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The World's Wonder Walk
Constructing the Track

(By Harry Gilmore.)

When, in 1880, Donald Sutherland, of Milford Sound, discovered the now well-known Falls which bear his name, he had with him as companion a man named McKay, after whom the McKay Falls, near Lake Ada, are named.

These two men, therefore, were the blazers of the first trail up the valley of the Arthur River to the foot of the great Falls. This track, through primeval bush and along the banks of the river, eventually became portion of what is now universally acknowledged to be “The World's Wonder Walk.”

Later, Sutherland had other companions at Milford, one of the earliest being the late Samuel H. Moreton, artist and explorer, and one of the first men to view the Falls after Sutherland and McKay.

Moreton spent several years at Milford Sound, and it is only reasonable to suppose that, during his wanderings, he also assisted in improving the original blazed trail up the valley of the Arthur. Incidentally the artist-explorer had, at one time, a kind of working partnership with Donald Sutherland in the twelve-roomed chalet which constituted the first hostel at Milford.

Moreton subsequently left the locality and Sutherland married a lady from Dunedin. Mrs. Sutherland eventually took up residence at the hostel and for many years presided over its destinies while attending to the wants of thousands of tourists and excursionists to the now famous resort. As is well known to all New Zealanders, Donald Sutherland and his faithful help-mate are buried together in a grave not far from where the modern Government hostel now stands.

It was not until approximately ten years after the discovery of the Falls and the blazing of the first track that the Government decided to construct a more serviceable one. The new track was needed for the expanding tourist traffic, not only up the valley of the Arthur, but over the recently discovered McKinnon Pass, and along the Clinton Valley from the head of glorious Lake Te Anau.

The first portion of the new track, namely that from Sandfly Point to the foot of Lake Ada, was constructed by prison labour. For several reasons, however, this did not prove to be an unqualified success, and the prison camp was dismantled.

Then, about the year 1892, it was decided to continue the construction work by employing experienced labourers, and men acquainted with the use of explosives, for it was realised that a good deal of rock blasting would be necessary.

The first party of workmen was composed chiefly of miners from the Kumara gold field, and they were in charge of a well-known and highly respected overseer by the name of Edwin Price.

For those of us who had never previously visited Fiordland, the experience was somewhat eerie as we stood on the deck of the s.s. Hinemoa, and watched out for the entrance to Milford Sound.

The sun was just setting as we entered the narrow opening with the mountains rising sheer out of the water on either side. Steadily and almost silently we glided through, then on past Stirling Falls, past the great “Lion,” past Mitre Peak, past Harrison's cove—then with Sinbad Gully on our right and magnificent Bowen Falls on our left, the old steamer was eventually brought to her anchorage, and made fast for the night.

A few small lights twinkled from a building on the shore. The lights were from the windows of the home of Donald Sutherland, the famous explorer and guide, and we held our breath and blinked our eyes. Could it possibly be that we were at Milford Sound—the place of our dreams?

The task of conveying our goods and chattels, together with camp gear, working tools, provisions and explosives from the ship to Sandfly Point, our first camping place, occupied about two days. The good ship Hinemoa then sailed away, and we had an opportunity of surveying our new surroundings. And what a wealth of majesty and glory lay around us: mountains, rivers, lakes and sea, in rich profusion, and in their grandest and most sublime settings.

We, however, were a working party, not a party of tourists or even mild excursionists, and while we could admire our surroundings at will, our supply of food for the next six months must be safely stored, and a permanent camp set up as quickly as possible.

This latter was erected a couple of miles up the river from the head of Lake Ada. Here an advance party in charge of “the boss” had cleared and levelled a site, on which was erected a large cook house with a huge fireplace and chimney at one end and a long table down the centre. A fine storehouse was also built for the reception of our provisions.

The packing of the stores and camp gear was a strenuous and back-breaking business, especially along that first two miles of track. Each man was expected to carry loads of at least fifty pounds and to make at least five trips a day. Most of us, however, were young and page 26 page 27 strong, and the older ones tough and wiry. We were paid, I remember at the rate of one and three pence per hour, and thought nothing of working ten or more hours a day.

That was a wonderful summer—the days bright and clear, and the nights and mornings delightfully cool.

Occasionally a party of tourists came over the pass, and down the valley, and twice an intercolonial vessel with a large party of excursionists aboard called in at the Sound, but visitors of this kind were, at that time, few and far between.

Our only regular visitor was the guide and postman, big Donald Ross, and his visits were always eagerly looked forward to, for it was he who brought us news of the outside world. Sometimes Donald would stay the night at our camp, and then all hands would gather in the cook-house to hear the news from, perhaps, a week old newspaper, or listen to some tale the guide had to tell of his experiences since his last visit.

Early in the month of June, the Hinemoa, with the late Captain Fair-child in command again called at Milford Sound, but this time it was to take us back to our homes. Apparently it was not considered a payable proposition to keep a large party of men in that remote region during the winter months.

At the same time it was with deep regret we eventually bade “good bye” to Donald Sutherland and his good wife, for they had befriended us on many occasions during our sojourn at Milford Sound. We knew also that they would in all probability be the sole denizens of the place until the return of the party the following year.

Thus passed the spring, summer and autumn of 1892 and 1893. During that time the construction of “The Track” proceeded apace and without serious accident or important incident, but still a good portion of the formation remained uncompleted.

In the month of October, 1894, a much larger party of workmen was sent to Milford Sound with the object of pushing on with the formation work more rapidly.

On this occasion the overseer was a man named Butler, and the writer, probably because he was the youngest member of the party and possessed a very slight knowledge of survey work was attached to the overseer's “staff.”

In order to permit the workmen to get on to the job as speedily as possible, the work of transporting the camp supplies was entrusted to the guide, Donald Sutherland, and an old prospector named Jack Smith, who intended to do some prospecting round the Sound.

The new camp was situated less than five miles from the famous Falls, and on the following Christmas Day, which, by the way, was the only holiday save Sunday we kept, all the time we were engaged on the work, all hands set out to spend the day in that locality. There with the thunder of the falling waters in our ears and the spray playing on our faces we ate our Christmas lunch.

Early in the New Year, however, a sad occurrence marred the happiness of every man in the camp. One of the most popular of the workmen sickened and eventually died after he had been removed by means of a rough stretcher from his tent in the valley to the hostel at the head of the Sound. It was a laborious journey, but the greater portion of the track was now in fairly good order, and a larger boat had been placed upon Lake Ada.

A week later, on his return from a trip to the Sound, Donald Ross reported that another man was on the sick list, and the Sutherlands were hoping a steamer might call in so that the sick man could be sent away.

Two days later—on a Sunday afternoon—I well remember, Sutherland himself arrived at the camp and informed us that the man had died early that morning, and, as Mrs. Sutherland was alone in the house, he would be glad if a few of the men would hasten to her assistance.

It was between four and five o'clock in the afternoon when we set out. Each carried a blanket, a knapsack containing a small amount of food and a packet of candles, for it would be dark when we got to the Pass. Two clear glass bottles with their bottoms cut off served as home-made lanterns, and thus equipped we expected to make good time from the camp to the lake.

Neither of us had been over this portion of “The Track” previously, and were consequently at a disadvantage when we reached the summit of the pass. It was now quite dark, and there was nothing to guide us.

After one of us had almost met with disaster in searching for the downward track, we decided to try a new plan. During our wanderings in the dark, we had now and then come upon snow poles—some standing erect, while others lay at an angle or flat on the ground, probably the result of a late snow-fall.

When next we came upon one of these poles, one of us stayed beside it, while the other went ahead until he discovered another guide post alongside which he would remain, until another had been located, and so on until eventually the posts led us down to the bush line and safety.

Four o'clock next morning found us again on our way. In the dim light, keas cawed at us and here and there a few rabbits scuttled out of our way, but these were the only signs of life in the whole valley that morning.

About noon, or a little later, we knew by the easier going and the gentler flow of the river that we must be reaching the end of our journey. A few more minutes, and on coming out of the bush into a small clearing another hut came into view, and—Yes—smoke was coming out of the chimney.

We shouted. A friendly voice replied. It was not the voice of Donald Ross, but that of a man engaged on some work at the head of the lake. He could, however, tell us where Donald was, and if we hurried we might just catch him. He was down at the landing getting his boat ready for the trip down the lake.

We raced for the landing, shouting as we ran. Donald Ross heard us.

A few minutes served to explain the necessity for our hasty errand, and it took but a few more minutes to get the little vessel in trim for the long row down the lake. Then with a brief “So long lads,” the guide was off bearing the boss's letter, while my mate and I returned to the hut for a rest and sleep.

We took our time on the return journey.

Looking back over the way we had come, the Clinton Valley resembled a mighty canon with towering walls on either side, while as far as the eye could see, lofty mountain peaks and ranges rose tier on tier as though jostling each other for room.

In front and below us stretched the more kindly but heavily bush-clad valley of the Arthur, with here and there a glittering snow-fed glacier intervening between sharp-pointed peaks and razor-backed ridges.

“I reckon you're what we call ‘brand tired’,” said the tobacconist to an old customer who had complained that he was losing his relish for his pipe and that for two pins he'd “chuck smoking for keeps.” “Brand tired?” queried the customer, “Do other smokers get to feel like that?” “Oh yes, often happens when you've been smoking same old brand for years as I know you have. Why not give something else a go?” “Don't think it would make much difference,” mused the customer, “what d'you recommend anyhow?” “Well, seeing you're an old smoker, I reckon you can't beat Cut Plug No. 10 (Bulls-head) full strength. Sweet as a nut and full of comfort. There's two other fine pipe blends—Cavendish and Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog). Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold are for the cigarette smoker. The five blends are being asked for all the time. No nicotine to mention in any of them. They're toasted d'you see?” The “brand tired” smoker now enjoys his pipe more than ever. No smoker ever tires of toasted!^*

Yet while all this rugged grandeur lay around and above us, at our feet, basking and blushing in the noon-day sun lay such a wealth of native flora as we had never dreamed of.

* * *

The work of shifting camp, and the necessary speed and bustle attached thereto served to divert the minds of the men from the loss they had sustained. Soon the bush resounded with song and laughter once more, while all the time the track formation was approaching nearer and nearer to its ultimate completion.

This glorious pathway has long been opened, and many thousands of trampers have passed over it since those long ago days, which the writer has attempted to recall.