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An Alice Adventure
A True Story of the New Zealand Railways.

(By Helen Bretherton.)

The excursion to Arthur's Pass was the last of the season. Alice had a birthday while she was staying with us, so I thought the excursion would be a rather unusual present for her, especially as she loves adventure. We managed to catch the train at eight o'clock, and at half-past eleven we were at Arthur's Pass. As soon as we had left the warm carriage we discovered that the wind was a bitter snow wind, though the sun was shining. Determined not to be among the stragglers—I have a horror of being last—we walked briskly for the first two or three miles. We knew we should have plenty of leisure to look about us as we went further into the Pass.

There was very little snow in the Pass itself, but the sun shone brightly on vast snow slopes, and made more startling the contrast with the sombre birch forests. Each peak stood out cold and clear against the blue sky.

The frost had played some rare games on the previous night. From every exposed root on the bank hung stalactites of ice; some were almost a foot long, twigs and even branches were coated in the same beautiful crystal. But the strangest thing—we saw this only in one part of our journey, a particularly cold stretch—was a “mushroom” walk. Every-single stone comprising the loose gravel at the side of the road was lifted up an inch from its bed by a hundred icy filaments. We gathered some of these “mushrooms”—they looked just like that—and tried to separate the threads of ice, but our hands were far too clumsy. So, instead, we crunched them underfoot.

The walk through the Pass is exhilarating, but not in the least strenuous. We certainly took our time about the latter half of the walk and as we gazed on the green white torrent of the Bealey, we commented on our luck in having the road so much to ourselves. I was so certain that we were to meet the train at Otira, as I had done on previous occasions, that no shadow of suspicion crossed my mind. Several groups of people had passed us as we sat on some rocks to eat our lunch, but—we didn't recall this until afterwards—not a soul since. So we went gaily and tranquilly through the George till we came to the Railway. Here, one expects almost every minute, to come upon Otira, but the town is two miles further on.

We came to it at last. We gazed into the reservoirs, and on the Power House, and at the mountains rising so steeply that we couldn't see where they ended. It was not until we reached the Terminus Hotel that the truth dawned upon us… . . The train was not there. However, we saw a likely looking tramper, and asked her whether the train had gone or not. Then she said, “There's been no train here to-day and I don't know anything about it.” My heart sank. But I thought we might enquire at the hotel.

We were taken into a sitting room with a cheerful fire in it. We were led to understand, that unless we could walk through the tunnel, we should have to stay the night. In a real Alice in Wonderland Adventure, time simply doesn't count. But I thought of my work languishing for another twenty-four hours, and Alice thought of fruit salad promised for supper. When we suggested ringing up to see if the train would wait a little, we learned of some of the insuperable difficulties that stood in the way. The tunnel was more than five miles long. The only telephone in Otira was locked up firmly in the Post Office, and so our only course was to stay the night.

The next part of the story reminds me of “There was an old woman who found a little crooked sixpence”. She bought a little pig. But piggy would not jump over the stile… Somehow things began to happen, and we were told that we really should get home that night. We explained our dilemma to the Stationmaster, and he said we might return on a motor velocipede. This the official name for a “jigger” with an engine. It was shocking the number of people we disturbed; linesmen, postmaster, stationmaster, and cricketers, but the result was most comforting. Every one was most sympathetic. Four people offered to lend me a raincoat, as the journey through the tunnel on a jigger would page 32 be cold and wet. The jigger had first and second class seats, and as our driver set his motor going we waved an excited farewell to Otira.

It isn't often the ordinary public is allowed to travel on a motor velocipede, in fact this is only an emergency measure. I shall not attempt to describe our sensations. Imagine crossing a railway bridge and seeing, through the bars, an angry river. As for the tunnel—we reached this after a two mile run—it is a world of its own. The motor made a terrific noise as a gesture of defiance. We could see lights at regular intervals. Every now and then a purple light indicated a telephone, for use in case of accident. At one time water splashed on our faces, and no wonder, for we were under a river. Suddenly the horn began to send forth agonizing noises, and we slowed down. Our driver had seen a torch light. Two more strays! They were well aware of the train which would leave without them. But of course no “jigger” will hold five people, so the driver said he would return for them.

The circle of daylight was growing rapidly larger. All too soon we were out of the tunnel and blinking in the light. We were a thousand feet higher than when we entered the tunnel five miles back. The run to the train from there was just long enough for every excursionist to come out of the train to see us arrive … the reason why the train did not leave punctually.

The culprits were almost laughing as they walked down the station with the Arthur's Pass stationmaster. He was not a fearsome warder. In fact we met with kindness from every one. And as he took our names and addresses, there may have been a twinkle in his eye.

Finally, our friends of the tunnel arrived. We said goodbye to the linesman, and the train moved off, not really very late after all. And the climax of it was that when we arrived home, my young brother, consumed with jealousy, remarked: “Those damn girls have all the fun.”

Bless Her!
The grand Main Trunk Express
With crew of doughty men.
She takes us to the place we want,
And she brings us back again.
And when she goes, she goes!
And when she stops, she stops
Till some get off and some get on,
And then away she pops.
—“Pohutu.”