Wintering on Lakes Te Anau and Manapouri

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

Text sourced from the New Zealand National Library:

• Otago Daily Times, Issue 8605, 21 September 1889
• Otago Daily Times, Issue 8611, 28 September 1889
• Otago Daily Times, Issue 8617, 5 October 1889

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.

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.]

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

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:

1. Lake Hankinson, beyond the north-west arm of the Middle Fjord.
2. The head of the south-west arm of the Middle Fjord, on the Junction burn.
3. Safe or Happy Cove.
4. The head of the lake, from below Worsley creek.
5. Mount Mackenzie, from the island near the mouth of the Clinton river.
6. Mount Mackenzie and Mount Anau, from the head of the river, about a quarter of a mile above the hut known as the “doormat.”
7. The junction of the two branches of the Clinton, with Mounts Mitchelson and Fergus.
8. From half-way up the North Fjord all the way to the head; a grand succession of pictures – “The Narrows” especially fine.
9. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 ?”

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.

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