Rangitoto Bush
March 7, 2011
"Track or path there was none after we left the beach. We were more than three hours in the ascent, every step over huge masses of brittle substance, sometimes so thin as to break under our feet, every interstice filled with fern or shrubs and parasitic plants, which were in some places a help their tough streamers giving us something to hold on by when scoria and broken rocks rolled from our feet. At last we reached the summit, all quite exhausted and sat down to rest and breathe. We found the top of the mountain was a steep hollow and surrounded by irregular peaks, apparently formed by the action of the volcanoe throwing up heaps of ashes or scoria in several directions, probably at different periods. The wind blew so strong at the summit, we could scarcely stand, and after resting awhile we began our descent.
"The sharp rocks and scoria had worn my boots to pieces, and my dress of grey merino was torn to shreds, struggling through the thorny brushwood and by the sharp edges of the rocks.
"Thankful was I to see the shore and boat at last."
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