When my father reached the colony for which he had left England some
twenty-two years previously, he bought a horse, and started up country on
the evening of the day after his arrival, which was, as I have said, on
one of the last days of November 1890. He had taken an English saddle
with him, and a couple of roomy and strongly made saddle-bags. In these
he packed his money, his nuggets, some tea, sugar, tobacco, salt, a flask
of brandy, matches, and as many ship's biscuits as he thought he was
likely to want; he took no meat, for he could supply himself from some
accommodation-house or sheep-station, when nearing the point after which
he would have to begin camping out. He rolled his Erewhonian dress and
small toilette necessaries inside a warm red blanket, and strapped the
roll on to the front part of his saddle. On to other D's, with which his
saddle was amply provided, he strapped his Erewhonian boots, a tin
pannikin, and a billy that would hold about a quart. I should, perhaps,
explain to English readers that a billy is a tin can, the name for which
(doubtless of French Canadian origin) is derived from the words "_faire
bouillir_." He also took with him a pair of hobbles and a small hatchet.

He spent three whole days in riding across the plains, and was struck
with the very small signs of change that he could detect, but the fall in
wool, and the failure, so far, to establish a frozen meat trade, had
prevented any material development of the resources of the country. When
he had got to the front ranges, he followed up the river next to the
north of the one that he had explored years ago, and from the head waters
of which he had been led to discover the only practicable pass into
Erewhon. He did this, partly to avoid the terribly dangerous descent on
to the bed of the more northern river, and partly to escape being seen by
shepherds or bullock-drivers who might remember him.