The Rivers After Leaving
Their Several Gorges Lie, As It Were, On The Highest Part Of A Huge
Fanlike Delta,
Which radiates from the gorge down to the sea; the plains
are almost entirely, for many miles on either side
The rivers, composed
of nothing but stones, all betraying the action of water. These stones
are so closely packed, that at times one wonders how the tussocks and
fine, sweet undergrowth can force their way up through them, and even
where the ground is free from stones at the surface I am sure that at a
little distance below stones would be found packed in the same way. One
cannot take one's horse out of a walk in many parts of the plains when
off the track - I mean, one cannot without doing violence to old-world
notions concerning horses' feet.
I said the rivers lie on the highest part of the delta; not always the
highest, but seldom the lowest. There is reason to believe that in the
course of centuries they oscillate from side to side. For instance,
four miles north of the Rakaia there is a terrace some twelve or
fourteen feet high; the water in the river is nine feet above the top of
this terrace. To the eye of the casual observer there is no perceptible
difference between the levels, still the difference exists and has been
measured. I am no geologist myself, but have been informed of this by
one who is in the Government Survey Office, and upon whose authority I
can rely.
The general opinion is that the Rakaia is now tending rather to the
northern side. A fresh comes down upon a crumbling bank of sand and
loose shingle with incredible force, tearing it away hour by hour in
ravenous bites. In fording the river one crosses now a considerable
stream on the northern side, where four months ago there was hardly any;
while after one has done with the water part of the story, there remains
a large extent of river-bed, in the process of gradually being covered
with cabbage-trees, flax, tussock, Irishman, and other plants and
evergreens; yet after one is once clear of the blankets (so to speak) of
the river-bed, the traces of the river are no fresher on the southern
than on the northern side, even if so fresh.
The plains, at first sight, would appear to have been brought down by
the rivers from the mountains. The stones upon them are all water-worn,
and they are traversed by a great number of old water-courses, all
tending more or less from the mountains to the sea. How, then, are we
to account for the deep and very wide channels cut by the rivers? - for
channels, it may be, more than a mile broad, and flanked on either side
by steep terraces, which, near the mountains, are several feet high? If
the rivers cut these terraces, and made these deep channels, the plains
must have been there already for the rivers to cut them. It must be
remembered that I write without any scientific knowledge.
How, again, are we to account for the repetition of the phenomenon
exhibited by the larger rivers, in every tributary, small or great, from
the glaciers to the sea? They are all as like as pea to pea in
principle, though of course varying in detail. Yet every trifling
watercourse, as it emerges from mountainous to level ground, presents
the same phenomenon, namely, a large gully, far too large for the water
which could ever have come down it, gradually widening out, and then
disappearing. The general opinion here among the reputed cognoscenti
is, that all these gullies were formed in the process of the gradual
upheaval of the island from the sea, and that the plains were originally
sea-bottoms, slowly raised, and still slowly raising themselves.
Doubtless, the rivers brought the stones down, but they were deposited
in the sea.
The terraces, which are so abundant all over the back country, and which
rise, one behind another, to the number, it may be, of twenty or thirty,
with the most unpicturesque regularity (on my run there are fully
twenty), are supposed to be elevated sea-beaches. They are to be seen
even as high as four or five thousand feet above the level of the sea,
and I doubt not that a geologist might find traces of them higher still.
Therefore, though, when first looking at the plains and river-bed flats
which are so abundant in the back country, one might be inclined to
think that no other agent than the rivers themselves had been at work,
and though, when one sees the delta below, and the empty gully above,
like a minute-glass after the egg has been boiled - the top glass empty
of the sand, and the bottom glass full of it - one is tempted to rest
satisfied; yet when we look closer, we shall find that more is wanted in
order to account for the phenomena exhibited, and the geologists of the
island supply that more, by means of upheaval.
I pay the tribute of a humble salaam to science, and return to my
subject.
We crossed the old river-bed of the Waimakiriri, and crawled slowly on
to Main's, through the descending twilight. One sees Main's about six
miles off, and it appears to be about six hours before one reaches it.
A little hump for the house, and a longer hump for the stables.
The tutu not having yet begun to spring, I yarded my bullocks at Main's.
This demands explanation. Tutu is a plant which dies away in the
winter, and shoots up anew from the old roots in spring, growing from
six inches to two or three feet in height, sometimes even to five or
six. It is of a rich green colour, and presents, at a little distance,
something the appearance of myrtle. On its first coming above the
ground it resembles asparagus.
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