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.