Transcriber’s Notes

Hyphenation has been standardised.

Note: The name Mattias (under Zurbriggen) in the index, is not mentioned anywhere in the project except in the index as follows:
Mattias, 18, 22, 53, 160, 295.

Zurbriggen’s christian name was Mattias.

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

A CLIMBER IN NEW ZEALAND

“The superiority of the mountains to the lowlands is as immeasurable as the richness of a painted window matched with a white one, or the wealth of a museum compared with that of a small furnished chamber.”

Ruskin.

“The king of day lingers lovingly about his white throne in the Southern Alps, and from there he burns his brilliant fires in the heavens above and along the level world below.”

Rutherford Waddell.

Mount Cook.

A CLIMBER

IN

NEW ZEALAND

BY

MALCOLM ROSS, A.C., F.R.G.S.

FORMERLY VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE NEW ZEALAND ALPINE CLUB

AUTHOR OF “AORANGI”, “IN TUHOE LAND”, ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR

LONDON

EDWARD ARNOLD

1914

[All Rights Reserved]

TO

MY WIFE

WHO IN CAMP AND BIVOUAC

REJOICED WITH US IN VICTORY

AND CHEERED US IN DEFEAT

PREFACE

Some of the material contained in the following pages appeared in the London Times. My thanks are due to the manager for allowing me to republish it. Articles that have appeared in the Alpine Journal and in some of the leading Australian and New Zealand newspapers—notably the Otago Daily Times, the Christchurch Press, the Wellington Post, the New Zealand Times, the New Zealand Herald, the Melbourne Age, and the Australasian—have also been used. These articles have all been re-written or revised. I am indebted to Dr. Teichelman for the interesting illustration facing page 296, and to the Otago Witness for the photograph of the Rev. Mr. Green, Boss, and Kaufmann. The other illustrations are from my own photographs. My thanks are also due to Mr. A. L. Mumm, late Secretary of the Alpine Club, and author of Five Months in the Himalaya, for the special interest he has taken in the publication of this book. Finally, I must record my great indebtedness to Lord Bryce, the distinguished Author and Ambassador, and a former President of the Alpine Club, for the charming introductory note that he has written.

M. R.

London,
February 7, 1914.

PREFATORY NOTE

BY THE RIGHT HON. VISCOUNT BRYCE

On the west side of the Southern Island of New Zealand there rises from the sea a magnificent mass of snowy mountains, whose highest peak, Aorangi or Mount Cook, reaches an elevation of 12,347 feet. Some of the loftiest summits are visible in the far distance from the railway which runs down the east coast of the island from Christchurch to Dunedin, but to appreciate the full grandeur of the range it must be seen either from out at sea or from points north of it on the west coast. The view from the seaport of Greymouth on that coast, nearly a hundred miles from Aorangi, is not only one of the finest mountain views which the world affords, but is almost unique as a prospect of a long line of snows rising right out of an ocean. One must go to North-Western America, or to the Caucasus where it approaches the Euxine, north of Poti, or possibly to Kamschatka (of which I cannot speak from personal knowledge), to find peaks so high which have the full value of their height, because they spring directly from the sea. The Andes are of course loftier, but they stand farther back from the shore, and they are seldom well seen from it.

In Southern New Zealand the line of perpetual snow is much lower than it is in the Alps of Europe. It varies, of course, in different parts of the range; but generally speaking, a mountain 12,000 feet high in New Zealand carries as much snow and ice as one of 15,000 feet in the Swiss Alps, and New Zealanders point with pride to glaciers comparable to the Aletsch and the Mer de Glace. On the west, some of the great ice-streams descend to within seven hundred feet of sea-level, and below the line of perpetual snow the steep declivities are covered with a thick and tangled forest, extremely difficult to penetrate, where tree ferns grow luxuriantly in the depths of the gorges. The region is one of the wettest and most thickly wooded in the world; and it is a region that might have lain long unexplored, except in those few spots where gold has been found, had it not been for the growth, about seventy years ago, of the passion for mountaineering, which has carried British climbers all over the earth in search of places where their prowess could find a field for its display. The first who forced their way into it were some New Zealand Government surveyors in 1862.

The first mountaineer to attempt Aorangi was my friend the Rev. W. S. Green of Dublin (now one of the most honoured veterans of our own Alpine Club), who had all but reached the summit when nightfall and bad weather forced him to turn back. After him came some bold New Zealand climbers and Mr. E. A. Fitzgerald. One of the former, Mr. T. C. Fyfe, with his companions, George Graham and J. Clark, reached the very top of Aorangi in 1894. Among these native mountaineers Mr. Malcolm Ross has been one of the most daring and most persevering. I had the pleasure, at Wellington, New Zealand, a year and a half ago, of listening to a most interesting description which he gave of his adventures and those of his comrades, and could realize from it the dangers as well as the hardships which the climber has to face in New Zealand. The weather, on the west coast especially, can be awful, for fierce storms sweep up from the Tasman Sea, that most tempestuous part of the Pacific, whose twelve hundred miles furnished the twelve hundred reasons why New Zealand declined to enter the Australian Federation. The base of operations is distant, for no alpine hotels and hardly any shelter huts have yet been built, such as those which the Swiss, German-Austrian, and Italian Alpine clubs have recently provided in their mountain lands. The New Zealand climber, who has been almost always his own guide, has sometimes to be his own porter also. And the slopes and glens, when one approaches the west coast, are covered with so dense a growth of trees and shrubs that progress is always slow and often difficult. No finer work in conquering nature has been done by climbers anywhere than here. But the guerdon was worth the effort. The scenery is magnificent, with a character that is all its own, for New Zealand landscapes are unlike not only those of our northern hemisphere, but those of South America also; and the youth of the Islands have been fired by the ambition to emulate those British mountaineers whose achievements they admire, as well as by a patriotic love for their own beautiful and fascinating land. I hope that the fresh and vivid descriptions Mr. Ross gives of the charms of New Zealand landscape, and of the scope which its peaks and glaciers afford for the energy and skill of those who find that the European Alps have now little that is new to offer, may draw to it more and more visitors from Britain.

February 2, 1914.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

A CLIMBER IN NEW ZEALAND

CHAPTER I

DESCRIPTIVE AND HISTORICAL

We took the path our fathers trod,

With swinging stride, and brave:

The thews we have, the hearts we hold,

Are what our fathers gave.

Wandering through an English village, not so many years ago, a friend chanced upon a dame’s school in which New Zealand was being described as “some small islands off the coast of Australia, infested with rabbits”; and only three years ago my wife was asked by a lady in the Lyceum Club, in London, if the Maoris were still cannibals, and if there were tigers in the jungle! It is not, perhaps, surprising, then, that astonishment should still be expressed when the statement is made that New Zealand has Alps and glaciers vieing in grandeur and in beauty with those of Switzerland. Distant fields are green, but seldom white; and New Zealand is a Far Country. The New Zealander, however, born and bred fifteen thousand miles away, still calls England “Home.” Long may he continue to do so! He knows more of England than England knows of him, and in time of stress he will cheerfully give, out of his slender means, a battle-cruiser as an object-lesson to the world; or, in time of danger, dye the veldt with his own red blood. And there will be nothing of selfishness in the sacrifice, as has sometimes been hinted to me by the Little Englander.

But, reverting to the main question, this ignorance in regard to the Outer Empire, which still prevails, reminds one of the story told by a well-known author on mountaineering, who once saw in the parlour of a cottage in England a wonderful erection of what appeared to be brown paper and shavings, built up in rock-like fashion, covered with little toy-box trees and dotted here and there with bits of mirror glass and cardboard houses. “What,” inquired the visitor, “may this be?” “That,” said the owner of the house, very slowly, “is the work of my late ’usband—a representation of the Halps, as close as ’e could imagine it, for ’e never was abroad.”

Like this lady’s “late ’usband,” there are many people who have heard of our Alps and volcanoes, yet have little idea of their size and importance. Let me endeavour, by way of introduction,—which the non-Alpine reader may skip if he likes,—to give some idea of the character of these mountains and of their history from a climber’s point of view.

The flora and fauna of the New Zealand mountains are especially interesting, but it would need much more space than is available within the limits of this book to deal adequately with them. Such references as I have made are only the passing comments of the climber, and not, in any way, the studied dissections of the scientist. But there is one matter, partly of historic and partly of scientific interest, the facts of which may very well be placed on record here. It relates to an experiment in acclimatization that is, I believe, unique in the history of the world.

I had often thought about the introduction of chamois to the Southern Alps; but the difficulties of capturing a sufficient number and of transporting them from the heart of Europe half-way round the world and through the tropic seas seemed so great as to make the experiment almost impossible of achievement. But some few years ago, when my friend Kontre-Admiral Ritter Ludwig von Höhnel, then an honorary aide-de-camp on the staff of the Emperor of Austria and King of Hungary,—himself a famous chamois hunter,—was in New Zealand, we talked the matter over. Höhnel then said to me that if he could get some of the curious New Zealand birds, such as the kiwi, the weka, the kakapo, and the kea for His Majesty’s Zoological Gardens at Schönbrunn, he believed that the Emperor, in return, would send out some chamois for the New Zealand Alps. This was too good a chance to be missed, and I told him that, so far as the New Zealand Government was concerned, I felt sure that our side of the project was already as good as arranged. Von Höhnel replied that he could not, of course, speak for the Emperor, but he would do his best to persuade him. Without more ado I took my friend along and introduced him to Mr. T. E. Donne, then the head of the Tourist Department, and he, being keenly interested in acclimatization matters and also a sportsman, promptly fell in with the idea, which was also readily taken up and sanctioned by Sir Joseph Ward, at that time the minister in charge of the Tourist Department. In due course the birds were sent to Austria, and eight chamois were forwarded to New Zealand via London in 1907. The chamois arrived in New Zealand on March 14th of the same year. They received the utmost attention on the voyage, and stood the journey very well. I went to see them on the arrival of the steamer, and they appeared to be in fine condition. Afterwards they were sent by steamer and train and wagon to Mount Cook and liberated in their new home in the Southern Alps. A few years ago some of them were seen, by one of the guides, with young at foot.

The other day, while in Vienna, I paid a visit to Schönbrunn, and looked for the New Zealand birds. I found that all but one had died. He was a sedate and venerable kea, and very sad he looked, confined, as he was, in an ordinary parrot cage. I said a few words to him in his own kea language, and he cocked his head knowingly on one side and eyed me curiously as if he had heard the sounds before but had almost forgotten them. For his own part, he seemed to have lost the power of speech in kea language. I have no doubt in the years gone by he was one of the young bloods of Kea land who used to come home with the milk and rouse us from our peaceful slumbers in the mountain hut on the Great Tasman Glacier, and that I myself had hurled both stones and imprecations at his wise-looking head. But now I felt sad at heart when I saw him cribbed, cabined, and confined in his little cage. It seemed as if his death after all would be laid at my door, and I longed to take him back with me to his friends and relatives in his home in the Southern Alps. But with the chamois it is different. They have a new home more glorious than their old one, and for years to come they must be protected from the gun of the hunter. In these Southern Alpine solitudes they can multiply and thrive in the land of the bird for which they were exchanged, while he—poor fellow—pines in his foreign cage.

The capturing of these chamois for New Zealand resulted in the destruction of many others, which, in their wild flight from their would-be captors, dashed themselves to death over the precipices of their rocky fastnesses, while others were maimed. There was therefore an outcry in Austria against their capture. Through the persistent efforts of the Admiral, however, the experiment is to be repeated this year on a small scale. I had the good fortune to meet him again in Vienna the other day, and he was quite keen about it, there being now, of course, a necessity for a change of blood if the experiment is to be quite a success. New Zealand owes to the Emperor Franz Josef and to Rear-Admiral von Höhnel its best thanks for their efforts in connexion with this novel essay.

The mountain system of New Zealand is as varied as it is interesting. In the North Island there is a series of volcanic mountains as fascinating, almost, as are the Southern Alps. How the fire came to New Zealand is told in Maori legend. The Maoris themselves looked upon the higher volcanic mountains with superstitious awe, and they considered them tapu, or sacred. No white man, and certainly no Maori, dared set foot upon them; and the fact that they were tapu prevented, for a long time, the obtaining of scientific knowledge regarding their craters and their summit configuration generally. Their origin was attributed to a famous tohunga, or high priest, who piloted one of the canoes of the early migrants from Hawaiki, the fabled home of the Maori people. This man, with another high chief, took possession of all the country between the Bay of Plenty and Mount Ruapehu. In order to assure fruitful years, these two ascended the neighbouring volcano of Ngauruhoe, and set up an altar to make the necessary incantations. The cold then, as now, was very bitter,—for the winds blow keen from the adjacent snows,—and it seemed as if the old tohunga would die, when happily the thought occurred to him of sending for some of the sacred fire that was in the keeping of one of his sisters in far-away Hawaiki. She straightway came with the fire. Wherever she halted in her underground travels there fire remained, and where she came to the surface to breathe there appeared boiling pools and geysers. Thus there was a trail of fire and boiling pools all along her route from White Island, down through all the thermal region to Ngauruhoe and Ruapehu. The fire revived the old man, and, in commemoration of the event, he left it burning in Ngauruhoe. As a sacrifice to the gods he cast his slave wife down the crater, and the mountain has ever afterwards been called by her name. The legend is picturesque, but unsatisfying. Years afterwards a famous chief called Te Heuheu was killed in a great landslip on the shores of Lake Taupo. His body was being taken to burial on the sacred mountain, when a terrific thunderstorm, or an eruption, came on, and the bearers, hastily depositing their burden in a cave, turned and fled. This made the mountain still more sacred and the early scientists dared not attempt to explore the range. Both Hochstetter and Dieffenbach must have been greatly disappointed that they were not allowed to set foot upon these sacred mountains, because then, as now, Ngauruhoe was the real centre of volcanic energy in New Zealand.

Ruapehu from Ngauruhoe.

It is, however, the thermal region in the vicinity of Lakes Rotorua, Rotomahana, Tarawera, and Taupo that is best known to the great majority of New Zealanders and to the sight-seers, who, from all parts of the civilized world, flock to this truly wonderful region. All the thermal phenomena possible seem to have been plentifully distributed throughout this territory. The crowning glory of it all was the Pink and White Terraces; but these, alas! are no more, for on June 10, 1886, they were either blown to bits or buried in the rain of mud and scoria that came from the eruption of Tarawera, and made the beautiful surrounding country a desolate wilderness. The story of that eruption with its loss of life, both Maori and European, has often been told, and there is no need to repeat it here. Nature is gradually reclothing the scarred hillsides, and even the bruised and wounded trees have been healed by the hand of time. The tourist wanders through the land just as he did before the eruption, and the birds and the fish killed or starved to death, as a result of the rain of mud and stones and fiery bombs, have been replaced by others of their kind. In this particular part of the thermal region the main centre of activity remained at the site of the old terraces, but during later years it seems to have shifted to the region of the famous but short-lived Waimangu geyser. This huge geyser threw a column of boiling water, steam, mud, and stones considerably over a thousand feet in air. In August 1903 the geyser was the scene of a terrible tragedy, an unusually severe eruption resulting in the death of two young girls, another visitor, and the guide, Joe Warbrick. The party had gone rather close in order to get a photograph. The eruption suddenly became terrific, and a great column of boiling water, shooting out at an angle, swept them off the hill into the overflow from the geyser. They were carried down in boiling water for nearly a mile towards Lake Rotomahana. The bodies were recovered shortly afterwards. Within the last few years Waimangu has become quiescent, but there is still great activity near by at a spot that has been aptly named Frying-pan Flat. There is much thermal activity too on what is supposed to be the site of the old Pink Terraces.

The completion of the North Island Main Trunk Railway has now brought the volcanoes within easy reach both of Wellington and Auckland, and year by year Ruapehu, Ngauruhoe, and the Tongariro Range are becoming favoured playgrounds for the more energetic class of holiday-makers. Ngauruhoe is apparently entering upon a period of renewed activity, and within the last four or five years there have been some fine volcanic displays from its crater. It is a perfect volcanic cone, 7515 feet high, and terminates the Tongariro Mountain Range to the southward—a range that has, within comparatively recent times, been the scene of tremendous volcanic energy. The desolate nature of the country on the eastern side of the mountain, and the vast extinct craters of the range itself, are now silent witnesses of the fiery activity of bygone ages.

There are still several centres of great thermal energy on the Tongariro Range. At the lower and northern end Te Mari and Ketetahi are in a state of almost perpetual turmoil, and clouds of steam rising from their seething cauldrons are visible many miles away. The Red Crater, near the middle of the Range, is still hot in places, and jets of steam hiss through small vents in the gloriously tinted rocks of its sides. At the extreme southern end of the range is the active volcano of Ngauruhoe. In winter-time its slopes are clothed in snow and ice. Occasionally, for days at a time, it sends a vast column of steam fully 3000 feet in the air, and then it is a magnificent sight. At the period of greatest activity the scene must have been almost beyond description. Ngauruhoe was then, indeed, a hell unchained. A New Zealand poet—Mr. D. M. Ross—has graphically depicted such a scene as may well have been witnessed by the original inhabitants of Maoriland—

“O’er Vassal Peaks thy smoky banners spread,

Splashed with red flame as ever on they sped

In serried ranks, squired by the lesser hills,

To purple realms of mystery; the day

Failed of her sun when thy red furnace flamed,

And night was all aglow when earthquakes played

Beneath thy heaving breast of startled snows.”

About two years ago a geologist saw lava in the crater, and, later still, when the mountain was particularly active, a glow as from molten lava appeared in the sky. It would not be at all surprising if at any time there were an eruption on a grand scale. Fortunately, the surrounding country is so unproductive as to be but sparsely settled, and therefore a serious eruption would be more spectacular than destructive.

The Southern Alps extend in a series of ranges from the north to the extreme south of the Middle Island. In the south, the ranges, which run in different directions, are intersected by the splendid fiords on the one side and by the arms of the long, deep lakes on the other. The mountain masses, in some places, come sheer down to the water’s edge, and their bases are far below the level of the lakes or of the sea. Many of their lower slopes are densely wooded, while their summits are capped with perpetual snow and ice. In the region of Milford Sound they rise steeply from the water’s edge, and their solid and sometimes smooth granite walls seem uninviting to the foot of the climber. Going farther north we have another fine series of mountains in the region of Lakes Wakatipu and Wanaka. Though not high, as heights go in the European Alps or in the Himalaya, they are imposing mountains. It is only within comparatively recent years that passes have been discovered between the lakes and the sounds; and although these passes do not lead the traveller beyond the sub-Alpine heights, they take him through scenery that is no less remarkable for its beauty than for its grandeur—a fitting introduction to those greater marvels in the heart of the Southern Alps.

Northwards, from Mount Aspiring, which is at the head of this jumble of southern mountains that spreads itself through fiordland and lakeland, the Southern Alps proper extend in an almost unbroken chain along the western side of the Middle Island of New Zealand to where Mount Cook, or Aorangi, rears his snow-crowned ridge above the grim precipices and flanking glaciers, and, dominating the landscape, gives an outlook from sea to sea. Here we are amongst the monarchs of the range, and the views are indescribably grand. There is a glorious Alpine panorama stretching north and south, and, though all the highest mountains have been climbed, there are hundreds and hundreds of untrodden peaks and passes still awaiting the foot of the climber.

Crater of Ngauruhoe.

Travelling over the level lands in the south-bound train from Christchurch on a summer’s day, one sees wheat fence-high and golden in the sun, the grey-green of oats in ear, the darker green of well-tilled root crops, interspersed with clumps and lines of English and Australian trees, making relieving splashes of colour against the purple haze of the foothills, and indicating a fertile soil. At intervals we rumble over the long bridge of some snow-fed river, with its great shingle flats and islands, and its opalescent water forming many interlacing streams, and we realize that the work done in the giant laboratory of the Frost King, in the heart of the Alps, is here finding its full fruition. We know also that the planing glacier, the eroding torrent, and the crumbling moraine are still at work. They are the Mills of the Gods, slowly grinding, and though they grind exceedingly small, they have made, in time, through the agency of these great snow-fed rivers, a land that is of a verity flowing with milk and honey—a land that is already the granary of the islands. Thus the Southern Alps have an important bearing upon the economic possibilities of the country. Their never-failing rivers, by means of irrigation, will make possible a still more intense cultivation on the plains of Canterbury and Otago. But beyond all this there are possibilities almost undreamt of in the enormous power from lake and river now running to waste. In short, the Southern Alps may one day make New Zealand not only the playground of Australasia, but its manufactory as well. A return recently compiled, giving the more important available water powers in both islands, shows an average of 3,817,180 horse power and 2,854,470 kilowatts. A considerable number of these powers are suitable for general industrial development, but the largest ones, being mainly in the unsettled portions of the Middle Island, and near the deep-water sounds, are particularly suitable for utilization in connexion with electric-chemical or electric-metallurgical industries. Finally, the Southern Alps must not be despised from the tourist point of view. They already bring many visitors to New Zealand from all parts of the world; and in years to come, when torrid Australia and the sweltering Pacific number their population by many millions, this splendid mountain chain both in summer and in winter will have become the playground of the new nations under the Southern Cross.

But apart altogether from the physical aspect and the economic aspect, a splendid Alpine chain, such as forms the backbone of the Middle Island of New Zealand, is almost certain to have some influence upon the character and physique of the nation, and more especially upon the character and physique of a nation endowed with those qualities of hardihood and adventure that are such predominant features of the Anglo-Saxon race. In an interesting article on “Mountaineering as a Sport for Soldiers,” published in the Times in 1907, the writer—Mr. L. M. S. Amery—pointed out that “there can be few better tests of the essential qualities of leadership than a really critical moment on a mountain. The man who can retain his judgment and confidence, and keep up the spirits of his party, when the way has already been lost, when all the rocks are coated with new verglas, when fingers are numb with cold, and when the guides begin to lose their heads and jabber furiously in incomprehensible patois—he is the man who (in warfare) is no less certain to keep his nerve and sustain his subordinates when casualties are heaviest, and the hope of support faintest.” Where there are mountains and where there are British people there will, of a surety, be climbing, and the sport develops character and brings out qualities that are of first importance in the affairs of everyday life as well as in warfare. From this point of view, therefore, as well as from the others mentioned, New Zealand has a valuable asset in her mountains. It is an asset, too, that is already being developed to some purpose.

The splendid mountain chain that forms the back-bone of the Middle Island was, during the early period of colonization, a terra incognita to all but a few New Zealanders, and it is only within recent years that the sons of those bold pioneers who travelled over so many leagues of ocean to build themselves new homes and to lay the foundation of a new and sturdy nation have ventured into the heart of the Southern Alps to wrest the secrets of the higher snows. The age of conquest has been long delayed, but once started, the conquerors have marched to victory with even greater vigour than did their forefathers in the European Alps. It took some little time to gain the necessary experience, for the Antipodean climbers had not only to learn the craft untaught by others, but they had to be their own guides, their own step-cutters, and even their own porters. With the first taste of victory came the lust for other conquests, and, one by one, the great peaks have fallen, till now there is not one first-class mountain left unconquered, and already “traverses” and new routes up old peaks are becoming the fashion. Though the New Zealanders have won for themselves many of the higher summits, there are a number that have fallen before climbers from the Motherland. The New Zealanders, however, did their work without assistance, and it says much for the courage, for the endurance, and for the resource of the race that the sons of the pioneers have accomplished this remarkable record without a single fatal accident, and indeed without serious misadventure of any kind.

To an Englishman, and a member of the Alpine Club, the Rev. William Spotswood Green, belongs the credit of having initiated Alpine climbing in this the farthermost part of our Outer Empire. It was his work in the Southern Alps that fired the imagination of that hardy band of young Colonial pioneers who, like their forefathers in the Alps of Switzerland, were destined to lead the way in Alpine conquest. Green came with two experienced Swiss climbers,—Emil Boss and Ulrich Kaufmann,—and though he was not successful in reaching the actual summit of Mount Cook, he very nearly got there. The story of his adventures is simply and graphically told in his book, which must ever remain a classic in New Zealand mountaineering literature.

Mr. Green had many difficulties to contend against before he got to Mount Cook. To begin with, his wagonette came to grief in the Tasman and was swept bodily down the river. Birch Hill station was then the last human habitation on the way to the glacier world, and it took a long time before a camp could be established at the foot of the spur where now stands the Ball Hut. The attempt to climb the mountain by the main arête failed. The party got on to a narrow arête along which they came to the first rock-tooth of tottering splintered slate, which was climbed with great difficulty and danger. The ridge connecting this with the next spike was so loose that it trembled beneath their feet and made further climbing madness. An attempt by way of the eastern face of the mountain also failed. The warmth of the sunshine caused many avalanches, one of which nearly buried the party. A route by way of the Great Plateau and the Linda Glacier was, however, discovered. On March 1st the party spent the night on the spur near the Bivouac Rock, subsequently so much used by the New Zealanders. They started next morning on their historic climb via the Linda Glacier, and after some difficulties they found themselves close to the foot of the arête connecting Mount Cook with Mount Tasman. As the party advanced along their route many avalanches fell from Mount Tasman. A halt was made for breakfast, and some of the impedimenta deposited. The crevasses were numerous, and but for the fresh snow would have barred the way. Three hours’ work brought them to the head of the glacier, after which they turned to the left, and, crossing the arête, reached an ice-filled couloir, to gain which they had to do some severe step-cutting. Here the real work began, and the first and last view was got of the western sea. After climbing up the couloir, they reached a wall of ice, and decided, after a council of war, to try to cross the couloir, which at first had been rejected as too dangerous. The setting of the sun lessened the risk, and, though it was an anxious time, the opposite side was reached in safety. After all, the rocks were inaccessible, and the party had to climb through a notch, and thus reach the ice-slope beyond, down which swept a stream of detached ice; and, as it was thawing and getting late in the afternoon, the question of advancing was discussed. But as the bivouac could not be gained before dark, and what was presumed to be only an hour’s work lay before the party, it was decided to go on. Keeping close to the rocks, an icicled bergschrund was reached but avoided by a detour to the left, and at 6 p.m. Mr. Green, Boss, and Kaufmann stepped on to the crest of Aorangi. This was, they thought, too late an hour to permit of their going on to the actual summit. As there were no rocks at hand, no cairn could be built, and they were forced to retreat, leaving no record of their ascent. Until the rocks were reached they had to descend backwards, with faces to the ice. Beneath one or two fragments of rock were placed Mr. Green’s handkerchief and Kaufmann’s match-box. With great difficulty, and some danger, they lowered themselves down the lower end of the ice-slope, and as they crossed the couloir to the opposite rocks, night closed in. In a little time the moon rose, enabling the three men to find a partial shelter beneath the rock-ridge, on a little ledge less than two feet wide and sloping outward, and there they spent the nine hours of darkness, stamping to keep up the circulation, and talking and singing to drive away sleep, which would have been fatal to them. Every quarter of an hour an avalanche rumbled, there being a warm north-west wind, which probably saved them from being frost-bitten. At 5.30 the descent was recommenced, and the snow was found to be very soft, one crevasse being almost impassable. The plateau was completely changed in aspect by an immense avalanche, but they found the knapsack where it had been left, and enjoyed its contents (although the bread was twenty days old), for they had been twenty-two hours without food. In the séracs they found their track obliterated, one avalanche having covered an area of two hundred acres and filled up a large crevasse. While they were crossing the Great Plateau a grand avalanche fell from the Tasman cliffs with a deafening crash. At 1 p.m. the bivouac was reached, and a welcome cup of tea and half an hour’s rest enjoyed. Then they returned to their camp at the Ball Glacier in the Tasman Valley.

Peter Graham.

Kaufmann. Green. Boss.

Long before Mr. Green’s visit the early pioneers had done considerable preliminary exploratory and geological work, though they did no serious Alpine climbing. Many of these, including Dr. von Haast, have now passed away. As an indication of the dangers these pioneers had to face, it may be mentioned that out of quite a small band Mr. Howitt lost his life in Lake Brunner in 1863, and Mr. G. Dobson was murdered on the West Coast in 1866. Dr. Sinclair was drowned in one of the branches of the Rangitata River. He was buried at a place called Mesopotamia, in the words of his friend, Dr. von Haast, “near the banks of the river just where it emerges from the Alps, with their perpetual snowfields glistening in the sun. Amidst veronicas, senecios, and covered with celmesias and gentians, there lies his lonely grave.”

Jack Clark.

Following in Mr. Green’s footsteps came the Canterbury Climbers. They tried Mount Cook by Green’s route; but, like him, they failed, though on one occasion Messrs. Mannering and Dixon made a heroic effort and got within about a couple of hundred feet of the summit.

The season of 1893-94 will ever be memorable in the annals of New Zealand mountaineering, for that was the season in which the first of the great peaks fell. On March 7, 1895, Fyfe, by himself, made the first ascent of that splendid rock peak Malte Brun (10,241 feet); with Jack Clark and Dr. Franz Kronecker (a tourist from Germany) he climbed Mount Darwin (9700 feet); and with George Graham he ascended Mount de la Bêche (10,040 feet) and the Footstool (9073 feet). It was a fine performance for the young New Zealanders, who had by this time acquired not only the craft of climbing, but also of route-finding.

Meantime there had been no further serious attempt upon Mount Cook, but early in the season 1894-95 the New Zealanders were again at work, and, on Christmas Day 1894, succeeded in making the first ascent of Mount Cook. Their struggles, under adverse circumstances, and their final success, are dealt with in another part of this book.

That same season, Mr. E. A. Fitzgerald, a member of the English Alpine Club, arrived with the famous guide Zurbriggen to climb Mount Cook and other peaks. The visitors spent some time in Christchurch, and on their way to the theatre of operations they met the victorious New Zealanders returning from their conquest. Fitzgerald, however, continued his expedition, and did some remarkably fine work, including the first ascents of Mount Tasman (11,467 feet), Mount Sefton (10,350 feet), Mount Haidinger (10,063 feet), and Mount Sealy (8651 feet). To Mr. Fitzgerald also belongs the honour of having discovered an easy pass from the vicinity of Mount Cook to the West Coast—a pass that others had been seeking for some time but had failed to find.

There was no further serious climbing for a few years, until Mr. T. C. Fyfe and the writer made the first ascent of the Minarets (10,058 feet), an ascent of Haidinger by the eastern face, and the first pass between the head of the Great Tasman Glacier and the West Coast. In 1905 our party made the first traverse of Mount Cook. About the same time the West Coast climbers Dr. Teichelman and the Rev. Mr. Newton, with Mr. R. S. Low, a Scottish climber, and guide Alex. Graham, came into prominence. They commenced a series of ascents from the western side of the range, on which the scenery is more varied and even more imposing than it is on the eastern side. They made the first ascent of St. David’s Dome (10,410 feet), and made a new high pass over the main divide to the Tasman. Some fine work was also accomplished that season by Mr. H. Sillem, in company with the New Zealand guides Clark and Graham. He ascended Mount Cook, Malte Brun, the Footstool, and Sealy, and succeeded in making the first ascent of Elie de Beaumont (10,200 feet) and the southern peak of Mount Cook (11,844 feet). In 1907 Dr. Teichelman and the Rev. Mr. Newton, with Alex. Graham, made the first ascent of Mount Douglas (10,107 feet) and of Torris Peak (10,576 feet). Mounts Haast, Lendenfeld, Conway, and Glacier Peak (all over 10,000 feet) also fell to them. There were no high ascents made in 1908; but in the 1909 season the guides were kept busy. Mr. Claude M‘Donald, a member of the Alpine Club, made the first traverse of Malte Brun (10,421 feet), and Mr. L. M. Earle, also a member of the Alpine Club, with three guides, ascended Mount Cook by a new route from the Hooker Valley. The climb was mostly on good rocks, and is probably the easiest and shortest way to the summit of the mountain. Several first ascents of second-class peaks were made. In 1909-10 Captain Head, an Englishman, with guides J. Clark and A. Graham, made the first ascent of Mount Aspiring, and, in company with Mr. L. M. Earle and the same guides, Mount Sefton was ascended for the first time from the western side.

No résumé of the work done in the Southern Alps would be complete without reference to the magnificent survey work and the measurements of glacier flow made by Mr. T. N. Brodrick, C.E., of the New Zealand Survey Department.

Mummery in his delightful book about his climbs in the Alps and Caucasus says, humorously, that a mountain passes through three phases, “An inaccessible peak,” “The most difficult climb in the Alps,” and “An easy day for a lady.” His classification has been proved true in regard to the New Zealand as well as the European Alps, and Mount Cook, which baffled Green and his Swiss experts and the early New Zealand climbers, has now been climbed by two women. Miss Du Faur, a Sydney girl, in 1911 made the ascent by the Hooker Rock route in company with the two guides Peter and Alex. Graham, while Mrs. Lindon, an Englishwoman resident in Australia, a year later, with Peter Graham and D. Thomson, made the ascent of Mount Cook by Green’s more difficult route. The conditions for both ascents were perfect. Miss Du Faur has also climbed Mount Tasman (11,475 feet), Mount Dampier (11,323 feet)—a first ascent—and several other peaks. This season (1912-13), in company with Graham and Thomson, she has succeeded in making a traverse of the three peaks of Mount Cook from a high bivouac on the Hooker side to the bivouac on the Tasman side—a remarkable feat. On this trip the climbers were favoured with glorious weather, and the conditions were also good; otherwise the climb would have been almost hopeless. The writer has looked down the long icy knife edge that, with its bends and steep slopes and cornices, joins the three peaks together, and has realized the almost insuperable difficulties in the way of success, except under ideal conditions. All honour, then, to the two New Zealand guides and the young Australian girl who have accomplished such a daring feat.

In connexion with this brief historical résumé of mountain climbing in New Zealand and looking back over this series of victories, won without a single fatal accident, it remains only to pay a tribute—and it must be a very high tribute—to the members of the Alpine Club, whose precept and example we have so closely followed. When I first started climbing, the Rev. Mr. Green sent me an ice-axe and an article on the death-roll of the Alps! What two more appropriate things could he have forwarded to an amateur anxious to learn the craft in a Far Country? I still have the axe—a treasured possession—but I have long ago lost the article! And it occurs to me, now, that by the reader of these pages it may be laid to our charge that in some of our expeditions we did not err on the side of timidity. My answer to that will be that we were always, or nearly always, doing pioneer work, and so had to discover the dangers as well as the routes, and that, generally, when the weather failed, when the avalanches began to hiss down the slopes or crash from the cliffs, or when the rocks began to fall, we either waited or turned tail and fled. But, in any case, the most critical would, surely, not have had us run no risks at all. He is a poor soul—and there can be no pride of race in him—who will shirk all danger. Two years ago it was my privilege—at the invitation of my friend Lord Islington—to give a lecture at Government House, Wellington, before a famous historian and ambassador who is one of a long line of distinguished presidents of our Club, and, at the close of the lecture, he—in one of those charming speeches which he so easily makes—emphasized the necessity for the caution that I myself had been preaching. But afterwards, at supper, his wife came to me and said, “I like my husband’s preaching to you about caution! Why, when he climbed Ararat his only companion was his ice-axe!” But she said it with a smile, and with what I judged to be a feeling more of pride than of reproach. So you see this fondness for a spice of danger is in the blood, and cannot be altogether eliminated in the old country any more than in the new. And I will even go the length of saying that it will be a sorry day for the race when it is no longer a feature of British character.

Mount Cook has now been climbed by four routes. It has been traversed from east to west over the highest summit, and along the ridge from south to north. The first ascent was made by New Zealanders who had never seen a guide at work, and all the other ascents but one have been made with guides who have learnt their craft, untaught by others, in their native land. All the high peaks have now been climbed, with or without guides, Zurbriggen being the only foreign guide who has ever stood on the summit of a New Zealand Alp. And during all these years there has been no fatal accident to mar the tale of success. But what of the future? It is scarcely to be expected that this immunity from accident will continue indefinitely. There may come a day when some climber, caught in bad weather, or endeavouring to achieve the impossible by some new and more daring route, will meet his fate on the higher snows, or leave his bones among the beetling crags of the great precipices. One can only express the hope that such a day may be long delayed, and that, for many years to come, the steep white slopes, the grim precipices, and the towering peaks will continue as a health-giving playground, and resound with the laughter born of the fun and frolic of the hardy mountaineer. And whatever the future history of these mountains may be, it can scarcely provide a tale of more absorbing interest than is furnished by the manly struggles of the pioneers who have climbed, with some fair measure of success, in a Far Country.

CHAPTER II

IN THE OLDEN DAYS

“The bed was made, the room was fit,

By punctual eve the stars were lit;

The air was still, the water ran;

No need was there for maid or man,

When we put up, my wife and I,

At God’s great caravanserai.”

From an Old Play—slightly altered.

From the shoulder of the Hochstetter Dome down a long valley between the giant snow peaks of the Mount Cook Range on the one hand, and the rocky buttresses of the Malte Brun and Liebig Ranges on the other, swollen at intervals by tributary ice-streams, flowing with imperceptible movement, comes the Great Tasman Glacier—a veritable mer de glace—eighteen miles in length. Some six miles from its terminal face the Ball Glacier descends from the south-eastern shoulder of Aorangi, and pours its huge slabs of broken ice and a rubble of moraine into the parent stream. At the foot of this glacier, in a hollow between the moraine of the Tasman and the long southern arête of Mount Cook, the Rev. William Spotswood Green, with Emil Boss and Ulrich Kaufmann, pitched his fifth camp on the occasion of his memorable expedition in 1882.

Thither, a somewhat young and inexperienced mountaineer, in company with his wife, wended his way a few years later. The proposed adventure caused much critical comment in the family circle and among our friends. Some said we were mad: others envied us. Those were the delightful days of pioneering, when the mountains were a sealed book to all but a few faithful worshippers, and when adventures came, freely and fully, without the seeking. There were no motor-cars to run you up in a day from the confines of civilization; there were no well-trodden tracks up the valleys; the turbulent rivers were unbridged; guides were a genus altogether unknown; and, at the end of the long day’s journey, there was no sheltering hut under which you could rest your weary limbs. You were your own guide, your own porter, your own tent-pitcher, and your own cook. They were days in which we accomplished little in the matter of real climbing; but they were days in which the blood was strong and Hope flew ahead on swift wings—days that are now gone, alas! never to return.

Previous to our visit no Englishwoman had ever attempted this journey. To a foreigner—Frau von Lendenfeld—belonged the honour of being the first woman to traverse the Great Tasman Glacier. Frau Lendenfeld, however, was a good mountaineer; and it is given to few women to do such pioneering as she did in the Southern Alps. We were mere amateurs at the game. Still, we were not to be daunted by the croakings of friends who prophesied that our bones would soon be bleaching on the glaciers. Accordingly, after a good deal of correspondence, much planning and provisioning, and considerable consulting of maps and photographs, we started on our eventful journey. After a day in the train, we found ourselves at Fairlie Creek. Next morning, having had an early breakfast, we were bowling along a good gravel road, behind four spanking greys, well driven, on our way to Mount Cook.

Lunch at Lake Tekapo on a calm summer’s day, after hours of coaching, was a delightful experience. Afterwards, with your pipe alight, you stepped out into the hotel garden, and, a few paces in front of you, lapping a rocky shore, were the beautiful turquoise-green waters of the lake, reflecting the clouds and the mountains. Here horses were changed, and we started off again on our long journey through the dreary yellow tussock wastes of the Mackenzie Plains. Lake Pukaki was our halting-place for the night. At sunset we sighted its waters. Far up the valley, rising from the Tasman Flats, towered the great mass of Mount Cook, its final peak gleaming in the sunlight, and its snows reflected in the lake at our feet—here distinctly, and yonder more faintly, as the distant waters were ruffled by a passing breeze. After some time spent in a futile endeavour to get the dust out of our clothes and our eyes and our ears, we dined on the rough fare of the country. No delicate viands here! only the oily mutton-chop, fried—think of it, ye later-day disciples of Lucullus—in grease that boasted aloud of a long acquaintanceship with the pan! And for drink you had your choice of the everlasting boiled tea with all the tannin in it, of a cloudy and somewhat sour-tasting ale, or of an indifferent whisky. I know there are Scotsmen who maintain that there may be good whisky, and better whisky, and better whisky still, though there can be no such thing as bad whisky; but such enthusiastic patriotism as this could never have extended to a back-blocks New Zealand inn in the days when we first went a-pioneering. We had one delicacy—jam. Yet, truth to tell, we were uncertain whether it was stale strawberry or mouldy gooseberry. My wife, after a microscopic examination, announced that it was raspberry made from turnips! A diligent cross-examination of the handmaiden—who, in the intervals of conversation with the coach-driver in the kitchen, fairly hurled the viands at us—elicited the statement that it was gooseberry. She was rather annoyed when doubts were expressed as to her veracity, and we mildly suggested that it might be pineapple! No, she was confident it was gooseberry. How did she know? “Sure, she saw it on the label, an’ if we didn’t belaive her we could go into the back-yard, where she had thrown the tin, and see for ourselves!”

The after-glow on Mount Cook, the glorious colouring of which was mirrored in the lake, was some atonement for the want of delicacy in the viands.

We were early on the road again next morning. Crossing the Pukaki River on a ferry-boat, worked by the current, we drove over the tussocky downs of Rhoboro’ Station, and entered what appeared to be the bed of an old river, that had no doubt, at some distant date, cut its way through this ancient lateral moraine, when the glacier of the Tasman Valley was three or four times its present size.

The road followed an old bullock-dray track, through which morainic boulders reared their hard heads, and not altogether in vain. Once, on this very road, a thoughtful traveller, sorely bruised and battered after some miles of jolting, stopped the coach and got down to examine the wheels. The driver, a little puzzled, asked what was the matter, and received the laconic reply: “Oh, nothing. I merely wished to see if your wheels were square.” For the first mile or two we thought this story a joke; after a few more miles, we began to think there might be some truth in it; and, finally, we too found ourselves dubiously examining the wheels. It is all very well when you are nicely wedged in between a couple of really stout passengers; but, when you have an angular tourist on your right and an iron railing bounding your hip-joint on the left, the world seems a very grey world indeed, and even scenery ceases to excite. On this particular day, however, our driver added to the excitement of the ride in very material degree. He had that morning received what is known in these parts as “the sack.” In other words, he had lost his job, and he had not taken the announcement with quite the grace of a Spanish grandee. He confided to us with many adjectives—some more forcible than polite—that he was “out for a picnic,” and he did not care if he killed a tourist or two. His main object in life now appeared to be to get to his destination—in pieces, if necessary—about an hour before the proper time, and at one stage it seemed as if he might really kill a passenger, or, at least, a horse, in the accomplishment of this quite unnecessary feat. The crackings of his long whip were accompanied by a variety of oaths, and other comments, of a staccato but emphatic nature. The height of his enjoyment appeared to be reached on a steep incline leading towards the lake. Down this we rattled, over stones and around sharp curves, at a pace that would have done credit to Yuba Bill; and we said never a word, but held our breath and the iron railing of the trap, till, with a sigh of relief, we reached the bottom safely and breathed freely again. To do him justice, he did know how to handle his team, and, finally, our admiration for the fellow as a driver began to overshadow our contempt for him as a man and a humanitarian.

During the next day’s drive there was no hostelry at which we could obtain food and drink, so soon after twelve o’clock we halted and had an al fresco luncheon at a place known as “The Dog’s Grave.” There was a little patch of scrub on the flat, where fuel was obtainable, and a clear stream running past supplied good water. Near at hand was the dog’s grave, with a little tombstone, the whole enclosed with a stout wooden railing. The dog belonged to the survey camp established there some months previously, and his master, grieving over his untimely demise, gave him a decent funeral and a tombstone with an inscription on it!

The latter part of the journey was over a very rough road; but the splendid views ahead were some compensation for the jolting we received. Our jehu, true to his promise, landed us at the Hermitage an hour ahead of contract time. This inn, prettily situated at the foot of an old lateral moraine of the Mueller Glacier, has since seen many vicissitudes, till, finally, it passed into the hands of the Government. It is now about to be pulled down, and another building is being erected on a better site—none too soon either, because the bursting of the glacier water through the old moraine has flooded the rooms, and caused damage such as to make the situation quite unsafe.

Next day the fine weather with which we had been favoured broke. High up in the heavens the storm-clouds were being driven before the south-west wind, while a lower current from the north-west was wreathing the rain-clouds around the highest peaks of Aorangi and Mount Sefton. It was a battle between the two winds, but at last the north-wester triumphed. A momentary glimpse was obtained of the highest peaks of Mount Cook, and then the torn mists wound themselves about it and hid it from view for the rest of the day. The north-west wind struck us with great force, and, as we peered over the edge of the hill down on to the rock-covered surface of the Mueller Glacier, we could scarce bear up against it. The temperature quickly fell to 52 degrees, then the rain came on.

By next morning the storm had abated, and the sun shone out. I engaged a young shepherd, named Annan, with a pack-horse, and, after arranging tents, ice-axes, and provisions, we started to fix a camp some fourteen miles up the Tasman Valley. There was an anxious moment with the pack-horse in crossing the Hooker River, now swollen with the recent rains, and, as the animal struggled with loose boulders and floating blocks of ice in mid-stream, we were quite prepared to see the expedition come to a premature and ignominious end. Annan, however, riding his own horse, managed to pilot the pack-horse in safety to the farther shore, while I got into a small wooden cage, that dangled high above the roaring torrent, and laboriously pulled myself over to the other side. The pack-horse was taken as far as the terminal moraine of the Tasman Glacier. Beyond this it was impossible to proceed with the horses, and the packs had now to be transferred to our own backs. They looked, indeed, a goodly pile.

The Hermitage.

Twenty-five lb. of biscuits, 12 lb. of tinned meats, 2 loaves weighing 14 lb., 4 lb. of oatmeal, 8 lb. of butter, 4 lb. of jam, 1 shoulder of mutton, 2 lb. of onions, 2 lb. of tea, 1 lb. of cocoa, 1 lb. of coffee, 4 lb. of sugar, 1 lb. of salt, 4 tins of sardines, and a few pots of Liebig constituted the bulk of our provisions. In addition to this, there were the 2 tents, 3 sleeping bags, 1 opossum rug, 1 large sheet of oiled calico, 2 ice-axes, 1 alpenstock, 100 feet of Alpine rope, billies, spirit lamp, lantern, aneroid, thermometers, and several other smaller articles, which all went to make up weight. Before us was the long moraine of the Great Tasman Glacier, and over this, for a distance of seven or eight miles, all these articles had to be carried on our backs. It was no joke. We knew that the undertaking was rather a difficult one, but had no idea how difficult it would be. Annan selected from among the articles a swag weighing about 50 lb. I made up one that would be probably 10 lb. lighter, and, covering up the remainder with the oilcloth sheet, at three o’clock we started off, hoping to reach Green’s Fifth Camp that evening. Profiting by the experience of the Rev. Mr. Green and Dr. von Lendenfeld, we made no attempt to get on to the clear ice in the middle of the glacier, but kept to the rocks on the side of the lateral moraine that runs for miles parallel with the great southern arête of Mount Cook. There was fair walking for some little distance till we passed the group of tarns of a peculiar greenish colour at the end of the moraine. Then the rocks got rougher, and were piled in wilder confusion as we proceeded.

Of this same route Mr. Green says: “The lateral moraine, standing up like some great battlement shattered in the war of the Titans, was composed of huge cubes of sandstone and jagged slabs of slate, some over 20 feet a side, and ready at any moment to topple over and crush our limbs.” We found scrambling over these rocks very hard work on such a hot afternoon, but made good progress, and soon found ourselves at the Blue Lake, where Mr. Green weathered out a very severe storm on his first trip up the Tasman. Just before reaching the lake there was a bad bit of travelling through thick scrub, which Annan had not looked forward to with any great degree of pleasure; but on reaching the spot we found that a large slip had come down from the moraine, exposing the clear ice of the glacier, and completely covering the scrub for a distance of about 100 yards with morainic accumulation. The ice was quite near, from which it would appear that there was more live moraine than Dr. von Lendenfeld imagined. The slip gave us fairly good walking, but we had some difficulty in getting through the last bit of scrub at the Blue Lake. Beyond this we had to cross the débris of a great talus fan that came down from the mountain-side, and then we came to a piece of level ground, between the moraine and the mountain-side, which afforded the only real bit of easy walking in the whole journey. This flat—about a quarter of a mile long—was covered with large tussocks, spear grass, veronicas, and a wealth of celmesias. Ahead the moraine continued its course, in the words of Mr. Green, “looking like some great railway embankment in the symmetry of its outline.” Here we made our first acquaintance with that strange, curious, impudent, and interesting bird the kea. A number flew down from the lower slopes of the great mountain ridge and regarded us with a wondering curiosity. I took the precaution to bag a brace as a welcome addition to our larder, but with some considerable measure of regret, for though in the surrounding districts the keas kill the sheep in the most cruel manner, they are nevertheless fascinating and handsome birds. Our tent was pitched that evening in a lonely spot between the moraine and the great shoulder of Mount Cook, here clothed with an interesting variety of sub-Alpine vegetation. For this purpose we used the tent poles and the survey chain left here by some of the early Alpine explorers. We spent a cold night, and next day, while I returned to the Hermitage for my wife, Annan swagged up the rest of the provisions.

On the morning of Sunday the 1st April—rather late in the season—my wife and I said good-bye to our friends at the Hermitage, and started on foot for our camp at the Ball Glacier. It was hard work pulling the two of us across the river in the cage, as the pull to the other side was an upward one; but, after much exertion, and many splinters in my hands from the rough Manila rope, the other side was reached in safety. As we landed, two young fellows from the Hermitage approached and beckoned us to send the cage back across the river to them. This did not exactly suit our book, as, in the event of their taking the cage back with them, we should be stranded on the Tasman side. So we tied it securely to the post on our side of the river, and continued on our journey. But before we had gone very far we were astonished to see one of the young fellows commencing to scramble across the river on the wire rope to get the cage, so that he might take his companion over. One could not help admiring his nerve and daring; but we were more concerned about our own faring should he leave the cage on the wrong side of the river for us. However, we proceeded on our journey, and, after an hour’s march, reached a deserted shepherd’s hut, where we found Annan with a billy of refreshing tea awaiting our arrival.

The hut was rather an uninviting place, being dirty, and having no door nor window, in addition to which it was inhabited by rats. A short council of war was held, and, as it was early in the day, and the walk up the Tasman moraine on the morrow was rather a big undertaking, we decided not to stay at the hut, but to proceed as far as we could, and sleep out in one of the hollows between the glacier and the mountain. Accordingly we started for a point two miles distant, at the edge of the glacier, where Annan and I had left part of our stores on the way up. Having adjusted our swags, we were soon on the march, scrambling over the boulders of the moraine. Our progress was slow, both Annan and myself having heavy swags, while my wife, though displaying great pluck, had not yet got used to the acrobatic feats necessary to the keeping of one’s balance on the unstable boulders of the moraine.

We had a particularly lively time of it in the scrub at the Blue Lake; and my wife’s jacket, which was tied to my swag, had been torn off, and was lost among the bushes.

It was a sweltering hot day, but we toiled on, and towards evening reached the celmesia flat, where Mr. Green had pitched his third camp. My wife was by this time very tired, and so, while I gathered some sticks and made the tea, she sat on a rock wrapped in the ’possum rug. Annan decided to go on to the camp and come down again to have breakfast with us early next morning. We were now close to the ice, and after tea, as it began to get very cold, I set about to look for a good spot for our bivouac. A hundred yards farther on some scrubby totara bushes and a stunted Alpine pine grew close in to the glacier, and under the latter, after a hurried inspection, we decided to camp. Its branches would be some protection against the wind, should it come on to blow, and, in the event of rain, they would also keep us fairly dry. Some branches were cut for a mattress, and over that we put tussock grass. On top of that we spread the waterproof sheet, and lying down on that—with our clothes on, of course—pulled the ’possum rug over us and sought a well-earned repose. We both dozed off, but presently were awakened by a shrill scream. It was only the call of a kea far up the mountain-side. Over the cold white snows on the shoulder of Mount Cook, one solitary cloud hung, fringed with the gold of the setting sun. Later the moon shone brilliantly through the clear frosty air, and the peaks became silhouettes against the horizon. A rock avalanche rattled down the side of the glacier. From across the narrow flat came the cry of the mountain parrot; and a weka that had crept close to our heads under the branches startled us with a loud screech. Then again all was silent—silent as the tomb. Presently two other visitors made a friendly call upon us: two tiny wrens—absurd little things, with hardly the vestige of tails. They perched on the branches just over our heads, so close that we could have ruffled their feathers with our breath. They hopped about from twig to twig, speaking to us in their soft, low bird voices; and, having studied us from every point of the compass, they decided to give us up, and went off to roost in a totara bush. At last we also went to sleep, and, making due allowance for the hardness of our couch and the strange surroundings, managed to get a fairly good night’s rest. When we awoke in the morning the frost lay white on the bushes around us, save within a radius of a foot or two, where the heat from our bodies had melted it, or prevented it from forming. The temperature had fallen to 26° Fahr. On the way up we took down a reading of 80° in the shade, so that there was thus a drop of no less than 54° in a few hours! I was astir before sunrise, and on going back to the Blue Lake for water to boil the billy the garrulous Paradise ducks gave me a vituperative reception, while the solitary mountain duck quacked a milder remonstrance. A shot from my pistol made them think discretion the better part of valour, and while the Paradise ducks took wing the grey duck scuttled off down stream in a great hurry. After a short search, I found my wife’s jacket frozen hard to the bushes, and, filling my billy, returned to the flat. On the way up I gave a jodel that was answered by Annan far up the moraine, and in a few minutes he had rejoined us. We breakfasted together, and shortly after 9.30 were once more on the march. All the way up the valley we had been getting glorious glimpses of the Mount Cook chain, and De la Bêche, with its sharp peak and minarets of spotless snow, seemed to be ever beckoning us onward. Towering in the distance above the dull grey line of the great moraine, gleaming gloriously in the sunshine of early morn, tinted with the soft rose of the after-glow, or looming coldly in the mystic moonlight, this mountain seemed ever beautiful in outline, majestic in form. Even the moraine was interesting, clothed as it was, in places, with a great variety of Alpine plants, while structurally it was always something to marvel at, if not to swear at.

“It is,” says Dr. von Lendenfeld, “larger than the moraines are in the European Alps, the cause being the slower action of the New Zealand glaciers, and the peculiarity of the rocks which surround them. There are very few places to be found where the rocks are so jointed as they are here. They are split along the different joints into polyhedric masses by freezing water; they fall on the glacier and are carried down the valley. Ceteris paribus, the slower the glacier moves the more moraine will accumulate. For miles no part of the glacier is visible through the moraine.” The glacier does not block up the whole valley, there being quite a large space between it and the mountain-side, except, in places, where great talus fans come down from the corries to meet the live moraine of the glacier. Far away on the right were the rocky peaks and hanging glaciers of the Liebig and Malte Brun Ranges, and in between them the Murchison Glacier, once a tributary of the Tasman, but now shrunken up its own valley for a considerable distance.

On our left we passed a high waterfall, and, nearing a spot known as the Cove, came across a small iron stove—a relic of the Lendenfeld expedition, abandoned early in the journey as being, no doubt, a luxury too heavy to be carried over this rough ground. We had a rest at the Cove, and whiled away half an hour with a shooting match, in which my wife proved herself a good markswoman. A little farther on we had luncheon—bread and sardines, with a pannikin of tea, again being the bill of fare. After this, there was some difficult scrambling over great rocks, many of which were so loose that we dare not put our weight on them for more than a second. We toiled on in the heat of the afternoon, and reached the camp at half-past three o’clock. While I pitched the second tent Annan and my wife set about the camp cookery, the latter making a glorious stew from mutton and onions, with a few other ingredients. That was twenty-three years ago, but the memory of the feast remains with us still. No French chef ever made ragout that was welcomed so eagerly, or that disappeared so quickly. That night we piled on all the clothes we could—in addition to those we had on. We could hear the rocks rattling down the face of the glacier just opposite our tent—a couple of hundred yards distant—but King Frost held the glaciers themselves in his cold grip, and there were no avalanches after nightfall. Being too tired to pay much attention to the screaming of the keas, we soon fell asleep.

CHAPTER III

IN THE OLDEN DAYS—concluded

“We walked in the great hall of life, looking up and around reverentially. Nothing was despicable—all was meaning-full; nothing was small, but as part of a whole whose beginning and end we knew not.”—Carlyle.

Next morning, though the barometer had fallen ominously, Annan and I set out to climb the Hochstetter Dome. We toiled across the crumbling moraines of the Tasman, the Ball, and the Hochstetter Glaciers, and gained the clear, hummocky ice of the latter—one of the finest sights in the Southern Alps. It issues forth from the great ice plateau at the foot of the higher precipices of Mount Cook, descending in a wonderful cascade of broken ice for over 3000 feet. It cuts into the Tasman at an angle of about 45 degrees, and, the two glaciers flowing onward and not pressing very closely together, there remains a deep chasm between them. After proceeding a few miles, we find that there are two series of crevasses—one formed by the pressure of the Hochstetter Glacier causing the ice on the western side to move faster than that portion of the glacier abutting on the Malte Brun Range, while another series is caused by the bending round of the main ice stream in a grand sweep between Malte Brun and De la Bêche, forming long crevasses which run across the glacier on its convex side.

The sun shone out brightly, and the glare from the white ice was so dazzling that we had to keep on our goggles to avoid snow-blindness. A little beyond the Hochstetter Ice Fall we halted to admire the view. Down the valley we could see the lower part of the Ball Glacier. Right in front lay the gleaming ice slopes and dark precipices of Aorangi, towering up, and culminating in the tent-shaped ridge 8000 feet above us; and down from the great ice plateau, between the south-eastern spur of Mount Cook and the Tasman spur, the Hochstetter Ice Fall poured its beautifully coloured cascade of broken ice, in spires and cubes and pinnacles—a wonderful sight—till it joined the Tasman, on which we now stood. Every few minutes great masses of ice were broken off with the superincumbent pressure, and went thundering down with loud roar over a precipice on the left. Half a mile farther on was the Freshfield Glacier, and over the bold rocky spur on which it rested appeared the ice cap of Mount Tasman. Then came the glorious mass of the Haast Glacier, in sunshine and shadow; and beyond this again other glaciers and peaks in bewildering number and variety. The ruddy buttresses of the Malte Brun Range bounded the view across the glacier on the right. Words fail to do justice to a scene of such exquisite beauty and grandeur.

“I tried vainly,” says the Rev. Mr. Green, “to recall the view in Switzerland on the Great Aletsch Glacier in front of the Concordia Hut to establish some standard for comparison. Then I tried the Görner Glacier, on the way to Monte Rosa, but the present scene so completely asserted its own grandeur that we all felt compelled to confess in that instant that it surpassed anything we had ever beheld!”

While we were gazing the clouds increased, and a chill wind sprang up. The higher peaks were becoming obscured in the clouds. It was evident that a storm was brewing. It would have been madness to tackle the Hochstetter Dome, so we left our swags behind, and, taking only the ice-axes and the rope, made a bolt for De la Bêche, to see what we could of the upper portion of the glacier. We made good progress over hummocky ice, and at last, when opposite De la Bêche, obtained a glimpse of the Lendenfeld Saddle. A fine unnamed glacier coming from the shoulder of Mount Spencer I named the Forrest Glacier, after my wife, who, by her pluck and endurance, had conquered all the difficulties that lay between us and the enjoyment of this scene of Alpine grandeur. Then we took a last longing look at the glorious amphitheatre of mountains, and, turning our faces campward, beat a hasty retreat. It was a pleasant surprise to my wife to see us back in camp that afternoon. But I had better let her tell her own story.

“In the morning,” she writes, “I was wakened by Annan’s stentorian voice giving vent to a poetic and sentimental ditty, of which the following is the only verse he ever favoured us with:—

‘There’s the lion in his lair,

And the North Polar bear,

And the birds in the greenwood tree,

And the pretty little rabbits,

So engaging in their habits—

Who’ve all got a mate but me!’

“To judge from the boisterous cheerfulness of the singer his lonely condition did not trouble him much. Backwards and forwards he went, preparing breakfast, and various ditties furnished amusement to us for at least half an hour. Our breakfast menu differed little from that of any other meal, I always taking biscuit in preference to a stratum from the pre-Adamite loaf poor Annan had carried up with many groans, and coffee or tea always forming an adjunct to the meal, whatever it might be. After breakfast, my husband and Annan made preparations for their tramp onward up the glacier. This I had dreaded, for it meant leaving me for two nights and two days alone in the camp. Many a moan was made over me by my friends before we had started on our trip. One had suggested that I should certainly stay, in preference to stopping in the camp by myself, at the nearest station. The Tasman Glacier does not, however, abound in stations, the nearest human habitation being the Hermitage, fourteen miles away! I had long ago come to the conclusion that investment in land on the moraine would not be a paying concern. Another timid soul had placed before me the horrible position I should be in were a tramp to walk into the camp and surprise me. We were tramps ourselves, I reflected, and other people as adventurous or as mad—some may consider the adjectives synonymous—we were not likely to encounter. As regards burglars and fire I was safe, and in fact there was absolutely no danger; but, for all that, I had a very uncomfortable feeling as I watched my two protectors packing up their traps. Beyond our camp there was no timber of any kind, so they could light no fire, and unfortunately the spirits of wine had been left behind. They would therefore have to make the best of cold victuals while they were away, and console themselves with the cheerful prospect of hot coffee and savoury stew on their return to camp. Then again, as they had a difficult road to travel, they had to take as few impedimenta as possible; so they limited themselves as to provisions, and carried in addition only their sleeping bags and the Alpine rope.

“At about ten o’clock we passed round the stirrup-cup in the shape of a steaming billy of tea, and off they started, after having made everything as snug as possible for me. I watched them walking along the moraine and scrambling to the top of the ridge. There they stopped, turned round, waved their caps, gave a hearty cheer, to which I feebly responded as I watched them disappear over the edge. I was now alone, and a kea from the cliff above screamed derisively at me as I stood for a moment gazing at the place where I had last seen my companions. Work I decided was the best remedy for loneliness, on the principle that Satan—in this case taking the shape of Melancholy—finds some mischief still for idle hands to do. So I tidied up the two tents, piled more wood on the fire, and sat down in the sunny doorway of our tent with my fancy work. I could hardly help smiling, so incongruous did fancy work seem with the wonderful scene around me; but for a time it took my thoughts off my position, although my hands lay often idle in my lap while my eyes feasted on the surroundings. It was about eleven, and sunshine was pouring down on the level where our tents were pitched, making the glossy green leaves of the mountain lilies glisten, and turning the tussocky flat into a golden plain. In front stretched the grey moraine wall, and on the other side the spur of Mount Cook, clothed near its base with luxuriant vegetation. As I cast my eyes up its steep face I caught sight of a totara bush, whose tiny red turpentine-flavoured berries had been my joy in happier hours. Up I mounted, very gingerly, to where the bush hung between two great grey rocks, but somehow the berries had lost their flavour, and I did not enjoy them. So I sat me down on one of the big stones and ruminated on my position. Three days seemed a lifetime, but two nights an eternity! In vain I remonstrated with myself, and reflected how much worse it would have been had I been cast on a desert island ‘where tigers and snakes prevailed,’ and I tried to recall all the cases of lonely shipwrecked maidens I had read about, for consolatory purposes, but it was of little use. I knew quite well that there was absolutely nothing to fear, but it was the horrible loneliness and silence that oppressed me, added to the fears I felt for my companions’ safety. Should one slip happen, I thought the rope would be of little avail, for one would not be able to bear the weight of the other, especially if it came with a sudden jerk, and I remembered the warnings against only two going on Alpine expeditions. Altogether my reflections were of no enviable character as I sat high up on the cliff, looking down on our two white tents and blazing camp fire, and across at the Malte Brun Range, towering over the grey battlement, looking very black against the blue sky, except where the white glaciers seamed its rugged sides. When I got down to the level I took a lonely meal, and again sat down to work. By this time a slight breeze had sprung up, and some ominous-looking clouds were banking up towards the north. But I thought little of that at first. Then the weather grew more threatening, some raindrops fell, the wind flapped the sides of the tents, and blew the dead ashes of my camp fire across the tussocks. I had not the heart to re-light it, had I the matches to waste over the attempt. I possessed but eleven, for one box had got wet, and our supply was very scant, so I determined to let it remain out. Stronger and stronger blew the wind, darker and darker grew the sky, and by this the head of the glacier was closed up with mist and cloud. Evidently a storm was brewing, and in the direction in which the adventurers were going. I knew a snowstorm might come on quite suddenly in these parts, and I was not versed in the mysteries of tent-pegging. Awful thoughts of my husband’s return to find my prostrate form under the collapsed tent came before my mind as I retired inside and coiled myself up in the rug. Some time after, I went out to take another look at the weather, and I was standing forlornly gazing round, when, to my delight, I heard a cheery yell from the ridge, and saw two tiny black figures silhouetted against the grey sky. You may be sure I bustled around after echoing a welcome, and by the time the two travellers had reached the camp the perennial stew and billy of tea were ready to be enjoyed.”

We also were glad to be back in camp. It was well we turned back, for that same night there came on a terrible storm. The wind rose from the north-west, and blew with such force that we thought every moment the tents would be torn to ribbons. We strengthened them with the spare rope, and put heavy stones all round the canvas on the ground outside. Hour after hour the gale roared furiously; sleep was out of the question. High up the mountain spur we could hear the wind howling and tearing the Alpine foliage in its fury. Then it would swoop down on our tent and send the sides flapping with reports like pistol shots. Again, it would cease for a moment, as if to catch breath, only to come swooping down on us with even greater vengeance. After what seemed a very long time, I looked at my watch and found that only two hours had gone by. The barometer still gave a very low reading, and it was evident that we were in for a bad time. Soon after midnight the rain came on, and the force of the wind beat it through the tent. I rigged up a hood over my wife’s head with my waterproof coat and the tin in which the biscuits were. Then, tying our caps down over our ears, we coiled up in the ’possum rug and once more tried to sleep. But the wind howled and the rain beat on the tent, and sleep was out of the question. Twice during the night I had to get up, tighten the ropes, and put bigger stones on the sides of the tent to prevent its being blown clean away. For twelve hours we lay listening to the fury of the storm, and at last the dawn came. Never were we more pleased to see the first streaks of daylight. The weather gradually improved, and though it was a showery afternoon we made a successful expedition up the glacier, so that my wife might not go away without seeing the Hochstetter Ice Fall and the beauties of the Upper Tasman.

Wonderful as were the many sights close to us, it was when we lifted our eyes to the Hochstetter Ice Fall that the true grandeur of the scene impressed us. From Mount Cook came a mass of broken ice, gigantic cubes, and pinnacles, of the most exquisite and dainty colourings, ethereal blues and greens. Down 3000 feet the great frozen cataract poured its masses of ice, ever moving, yet to our eyes in perpetual rest. Even while we looked a thundering roar, that had grown familiar to our ears for the last two weeks, rent the air, as, over a black face of the cliff that breaks the cataract, and serves to heighten the beauty of its colouring, a great mass of ice crashed to the foot of the mountain.

That evening we had a variety entertainment in our tent. We started with a shooting match, taking for our target a small tin fixed on a rock in front of the doorway. When it got too dark to see our mark we lit the lantern, played spelling games, told stories, and talked over the feats of our illustrious predecessors on the Tasman Glacier. As a great treat, on our last evening in Green’s Fifth Camp, we had all the onions left boiled for supper, with a little salt, and they were delicious. Whether it was the effects of these or the fatigue of our walk, I do not know, but, though it rained that night too, we slept profoundly, and heeded not the elements.

Morning came misty and grey, but towards nine o’clock the sun came out brilliantly, and the mist rose, showing us the mountains covered with fresh white snow. We determined to press on to the shepherd’s hut, at least, that day, as the weather was too unsettled to risk staying longer. Standing for a moment on the crest of the moraine, we looked down on the little flat where we had spent such a jolly time. The wet leaves of celmesias, senecios, and mountain lilies were flashing back the glittering sunlight, the dying smoke of our camp fire drifted lazily across the face of the cliff, and a kea screamed a derisive farewell to us as we took a mental photograph of the scene. Then we reluctantly turned our backs upon it and our faces once more to the grey moraine. The hut was reached early in the afternoon, and we decided to continue our journey to the Hermitage. On arriving at the Hooker we found that the cage had been left on the other side, and could only be pulled over part of the way. This was a sore disappointment. There was nothing for it but to retrace our steps to the Mount Cook Hut, or for me to crawl along the rope and secure the cage. We chose the latter alternative, and, while my wife averted her gaze, I crawled along the wire rope and scrambled down into the cage, which I managed to pilot across in safety. Both of us then got in and started across, but we had a fearful time of it, as the pulling rope had got into the current, and it was only with the greatest exertion that we managed to extricate it. We were half an hour in crossing the river, and reached the Hermitage in the darkness, after what was, for a woman, in those days, a wonderful journey down from Green’s Fifth Camp.

Crossing the Hooker.

One morning, soon after our return to the Hermitage, I found myself basking in the warm sunshine, dividing my attention for the most part between a book and a cigar, and occasionally gazing up at the ice cliffs of Mount Sefton, from which, every now and then, great masses broke away and came tumbling over the precipices with thundering roar. I was joined by Mr. Huddleston, the keeper of the Hermitage, who suggested a climb on the Sealy Range, so, next morning, I started on a lovely mountain ramble. It was a glorious day, and the glaciers at the head of the Hooker were gleaming in the sunlight, while the long southern arête of Mount Cook, right up to the summit, was in shadow, and there was one patch of glistening white on the top of St. David’s Dome. Mount Sefton, with the broken ice of its hanging glaciers, was resplendent in full sunshine; and every now and then a great avalanche thundered down from the highest slopes. The mocking-birds were singing in chorus to the tuis’ liquid song, and the beat of the hammers on the roof of the new buildings at the Hermitage was borne up through the still air. Halting for a spell at a little lakelet high on the shoulder of the mountain, I chanced to look up, and was surprised to find someone on the rocks above me. He turned out to be the lad who had so daringly crossed the Hooker River on the wire rope a few days before. He had been employed in connexion with the new building at the Hermitage, and, lured by the beauty and the grandeur of these mountains, had climbed from the valley to get a better view. I offered to share my luncheon with him, and he was easily persuaded to accompany me on my scramble, and I, untutored climber that I was, made bold to give him his first lesson in mountaineering. He told me his name was Fyfe. It was a name destined to play no inconsiderable part in the history of New Zealand mountaineering, and I little knew then that in the years to come we two should be in many tight corners together on the giant peaks of these great ranges, and that there would arise situations in which the life of each would depend upon the skill, the coolness, and the courage of the other. Yet so it was. But in this day’s work there was not much adventure, and all we did was to reach a point from which the view amply repaid us for our toil. Many fine peaks and glaciers were in sight, and the rivers lay in the great hollows between the ranges like thin threads of silver. In the midst of it all rose the buttresses of Aorangi, pile on pile, to where its summit snows gleamed in the setting sun. Far away, on the other hand, in the yellow tussock plains of the lower country, lay the lakes—jewels in a setting of dull gold. One began to realize that there were sermons in stones, and that this was a cathedral in which one might hear them. Certainly no cathedral floor of marble was ever so white as the snowy sunlit floor on which we trod, and no cathedral dome so vast as the blue above; while about us were the massive flying buttresses of the mountain ranges supporting the higher peaks and domes of snow. It required no stretch of the imagination to look back adown the aisles of time to the days when greater glaciers carried their burden of grey moraine across the distant plains, and even to the sea itself—to the days when still higher peaks “towered vast to heaven.” The mills of the gods were still grinding up here, and the mountains were crumbling before our eyes; but, lower down, the beautiful sub-Alpine flora clothed their sides—silvery-leaved celmesias, and many other flowers and plants, with the golden-eyed ranunculus, wet with a passing shower, gazing up into the eye of the sun. Perched up there, in the midst of it all, away from the hum of cities, “the earth had ceased for us to be a weltering chaos. We walked in the great hall of life, looking up and around reverentially. Nothing was despicable—all was meaning-full; nothing was small, but as a part of a whole whose beginning and end we knew not.”

From this reverie was I awakened by an avalanche crashing down from Sefton’s steep slopes. We turned and glissaded over the snow, lost our way in the dark, lower down, and eventually arrived at the Hermitage an hour after nightfall. My companion was thankful for the darkness, for some of his garments had been sorely tried in the descent, and he badly needed a cloak.

One other scramble, an unimportant first ascent, and my holiday was at an end. Thus fell I in love with those beautiful mountains, on whose great glaciers, steep ice-slopes, and grim precipices I was, in after years, to spend many jocund days and some bitter nights. There have been glorious mornings when we shouldered our packs and strode boldly and joyously out into the unknown. There have been days when success met us on the mountain-side, and, grasping us warmly by the hand, led us to the almost inaccessible places, and persuaded the higher crags and snows to yield up their inmost secrets. And there have been other times when angry storms, resenting the intrusion, have chased us incontinently back to tent or bivouac. Days, too, when the higher snows, “softly rounded as the breasts of Aphrodite,” in return for all our wooing, have given us but a chill response. Yet the sweet has been very sweet, and the bitter never so sharp that it could not be endured with fortitude, if not altogether with indifference. And, throughout all our guideless wanderings—and I write it down here with some little pride—no accident has occurred to mar the happiness of a generation’s climbing.

CHAPTER IV

THE CONQUERING OF AORANGI

“If at first you don’t succeed,

Try, try again.”

Green’s memorable visit in 1882, in company with two Swiss climbers, Emil Boss and Ulrich Kaufmann, fired the enthusiasm of a number of young New Zealanders, who hoped to succeed, where he had just failed, in reaching the actual summit of Mount Cook, or, to give it its more romantic Maori name, Aorangi. But Aorangi, entrenched behind his ramparts of ice and frowning buttresses of rock, bade defiance to these inexperienced though daring Colonial pioneers in Southern mountaineering. However, though we had to contend against many difficulties, we were gradually learning the craft, and there were several determined, if possible, to win for New Zealand the honour of the first ascent of New Zealand’s highest mountain. Some there were who swore not to raise the siege so long as Aorangi remained unconquered, and stout hearts and sturdy thews remained to battle with the difficulties. Up to the time when the writer took a hand in the game some ten expeditions had been organized, and the peak still remained unclimbed. In 1894, after the failure of Mannering’s party in the previous season, a solemn compact was entered into by three members of the New Zealand Alpine Club to spend their summer holidays in making one more attempt to reach the summit of Aorangi; and, spurred into activity by the news that an English climber, with the famous Zurbriggen, was to leave England in October on an expedition to the Southern Alps, a party was hurriedly organized, and arrangements made by telegraph. Many members who were anxious to take part in the expedition could not, however, for one reason or another, get away, and Dixon had no fewer than seven refusals from climbers who had at one time or another expressed their willingness to join him. Finally a party consisting of Mr. M. J. Dixon, Mr. Kenneth Ross, and the writer decided to make the venture, and arranged to meet at Fairlie Creek, the terminus of the railway, on the evening of Monday, November 5th.

On arrival at Timaru we were surprised to find there, awaiting our arrival, Mr. T. C. Fyfe, who we thought was at that moment with Mr. A. P. Harper endeavouring to cross over from the West Coast by way of the Franz Josef and Kron Prinz Rudolph Glaciers into the Tasman. Mr. Adamson, the manager of the Hermitage, was also there. They greeted us with rather depressing news. Fyfe was doubtful if he could join our party, and Adamson assured us that we could look for neither provisions nor assistance at the Hermitage, which was practically closed “pending reconstruction of the company.” On every hand, too, we were met with discouraging cries of “Much too early in the season for climbing”; but, confident in our own judgment, we kept on our way undaunted, and at Fairlie Creek, found Dixon awaiting us with a wagonette and three horses, which he had chartered for £10 to take us to Mount Cook and back. We waited only for tea at Fairlie, and proceeded at once on the first stage of our journey—fourteen miles—to Burke’s Pass. Arriving there at 10.30 p.m., we compared notes as to provisions, equipment, etc., and sorting out what we did not require, each man packed his swag for the expedition. On Tuesday we were up at 4 a.m. and on the road three-quarters of an hour later. There had been a garish red sky just after the dawn, and now, as we began to ascend the slopes of the pass, a puff of warm wind met us and gave ominous warning that a nor’-wester was brewing. The nor’-wester, which is equivalent to the dreaded Föhn wind of the Swiss Alps, is the bane of New Zealand climbers, as it generally ends in rain, and often softens the snow and brings down innumerable avalanches from the higher slopes. We could only hope that this was a false alarm, or that, if a nor’-wester did come, it would be a baby one and blow over before we reached our objective. Scarcely could we realize that the child would grow into the giant he subsequently did.

We reached Lake Tekapo at 9.30 a.m., and, after stopping to get a shoe on one of the horses, resumed our journey. At Braemar we intended to camp for the night, in the hope that the Tasman River would be fordable early next morning. Shortly after midday we halted at a mountain stream to feed the horses and boil the billy for lunch. All around us were undeniable signs of the older glacial period, when the Godley and the Great Tasman Glaciers met on the Mackenzie Plains, and, uniting, flowed on in one grand ice-stream towards the Pacific. On either side were vestiges of old moraines, now grass-grown, and great rocks that had come down on the ice from the higher mountains.

Crossing the Tasman.

Camp Cookery.

We arrived at the Tasman River early in the afternoon, and, finding it low, decided to go on past Braemar and cross opposite Glentanner station. The river-bed here is some four miles across, and the water flows over it in several branches. We had some difficulty in finding a ford, and, at one spot, got into the treacherous quicksands in which the bed of this dreaded river abounds. In a moment the horses were up to their knees in it, and the trap wheels sank nearly to the axle. Having no desire to repeat Mr. Green’s experience of leaving his wagonette in the river, the whip was vigorously applied, and, the horses willingly responding, we just succeeded in getting through to firm ground. Finally we managed to cross the many-channelled river without accident, and halted at Glentanner sheep-station, where we were hospitably entertained. Here inquiries were made as to whether we could obtain a porter to assist with the swagging, and were gratified to find that the manager was that day paying off a station hand who would be likely to afford the necessary assistance. The manager was empowered to engage him in our behalf and to send him on after us, his wages to be £1 a day. We also added to our provisions here by purchasing half a sheep, and after a cup of tea and a spell of three-quarters of an hour, proceeded on our journey up the Tasman Valley, intending to camp that night near the wire rope that spans the Hooker River at the end of the southern spur of Mount Cook. By the time we got to Birch Hill the weather was so threatening that it was deemed wise to call a halt, and no sooner had we got the things out of the trap than the rain started to come down in torrents.

Next morning by seven o’clock the storm had cleared sufficiently to allow us to proceed, so, after a hurried breakfast, we started off in the direction of the Hooker River, first taking the precaution of getting the shepherd to kill a sheep to take up to Green’s Fifth Camp in case we should be delayed there by bad weather. The ground became rougher and rougher as the journey progressed, and, at last, we were brought to a dead stop through breaking the pole of our wagonette. This caused a vexatious delay, as every hour now was valuable, seeing that it was our intention to push on past the Hermitage and the hut at Green’s Fifth Camp, fourteen miles farther on, and pitch our tent some miles up the glacier at the foot of the Spur, below the Mount Cook Bivouac. However, there was nothing for it but to set to at once and repair the damage, and pack our belongings on one of the horses, to the cage on the wire rope that spanned the Hooker River. Accordingly, the horses were quickly unharnessed, and Dixon and our Jehu, on the other two horses, galloped up to the Hermitage for material to splice the pole, while Kenneth and I, with our porter—who had joined us the night before at Birch Hill—packed all our things up to the Hooker River. Arrived here, however, we found the manila rope, with which the cage is worked, broken, and one end jammed amongst the boulders in the bed of the river on the other side. Kenneth and I, however, got into the cage, pulled ourselves across, hand-over-hand on the cable, and secured the broken rope, which we spliced to the one on the other side. In this way we restored communication, though, owing to the rope’s being single instead of double, the cage could be pulled across only with great exertion. All these, however, were minor difficulties, which we brushed lightly aside, determined that no ordinary obstacle should hinder our ultimate progress. Just as we were preparing to get the swags across by means of the cage, we espied Dixon leading the old pack-horse from the Hermitage in our direction, and, as we could trust this animal in the river, we waited, and, transferring the swags to her, I got one of the other horses and led her across the river. Kenneth and our porter crossed in the cage, the latter being so frightened that he was not able to pull a pound on the rope. Dixon returned to the trap to mend the broken pole, and he and the driver followed us, later, on the other two horses.

The rough journey up to the hut at Green’s Fifth Camp was uneventful. The weather was fine, and the views ahead were strikingly beautiful. Dixon hurried ahead to make a pair of “ski,” which he fashioned in a most ingenious manner out of a couple of long palings and two short pieces of zinc. We were depending on these “ski” to take us safely and expeditiously over the dreaded deep snow of the great plateau above the Hochstetter Ice Fall. They were simply snow-shoes made of wood four inches wide and six feet long, and similar to those used by Nansen in his expedition across Greenland. Dixon had, the previous year, left two pairs on the rocks of the Haast Ridge above the plateau, and these we hoped to find, the third pair being required for Kenneth. A halt was called at the hut for tea, and, late in the evening, we started with the intention of crossing the Ball and Hochstetter Glaciers and camping at the foot of the Tasman Spur. It was a fine night, but no sooner had we shouldered our swags than ominous clouds were seen swirling over the shoulder of Aorangi. Dixon doubted the wisdom of proceeding, and our porter said he would much sooner wait till morning; but after a little deliberation I urged an advance, and slowly, in single file, the expedition trooped over the rough moraine hillocks of the Ball Glacier. The clear ice of the Hochstetter Glacier was soon reached, and, crossing this obliquely, we encountered another moraine, over the loose stones of which we slowly toiled with our heavy swags. We arrived at the Tasman Spur in a couple of hours, and, in a little hollow of the old moraine of the glacier, where grew some snow grass, veronica, and Alpine plants, we pitched our tent, after first removing the larger stones so that we might have a fairly comfortable bed. It was a fine night, and the snow-capped mountains on the left towering steeply above, with De la Bêche far up the glacier in front of us, formed a picture of exquisite loveliness in the brilliant moonlight. Opposite, across the valley, frowned the gaunt, rock buttresses of the Malte Brun Range. We spent our first night comfortably enough under canvas, and slept soundly till daylight.

Next morning the weather was again fine, and our spirits rose with the thermometer. If we could only catch the upper snows in good order our chances of climbing the peak were excellent. We were, however, soon to meet with our first disappointment. As we were preparing breakfast our porter, who, like Falstaff, was somewhat fat and scant o’ breath, and who had been sitting apart on a boulder on the old moraine, having finished his meditations, rose, and approaching me with some degree of deference, explained that he had come to the conclusion that he would not be of much more use to us. He was “all over pains,” and he had a “bad ’eadache.” Assuming, for the moment, a cheerful outward manner, though being inwardly somewhat indignant and sad at heart, I assured him that if he but came with us a few thousand feet higher, with a good swag on his back, his pains would quickly vanish, and, moreover, that the rarefied air in the region of the Mount Cook Bivouac was an infallible cure for ’eadache, and indeed for all the other ills that flesh is heir to. But my pleading was in vain. He cast one scared look at the frowning crags above, and incontinently fled. He even refused breakfast. Like another historical person—but for quite a different reason—he stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone. With his blanket on his back, he made a bee-line for the hut, whence he hoped to get the company of our driver back to the Hermitage. The driver, however, had already started on his journey. A less determined man might now have paused a moment in his onward flight; but not so our Falstaffian burden-bearer. With all his pains and aches forgotten, he now continued his headlong retreat down the valley. Eventually he caught sight of the driver, whereupon he began to shout and bellow to attract his attention. The latter, good man, thinking some terrible accident had happened, stopped and rode back to meet the messenger of supposed evil report, and in the charitableness of his heart gave the deserter one of our horses wherewith to continue his flight. The Esk River, which the historical personage already referred to swam, is but a minor obstacle as compared with the turbulent Hooker, and our porter, though he had a good horse under him, was nearly washed away in the foaming torrent. Next day he continued his journey down the Tasman Valley in our wagonette, and arrived at the hotel at Lake Pukaki a sadder and a quieter man; but, falling in with two station hands, who primed him with bad liquor, he, once more, waxed eloquent, and even claimed for himself the ascent of Mount Cook! For a time he was quite the hero of the countryside; but each glass of whisky that he swallowed added some more Munchausen-like adventure to his tale, till the sum-total became so overwhelmingly great that even his boon companions, though they could swallow the whisky, could not swallow the story. It was, indeed, a terrible tale of privation and adventure that he had to tell; but, finally, he contradicted himself to such an extent that he had reluctantly to admit that he had not even set foot on the mountain! But he had his revenge. The men he had been engaged by were “mad, sir—mad as ’atters! They were going up a place as steep as the side of a ’ouse, and there was a young fellow named Ross among them who was the maddest of the lot!” Later, our porter, with his swag on his back, a bottle of whisky in his pocket, and a liberal supply of the fiery beverage inside him, wandered out into the night, lost his way on the tussock plains, and, having slept off the potion, returned next day minus all his belongings. Then he disappeared altogether, and history does not record whether he ever returned again to those dread Alpine regions; but the chances are that he preferred the delights of civilization—or the flesh-pots of the country “pub”—to the joys of Alpine climbing.

We had many a laugh, afterwards, over our adventure with the burly porter, but, now, as we looked somewhat ruefully at the extra pack he had left behind him, and thought of the added burden that would soon be upon our own shoulders, we began to realize the magnitude of our undertaking and to curse his craven heart. We did not, however, let this little adventure spoil our breakfast, and congratulated ourselves that, in three days from Dunedin, we had established a camp at the foot of the slopes from which Green, after many difficulties and much delay, commenced his climb—a feat not easy of accomplishment in those days. But the hardest toil yet lay before us, and the memory of that first climb to the Bivouac, encumbered as we were with packs weighing close upon 50 lb. each, does not fade with the passing years.

Occasionally there would be a bit of crag work, and at last we entered a long snow couloir up which we kicked steps in the direction of the Bivouac. This couloir got steeper at the top, and Dixon, thinking to make better progress, took to the rocks on the right, while Kenneth and I tried the rocks on the left. Preferring the snow work, we were soon back in the couloir, and lost sight of Dixon. A quarter of an hour later a jodel from us brought forth an answering shout from below, and presently Dixon’s head appeared above a pinnacle of rock on our right. The spare rope which he had in his swag had been taken out and was now coiled round his shoulder, so we knew he had been in difficulties. Making a traverse of the snow slope, he was soon in our steps, and we learned that he had got into rather an awkward corner, from which he had to descend by means of the Alpine rope. The snow slope above grew steeper and then eased off on to steep rocks, up which lay the route. Dixon led and Kenneth followed, but was quickly in difficulties, for the long “ski” which were attached to his swag would, in spite of everything, catch in the rocks, rendering the situation risky, and the language even more so.

It will perhaps be well to draw a veil over the various acrobatic feats that we performed, and round off the story by stating that we reached the Bivouac Rock at 5 p.m. Under the lee of this rock we found a little flat place, about six feet square, on the crest of a narrow, exposed ridge. On the one side a snow couloir, some 2000 feet long, sloped steeply down between the precipices to the foot of the Hochstetter Ice Fall. Northwards the ridge fell away toward the Tasman Glacier. The scenery was magnificent. Immediately above our camp were some splintered towers of rock, from which is obtained a glorious view of the upper slopes of Aorangi. Northward Haast and Haidinger, clothed with sérac and ice-fall, tower high in heaven; and thence the eye wanders round to De la Bêche—most beautiful of mountains—Elie de Beaumont, and the magnificent sweep of the Upper Tasman, leading to the Lendenfeld Saddle and the Hochstetter Dome. Across the valley were the giant rock peaks of the Malte Brun Range, catching the rosy tint of dying day; and below our Bivouac the battlements of the long rocky ridge leading down to the deep valley in which the middle portion of the great Tasman Glacier, with its streams of moraine and white ice, stretched itself in the deepening gloom of evening.

Dixon expected to find the Bivouac snowed up so early in the season, and he had carried up a short-handled shovel with a view to digging out the cache of provisions left there the previous season. To our joy, however, it was found almost entirely free from snow, and the tinned meats, fish, etc., to all appearance, in good order.

Kenneth and I now divided the swags and got out some provisions for a snack, while Dixon went up over the rocks in an unsuccessful search for water. We had arrived rather late in the day, and no rock could be found retaining sufficient heat from the sun’s rays to melt the snow we spread on it. The result was that Dixon returned with only about an inch of water in the billy. This we apportioned, and, at 7.30 p.m., once more shouldered our swags and started on the climb to the Glacier Dome. But it was now found that the snow was frozen so hard that we should have to cut steps in it all the way to the Dome, and as we saw no prospect of being able to do this with swags on our backs, and to come back for the rest of our burdens in time to make a camp on the great plateau beyond the Dome, we decided to camp for the night at the Bivouac. It was well we did so decide.

As the evening wore on it began to grow cold, so Kenneth and I set about pitching the Whymper tent, while Dixon went on cutting steps up to the Dome to make the ascent the easier in the morning. Owing to the limited space at our disposal, it was rather a difficult matter to pitch the tent satisfactorily, but we made a fairly good job of it, and, getting inside, set about melting some snow over the Aurora lamp to make a cup of Liebig for Dixon. This was rather unpleasant work, as the lamp was out of order and smoked badly. The Primus stove used so effectively in after years in our Alps, and also by my friends Scott and Shackleton in the Antarctic, were not then on the market in N.Z. Our lamp smoked and went out, and was relit, and smoked and went out again. The one thing it seemed incapable of was the generation of heat! Finally, the whole thing caught fire, and in order to avoid an explosion we threw it outside and extinguished the flames in the snow. Luckily I had with me a small spirit lamp, and, though it was not made for burning kerosene, we managed, by the aid of this, to melt some snow and brew three small pannikins of Liebig. Then we sat down and waited patiently for Dixon’s return. About half-past nine we began to feel a little anxious, and I was just getting on my boots to go out and look for him when we heard the clink of his ice-axe on the rocks above the tent. He had been gone two and a half hours, and had done good work. He was rewarded with the Liebig that had been kept warm for him for three-quarters of an hour, and then we, all three, turned into our sleeping bags, intending to make a very early start in the morning. We talked over our plans, and arranged, finally, to carry heavy swags up over the Glacier Dome and on to the plateau, camping eventually on the ice of the Linda Glacier at an altitude of about 10,000 feet above sea-level. Should there be any danger of avalanches from Mount Tasman in crossing the plateau, we decided to travel by night and select a safe camp in the daytime. The mountain was, however, singularly free from avalanches, and we began to think our chances of scaling the peak were of the rosiest.

CHAPTER V

THE CONQUERING OF AORANGI—continued

“It thunders, and the wind rushes screaming through the void,

The night is black as a black stone.”

Rabindranath Tagore.

A high bivouac in the Southern Alps, across which sweep the great summer ocean air currents, may, at any time, and without much warning, lend a spice of adventure to a big climb. And so it now happened. Before we could get comfortably warm in our bags, and settle down for the night, ominous gusts of wind began to flap the sides of our tent, and to send the snow swirling down the gullies. The wind gradually increased, and by half-past ten it was howling round our bivouac with the force of a gale. The sides of our tent flapped wildly, and at last it became evident that it could not stand against such a gale, but would be blown to shreds if left standing, so I got up, and levelled it to the ground. Hanging on to the rope to avoid being blown away, I took a glance round. The soft snow from the tops of Haast and Haidinger, caught by the wind, was blown like a great cloud-banner half-way across the Tasman Valley, while the moon went plunging into the storm-clouds that came sailing in torn masses overhead. It was evident that we were in for a bad nor’-wester, and as I crawled back under the folds of the tent and into my sleeping bag beside my recumbent companions I could hold out little hope for the morrow. Hour after hour the wind raged. There was no improvement till morning. Then the wind seemed to abate somewhat, and we pitched the tent again. It was bitterly cold, and snow was beginning to fall. It looked as if we were going to be caught in a trap, but we were loath to retreat, and stuck to our guns in the hope that before the day was over the gale would have blown itself out. But matters began to get worse instead of better. The wind once more increased in violence, and was now accompanied by driving rain, hail, and snow. We could do nothing but wait patiently in our sleeping bags and hope for the best. Towards evening we broached a tin of sardines, and managed to get enough water from the floor of the tent to allay our thirst. Then night closed round our storm-tossed bivouac, and the driving rain beat through the canvas, and formed pools on the waterproof floor inside. Several times we baled the tent out with pannikins, but there was no keeping it dry, and at last we were content to lie in our sleeping bags in the water. About 10 p.m. there was a vivid flash of lightning followed by a loud peal of thunder, and this was succeeded by another and yet another, each peal coming nearer than the one preceding it. The hours went slowly by, and at midnight the storm was at its height. The lightning came like balls of fire, and while the wind howled round the crags, the thunder crashed incessantly, making the Bivouac Rock, and even the ridge itself, tremble. Sleep was out of the question, but we huddled up in our sleeping bags, and occasionally told a story or sang a song. Someone quoted ironically—

The Mt. Cook Bivouac.

“There is beauty in the bellow of the blast,

There is grandeur in the growling of the gale,

But to him who’s scientific

There’s nothing that’s terrific

In the falling of a flight of thunderbolts!”

and Dixon sang a song about a juvenile Celestial who had caught a bumble bee, and, taking it for a “Melican butterfly,” put it in the pocket of his pantaloons with disastrous results! As the night wore on there was no abatement of the storm, but rather it seemed to increase in fury. The lightning was wonderfully vivid, the balls of fire being succeeded by a bluish light. The incessant thunder, at each crash, drowned the noise of the storm. It was grand in the extreme. Each moment I expected the rock under which we lay would be splintered by an explosion. “Is this blessed rock quite safe?” I inquired of Dixon, who had spent many nights under it, but never such a one as this. “No—not very,” was the answer. So we pondered quietly and put our trust in Providence, and—the laws of chance! Sleep was out of the question. After some time I looked at my watch by a flash of lightning, and found it was 3 a.m. Snow was falling heavily, and weighing down the weather side and end of the tent. I had magnanimously taken the outside berth, and now I could feel the snow curling up over my head in the slack of the tent outside. I beat it down repeatedly, but, like the pain caused by the peach of emerald hue, “it grew! it grew!” till it was once more arching overhead, and I had to sit up and plant my back defiantly against it. Long before morning it had formed a bank outside the tent four feet high, and, when the welcome dawn appeared, though I was still in a sitting posture, it was once more curling over my head, while Kenneth, who was next the rock, had a small cornice arching over his recumbent form! By this time the water in which we were lying had by some means or other got through into our sleeping bags, and this made matters still more uncomfortable. Peering out through the tent door in the early dawn, we saw the snow still falling, and, below us, an apparently bottomless cauldron of swirling drift. The wind had moderated somewhat and the thunder had ceased, but the situation was anything but reassuring, so we decided to beat a retreat to the lower regions. We breakfasted on cold plum pudding, and, creeping out of our bags, hurriedly packed our swags and got ready for a start. The tent had to be abandoned, as it was frozen to the rocks, and the stones to which the guy-ropes were attached were buried deep in the snow. We were soon roped together and at the top of a steep couloir leading down some three or four thousand feet to the Tasman Valley below us. Attaching the swags to the rope, we attempted to tow them behind us, but, as the snow was soft and the slope steep, this became dangerous work, and we decided to let them slide down the couloir before us. They went off with great rapidity for some 100 feet or so, then bounded over a huge tower of rock that jutted out from the middle of the couloir, and disappeared from view. Relieved of the swags, we proceeded cautiously, going with our faces to the slope as one would come down a ladder, making good anchorage with our ice-axes at every step in case we should start an avalanche. There were one or two nasty places, but nothing happened, and, getting on to easier slopes lower down, we were able to turn round and practically walk down the remainder of the gully. We could find no trace of the swags, and came to the conclusion that they must either have been arrested on the crags above or buried in the soft snow below. We decided to hunt for them on the following day, and wended our way back across the Hochstetter and Ball Glaciers to the lonely hut, defeated but not altogether disheartened. Arrived at the hut, the first thing we did was to get out of our wet clothes; but, as our spare garments were in the lost swags, a new problem presented itself for solution. We made shift with what was at hand. Dixon attired in a bath towel, to which he subsequently added a mackintosh; Kenneth gracefully clad in a grey blanket; myself in an airy costume composed of a short serge frock discarded by a former lady climber, made a fashionable trio such as had never before graced the Ball Hut, and that aroused many a vain longing for my lost camera, which, like our spare clothing, was in the buried swags. Breakfast—after our long spell of thirty hours at the Bivouac, with little to drink, and that little not of the best—was very welcome. At midday we turned into our bunks, and dozed away the afternoon. The weather continued bad, and towards evening we were startled by a large rock which came crashing down the mountain-side in close proximity to the hut, warning us that what with falling stones and the danger of a break in the Ball Glacier a few hundred yards higher up the valley, the said hut was in anything but a safe position. Day closed in, and, one by one, we dozed off again till at about 9.30 p.m. we were aroused by a further noise outside, and in our half-sleepy condition imagined we were going to be bombarded by another rock avalanche. Presently, however, the door opened, and in walked three men with ice-axes, Alpine rope, and other climbing paraphernalia. They proved to be Fyfe and George Graham (members of the N.Z.A.C.) and Matheson (a runholder who had come up to see something of the Great Tasman Glacier). There were now six of us in camp, and it became necessary to modify our arrangements, so we discussed plans, and resolved to make a very early start as soon as the weather cleared.

Sunday was occupied mainly as a day of rest, some necessary preparations in the way of cooking, etc., only being made. Graham constituted himself chef of the Hotel de Ball, and it was not long before the smell of a savoury stew was wafted in through the hut door. Alas for the hopes thus engendered! When we came to eat the stew we found that our cook—with the best of good intentions, no doubt—had dosed the dish liberally with what he believed to be salt, but which he afterwards ascertained to be tartaric acid! Someone suggested that if we now added soda it would counteract the effect of the acid, but we were not in a mood for experiments—so we gave the whole lot to Matheson’s dog, and at the end of the day the dog was still alive! We then made the further distressing discovery that there was no salt in the camp, and for the next three days we had to cook our meat and bake our bread without it. This was not so bad as long as we had soda and acid with which to bake scones, but at last the acid likewise gave out, and we were in a quandary. Dixon suggested citrate of magnesia as a substitute, but I prevailed upon Matheson, whom we made baker-in-chief, to try fruit salts,—a bottle of which we found in the hut,—and this he did with excellent results.

The weather cleared gradually, and by 8.30 a.m. the peaks of the Malte Brun Range were standing out above the top of the moraine, grander than ever, in their tracery of newly fallen snow—their grim precipices, which had slipped their mantle of white, being accentuated by the deep snow in the corries. The barometer had risen a tenth, the wind was from the south, and everything seemed to make for success at last.

As the weather was apparently clear down country, this seemed a fitting opportunity to liberate one of the carrier pigeons lent me by Messrs. B. and F. Hodgkins before leaving Dunedin. Attaching a message, written at the Bivouac, to the bird’s leg, we liberated him at 10 a.m., all hands turning out to give him a “send off.” It was an interesting experiment, as the bird had been taken right into the heart of the Southern Alps, and had to rise from a valley surrounded by mountains of from ten to twelve thousand feet in altitude. He rose gradually to a great height, making ten gyrations in one direction, and then with a sweep round in the opposite direction he seemed to suddenly make up his mind, and, taking a bee-line over the Liebig Range, disappeared in the direction of the coast at Timaru. He reached home at 4.30 p.m., having accomplished the journey in six hours and a half. It may be worth while remarking that when the bird reached Dunedin he was still flying at a very high elevation.

We now waited only for settled weather, as we were a very strong party, and had every confidence in our ability to conquer more than ordinary difficulties. Matheson, our newly formed acquaintance, was ready to join us, and to go with us to the summit if need be; so Dixon nailed up his boots with hobs and clinkers for the ice-work. We went early to bed, and pondered over the chances of success. There was one thing that made our minds uneasy—the amount of newly fallen snow on the higher slopes. This would render climbing difficult, if not dangerous. Still, we could but try, and if there should be any danger we decided to travel at night and camp in the daytime. By this means we should also avoid the terrible glare and heat from the snow slopes of the Upper Linda Glacier.

The people of Australia—who may be taken as able to judge—say there are three hot places—Hay, Hell, and Booligal—and that in the matter of temperature these should be put in the order named! On a cloudless summer day, when the sun beats through the stagnant air and is reflected from the snow and the surrounding slopes, the Linda, in any reliable classification, would probably come in after Hay and before the other place.

It was decided that we should rise on the morrow at 2.30 a.m.; but slumber held the hut till four o’clock, and it was five before we were ready for another start. We had not gone far before the storm descended upon us again, and there was nothing for it but to retreat to the shelter of the hut. Clouds obscured the mountain-tops, and it was snowing at the Bivouac. Disconsolately we marched back, and by the time we had regained our habitation the wind, accompanied by driving hail and snow, was once more sweeping down the valley. It now became a game of patience, but though all this gloomy weather and lack of sunshine was very depressing, we kept up our spirits and determined to set out again on the first opportunity. There was some chance of our running short of provisions, as we were now a large party, and it was arranged that Fyfe should walk down to the Hermitage for bread and tinned meats, while Dixon, Matheson, Graham, and I went to look for the swags, leaving Kenneth in charge of the camp. Accordingly we proceeded once more across the Ball and Hochstetter Glaciers, and on past our lower camp. By the time we got near the Tasman spur the snow was driving round us in blinding gusts, and we had frequently to crouch under a crag, and hold on all we knew to prevent our being blown away. Owing to the heavy snowfall, the whole aspect of the lower portion of the mountain was changed, and we had some difficulty in finding the exact couloir down which we had sent the swags; but at last we reached what we thought was it, and Dixon and Graham proceeded with some difficulty right up to the spot where the swags were seen to disappear over the middle rock. Owing to the great depth of snow, however, no trace of them could be found. Matheson and I searched another couloir to the right, but, not liking the look of it, and knowing there was danger from ice-blocks that occasionally fell from the edge of a glacier at its head, fully a thousand feet above, we beat a retreat to our camp. We halted at our cache at the foot of the Tasman spur, and Matheson knocked over a kea with his ice-axe, simply stunning it and subsequently catching it alive. We afterwards caught another at Green’s Fifth Camp. On our way down the glacier the wind was so violent that we could not stand against it, and it simply blew us before it over the smooth ice, while the driving rain that had now set in drenched us once more to the skin. We got back to camp at half-past one, and Dixon and Graham came in an hour afterwards—cold, hungry, and wet. Kenneth had cooked us a hot dinner, which we thoroughly enjoyed; and once more we turned in to wait for fine weather. That night there was another thunderstorm almost as violent as the one we had experienced at the Bivouac; but the lightning was not so vivid, and the thunder—though one or two peals shook the hut—was not quite so close.

Tuesday, the 13th, was spent in camp; but, the bad weather continuing, we could not get our clothes dry, and again the costumes worn were at all events original, if not conventional. Next morning the ground about the hut was covered to a depth of several inches with snow. Fyfe made his appearance shortly after breakfast, and the result of his foraging expedition was regarded as highly satisfactory, especially as he had brought up a fresh supply of bread and a quantity of salt. We were getting tired of eating mutton without salt, and though the scones that Matheson had baked—with fruit salts in place of soda and acid, which had run short—were excellent, still we welcomed the new supply of bread.

My holiday being at an end I had to return to Dunedin, and reluctantly took leave of my companions on the Thursday morning, leaving them patiently waiting to give the weather a final chance of clearing. This was my one and only attempt to climb Mount Cook before making the traverse of it some years later. Mr. Turner in his book says that I had tried to climb Mount Cook for twenty years and “was grateful that the author’s expedition gave me success at last.” This is on a par with several other extraordinary statements that his book contains.

The Hooker River.

Matheson accompanied me on my 14-mile tramp in the driving rain down to the Hermitage. We got wet crossing the glacier streams, which were all so high that we had doubts about being able to ford the Hooker River. However, we managed to get across safely on the old grey mare, though blocks of ice were coming down by the score in the ever increasing and rapidly flowing current. In the evening we drove another 14 miles to Glentanner station, which was reached with difficulty, as the mountain torrents that crossed the road had torn up their channels so that there were no good fords, while in one place the road was almost completely washed away. In another cutting a great slip that had come right across the road almost capsized the trap, though we went very carefully over it. In order to get to Dunedin up to time it was necessary for me to cross the Tasman next day and make a rapid passage down to Fairlie Creek; but, to our dismay, we were told that we could not possibly cross the river in the trap. I then decided to ford the stream with one of the horses, and walk the many weary miles to Lake Tekapo that night; but on arriving at Glentanner the manager said it would not be safe even to attempt to ford the river on horseback. Here was a dilemma. The alternative was to catch the coach at Lake Pukaki next morning, and young Ross, the station manager, generously offering to provide me with a saddle-horse, I got up at 2 a.m. and started on my lonely 25-mile ride along the lake-side. It was clear overhead, but Aorangi-wards the moon cut through the breaking fringe of storm-cloud. Occasionally a startled rabbit crossed my track in the moonlight, or a pair of Paradise ducks trumpeted forth a defiant note from a safe distance in the lone lagoons of the Tasman flats. In front was the changing eastern sky, tinted with the rose of morning; and, behind, the depressing gloom of the great mist-shrouded Tasman Valley, where my climbing companions were no doubt still waiting and scheming to conquer the monarch of the Southern Alps. I reached the Pukaki River at 6 a.m., and was rowed across in time for breakfast before the coach left. That evening I was in Fairlie Creek, having accomplished the 75 miles in the one day. From an upland plain I got my last glimpse of the Southern Alps. The weather had cleared, and the mountains stood up gloriously in the noonday sun—Sealy, Sefton, the Footstool, Stokes, and Tasman vying with one another; but, above them all, the mighty ridge of Aorangi. They were like old friends. It was with a sad heart I saw them one by one disappear. And once again I came to the conclusion that, for the man with a limited holiday, mountaineering is a game of chance with the weather, and that the weather generally holds at least three aces and a long suit.

CHAPTER VI

THE CONQUERING OF AORANGI—continued

“Ah me! it was a toilsome hill,

With storms as black as night,

Yet up its slopes of gleaming white

That little band of men

Went climbing up, and up, until—

They just climbed down again!”

A Fragment.

While Matheson and myself were proceeding down the Tasman Valley in the rain the others stayed on at the hut, hoping for fine weather to enable them to renew the attack on Aorangi. For a little exercise and pastime they paved the earthen floor of the hut with flat stones. Next day the weather cleared sufficiently to allow of their making an excursion on the Tasman Glacier, where they got further exercise and some good practice in step-cutting. On the following day, the barometer having been steady for some time, they breakfasted at 3.30, and started once more, with fairly heavy swags, for the Bivouac. Arrived at the foot of the Tasman ridge, Graham was deputed to fry some chops left there on a previous visit, while the others went ahead, and, spreading out over the snow-fan formed by the avalanches from the couloirs above, began another search for the swags. They soon found that they should have to exercise some caution in the ascent of the spur, for, as the sun began to rise in the heavens, the fresh snow responded to its influence in avalanches. But I must let my brother Kenneth tell the rest of the story.

“Not finding any trace of the swags,” he writes, “Dixon and I crossed the large couloir to the north to gain the more accessible and safer one down which we had thrown the swags. He stayed to watch the head of it and give warning in case of danger while I crossed, and then came over himself. He had hardly gained the rocks on the opposite side when a grand snow avalanche came sweeping down the couloir, literally bounding along in its rocky bed like sheep going through a race. Deeming the rocks the safer, we kept along a narrow ridge until we came to where vegetation terminated, and, gathering some dry scrub and roots, we agreed to boil the billy and carry on some fuel to the Bivouac in order to save our kerosene for the cooking lamp. After a delay of about two hours through having to melt snow, and after experiencing great difficulty in boiling the billy through the scrub being rather damp, we started for the Bivouac, which we reached about five o’clock. Having previously left the tent here in a snowstorm, we had now to set to work and dig it out of the frozen snow in order to have it dried before carrying it on to the Plateau. While it and the wet biscuits were spread out to dry, we made a good pot of porridge—on the thin side, so as to answer as a drink and a meal—and filled a can with soup to carry on with us.

“At seven o’clock we made a start for the Plateau, and, after about two hours’ hard going through soft snow, we made the top of the Dome, where we were met by a stiff breeze, accompanied by a light sleet. Descending the Dome half-way to the foot of the Plateau, we decided to pitch camp. Excavating a hole three feet deep in the snow and building it up round the edges two feet more, with a shovel we had carried up for the purpose, we seemed to have a tolerably snug little yard of snow walls to protect our tent from the unmerciful north-wester. At 10 p.m. we had the tent well pitched, with the rope and the ice-axes, and the four pairs of ski for pegging-out stakes. A bolster of snow was left running along one side of the tent under the floor for our heads to rest upon. About eleven o’clock we turned in, but found to our sorrow that the heat of our bodies inside caused the light sleet outside to thaw, and trickle through the tent, making things all the more unpleasant now that we had no sleeping bags. On getting up next morning, we found our blankets quite wet, and pools of water on the floor of the tent. Still worse, we were convinced that in a very short time everything would be enveloped in a dense mist, which gradually crept up the Hochstetter Ice Fall, obliterating everything in its slow and stealthy advance, and, finally, wreathing the giant Aorangi in an impenetrable, dense white mantle from head to foot. After having breakfast and adjusting our ski, as the snow was soft, we took the compass bearing of a ‘hot plate’ on the side of the mountain above the crevasses at the head of the Hochstetter Ice Fall, and made a start about six o’clock, but before we had got half-way across the Plateau we could not see a chain ahead. Dixon, getting in the rear with compass in hand, kept us in a straight line, while we advanced, endeavouring to make the Linda, in the hope that the fog might clear with the advancing day. However, it was not to be. After keeping on for half an hour in this manner, we encountered some crevasses on our left, while we heard avalanches ahead and to our right from the sides of Cook and Tasman, and, not being able to judge our distance, we came to the conclusion that prudence was the better part of valour and decided to return. About 7 p.m. we ‘turned in’ to have a good rest for an early start about one o’clock next morning. The man lying nearest to the door was instructed to keep one eye open, and give the alarm should the weather clear. At 11.30 Fyfe had a peep out, and found the night to be clear and starry, with not a cloud in the sky. The lamp was at once lit, and the operation of melting snow begun. It takes a considerable time to melt a supply for four men, for it is impossible to sufficiently concentrate the heat with any ordinary lamp or stove. At 2 a.m. on the 18th, we again got our ski adjusted, and made good progress down the gentle slope of the Plateau, assisted by the light of the moon in avoiding the crevasses. On gaining the lower slopes of the Linda we found our position none too secure from avalanches, and were, so to speak, ‘between the devil and the deep sea.’ At the Tasman corner we crossed the track of an avalanche, while farther on to the left it was evident there was also danger from ice-cliffs on the Cook side. However, taking turn about at breaking steps—the slopes being now too steep for ski—we made fair progress, though in places of drift the snow was almost thigh-deep.

“We were well up the Linda when the dawn began to tint the eastern sky with a pale blue light, which gradually deepened into the ruddy glow of morning. The sun rose, and with it a bank of cloud made its appearance above the horizon, while the long, winding valley of the Tasman, below, was obscured in a sea of mist. Across the valley the dark, frowning peaks of Malte Brun seemed grander than ever in the dusky light of early morn, towering high above their dense white base of mist. About eight o’clock we were at the head of the Linda, opposite a saddle in the northern arête. Here a halt was called for lunch, and we had a consultation as to what route we ought to take. Fyfe considered, from the look of the ice-cliffs above the first couloir on Green’s route, that it was very unsafe to attempt an ascent from that direction, and guaranteed to take us up the northern arête of rock. He considered it would be all the more creditable if we succeeded by that route. Dixon and myself held firm in favour of Green’s route, and argued that, as it had been proved a practicable one, it would be wasting time and a good day to attempt the other. However, after some discussion it was decided to try the arête, and, about eight o’clock, the ascent was begun. Rounding a corner of projecting rock, a small couloir was entered, where we had to use the greatest caution, as the snow was not in good order, there being only a thin coating on the surface of the rocks, and the perpendicular cliff of the lower part of the ridge falling 2000 feet below on to the lower slopes of the Linda Glacier. One man moving at a time, while the others kept a good anchorage with their axes, we climbed the last bit of the snow slope, and the first of the rock-work was begun. Fyfe, taking the lead, did not keep us waiting; in fact, I had not been more than five minutes in his company on the rocks before I came to the conclusion that he was exceptionally good at rock-work, apparently being capable of detecting the safest and slightest foot-hold or hand-grip with wonderful rapidity. I, being in the rear, soon found that I was to have the benefit of any loose stones dislodged above. However, I must say, in justice to the leaders, that they proved themselves to be no novices at rock-work, and only on one occasion had I to duck my head to prevent my being scalped—a piece of rock passing within two inches of my head. At 11.30 we got on to a flat ledge of rock, where we were able to sit down with safety, and enjoy a hunk of bread, tinned beef, and preserved fruit, which we vowed was the greatest delicacy we had ever enjoyed. All agreed that the climb was worth doing for the enjoyment derived from that meal. After waiting for a drink of water from snow spread on the rocks to melt, we again commenced the climb. On ascending a bit of a snow slope, two routes presented themselves—one leading to the left and eastward side of the top of the arête, over good reddish rock, and the other leading to the right and westward side, over a slaty, grey rock. The latter being more in our direct line for the peak, we decided to take it; but soon, to our sorrow, we found we had taken the worse and more unsafe of the two, the rock being so broken that it was almost impossible to get a safe foot-hold or hand-grip. The utmost caution had to be exercised to prevent the starting of stones or loose fragments of rock. Keeping to the left, we were not long in regaining the good rock, and in feeling much safer. From the commencement of the climb Fyfe had frequently been interrogated by those in the rear as to the possibility of advancement, when we would be assured that it looked much easier ahead. But the easy part never seemed to get any nearer, and at 2 p.m. we were brought to a standstill by a great wall of rock. The possibility of its ascent was discussed, and each one had a look at the barrier, and was asked his opinion. Fyfe declared he could get up, but might not, he thought, be able to come down again; so, not knowing what was beyond, or whether it was possible to gain the arête from the saddle for which we were making, we came to the conclusion that there was nothing left for us but to return half-way by the track we had come, when we would be able to get on to a snow slope running almost at right angles and leading in a more direct line on to Green’s track. This snow slope we had noticed when we were lunching on our way. We concluded it would save a good hour, and so enable us to get on to Green’s track and climb by moonlight. Accordingly we ‘put about ship,’ descending in the opposite order to which we had made the ascent. We had not been long on the downward track before I was warned by a voice from above calling, ‘Look out! look out! look out below!’ and before I had time to realize what had happened, or what was going to happen, Fyfe’s axe went whizzing past and stuck erect in a small patch of snow 200 feet below, exactly in our upward marks.

“At three o’clock we got to the head of the snow slope before mentioned, and found it to be in a most dangerous condition, with hard ice eight inches from the surface. We now decided to take advantage of the warm rocks, on which we might have a spell, and perhaps a sleep, until the snow became firmer, when we would be able to proceed with greater ease as the sun went down. Graham and I volunteered to cut steps down the slope, while the others, who complained of not having had enough sleep, might stay on the rocks, enjoy a spell, and join us at the bottom.

“We had not proceeded far when Graham was seized with cramp, and said he would have to return. For some time we tried to struggle on, but every time he stooped to clean out a step he had another seizure, until, finally, we were compelled to return to our mates, whom we found enjoying a snooze on small ledges of rock, with hats and comforters drawn about their heads to protect them from the glare of the sun. At five o’clock, after the shadows of western peaks had gradually crept across the Linda, and the sun began to disappear behind Mount Tasman, we once more awoke to activity, and, after having something to eat, began the descent of the snow slope, the condition of which had now slightly improved.

“We decided to keep along the upper part of the slope until we cleared a precipice of rock below, when we would be able to glissade to the bottom and gain the Linda. On reaching the place from whence we intended to glissade, we found the ice destitute of snow, and also hard and rough; but nevertheless, in order to save time, we preferred to glissade it to cutting steps down. Uncoupling ourselves from the rope, Dixon went first, turning a somersault before reaching the bottom and skinning his nose, but fortunately shooting the small bergschrund at the bottom in safety. Graham went next, while I followed, and succeeded in giving the same acrobatic performance as the first man, to the amusement of the others, and also to the detriment of my unfortunate knuckles. Fyfe came last, and, half-way down, struck a stone that had been frozen to the ice, slightly straining the tendons of his heel. An hour more and we were at the bergschrund below Green’s Rocks, where we were compelled to cut steps, there being only a slight coating of snow on the top of the ice. At 7 p.m. we stood on the other side of Green’s Rocks, testing the hard clear ice of the bottom couloir of the route chosen by Kaufmann. A consultation was held, and the advisability of advancing discussed. So far as we knew, it would take about seven hours at least to cut to the top from where we stood. This meant 2 a.m., and as the thermometer read 26, too cold for standing out all night, we decided to return to camp, and make another attempt on the following day, when we could take advantage of the steps already cut. Just after crossing the bergschrund below Green’s Rocks, before mentioned, and while we were plodding along the face of the upper slope of the Linda, we were aroused from our reverie at being defeated and speculations on the chances of success on the morrow by the alarm of danger from some cause, while at the same time Fyfe, who was in the lead, began to traverse the slope at a record pace, the rest of us giving him a hard run for first place. On looking up at the source of the alarm, we beheld a huge block of ice tearing down in our direction accompanied by a small one. These had broken away from the ice-cliffs above Green’s Rocks. Fortunately for us, the snow on the Linda was not sufficiently hard to bear the weight of this monster disturber of the public peace, and so we were allowed a little more time to escape from its clutches.

“The large block, weighing about six tons (as we judged from the dimensions of it taken on passing it partly embedded in the snow below) passed close on one side, while the small piece, which I had not noticed, seemed to whiz past my eyes on the opposite side, within a few feet. A fragment from one of the blocks struck me on the temple, raised a new phrenological bump, and caused a slightly dizzy sensation for a minute.

“Getting on to the tracks we had made coming up in the morning, we started off down the Linda at the ‘double-quick,’ and soon reached the place where we had deposited our ski on the way up. Graham and Dixon decided to put theirs on, but Fyfe and I preferred to carry ours, as we agreed that the snow was too hard and the slope too steep for us to be able to use them to any advantage. Now, the gentle art of ‘skilobning’ is not altogether without its amusing features, and a man with ski on a hard and steep snow slope is sometimes pretty much as helpless as a fish out of water. However, the two pairs of ski having, on this occasion, been properly adjusted to the respective feet of Dixon and Graham, we once more started off, quite unconscious of impending disaster. Suddenly there was a tug on the rope from behind, and on looking round, much to my amusement, I beheld some twelve feet of timber being aimlessly brandished about in the air with Dixon’s legs as the motive power! Then Graham, who was on the rope in front of me, would fall prostrate, embrace the merciless, hard-frozen snow with a suddenness that was disconcerting, and experience the greatest difficulty in adjusting his lengthy feet for further advancement. In such a predicament, until the ski are brought parallel, it seems almost an impossibility to prevent their crossing, one over the other, either in front or behind, this making them to appear the most awkward things a man could possibly put on his feet; yet in soft snow they are indispensable, and enable one to slide along almost without effort over the soft snow where otherwise he would have to plough waist-deep and it would be an impossibility to proceed. After a few tumbles and the use of quite a number of forcible adjectives, the ski were dispensed with for the time being, and, following our marks up by the light of an Austrian climbing-lantern, we reached camp about 10.30 p.m., having been about twenty and a half hours on the go, pretty well all the time. After turning in, and while we were discussing what day of the week it might be, I discovered it to be my birthday, and with seeming mockery from my half-asleep companions, while I lay shivering with cold, I was wished ‘many happy returns of the day’; and I now wish the same to any poor mortal who may spend his birthday on this same plateau or at the same altitude of about 8000 feet above sea-level in the New Zealand Alps, with no better prospect before him than being put on half-allowance for breakfast the following morning.

“Next morning on getting up we found the snow falling gently. We had a talk over matters as to whether or not we ought to wait and give Cook another trial, although our provisions were now all but done. Finally it was decided that three should go down to the Bivouac for some meat and biscuits that had been left there, while I should stay in camp and spread out the blankets to dry, should the weather clear. I had spent rather a miserable night in the cold damp blankets, having been an ‘outside man,’ and was rather pleased to see, shortly after the departure of the others, the snow gradually becoming heavier and heavier, for this guaranteed my being able to have a sleep now that I had monopolized all the blankets, for I should not be able to spread them out to dry. The three who went to the Bivouac were to boil a quantity of rice, make some porridge, and breakfast there, bringing back all the spare food they could muster. I, who stayed behind, was left a sumptuous breakfast in the form of one sardine!

“About one o’clock, having got warm and having enjoyed a good sleep, I was awakened by a yell at the door of the tent and a call from Fyfe—‘Squirm out of that, old man!’—and so my peaceful slumbers were brought to rather an abrupt termination. Upon entering the tent he appeared clothed in a mantle of white, having glissaded down the slope from the summit of the Dome. About twenty minutes later the other two put in an appearance with a kettle of rice, but had not brought on any other provisions, as they decided we should have to pack up and go back until the weather took up again. I now ate my breakfast and dinner together—one sardine for the first course, with the rice and the scrapings from a marmalade jam tin as dessert. It was rather an awkward business getting the rice out of the small kettle, but we soon had spoons of all designs at work, fashioned out of empty tins, etc. A council of war was held, and it was unanimously decided to stick to our guns, and not abandon the siege, though the combined efforts of all the demons of wind, hail, rain, and snow seemed anxious to drive us from out their stronghold. The elements had repulsed us again and again, but still, like true Britons, we lingered on, expecting yet to accomplish the task we had set ourselves. The last of our bread was gone, so we agreed to return to the hut to replenish our larder, leaving behind us the tent and all that we did not actually require.

Camp on Plateau.

Crossing the Murchison.

“Fyfe was dispatched without a swag, so that he could hurry on and get to the Hermitage that night—a long journey—while we stayed behind to carry on the blankets and wet clothing to be dried at the hut. About three o’clock we got a start, and, at the Bivouac on the way down, had some porridge, which the others had made in the morning. On arriving at the head of the couloir down which the swags had been thrown ten days previously, Graham and I were to search it, while Dixon searched one to the south of it, having an idea that it was possible they might by some means or other have bounded out of the main couloir. About two-thirds down our couloir I came to a sudden declivity in the snow and had to take to the rocks to avoid it, coming into the couloir again below it. On looking backward I could just see part of a swag showing through the snow. Digging it out with my axe, I discovered it to be the lighter of the two. I thought I had now a good chance of finding the other, as it must be farther down, so, taking up the one I had found, I gave it a start, concluding that the other—the heavier one—not having been stopped by the same obstruction, would probably be close to where this one would now land. On overtaking it on the snow-fan below the mouth of the couloir, and looking forward about sixty yards, I saw what appeared to be a slab of rock lying in the snow, but which, I was delighted to find, proved to be the other swag resting on the top of some avalanche snow. Giving them both a start on the slope, I set them going again, quickly overtook them, and, keeping them before my feet, soon glissaded to the bottom, where I was joined by my mates.

“We then decided to take them on to a shingle fan to the right, there to unpack and spread the contents out to dry.

“On reaching the hut we found a note left by Fyfe warning us to be careful of the provisions as he understood the Hermitage was very sparingly stocked. Next morning (Wednesday) we were up at eight o’clock, after a good night’s rest, to spread out the blankets and clothing to dry, expecting Fyfe to turn up in the afternoon, when we should make another start for the plateau. The afternoon came round, but with no sign of Fyfe, and as there was no bread and meat left at the hut we felt anything but amicably disposed towards him. However, as long as we had a little flour we were not going to starve, and, as I said I had seen such a dish as flour porridge, my mates prevailed upon me to attempt the making of some. After dishing out a reasonable portion for any three white men I found I had still a plateful left, and began to censure myself for having used too much flour, to us now so precious. However, I was soon relieved from any anxiety on that score by inquiries as to whom the other plate was for. Saying it was a supposed surplus, I soon had volunteers for its consumption—just to prevent its going to waste. After finishing the last of our cigarettes that had been wet and dried, and indulging in the perusal of some of the hut literature, we retired for the night. About nine o’clock it began to blow, gradually increasing to a howling nor’-wester, which threatened to carry off the roof of the hut, rendering sleep almost an impossibility until there came a lull towards morning, when we managed to drop off.

“It was late when we awoke next morning, our breakfast of maizena being at 11 a.m. At three o’clock I took up the field-glasses, and started off to see if I could find trace of Fyfe, who had not yet put in an appearance. We were now becoming very anxious lest an accident had befallen him in the Hooker River. I had not gone more than a mile when I saw him in the distance wending his way along the moraine, following closely in the footsteps of the old grey mare. On his arrival at the hut we learned that the pigeon we had liberated had arrived safely in Dunedin with his message, and that a newspaper Fyfe had seen told of rough weather having been prevalent all over the country during the last week. This was consoling news to us, as we were now justified in expecting a spell of fine weather. He also told us how he had met Adamson coming to look for us the day we had come down to the hut. Failing to find any trace of us, he was to have returned to light a fire on the moraine opposite the hut, which was to have been the signal for two men to join him from Glentanner and form a search party. My brother on his way down had told Adamson that we had only provisions to last until Saturday or Sunday at the latest, and, if we did not put in an appearance by that time, he might consider that there was something wrong. It was Tuesday evening when he arrived at the hut, and there was still no sign of us. Hence his alarm for our safety. After partaking of a stew, which Graham had volunteered to ‘build,’ from a little of all the different ingredients he could lay hands on in our replenished locker, we retired with renewed hopes of getting a fine day and an early start in the morning for our fourth departure from this point for the summit of hoary Aorangi. The morning of Friday 23rd saw us up at 4.30. The barometer had kept steady through the night, so we had a good breakfast, and at 6.30 a.m. we began to file out of camp once more. There were some ominous clouds drifting about overhead, but, as the wind was from the south, we hoped it might keep fine. At nine o’clock, after drying the things left on the shingle fan, we began to ascend the Tasman Spur, and reached the Bivouac at 12.30 p.m., where we boiled the billy with some scrub that we had carried up, and had dinner. Three p.m. saw us on the top of the Glacier Dome, where we were again met by a gusty wind, carrying with it clouds of snowdrift, which, coming in contact with the hands and face, stung like needles. On descending to the site of our previous encampment we found the excavation filled up with fresh snow, so we had to set to work to clear the foundation and get the tent out. The tent having been pitched, some porridge was made in order to save our bread and meat, in case we should again be weather-bound. We lay down, intending to make a start any time between eleven and six o’clock, should the weather show any signs of clearing. Eleven o’clock came, but the wind and haze increased, though not to any great extent. On waking at six o’clock we found a small cornice hanging over our heads and feet, and the tent almost collapsing from the weight of snow upon it. A quantity had accumulated inside, having drifted through a hole at the door, and Graham, on awaking, found himself being embraced by a wreath of the ‘beautiful snow.’ Eventually he had to turn out to shovel it away from round the tent and brush it off his blankets, without stopping in the act, you may be sure, to bestow one glance of admiration upon it for either its beauty or its purity. The weather cleared a little, and we had a fair breakfast of cold roast mutton and scone crumbs, with a cup of tea. Dixon spent most of the afternoon in clearing a space round the tent, and about four o’clock we had our dinner of porridge. During the afternoon the weather had cleared sufficiently to allow us to get a few shots with the camera at the surrounding peaks and our tent in the snow. At six o’clock the wind began to abate, and as the sun disappeared over Tasman our tent was almost instantaneously frozen as hard as a board. The wind gradually died away as the dark mantle of night spread over us, and at eight o’clock, after having lain for a considerable time counting my breaths between the gusts to prove that the said squalls were becoming fewer, the last feeble effort of the nor’-wester exhausted itself in a vain endeavour to flap the sides of our now frozen tent.

“Intending to make an early start, and not being able to sleep owing to the cold frosty air, we lay chatting, singing, and discussing the possibility of our success on the morrow, while Fyfe, to retain as near as possible the normal heat of his body, burnt a candle under his blankets.

“About 9.30 p.m. the lamp was lit, and a kettle of snow put on so that we might have a good substantial meal before leaving, as we had been economizing as much as possible—our two previous meals that day consisted principally of porridge and a little meat minus bread. About twelve o’clock (midnight) we crept out of the tent, one man staying inside to pack all the spare clothing, etc., into a sleeping bag, and to pass out such articles as we required, while the others set to work to unfasten the ski and ice-axes that were holding up the tent. At 1 a.m. we were roped together, ready for another attack upon the ice-walled fort of Aorangi.

“The night was clear and starry, not a cloud being visible, and we climbed in a dead calm. The great avalanche king himself seemed hushed to rest in the awful stillness of the midnight hours as we four mortals, like demons of the night, roped together, filed out of camp, the only visible sign of which was now a small square excavation in that great ice plateau of about 1000 acres in area, guarded and fed by the stupendous cliffs of Aorangi, Tasman, Haast, and the Glacier Dome—giants of the ice regions, whose seemingly inaccessible peaks towered far above us. The broken, rugged flow of the Hochstetter Ice Fall stretched away thousands of feet below, forming a grand safeguard against mortal intrusion to this great ice-field. And yet, thought I, as we climbed slowly down the gentle slope of the plateau in the gloom of the eternal hills at the midnight hour, people wonder what there is in mountaineering. Ah! I mused, let the most unintellectual or the most unobservant mortal step into our place—let him see and feel, and he will believe that there is a something here which awakens the dormant faculties of the mind and inspires one with thoughts profound.

“Marching silently onward for some time, each one busy with his own thoughts, we soon found ourselves at the lowest part of the plateau, and, half an hour later, beginning to ascend the lower slope of the Linda. The snow was quite hard, but we had carried our ski up in case a thaw might set in and they should be required on our return. By 2.30 we had gained the broken ice of the Linda, and a halt was called to light the climbing-lantern and deposit the ski. We stuck them in the snow in the form of a triangle and lashed them together to prevent their being blown away. Not being able to judge accurately, in the nighttime, the distance between Mounts Tasman and Cook, we soon found we had kept a little too much to the left, and had struck the track of an avalanche from the side of Mount Cook, that we had on the former attempt avoided. However, preferring to cross—it being early in the morning—to retreating down a slope, we wended our way among the huge ice-blocks and reached the other side in safety. The remnant of the waning moon was now about the horizon, and soon the grey morning made its appearance in the east, enabling us to proceed without the use of the lantern. Good progress was made now, without any difficulty in avoiding the crevasses, and, about sunrise, we reached the bergschrund, from which point to Green’s Rocks we had previously cut steps. We found them still in good order, only requiring a slight cleaning out. After entering there, as if in objection to our intrusion, we were greeted by a sharp crack, the ice evidently breaking under our feet. On nearing Green’s Rocks Graham complained of feeling ill. A slice of lemon was prescribed first, and then a little brandy, but neither had the desired effect. We cautioned him to give warning if he felt himself becoming incapable, while we proceeded, keeping a good hold with our axes at each step. Occasionally we had to stop to give him time to revive, but succeeded in gaining Green’s Rocks in safety. The sun had not yet reached this part, and his feet, he said, felt as if they were frost-bitten. Leaving him in Dixon’s charge, Fyfe and I proceeded to cut steps up the couloir until the sun should reach them, when we were to go back for lunch. In half an hour we returned and found Graham recovering. The provisions were handed out, but, our supply of jam having given out, and it being too early to melt any snow on the rocks, the bread seemed to object to being eaten with meat alone. I managed to get two mouthfuls down, but the third positively refused to be swallowed, and I was compelled to give it best. A few photographs were taken here with my brother’s kodak, which we had recovered with the swags, and Fyfe was adjusting the legs of his camera, to take some half-plate views, when they suddenly came asunder and two of them slid away down over the ice-cliffs on to the Linda. He threw the remaining one after them. A few seconds later the cap of the lens fell from his numbed fingers, and he was with difficulty restrained from adding the rest of the camera to the downward procession.

“About eight o’clock another start was made, and on reaching the termination of the steps I had cut, Fyfe took the lead and we made good progress. At last we took to the rocks, having hugged the couloir all the way for shelter from falling blocks of ice that might start from ice-cliffs above. The rocks we found in bad and dangerous condition, being coated in places with ice, and consequently we made very little more headway than if we had had to cut every step. On getting up a steep piece of rock at the head of the first couloir the rope behind me got foul. We were compelled to carry our axes for use on the ice-covered rocks, instead of having them slung on our wrists, and in order to clear the rope, I put mine down on what I thought to be a safe ledge. While I stooped to clear the rope, however, my axe slipped off, and was last seen hurrying off in the direction of Fyfe’s camera legs, some hundreds of feet below. This was a bad job for me, but I had to be reconciled to the position, and accept the assistance of a wand about three feet in length and one inch thick, which Dixon was carrying for a flagstaff. At 11.30 we had gained the foot of the second and upper couloir, where a halt was called for dinner. Here we discovered a splendid hollow-surfaced rock, with a pool of water, apparently fashioned by nature for the purpose of quenching the thirst of weary travellers like ourselves. Putting some oatmeal and sugar and a lemon into the water where it rested, we partook of as refreshing a drink as I had ever tasted. Taking turn about, we soon drank the fountain dry, but had only to spread some snow on the rock to replenish the supply. Having enjoyed our midday meal, Dixon and Graham volunteered to cut up this couloir, while Fyfe and I, after our arduous morning’s work, had a spell. I had a shot or two with the kodak, while Fyfe adjusted his camera on some flat pieces of rock, one man holding it steady while the other made the exposure. As it was too cold for a long stay of enforced idleness, we soon hailed the others above, requesting them to stop cutting until we had overtaken them. The ice chips which they dislodged acquired a great velocity before reaching us, making a humming sound in their descent. In a short time we had overtaken them, and when half-way up the couloir we again took to the rocks to avoid the steep ice at the top. Then, getting on to a more gentle slope, we cut steps up it to some sérac ice, preferring to chance the possibility of getting over this, as it seemed quite feasible. We kept slightly to the right in preference to going direct on to the arête, where we should have to cut every step, while here we were able to proceed by cutting only a few in places for about a hundred feet. The bergschrund and final ice cap were now in sight close at hand, and borrowing Dixon’s axe I once more relieved Fyfe of the step-cutting. In half an hour we had reached the schrund, and found no difficulty in crossing it at the eastern side close to the arête. Here we discovered a curious formation, of which Green says nothing in describing his ascent. Instead of finding the ice-cap hard clear ice, as we had expected, we found it to consist of a covering of horizontal icicles, giving it a perfect honeycomb appearance and rendering step-cutting a very easy matter. This slope and the one above it was at an angle of only 30 degrees. On returning we found that this formation had its disadvantage, as the broken icicles had almost obliterated our steps. I was here relieved by Graham, and he and I made rapid progress up the first slope above the bergschrund for half an hour, the other two having stayed behind for a short spell. We were working hard and willingly, congratulating ourselves that we should have the summit of Aorangi under our feet in an hour at the latest, when we were hailed by Fyfe, asking if we did not think it was time to turn.

“It was now five o’clock, the time he said Green had turned,—we found afterwards he had not turned till an hour later,—and he had, we all knew, to spend an anxious night on a narrow rock ledge below the bottom couloir. To make things worse, we had left our lantern at Green’s Rocks, as we had expected to be back there in daylight, but we had now little time to spare to gain that point before darkness set in. Deferring to those who had called out from below, as we understood they, the older and more experienced climbers, had decided to retreat, we halted in our steps and discontinued the ascent. I am of opinion now that we should have gone on. The hardest and most difficult work had been safely accomplished, and there only remained about an hour’s step-cutting up a fairly easy slope of some 30 degrees or less. However, we thought it well then to act on the advice of the others. We stopped a few minutes to admire the great panorama of mountain, glacier, lake, river, forest, and sea below us. From the point of turning a marvellous panorama of Alpine grandeur merged into distant forests, whose dark shadows loomed in strong contrast to the ice-clad mountains and the ocean to the westward. To the north a long vista of snow-capped mountains was visible until lost in extreme distance. The higher peaks stood in bold relief against a dark blue and cloudless sky, rearing their snow-clad summits far above the dense mist that rolled in the valleys at their base. The silver sheen of the River Tasman enabled us to trace the windings of its numerous branches for miles. We could see Lakes Pukaki and Tekapo, but the greater part of the Mackenzie country was invisible below a dense rolling mist that made us conjure up visions of the Arctic regions. The higher peaks at the head of Lake Tekapo were clearly visible—one, which we took to be Mount Jukes, being particularly prominent. The frowning Malte Brun Range, to which we had so often looked up, was now below us. Nearer at hand, Haast and the ice-clothed Tasman—a glorious peak from this point—reared their snowy heads aloft. Far down below in the gloom of evening lay the Great Tasman Glacier, guarded by the everlasting hills, the beautiful Elie de Beaumont and De la Bêche, near its head, half hidden in the clouds. Westward was the ocean, visible for miles and miles, more than 12,000 feet below us.

“Soon after 5 p.m. the descent was commenced. Down the long ice-ladder, roped together, we slowly went in single file, the axes of my companions clinking into the ice at every step. I, unfortunately, was now without an axe, and I had often to grip the steps with my hands till the skin was pretty well worn from off my knuckles, and there was risk from frost-bite. We, however, made good progress down to Green’s Rocks, and got out of the last of our steps at 8 p.m., just as it was getting dark. Half an hour afterwards we lit the lantern and made a quick passage down to the foot of the Linda. We then crossed the plateau once more and reached our camp too tired to discuss future plans till the morning.

Elie de Beaumont.

“It was too cold to sleep, but we rested till daybreak. A cold wind was blowing, and there were signs of more bad weather. Our provisions were at an end, and as it meant a long delay to get a further supply, and both Dixon and I had now to return, we decided to accept defeat for the present. We accordingly set to work to pack up the swags, while Fyfe, taking only his camera, started off ahead. By the time we had reached the top of the Dome with our swags the wind had increased to a gale, and it was with the greatest difficulty that we managed to get to the top of the Dome. It was only by making a rush every now and then between the stronger gusts of wind that we succeeded at all. A gust of wind would catch the swags, and we had continually to crouch low down in order to prevent ourselves from being blown away. It was very difficult work for me, who had now no ice-axe, and before long my knees as well as my knuckles were skinned through coming into frequent contact with the frozen névé. Arriving at the top of the Dome, we were just in time to see Fyfe disappearing down below in the direction of the Bivouac, en route to the hut. The start he had got enabled him, as he had nothing but the camera to carry, to get down to the sheltered side of the ridge before the full force of the gale could strike him. We climbed down from the Dome on rocks and snow. The snow slopes were frozen hard, and we had to cut steps and descend backwards on the rope because of the strong wind and the heavy swags we were carrying. The light driving snow and the force of the wind made it difficult for us to open our eyes. After about six hours’ continuous hard work we got under the shelter of a rock. We were shivering with the cold, and presented rather a strange appearance with the icicles hanging from our hair, our moustachios, and even our eyebrows. Fyfe and I had lost our hats—they had been blown away—and a handkerchief that I had tied round my head had also been blown away.

“We waited a while in hope of the wind’s moderating, and then, as it was getting late, we decided to push on. About two chains farther on was another rock, and here we stopped and had a further consultation. We were all pretty well exhausted by this time through our long battle with the wind, and I especially was very tired, as I had come down all the way without an ice-axe, so we decided to camp, and pitched the tent in the shelter of the rock. The storm that night was something awful. The snow and the wind—now a howling blizzard—continued, and the prospect was dolorous in the extreme. The tent was pitched on the snow after we had scraped a level place for it. We then divided what little food we had left—some oatmeal and sugar, which we mixed with a little snow and partook of—and retired for the night. Sleep was out of the question; we simply lay and shivered all night, though Graham on the inside was not so badly off. We afterwards learned from Fyfe that the gale was so severe in the Tasman Valley that the end wall of the hut sagged in several inches, and, being rather afraid of a collapse, he got up and shifted his quarters to the leeward compartment.

“We were astir at seven o’clock next morning, and having packed the swags we started off in what we thought to be the right direction; but what with the snow and the drift we could not see many yards ahead, and soon found ourselves on the verge of the precipices above the Hochstetter Ice Fall. We had to retrace our steps for some distance, and in order to shorten our journey we then took to a steep snow slope a little to the right of the track we had come down. Here we found the slope in such bad order—a layer of soft snow superimposing the clear ice—that we had again to cut steps almost right up to the rock we had camped under. We then found that we had been only about two chains from the top of the ridge leading to the Bivouac Rock! To get to the latter we had now to keep to the rocks, as the snow was dangerous. It was not till about midday that we reached the Bivouac. It was then beginning to clear and the wind was not strong, so we spent some time trying to melt snow on the rocks, but with very poor results. Here we got some tinned meat that had been previously opened; but Dixon’s hands were so cold that he let the tin slip, and it went sliding down the swag couloir beyond recall.

“After a halt of about an hour we started for the hut, and finding the snow in the long couloir better than any we had traversed that day, we took to it. We decided to throw the swags down once more, but first got into a position from which we could watch their entire descent. The two heaviest swags went right down the couloir, bringing up on the snow within a few feet of each other. The lightest swag, however, stopped some two chains higher up. No damage was done, and a few things that came out of the lightest swag we were able to pick up on the way down. We made rapid progress down the couloir, and were soon surprised to see Fyfe coming up in search of us. We shouted to let him know we were still alive, and he waited while we came down. We learnt that he had spent a very anxious night throughout the storm at the hut, and had upbraided himself a good deal for having left us. On the following morning he was undecided what to do. He thought of going down to the Hermitage for assistance, but finally concluded that if anything had happened to us we would not by that time be alive, so he decided to start off and see for himself before giving any alarm. His heart was in his mouth as he wended his way up the Tasman spur, and saw at the bottom of the couloir the swags, but no sign of the climbers. He was actually afraid, for a time, to go near them. He expected to get some clue by closer examination; but when he reached them, he could not tell from the shoulder-straps whether they had been sent down intentionally or not. He saw, however, that they had come down that morning, and, placing them together, he started up the slope, hoping for the best, and soon was overjoyed to hear our shouts above. Recognizing that we were all in the flesh, and concluding that it must take a good deal in the way of exposure to kill an average mountaineer, he retraced his steps, and, sitting down on the swags, patiently awaited our arrival.

“Here my narrative may as well end. I need say nothing about our journey back to civilization. Dixon and I had reluctantly to return. Fyfe and Graham remained to try again. Since then Dixon has gone back once more from Christchurch, and at the moment of writing, for all I know, he may be shivering in storm under the Bivouac Rock, or frizzling in the glare of a fierce noonday sun on the remorseless white slopes of the Upper Linda. Looking back on our battles with wind and weather, on a mountain in such vile condition, thinking of all our hardships and privations, and looking, too, at my slowly healing knuckles, which I nearly lost altogether in contact with ice-steps of the upper couloirs, my only regret is that I am not with them.”

CHAPTER VII

THE CONQUERING OF AORANGI—concluded

“At length, upon a sunny day,

They started off once more,

And climbed as they had climbed before,

Till, all their troubles past,

With scarce a halt upon their way,

They reached the top at last.”

Another Fragment.

All the attempts by Green’s route having ended in failure, Fyfe and George Graham now decided to try the western side of the mountain for a more direct route to the summit. Fyfe had always held the opinion that a practical way to the summit might be found from the upper part of the Hooker Glacier. On December 11th, about a month after our first arrival at the Hermitage, they started off one day to explore the Hooker side of Mount Cook. Fyfe eagerly scanned the mountain, and, on the way up, had picked out two routes by which he rightly thought the summit of the mountain might be reached. One was by way of the western spur of the lowest or most southerly peak, and thence along the ridge over the middle peak to the northern or highest point. The other route was from the head of the Hooker Glacier and up a nasty-looking couloir leading to Green’s Saddle and thence by the arête direct to the highest peak. The latter was the route by which they were eventually successful.

They left the Hermitage on December 16th with a tent and five days’ provisions. On the 18th, after camping for a couple of days in the valley, they made their way up the Hooker Glacier through badly broken and crevassed ice. In one place they found a wide crevasse where a snow bridge had fallen in and wedged itself lower down. It was so wide that their 60-feet rope would not reach across it, and, to make matters worse, steps had to be cut on the upper face of the crevasse. Camp was pitched on a rib of rock above the glacier on the right, and a reconnaissance made. On the following day, taking with them only blankets, provisions, and a little firewood, a second camp was made farther up the glacier.

First the ground was levelled alongside a big rock, and all the larger stones were carefully picked out. Then a rubble wall was built at each end, and the remaining side was sheltered by a mound of snow scraped up with a billy. All was snug by 7 p.m., and as the two climbers lay in their blankets they chatted over the chances of the morrow or groped underneath for some particularly prominent stone that was likely to disturb their repose. For the elevation (6400 feet) the night was not cold, and they rested fairly well. They were astir at 1.30 a.m. for their first attempt via the middle peak. Dawn appeared at 2.45, and, roping up, they started on their climb. They had to cross several crevasses on snow bridges before reaching the true western spur, an offshoot of which runs in a more northerly direction. The arête, however, was so difficult and irregular that they were forced on to the snow slope again. Mr. Fyfe, in an account published in the Otago Daily Times, gives the following account of the climb:—

“On coming to its head some slight difficulty was experienced in finding a place to get on to the spur; but, once gained, it proved good, and for about 500 feet an easy grade. After this it became much steeper and gradually narrowed in to a sharp ridge. After some 2000 feet of rock-climbing the lowest peak came in sight, and at 10.30 a.m. we stood on the true western arête running up to the same. We had now the choice of cutting steps up on to the crest of the arête or, by keeping down a little on the northern side, of skirting along the rocks. We chose the latter, and found that, although owing to their being partly buried in snow they were difficult, still they were much easier and quicker than step-cutting. We had now been in the sun some time, and a short halt was cried for ‘tucker.’ Vain efforts were made by one of the party to melt some snow, but even the sultry language he indulged in had no effect on its icy coldness. It is a strange sensation this, being surrounded by snow and ice, and, though ‘dying’ for a drink, unable to obtain a mouthful. Skirting along these partly buried rocks, and cutting a few steps here and there across slippery patches, nothing stopped us, and at 11 a.m. we stood on the highest rocks. We were now at an altitude of 11,700 feet, and our prospects of doing the remaining 600 odd feet looked ‘rosy.’

“From here it was necessary to descend about 400 feet to reach the saddle which separates the first and second peaks. This we had little difficulty in doing, good rocks running right down. The sun was now very powerful, and we took advantage of it to melt the snow and drink to our hearts’ content. Step-cutting commenced at a couloir which runs from the Empress Glacier right up to this col, and the axe was kept steadily going until the summit of the middle peak was reached. On nearing the crest of the arête we soon had ample evidence that it was heavily corniced, the axe going right through when we were several feet from the edge. Keeping about 20 feet away from the true crest, we cut steps along the face of the ice-cap, thus practically making a long traverse. At 1 p.m. we stood on the top of the second peak, only 176 feet lower than the actual summit of the mountain. A glance, and we saw that our chances of doing the remainder were remote. Although only so little in actual height above us, it was still a long way off, and the arête was so corniced, and took so many turns, that to ‘do’ the summit would require a long traverse involving many hours’ work.

“Having the other route to fall back on, we decided not to expend our energies further on this one, and so again calmly accepted defeat. The view from the second or middle peak was exceedingly grand.”

The descent was quickly accomplished, and they had some splendid glissading back to the Bivouac. Where the slopes were not steep enough for glissading, ploughing through the snow was the order of the day, and the man coming last on the rope had a rough time if he made a false step, for he involuntarily received from his companion plunging on in front a jerk that generally pulled him off his feet, and caused him to take an unwilling header into the snow. Fyfe had a vivid recollection of Graham’s legs on one occasion waving in mute supplication, whilst he for a few moments vainly endeavoured to extricate his head and shoulders from the snow. All the smaller crevasses were shot glissading. While shooting one of these crevasses the rope, somehow, became entangled, and pulled one of the climbers up with a sudden jerk fairly across the fissure, his feet resting on one edge and the back of his neck on the other. He was, however, equal to the occasion, and, stiffening himself, he lay there in perfect composure until assisted across by his companion. The hardy climbers now returned to the Hermitage, after twenty-one hours’ constant going, and were glad to get into comfortable beds again.

At the Hermitage they fell in with Jack Clark, and he readily agreed to join them in an attack on the highest peak by the other route. Clark had climbed with them the previous season, and his enthusiasm gave new life to the whole affair. Finally these three left the hotel with six days’ supplies, and made their first camp on the evening of December 22nd.

“Next day,” continues Fyfe’s account, “we toiled, painfully swag-laden, through the ever-widening crevasses to a second bivouac farther up the glacier, narrowly escaping a fall of rocks that came bounding from the Moorhouse Range. We arrived sore and tired, although the actual distance covered and height gained were trifling. Little inclined as we were for another day’s swagging, 10 a.m. next day found us again wearily plodding on our upward course. We pitched the tent under the lee of a huge block of ice that had apparently fallen from St. David’s Dome at a height of about 8000 feet. An arch was cut into this block, a break-wind built round, and so sheltered were we that I believe we could have weathered a severe storm. Leaving Clark in camp, Graham and I proceeded up the glacier with the double object of breaking steps and of exploring the large bergschrund at its head. We kept to the true right of the glacier going up, but found it very much crevassed and swept by avalanches from St. David’s Dome and Mount Hector. We passed some enormous crevasses. Some we estimated as being fully 200 feet across and of great depth. Another uncommon thing so high up was a vertical shaft descending into the glacier. Graham anchoring, I crawled to its edge and peered down, but could see no bottom, its blue sides shading away until lost in impenetrable darkness.

“Two hours brought us to the bergschrund, and our worst fears were fully confirmed. No bridge of any description spanned its gaping depths. Our only chance was to find a passage where it ran out against the rock face of Aorangi. Traversing to this, we saw that it was possible to descend right into the bergschrund and reach the rocks at its end. These looked barely practicable. We kept to the left side of the glacier going back, and found it much simpler, only one crevasse of any consequence having to be dealt with. Our bleak bivouac was regained just as the sun sank behind Mount Stokes. After some food and a refreshing drink of hot tea we lay down on our icy-cold couch, fondly hoping to snatch a few hours’ sleep. Vain hope! On going to rest at these high camps the usual plan is not to undress but to crowd on everything obtainable; and anyone leaving an article of clothing lying about is sometimes greatly surprised at the mysterious manner in which it disappears at night, but always religiously turns up again in the morning in time to be rolled into the owner’s swag.

“At 2 a.m. Graham, shivering and growling, arose to prepare breakfast. We had brought a good supply of dry firewood from our first camp, and breakfast was ready much too soon for Clark and I, who were making the most of the blankets. Getting on our boots with great difficulty—they being turned, apparently, into something akin to cast-iron—we packed up everything we were likely to require, and, roping together, moved upwards at 3.15 a.m. The snow was very hard, but the steps we had broken the previous day were of great assistance, and an hour’s climbing saw us standing on the lower lip of the bergschrund. Letting out the rope to its full length, one of the party descended into the bergschrund and squirmed along the ledge of rocks as far as the rope would reach. Then the others crossed on to the rocks. Clinging as we were to a narrow ledge, with scarcely any hand or foot hold, and with an almost perpendicular drop into the chasm below, our position was far from enviable; and, as the leader slowly and with great difficulty made his way upwards, a slip seemed, to say the least, not altogether improbable. Some snow lying on the ledge had to be shifted, and caused a little delay, and for forty minutes the excitement and suspense were too intense to be pleasant. However, we managed to get across in safety. Above we found the snow hard, and we kept well against the rocks for hand-holds. This slope gradually converges into a deep ravine formed by the frowning crags of Aorangi on the one side and by Mount Hector on the other. Beginning at Green’s Saddle and running out in the slope just above the bergschrund, a rib of rocks divides this ravine into two narrow ice-filled couloirs. As we got higher up, the amount of snow lying on the slope became less and less, and at last the clear blue ice was reached. Cutting steps across a little branch couloir, we decided to cross the couloir lying between us and the rib of rocks, and to endeavour to keep along its ridge. At first these rocks proved difficult, a rotten slaty rock having to be dealt with, but they improved towards their top end. As we neared Green’s Saddle the arête of these rocks became very sharp, with precipitous sides, and in two places was capped with ice. We had to cut steps up these places, and without further bother reached a point a few feet below Green’s Saddle at 8 am. Here we were stopped by a break in the rib which completely barred direct access to the Saddle. Turning a little to the left, we climbed up over what was perhaps the worst rock of the whole ascent, on to the southern arête of Hector, and from thence descended to the Saddle. The arête which runs from here to the summit of Aorangi is, with the exception of one slaty stratum, composed of good, sound rocks. This slaty stratum, about 30 feet in height, was most difficult. Half-way up the leading man got into difficulties, all holds being just beyond his reach, causing him to make an awkward traverse by hand-holds only to a little chimney, up which he writhed his way. Above this, the going was good, and we rapidly rose. Looking back at 10.30 a.m., we could see that we were far above all the surrounding peaks, and, although the top of Aorangi could not be seen, we knew it could not be far distant. One wall of slate brought us to a standstill, and we had to descend a few feet, leave the ridge, and work our way round the obstacle. The wind was now piercingly cold, and we were glad to muffle our faces in anything to protect them. A few minutes’ respite from its bitter blast and a slight snack were now very acceptable, and we climbed down to shelter on the sunny side. What with consulting maps and sketching, the ‘few minutes’ were prolonged into an hour and a half, and it was just midday as we filed off upwards. At 12.30 the slope of the arête became easier, and shortly afterwards the final top appeared about 400 feet above us.

“I am afraid that the reckless way in which we romped over those last rocks was very foolhardy; but one would indeed need to be phlegmatic not to get a little excited on such an occasion. The slope of the final ice-cap was easy, and only required about a hundred steps, which were quickly cut, and at 1.30 p.m. on Christmas Day we exultantly stepped on to the highest pinnacle of the monarch of the Southern Alps.”

They stayed only twenty minutes on the summit, and then commenced the descent. The first rocks were soon reached, and there they built a cairn, underneath which they left a tin upon which they had scratched their names and the date. They left these rocks shortly after 2 p.m., and Green’s Saddle was passed at 5.20 pm. Just as they got a few feet below it, a rock avalanche shot past, making the ridge tremble as the blocks ricochetted from crag to crag down the mountain-side. During the whole time they were on this ridge stones were continually clattering down on either side. Going down some slaty rocks Graham lost his ice-axe. He thus describes the incident—

“We were just getting on to the snow to cross the couloir when a hand-hold broke with me, and the sling of my axe slipping over my wrist the axe slid away down the slope, stopping above a small schrund. Going down the rocks to the lowest point Fyfe secured himself and paid out all the rope (100 feet), and then I, holding on to the rope, slid down to the end, and, scrambling across the slope, was just able to reach the adventurous axe.”

This incident caused a delay of nearly an hour—a delay that could be ill afforded, as it would soon be dark. Fyfe, continuing his account of the descent, writes:—

“When nearing the bergschrund an ominous, not-to-be-mistaken whiz above warned us that danger was coming. Crouching close into the rocks, several pieces of stone went pinging over us at a pace that rendered them invisible and buried themselves feet deep in the soft snow. This particular place is, in my estimation, the only dangerous part of the whole route, but fortunately only so in the afternoon. All the way down I had been anxious to get across the bergschrund before dark, and, but for the dropping of Graham’s axe, we would have done so. It was with great uneasiness I saw that we should have to stand out all night or risk climbing down in the dark. The latter was preferred. Too dark to see either hand or footholds, our sense of touch was all we had to rely on. One at a time we moved on, the other two endeavouring to anchor; but, judging from the holds that I myself could obtain, a slip by one would have ‘done for’ us all. However, the schrund was left behind, and with it the greatest difficulties of the descent. Now for the first time we gravely congratulated each other on the ascent and descent of Mount Cook. We reached the Bivouac tired and wet, only to find that one side of our snow break-wind had fallen on to the tent, and, melting, had soaked everything. It was very cold, and it is not all joy pitching a tent with the thermometer down to about 28 degrees. We turned in supperless: no one volunteered to face the cold and melt some snow. So cold did we become that at last we were forced to burn a candle in a tin can underneath the blankets, while the hours of darkness passed wearily away. Day dawned at last, and, hastily packing up, we plunged away down the glacier. We reached our first camp at 7 a.m., and were glad to rest till 10.30, meanwhile basking in the sun and making great inroads into a bag of oatmeal. As we lay, idly watching the north-west clouds swirling overhead, our trials were all forgotten, and I regretfully thought—there is but one Aorangi.”

Mt. Cook from Upper Tasman.

Thus was the conquering of Aorangi, after many heroic struggles, accomplished by the pluck, endurance, and initiative of the young New Zealanders, who, in a far country, had taught themselves the craft of mountaineering.

CHAPTER VIII

ABOVE THE PLAINS

“High hills that bathe themselves in rain,

And, having bathed, loom yet again,

More glorious, o’er the smiling plain.”

Anon.

In the southern corner of the North Island, westward of the Wairarapa plains, there rises a mountain mass, of considerable height and boldness of formation, known as the Tararua Range. In summer the moisture-laden trade winds from the South Pacific Ocean wrap its 5000-feet summits in grey swirling mist and rain, and in winter the keen blustering squalls from the frozen south clothe its peaks and ridges with snow. Between times, there are bright days—generally during the passing of a crest of anti-cyclone—when the upper air is gloriously fresh and clear. For this region, at the invitation of an unknown host, we set out from the Capital one fine summer’s afternoon.

Leaving the beautiful valley of the Upper Hutt behind, our train, with its engines puffing and snorting and belching forth great clouds of malodorous smoke, begins to crawl up the steep incline towards The Summit. There the Fell engines take charge, and we start to move cautiously down the steep windings of the Rimutaka Incline, with the strong steel brakes striking fire from the central rail. For many years this railway was thought to be a somewhat wonderful engineering feat. Now it is more generally regarded as an engineering blunder, and a costly one at that. Down the steep ravine and its transverse corries the north-westerly winds howl and screech, making the carriages rock on the rails. Once the train was actually blown from the metals, and there was loss of life. The spot is marked by a wooden palisading that acts as a break-wind.

Nearing the end of the narrow, deep, treeless valley, down one side of which the line winds, we get our first glimpse of the sunlit plains of the Wairarapa—a splash of yellow, with the sombre shade of the ravine for foreground frame, and, in the distance, the thin, soft greys of far-away, low-lying hills. On the right the lake, somewhat half-heartedly, reflects the light of the dying day from its murky waters. Half an hour later we are clank-clanking across the plains, in the darkness, towards our destination, pondering upon what might be the physical characteristics and mental attributes of our unknown host, who, on the strength of our being mountaineers, had sent us a cordial invitation to climb the Tararua Ranges with him.

As a general rule, it is little use indulging in speculation about the unknown. The captain, my wife, and myself all pictured our host in different ways—and we were all wrong. The name betokened a Scottish ancestry. For the rest, when we had picked him out from the slowly melting crowd on the platform, we found him well up in years, but still alert in mind and brisk in body. And for all his years he promised to lead us a merry dance over the hills, the which he did. He was waiting for us with a wagonette, driven by himself, and a dog-cart driven by one of his daughters. In these two vehicles we distributed ourselves and our luggage—the captain had lost his—and drove across the Upper Plain to a commodious farmhouse and a hospitable welcome. Our host had a great love for the mountains, inherited, no doubt, from the wild northerners who were his ancestors, and he was loud in his praises of the views and plants and flowers to be seen “above the plains.”

As our objective, Mount Holdsworth, was a hill of only some five thousand feet, we did not expect real climbing. But your true mountaineer does not measure mountains altogether by altitude. Neither does he regard them with that “smug insensibility to mountain beauty that marked Johnson and his Boswell,” as has been pointed out by Professor Ramsay in quoting that paragraph about the Highland hills, in which, as the Professor says, the æsthetical side of the learned doctor’s soul is laid bare:—