We were now walking over country in its pure native wildness; the first human beings, certainly the first civilised ones, who had ever trod upon it.  We spent two days exploring as far in every direction as we could go, and as we went we steadily applied the match, setting fire to bush and grass alike, thus making our progress very evident to those in the forest and all down the lake.  We were in a fearful state of filth, notwithstanding that we had washed ourselves in the clear stream daily, the ashes got ground into our skins and even the application of fine sand in lieu of soap would not eradicate it, only causing rawness with accompanying smarting.  Moorhouse was really to blame for this, for, vain man that he was, he carried a little pocket looking-glass by which we discovered the condition we were in.  Had he left the glass behind we would probably have remained black and happy till our return.

On the last day we had a close shave for our lives.  We were crossing a narrow bushy point, the upper portion of which had caught a returning fire, and it was coming down upon us with the wind, with a deafening roar and volumes of smoke.  Our chance of safety lay in getting into the open and across the water before the fire reached us, and we were nearly, very nearly caught.  The bush grew denser as we went on, and was filled with “lawyers,” which impeded our progress, so that in our extremity to tear ourselves away we left most of our scanty clothing and somewhat of our skins in their clutches, while a fresh breeze springing up, increased the pace of the terrible fire which came roaring towards us in a wall of flame, sparks and smoke, which had already nearly blinded us, the trees snapping, creaking, and falling behind us like reports of artillery.  Singed, torn, and half naked, we just succeeded in escaping being charred as completely as any stump on the hills.

The “lawyer” (so-called) is a creeping, or rather climbing, plant common to the New Zealand bush.  It grows in long thread-like tendrils, as thick as whip cord, armed with myriads of sharp hooked thorns turned backwards.  The tendrils grow hundreds of feet in length, stretching from branch to branch, and often forming a maze or web extending over a large area.  A person getting entangled in their embraces rarely escapes with a whole skin, and never with a whole coat.

We returned the evening of the third day as black as sloes, and with only a few shreds of singed clothes on our backs, thoroughly worn out with hard walking and insufficient sustenance.  We remained one day for repairs and then, in company with Brand, had a glorious sail down the lake to Wynne’s station.

Our return journey to Christchurch was without incident save one, worth mentioning.  This was where we were both nearly drowned crossing the Lindis in a flood.

Moorehouse, I believe, sold his interest in the Wanaka district for a song.

CHAPTER XVIII.