is this it?

Melbourne Photography XIV

Sat, 28 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

If I told you I was trying to focus on the central leaf you may not believe me.

Two rolls of black and white film and two ideas: shooting a lens wide open at f/1.4, and double exposures.

Shooting the Voigtlander 58mm lens at f/1.4 gives images a unique look. The images lack contrast, transitions between in and out of focus areas of the frame melt together, and the bright and high contrast areas have a distinct glow. This characteristic is common in lenses manufactured in the 1960s and 1970s, but has largely disappeared from modern high end lenses. Modern lenses are built to be sharp and usable at all apertures.

Low contrast images aren’t a problem when shooting black and white, as contrast can be (and here has been) added back in post-processing. The ‘glow’ is prominent where direct sunlight hits the scene – at the top of the next image, or in the transition between tree and bright blue sky of the following.

Inherent in photographs when shooting at f/1.4 is the very narrow depth of field. A narrow depth of field means the photographer has to be precise in setting the focus point, else the desired subject may be relegated to some out of focus area of the frame. I don’t trust myself to hit focus at anything wider than f/2. These photographs back that up, but I enjoy the result where some slightly out-of-focus areas interact with that glowing characteristic.

Sun on the needles, and the transition of different areas of the frame to be in and out of focus.

Out of focus, but nice glow.

In focus, and nice glow.

Footscray bicycle graveyard.

rip.

sky.

gardens i.

gardens ii.

The second technique I wanted to try was double exposures – a method in which the same strip of film is exposed to multiple images. Both images are exposed at about a stop of light under what would normally be used, in order to ensure that if bright areas double up they don’t come across as over exposed.

I set off around the botanical gardens with an idea in mind. The first exposure I would fill the frame with some texture or pattern – leaves, a bush, grass, etc. The second exposure would be of a sun-lit subject that I’d place in the middle of the frame.

The photograph below is the cleanest example of this concept. The others are a bit messier, and in some cases it looks like three or four different exposures hit the same part of the film.

double i.

double triple i.

double triple ii.

double ii.

These last few are in my house.

double iii.

double iv (reversed).

double v (reversed).

Analog Photography Assistant - 1.2.0

Fri, 13 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Home Screen

Light Meter

Analog Photography Assistant (APA) is a free, ad-free, privacy-first android app for film photographers. I have just released v1.2.0 which introduces a Depth of Field Calculator. With this you can calculate:

DoF from the film plane — The nearest and farthest points that will be acceptably sharp, measured from the film plane.
DoF from the subject — How far the zone of acceptable sharpness extends in front of and behind your focus point.
Hyperfocal Distance — Focus at this distance to keep everything from half the hyperfocal distance to infinity acceptably sharp.
Hyperfocal Near Limit — When focused at the hyperfocal distance, this is the closest point that will be acceptably sharp.

Depth of Field Screen - Enter camera settings and see DoF relative to both the film plane and subject.

Depth of Field - Calculate hyperfocal distance, and see where the closest point of focus will be.

APA v1.2.0 also adds explicit support for Android 16. The minimum required version is still Android 9.

Download APA on the Play Store or read more on the app website.

–

A few weeks ago I was out shooting at f/1.4 and needed to understand the depth of field to get two subjects in focus. My 35mm camera has a split image focusing screen. Looking through the viewfinder, you see two images projected. You adjust the focus ring of the lens until the two images line up, and the lens is now focused at the focus point (labelled focus distance in the screenshots above). Lenses have a depth of field. Some areas in front of and behind the focus point are also in acceptable focus. Split image focusing screens are designed to achieve precise focus at the focus point, but would present all other areas of the image as “out of focus” as the two images would be unaligned.

Closest Point                    Farthest Point
   in focus            │            in focus
     │                 │               │
     ▼                 ▼               ▼
─────┊─────────────────●───────────────┊────
                     FOCUS
                     POINT

Another use case is for landscape photography, or in situations where you want whatever is on the horizon to be in sharp focus. Intuitively you might turn the focus ring on the lens all the way to infinity. The split image focusing screen should confirm this with the far horizon being in sharp focus, and whatever is between you and the horizon looking slightly out of focus. This will give you the result you want however it leaves a large part of the DoF unused. Refer to the diagram above. If the focus point is at Infinity, then there is no “Farthest Point in focus” beyond it.

To maximise the amount of the image in focus, you want the “Farthest Point in focus” to be at Infinity. This means focusing the lens to a far away point before infinity. How do you know where to focus? Use the calculator to find the Hyperfocal distance and focus at that.

Landscapes of Giuseppe De Nittis

Mon, 02 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

By the Ofantino channel (1866)

Crossing the Apenninesm - Memories (1867)

Along the Ofanto River (1870)

The Road from Naples to Brindisi (1872)

From the top of the diligence (1872)

The Arc de Triomphe, Paris (1875)

La place des Pyramides (1875)

Field of Wheat Shocks (1875)

The Train Passes (1878)

Westminster (1878)

Landscape (?).

Winter Landscape (1880).

Bin Laden's Bookshelf

Tue, 13 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Books discovered in Osama bin Laden’s Abbottabad compound that were previously redacted by U.S. Intelligence ^[1].

Start with Why - Simon Sinek
Lean In - Sheryl Sandberg
Outliers - Malcolm Gladwell
Intentional: How to Finish What You Start - Chris Bailey
Atomic Habits - James Clear
The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People - Stephen R. Covey
Indistractable - Nir Eyal
The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck - Mark Manson
How to Win Friends and Influence People - Dale Carnegie
Good to Great - Jim Collins
The Five Dysfunctions of a Team - Patrick Lencioni
Nudge - Richard Thaler & Cass Sunstein
Grit - Angela Duckworth
Master of Change: How to Excel When Everything is Changing – Including You - Brad Stulberg

ex Italia

Sun, 11 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Palazzo della Sapienza.

Pantheon I.

Pantheon II.

Restaurants in Rome seat you in one of two areas:

Smoking (outside)
Vaping (inside)

is this it?

Rome I.

Rome II.

Rome III.

Rome IV.

Skyline.

Known chronology of a small patch of dirt in present-day Vatican:

~100 BCE – Dirt on a hill outside of the city wall.
~65 AD – Peter is crucified and buried.
~160 AD – Shrine is built on top of Peter’s grave.
~320 AD – Necropolis filled with earth and leveled. Constantine orders construction of first St. Peter’s Basilica. The high altar is placed directly on top of the site of the shrine.
~1506 - 1626 AD – Current St. Peter’s Basilica is built at the site of the old, now-degrading Basilica. Maintains same orientation and altar position over original grave.
~1990 AD – Coffee shop constructed on the roof of the Basilica. Espresso machine is placed vertically over the altar.

From up top

Ceiling of St Peter's Basilica

After walking through St Peter’s Basilica we went out into the square and found a spot for a rest. Beside us was a group of Roman high school children who had just been on a class trip to the Vatican. Some were eating their lunch. Others were sharing a cigarette with a couple of Carabinieri.

North to Verona, where one can see Juliet’s balcony. Italy’s most famous inter-war balcony, constructed 1936.

Verona I.

Verona II.

Further north to Bolzano, into the Alps. One hundred and six years ago these lands were Austrian, now they’re Italian. It probably still looks the same, but there’s no one around who knows. Photographs from Seiser Alm.

Seiser Alm I.

Sciliar Massif.

Langkofel.

Up the hill from Bolzano is Ritten. Seiser Alm is the snowy plateau in the background.

St. Nikolauskirche.

Ritten I.

Ritten II.

Last stop Switzerland, where even the sushi trains run on time. Photographs from the mountains around Engelberg and Titlis.

Engelberg I.

Engelberg II.

Engelberg III.

Engelberg IV.

Engelberg V.

Engelberg VI.

op Sydney

Sat, 01 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Sydney Harbour Bridge.

Up until this point in my life I wasn’t sure if the Sydney Opera House was real. Growing up watching terrestrial television, I’d see the occasional news story with the reporter standing in front of the Opera House talking directly into the camera about the latest beach, bank, or sunny day in Sydney. Pretty convincing evidence, until you watched the weather report in the last ten minutes of the broadcast. Looking closely, I noticed that the weather presenter wasn’t actually in low earth orbit pointing down to the cities and regions of New Zealand. They were standing in front of a screen with CGI being used project a graphic of the country onto the screen behind them.

Now we have the internet – a platform to democratise information by spreading truth around the globe. Knowing that the old institutions have rotted, I turned to the two new bastions of truth and wisdom: Tiktok and Instagram. One, a mobile app controlled by the CCP and filled with CIA psyops. The other, a mobile app controlled by the CIA and filled with CCP psyops. I searched these platforms for evidence that the Sydney Opera House existed, but the results were filled exclusively with advertisements for Squarespace, Audible, and Better Help. Use coupon code HOUSEANXIETY10 for ten percent off at checkout.

Pirates of the Tasman Sea.

Pirates of the Red Sea.

Pirates, for how much they charge for a pint.

Han Solo as a Pirate.

I’ve learned by now that sometimes I fall for conspiracy theories. A few years back I did independent research and established that the Giza Pyramids were actually gigantic origami figures made out of paper. Egypt is famous for barren landscapes of desert, with the small green belt established around the Nile. Obvious, when you think about it, because they had to cut down all the trees over the last millennia to keep making paper for the origami pyramids. This deep research led me to actually go to Giza and learn that they’d since raised gigantic stone blocks around the origami pyramids to protect them from the elements.

Under the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

Under the influence of drugs and alcohol.

Under the impression that this thing wasn't real.

These photographs are from a few spring evenings walking around downtown Sydney. I was based out of Darling Harbour, the mid-range Hotel capital of the city, and must have walked the standard tourist beats along the coast and around the botanic garden. Aside from the tripod, I was travelling light with just my Sony camera and a 35mm Voigtlander f/2 lens.

On my last night there I finally got up close to the Opera House. I tapped on the outside a few times for good measure and confirm it’s real. Next up: Uluru.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit B.

Exhibit C. Objection. Sustained

Wintering on Lakes Te Anau and Manapouri

Sat, 25 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Alfred H. Burton’s account and photographs of his three month trip to lakes Te Anau and Manapouri in June 1889.

One of Burton's Camp, Lake Manapouri.

Text sourced from the New Zealand National Library:

Photographs from the Te Papa Digital Archive.

I have attempted to find, locate, and place the photographs that Burton describes into the relevant areas of his account. I think these are mostly correct, however there may be inaccuracies.

–

While I was hurrying along Princes street to complete my arrangements for this trip I was accosted by my old friend Titfaddle, who, with most serious mien, drew me into the porch of the Bank of New South Wales, and then in solemn tones said, “Surely this is not true that I hear – that you are about to rush up to the mountains in the depth of winter?” I assured him that I really did purpose spending the winter on the Otago lakes. “But consider, my dear fellow, the stupendous folly of the undertaking! A country unknown – covered with snow; mighty mountains many thousands of feet high; with glaciers, avalanches, and scores of other dangers! Then the icy waters of the lakes – hundreds of fathoms deep! Have you forgotten the fate of poor Mainwaring Brown? And that was in the summer! Then the other day were not Captain Malcolm and his friend lost, so that steamers had to be sent to seek them? And as to yourself, it is only a little more than a year since the Union S.S. Company had to send one of their vessels to look for you! Pray drop this nonsensical idea, and when the proper season comes round send some young man on these expeditions!” I thanked my friend for his solicitude, but told him that the heavy portion of my equipment was already on the road; that I should start on the morrow, and that I had little doubt that the result would show that I had made no mistake in selecting winter for my photographic trip to Lakes Te Anau and Manapouri. Accordingly on Saturday, June 22, we (that is self and H—-) took train for Mossburn. This is some 12 miles beyond Lumsden, and is the present end of the line whose ultimate termini are to be the shores of Lake Te Anau and Manapouri. Here we picked up our impedimenta, and conveyances being in waiting we pushed on to Centre Hill.

June 23, 1889.

Loading up early, we found that we could not take all our stuff in one journey, though we had a buggy and a light cart. We had “tucker” for about seven weeks, and the photographic plant provided for four sizes of pictures – from stereographs up to an 18 inch plate – so in all there was a weight of at least three-quarters of a ton. It is about 35 miles from Centre Hill to our destination – the foot of Lake Te Anau; and though the road is not particularly bad for a road running through a sparsely populated country, the ride was a long and wearisome one, night falling several hours too soon for us, shortly after we had passed Lynwood station. The indications of a track hereabout are but slight, and on a pitchy dark night such as this are most difficult to see. Crossing the rivers and creeks, too, is not, under the circumstances, of experiences the most delightful in the world. These same creeks are not very wide nor deep, but as we crashed through their icy surfaces there was always the pleasing possibility that we might get “stuck.” And while we had yet several miles to do, that is exactly what did happen to us. The frozen stream bore the weight of the horses, but the wheels broke through and settled down in the muddy bottom; and the horses, pretty well tired with their day’s work, and evidently regarding this episode as an “extra” not provided for in the agreement, stubbornly refused to pull us out. We accordingly made an appeal to the animal drawing the second vehicle, and with his assistance got out the buggy, and thus avoided the camping – out which we had begun to think inevitable. Next we emptied the cart and carried the loading across the icy creek in pitchy darkness, which was another little treat. Our guide, who had for some time evidently been foggy as to the right road, now gave it up altogether and fell into the rear, while H—— had to walk on ahead and pilot the vehicles, searching for Lake Te Anau with a candle! Presently there loomed ahead of us a long grey streak. Lake Te Anau at last! And now another difficulty. For we began to fear that we might plump suddenly into the water, as we were utterly unable to judge of its distance. Our fears on this point were, however, premature, for we found that after another hour’s drive heading directly for the grey streak we were still some distance off. However, the longest day’s drive comes to an end, and accordingly, an hour or so short of midnight, we pulled up in front of Mr T. Brodrick’s house. Though he had turned in, the noise of our wheels had wakened him, and he speedily turned out, cooked supper for our cold, weary, hungry party, and soon made us thoroughly comfortable.

Mr T. Brodrick's House. I believe this is at the site of the rugby club in present-day Te Anau township.

June 24, 1889.

Our first view of the great lake was a little disappointing, for the early mist quite concealed the mountains towards the head through which we could see the nearer summits indicating the position of the South Fjord piercing the fog. But by-and-bye the mist dissolved, and a beauteous scene was spread before us. Chains of snow-clad mountains, nearer or more distant, engirdled nearly the whole sweep of the horizon.

Right opposite to us was the outlet of the lake – the Waiau river – which after a winding course of some dozen miles runs into Lake Manapouri. Then come Jackson Peaks and Mount Luxmore, whose southern slopes face that lake, but which to the northward overhang the South Fjord.

Lake Te Anau near Brodrick's. Luxmore ridge to the far left. Murchison Mountains on the horizon.

Turning ourselves over to the right, we see the points indicating the Middle Fjord. Then comes Centre Island, and then the bush in which stands Mr Melland’s station – Te Anau Downs. The eye now runs over Pleasant Bay and Margin Bush to the Upukerora river, site of a once considerable Maori village where many greenstone implements have been found. Again to the right, but more than 20 miles away, are the Livingstone Mountains, whose thither slopes command distant Lake Mavora. Mount Hamilton and the Takitimos chain carry the eye on to far Titiroa, a long way to the southward of Lake Manapouri, and so we are back again to the Waiau river. In scribbling this diary I have a wholesome horror of dropping into the “guide book” style, and am nervously timid lest I should bore my reader with “useful information.” And yet I feel almost compelled to give some facts and figures. They shall be as few and as little Dryasdustian as I can make them; but that long-suffering person, my reader, must kindly bear with me just a little. So here goes.

What may be called the main lake runs nearly north and south for about 38 miles, varying in breadth from one mile to six. On the western side jut out three great arms or fjords, in a north-westerly direction, for from 12 to 17 miles each, averaging a mile wide. These are called respectively the South, Middle, and North Fjords. The Middle one divides about two-thirds the distance up into two arms – the one bearing north-west, the other due west. This Middle Fjord is noticeable, too, for a chain of charming islets of greatly varying extent, running along the southern shore. In the South Fjord is also a group of islands, fewer in number but little less in beauty. These islets are a characteristic of Lakes Te Anau and Manapouri, but especially of the former. The Government maps of this district in several respects only approximate to correctness. For instance, in this matter of the islets they show only live in Middle Fjord, while there are in reality at least five times that number. The area of the lake is said to be 132 square miles, but there is good reason to think that this is much understated. The above facts coupled with this, that Te Anau has something like 250 miles of coastline, will, I trust, give the reader some definite idea of the extent and importance of Otago’s premier lake. Another fact which may help to convey a mental image of Te Anau is that on seven eighths of this extent of coastline dense bush runs down to the very water’s edge, and upwards for thousands of feet, as high as it can grow. Flat shores of any extent are only to be found from the exit of the Waiau, on the extreme south, along the eastern shore until the Eglinton range is reached. And this – less than 30 miles – is the only part of the lake that cannot demand to be regarded as grand as well as beautiful. The principal rivers flowing into the lake are the Clinton, at the head, and the Eglinton and the Upukerora on the eastern side; while into the Fjords run the Glaisnoch and the Doon, together with numberless burns and creeks.

The mountains around the lake – to speak generally – range from a little under 5000 ft to a little under 7000 ft. The giant Mount Christina, away to the northward, towers to a height of 8675 ft. So it may be said that Te Anau’s mountains average a mile in perpendicular height above the lake; which, again, is 694 ft higher than sea level. With this last fact – that soundings have been taken to a depth of over 200 fathoms – I bring this little geography lesson to an end. [“And a good job too,” I think I hear Titfaddle say!]

June 26, 1889.

Rest of goods not arrived yet from Centre Hill, so resolved on sending what we had up the lake. Our party consists of Mr Q. M’Kinnon – the explorer of the track from Te Anau to the Sutherland fall – myself and son, and our fleet is one whaleboat (33ft long), and one “flattie,” lent by Mr Brodrick, to enable us to get up rivers too shallow for the larger craft. I had expected a fourth man, a young sailor, but just before he reached Te Anau he had taken alarm at the arrival of Constable Griffiths in search of Captain Malcolm and friend, who were, it was thought, possibly stuck up at the head of the lake; and had incontinently cleared out of the district. He is said to have left H.M.S. Lizard in Milford Sound without permission, and to have swam ashore, thence making his way over the mountains by the new track. So he thought well to get out of the way of the officer, and I lost his services.

[I have since learned that the poor fellow did fall into the hands of the police soon after, and was carried away to Wellington.]

June 27, 1889.

Goods having turned up last night, I chartered that powerful and fastsailing steam ship Te Uira, Captain Brodrick, and proceeded up the lake insearch of the depot camp, which we had arranged should be formed somewhere about the mouth of middle fjord. The obliging captain made a little detour, and ran through the Dome islands at the entrance of the south fjord. The weather was just glorious, and as we threaded our way I could scarcely retrain from shouting aloud my rapturous admiration of Nature’s beauties all around. Turning Aurora Point we soon came upon the depot. Three tents – one to serve as a house for the reserve stock of “tacker” and the others a sleeping tent and a store for the photographic impedimenta, and we now began in earnest our camping life.

June 28, 1889. Another glorious day! Is it possible that we are going to get weather of thus pattern, or anything near it, through most of the trip? If so, how I shall “get at” Titfaddle. We soon broke ground with the camera, finding a very embarrassment of riches in the wealth of pictures on every hand. Oh, these lovely bush-covered islands! Lady Bowen once completely “fetched” the good folk of Auckland by a neat compliment she paid in a speech to the scenic charms of Auckland and neighbourhood. “The position of Auckland,” said that lady," irresistibly reminds me of ancient Corinth, and when i gaze over the gem-studded Gulf of Hauraki I again see the isles of Greece." – (Thunders of applause.) Could she see this scene, I venture to think that even “Burning Sappho” herself would not be “in it” with her ladyship. This photographer now declares himself more than content, and says that there are only two drawbacks to perfect bliss – the shortness of the day and the small arc made by the sun. Happily the shortest day is behind us, and every day now will in these respects be an improvement on its predecessor.

June 29, 1889. We left depot camp to-day, intending to work the Middle Fjord, and reached the head of the north-west arm just at dusk. We found the bush all wet and the ground frozen. When we had unloaded the boat, pitched the tents, made a fire, cooked supper and eaten it, we were so wearied that we could not summon up pluck enough to cut branches for a bed, so just put our waterproof sheets on the frozen shingle, spread our blankets and turned in. Oh, it was a hard bed! “Ye people of Dunedin, who sleep at home at ease, &c, &c.” [In the immortal words of the glorious Captain Cuttle, “The hearing of this remark lies in the application of it.”] This day’s weather has been a contrast to that we have of late enjoyed, – and has suggested the thought that perhaps this is a sample of the true winter weather hereabout. Should it prove so won’t Titfaddle “get at” me.

Middle Fiord, head of the North West Arm. Shooting East towards Howitt Peaks. Likely Burton's camp on the left.

Middle Fiord, head of the North West Arm. Around the cove from the shot above. Shooting West. Smoke likely coming from Burton's camp.

June 30, 1889.

Foggy all day.

July 1, 1889.

Foggy and rain.

July 2, 1889.

Heavy rain.

July 3, 1889.

Showery. Oh, dear!

Five days in succession useless for photography. Mental aneroid rapidly falling.

July 4, 1889.

A heavy fog lay upon the mountains until noon, when the sun burst through, and the camera was at it – sticking to it as long as light availed. This is our sixth night in this camp, but since the first we have had no cause to complain of our beds, for a good substratum of birch twigs (the wood not too thick) with a top dressing of manuka, brush, artistically thatched, gives a bush bed that would put many a pretentious mattress to shame. Fern makes a passable couch, but one night’s use deprives it of its “spring,” and in summer it is apt to contain more crawling and creeping things than are conducive to perfect repose.

July 5, 1889.

We swagged camera through the bush at the head of this N.W. arm to Lake Hankinson, a charming sheet of water of eccentric form, being – to follow its windings – some three and a half miles long by an average width of half a mile. Beyond this lake, to the northward and westward, is another, known as Lake Thomson, from the discoverer, besides whom only three persons, so far as is known, have ever seen it. It is believed that, an old Maori path led by these lakes to George Sound, and Mr R. Henry claims to have found a practicable track thither. That being so, the Otago lake system has now been connected with the Sounds at four points – viz. (To take the southern first: (1) From the west arm of Lake Manapouri into Deep Cove, Smith Sound, which was proved by the search parties for the body of the hapless Professor Mainwaring Brown. 2. The track from the south-west arm of the middle fjord of Lake Te Anau, up the Doon Valley, into Caswell Sound, found by Messrs M’Kinnon and G. Tucker in March 1887. 3. From the north-west arm to George Sound by way of Lakes Haukinson and Thomson; and 4. The track found by M’Kinnon in October last year over the shoulder of Mount Balloon, connecting with Sutherland’s from Milford Sound to the celebrated Sutherland Fall.

To-day’s trip to Lake Hankinson was a failure as far as photography was concerned, heavy mist lying on the mountains until late in the afternoon, when the fog rose, and bohold – such a glorious sight! To the left, across the lake, and literally piercing the clouds, are the grand Barrier Peaks, while right ahead the lake is apparently closed in by a huge wall of snow, that, with a number of quaintly serrated peaks to the right, is faithfully mirrored in the calmest of waters. Too late for anything practical, we still remain gazing on the charming scene. Though more than the time allotted for this part of the lake has expired, I determined – should to-morrow be sufficiently fine – to expend yet another day here – just to secure this one picture. From the position of yonder mountain—facing, as it does, almost due south – we must take it early or not at all, as when the sun attains its full height—and that at this time of the year is not very much — ’twould look right into the lens and could not be shielded off. But if it bo at all achievable, a view of Lake Hankinson I must have. So to bed, devoutly hoping for an exceptional day to-morrow.

July 6, 1889.—

And that very exceptional day we duly got, for by the time that we reached Lake Hankinson again, there was only just sufficient mist, in long thin wreaths, belting the mountains half way up, to add another charm to the delicious scene. Scarcely had we made the needed “exposures” when the fog closed in again, and the mountain summits all around were clearly seen no more that day. We now struck tent and pulled away against what was to us a head wind, but would prove fair could we only get out into the S.W. arm, whither we were now bound. However, pulling and beating proving unequal to the task of outwitting the wind, and we camped about three miles down the arm, trusting that a slight change of wind would enable us to boom away to our new location to-morrow.

Lake Hankinson.

July 7, 1889.

Fortune, in the shape of a fair wind, again favoured us, and we crossed the fjord, and were soon merrily sailing up the S.W, arm. Our intention had been to camp about halfway up, and to “work” the country both ways from thence; but not seeing a good promise for a “pitch,” we sailed on and on until we found ourselves at the head, pulled into the Junction Burn, and were at once in the midst of some of the most glorious scenes we have as yet found on Lake Te Anau. Glorious indeed, though heavy mist only half reached what we trusted next day’s brightness would show to us. As one of the party put it, the place was just “putrid” with possible pictures. While the tent was being pitched and the usual routine of camp duties performed, the operator-in-chief took a billhook and started on a prospecting tour. Within a quarter of a mile from camp he surveyed, got out the specifications, accepted and completed himself three bush “contracts” in readiness for the morrow, “A contract is the name fittingly given by Sutherland, of Milford Sound, to the clearing away of superfluous trees and scrub, in order properly to “compose” the picture.

Taken from where Junction Burn runs into the Fiord, near where I imagine Burton camped. The range shown is unnamed, but stands between Junction Burn and the Doon River.

July 8, 1889

A glorious day, and camera hard at it working the ground prospected yesterday. Mountains in front of us (as we look up the arm), mountains to left of us, mountains to right of us – all making capital subjects, so utilised every every minute of the brief day. Though both arms of this middle fjord are imposing enough, I much prefer the south-west. The two valleys of the Doon and the Junction give it a charm which the other does not possess, although one must not fail to credit the latter with beautiful Lake Hankinson. In some respects this south-west arm recalls Hall’s Arm, Smith Sound, which I always deem second in grandeur only to majestic Milford. When we left Depot camp on June 29, we thought we should be absent four days and might possibly be even a week, so took tucker for that time; but events have proved that we cut it rather too fine, for the commissariat reports of late have been daily “out of this” and “out of that,” so that now all we have left are biscuits and tea; for milk, butter, tinned meats, and sugar have all gone; so that had it not been for the game we should have been in a poor plight. Game, though, has been none too plentiful, and we had been glad enough to eke out our duck and pigeon stews with Maori hens; and now even these have failed us. Some people are very ready with their ridicule of undue prominence given in all diaries of bush and mountain travel to this matter of food. But if these same persons could realise how truly important in these cases is this tucker question, they would cease their fuming, I think. He are we, just now, delayed by several days wet weather beyond our contemplated time nothing but the barest necessaries left, and our depot camp 16 miles away.

July 9, 1889.

Struck camp early, and the weather being still fine, worked the arm as we pulled down; then picked up a fair wind and bounced away to the depot.

July 11, 1889.

Made a new departure to-day from depot, with three weeks’ provisions – this time for the head of the lake, the Clinton river, and for as far along M’Kinnon’s track towards Sutherland Fall as the season will allow us to reach. The left-hand shore of the lake continues as fine as ever, and the North Fjord, as we pass the entrance – presents new vistas both of beauty and grandeur. On the right hand, though there is a fine belt of snowy peaks, ’tis at a distance of some 14 miles from the lake; though soon after passing North Fjord, the mountains on our right run much closer to the margin of the lake, which now narrows to about a mile. Passing Leo Island, we pull into one of the most charming spots we have yet seen – Safe or Happy Cove, eight miles from the Clinton river, and just opposite Mount Eglinton (6085 ft). We reach here just at dusk, but the moon being nearly full, we have presented to us a whole series of charming views in succession as we move along the wide curved beach. Oh, if to-morrow’s sun only realise the promise of to-night’s moon, what a rich harvest of pictures there will be! We are supposed only to have called in here to camp; but should the weather prove right and the views what we expect them to be, there will be no dragging this photographer away until he has bagged his game.

From Happy Cove. Looking south west.

On the Clinton River.

July 12, 1889.

There was no disappointment. The sun more than realised the promise of his silver sister, and ’twas only the dipping of the former luminary behind the mighty peaks that cut short a day most dear to the photographer’s heart. We discover that the ubiquitous bunny has duly made his way hither. I understand that this is the first time that his presence here – or anywhere between Worsley creek and the South Fjord has been verified. He has evidently worked along the eastern shore, and, coming north about, is bent upon conquering the whole western side with the ultimate intention, no doubt, of occupying the Sounds.

July 13, 1889.

Leaving Happy Cove we diligently sought out and seized all views on the way up, camping on Sandfly Point, near Worsley creek. This is the sixth camp we have pitched. It will be seen from the map that the head of the lake is shaped somewhat like a whale’s tail, and we are now in the left-hand fin. [But I don’t think that “fin” is the proper word.]

Shot from Sandfly Point. Looks over Lake Te Anau and up the valley of Worsley Stream.

July 14, 1889.

Another change of weather: very wet. As we lie in our tent we are enabled to study the various noises and calls of the birds. For instance, there is the harsh croak of the grebe; the mournful whistle of the mischievous Maori hen; and the rasping note of the kaka, alternating as it does with a musical whistle. Then comes the sweet quavering of the kiwi, contrasting with the angry catlike screech of the kakapo, which again is varied by his wonderful booming note, only heard at pairing time. There is, too, the startled cry of the teal, and the sibillant whistle of the blue duck clearly to be heard through the roar of the mountain torrent, by which he delights to make his home. We listen, too, to the home-suggesting quack of the grey duck, and to that most persistent of the voices of the night—the New Zealand owl’s anti-Semitic cry of “More pork.”

When the door of the tent is closed for the night and all are snug in blankets, it is the correct thing in camping custom to indulge in an hour’s reading. A pointed stick, pushed into the ground between the beds, carries a candle secured by a strip of flax – the true bush candlestick. My reading tonight is Carlyle’s “French Revolution,” and that part which describes with such wondrous power the fall of the Bastille on the 14th July 1789 – exactly 100 years ago. What a grand poem is this work, and how germane to the mighty theme is the very ruggedness of the language! How vivid, how startling in colour, are the word paintings of almost every page! Let supercilious “Ouida” term his style “grotesque, unpolished, and even barbarous,” if she will. She even includes Dickens in the same condemnation. Let her sneer. Why, she would be capable of patronising Shakespeare himself, and of lamenting his lack of “style.” [Titfaddle here interjects that he cannot see what on earth all this has to do with Te Anau.]

July 16, 1889.

To-day we pulled up ’tother part of the whale’s tail into the mouth of the Clinton river. We had now to leave the whaleboat to drag the empty flattie through the rapids – as the river, like the lake, is now at its lowest winter level – and to load up in the calm reach above. Ever since we came to Happy Cove the scenery has been increasing in grandeur, every few hundred yards exhibiting new combinations of mountain, of bush, and of water, and every succeeding picture vicing in charm with its predecessor. All my attempts to describe adequately the scenic glories around me are, I feel, miserable indeed; for the bounteous wealth of nature here truly “makes breath poor and speech unable.” As we punt up the Clinton—now gently gliding along a calm deep pool, now pushing aside the pendent branches of the o’er-arching trees, and now foroing our way up rushing rapids, wo enjoy our first experience of the attractions of this now famous river. As Mount Mackenzie comes into view – though yet a long way off – with the spurs of mighty Mount Anau on the right, and an almost perpendicular wooded wall on the left, I felt impelled to say, “Well, if this fairly samples the Clinton Gorge, it will be nearly equal far-famed Otira!” Two miles of this punting brings us to the hut which is to be our headquarters for some little time. It is about 13ft by lift, built of slabs, with an iron roof. It is raised on piles about 3ft, so as to be well above the highest flood level. There are two tiers of bunks on either side (eight in all), with a table and a settle – luxuries appreciated by us after a good spell of tenting.

Not modern-day Mount Mackenzie, but an un-named peak. The branches of the Clinton River meet below the central peak and run to Lake Te Anau, where this photograph was taken.

Mount Anau and the Clinton River.

July 19, 1889.

In most glorious weather we carried our photographic traps along the bush track for about a quarter of a mile, and at once found subjects enough for the whole day. Indeed, I find that my record shows that this day I bagged the largest number of “exposures” during the whole trip. Mount Mackenzie – now much nearer than when he “sat” to me three days ago, is a most important feature in the landscape, and is rapidly establishing himself as a photographic favourite. As we chat over the day’s work, ere turning in, I say, “Mac, I declare that this gorge is quite equal to the Otira!”

July 20, 1889.

Turned out early this morning, for we had a heavy day’s work before us; that is to say to carry the camera with three dozen plates, and a tent along the bush track to the point we have fixed upon for our ultimate camp – a point from which we can again carry our apparatus forward, do a day’s work and return thither at night. We must therefore pitch our tent there, leave camera, &c, return to hut, and then next day swag up blankets and provisions. Now, 10 miles of bush walking – that is five each way – carrying a swag half the distance; may not appear to some (my friend Titfaddle, say) to be much of a trial; but, speaking for myself, I know it was the heaviest day’s work I have done since I carried my camera up the burning cone of Tongariro last November three years, and this although my two young and sturdy mates had, as compared with their own swags, made mine, like Midshipman Easy’s nurse’s baby, “a very little one, ma’am.”

July 21, 1889.

We duly carried out yesterday’s programme, and to-day started again from the hut with blankets and tucker. The track follows the right branch of the river, and for nearly the whole distance is cut through the heaviest of bush. Creeks are bridged by trees of suitable length being thrown across and roughly adzed to give a footing, while handrails are added where needed. I can easily imagine that in summer one could get along this track pretty gaily, but when the ground is frozen and these tree bridges are covered with ice, one discovers that it is not only " the bright day … that craves wary walking.” Our camp was pitched on a grassy flat of some 30 acres, tussocks peeping through the snow and ice all around. Indeed we had to make our fire on ice six inches thick, and to coax the flames by incessant fanning with a tin dinner plate to induce them to give heat enough to boil the billy.

July 22, 1889.

After a smart walk this morning we were enabled to plant the camera in a most commanding position. Right ahead, in full view, is the saddle of Mount Balloon, and just over that the far-famed Sutherland Fall. To our right towers skyward mighty Mount O’Rorke, backed up by our old friend Mackenzie; while to the left is the curious pinnacle of Mount Fisher, with an immense rock apparently just balanced on the summit, and ready to topple into the valley at our feet – a sheer drop of 3000 to 4000 feet. We are now nine miles along the track from the head of the lake, and about seven from Mount Balloon. To reach the latter in the depth of winter (without a load) would be no doubt possible, and that’s about all; so as our objects are purely practical and anti-Quixotic, we turn our backs, take up our “exposed” plates, and return to camp.

Mt Balloon from the Clinton River.

July 24, 1889.

The ground – pictorially speaking – has been so rich, that we have taken two days on the return trip to the hut, and as we sit round the fire, discussing a plateful of rich bird soup, I am forced to the admission, “the gorge of the Clinton river is positively superior to the Otira!” I feel sure, too, that such will be the verdict of all travellers; and when a coach road has been scarped (as it must be before long), say a couple of hundred feet up the hill sides, I believe the ride through from the head of Lake Te Anau, over the Balloon Saddle, taking in the Sutherland Fall, and so on to Milford Sound, will be regarded as the premier scenic glory of our most glorious land. Even in such a hasty description of the Clinton Gorge as mine, the view at the junction of the two branches of the river must not be omitted, for it is one of the gems of the district. After a weary tramp through the dark, dense bush, the track makes a turn, the trees fall back, and yonder, through a delicate fringe of supplejack, vine, and New Zealand lawyer, at the head of the east branch of the Clinton, we see the twin snowy beauties – Mounts Mitchelson and Fergus – the picture being framed by the colossal walls of Mount Mackenzie on the one side, and the spurs of huge Anau on the other. Soon swags were slipped from shoulders, the camera was set up, and every remaining plate was exposed upon the I delicious scene. I remember that, some wiseacre took exception in one of the local papers to the nomenclature of the mountains by the explorer M’Kinnon and others. I wonder whether a certain string of names to bo found in the centre of Otago would be more to this worthy’s taste. There may be found “Hogburn,” “Sowburn,” “Eweburn,” “Houndburn,” “Fillyburn,” and many more. Now, I had always thought that this was the unprompted work of some surveyor of pronounced bucolic tastes, but I now learn that I have done that gentleman (whose name I don’t know) an injustice and that the truth of the matter is this – he was about to give to the neighbouring Mount Ida some fitting classic companions, and had fixed upon “Mount Pelion,” “Mount Olympus,” “Scamander creek,” and so on; when his official superior gave him a wigging, saying, “Leave out all this classic tomfoolery, and put down names within the grasp of the people,” or words to that effect, and that’s the reason that we have a whole district redolont of the farmyard!

Mounts Mitchelson and Fergus.

July 26, 1889.

Left the hut which has been our home for the past 10 days, loaded up the flattie, and dropped down the river, stopping at an island half way to get another “shot” at our favourite Mount Mackenzie; but the weather is coquettish, and cannot decide to be fine enough, so after waiting for three hours, not altogether patiently, we put away the camera and turned our backs upon our friend. We found the whaleboat all right, though the rats had been aboard. Evidently disgusted at not being able to get at our few remaining stores, which were duly tinned up, they had eaten through a tarpaulin and made an interesting open-work pattern of one of the sails. As we had come up the west side of the lake we took the eastern side for our return journey, and pitched our ninth camp about four miles down upon Nurse creek.

July 27, 1889.

Did a capital day’s work; weather splendid; subjects “as thick as three in a bed.” [Titfaddle, who is helping me to “read proof,” suggests that “leaves in Vallambrosa “would be a more fitting comparison ; but I think that that quotation has appeared in print before.] Upon the subject of these same “subjects” I want to unburden myself a little, and this occasion will do as well as another. A photographer, at considerable expense, carries his camera into the mountains, endures considerable “roughing,” devotes himself to the one pursuit of photographing the scenic glories around him – in fact, lives, moves, and has his being in the making of negatives and yet more negatives. He spots a scene; tries it from this point; tries it from that; finally decides; pitches his camera; summons his staff; sets one with axe to fell a tree, and another with billhook to clear away scrub; and so “composes” the picture. Meanwhile he takes note of the condition of the light, the position of the sun, the character of the clouds, and the calmness or otherwise of the water. Eventually he produces a picture which obtains for him some little kudos. An “artist” sees it, purchases a copy for, say, eighteenpence, and makes an effective oil painting from it – being indebted to it for everything but colour. Is the photographer entitled to any portion of the credit? For instance, I saw in an exhibition in Dunedin some time ago a large oil painting of Passage Point Cove, Acheron Passage, Dusky Sound. Every detail of that picture was copied from a photograph of mine. I found the spot and composed the picture, and I think I may say that I know that the painter could not possibly have been on the ground. Ought not that work of art to have been described as “painted by So-and-So, from a photograph by Burton Brothers”? Or is an artist justified in saying, “The photograph I used was mine; I paid one and-sixpence for it” ? I pause for a reply. The Australian illustrated papers are also sinners in this respect. They copy our photographs and then coolly, put their artist’s name on the engraving! Even the New Zealand Government use them without the slightest acknowledgment. How is this for “protection to native industry,” eh, Sir Harry Atkinson?

July 29, 1889.

Camping last night under End Peak, this morning we crossed the lake, and pulled and sailed up the North Fjord, tenting on the Glaisnock creek at the head. Beautiful exceedingly as are many points on the main lake, and grand as is the head, Te Anau’s true glories are the fjords. This North Fjord maintains an average width of about three-quarters of a mile until a little more than half-way up, when it suddenly narrows into much less than 100 yards and then immediately widens again to its original dimensions, thus forming above a calm pool of vast extent fit for an aquatic contest for the championship of the world; while the world itself, or many millions of it, could be gathered – ranged tier upon tier to a height of thousands of feet – along the sloping sides of the mighty amphitheatre. But I must premise that it would be necessary first that the forest should be cleared all around and right up towards the snow – a Titanic task – unless the spectators could be content to roost in the branches. As we round point after point the scene incessantly changes. New alpine peaks – in shape beautiful, quaint, terrible – come into view, change in form as we alter our angle of vision, and are hidden; to be succeeded by others and by others again, until I am almost in a delirium of delight; and I ask myself if it be really true that I am fortunate enough to be the first to depict such glory and such grandeur!

The Narrows, North Fiord.

Head of North Fiord at Glaisnock Burn.

July 31, 1889.

This forenoon, as we were just deciding to pitch our camp in the narrows described above, we saw away down the fjord the smoke of Brodrick’s little steamer. A gentleman who had taken up a run of 20,000 acres lying between the North and Middle Fjords had chartered the vessel to enable him to view his new property; but as all below the forest line is covered with bush to the very water’s edge, and above that line is covered with snow, one was not surprised to hear that he thought “there was a lack of good winter country!” Though I mentally added that if “wintry” country would do, it was surely not lacking. Brodrick had been thoughtful enough to bring up our mail – upon the chance of stumbling across us – so we were able for the first time in five weeks to learn something about those near and dear to us, and also to gather from five weeks’ file of the O. D. T. what had been happening in the world since we had left civilisation behind us.

August 3, 1889.

Though we have had hitherto some bad weather, still fine days have been the rule; but just of late there has been a change, for this is the fourth successive idle day for the camera, and yesterday is marked as the first time we have needed a “fire-fly” since the 14th July. Work being thus suspended, we “sit upon the ground and tell sad stories,” such as that of “The Pricked Camera.” [Titfaddle insists that I should relate that story here, as he says it is ridiculous to give such a provoking title and to vouchsafe no particulars.] I bow, on this occasion, to Titfaddle’s judgment. Once upon a time (that’s a better beginning than “in days ;of yore,” I think) I was engaged in a “shadowcatching” (descriptive phrase invented by Captain Malcolm) expedition on ’tother side of the mountains now in view, and was on board one of the U.S.S. Company’s floating palaces; when, for convenience, I once left my camera, all set up, in the “barber’s shop,” lying comfortably, and as I thought safely, on a lounge. This trip finished, I was preparing for another, in the course of which I overhauled my apparatus, examining carefully the bellows of the camera to see if it were perfectly light-tight; when, to my surprise and almost horror, I found a number of small, perfectly spherical holes pierced through the leathers. Wondering what kind of insect could have bored these, I called my partner’s attention to them, when he at once said, “Pinholes, and done on purpose!” I replied, “Nonsense! The world does not contain any one capable of so scoundrelly a’ trick!” And thereupon I set off again, and had a good time in the mountains, “working” Lakes Hawea and Wanaka; making my way up both branches of the Matukituki river, taking mighty Mount Aspiring, and doing other suchlike things, as need not be related here. On my return to Dunedin my partner handed me a “letter, saying, " Here’s a brief for you ; now you can go for the fellow.” It contained the story of the pricked camera, written by a brother photographer, and related how a third person, who also carried a camera on the expedition, bad boasted to him – “I have put in a pill for Burton; for seeing his camera lying in the barber’s shop, I just jabbed it full of holes with this pin !” Now it may be well to explain what the effect of such “jabbing” would be. The light would come in at these pinholes, and the plates would be “fogged”; and consequently every such plate would be spoilt, and all the time of the operator and all the expenses of the trip would be wasted. But such did not occur, because this photographer – by way of not giving a chance away – always carefully fastens his velvet focussing cloth all round his camera. On one occasion, however, as he afterwards called to mind, a strong wind blew the cloth off just as the plates were exposed, and every one of these was “fogged,” and not one of the rest. The trick was so gratuitous – so dastardly – that I was strongly urged to publish the man’s name in the leading Home professional journals, and so make him a byeword and a hissing throughout the whole photographic world; but I concluded to “let him off” on providing me with a new camera.

Lake Te Anau, perhaps Largs Peak.

August 5, 1889.

For the last day or two I have thought that the zeal of my staff had been slightly slackening, and when I made inquiries I could scarcely wonder; for we had again exceeded our proposed absence from the depot, and the “tucker box” had become suspiciously hollow and light. I accordingly announced that we would just secure one more view of this marvellous fjord from Lugar Burn, whence – looking; back to the head – a panorama of snowy peaks of surpassing loveliness was spread open. This done, and recognising that they could not be expected to live on scenery alone, whatever I might do, I declared myself content, and we soon bowled along before a fair wind down the fjord, past Entrance Island, across the lake, and after a run of 2i miles pitched our fourteenth camp in Pleasant Bay – a sweet spot, but forming in its quiet, unpretentious beauty as perfect a contrast to the scenes we had just quitted as could well be imagined. As the sun hastens to his setting, all tho distant snowy peaks away towards the east present their silver faces just tipped with moat brilliant gold. Gradually, even the highest mountains lose their golden crest, and the pearly whiteness of the chain changes into two shades of delicate light blue, while the sky immediately above blushes in sweetest pink. Yet a few minutes and the mountain tops are outlined hard and grey against the heavens, and night has fallen.

August 7, 1889.

Yesterday we called at Centre Island – most appropriate name, as the maps will show – took a parting shot at the peaks now far away in the distance, but close under which we have spent these last weeks, and returned to depot; while to-day we took on board all our remaining supplies, and finally broke up this camp. We intend – all going well – to be at the foot of the lake again on Saturday night next, the 10th inst., though we have one more fjord – the South – still to do.

Middle Fiord shot from Centre Island.

August 9, 1889.

There is considerable similarity in one respect between the North and South Fjords, and that is in their wonderful narrowing in; with this variation, that the narrows in the latter are about 15 miles from the mouth and only two from the head, instead of being just about midway as in the former. If asked to give an opinion as to the relative pictorial claims of the three fjords, I should place them thus: 1, North; 2, South; 3, Middle; – but with the South running the North one very closely. In my past attempts at describing the other wonders of most wonderful Te Anau I have fairly used up all tho dictionary words I know, and am now reduced to the alternative of working them all over again or of declaring myself a philological bankrupt, placing myself in the hands of some literary official assignee, filing a portentous list of what I feel I owe to the reader, but confessing that my assets are just nil. So, on leaving the South Fjord, I can only feebly say that if anyone thinks that Mount Owen, Mount Lyell, or Mount Maury are at all second-rate mountains, or that the view up Chester Valley or that from the Delta Burn are of little account, he had better go up and look for himself.

Mount Lyell, South Fiord.

Mount Maury, South Fiord.

Head of South Fiord from Delta Burn.

August 10, 1889.

We are enabled to keep to our time table; as, after pulling 21 miles (having first done a good day’s photographic work, mind ye), we got our tent pitched at the foot of the lake a little after midnight. It is just seven weeks since we first arrived here, and this is the seventeenth camp we have made during the expedition.

August 11, 1889.

Methinks the reader (should such there be for this yarn) will wish to have one more item of “useful information” afforded him – namely, as to the extent of the population of the district. The inhabitants of the whole country over which we have roamed those past weeks are (in addition to ourselves) six—namely, four at Mr Melland’s station, and two at the foot of the lake. And these latter are Mr B. Henry and Mr (or “Captain”) Brodrick – whose dwellings are about two miles apart—both, like all who live solitary lires, “men of character” – Mr Henry being an enthusiastic naturalist, with strong Darwinian views, and with original opinions on many other subjects; and Captain Brodrick remarkable for the exhaustive fund of piquant anecdotes with which he seasons conversation. And in most of these same anecdotes the narrator is ingeniously made to occupy the centre place. This is the more noticeable as many of them seemed like very old friends to one. In fact, these words of Jacques are not altogether inapplicable to the worthy captain: “in his brain – which is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage – he hath strange places crammed with observations, the which he vents in mangled forms.”

One of his stories – quite new to me – may be equally novel to others: – A landlady of a wayside public, needing a servant girl, despatched a “rouseabout” to Invercargill to meet an emigrant ship and bring up a new chum lassie. He was duly furnished with sufficient cash, and started off in great glee, but, alas! only succeeded in reaching the next “shanty” but one, where, looking upon the whisky when it was amber coloured, he knocked down the whole of the money. In a day or two he turned up again at home, and upon the mistress demanding, “Where is the girl ?” he replied, “Why, you see, mum, the girls are all brought out nowadays by the true ‘fridgeratin’ pro-cess, and when I got down there they hadn’t begun to thaw ’em out, so I thought I wouldn’t wait!” To give a further instance of the sparseness of the population hereabout. Let a line be drawn upon the map from Mount Prospect, through the foot of Lake Te Anau, due west, as far as the sea—which would be about 60 miles; and another from the same mountain due north, also to the sea—some 80 miles: the whole country enclosed by these lines and by the sea does not contain a dozen men, and not a single woman!

Before finally leaving Te Anau, I may perhaps be allowed to summarise its attractions; though I confess that the list, when I write it, seems rather suggestive of an auctioneer’s catalogue. Anyway, here are the points of greatest beauty as they struck me. They are given in the order in which we visited them:

Lake Hankinson, beyond the north-west arm of the Middle Fjord.
The head of the south-west arm of the Middle Fjord, on the Junction burn.
Safe or Happy Cove.
The head of the lake, from below Worsley creek.
Mount Mackenzie, from the island near the mouth of the Clinton river.
Mount Mackenzie and Mount Anau, from the head of the river, about a quarter of a mile above the hut known as the “doormat.”
The junction of the two branches of the Clinton, with Mounts Mitchelson and Fergus.
From half-way up the North Fjord all the way to the head; a grand succession of pictures – “The Narrows” especially fine.
The head of the South Fjord, from Delta burn.

Any three of these would be sufficient to establish the lakes’ reputation. If I were required to make a selection of the three very best, I should, after hesitation, declare for Nos. 3, 5, and 7 – though perhaps No. 8 could in itself supply strong candidates for all the places of honour.

August 14, 1889.

It has occupied these past four days to get our stuff moved from the foot of Te Anau as far as Manapouri station en route for the lake of that name. We spent two nights at Lynwood station, where we were most hospitably entertained by. Mr Connor; and we are to-night made heartily welcome by Mr Mitchell, who, with the enthusiasm of a true lover of nature, enters warmly into our plans, and smooths the difficulties in the way of the second part of our expedition. Accordingly, arrangements for boat, &c. having been all made, we set out on.

Lynwood Station.

August 15, 1889.

Plodding behind our waggon, with a smart snowstorm pelting in our faces. This was rather refreshing, with 18 miles between us and our destination! However, by midday the weather had improved, and the mist rolling away, the line of Manapouri’s mountains – marvellously beautiful stretched across the horizon, miles away beyond the intervening flat. Just at nightfall we reach our camping ground – a little bush in the very centre of the surveyed township of Manapouri, just where the river Waiau leaves the lake.

Waiau River exiting Lake Manapouri.

Waiau River exiting Lake Manapouri, looking back up the Lake.

Our party, it should be said, is now increased to four by the addition of Mr George Tucker, who had two years ago accompanied Sir M’Kinnon in the exploration of the track between the S.W. arm of the Middle Fjord of Lake Te Anau and Caswell Sound, as before related in this diary. Before admitting this gentleman as a member of the party, the chief pointed out to him that – for obvious reasons – should provisions unfortunately run short and it be necessary that one person be appropriated to the needs of the rest, he must see that there could be no question of casting of lots. He at once cheerfully acquiesced in this view of matters, and took service with this condition expressly understood.

August 16, 1889.

A soaking day keeps us in camp, and after the charms of euchre and cribbage have palled, the leader is called upon for another of his true stories. “All right, boys,” said he, “as a pendent to the tale of ’ The: Pricked Camera,’ which I related to you on Te Anau, I will now give you the account of ‘The Planted Canoe.’ You must know that long before the existence of the Sutherland Fall was publicly known, I had made two attempts to get thither – the first nearly eight years ago, the second some two years later. The former was rendered nugatory by the weather, but the latter by other influences. The reading public are tolerably familiar now with the mode of reaching the great fall from Milford Sound – namely, first by boating across the sound into the Arthur river; second by swagging all requisites through about two miles of bush on to Lake Ada, Thence a canoe carried one up into the Poseidon river, whence the fall lies about seven and a-half miles away. On the former occasion the first two stages of the journey were effected, and delicious views of Lake Ada were obtained, but bad weather prevented further progress; but on the second attempt there wore two photographers and two artists. Again the boating across the Arthur was done; the track through the bush was negotiated; and there the trip – for two of the persons concerned – ended, for there was no canoe to be found on Lake Ada! This was a pretty kettle of fish, and nothing apparently remained but a return to the “city” of Milford, whence one photographer and one artist were carried to Dunedin a few days later. This photographer had his doubts, which were strengthened when he learned that after he and his artist friend had left Milford the canoe had actually been found, and the others had been enabled to catch a view of the Sutherland Fall, though a long way off. By-and-bye it came to his ears that one of the party who had remained behind had positively boasted publicly that he had surreptitiously stolen away one day “upon an artistic expedition” and hidden the canoe. And against such miserably mean tricks as these has the enthusiastic photographer of New Zealand scenery to contend! This relation filled every member of the auditory with indignation, and I really think that had the above individual fallen into the hands of any one of my “boys” he would have experienced what the French call " a bad quarter of an hour.”

August 18, 1889.

Yesterday we pulled from the Waiau round to the head of Hope or Monument Arm. It was a matter of common rumour that in the bush at the back of us might be found a herd of wild cattle – owning no man as master; and as our stock of meat was scarcely sufficient for the time we purposed spending on Manapouri, we found that we must vary photography with a little hunting, with the view of bagging a wild bullock, if such were achievable. Accordingly H.’s double-barrelled breech-loader having a bullet carefully fitted into a cartridge for the right-hand barrel – [N.B. Not the choke-bore] – we started in search of our beef. Pushing our way through the dense bush, we found traces of our intended prey, and proceeding cautiously along, spied in an open space a fine ox who was suspiciously sniffing the air, that was evidently revealing the presence of his enemies. Stalking to leeward, at length a chance presented itself, and our crack shot aimed just above the shoulder. The ball, as we afterwards found, went right through the creature’s body and broke the off leg. Desperately rushing forward on three legs, he unhesitatingly charged us, when two cartridges of shot were discharged into him, and Tucker finished him off with a blow on the head with an axe. Soon the hide was off, and two of the party might be seen marching along the beach – towards the camp with a quarter of beef slung between them on a staff, suggesting thoughts of those who “searched the land” of Canaan, and returned bearing the huge bunch of grapes from the Brook of Eschol.

Thus relieved from anxiety as to the kaikai question, we took ground for our twentieth camp on a little neck of land at the mouth of Monument Arm; and at the risk of repeating well worn phrases, I must say it was one of the most beautiful pitches we have yet made. On one side of the neck is a grand panorama of half the horizon the centre formed by the Cathedral peaks; then, performing a right-about-face, some 20 steps brings us to a lovely bay, whose background is filled in by the quaintly-shaped Monument and the distant Mount Titiroa.

The Monument and Mount Titiroa, Lake Manapouri.

August 19, 1889.

To-day proving too windy for photography, it was resolved to devote to prospecting for minerals. Accordingly the whole force was divided into four parties, who were instructed to spread themselves over the country, and not to return until they had made some discovery. Towards mid-day, however, all were gathered again at the camp. Upon rigorous inquiry it was elicited that the only discovery made by three of the parties was that it was “tucker time;” but the fourth had something to tell and something to show. And this was – coal! And none of your Green Island lignite ; but coal, black and bright as Kaitangata, and (perhaps) as valuable as Coalbrookdale. The proud discoverer conducted the whole expeditionary force to the spot, where truly the outcrop was easily traced for a considerable distance towards the meridian sun, with an easterly dip of 145deg. (more or less). The excited party, laden with specimens, at once hurried back to camp and made a series of exhaustive and exhausting experiments, chiefly by means of a clay tobacco pipe, to test the gas-producing qualities, by which the value of the discovery was conclusively proved.

August 25, 1889.

We have now spent eight nights in this camp, stuck up by incessant westerly gales. We had originally appropriated 15 days to Manapouri; and lo! 10 are gone, and scarcely anything done! After dinner this evening (stewed wild steak, with slapjacks, and pampelunas to follow) it fell to Tucker’s turn to supply “a yarn.” With the modesty characteristic of true ability he tried to back out of the duty, and it was only by judicious pumping that we drew from him some of the experiences of a professional “poisoner,” for such is the appalling name of one of our friends’ avocations. We thus learnt that the mode of clearing runs of the intrusive bunny has altered of late. Whereas there used to be considerable hesitancy as to touching the phosphorised oats with the fingers – so much so that a spoon was used to deposit the little heaps as the poisoner walked along; now he does all his work from the saddle. Dipping his fingers into a wallet strung round his waist, he deftly drops a little heap on the ground without dismounting, and so rapidly gets over the ground. He makes straight lines right across the run, about two chains apart, drawing them closer together in gullies and bare places, whither the rabbits resort in the evening—the elders to gossip and the youngers to play. Titfaddle says that this is an unfeeling parody of Campbell’s beautiful line, The weary to rest and the wounded to die. I indignantly rejoin that I am incapable of attempting to parody a poem of such exquisite beauty. But Titfaddle always was something of an ass.

Photographers' Camp, Lake Manapouri. Note the camera and tripod behind the gentleman on the left.

August 26, 1889.

Our aneroid has begun to rise, and though the day opened with showers, we were not discouraged, for we have learned to trust " Ane,” and truly she did not deceive us, for by-and-bye the mist rolled away, or remained only in thin wreaths across the mountains, and plates were exposed as fast as pictures could be composed and focussed. And thus we were at last enabled to break up the longest established camp of the whole trip.

August 27, 1889.

From last night’s temporary pitch we pulled away up lake, passing the South Arm on our left hand, until we came to Fairy Beach, just opposite the North Arm, which we have decided is as far as the time remaining at our disposal will enable us to reach. I think I have made it plain that the late visit to Te Anau was my first; but this is the second time I have been on Manapouri. I first saw it eight years ago, and then got as far as the head of the West Arm, and thence some little distance inland up the Spey Burn – not very far from the scene of the disappearance from human ken of the late esteemed Professor Mainwaring Brown. And yonder – peering over the bushcovered point in front of us – are the very peaks of the Matterhorn Mountains, especially the curious Leaning Peak which overhangs the country where the adventurous professor found a grave as yet unknown to living man.

Fairy Beach, Lake Manapouri.

August 29, 1889.

Isn’t this just wondrous weather for winter? It is positively-photographically speaking – too fine, for the sky is perfectly cloudless. Made pictures from various points of Pomona Island and from the Beehive, and then camped on Midwinter Island. Every evening for the last four we have made a new camp, or, as H—– put it as he was dozing off, we nightly pitch our moving tent A day’s march nearer home. [He was thinking of the Kaikorai Valley.] And so we now bid farewell to our twentyfourth and last camp, for to-morrow we expect to house in the hut on the Waiau, and so onward towards civilisation again.

Cathedral Peaks from Pomona Island, Lake Manapouri.

Head of Lake Manapouri from the Beehive.

On Midwinter Island, Lake Manapouri.

August 30, 1889.

We had arranged that the traps were to meet us this evening at the foot of the lake, so that we could reach Manapouri station next day, Centre Hill on Sunday, Lumsden the day after, and home on Tuesday, September 3. Manapouri, for beauty – as distinguished from grandeur – had been my first love (that is, ere I saw Te Anau); and now, under the witchery of the scenes that unfold themselves as we pull across that nine miles of water between Midwinter Island and the Waiau, I am fain to return to my allegiance. Then memory brings back the charms of Te Anau, and I waver again, until between sight of this and recollections of that, I declare that between such competing charms I will make no invidious selection; and, truth to say, as to Te Anau and Manapouri there should be no mean rivalry, but just a generous competition. As we glide along, on this most delicious day, scarcely a breath of wind ruffling the surface of the lake, and Rona Island, the Beehive, Pomona, and Spectacle Island, with the snow-clad peaks around and beyond – now showing, and now concealing themselves – making ever new combinations, one asks oneself, “Can nature at its very best give us anything more lovely than this ?”

The Monument, Lake Manapouri.

August 31, 1889.

The traps did not keep tryst last night, but turned up to-day at noon. The drivers had lost their way, and had to doss – supperless – in the buggy.

September 1, 1889.

Consequently, we mean to do two days’ work to-day – i.e., to get to Manapouri station, there to pick up our heavy stuff, and so to Centre Hill. This we eventually managed, though the horses found it a “teaser” to drag the vehicles through the heavy gorge road, and we duly reached Centre Hill before 10 o’clock, thus making of none effect the kind predictions of half a dozen prophets, who had declared that we must infallably come to utter grief on the way. The only circumstance during the evening drive worth recording was the appearance of the most perfect lunar rainbow I ever saw.

Ere leaving the station a hurried glance at a “Witness” showed us that the Government proposed to put a sum on the Estimates in recognition of the work of M’Kinnon in opening up the Te Anau-Sutherland Fall track. We were delighted to see this, for surely seldom has public money been more fittingly bestowed.

I am likely to be asked what I think of Te Anau as compared with the better known lakes – Wakatipu, Hawea, and Wanaka – so I have tried to formulate my impressions. Wakatipu possesses two immense advantages in Earnslaw and the Remarkables, and I know nothing in all the other Otago lakes to excel these. But then she is handicapped by the general barrenness of her mountain sides, and by the comparative plainness of the outline of her shores. The same may be said in some measure of Hawea and Wanaka, though the latter can boast of an attraction peculiar to itself in the lakelet on the very summit of Pigeon Island. Now, Te Anau has in her three fjords an advantage positively unique and, together with Manapouri, in the groups of islets, dropped into fitting place by Nature with such insidious art, a charm beyond the power of my pen to describe. So that to sum up, I think the traveller in search of the beautiful should not fail to visit them all, so as to form his own opinion as to their various claims to pre-eminence in loveliness and in grandeur.

September 3, 1889.

As we speed homeward by the express train, I look back upon the last ten weeks, and have gratefully to admit that the weather upon the whole has been wonderfully fine, and exceptionally favourable to photography. ‘Tis true that twice we have been seriously hindered – on the first occasion in the Middle Fjord of Te Anau for seven days; and in the second, at the mouth of Monument Arm, Lake Manapouri, for eight; but beyond these we seldom lost a day. I have “exposed” far more than 400 plates; and so with pardonable self-satisfaction run into Dunedin railway station, ready to meet Titfaddle, having proved, despite that worthy’s vaticinations, that I did right in Wintering on Lakes Te Anau and Manapouri.

–

See also: Seven Weeks with the Camera among the Glaciers of Mt Cook, George Moodie’s 1893 account of his trip to Mt Cook.

Melbourne Photography XIII

Sat, 04 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Enlightenment ideals lead to orthogonal cities. Blocks of houses with roads intersecting at right angles. Intentionally designed, orderly, and rationale. Fitzroy and surrounding suburbs echo this sentiment, though the houses and roads have had their aesthetic margins and padding removed. No empty space for the sake of it, instead neighbouring houses that share walls, and front doors that open directly onto the footpath. Faces of houses reflect the view that magpies see from the sky above.

Fitzroy has been a favourite early morning photo walk location of mine. I first visited a couple of years ago and ended up taking one of my favourite photographs of recent memory. I’ve returned several times, indeed to the same doorway, but have been unable to recreate the vibe of that photograph.

2023 MVP.

The shot of the building below is directly across the street. Comparing the two photographs, the only thing they have in common is the style of composition. The shot below has more depth, with the street being on the near-plane, then the footpath, and then the sign and door shelter. The shot from 2023 is simpler. At first glance it’s completely flat, and then the eye discovers the door shelter, and subtleties of the footpath and detail around the building. Lighting, contrast, and revealed detail in the picture (done by natural lighting, not post-processing) are miles apart. I felt the conditions weren’t bad on the 2025 day, but evidently not as good as 2023. I had a polariser on the lens, though still may have overexposed the walls meaning the layers of paint covering graffiti aren’t visible.

2023 was shot on a 50mm lens on Kodak Double X 35mm film. The composition is tighter, but reveals a lot more detail in the frame for the eye to explore. The lighting and shadows make it. 2025 was shot on a 40mm lens with Ilford Pan 100 35mm film. There’s more happening in the wider frame, but less to examine in detail. The wall seems too far away.

Across the street, in 2025.

The remaining photographs of the day.

Seven Weeks with the Camera among the Glaciers of Mt Cook

Fri, 22 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Mount Cook, Hooker Valley.

George Moodie’s account and photographs from his February 1893 trip to Mount Cook.

Text sourced from the NZ Alpine Journal Vol I, No. 4, November 1893.
Photographs from the Te Papa Digital Archive.

I have attempted to find, locate, and place the photographs that Moodie describes into the relevant areas of his account. I think these are mostly correct, however there may be inaccuracies.

–

I LEFT Dunedin for Messrs. Burton Bros., on 28th Feb., for Mt. Cook, with my mind made up to get a really good set of alpine photos, pictorial and otherwise, by taking the camera to the most difficult and interesting places where camera had never before been placed. Knowing such scenes must have a special charm for alpine climbers, and perchance be edifying,

I made a special feature of my trip the getting of the camera to the very birth of the three great glaciers – the Tasman, Hooker, and Mueller. I shall say a few words here regarding the wondrous charms of the head ice of the Mueller on which I shall enlarge later. I should strongly recommend this as a good trip for tourists and to all interested in grand alpine sights; it is easy of access with a moderate swag, and, from what I could gather at the Hermitage, to go right to the head is a route never taken by the tourist—in fact my worthy guide was never there before.

We made one camp about four or five miles from the terminal face, and up to that place is the hardest walking, the glacier being very rough with large loose boulders. At one spot we came to a steep precipice, a charming place to climb, with a stream running down. As we get near the head of the moraine we find ourselves on to the clear ice, which is beautifully smooth and quite easy to walk on, the only danger being crevasses filled up with soft snow. Otherwise the head of this glacier is as smooth as a billiard table compared with the Tasman and Hooker. The sight at the head is truly grand; on the left is Barron Saddle, and from there the view is most extensive. Mt. Sealy stands right before us, looking so noble. How we longed to scale him! We had a route all planned out, but time would not permit of our carrying or rather trying to carry out such an extensive expedition. I should strongly advocate Government’s putting a hut on the Mueller Glacier, for it most certainly will some day be one of the features of the Mt. Cook district.

Face of the Mueller Glacier.

I determined first to tackle the great Tasman, and by aid of pack horses managed to get an 18 x 14 camera, also a smaller camera, a most handy size which I should strongly recommend to alpine climbers, namely 7 ½ x 5, and a rare swag of plates, deposited safely at the Ball Hut, where we arrived just at dark. We made a hearty tea, lay down in comfortable bunks and looked eagerly forward for the morrow, when my eyes would rest for the first time on a true glacier. It is amazing how ignorant the ordinarily educated man is regarding a glacier, and I must confess I had no idea it was what it is.

Ball Hut, Tasman Glacier.

The morning broke fine. We were up at 6, breakfasted, packed our things, which consisted of the big camera, a dozen 18 x 14 plates, dark tent, tripod, focussing cloth, lens, and lunch, dividing these equally between guide and myself. We did not want any more.

Eight o’clock saw us making for the clear ice of the great Tasman Glacier, Mr. Blackett keeping us company, taking his pocket camera with him. The first view (and perhaps the finest out of all the 176 different views I took) was of the famous Hochstetter ice falls. What a marvellous and indescribable sight, this fall of over 4,000 feet of beautiful sérac ice presents to the eye, with its great pinnacles continually toppling over, and crashing down with a dull roar. The large 18 x 14 lens brings out the broken ice to perfection ; the 12x10 and full plate of same are not to be compared with it. I may here say Mount Tasman in this picture shows up grandly in the background.

Hochstetter Ice Falls. Mount Tasman in the background.

The second view was taken farther up the glacier, and more to the right, showing Mount Haidenger’s highest peak, Mount De la Bêche, and Elie de Beaumont, and of course showing very well the Kron Prinz Rudolf Glacier. Then, thirdly, from the centre of the glacier I took De la Bêche, and the Minarets with some grand ice faces and caves in foreground, and, fourthly, De la Bêche, Elie de Beaumont, the Minarets and Hochstetter Dome.

Hochstetter Dome, Tasman Glacier.

Mount De La Beche, Tasman Glacier.

Mount De la Beche, Tasman Glacier.

I was rather taken aback on getting under the dark tent for the first time at the amount of light that came up through the clear blue ice, but got over it by laying down the focussing cloth and our coats. Now we made tracks home, and none too soon as the last part, traversed in the dusk, consisted of very rough moraine, and every step had to be picked owing to the weight and value of our swags. The guide here remarked that crossing a moraine with swags in the dark was like putting your foot out of bed to feel for daylight. However, at 7 p.m. we arrived at the Ball Hut without any breakages, but with sore backs, and very tired. The weather all day was simply perfect, but, I must say I was thankful at being finished with “Big Ben” as far as the Tasman was concerned.

Next day Adamson had to go back with Mr. Blackett to the Hermitage, and I remained alone for two days till he returned with provisions, and another man, Graham, to give a hand with the swag to our next camp at the foot of De la Bêche, about seven or eight miles up the glacier.

While waiting their return, I took a few views close about: one rather interesting, a bit up the Ball Pass track, looking towards De la Bêche and showing the Ball glacier in foreground sweeping into the Tasman.The Keas are most interesting and amusing birds, and I was thankful for their company. I don’t know what I should have done without them the two days I spent alone. While taking the above view, I nearly lost my camera; it was placed on the edge of a precipice, and I was just stooping down to get a dark slide, when a gust of wind came, and over it went. I made a grasp at one leg when it was half over, and just caught it ; it was a good while before I forgot this incident, for the loss of the camera would have left me in a sorry plight.

Mount De la Beche and Tasman Glacier. Taken from Ball Glacier.

Adamson returned bringing Graham with him to help to swag to the Bivouac at foot of De la Bêche. I need not say anything of the difficulty of the undertaking. Those who have trudged that weary stretch of ice will thoroughly understand. We took three dozen 12 x 10, five dozen 8 ½ x 6 ½ , and three dozen 7 ½ x 5 plates, and dark tent, besides cameras and provisions. However we arrived safely.

Let me here say, regarding the willing and indispensable services of Adamson and Graham, that they were quite as eager and enthusiastic as myself, and to them is owing much of the success of my trip.

On arriving at the bivouac, Graham returned to the Ball hut, and afterwards on to the Hermitage, to bring more provisions. After tea we turned in, right glad of rest, using as covering the dark tent and focussing cloth, as we only carried one blanket, to save weight. The scenery on the route up is truly glorious. The first point of interest is the Ball Pass and Glacier, with Mounts Mabel and Rosa on left, and Mount Cook towering on right. Next stands up boldly the eastern buttress, shutting out Aorangi’s highest peak from the valley below. Then the wondrous Hochstetter Icefall, with the great Mount Tasman’s apparently inaccessible peak in the background. We may safely consider this one of the grandest views of the Tasman Glacier, a great fall of beautiful sérac ice of 4,000 ft. in height, with huge pinnacles of ice continually toppling over. Then follows the Freshfield Glacier. Between these last two is the point the Rev. Mr. Green took in his notable ascent of Mount Cook, his two other routes having failed. Then comes an enormous ice-field, 6,000 feet right from the shoulders of Mounts Haidinger and Haast, the Haast Glacier. Next the Kauffman, named after the famous Swiss guide, and lastly the Forrest Ross and Kron Prinz Rudolf Glaciers.

Next morning broke dull, and after breakfast, as there seemed no prospect of using the camera, the guide and myself went on an exploring expedition across the glacier to the Malte Brun Range, to find a spot to take a panorama of the great Tasman Glacier. We found great difficulty in getting on to the glacier owing to the huge blocks of ice and the crevasses, but, once on, travelling was easy, though the same difficulty was met with on getting to the other side. One nasty place was just like the sharp ridge of a roof 30 or 40 feet of crevasse on either side, and so sharp we had to level it off with the ice-axe to get enough surface for our feet. On Malte Brun we went to an altitude of about 5,000 feet, and found an excellent spot to take a panorama. By this time the fog had set in very thick and the guide was getting anxious, so, hastily gathering up some scrub for firewood, we made tracks back as fast as possible, for we were very frightened of the fog setting in all round us, and not being able to find our way back. By the time we had reached the middle of the glacier the fog had turned into thick rain and completely obscured the other side. Being a new chum at ice-work I confess I felt a bit queer, but Adamson’s skilful piloting brought us so close to the bad place on the other side that in a very few minutes we found the steps we cut when coming over. On reaching our bivouac at twelve, soaked to the skin, we were truly glad to see Graham trying hard to boil the billy, having come with provisions from the fifth camp. Now we were a party of three, and sat down to a hearty lunch, after which Adamson and I turned in ; and Graham, not liking the look of things, made his way back to the Hermitage. Although it was just noon we had no option but to go to bed under our one blanket, and remain there till eight next morning, taking our clothes under the blanket so as to dry them. We spent a most miserable night, the cold being so intense that sleep was out of the question. A good deal of snow fell during the night. We felt the cold most on our faces and heads, and had to wear handkerchiefs tied round and hats on as well. Next morning was dull and cold, freezing hard and no signs of clearing, so we made for the Hermitage, covering our cameras, etc., before leaving. The great drawback of the bivouac is the want of firewood. What little we had was taken up on our backs from the Ball Hut, and from the Malte Brun. We arrived at the Hermitage in the afternoon, and enjoyed a bath, a good square meal, and a comfortable bed. As next morning turned out fine, we made straight for the Bivouac once more, arriving at 7p.m. and very tired. It was a beautiful night till about twelve o’clock, and we felt certain of a fine day on the morrow. But it is astonishing how soon the weather changes amongst the mountains, for the morning saw the ground covered with snow. It was disheartening, but this time we determined to weather it out.

How different from last night, as I lay awake admiring the glorious scenery! The mighty chain of snow-clad mountains, with Aorangi towering above them, not a cloud in the sky, and myriads of stars shining brightly, and the avalanches roaring all night long. All this we saw as we lay beneath our rock quite open to the south. As there was no chance of doing anything with the camera, we set to and did a good day’s work, by building up a solid stone wall in front of the Bivouac. Fortune at last smiled on us, for the next morning was as perfect a day as could be. So we made an early start to cross the glacier. The cold was most severe at the start, so sharp I could not hold the ice-axe in my hand but had to put it under my arm, but, as the sun rose, the day was just as hot as the morning was cold. The new snow that had fallen made the journey not only difficult but dangerous, more especially as we left our rope behind, having more swag than we were fit to carry—really too much for two. The new snow had filled up the crevasses, and Adamson had to prog with the axe the ice at every step, thus making our progress slow and tiresome.

Mount Cook. Take from the foot of the De la Beche.

In due course we reached the place previously picked out, and what a lovely panorama stretched around us ! On our right hand was the head of the Tasman, a grand and noble sight; the beautiful Elie de Beaumont, with its snowy and cone-like peaks, is the most striking mountain about the Tasman – also the Hochstetter Dome. For a snow-covered mountain this certainly takes the palm, for it is snow-clad from foot to summit, just as if a white sheet had been thrown right over it. We started at once, and took the panorama both in 12 x 10, (four plates) and full plate (five plates). The air was beautifully clear, just such a day to raise one’s spirits, and make you feel life is worth living. There is a charm about Alpine scenery quite apart from all other kinds. I exposed 28 plates, mostly of the head of the glacier, securing a fine one of Mount Darwin. I may here mention that the panoramic view extends from Mount Darwin to below Mount Cook.

Mount Darwin, Tasman Glacier.

The want of water was felt very much on Malte Brun. The only way we were able to get a drink was by laying snow on a rock in the sun and catching the drops as they fell. I suffered greatly from thirst all the time on the glaciers, and drinking did not seem to quench it at all, in fact the more you drink of these icy waters the greater the thirst.

We recrossed the glacier, and reached our camp at 5.30, fairly tired out, got tea and turned in. Next day was fair but lacked sunshine. We started with 7 ½ x 5 camera for a scramble up De la Beche. I need not give details of ascent, suffice it to say we reached an altitude of 6,000 feet, the view being truly grand, and from that point I secured a three-plate panorama of Malte Brun ; the contrast with the first one being most striking, the Malte Brun Range being destitute of snow, while looking from Malte Brun you gaze on a mass of mighty snow peaks. I secured also some very fine stereos, and exposed a number of 12 x 10 full plates. In the afternoon Graham came up to help us down with the swags. So ended our work at the head of the Great Tasman, and most glad we were to be once more snugly seated in Ball Hut, which seems quite luxurious after the Bivouac.

Head of Tasman Glacier

We made an early start to finish the Tasman, going over much the same ground as with the 18 x 16 camera, only doing it in 12 x 10, full plates and stereos., and we secured a choice set of negatives. I exposed about 36 plates ; having Graham with us to-day made it much easier, and we got over a lot of ground.

All arrangements were made at night for doing the Ball Pass in the morning. We were up at 4.30, had breakfast, and were disgusted to see the clouds come rolling over. So we packed up and made for the Hermitage, stopping 30 minutes at the Blue Lake where a few nice negatives were secured. We reached the Hermitage about 6 o’clock, and it is after a trip like this that one learns to appreciate a comfortable bed.

Blue Lake

The next few days I took a number of views about the Hermitage so as to recruit before starting to do the Hooker. The first attempt to do the Hooker was a total failure and caused a great deal of extra work. It happened thus – after getting all our traps up the Hooker and our tent pitched, we spent one night there intending next day to finish. The morning was fine, so, thinking to save time, I sent Graham away up Mueller Glacier to find a spot and pitch the tent. He had hardly gone half-an-hour when over came great rolling clouds, making their first appearance on Mt. Stokes, and gradually getting lower and lower. We hoped against hope to see them lift, but it was not to be, and ultimately we hid to shoulder all the swag and get back to the Hermitage. It was most disheartening, for we knew we should have to do it all over again. But as Graham now had our tent pitched on the Mueller, we started the first thing in the morning.

Mount Cook & Hermitage

The first part of the journey was rough indeed, being all boulder walking. There is no ice walking all the way to our camp, and only one very nasty bit to go up with heavy swags – a steep cliff about 200 feet high. When past this the worst is over. On arriving at camp about mid-day it was found to be a very cozy spot, although wild and lonely, surrounded by tremendous rocks. I secured a nice set of negatives in the afternoon. From this camp a very fine view is obtained of Mount Sealy, which is a mountain I am surprised alpine climbers do not go for more ; for I feel certain, from its commanding position, there are few mountains in the Southern Alps with a more extensive view. There is great scope for exploring on this glacier. Having taken all the necessary views from near camp, we set to and gathered snow grass, which grew in abundance, to make a comfortable bed. It was perfect, but to make one blanket cover three was a work of art. However the night was simply exquisite and quite warm, and the weather continued so all the time up the Mueller.

Ice Cave, Brunner Glacier.

We made an early start in the morning, and, as the guide had never been past here, we did not know where we were going. We meant to go a little way up and return for lunch, so we took nothing to eat with us, not even the indispensable flask to modify the ice-cold waters. On and on we went, and, when once on the clear ice, the pace was put on. Now we were right abreast of Mount Sealy and stopped to secure a few views. One fine subject shows Mount Sealy and three fine glaciers—Metelille, Sladden, and Williams. We packed up and still pushed on. We were now nearing the head of the glacier, and walking became both slow and dangerous, especially as we had come away without the all important rope, for, although the glacier here was beautifully smooth, crevasses were numerous and filled with soft snow.

While slowly walking along, Adamson suddenly went down. I was close upon his heels and got a rare fright, seeing his head and shoulders just above the ice. A council of war was now held to consider whether it was wise to proceed further. The decision arrived at was that it was not ground to go over without a rope, but the sight ahead was too tempting : so on we went. On nearing the head, the glacier became a labyrinth of hidden crevasses. We were now right under the saddle, and the guide, pointing up, said, " Boys, you have got to get up there before we turn homewards." By this time the want of food was being felt pretty keenly. Mountaineering is certainly not a good thing to fast on, but at it we went. As this was new ground to the guide, some consideration was necessary as to the best route to take. A splendid field of smooth ice with a moderate slope seemed to me a grand way, but the guide knew better, and started with some stiff rock climbing. When about half-way up the rock face, I was thankful to hear them call out water, as I cannot describe how I suffered from thirst. After the rock-work came a snow slope, and, to finish up with, a little more easy rock-work, which landed us on the summit of the Barron Saddle. What a panorama of loveliness met our delighted gaze! How our spirits rose at the majestic sight! Right below us, stretched the great Dobson Valley, with Lake Ohau away at the far end of it, and further still Ben More Range in Otago. Then turning to the north-east, a scene of grandeur never to be forgotten was revealed ; we stood spell-bound for the minute. After our first raptures were over, we set to with the camera and secured an invaluable and rare set of negatives on every hand. The most sublime of all was that looking to the north-east. To make a good picture of this I decided to ascend a bit higher on a ridge towards Mount Sealy, and had some hard work through deep soft snow. It was well worth the extra trouble, for a sight was before us never to be forgotten. To take the peaks in order, there were Mounts Isabel, Maunga, and Thomson hiding the huge Mount Sefton, Mount Cook towering above them all, Elie de Beaumont, Hochstetter Dome, Darwin, the Malte Brun, and Liebig Ranges, and a faint outline of mountains in the far distance, with the dazzling whiteness of the clear ice of the Mueller glacier right beneath us.

Looking down the Mueller Glacier. Taken from Barron Saddle.

Glorious as was the scenery on the Tasman, I think I enjoyed this better. Once more we make our way back to the Saddle for a last look. By lying down and cautiously stretching over, you look down an awful precipice 3,000 ft. sheer ; to right and left of Saddle, two huge glaciers lie nestling in the mountain slopes, feeding the Dobson River, which wends its way into Lake Ohau. A fine view of two noble peaks was secured from the Saddle looking about south-west; the names of these I am not sure about. A cairn was found with a bottle, but the water had destroyed its contents. Into this a paper with our names was deposited, We came across something interesting here, namely, the complete skeleton of a rabbit in the snow over 7,000 ft. up; further proving that the rabbit will penetrate into every corner of the country. There can be no doubt that this animal was trying to find a pass from the Dobson to the Mount Cook side, and, with “Excelsior” for his motto, perished in the noble attempt! There is another Saddle to the west that has never been ascended, and I feel certain there is something good to be seen from it; but as we had no rope the guide would not go. It is all ice-work and looks perfectly easy. In a letter I had from Adamson this week, he says he is soon going to try the saddle at the head of the Mueller, and I think the ocean can be seen from it. My last plate now exposed, we lingered awhile and drank in the glorious scenery of this enchanting spot.

It was hard to tear ourselves away, but time was precious, as a long tramp to the Hermitage was yet in store for us. So, shouldering our traps, we started with a fine glissade down the snow slope, then came some very difficult rock work, almost perpendicular, so that the swags on our backs, knocking against the rocks, threatened to hurl us headlong to the bottom. The route taken coming down was different from that taken going up, and certainly not so good. Once upon the clear ice the pace was put on, it being a decided descent all the way to the Hermitage, where we arrived about six o’clock, having called at the Camp on our way, taken some lunch and packed up our tent, etc. So ended one of the most interesting experiences I have had.

After a day’s spell a start was made to do the Hooker. Of this trip all my notes have gone astray. We left at 7 a.m., none too early, as the last few days had been very warm, and travelling up these valleys when the sun is at its height, takes it out of one, as we found out by the time we reached the camp. Graham and I had a shower bath under a waterfall coming straight from one of the glaciers, which tuned us up, the water being so intensely cold that about four seconds was all we could stand of it. In the afternoon a few views were secured. The most striking mountain at the head of the Hooker is Stokes; and a really grand mountain it is, with some fine glaciers. This is the favourite trip for the tourist, as there is a fair track up to where we camp. Next morning we started early for a big day’s work at the head of the glacier. The ice up here is rough and broken up. We got the camera on top of one huge block as big as a house, and obtained some fine stereoscopic views, after which an attempt was made to get up Baker Saddle ; but we found it quite impracticable, the ice being far too broken up. I obtained nice negatives of the Empress and Noeline Glaciers, and then turned homewards, feeling very disappointed at failing to do the Saddle.

Noelin Glacier.

Mount Stokes. Mount Cook. Hooker Glacier

Mount Sefton has a most peculiar shape from up the Hooker, the best description being that of a razor edge, so strikingly sharp is it. The head of the Hooker is very grand, but the mountains seem to me to be almost impossible to ascend. Our homeward journey was uneventful. We got back none too soon, as a storm was brewing all the way back, and a howling norwester blowing, making it impossible to expose a plate for the next four or five days ; but my work was now finished with the Hooker Glacier, and although I love to gaze on such sublime scenes, traversing the glaciers, and scaling the mountains with such heavy swags, such a series of views necessitates, is not all enjoyment, and I feel it would take a great deal to make me go through the same again. On the way home I stopped at Lake Pukaki, and I obtained some nice views of Mount Cook, on full plates, with the 18 x 14 lens. From Pukaki I coached it right through to Lake Wanaka, – I was charmed with this beautiful Lake, and got some fine negatives, – then down to Lawrence, and thence by train to Dunedin.

Mount Sefton, Hooker Glacier.

Mount Sefton.

Mount Cook, Lake Pukaki.

Perhaps a few words re plates, etc., would not be out of place. I had several kinds, — “Ilford’s Ordinary” and " Rapid," “Edward’s Isochromatic,” “Wratten’s Ordinary” and “Instantaneous;” but certainly the best plate of all was “Wratten’s Slow.” For snow work there is no plate better. “Wratten’s Instantaneous” are excellent, all my 18x14 were these. Wratten’s seem to have a greater depth, being far richer in silver than most plates. The exposure for “Wratten’s Slow” varied from four seconds to twelve seconds with the smallest stop; there is a grand latitude with these plates. I never lost a single subject, and you are not liable to fog them in changing, like you are with a fast plate. For developing there are dozens of formulae, all giving excellent results. Stick to the one you are in the habit of using, and get as near the correct exposure as possible. The best colour for a fine printing negative is a good yellow. Do not use sulphite of soda, except for lantern slides. A pretty blue negative is most deceiving.

In conclusion I would say Mount Cook will yet command an immense tourist traffic, as it is undoubtedly the show ground of New Zealand.

–

See also: Wintering on Lakes Te Anau and Manapouri, Alfred H. Burton’s account from 1889.

Melbourne Photography XII

Fri, 01 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

My fourth autumn in Melbourne. My favourite season here due to the colourful trees, cooler temperatures, and the way the light hits on the landscape on accord of the sun sitting lower in the sky. From April through July I shot a couple of rolls of Portra 160 film with the Voigtlander 40mm and 58mm prime lenses. Selected here are photographs from a few day trips. On reflection, no grand landscapes. Instead, wide open apertures, shallow depth of field, and colourful scenes. A combination of factors that shooting on film can render more magically than digital.

The two photographs above were taken on a loop walk around Dandenong forest. From Belgrave train station you can spend anywhere from an hour to the whole day walking around trails. Cockatoos, flying overhead, conduct verbal warfare from outposts atop eucalyptus trees. Occasionally you’ll see squadrons flying in formation moving from one area of forest to the next.

On another day we took the train on the same line, hopped off at Upper Fern Tree Gully station, and took the bus up the hills to Olinda. Great pie shop, go there. Five minutes walk and you’re in the Dandenong Ranges Botanic Garden. Early morning is best – no one around, dew on the leaves, and the low angle of light adds depth to the forest. Most of the trees in the botanic garden are introduced varieties, so expect every shade of colour from yellow to red. Surrounding the botanic gardens are the typical gum trees, standing tall and green no matter what time of year.

Williamstown. Always good for a walk around the peninsula. Below is a frame I’ve lined up before but the composition has never worked. On this day the clouds parted and drew a leading line into the frame. My eyes didn’t consciously see it at first, but it’s what makes this frame work. Bonus points for the reflection of the blue sky showing a more subtle leading line across the water.