sydney on the well-known track across the seas to England and home, I had a journey through New Zealand that was second to nothing in the world, for pure enjoyment4, but the unsurpassable Islands themselves.
New Zealand is not yet fully5 opened up—that was what the geography books said in my school days. The saying, like most geography-book information, slipped through my mind easily, and did not create any marked impression. The marked impression came later, when I went half round the world to see New Zealand, and discovered that I could not take train to just anywhere I chose. It seemed incredible, in a country as highly civilised as France or Germany, that coaches—not the ornamental6 tourist brand, run as an accompaniment to railways, but real Early Victorian coaches, with “no frills on them” of any sort or kind—were the only means of transit7, save boats, to a great part of the famous hot lake and river district of the North Island. One could go to Rotorua, the most remarkable8 collection of geysers and hot lakes, direct by rail from Auckland. But the lovely Wanganui River, the beautiful up-country bush, and whole duchies of hot-water and mud-volcano land, could only be “done” by coach and boat.
This made the journey more interesting, on the whole, though it was a little amazing at first to leave the railway far behind, and strike out right into the early nineteenth century. One should have worn side-curls, a spencer, and a poke9 bonnet10, instead of the ordinary tourist coat and skirt and useful straw hat, to feel quite in character with the mud-splashed coach, its six insides, two outsides, and four struggling, straining horses; the days of wind and shower, the hurried meals eaten at lonely little wayside inns, and the nights spent in strange barrack-like, barn-like places, where the stable was of more importance than the house, and every one always arose and fled like a ghost at the early dawn of day.
But first, after the railway town and railway hotel were left behind, came Wanganui River, a whole day of it; nearly sixty miles of exquisite loveliness, viewed in perfect comfort from the canopied11 deck of a river steamer. The Wanganui has been called New Zealand’s Rhine, but it no more resembles the Rhine than it resembles a garden-party or an ostrich12 farm. It has nothing whatever in common with Germany’s great historic river but its beauty; and the beauty of the Wanganui is of an order very far indeed removed from that of the ancient castle-crowned streams of Europe, which are strewn with records of dead and decaying ?ons of human life. Solitude13, stillness, absolute, deathly loneliness are the keynotes of Wanganui scenery. Shut in by fold on fold of great green mountain peaks, scarp on scarp of fern-wreathed precipice14, one can almost fancy that the swift little paddle-steamer is churning her way for the first time into solitudes15 never seen of man. Now and then a Maori dug-out canoe, long and thin and upturned at the ends, may be sighted riding under the willows17, or gliding18 down-stream to the swift paddle-strokes of its dusky-faced occupant. At rare intervals19, too, the spell of silent lonelinesses broken by the sight of some tiny river-side settlement perched on a great green height—half a dozen wooden houses, and a tin-roofed church; the whole being labelled, with some extraordinarily20 pretentious21 name. One of our passengers that day got in at London, and went on to Jerusalem; another was booked from Nazareth to Athens!
All New Zealanders are not Maories, despite the hazy22 ideas as to colour which exist at home. There is a little trifle of nine hundred thousand full-blooded white settlers, to compare with the few thousand native Maories still left, in the land they once owned from sea, to sea. Still, the Maori in New Zealand is an unmistakable fact, and a most picturesque23 fact into the bargain. To see a family taking deck passage on the boat—handsome dark-eyed women, with rosy24 cheeks in spite of their olive skins, and beautifully waved black hair; bright elfish little children; dogs and cats and a sack or two for luggage—: is an interesting spot in the day’s experience, especially when some patronising passenger, accustomed to “natives” in other countries, gets one of the delightful25 set-downs the Maori can give so effectively. For all their shapeless clothing and heavy blankets, hatless heads and tattooed26 lips and chins, the New Zealand Maories are very much “all there”; and when the patronising saloon passenger struts27 up to one, and remarks: “Tenakoe (good-day), Polly! You got ums nicey little fellow there, eh?”
“Polly” will probably reply in excellent English: “My name happens to be Te Rangi, not Polly; and as for the child you are referring to, I believe it belongs to the lady in the yellow plaid sitting aft!”
At the end of the day comes an hotel, standing28 on a wooded cliff above the river, and looking down upon a long lovely stretch of winding29 water and high-piled forest. The night is spent here, and in the morning comes the coach, with its team of four fine satin-skinned bays, its many-coated driver, its portmanteaux on the roof, mysterious little parcels in the “boot,” and confidential30 letters in coachman’s hat, for all the world like something in Charles Dickens. There is no bugle31 and no guard, and the coach itself is a high, long-legged, spidery thing enough, not even painted red, and though it is “Merry Christmas” time, it is a warm summer day, with some prospect32 of thundery rain, but not the faintest of any typical Dickensesque Christmas weather. Still, the sentiment is there, so one may as well make the most of it.
All day, muddy roads and straining horses; all day, a long pull up-hill; half the day rain in the wet lovely bush, starring and sparkling the exquisite tree ferns, those fine ladies of the forest; crystal-dropping the thick coat of ferns that tapestries33 the tall cliffs, shutting in our road. Beneath the wheel curve innumerable black-green gorges34, deep and dark as Hades, gurgling in their mysterious depths with unseen full-throated streams and half-glimpsed waterfalls. About and above us rises the impenetrable “bush”—tall green trees, feathery, cedary, ferny, flowery, set as close together as the spires36 of moss37 on a velvet-cushioned stone, shutting out half the sky; marking off an unmistakable frontier between the territory of still unconquered Nature and the regions wrested38 from her by toiling39 Man. Wood-pigeons flash their blue-grey wings across the valleys; the merry mournful tui flutes40 “piercing sweet by the river,” undisturbed by our rattling41 wheels. There are wild creatures in plenty, further back in the bush—wild boars, wild cattle, wild cats, and “dingoes” or dogs—all originally escaped from civilisation42, but now as wild as their own savage43 ancestors. The feathery bracken, that carpets all the banks by the wayside, was, and indeed still is, a staple44 food of the Maories. Its young roots are excellent eating, being rather like asparagus, and reasonably nourishing when nothing better can be had—and the white-flowered tea-tree—one of the tree-heath family—-has often furnished a “colourable imitation” of China tea, to the benighted45 bush-wanderer run out of the genuine leaf. This bush about us is all Maori land. Maories alone can find their way easily and safely through its pathless mysteries. No, there is no avoiding the Maori, anywhere in the North Island!
Dinner, warm and grateful and unspeakably comforting, is met with at a little inn in a little settlement whose name (of course) begins with Wai. The towns in North New Zealand that do not begin with Wai begin with Roto. There are a few others, but they hardly count. We are all amazingly cheerful when we issue forth46 warmed and fed; and the cold wind that is beginning to blow down from the icy mountain peaks just out of sight, is encountered’ without any British-tourist grumbling47. The driver explains that the wind ought not to be so cold—never is in December (the New Zealand June); but somehow, this is “a most exceptional season,” and there has been a lot of rain and cold that they don’t generally have. Across twelve thousand miles of sea my mind leaps back to home; I feel the raspy air of the English spring nipping my face, and hear the familiar music of the sweet old English lie about the weather. It is a dear home-like lie, and makes me feel that New Zealand is indeed what it claims to be—the Britain of the Southern Cross.
The effect of dinner is wearing off, and the insides are saying things about the weather that make a lonely wanderer like myself long to clasp the speakers warmly by the hand—because they sound so English. Now I understand what puzzled me a good deal at first—the difference between the Americanised, Continentalised Australians and the perfectly48 British New Zealander. The Briton cannot retain his peculiar49 characteristic in a climate like that of Australia; deprived of his natural and national grumble50 about the changeable weather, he is like a dog without a bark—an utterly51 anomalous52 being, But the New Zealand climate is windy and showery, given to casting autumn in the lap of spring and throwing winter into the warm, unexpecting arms of summer. So the Briton of the South, settled among his familiar weather “samples,” remains53 like the Briton of the North; and the travelling Englishman or Englishwoman, visiting New Zealand, feels more entirely54 at home than in any other quarter of the globe. It is only fair to New Zealand, however, to add that the average summer, beginning in December, is at worst very much warmer and pleasanter than the English spring or winter, and at best, a season of real delight.
Late and dark and cold is the evening when we rattle55 up to the accommodation house planted in a strange desert spot, where the night is to be passed. Another coach comes in and discharges its load by-and-by. The Dickensonian flavour increases, as we of the earlier coach sit round the great ingle-nook fire of blazing logs in the coffee-room, silently surveying the new comers, while they shed their many wraps and crowd about the blaze. To how many Early Victorian tales—Dickens, Bulwer Lytton, G. P. R. James—have not the lonely inn and the late arriving guest been the familiar commencement!
But the three Maories, man and two women, alighting from the coach and taking their place in the warm room, break through the illusion of Victorian romance at a touch, as a passing figure breaks through a gossamer56 cobweb stretched across a furzy path. Even G. P. R. could have had no dealings with those tall bundled-up, black-eyed, self-possessed beings from the bush. He would have turned them out in despair, or turned himself out, and gone back to his mysterious, Spanish-complexioned gentlemen in furred riding-cloaks.
A nipping early morning sees us off at seven o’clock; the discontented innkeeper, with (apparently58) a dark crime on his conscience, seeing us go with obvious relief. It is too evident that like rather many backwoods hotelkeepers, he regards the harmless necessary traveller in the unflattering light of “the pig that pays the rint.”
Ruapehu’s giant cone59, covered with dazzling snow, soars 3,000 feet into heaven above us. We are high up ourselves, for we pass the 4,000 foot level later on, rather cold and cross, and inclined to regard the little flag of hot smoke creeping out of the crest60 of Ngaurhoe, a smaller volcano ahead, as the most desirable thing in nature. Brumbies (wild horses) skim the plains below us, quick-moving little dots of black against the buff-colour of river valleys and fiats61 of sand. “There’s a fellow hunting those at present,” volunteers the driver—“catches and breaks them, and gets thirty shillings apiece for them for youngsters to ride to school. The kids must have something, you know, and the brumbies are wiry little brutes62.”
No one walks on two legs in New Zealand, apparently. I recollect63 a picture that the coach passed only yesterday evening—a man on horseback, and two dogs, fetching home a cow and her calf64 from a pasture a quarter of a mile away from the homestead. In England the whole outfit65 of man, horse, and dogs would have been represented by one small child with a pinafore and a stick. Other countries, other manners.
One o’clock, forty-two miles out, with a stop for a fresh team; and we now enter a valley where we are met by the strange sight of a puff66 of steam rising from a bushy dell, and a little river that glides67 along with smoky vapours curling up from its surface. We are in the hot-water country at last; this is Tokaanu, and from here to Rotorua, ninety miles away, the earth is dotted, every now and then, with boiling springs, erupting geysers, hot lakes, and warm rivers. In all this country you need never light a fire to cook, unless you choose; never heat water to wash your pots and pans, or to bath yourself. The Maories, and many of the whites, steam all their food instead of boiling or baking it; and as for hot baths, an army might enjoy them all day long.
The valley is warm and pleasant; Lake Taupo lies before us, thirty miles long, wide and blue and beautiful as the sea, sentinelled by tall peaks of dazzling white and purest turquoise68, and all embroidered69 about the shores with gold braiding of splendid Planta Genista scattered70 in groves72 and hedges of surpassing richness. Three hours in a tiny steamer brings us, To the othér side; and here, the sights of the hot-water country fairly begin.
The Spa Hotel, at Taupo (where one passes the night and as many days as one has time for), is a museum; an exhibition, and very-good joke, all in itself. One might fairly describe it as hashed hotel, served up with excellent sauce. You find bits of it lost in a wilderness73 of rose and rhododendron, at the end of a garden path; half a dozen bedrooms, run away all along among the honeysuckles to play hide-and-seek; a drawing-room isolated74 like a lighthouse in a sea of greenery; a dining-room that was once a Maori assembly-house, and is a miracle of wildly grotesque75 carvings76, representing, the weirdest77 of six-foot goblin figures, eyed and toothed; with pearl-shell, and carved in the highest of alto relievo, all down the walls. White sand pathways, run, between, the various fragments of the hotel; a hot stream, breathing curly vapour as it goes, meanders78, about the grounds, captured here and there in deep wooden ponds, under rustic79 roofs, or hemmed80 in by walls and concealing81 trees, to make the most attractive of baths. There is sulphur, and soda82 and free sulphuric acid in these, waters; one spring, welling up all by itself, has iodine83. For rheumatism84, skin diseases, and many blood diseases, these constantly running pools are almost a certain cure. It seems a shocking waste of golden opportunities to let this chance go by without being healed of something; but I can only collect, a cold in the head, a grazed ankle, and a cracked lip, to meet the occasion—of all which evils the baths at once relieve me, offering in their place an appetite which must seriously impair85 my popularity with the proprietress, though I am bound to say she hides her feelings nobly.
There is a celebrated86 “porridge pot,” or mud volcano, near this hotel. I have not time to see it; therefore I leave it with gentle reproaches ringing in my ears, and hints to the effect that I shall be haunted on my deathbed by unavailing regret. But I meet the Waikato River directly after, and at once forget everything else. Never anywhere on this earth, except in the hues87 of a peacock’s breast shining in the sun, have I seen such a marvellous blue-green colour as that of this deep, gem-like, splendid stream. And the golden broom on its banks, the golden broom on the heights, the golden broom everywhere—bushes eight and ten feet high, all one molten flame of burning colour, with never a leaf to be seen under the conflagration88 of riotous89 blossom—what is the English broom, or the English gorse, compared to this?
All the six miles to Wairakei, we follow the Waikato River; watch it sink into a deep green gorge35; break into splendid foam90 and spray down a magnificent fall, that alone might make the fortune of any hotel in a less richly dowered country; wind underneath91 colossal92 tree-clad cliffs, in coils and streaks93 of the strange emerald-blue that is the glory of the river, and finally bend away towards the Arateatea Rapids. Another hotel built after the charming fashion of the Taupo hostelry, receives the coach occupants. The style of architecture sets one thinking. Where, twenty years ago, did out-of-the-way New Zealand light upon the “pavilion” system, that is the very latest fancy of all modern-built sanatoria? Has the liability to occasional small earthquake tremors94 anything to do with it? Whatever the cause may be, the result is that the fresh-air system is in full swing in nearly all the New Zealand thermal95 resorts; that doors and windows are always open, paths take the place of passages, and everybody acquires the complexion57 of a milkmaid and the appetite of a second-mate.
The hot outdoor swimming bath is a toy with which one really cannot stop playing. It is something so new and so amusing to dive into a bath 90 feet long and 102 deg. Fahrenheit96 as to heat; swim about like marigolds in broth97, in a temperature that would cook an egg in a few minutes, and all the time see the exquisite weeping willows wave overhead, the tall grasses stand on the bank, the wild clematis tremble in the trees above the pool. After the hot dip, one steps over a partition into another bathful of cool spring water, only 68° in heat, to cool down; and then comes dressing98 in a little bath-box (shut off from the grounds, like all the bath, by a high board fence), followed by a two minutes’ walk back to the house. But again, when night comes on, and the moon silvers the weeping willows to the semblance99 of pale frost-foliage on an icy pane100, and the dim wraith-like vapours of the pool float up in ghostly shapes and shadows about the darkness of the inner boughs101, one is tempted103 to come down once more, gliding hurriedly through the chill night air to the pool, locking the door, and floating for an hour or more in the dim, warm, drowsy104 waters. Cold? No one ever gets cold from the thermal waters, even if the cool dip is left out. That is one of their chiefest charms.
With the morning, I am informed that life will not be worth living to me any more, if I do not see the Geyser Canon. Some one declares that it is the most beautiful sight in New Zealand; some one else says that it frightens you most delightfully105, in the safest possible way; and “one low churl106, compact of thankless earth,” says that it is extremely instructive. This last calumny107 I must at once deny. Interesting, to the deepest degree, the Wairakei Geysers are; suggestive also beyond any other geological phenomena108 in New Zealand; but instructive, after the tedious scientific-evenings fashion of our childhood, they are not. They are too beautiful for that, and too fascinating. One ought, no doubt, to absorb a great deal of geological information during the tour of the valley, but one is so busy having a good time that one doesn’t. Which is exactly as it should be.
Coming round the corner of the path that leads to the geysers, one sees a column of white steam rising over the shoulder of the hill, among the greenery of tea-tree and willow16, exactly like the blowing-off steam of some railway engine, waiting at a station. It is indeed an engine that is blowing off steam; but the engine is rather a big one—nothing less, indeed, than that admirable piece of work, Mother Earth herself. Ingle, the guide, now comes out of a tin-roofed cottage at the entrance to the valley, and starts to show us the wonders of the place.
Now be it known that Mr. Ingle is a very remarkable character, and second only to the geysers themselves, as a phenomenon of singular interest. He is one of the very few men in the world who know all about geysers, and quite the only one who can literally109 handle and work’ them. Ingle knows how to doctor a sick geyser as well as any stableman can doctor a horse; he can induce it to erupt, keep it from doing so, or make it erupt after his fashion, and not after its own. He is the author of at least two scientific discoveries of some importance, combining the effects of steam pressure on rocks and the incidence of volcanoes along certain thermal lines. In fact, what Ingle does not know about the interior of the earth, and the doings down there, is not worth knowing; and he tells us much of it as he takes us over the canon. Instructive? Certainly not. It is all gossip about volcanoes and geysers—personal, interesting, slightly scandalous gossip (because the behaviour of some of them, at times, and the tempers they exhibit, are simply scandalous); but not “instructive”; assuredly not.
The average tourist likes to have every sight named—romantically or comically named, if possible—and his tastes have been fully considered in the Geyser Canon. I am not going to quote the guide-book titles of the dozen or two thermal wonders exhibited by Ingle. Staircases of pink silica, with hot water running down them; boiling pools of white fuller’s earth, with miniature volcanoes and geysers pock-marked all over them: sapphire-coloured ponds, where one can see fifty feet of scalding depths; the great Wairakei Geyser, casting up huge fountains of boiling steam and spray every seven minutes; twin geysers living in one pool of exquisite creamy stalactites, and erupting every four minutes with the punctuality of a watch; geysers that throb110 exactly like the paddles of a steamer, or beat like the pulse of an engine; geysers that throw up great white balls of steam through crystal funnels112 of hot water; geysers that cast themselves bodily out of their beds at regular intervals, leaving you with exactly nine minutes in which to scramble113 down the hot wet rock of the funnel111, stagger through the blinding steam that rises from the rents and fissures114 at the bottom, and climb up the other side again, into coolness and safety, to wait and watch the roaring water burst up through the rock once more; geysers that make blue-green pools oh the lip of milky115 and ruddy terrace of carven silica; that explode like watery116 cannon117, in definite rows, one after another; that build themselves nests like birds, send boiling streams under rustic bridges, scatter71 hot spray and steam over’ richly drooping118 ferns, and plant rainbow haloes on a scalding cloud of mist, high above the clustering trees of the valley—these are the sights of the canon, and they need no childish names to make them interesting. When a visitor gets into the Geyser Canon he is like a fly in a spider’s web. He cannot get away from this colossal variety entertainment. He runs from a nine-minute geyser to see a four-minute geyser do its little “turn,” and by this time the number is up for the seven-minute performance of the great star, so he hurries there; and after that he must just go back and see the twin geysers do another four-minute trick, and then there is quite another, which will do a splendid “turn” in twenty-seven minutes’ time, if he only waits—and so half a day is gone, without any one noticing the flight of time, until the sudden occurrence of a “passionate vacancy,” not at all connected with the geysers or their beds, informs the traveller that another meal-time has, unperceived, come round.
The Arateatea Rapids fill in the afternoon. From the high road where the open coach stands waiting, down through a pretty woodland of greenery and shadow and thick soundless moss, one follows a narrow pathway towards an ever-increasing sound of rushing, tumbling, and thundering, out, at last, on to a projecting point where one stands right over a rocky canon filled almost to the brim with a smother119 of white rolling foam, woven through with surprising lights of clear jade120 green and trembling gold. And here, on the brink121 of this half-mile of rapids, over the roaring water, I give it up. I do not attempt to describe it. When you take a great river, exceptionally deep and swift, and throw it over half a mile of sloping cliff, things are bound to happen that are somewhat beyond the power of pen and ink to render. Who has ever read a description of a waterfall, anywhere, written by any one that conveyed an impression worth a rotten nut? Every one who goes to see Arateatea must manufacture his own sensations on the spot. Sheer fright will certainly be one of them; not at anything the innocent rapids are doing to the beholder122, but at the bare notion of what they might do, one foot nearer—one step lower down—one—— Let me have a couple of trees to hold on to, please. Thank you, that is better.
Many years ago, a party of twenty Maories had a narrow escape from the cruel embraces of snow-white Arateatea. They were canoeing on the upper river; and, partly because the trout123 in the Waikato are the biggest trout in the world, partly because some of the rowers had had too much fun at a “tangi,” or wailing124 party, the night before, and were not very clear-headed, they forgot to think of the current until it had them fairly in its clutch, whirling them along only a mile or two above the terrible rapids. They could not reach the shore, and they dared not swim. One would have supposed that nothing could save them from being beaten to pieces against the cruel rocks in the rapids—yet they escaped that fate.
They went over the Huka Falls, which come a mile or two above the rapids (the Maories had forgotten all about that) and were decently drowned instead.
I am sorry that the above is not a better story; but the fact is, that tourists are not very plentiful125 about Wairakei, and the natives have not yet learned to invent the proper tourist tale. That is about the best they can do as yet.
It will hardly be credited, but there is not even a Lover’s Leap in the whole valley; not a story of an obstinate126 father who got opportunely127 boiled in a geyser, while his daughter eloped down a scalding river in a motor-boat worked by the steam from the surface—nor a tale of a flying criminal pursued by executioners, who leaped from side to side of a gorge some thirty feet across and got away. This is certainly remiss128 of the authorities; but I have no doubt the Government Tourist Department would take the matter up, and supply the necessary fiction, if suitably approached.
In the meantime travellers must be satisfied with the rather bald and uninteresting tale of a Maori maiden129 named Karapiti, who jumped into the steam blow-hole bearing her name, because her fiancé did not meet her there on Sunday afternoon as arranged to take her to afternoon tea at the Wairakei Hotel. At least, that is one version of the tale, and it is quite enough for the Smith family from London, and other representative tourists.
“You should have given yourself more time.”
“Whatever you are going to do later on, this place really requires at least a week.”
“You cannot possibly miss so-and-so, or this and that!” Such are the reproaches that haunt the hasty traveller through the Hot-Water Country—reproaches fully deserved in nearly every case, for very few tourists who journey to New Zealand realise the amount of time that should be spent in seeing the miracles of the volcanic130 zone, if nothing really good is to be omitted.
It results in an unsatisfactory compromise as a rule—some “sights” being seen; many passed over. There is always something fascinating just ahead, calling the traveller on, and something wonderful close at hand, which demands the sacrifice of yet another day, before moving. Such a superfluity of beautiful and wonderful sights can assuredly be found nowhere else on earth. Iceland is far inferior; the famous Yellowstone Park of America has only a stepmother’s helping131 of what might be New Zealand’s “left-overs.” The lovely, lamented132 Pink and White Terraces are by many supposed to have been the only great thermal wonder of the country. This is so far from being the truth that only a good-sized volume could fairly state the other side of the question. I have never met any traveller through the thermal districts who had succeeded in seeing everything of interest. All whom I saw were as hard at work as the very coach-horses themselves—walking, driving, climbing, scrambling133 each hour of every day, and often thoroughly134 overdoing135 themselves, in the plucky136 attempt to carry away as much as possible from this over-richly spread banquet of Nature’s wonders.
I squeezed out an afternoon for Karapiti (the “Devil’s Trumpet”) and the Valley of the Coloured Lakes. By this time I was a little jaded137 with sight-seeing, disposed to talk in a hold-cheap tone of anything that was not absolutely amazing, and to taste all these weirdly138 impressive marvels139 with a very discriminating140 palate. Karapiti, however, is cayenne to any jaded taste. It is known as the “Safety-Valve of New Zealand,” and the term is peculiarly fitting. The whole of the Hot-Water Country is only one plank141 removed from the infernal regions; it almost floats upon the scalding brow of molten rock, liquid mineral, and vaporised water, that composes the earth interior immediately below. That it is perfectly safe to live in (a constant wonder to outsiders) is very largely due to just those steam blow-holes and geysers which excite the fears of the nervous-minded—and the colossal dragon-throat of Karapiti is the most important safety-valve of all.
Walking up the hill’ to the blow-hole, many hundred yards off, one hears its loud unvarying roar, like the steam-thunder that comes from an ocean liner’s huge funnel, when the ship is ready to cast loose from shore. The ground as one gets nearer is jutted142 and uneven143, and perceptibly warm in certain spots. Rounding a corner, one comes suddenly upon the Devil’s Trumpet, a funnel-shaped opening, ten feet across at the lip, in the bottom of a cupshaped hollow. A fierce jet of steam rushes out from the Trumpet, thick and white as a great marble column, and roaring horribly as it comes forth. The pressure is no less than 180 lb. to one square inch, and the rush of this gigantic waste-pipe never slackens or ceases, night or day; nor has it done so within the memory of man.
“If it did, I’d look for another situation pretty sharp, for it wouldn’t be ’ealthy to stay around Wairakei no more,” observes one guide, who is showing off the monster to us by throwing a kerosene144 can into the jet, and catching145 it as it is violently flung back to him, many yards away. “I can throw a penny the same,” he says, and does so, getting back the coin promptly146, a good deal hotter than it went in.
One of the ladies of our party is nearly reduced to tears by the sinister147 aspect, the menacing horror of the spot. She begs to be taken away, because she knows she will dream about it. She does dream about it; I know that, because I do myself, that night; and the dreams are not nice. Still, I would face them again for another look at roaring Karapiti. It is a wonder of wonders, a horror of horrors, unlike anything else in the world. On the whole, I am glad of that last fact. Too much Karapiti would certainly get on one’s nerves.
There have never been any accidents to travellers here. No one could fall down the hole, because the funnel narrows rapidly, and is only about two feet across in the inner part. All the same, one cannot safely approach very near, for there is an in-rush as well as an out-rush, and if any one did fall victim to it, and stumble into the funnel, the highly condensed steam would strip the flesh from his bones as quickly as a cherry is shelled off its stone.
The Valley of the Coloured Lakes came next. I wonder what the inhabitants of Brighton or Bath would do—how they would advertise, how they would cry for visitors—if they had a valley at their very gates which contained a scalding hot river, tumbling over pink and cream-coloured cascades148 of china-like silica, in clouds of steamy spray—a great round pond, set deep in richest forest, and coloured vivid orange, with red rocks round the brim; another, crude Reckitt’s blue; another, staring verdigris149 green; another, raspberry pink; others still, yellow as custard and white as starch150! All these ponds are hot; they are coloured by the various minerals they hold In solution, but they have not yet been chemically analysed, so it is only possible to speculate as to the exact cause of the colours. Seen from a height above, the ponds resemble nothing so much as a number of paint-pots; and that, indeed, is one of the names by which the valley is generally known.
Leaving behind me, unlooked at, still more than I had seen, I took coach again next morning for Rotorua. It was an early and a chilly151 start, for we had over thirty miles to do before lunch. The light, springy coach, with its leather-curtain sides, was filled with a cheerful party, all young, all enjoying themselves heartily152, and all full of the genial153 good spirits that come of much open air and a holiday frame of mind. New New Zealand at its best was represented there, much as Old New Zealand was represented by the silent bearded men, with the lonely-looking eyes, who travelled in the Pipiriki and Waiouru stages of the journey.
How fast the spanking154 team swings in along the road! How lovely the changing panorama155 of the encircling hills, now velvet-brown with rich green dells and valleys, now far-off pansy-purple, now palest grey, seamed with crimson156 streaks of hematite! The air is very clear to-day, with that strange New Zealand clearness that changes every-distance to sea-blue crystal, and pencils every shadow sharp and square.
We have left the royal gold broom behind us; but the beautiful manuka scrub of the valleys is in full blossom, exquisitely157 tipped and touched with white lace-like blossoms. It is almost as if a heavy hoar-froat had misted over every delicate green bough102 with finest touches of silver. Arum lilies bloom in the ditches; the Maori flax, like tall iris158 leaves, wanders wildly over hill and valley; great fields of Pampas grass wave their creamy plumes159 over the shot green satin of thick-growing leaves. Wild horses, as the coach goes by, look warily160 out from behind some woody knoll161, or canter away across the plains with their long-legged foals. Some of them are fine creatures, too, worth catching and breaking, and many are taken there from time to time. What a happy land, where a man can go out and pick a fine horse in a mountain meadow, much as you pick a daisy at home!
Lunch-time befalls at another of the inevitable162 Wais—Waiotapu, this time—and before the coach starts on the last stretch of eighteen miles to Rotorua, I go across the road to see the only one of Waiotapu’s sights for which I have time—the Champagne Pool and Alum Cliffs.
These are to be found on a most extraordinary milk-coloured plain, which looks exactly as if a careless giant had been mixing colours and trying brushes on it, and left everything lying about. The rocks and heights, the deep dells with boiling pools and grumbling geysers at the bottom, the narrow pathways leading here and there, are spotted163 and streaked164 with carmine165, rose madder, scarlet166, primrose167, bright yellow, and amber168. The “Cliffs” are a succession of rocky heights composed of something very like cream fondant, which is mostly alum. At their feet opens out a fascinating succession of bays and inlets full of variously coloured water, at which I can only glance as I pass. There are two mustard-coloured pools, and one pale green, among them. Close at hand the overflow169 from the Champagne Pool rushes, steaming fiercely, over a fall of rocks which appear to have been very newly and stickily painted in palest primrose colour. Alum, sulphur, and hematite are responsible, I am told, for most of these strange hues. Sulphur and arsenic170 have coloured the Champagne Pool itself—a great green lake, almost boiling, and of a most amazing colour—something between the green of a peridot and that of Chartreuse. It has never been bottomed; the line ran out at 900 feet when tried. The edge of all the lake is most delicately wrought171 into a coralline border of ornamental knobs and branches, canary yellow in colour. Its name is derived172 from the curious effect produced in the depths of the pond by a handful of sand. The water begins to cream and froth at once, like champagne or lemonade, and continues to do so in places for at least half an hour.
And now we hurry back to the coach once more, and on to Rotorua, wonder of wonders, and thermal temple of every healing water known to the medical world.
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1
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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3
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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5
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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6
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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8
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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9
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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10
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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11
canopied
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| adj. 遮有天篷的 | |
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12
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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13
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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14
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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15
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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16
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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17
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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18
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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19
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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20
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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21
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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22
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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23
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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24
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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25
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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26
tattooed
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| v.刺青，文身( tattoo的过去式和过去分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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27
struts
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| （框架的）支杆( strut的名词复数 )； 支柱； 趾高气扬的步态； （尤指跳舞或表演时）卖弄 | |
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28
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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29
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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30
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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31
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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32
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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33
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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34
gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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35
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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36
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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37
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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38
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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39
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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40
flutes
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| 长笛( flute的名词复数 )； 细长香槟杯（形似长笛） | |
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41
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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42
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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43
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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44
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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45
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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46
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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47
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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48
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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49
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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50
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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51
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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52
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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53
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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54
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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55
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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56
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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57
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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58
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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59
cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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60
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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61
fiats
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| n.命令，许可( fiat的名词复数 )；菲亚特汽车（意大利品牌） | |
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62
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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63
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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64
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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65
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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66
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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67
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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68
turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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69
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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70
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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71
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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72
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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73
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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74
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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75
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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76
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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77
weirdest
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| 怪诞的( weird的最高级 )； 神秘而可怕的； 超然的； 古怪的 | |
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78
meanders
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| 曲径( meander的名词复数 )； 迂回曲折的旅程 | |
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79
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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80
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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81
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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82
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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83
iodine
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| n.碘，碘酒 | |
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84
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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85
impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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86
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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87
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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88
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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89
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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90
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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91
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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92
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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93
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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94
tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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95
thermal
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| adj.热的，由热造成的；保暖的 | |
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96
Fahrenheit
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| n./adj.华氏温度；华氏温度计(的) | |
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97
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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98
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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99
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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100
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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101
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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102
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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103
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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104
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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105
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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106
churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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107
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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108
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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109
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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110
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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111
funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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112
funnels
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| 漏斗( funnel的名词复数 )； （轮船，火车等的）烟囱 | |
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113
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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114
fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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115
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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116
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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117
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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118
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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119
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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120
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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121
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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122
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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123
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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124
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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125
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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126
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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127
opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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128
remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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129
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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130
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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131
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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132
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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134
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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135
overdoing
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| v.做得过分( overdo的现在分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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136
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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137
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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138
weirdly
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| 古怪地 | |
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139
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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140
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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141
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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142
jutted
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| v.（使）突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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143
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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144
kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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145
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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146
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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147
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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148
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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149
verdigris
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| n.铜锈；铜绿 | |
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150
starch
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| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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151
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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152
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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153
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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154
spanking
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| adj.强烈的，疾行的；n.打屁股 | |
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155
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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156
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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157
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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158
iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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159
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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160
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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161
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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162
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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163
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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164
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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165
carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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166
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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167
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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168
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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169
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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170
arsenic
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| n.砒霜，砷；adj.砷的 | |
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171
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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172
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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