On Either Side Is
A Long Flat Composed Of Shingle Similar To The Bed Of The River Itself,
But Covered With Vegetation, Tussock, And Scrub, With Fine Feed For
Sheep Or Cattle Among The Burnt Irishman Thickets.
The flat is some
half-mile broad on each side the river, narrowing as the mountains draw
in closer upon the stream.
It is terminated by a steep terrace. Twenty
or thirty feet above this terrace is another flat, we will say
semicircular, for I am generalising, which again is surrounded by a
steeply sloping terrace like an amphitheatre; above this another flat,
receding still farther back, perhaps half a mile in places, perhaps
almost close above the one below it; above this another flat, receding
farther, and so on, until the level of the plain proper, or highest
flat, is several hundred feet above the river. I have not seen a single
river in Canterbury which is not more or less terraced even below the
gorge. The angle of the terrace is always very steep: I seldom see one
less than 45 degrees. One always has to get off and lead one's horse
down, except when an artificial cutting has been made, or advantage can
be taken of some gully that descends into the flat below. Tributary
streams are terraced in like manner on a small scale, while even the
mountain creeks repeat the phenomena in miniature: the terraces being
always highest where the river emerges from its gorge, and slowly
dwindling down as it approaches the sea, till finally, instead of the
river being many hundred feet below the level of the plains, as is the
case at the foot of the mountains, the plains near the sea are
considerably below the water in the river, as on the north side of the
Rakaia, before described.
Our road lay up the Ashburton, which we had repeatedly to cross and
recross.
A dray going through a river is a pretty sight enough when you are
utterly unconcerned in the contents thereof; the rushing water stemmed
by the bullocks and the dray, the energetic appeals of the driver to
Tommy or Nobbler to lift the dray over the large stones in the river,
the creaking dray, the cracking whip, form a tout ensemble rather
agreeable than otherwise. But when the bullocks, having pulled the dray
into the middle of the river, refuse entirely to pull it out again; when
the leaders turn sharp round and look at you, or stick their heads under
the bellies of the polars; when the gentle pats on the forehead with the
stock of the whip prove unavailing, and you are obliged to have recourse
to strong measures, it is less agreeable: especially if the animals
turn just after having got your dray half-way up the bank, and, twisting
it round upon a steeply inclined surface, throw the centre of gravity
far beyond the base: over goes the dray into the water. Alas, my
sugar! my tea!
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