In the throat of the gorge the coach rattles over two bridges thrown from cliff to cliff over the pale-green torrent.
In an hour comes the stage where lofty trees succeed giant mountains.
As the first grow higher the second diminish.

This is the land of ferns and mosses.

The air feels soft, slightly damp, and smells of moist leaves.

It is as different to the sharp dry air of the Canterbury ranges as velvet is to canvas; it soothes, and in hot weather relaxes.

The black birch with dark trunk, spreading branches, and light leaves, is now mingled with the queenly rimu, and the stiff, small-leaved, formal white pine.