The walking is dreadful, we climb over and creep under fallen trees of great size and the men soon show that they feel the weight of their burdens. Their halts for rest are frequent. It is hot work for us all. The dripping rain from the bush and branches saturate us from above. Tall ferns sometimes reaching to the shoulder and devil’s clubs through which we had to crush our way make us feel as if dragged through a horse-pond and our perspiration is that of a Turkish bath. We meet with obstacles of every description. The devil’s clubs may be numbered by millions and they are perpetually wounding us with their spikes against which we strike. We halt very frequently for rest. Our advance is varied by ascending rocky slopes and slippery masses, and again descending to a lower level. We wade through alder swamps and tread down skunk cabbage and the prickly aralias, and so we continue until half-past four, when the tired-out men are unable to go further. A halt becomes necessary. We camp for the night on a high bank overlooking the Ille-celle-waet. Three of us have dry underclothing, in water-proof bags, but the poor men have no such luxury, so they make large fires by which to dry themselves. Dave, our cook, fries the pork and makes us tea in the usual way on such expeditions. We have all excellent appetites and no fear of a bad digestion; and all quite ready to sleep, literally and truly in spite of thunder, without criticizing the couch on which we lie. The Ille-celle-waet, on whose banks we have camped, has increased from a tiny brook to a raging torrent, some fifty yards wide. The colour of the water is much as that at London Bridge; a result possibly due to the disintegration of the rock over which the stream rushes and to the grinding action of the boulders rolling down the stream. A sediment is thus formed which is visibly precipitated in any vessel where the water remains quiet.