The Project Gutenberg eBook, With Axe and Rope in the New Zealand Alps, by George Edward Mannering

Transcriber’s Note

Changes made are noted at the [ end of the book.]

THE
NEW ZEALAND ALPS

PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON

[Wheeler & Son, Photo.

G. E. Mannering Mr. J. Dixon P. H. Johnson

CLIMBING PARTY ON THE TASMAN GLACIER

With Axe and Rope
IN
THE NEW ZEALAND ALPS

BY
GEORGE EDWARD MANNERING

MEMBER OF THE NEW ZEALAND ALPINE CLUB
MEMBER OF THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY OF AUSTRALASIA
MEMBER OF THE PHILOSOPHICAL INSTITUTE OF CANTERBURY, N.Z.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16^th STREET

1891

All rights reserved

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
TO ALL LOVERS OF NATURE

PREFACE

This short work contains the story of five seasons’ climbing and exploring in the New Zealand Alps. Most of the material embodied in it has already appeared from time to time, in rather a different form, in the Christchurch (N.Z.) ‘Weekly Press.’

The author trusts that the publication of the same in book form, together with a map of the locality and a few photographic reproductions, will supply a want in the shape of a guide-book to the Alpine mountain district which is already beginning to be felt by tourists in New Zealand; and he hopes that the contents may not prove uninteresting to the general public, more especially to Swiss and Caucasian climbers, few of whom are perhaps aware of the extent and nature of the New Zealand Alpine chain.

The map is compiled by the New Zealand Government Survey Office from the work of Mr. T. N. Brodrick, Government Surveyor, and that of Dr. R. von Lendenfeld. The illustrations are from photographs by Messrs. Wheeler and Son. Their operator has in several mountain expeditions accompanied the author, who takes this opportunity of expressing his thanks to the New Zealand Government Survey Department, and to Messrs. Wheeler, for their kind assistance.

It will doubtless be said that the summit of Aorangi has not yet been attained: quite true. Like Mr. Green, the author and his friend were ‘wise in time.’ Yet it is only a quibble to dispute the ascent of the mountain, for being on the ice-cap of Aorangi is like being on the topmost rung of a ladder, and yet not upon the projections above that step.

Christchurch, New Zealand:
April 13, 1891.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY

The New Zealand Alps and their glaciers

It is unnecessary for me in these days of universal education and enlightenment to describe the geographical position of New Zealand, the ‘Britain of the South,’ and the future playground of Australasia.

Everyone knows that New Zealand consists of three islands, situate between the 34th and 47th degrees of south latitude, off the south-east coast of Australia. Reference to almost any handbook of the colony will furnish every information regarding settlement, population, government, climate, and so on, and I do not propose to dwell longer than is necessary on any general matters of this nature.

It is advisable, however, to describe in as brief and concise a manner as possible the general physical features of a country containing such varieties of scenery and climate, more especially those of the South Island (or Middle Island as it is sometimes called), where the High Alps and their wonderful glaciers are situated.

Speaking generally, the highest mountains of New Zealand may be said to run in a north-easterly direction from the southernmost point of the South Island through the whole country, like a vast backbone, to the north-eastern point of the North Island.

The main formation of the mountains dates back to Jurassic times, so that the geological structure may be said to be one of great antiquity.

Volcanic action has long since ceased throughout the South Island; but there are many active volcanoes in the North, where a perfect wonderland of hot-springs, solfataras, and silica terraces exists.

As a whole, the country is heavily timbered—more thickly on the western parts, where the greater rainfall occurs. This is notably the case in the South Island, where the hot and moisture laden winds from tropical regions are deprived by the Alpine chain of their aqueous vapour.

The Southern Alps proper may be said to extend over a distance of about one hundred miles of the middle part of the South Island, the chain being situated closer to the western than the eastern ocean. The slopes on the western side are the more precipitous, and are clothed with heavy timber and intersected by innumerable mountain torrents, fed in most cases by glaciers, some of which descend to within 600 feet of sea-level.

Ranges of outlying foot-hills occur on the eastern side, snow-covered in winter, amongst which many large glacier-fed rivers have cut their way, and meander over the plains (probably of entirely fluviatile formation) which slope gradually from the outer bases of the foot-hills to the eastern ocean.

The peaks of the Alps range in height from 7,000 to 12,350 feet above sea-level, the majority of those over 10,000 feet being contiguous to the culminating point in altitude—Aorangi—more popularly known as Mount Cook. Here also are found the largest glaciers.

The snow-line is a low one when compared with that of Alpine countries in the northern hemisphere and in relative latitudes. It would be difficult to compute its average altitude, but in parts where large glaciers and snow-fields exist it is even as low as 5,000 feet above sea-level.

By comparison with Switzerland, for instance, it may safely be said that the snow-line in New Zealand is from 2,000 to 3,000 feet lower; consequently we have the same Alpine conditions at a much lower level. Owing to this interesting fact, we find that the New Zealand glaciers attain far greater dimensions than those of Switzerland, although the peaks do not rise to such a height above sea-level.

In themselves, I believe the mountains compare favourably as to size or actual height above the valleys below them; Aorangi, for instance, rising for nearly 10,000 feet from the Hooker Glacier, and Mount Sefton 8,500 feet from the Mueller Glacier, whilst the western precipices of Mount Tasman (11,475 feet) are stupendous.

The enormous length attained in remote times by the New Zealand glaciers is evident on all hands at the lower parts of the valleys, the heads of which they now occupy; whilst the formation of nearly all the lakes in the South Island can be traced to the action of ice and the deposition of terminal moraines, prior to a period of retreat of the ice.

There is an interesting feature in the glaciers of this country peculiar to them; I refer to the deposition of singularly extensive moraines. The lower parts of the large glaciers on the eastern slopes are, in nearly every instance, completely covered with accumulated débris derived from the moraines. This is variously accounted for by the antiquity of the mountain chain, the slow rate of motion in the ice, and great denudation from rocks which are much jointed and offer but little resistance to the splitting powers of freezing infiltrated water.

The western glaciers I am not personally acquainted with, but I understand that they do not carry anything like the amount of moraine, and I imagine the cause of the disparity will be found in a faster motion of the ice, and (a yet more potent factor) in the dip of the strata of the rocks, which is from east to west, the broken faces being eastward and the slab-like faces westward.

CHAPTER II
THE ROUTE TO THE MOUNT COOK DISTRICT

A short description of the route to the Mount Cook district, and of the topographical features of the Mueller, Hooker, and Tasman Valleys

From Timaru on the east coast the traveller may comfortably reach the glaciers of Aorangi in a two days’ journey.

Leaving Timaru by an evening train, Fairlie Creek (the present terminus of the railway line) is reached, where the night is spent. Two days’ coaching then are required to cross over Burke’s Pass into the great Mackenzie plains, across this great ancient glacier bed, past Lakes Tekapo and Pukaki, over the rivers of the same names, and up the valley of the Tasman River to a comfortable hostelry called ‘The Hermitage,’ nestling right under the shadow of that wonderful pile of ice-clad mountain glory, Mount Sefton.

Lakes Tekapo and Pukaki may both be aptly compared in one way to the Lake of Geneva, in that they are of glacier origin, and purify the rivers which now flow from the present glaciers, parting with their waters again through channels cut in the ancient terminal moraines which dam their respective southern shores.

They are both beautiful, each in its own way— Tekapo sunny, peaceful, and calm; Pukaki awe-inspiring and grand—but they lack the charm of chalet and pine tree, of vine and meadow, which so adorn the shores of the Swiss lakes.

The immediate vicinity of the road is uninteresting, except from a geological point of view, for it winds about amongst old moraines, whose vegetation consists almost entirely of the brown tussock grass so general in the South Island.

Yet the geologist or student of glacier phenomena can read on the surface the history of the formation; roches moutonnées abound, and, in places, old moraines are spread over the bed rock for miles together, whilst erratic blocks are dotted about in various directions, evidencing how extensive has been the action of the ice in ages gone by.

Though the scenes contiguous to the road may fail to charm the eye, the distant panoramas of the glorious Southern Alps cannot fail to draw forth expressions of wonder from the most callous observer. As the Hermitage is approached, and the great peaks and glaciers draw closer and closer, the marvellous grandeur of the chain is gradually realised.

The sight of the reflection of Aorangi in Lake Tekapo, on a calm morning, is something to remember for a lifetime. The subject has long been a favourite one for brush and pen, but no one yet has done it justice.

A substantial bridge spans the exit of the Tekapo River, but only a ferry stage exists at the Pukaki River where it leaves the lake. A wire rope, 450 feet long, is thrown across the stream, to which the ferry stage floating on two punts is attached by runners. The coach and four is driven bodily on to the stage, and by the aid of a rudder the punts are slued so as to point across the stream diagonally. The force of the water rushing obliquely on to the sides of the punts drives the whole affair across in a space of about three or four minutes. This ingenious plan is commonly adopted in the New Zealand rivers.

During the months of winter it is possible to reach the Hermitage direct from Tekapo, and thus avoid striking south to go round Lake Pukaki, by crossing the Tasman River. During summer, however, as a rule, this river is impassable, for it rises so fast during warm and nor’-west weather from rain and melting snow that sometimes the whole bed of the river—two miles wide—is a network of rushing yellow torrents quite unfordable by man or beast.

Readers of the Rev. W. S. Green’s ‘High Alps of New Zealand’ will recollect that his conveyance found a last resting-place in the quicksands of the Tasman. Von Lendenfeld also, the year after Mr. Green, experienced an unhappy week’s delay on the eastern bank of the river. I have myself narrowly escaped drowning at the same point, and in years gone by the Tasman River has been accountable for more than one life.

The river in full flood is a sight to see; the water in places runs fifteen knots an hour, or even more. In the rapids it is piled up in the middle from sudden contraction of the banks, and forms crested billows four or five feet in height, whilst now and then a block of ice from the glacier may be seen bowling along.

The ancient glacier-formed terraces of the Tasman Valley are instructive and interesting. The highest of them are distinctly marked all down the valley for a distance of forty miles from Sebastopol—a large face of ice-worn rock near the Hermitage—on the eastern slopes of the Ben Ohau Range. The story of the ancient glacier can be read as the eye follows these strange terraces from their starting point 2,000 feet above the valley bed, down a gentle declination to the terminus of the Ben Ohau Range.

Before going into the narrative of my five seasons’ climbing amongst the peaks and glaciers around Aorangi, it would be as well for me to describe, as concisely as possible, the general topography of the Mueller, Hooker, and Tasman Glaciers.

We will suppose ourselves in the main Tasman Valley, into which all these glaciers drain, close to the point where the valley first branches. As we look northward, Aorangi and the range running southward for twelve miles from the main body of the mountain bound the view, and divide the valley into two branches. Let us take the one to the north-west first. Proceeding up this valley of the Hooker for a few miles, we arrive at a branch valley from the left or west—the Mueller Valley—completely occupied by the glacier of the same name. Close to the Mueller Glacier is situated the Hermitage, presided over by Mr. F. F. C. Huddleston, a true haven of refuge and comfort for the wearied tourist or mountaineer.

HOOKER VALLEY AND MOUNT SEFTON FROM GOVERNOR’S CAMP

[Wheeler & Son, Photo.

We step on to the Mueller Glacier, here completely covered by moraine, and, turning westwards, strike up its course. On our right, 8,500 feet above us, clad in ice and snow and glittering in the sunlight, rises the glorious mass of Mount Sefton, showering down avalanches upon the glacier. On our left the shingle slips from the rotten and crumbling crags of the Sealy Range. It is possible for tourists who are good walkers to reach the head of this glacier, which is seven and a half miles long and about one mile broad, in one day. The moraine gives way to the clear ice some three miles or so from the terminal face. Now we return and make a fresh start up the Hooker Valley due northwards from the Hermitage.

Crossing the Mueller Glacier we walk through a perfect garden of lilies (_ranunculus Lyallii_), celmisias, ‘Spaniards,’ and an endless variety of sub-alpine plants, for a distance of about one mile from the northern side of the Mueller Glacier, when we come to the terminal moraine-covered face of the Hooker Glacier.

On our right rises up the bold and verdure clad snow-topped Mount Cook Range, Mount Wakefield (6,561 feet), Mount Mabel (6,868 feet), Mount Rosa (6,987 feet), and a nameless peak (7,540 feet) being the principal points of interest. On our left is the northern continuation of the ridge of Mount Sefton, known as the Moorhouse Range, part of the main chain of the Southern Alps. Several secondary glaciers descend from the slopes, but do not reach the bed of the valley below, which is filled from side to side with the Hooker Glacier.

Proceeding up the surface of the glacier we get on to the clear ice, and now on either bank the mountains rise to a great height. On the right Aorangi suddenly rears itself, from a point known as the Ball Saddle (7,500 feet), to 12,349 feet in one stupendous rocky ridge, upon which the ice hangs wherever it can get any hold. This ridge is known to climbers as the Great Southern _arête_, and has been found, first by Mr. Green and secondly by myself, to be inaccessible. Right ahead of us pour down from the highest crags the Mona, Noeline, and Empress Glaciers, to join the Hooker, alternating with very precipitous rocky ridges which present every appearance of being quite unscalable.

Several attempts have been made by surveyors and others to reach the saddle at the head of the Hooker, but it was only in December 1890 that the efforts of two climbers (Mr. A. P. Harper and Mr. R. Blakiston) were rewarded. The expedition can only be attempted with any chance of success in the early part of the season, when the numberless crevasses are yet covered with the winter snow.

From the Hooker Glacier we turn our faces downwards to the south again, and pay a visit to the north-eastern branch of the main Tasman Valley.

Crossing the Hooker River at the terminal point of the Mount Cook Range, where a cage swung on a wire rope over the river now facilitates the traveller’s passage, we strike north-eastwards up the valley.

For a distance of four miles our way leads over the shingle and boulder flats of the Tasman river-bed, here some two miles wide. Patches of good sheep-feed consisting of tussock and cocksfoot grass (the latter sown by an early settler) occur on the western side of the valley, but the river as a rule washes the opposite slopes.

AORANGI: MOUNT COOK AND THE HOOKER GLACIER.

[Wheeler & Son, Photo.

Arriving at the terminal face of the glacier we strike up a small valley between the western lateral slopes of the moraine of the glacier and the Mount Cook Range on our left, and for a distance of about seven or eight miles force our way through dense scrub and loose boulders from the moraine and mountain slopes, to the junction of the Ball Glacier with the Tasman. This Ball Glacier comes from the Great Southern _arête_ of Aorangi, and is fed almost entirely by avalanches, there being no snow-fields—or névés as they are called in Alpine parlance—of any great extent at its head.

From this point upwards we strike out on to the ice on our right, and another seven miles or so brings us to a further division of the valley, Mount de la Bêche being the dividing peak. The glacier of the left-hand or northern branch is known as the Rudolf Glacier, whilst the main body of the Tasman stretches some six miles further north-eastwards to the Hochstetter Dome, where it again divides. The saddle at the head of the left-hand branch, again, has been reached by Dr. von Lendenfeld and by myself in our respective ascents of the Hochstetter Dome, and commands a superb view of the Whymper Glacier and valley, and of the Wataroa River on the west coast. The head of the branch to the right of the Hochstetter Dome has not yet been reached by man.

Taking a retrospective glance again at the peaks on either hand, and commencing at the lower end of the glacier, we have first on our right the Liebig Range till opposite the Ball Glacier, when the embouchure of the Murchison Valley occurs, followed by the Malte Brun Range, with the main peak—the Matterhorn of New Zealand—opposite to Mount de la Bêche, then the Darwin Glacier followed by the mountain of the same name, and then the saddle between Mount Darwin and the Hochstetter Dome.

Now, again, on the left or western side of the great glacier we have the Mount Cook Range for ten miles, the Ball Glacier, Aorangi, the Hochstetter Glacier, Mounts Tasman, Haast, Haidinger, Glacier Peak, Mounts Spencer, Kant, Rudolf (at the head of the Rudolf Glacier), De la Bêche, Green, and Elie de Beaumont, the last followed by the Lendenfeld Saddle, to which I have already referred.

From Mount Tasman northwards to this saddle all these mountains are situated in the main chain. Aorangi itself, though popularly believed to belong to the main divide, is in reality separated from it by a rocky ridge and a saddle of about 10,500 feet, which leads to the Hooker Glacier on the one hand and the Linda on the other, both being east of the main divide. Aorangi itself, therefore, consists of a divergent ridge, the whole of whose drainage goes eastward.

Though for some years I have believed this to be the case, it is only quite recently that I have been able to substantiate the belief by ocular demonstration, when the ascent of the mountain was accomplished by Mr. Dixon and myself. To this expedition I shall refer later on.

The reader must picture to himself the great Tasman Glacier, nearly two miles in width and eighteen to twenty in length, occupying the whole of the bed of the valley, and fed on both sides by numerous tributary ice streams from the mountains.

Of the Murchison Valley it is not necessary for me to speak just now, as the topographical features will be described when I come to tell the story of its exploration. Neither is it needful to refer in further detail to the Tasman for the same reason.

CHAPTER III
FIRST ATTEMPT TO CLIMB AORANGI

First impressions—Swagging—The Hochstetter Glacier—Defeat—The perils of river crossing

‘To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first.’

It was on March 24, 1886, that I left Christchurch, in company with my cousin, Mr. C. D. Fox, on my first visit to the great Tasman Glacier and Mount Cook, or Aorangi.[1]

[1] The Maori name of Mount Cook is ‘Aorangi,’ or, more properly, ‘Ao-Rangi.’ The commonly accepted meaning of the term is ‘Sky-piercer’ but as the Maori language admits of many varieties of translation, each version hovering about the region of true meaning, it is only natural that authorities should differ as to the correct construing of the word.

One good Maori scholar, whose reputation as such is almost pre-eminent, gives the poetical translation of ‘Light of Day’—a singularly beautiful one, for it is the first peak to catch the morning light and the last to show the glow of evening.

Another very well-known Maori scholar, the Rev. J. W. Stack, assures me that the most reasonable interpretation that can be put upon the word ‘Ao-Rangi’ is ‘Scud Peak’; and this is a singularly apt one, for the prevailing nor’-west winds always cause condensation and the gathering of cloud-banners about the higher parts of the mountain. ‘Heaven-piercer’ and ‘Cloud-piercer’ are also often used, but are to a certain extent fancy names.

I often look back now with feelings of amusement at the audacity with which we determined to make our first attempt to scale the great monarch of the Southern Alps, and wonder how we could have been so self-satisfied with our own powers and confident of our ability in undertaking such a gigantic task. I can only suppose that it was ignorance of what lay before us, and a clear case of ‘fools rush in where angels fear to tread’; for when my thoughts run back over the toils, hardships, and bitter lessons of experience undergone during the past six years, and when I think of the position of two completely inexperienced men (as far as true Alpine work is concerned) launching straight out into such an undertaking, my heart seems to quail at the idea. It is true that we both had heard and read of much Alpine work, and had been for some time in touch with climbing-men, also we were both practised in hill-walking and accustomed to such work as mustering sheep, pig-hunting, and shooting over what in England would be termed rough mountains, so that as cragsmen we could scarcely be classed as novices. As to any knowledge other than theoretical of the conditions of snow and ice, however, we might be termed tyros, though Fox had done a little scrambling on the Swiss glaciers. Nevertheless, we had sufficient ‘cheek’ to consider ourselves wise and strong enough to go straight into a really difficult piece of Alpine work, and, laughing at all discouragement, we set off for the mountains.

I have already described the customary route to the glaciers of Mount Cook, so will not weary my readers with a long narrative of the journey.

At Timaru (four hours by rail from Christchurch) we completed our stock of provisions, consisting of biscuits, tinned meats, &c., and took the evening train on to Fairlie Creek (forty miles further inland), where on arrival we hired a horse and buggy and drove to Ashwick Station, seven miles distant on the road to the mountains.

The next day’s journey took us over Burke’s Pass and into the Mackenzie country, past the beautiful Lake Tekapo, and on to the ferry situate at the southern end of Lake Pukaki.

The road itself winds through bleak tussock plains, interesting only from a geological point of view; but all monotony of the immediate surroundings is completely lost when one looks further afield and gazes on the marvellous beauty of such scenes as the Southern Alps from Lake Tekapo, or the Ben Ohau Range from the plains. Even the most fastidious globe-trotter could not fail to be deeply impressed with such a picture as Aorangi from Lake Pukaki.

To look at Aorangi from this approach is enough to damp the spirit of the stoutest Alpine climber that ever breathed, and is quite sufficient to account for the disbelief and incredulity cherished in the mind of many a shepherd in the Mackenzie country regarding the possibility of ascending the peak.

History repeats itself, and just as we hear of the native mountaineers of the Himalayas, Andes, and Caucasus discrediting ascents of glacier peaks around whose very bases they and their ancestors have lived and died, so we find that our own countrymen, whose calling needs their constant presence amongst their flocks on the lower ranges, refuse to believe that mountains presenting such an appearance as Aorangi are in any manner of way to be scaled.

The following day brought us to the Hermitage. A low mist had hidden the higher peaks throughout the day, and led to a surprise on the following morning which I little dreamt of.

I wonder if all Alpine climbers, in first ‘tasting the sweets of climbing,’ are similarly impressed with their initial Alpine view!

No words of mine can describe the ecstasy which seemed to pervade my whole being as on the early, cloudless morning the wonderful picture of Mount Sefton reared itself in indescribable sunlit grandeur above the old bush-clad moraine close by the Hermitage. Here, indeed, was a new and a fairy-like world to live in. As we sat in the verandah of the Hermitage the ice-seamed crags appeared to rise up and up until they culminated in a long serrated and corniced ridge, seeming almost to overhang the very spot where we rested.

A scene of mountain glory never to be forgotten, a memory to last a lifetime!

More than 8,000 feet above us were built up those ice-clad precipices, their glaciers glinting in the bright morning light, their avalanches tearing down the mountain sides and waking the echoes of a hundred ravines and valleys with their thunder.

Where is the man who can describe these

palaces of Nature, whose vast walls

Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps?

Where is the mountaineer—not the mere gymnast, but the Nature-loving mountaineer—who can tell the feelings of such a first impression?

And yet even this scene seems to fade in the memory and suffer by contrast with those of other pictures in the New Zealand Alps, for up the Tasman Valley, where later on in the day we wended our way, fresh vistas of Alpine glory were unfolded to view.

Aorangi from the Hermitage is also a grand sight. The mountain seems to possess a startling individuality and a majestic grandeur somewhat different in character from its worthy neighbour Mount Sefton. The view is more distant, but the bold outline of the peak stands out in relief against the blue of the heavens, and rears a face of glacier-clad precipices to a height of 10,000 feet above the Hooker Valley at the mountain foot. Light clouds float about the peak and lend an ethereal air to its beauty, imparting a fairy-like, floating appearance to the peak itself. At other times the outlines are apparently clear cut against the sky, giving an air of lasting and monumental dignity, and conveying the idea of stability from past ages to ages to come.

After an early lunch, and accompanied by Mr. Huddleston (the landlord of the Hermitage), and one of his men, we started off for the Tasman Glacier. The first part of the way leads down over stony flats to the termination of the Mount Cook Range, and at this point the Hooker River is crossed.

On this occasion we double-banked over on horse-back without much difficulty; but very often the Hooker River is quite impassable with horses, the torrent being confined in a narrow boulder bed of about 200 feet in width, which in flood time, during the warmer months of spring and summer, is quite filled with a roaring torrent, often bearing down with it blocks of ice from the Mueller and Hooker Glaciers above.

Turning in a north-easterly direction round the end of the range we shaped our course up the Tasman Valley, and in two hours’ time from the Hermitage arrived at the terminal face of the great glacier, which fills the whole of the valley from side to side, a width of about two miles. Here, then, the hard work was about to begin, for the horses could not proceed further, and it was necessary to carry everything from this point on our own backs.

Ah! good reader, have you ever carried a swag, a real swag—not a Swiss knapsack—but a real, torturing, colonial swag? When you take it up and sling it on your back in the orthodox fashion you remark: ‘Yes; I think it does weigh fifty pounds.’ In ten minutes your estimate of its weight has doubled. In an hour you begin to wonder why Nature has been so foolish as to make men who will carry swags; bad language seems to slip out ‘quite in a casual way,’ and you begin to bend forward and do the ‘lift.’ But the ‘lift’ does not seem to fulfil quite all that is said in its praise, for soon the torturing burden settles down again and drags on to your shoulders more heavily than ever. After a bit of nice balancing over loose moraine the swag triumphs. Down you go, and the wretched thing worries you, whilst you bark your fingers and swear horribly, bruising your knees and shins, and cursing the day on which you saw the light of a hard and feelingless world. You recover and repeat the performance as before, and by the time your day’s work is done you find out to your own demonstrated satisfaction that the burden weighs at least five hundred-weight. You sling it off and give it a malicious kick, with the result that you break a thermometer or some such delicate instrument. Then you try to walk, but stagger about like a drunken man; there is no small to your back, your back tendons are puffy and tired like those of an old horse, your head swims, and your eye is dim. Patience and rest, however, gradually bring you round, and soon you regain strength and spirits in feeling that at least you have conquered a day’s difficulties and have brought your board and lodging so far with you.

Ah! think of it, you knapsack mountaineers, you feather-bed Swiss mountaineers, with your tracks, your hotels, your guides, your porters, and your huts. No; this New Zealand work is not like yours.

But then, you see, we are enjoying what you cannot get. Exploring and opening out virgin fields, learning to be our own guides—and porters—from that best of masters—hard experience.

We struck up the little valley which here exists between the lateral moraine on our right and the hill on our left, and toiled on amidst dense scrub so gnarled and matted that we could at times walk on it as on a spring bed, though now and then going through, of course. The scrub alternated with slopes of loose strips of moraine. By evening we reached a little blue lake which feeds the creek issuing from the valley’s mouth, and here we pitched our tent for the night.

The sub-Alpine vegetation here is interesting and varied. Wild Irishman (te matakuru of the natives or matagowrie of the shepherds), Spaniards, with leaves like carving-knives and points like needles, having stalks sometimes eight or ten feet high; stunted totara, many varieties of veronica, celmisias with large marguerite daisy-like flowers, the beautiful white ranunculus, and a hundred bushes and creepers all mixed up in the most glorious confusion amid rocks sometimes covered with slippery moss, over and amongst which it is anything but pleasant to force one’s way. The mountain sides are clothed almost up to the snow-line with beech, totara, ribbon-wood, veronica, and other trees, the rich foliage being beautifully varied; but not having sufficient time to cut bedding, we spent an uncomfortable night. The first evening is always the worst in camp. In the morning we continued our rough journey up the valley and our struggle with the ‘worrying’ swag.

Soon we discovered traces of fires and old camps, and we knew we were on the tracks of Green’s and Von Lendenfeld’s parties. An hour for dinner under a splendid waterfall, and more toiling onwards, till at last we were over the last boulder-face from the mountain on our left, with the Ball Glacier in full view. Fox, bending down, picked up a portion of an old veil, shortly after I found a goggle box, then came a tomahawk lying on a rock, then the historical tent poles of Mr. Green, and we knew we had reached ‘Green’s fifth camp.’

Off came the swags, and right glad we were to be done with them. If a man were only built on the same lines as a Mount Cook grasshopper he might ‘stand some show’ in those parts, for these insects are the most accomplished rock acrobats, jumping twenty or thirty times their own length at a spring, landing on their heads or anyhow with a bang, and squaring up for the next jump as coolly as cucumbers.

We found many relics of Green’s and of Von Lendenfeld’s parties, amongst them a surveyor’s chain, which, with Green’s tent poles, we have for the last five seasons used to pitch our tents.

Scarcely were we made snug for the night when down came a terrific nor’-wester, blowing with fearful violence, making the tent boom and shake till we expected it to blow to ribbons. Rain poured down, thunder, lightning, and avalanches all lent their aid, and the elements seemed to be having a generally rowdy time of it. All this, of course, meant snow on the higher peaks; our spirits fell to zero very quickly, and we gave up all hope of tackling Aorangi for at least a day or two.

The nor’-wester is the Föhn wind of New Zealand, similar in character to the Föhn winds of Switzerland or the Pampiero of the Andes. Warm air laden with moisture travels from the equatorial and Australian waters, till, striking the range of the Southern Alps, precipitation ensues, the wind descending on to the eastern plains dry and hot.

Having studied Von Lendenfeld’s map of the Tasman Glacier and its surrounding peaks made in 1883 we knew our whereabouts; but as yet we had not seen the peak of Mount Cook, having been toiling up close under the eastern flank of the range, which continues from the peak proper for a distance of ten or twelve miles in a south-easterly direction.

The morning broke beautifully clear, and we were early aroused by some inquisitive keas, or mountain parrots, which perched on the tent and set up an unearthly screeching. These birds are ridiculously amusing and tame, and we frequently replenished our larder with them by the aid of a shanghai, or common schoolboy’s catapult, with which instrument of warfare I have the rather questionable credit of being somewhat of an adept. When I think of the savoury fries and stews which the shanghai has brought to our camp table—the table being usually a rock or a large lily leaf—I begin to be reconciled to the haunting regrets for apple-destroying and window-smashing which so often beguiled the tedium of a scholastic career.

We determined not to attempt any climbing so soon after the storm, but set out to reconnoitre the route taken by Mr. Green.

Mounting the steep lateral moraine of the Ball Glacier we were soon across it and on to the clear ice of the Hochstetter stream beyond, and felt the joyful crunching of our well-nailed boots as we tramped along over the uneven surface.

There is something exhilarating in this setting foot on the clear ice after days of clambering over cruel rocks, something that seems to thrill one as the nails go ‘crunch, crunch’ and give such grand foothold, a cheerful ring in the clink of the ice-axes, a peculiar charm in the tinkle of the little surface streams, a sense of peace and loveliness in all around, an inspiration of awe and grandeur in the glorious masses of mountains which rear their hoary heads for thousands of feet above, whilst over all there seems to hang an invisible and imperious over-ruling and omnipotent Power directing the marvellous workings of Nature. Here man may feel his littleness and his unworthiness, and yet with Byron he feels what is so beautifully expressed in ‘Childe Harold’—

I live not in myself, but I become

Portion of that around me; and to me

High mountains are a feeling.

The Hochstetter Glacier is one of the most impressive and beautiful sights in the Southern Alps. Its supplies come even from the very summits of Aorangi and Mount Tasman, the two noblest mountains in Australasia. Avalanches from the eastern and northern slopes of Aorangi descend to a large ice plateau situate at an altitude of 8,000 feet. From between the great north-eastern spur of Aorangi and the southern slopes of Mount Tasman the Linda Glacier issues also into this plateau; it was discovered and named by Mr. Green. From the eastern slopes of Mount Tasman and the southern flanks of Mount Haast avalanches also descend to the plateau, which must be some ten or twelve square miles in area. This plateau has but one outlet—the fall of the Hochstetter Glacier. Viewed from below, the frozen cascade tumbles in the wildest confusion over a precipice of 4,000 feet to join the Tasman Glacier at an altitude of 4,000 feet (roughly speaking), and presents a most wonderful appearance. The fall at the top is probably about a mile and a half in width, narrowing to one mile at its foot, and the ice is broken up into séracs, cubes, pinnacles, and towers of all shapes and sizes, intersected by crevasses of the divinest bluish-green colour, and each pinnacle crested with a white cap of unconsolidated snow. One enormous rock protrudes through the ice in its southern and lower portion, crowned with toppling séracs 200 or 300 feet in height, which at regular intervals fall over the face of the rock and descend in magnificent avalanches. First comes a report like a pistol shot, then follows an almighty crash accompanied by clouds of snow and ice dust, succeeded by a low rumbling thunder as the blocks expend their impetus on the gentler slope below, and finally settle down again into solid ice, to continue their journey of centuries towards the terminal face of the glacier nine miles down the valley. Above the fall stand out, in bold relief against the clear sky, the giant forms of Aorangi and Tasman.

To stand before this wonderful piece of Nature’s work and gaze on the weird and fascinating forms of the attendant peaks is an experience not to be forgotten.

The awful and solemn silence of the mountains, broken only now and again by the crash and thunder of an ice avalanche or the screech of a solitary kea, the complete desolation, the loneliness and remoteness from the haunts of men, all tend to inspire one with deep thoughts and feelings. One line in Walter C. Smith’s ‘Hilda’ expresses more than pages of mine would do—

The silence of the mountains spoke unutterable things.

In two hours’ time we were across the glacier and on the point of the ridge descending from Mount Haast, which bounds the northern side of the ice-fall. We began the ascent of the ridge amongst snow-grass and lilies, but soon the vegetation gave way to rockwork, and when a height of about 5,000 feet was attained we made sure that this was our correct route, and, mist coming on, we descended again, and reached our Ball Glacier camp in the evening.

We resolved to make our attempt on the peak early the following morning, and accordingly, at 5 a.m. packed our swags, containing ‘tucker’ for three days, spirit lamp, blanket, opossum rug, mackintoshes, instruments, a change of warm clothing, &c., intending that night to find a bivouac at 8,000 feet if possible.

Starting at 5.20 a.m. we crossed the Ball Glacier in the very dim light of a waning moon, and were on the Hochstetter ice at peep of day, and making good time across, reached the point of the Haast spur in an hour and three-quarters. A thick mist hung over us, and we waited for an hour for it to lift, amusing ourselves by smoking and botanising, and watching the antics of some queer little wrens. These birds are absurd-looking little creatures with long legs and longer toes, plump buff-coloured breasts, no tails, staring little eyes, and look for all the world like boiled potatoes with their jackets on, set up on hairpins and let loose on the rocks.

As the mist cleared we tackled the ascent, and found it pretty stiff work, although we had snow-grass to assist us for some way up; but the rocks above this began to show signs of rottenness, and much care was required to avoid dislodging them. We made good progress to about 5,000 feet, when we were quite baffled for a time, and were forced to leave the main arête and look for a more promising route on our right. Here we proceeded cautiously, crawling through a narrow niche in some overhanging rocks with a precipice of some hundreds of feet below. Then the climbing improved till our view upwards was bounded by an indefinite saddle in the rocks, which might have led to anywhere, but which did lead, as we subsequently found out, to the easy snow slopes above.

As the day advanced small falls of stone occurred, which caused some annoyance and danger, but we managed to avoid being struck by any. Then followed another stretch of rotten rock which Fox absolutely declined to tackle, and as it could not be turned by a détour we were brought up on this route.

Fox suggested descending again to cross a large glacier coming down from the ridge on our right, and trying the rocks on its opposite side. This plan we eventually carried out, but it was a fatal mistake as far as climbing Aorangi was concerned. Descending for about 1,000 feet we stepped on to the ice of what we then thought was the lower part of the Linda Glacier—owing to a strange error in Von Lendenfeld’s map—but which in reality was the Freshfield Glacier. We put on the rope and our goggles, both indispensable in crossing such a snow-covered ice stream.

On taking to the rocks on the other side we soon gained the lowest ice slopes, covered with six or eight inches of snow in splendid order, and adhering well to the ice; now and then we took to the rocks, but climbed mostly by the snow slopes till we reached the crest of the ridge and looked over a precipice to Mount Haidinger and the Haast Glacier below.

It was now 11 a.m., and after a short rest, upon my suggesting a move upwards, Fox said that he did not fancy the rocks above—which certainly did look bad—and counselled a retreat. Of course I was disappointed, and reluctant to give up the attempt so soon, yet there did seem to be no end to the difficulties above, and experience has since taught me that Fox was wise in his counsel, for it was indeed simple madness for two greenhorns to tackle such work.

I soon forgot my troubles in gazing on the scene which burst upon us as we gained the ridge. Below lay the major part of the Haast Glacier, descending in a similar manner to the Hochstetter ice-fall from the corniced arête of Mount Haidinger, a marvellous mass of sérac ice. A long rest here, and a resolve to revisit the locality during the next season with a stronger party, and we began the descent.

My first experience of glissading on the snow slopes below was decidedly amusing; but the art is easily acquired, and after the inevitable spill or two one soon gets into the way of putting one’s axe directly behind and not at the side, as is the first impulse. Many and many a good slide have I enjoyed during the last six years, and I know no more exhilarating sensation.

MOUNT TASMAN (11,475 FEET) AND THE HOCHSTETTER ICE-FALL

[Wheeler & Son, Photo.

In winter time, on the front ranges, we have sometimes made glissades of 2,000 to 3,000 feet without a stop, and on one occasion, in crossing the Mount Cook Range, Mr. Arthur Harper and I glissaded close on to 4,000 feet with only occasional stoppages for crevasses.

Reaching the bottom of the slopes we made an examination of the Haast Glacier at its junction with the Tasman, which disclosed a terribly crevassed stream, the ice appearing like the leaves of a half-opened book, the alternating crevasses occupying by far the greater space. There ensued an aggravating scramble over the moraine, followed by a weary trudge across the ice of the Hochstetter, and we reached our camp at the Ball Glacier by nightfall.

Sleep visited our wearied eyelids that night and had never seemed so sweet, but the morning broke raining and stormy, and as it was from the nor’-west and looked like continuing, we determined to make homewards for the Hermitage at once.

Then ensued the awful scramble down between the moraine and the mountain side with those terrible swags, but, being by this time in good trim, we arrived at the terminal face of the glacier in four hours and a quarter, a distance which occupied Mr. Green with Emil Boss and Ulrich Kaufmann thirteen hours in coming down in their final retreat.

On reaching the Hooker, we found the river running strongly and rising fast with the nor’-west rain, but after some looking about discovered a possible ford where the river anastomosed into four branches, and steadying ourselves with our ice-axes, waded through the torrent. Cold! Cold was no word for it, and the force of the current was terrible as it rushed over an uneven and treacherous bed of boulders.

But we got through safely, and soon the Hermitage, our haven of refuge, was in sight, and we struck up the shingle flats at a merry pace, reaching our destination in seven hours and a quarter from the Ball Glacier camp.

On returning from the Hermitage we thought, by crossing the Tasman River and driving down the opposite bank, to avoid driving round Lake Pukaki, and so to save thirty miles of travelling. As a rule the river is not crossable in the summer months, but on this occasion we were assured of the practicability of getting over; and leaving the track at Birch Hill Station, we drove out into the great expanse of shingle which forms the river-bed.

We had crossed all the streams but the last, and were within a few yards of the further bank of that, when our horse, poor old Nipper, sank in a quicksand, and as soon as the current caught his body we saw it was all up. The horse and buggy got broadside on to the current, and quick as thought we jumped for it, just as the conveyance was turning over for the first time, Fox down-stream and I up.

The first thing I knew was that I was being washed into the bottom parts of the buggy, then sideways up, but struggling out and gaining a footing, the first impulse was to whip out my pocket-knife and cut the horse free, and, in my haste, both blades were broken before a stitch of the harness was cut. Fox, in the meanwhile, recovered his feet, and was holding Nipper’s head above water as we all moved gradually down-stream with the force of the current, the horse and buggy rolling over and over. With Fox’s knife I was more successful, and cut the horse free. Fortunately we were being washed into shallower water on a spit of shingle, and we were able to wade out with the horse, after which we returned to extricate the buggy, which had come to a standstill on its side, and was fast being silted up with moving shingle. It required all our strength to free it, and in doing so one of the wheels ‘buckled.’

I have no doubt that we presented an amusing and half-drowned appearance as we stood on the bank and called the roll. All that was missing was my mackintosh, a mat, and whip.

Then we jumped on our buckled wheel till it sprang back into its normal shape, and splicing up the harness, wended our way back across the minor streams to the track at Birch Hill, wetter, sadder, and wiser men.

We reached Pukaki Ferry an hour after dark and Fairlie Creek the next evening, where we found the township in a state of jollification over the annual race-meeting. Most of the New Zealand country townships boast of their annual race-meeting, the racing lasting one day, and the whisky part of the proceedings generally running into three.

Then we took the train for Christchurch.

CHAPTER IV
SECOND ATTEMPT TO CLIMB AORANGI

A Flooded Camp in the Tasman Valley—Hard Struggles with
Bad Fortune—We reach Green’s Bivouac

If at first you don’t succeed,

Try, try, try again.—Nursery Rhyme.

During the winter following my first essay at Alpine climbing I was not idle, but made several pig-hunting excursions amongst the foot-hills in North Canterbury, in addition to which, with a companion in the shape of an old friend and schoolfellow, Mr. M. J. Dixon, I made the ascent of Mounts Torlesse (6,434 feet) and Puketeraki (5,780 feet) at a time when these mountains were snow-covered to within 2,000 feet of their respective bases.

The former ascent was accomplished in the face of a nor’-west gale, and well I remember how we had sometimes to lie down on the snow and hold on to our sticks to avoid being blown clean away. We have twice since climbed this peak under similar conditions, and I never remember the wind blowing with such force as it does on Mount Torlesse.

It was on February 1, 1887, that Messrs. M. J. Dixon, C. H. Inglis, and myself left Christchurch for a second try at Aorangi.

We were now well equipped for the attack, having obtained 160 feet of Alpine rope, three good ice-axes from M. Fritz Boss of Grindelwald, and suitable nails for our boots. Inglis had his camera and two dozen plates.

On arriving at the Hermitage we found that the Hooker River was up and quite impassable for horses, consequently we were forced to cross the Mueller Glacier by the Hermitage, walk up the Hooker Valley, and cross the terminal face of that glacier on to the western slopes of the Mount Cook Range, after which we worked our way down the river till opposite the Hermitage again, where a length of fencing wire was thrown across the torrent by which we were able to take our swags over.

The roar of the torrent was deafening, and oral communication across was quite impossible. The wire on our side was made fast eight or ten feet above the water, and on the other about twenty feet. Three cheers were given us by the party of tourists on the other bank, to which we replied, and then we were cut off from the haunts of men for a week, and thrown quite on our own resources for clothing, food, and shelter—board and lodging, in fact.

Then came the arranging of swags, adjustment of carriers, &c., and we soon discovered that we had all we could carry—over 50 lbs. each. Then followed the toiling down the steep bank of the river to reach the end of the range, in the piping heat and glaring sun, now and then having to ascend the slopes to avoid the river, which rushed along close to the rocks.

At one place in particular we experienced some difficulty, having to resort to the use of the rope to climb a ditch or couloir in the rock-face where the river boiled past at a terrific pace. Here the camera was accidentally dropped, and falling down fifty feet or so, lodged on a ledge which overhung the water. Strange to say, when recovered it was found to be quite uninjured!

By dint of continued exertion and considerable expenditure of adipose tissue we at last turned the end of the range, and upon reaching the first water as we struck up the Tasman Valley, boiled the ‘billy’ and made a good lunch.

The wind now began to rise from the nor’-west, and clouds of dust were sweeping down the valley, so we lost no time in pressing on to a patch of Irishman scrub a mile or so below the terminal face of the glacier. We hurriedly cut some bedding and pitched the tent before the rain came on, in rather close proximity to an old creek-bed, which had apparently been dry for some time.

That creek made up for lost time during the night, and soon the rain came down in bucketsful as we lay our wearied limbs to rest in our oiled calico blanket-bags. The thunder crashed and the lightning flashed, and the Tasman River began to roar, and by one o’clock such a quantity of rain had fallen as to convert the dry creek-bed into a roaring torrent, whose waters threw up a bank of shingle, and, turning its course (horror of all horrors!), came right into our tent. In less than a minute from the time that we felt the first trickle there was a foot of water in the tent, and all our impedimenta of every description were sopping or floating about in the dark, and in imminent danger of being washed away.

Hurriedly we collected all we could into our blanket-bags, got into our boots somehow, and made for higher ground. We could not see a rise in the ground, but after wading about found a small portion out of water, and, with much strong language and trouble, succeeded in repitching the tent—after a fashion.

Ah! well do we remember the miseries and discomforts of the scene. Wind blowing in fitful gusts, rain coming down in sheets, while thunder and lightning and the incessant roar of the Tasman all tended to make the scene one of terror and discomfort. Matches nearly all destroyed; bread reduced to a state of pulp; blankets and clothes wet; instruments, boots, ropes, ice-axes muddled up anywhere, some in the tent, some being silted up or washed away from the spot where the tent was first pitched; the floor of the tent now hard, wet stones, in lieu of comfortable, dry tussock. Oh, the misery of it!

We lay in our wet clothes the rest of that night, all the following day, and the next night. Inglis and I scarcely stirred but to eat some disgusting, soppy mixture or to light our pipes; but Dixon pluckily rigged up a break-wind with an old tent left by the Birch Hill shepherds, and after three hours’ persistent labour kindled a fire, improvising a chimney out of a pair of white flannel trousers and sundry other garments!

We were quite hemmed in by water, and were in a constant state of anxiety lest the river should make depredations in our direction, as it was quite close to us, whilst in the creek on the other side we could hear the rocks being rolled down by the force of water.

Nine inches of rain had fallen during the forty-eight hours, but on the Sunday it cleared, and once again the warm sun shone out, the clouds drifted away from the mountains, the birds began to sing, and the waters subsided as quickly as they had risen, and our spirits rose again as we spread out our wet belongings on the scrub and donned a shirt, hat, and a pair of boots apiece, and set out for a visit to the scene of devastation at the face of the glacier whence the river issues. The costume was airy but convenient, as we had to cross several streams before reaching our destination.

We were well rewarded for our walk, for a wonderful sight was presented where the river flows out from the glacier. For a distance of half a mile from the face the banks of the main stream were strewn with blocks of ice of all sizes up to twelve or fifteen feet in thickness. At one spot the river rushed in mad violence from a great cavern of ice; in another it rose as from a geyser from under the ice, sending up a large column of water to a height of six or eight feet.

It was quite a new sensation to be dry again, but that night rheumatism screwed my joints, and some venomous insect bit my shoulder, causing intense pain for a short time.

While the rain continued we had all thought of falling back on the Hermitage as soon as we were able, but a bright sunny morning caused us to change our plans and forge ahead for the Ball Glacier camp, weakened though we were in strength and supplies.

Already we felt that our chance of ascending Aorangi was gone, for the snow lay thick on the upper peaks and avalanches were of common occurrence; yet we doggedly pushed on, determined not to turn without a struggle.

Leaping from rock to rock, avoiding the scrub and Spaniards by sticking to the moraine slopes, and scrambling over great tali of boulders which came from the mountain sides, by evening we reached our destination (the Ball Glacier), and finding the surveyor’s chain, tent poles, and hatchet—left by Fox and myself the previous season—in good order, we quickly had a comfortable camp pitched. A small army of mountain parrots or keas soon assembled, and the unerring shanghai procured grilled kea for supper.

Next morning broke gloriously fine, and by 7 a.m. we were away with blanket-bags, three days’ ‘tucker,’ and a change of warm clothing, intending to reach Green’s bivouac on the Haast Ridge that evening, and to make a final dash at Aorangi on the day following.

Once again we plunged into all those pleasures and joys of mountaineering. Again we felt the clear ice of the beautiful Hochstetter Glacier crunch under our iron-shod feet. Now we were away from all the hum-drum cares of life, from the misery of flooded camps, in the free mountain air, with the stupendous ice-falls and the majestic peaks all around. We seemed to breathe a heavenly atmosphere, to live a new life in another and a better world. Where is the man who can come into contact with these surroundings and not be better in body and soul?

We reached the foot of the Haast Ridge by 9.30, and here we debated as to whether we should tackle Aorangi after all, or try De la Bêche, further up the glacier (which peak would be an easier ascent and command a magnificent view of both eastern and western glacier systems). Aorangi it was, however, we had come to tackle, and so, again shouldering our swags, we went at the ridge.

We kept to the crest of the spur and found the climbing very simple, for a thousand feet amongst lilies and snow-grass; but after that the real business amongst rotten and precipitous rock ridges and faces commenced, and we had to put on the rope. At this time none of us were very proficient in the use of the rope, but we soon began to value the assistance it affords and to appreciate the assurance it inspires.

It was not until 5 p.m. that we reached the top of the ridge, where we soon discovered Green’s bivouac, not far from which spot we determined to spend the night.

All the way up we had been climbing with the Hochstetter ice-fall on our left, and had been favoured with the grandest views of Aorangi, which looked absolutely impregnable; but as our view of the Linda Glacier and the Great Plateau was shut off by the upper part of the Haast Ridge, we could not see the route which we were bent on following.

Here I may remark that the route by which Mr. Green, and subsequently Dixon and myself climbed the mountain cannot be seen from any distant point. I refer, of course, to the upper part of the route above the Haast Ridge. Even the plateau is so shut in as to be invisible from any distant point, except from the peaks of the Malte Brun Range on the opposite side of the valley.

Scraping away all the larger stones from under an overhanging rock and building a semicircular break-wind, we dug holes for our hips (one gets very sore in hard beds of this nature if such a precaution be neglected), wriggled into our blanket-bags, boiled a pannikin of Liebig, and slept like tops till the morning.

The rosy fingers of the morn had just opened the gates of day as our heads emerged from the apertures of our bags, and showed one of the most magnificent panoramas of Alpine wonder which it has been my lot to view.

Three thousand feet below us lay the Tasman Glacier with its marvellous stream of pure ice, on our right the Hochstetter ice-fall, on which we could look down and view with wonder its chaos of séracs and crevasses, the ice-clad precipices of Aorangi rising heavenwards from it in bold ruggedness. Down the valley to the south-west the grey moraine, with the meandering river still further afield. Across the valley the rocky peaks of the Liebig and Malte Brun Ranges with their hanging glaciers, and right opposite to us Malte Brun himself, a pyramid of red rock, flanked by ice and snow slopes, standing out clearly against the morning sky like a great grim castle, and looking quite safe from any assault of man—on this side at all events. Following round the panorama to the northwards, Mount Darwin sends its one great glacier sweeping down into the main stream; then the Hochstetter Dome stands at the head of the Tasman Glacier itself, and westward rise the noble summits of Mounts Elie de Beaumont, Green, and De la Bêche—the last a most beautiful triple peak, queen of the whole group, and over 10,000 feet in height. Still following round, the eye falls on the Rudolf Glacier descending from the peak of the same name, then Mounts Jervois, Spencer, Glacier Peak, and lastly Mount Haidinger, a fine flat-topped mountain clothed from base to summit in broken ice.

Behind us lay Mount Tasman (11,475 feet), invisible over the higher parts of the spur on which we were now situated. From our coign of vantage we counted twenty-five tributary glaciers of the Tasman, some with ice-falls, others joining with graceful curve.

We congratulated ourselves that all our weary toil and hard swagging had not been fruitless, and felt quite compensated for the miseries we had gone through at the lower camp, though the main object of our visit, we feared, was about to be defeated in a very short time. We pulled ourselves together, put on the rope, and resolved to make some pretence of a fight for it.

After an hour’s work we reached the highest rocks, then there came a dip on to a snow saddle, beyond which, again, snow slopes lead on to the final summit of the spur which hid the Great Plateau.

But it was not to be; for whenever we went on to snow we sank waist-deep, and struggled in vain to make any headway. Here, then, we were beaten, and planting our Christ’s College flag in the highest rocks, gave it three cheers for the old school days, and depositing a bottle with the record of our ascent, turned our backs on the grim giant Aorangi, and began to go down.

We struck a better route down by going into some couloirs north of the arête of the spur, and reached the Ball Glacier camp again, going down the following day to the Hermitage, after crossing the Hooker by the kind assistance of a shepherd from Birch Hill. The Hooker River had risen to such an extent during the rain storm as to carry away the wire on which we had slung our swags across. The camera was warped with the wet at the lower camp, whilst the plates were anything but ‘dry’ after the storm, so photography was altogether a failure in this excursion.

In the winter time we amused ourselves with another ascent of Mount Torlesse.

CHAPTER V
THIRD ATTEMPT TO CLIMB AORANGI

Photography on the Tasman Glacier—Attempt to scale Mount
De la Bêche

Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends.—Childe Harold.

It is a thousand pities that the ennobling pursuit of mountaineering is so neglected in this wonderland of peaks and glaciers. Such advantages as we enjoy surely cannot exist much longer without calling out the spirit which lies dormant in hundreds of the lovers of adventure and worshippers of the beautiful in Nature, who live on in our midst from day to day in a conventional and monotonous round.

There are pleasures in the pursuit of adventure amongst the great snow-fields and glaciers which only those who are initiated can thoroughly enjoy.

Ask the man who goes climbing what these pleasures are, and he cannot tell you, he cannot define them—yet he feels them, and they are ever luring him on. They are indefinite, inexpressible; but there is a sort of ‘mountain fever’ which comes when one has once ‘lost one’s heart to the great mountains.’ In the work all a man’s best physical, and many of his mental, powers are brought out and strengthened. There is the energy, perseverance, and patience to last through a long day’s swagging, the pluck to face all sorts of dangers amongst the snow, ice, and rocks, combined with the prudence to know when, for the safety of oneself and the party, to give in and restrain enthusiasm. There are the qualities of organisation and system, for which plenty of exercise is found; indeed, one cannot overrate the benefits which accrue.

Let any who have indulged in different branches of athletics put their swags on their backs and go for a mountain climb, and I venture to say that there are greater opportunities for bringing their frames into good going order and testing their muscular abilities than can be met with in any school of athletics.

I have known men in England who have revelled in all our great national games, but who invariably put mountaineering at the head of the list after once having tasted the sweets of climbing and been captivated by the charms of the world above the snow-line.

To the artistic what do not the mountains offer? To the botanist, the geologist, the naturalist, the athlete, and even to the invalid? The strange new world one enters in sub-Alpine regions, the ‘foretaste of heaven’ one seems to get above the snow-line.

In out-of-the-way New Zealand we have all these benefits at hand, and yet we leave the opening out and exploration of our great glacier systems to foreigners and to visitors from distant lands.

But this is digressive, and I must tell the story of our third visit to the Tasman Glacier.

On the evening of March 23, 1889, the visitors at the Hermitage were suddenly moved to compassion, mingled with no small amount of amusement, in beholding through the fast-falling snow-flakes the arrival of a dog-cart and tandem.

The leader of the team, a big chestnut draught-mare, seemed to be doing all the work, and pulling along wheeler, cart and all. The travel-worn and weary occupants of the vehicle were Mr. M. J. Dixon and myself, and we had taken French leave for Mr. Huddleston’s chestnut at Birch Hill, six miles down the road from the Hermitage, our leader having almost given in after a 250-mile journey from Christchurch.

Another bold, would-be mountaineer, Mr. P. H. Johnson, accompanied us with the knocked-up leader, and following in the coach was Mr. F. Cooper, a photographic operator from Messrs. Wheeler and Son of Christchurch, who was to join our party for a week’s work amongst the scenes of the Tasman Glacier.

The morning of the 24th revealed the flats around the Hermitage all snow-covered, and the day was devoted to completing preparations for a fortnight’s camp on the glacier.

On the 25th, the weather improving, our party left the Hermitage, being joined by James Annan and William Low, the former a boundary keeper on the rabbit fence, the latter engaged to help us with the swagging. Two better men over rough ground never put swag on back, and both entered into the spirit of the expedition and worked like Trojans to make it a success.

We drove our dog-cart down to the Hooker River at the usual crossing-place—the point of the Mount Cook Range—over two or three miles of boulders which tested the merits of the coachbuilder’s art to the utmost, as also the driver’s ability to stay in the cart. Here we found that a wire rope, some 200 feet in length, had been thrown across the river to facilitate the work of the rabbiters, who were engaged in keeping back the hordes of ‘silver-greys’ which were making their way northwards and ruining run-holders right and left. On this wire rope is slung, on runners, a rude box, travellers entering the same pull themselves across, and almost invariably take the skin off their knuckles with the runners. Crossing by this rope we piled our swags on to Annan’s packhorse and walked three miles up the valley to a patch of Wild Irishman scrub, where since our last visit a small galvanised iron hut had been built. A day’s delay here with bad weather, and then we shouldered our swags, and on the evening of the 27th reached our well-known Ball Glacier camp.

Our plans were as follows: To do a few days’ work with the photographer, so as to settle his business first, and then be free to tackle Aorangi during the following week. We wished to give the photographer every assistance in our power, as such scenery does not often come within reach of the photographic artist, however energetic he may be, and can only be approached by a properly equipped Alpine party, strong enough to carry a good supply of provisions and all the necessaries for preserving life in such out-of-the-way parts.

Our first excursion, then, was to cross the Tasman Glacier and make for the point of the Malte Brun Range at the turn in the glacier just opposite the point of De la Bêche. Here it was that Dr. von Lendenfeld had made his bivouac for his remarkable ascent of the Hochstetter Dome in 1883, when he was accompanied by his wife and one porter—an ascent that took twenty-seven hours of constant ice and snow work. This excursion would effect the double purpose of giving us some practice in ice work, and of securing a fine set of views.

The day was gloriously fine, and we felt our spirits rise as we scrambled over the massive lateral moraine of the Ball Glacier, across the glacier itself—which, by-the-by, shows very dirty ice at this point, being laden with rocks brought down many years since in the avalanches from the great ice-seamed crags of Aorangi, which towered in lofty grandeur above us—then over the medial moraine between the Ball and Hochstetter Glaciers, where a halt was made, and views of Aorangi and the Hochstetter ice-fall were secured.

Once more we stood before this marvellous piece of Nature’s handiwork, again we heard the thunder of the avalanches, again we saw the glinting, bristling séracs, and gazed in silence and admiration on the ice-fall of the Hochstetter.

Crossing the Hochstetter we struck up the medial moraine between that and the Tasman, straight for the point of De la Bêche.

MOUNT COOK AND THE HERMITAGE

[Wheeler & Son, Photo.

The best walking on the New Zealand glaciers is almost invariably found upon the margin of the medial moraine close to where it joins the clear ice, so that one is travelling over a mixture of ice and rocks. The clear ice is too hummocky and entails much undulating progression, if I may use such an expression, and the moraine itself—well, the walking on the moraine itself cannot be fitly described in parliamentary language.

We secured many good views as we proceeded with a 10 × 8 camera. Mount Haidinger on our left was particularly fine, its eastern face being almost entirely clothed with the Haast Glacier, which struck us as being one of the finest cascades of ice we had yet seen, larger in extent than the ice-fall of the Hochstetter, though not so picturesque.

Time was fast going, and we found that to get off the glacier before dark it would be requisite to strike away to our right, over a mile of much crevassed ice, to the gully next in the Malte Brun Range, which we had originally set out to reach. Jumping crevasses and cutting a few occasional steps, we at last arrived at the eastern side, finding a very suitable place to pitch our Whymper tent, and discovering to our joy a small supply of firewood.

The gully in which we camped had its origin far away up in the red-sandstone precipices of Malte Brun, and in its bed rushed down a foaming mountain torrent fed everlastingly by the many small hanging glaciers above. This stream rushed headlong into a large tunnel of ice in the side of the Tasman Glacier, over which was formed a tremendous cave, above which, again, were sheer walls of ice capped with morainic accumulations, the height from tunnel mouth to moraine summits being about 500 feet.

A view of this cave was secured by the photographer.

Friday the 29th was a morning to be remembered. Thick mists covered the peaks and seemed to hang over us like a pall. Here and there a shaft of sunlight penetrated to the ice-field at our feet. Only now and then would the rude screech of a kea remind us that we were not really dreaming in some enchanted land.

We had often talked of attempting the ascent of Mount De la Bêche when we should have polished off Aorangi; but as Aorangi seemed to require so much ‘polishing off,’ and we were now camped so close to De la Bêche, we thought we might as well try our hand at the mountain and see what we could do in a one-day’s trip from this point, while we left the artist to his own devices for the time being.

De la Bêche, then, it was to be. So off we started after a breakfast of sheep’s tongues and Liebig, putting our oilskins on our backs and taking our axes, and striking due north for the foot of the long arête which descends from the mountain and separates the Rudolf from the Tasman Glacier. Halfway to our ridge we had to put on the rope, for legs began to go through the now snow-covered crevasses in a promiscuous and unpleasant fashion.

It was indeed like an enchanted land, for the atmospheric effects were extraordinary. High up, shadowed in the mist, were reproduced the forms of the highest peaks of Mounts Malte Brun and Darwin. There was no mistaking their familiar outline, which was thrown out in the mist thousands of feet above, like the spectre on the Brocken.

CROSSING THE HOOKER RIVER

[Wheeler & Son, Photo.

Then the atmospheric effect of the mist hanging over the Rudolf Glacier was most wonderful. Looking up the glacier, we seemed to gaze into an enormous blue grotto, the sides being the slopes of the main chain with all its broken glaciers, and the western slopes of De la Bêche, whilst the overhanging mist furnished the roof or ceiling. A soft, warm, blue colour pervaded the whole, beautiful beyond expression.

Arriving at the foot of our mountain we commenced the ascent, finding the snow of the ice slopes in a loose and powdery condition, and having to exercise much judgment to avoid precipitating avalanches in the steeper pinches.

We climbed without the rope, rapidly, and alternately in snow and rocks, finding the latter very good—mostly of a red sandstone on which the nails of our boots took good hold. Looking now and then at the aneroid, we began to feel confident of making the ascent and returning to our camp by nightfall. But it was not to be, for, at an altitude of 8,100 feet, we were brought up by a very bad bergschrund and ridge of rocks succeeding it.

To the unlearned in Alpine parlance perhaps an explanation of the nature of a bergschrund is necessary. At the upper termination of nearly all highly situated ice slopes there almost invariably occurs between the rocks above, or between the ice slope and the permanent clinging ice above, a large gap or crevasse, partially filled or bridged with new snow during the winter months, but more open as the warmth of spring and summer causes the snow to melt and the ice to shrink away.

This crevasse or gap is called a bergschrund, and occasionally one may find in it places where the ice nearly or quite touches the rocks or ice of the upper side, or sometimes a sound snow bridge may be discovered. These bridges afford the only means of crossing wide bergschrunds. At the place in question a sharp ridge of ice, the lower lip of the bergschrund, led on to a frail snow bridge with a dip of some six feet or so in the centre, over a bottomless abyss some fifteen feet wide.

Dixon cut steps along the ice ridge, having first to remove a foot of fresh snow from the surface, and then we walked this novel tight rope, the bergschrund on our left and steep ice slopes on our right, and crossed the bridge in safety to a small ledge of ice where there was only just room for three to stand. Could we proceed? The rocks above were very bad and ice-coated. I went at them, clearing the inch or so of ice to get my fingers into chinks in the rock, and ‘squirming’ up on my stomach, clinging with toes and fingers, and feeling disposed to hang on by my teeth or even by the proverbial eyelids, reached, fifty feet above, the crest of the ridge.

I had been in some queer places in the mountains, but, pardon the use of a colonial expression, this one decidedly ‘took the cake,’ and I shall never forget the start I received when I found myself looking over a sheer upright face of rock on to an unnamed tributary glacier of the Rudolf, 1,000, perhaps 2,000, feet below. I dared not stand up and could scarcely crawl, but lay full length on the steep eastern slope looking over the sharp ridge down the western precipice. On the right, the razor-like arête of rock continued upwards, and seemed almost, if not quite, inaccessible.

AORANGI FROM THE BALL GLACIER

[Wheeler & Son, Photo.

Then there was a long-range discussion between Dixon and Johnson on the ledge below and myself on the ridge, ending in a decision to descend.

I never to this day can imagine how I came down that fifty feet of rocks without slipping into the crevasse below, but, by the aid of Dixon’s directions, I managed to find chinks in the rock-face for the toes of my boots, and reached the ledge to breathe the air of relief once more.

Here we held a council of war. We might, by a traverse of the ice ridge below, gain the rocks again above this bad place; but the summit was yet 2,000 feet above us, the cold so intense that the steel of one’s axe would adhere to the hand, the time was fast going, and the photographer and our men would be much concerned if we stayed out another night, besides which we were short of provisions, our original intention having been to stay out but one night. We decided to acknowledge ourselves beaten for the time being and to return to camp.

It goes against the grain with Dixon and me to turn back beaten from a peak. Indeed De la Bêche and Aorangi are the only ones to which we have lowered the colours of our grand old school—Christ’s College Grammar School, of Christchurch, New Zealand—and the latter we have since revenged ourselves upon. The former will not run away, and we are nursing a vindictive feeling against this noble triple-topped summit.

Descending very rapidly, glissading now and then in safe places, we reached the foot and struck over the Tasman Glacier again for our camp on the Malte Brun.

Well for us that we had turned from De la Bêche, for an hour from camp, Dixon, who had been complaining of not feeling up to the mark for some days and had been lagging—an unusual thing for him—was suddenly seized with violent cramp in the stomach and thighs. We thought at the time it was only temporary, consequent upon great physical exertion and drinking too much snow-water; but unfortunately he did not seem able to shake it off, and we had some difficulty in reaching camp over the maze of crevasses which occur in the glacier just where our Malte Brun Creek enters.

Here was a nice state of affairs. One of our best men gone wrong. How about Aorangi next week?

Saturday morning found us ‘tuckerless’ and hungry, and Dixon worse rather than better.

At 9 a.m. we struck camp and started for the Ball Glacier—really only four hours distant. Whilst taking some views an hour from camp we suddenly heard shouts down the glacier, and found that it was our trusty men, Annan and Low, who, being concerned about our lengthened absence from the lower camp, had come out to look for us.

Johnson, Low, and Annan took the bulk of the swags and started independently for the Ball Glacier, whilst I stayed to follow at a more leisurely pace with Dixon and the photographer. Dixon could only walk for a few minutes at a time and required to rest very frequently, so I sent Cooper on alone, not dreaming for a moment that he could go wrong in such simple ground, where no crevasses to speak of occurred.

ICE CAVE, TASMAN GLACIER