A climber in New Zealand

by Malcolm Ross

CHAPTER XIV

ACROSS THE SOUTHERN ALPS—continued

“Good Luck is the gayest of all gay girls,

Long in one place she will not stay,

Back from your brow she brushes the curls,

Kisses you quick, then runs away.

But Madam Bad Luck, she soberly comes,

No fancy has she for flitting,

Snatches of strange, sad songs she sings,

Sits by your side and brings her knitting.”

Good Luck had walked with us over the pass and down the valley; but at this point of the journey she must have either outdistanced our lagging footsteps or returned the way she came. Anyhow, she left us, and our troubles began. When we halted the warm sun had left the narrow valley, and before we could get a fire going the chill air began to search out the very marrow in our bones. The dryness of the eastern side of the range had given place to the humidity of the west, and every bit of wood or plant was either green or sodden with moisture. Finally, when we did get a fire going it was a very smoky one, and gave little heat except what was required for the boiling of the “billy.” We ate a frugal meal of tinned meat, bread, and tea, made mattresses of damp green branches and ferns cut with our pocket-knives, crept into our sleeping bags, lit our pipes, talked over the events of the day and the prospects of the morrow, and then tried to sleep. Fyfe’s leg was beginning to trouble him; but he said little about it. The mere fact of his mentioning it at all was, however, sufficient to give me some concern, for Fyfe was never a man to make a mountain out of a mole-hill. We spent a miserable night in our sleeping bags, and when we awoke at five o’clock next morning were cold and stiff. Tea was made from compressed tabloids, and sweetened with saccharine. In this compressed form it is possible to carry in one’s waistcoat pocket enough tea and sugar for an expedition lasting several days. Saccharine, however, does not seem to be a good substitute for sugar, as there is no nourishment in it, and tea in tabloid form is an invention of the devil.

At 6 a.m., shouldering our packs once more, we started down the valley. Cold and stiff as we were, there was no buoyancy in our stride, and I could not fail to see that Fyfe was limping badly, though he toiled bravely on.

It was Sunday morning, and a clear sky gave promise of another glorious day. The valley was densely wooded, the forest coming down the steep hillsides right to the water’s edge. There was scarcely a scrap of level ground anywhere, and the river was a seething torrent. It was necessary to shout to make our voices heard above its everlasting roar. We proceeded for a little way along the side of the stream, and then took to the bush, but returned to the edge of the river again a little farther on. The boulders were very large, and had we not both been rock-climbers they would have troubled us considerably. As it was, however, we lost but little time, for whoever happened to be leading tackled the difficulties without hesitation, selecting the route, and quickly noting the best hand-grips as he went up one side of some great boulder that blocked the way and down the other. After an hour or two’s scrambling we found our progress barred by a gorge in the river, and we had to climb through the bush on the hillside. Here Fyfe had the misfortune to strike his leg twice in rapid succession on sharp angular rocks—the débris of an ancient moraine that lay hidden under a luxuriant growth of the most exquisite mosses and ferns. In each case the blow was severe, and very painful because of the already inflamed wound on the leg, and, though we were still in the cool shade of the forest, the pain was so intense that the perspiration came out in beads on his forehead. We struggled on in rather a gloomy frame of mind, till, at 10 a.m., we came to a second gorge in which the scenery was very grand. A rocky plateau, worn smooth by flood water, fringed the left bank of the stream at a considerable height above. Pools of water lay here and there in the hollows of the rocks. Along this plateau we proceeded. Across the stream the rocks rose straight from the water’s edge, clothed with ferns and mosses, and fringed above with trees, amongst which the scarlet blaze of the rata blossom made a glorious contrast with the sombre green. The scarcity of bird life in such a beautiful wood seemed strange. At times we could hear the beating of a wood-pigeon’s wings in the air, and, on looking up, would see a solitary, grey-plumaged bird flying across the narrow valley. Or we would hear the whistle of the kaka—a bush parrot—and note the flashing scarlet of his under-wings as he went from one branch to another, eyeing the strange intruders into his domain with that insatiable curiosity that is such a feature of his character, and that, alas! so often leads to his destruction.

The Alpine vegetation was now far behind us. Everywhere was a luxuriant growth of moss and fern and tree. In one place a titanic boulder blocked the river-bed, and the waters thundered through a narrow defile, over which a man might easily jump. At the lower end of the gorge the river ran for some distance between precipitous walls, and we had once more to take to the pathless forest on the mountain-side. Then we climbed down to the river again, and began the same scramble over the interminable boulders. This scrambling over and under rocks made us get into all sorts of strange attitudes. We felt, if there were much more of it, that we should soon qualify for the position of acrobats in a circus.

But the cold, hard, damp bed of the previous night, following upon a long and trying day’s exercise, had left us rather stiff for such contortions, and we simply longed for a hot bath and a rub down. We even talked about such a luxury, and scarcely were the words uttered than we found Mother Nature with the bath ready at hand.

All this morning we had noticed at intervals, as we marched beside the stream, a strange and somewhat offensive smell. We had attributed it to some plant in the forest, or to decaying vegetation. In jumping from one boulder to another I saw that the water below had patches of oil floating on it, and the offensive smell was very strong, so I stopped to make an investigation. On putting my hand into the water I found it was quite hot. Here was just what we wanted. I called out to Fyfe that I had found a hot spring. He was at first inclined to doubt my words; but when he remembered the strange smell that abounded in the valley he came back, and, in less time than it takes to tell the story, we found ourselves in the garb of Adam, and revelling in the luxury of a hot bath in the midst of a garden more glorious than the original Eden, but minus the temptations and distractions with which our original ancestor was beset. The water ran into a clear pool, and where it welled up in one place beside the glacier water of the river we could have, at the same moment, a warm bath on one side of our bodies and a cold bath on the other. This bath freshened us up wonderfully, and took all the stiffness away. Our only regret was that we had no means of taking a sample of the water away with us for analysis.

About midday we came to yet another gorge, where we halted for lunch. We got through without much bush-work, and arrived at a large stream that came in from the left. We took off our nether garments, put on our boots again without stockings, waded through, and in that guise walked for some distance along a comparatively level beach. When I looked round and saw Fyfe walking half naked behind me over the rocks I was seized with the ludicrous nature of his appearance and laughed heartily, only to have myself heartily laughed at in return. Our delight was now great, for we saw ahead of us a mile or so of comparatively easy walking, and fondly imagined that we had done with those troublesome gorges. But again our hopes were foredoomed to disappointment, for on rounding a promontory the river took a bend to the left and entered another gorge. It was the worst one of the lot. There was nothing for it but to take to the bush and climb the steep hillside to a plateau in the forest that seemed to run parallel with the river. We climbed up a long way, and got in amongst some tall trees where the forest was fairly open. The ferns here were exquisitely beautiful, and rare varieties abounded. Whole tree trunks were covered with the varied greens of the beautiful kidney fern, and at almost every step the graceful fronds of the umbrella fern rose above its neighbours and the lovely mosses that made a gloriously green and springy carpet for the uneven ground. It was a veritable fairyland, and one would not have been greatly surprised if the Queen of all the fairies had met us at any turn.

We kept well up the mountain-side, sometimes getting a bit of easy climbing, at other times making heavy work of it with our swags through scrub and luxuriant undergrowth; and all the time the rumbling of the waters, softened now by distance, could be heard down below on the right. But we could see nothing beyond a few yards. Suddenly the roaring of waters close in front fell upon our ears, and we found ourselves face to face with a high fall that came down in a succession of leaps through the forest. We followed it to the river and crossed where the precipice ended and the water ran over some gently sloping ground towards the river. Ahead was a level shingle flat. The valley was widening out and the hills were lower. Now, surely, our difficulties would be at an end. But after going a few hundred yards we saw the river again entering a deep and narrow gorge. We had been going pretty steadily for twelve hours. Fyfe’s leg was bad, and we were both a little tired, and in no mood to tackle the gorge, so we camped and made tea. Drift-wood was here in plenty. We lit a big fire under the overhanging trees, and dried our wet clothing. Meanwhile we took our bearings. The river, now swollen into a stately stream, forked on the shingle flats, and ran at a more leisurely pace. It seemed a good spot to cross in the event of our deciding to avoid the gorge by climbing a lower hill on the right bank.

We had taken with us at the start of this expedition two loaves of bread, a 4-lb. tin of meat and 4 lb. of marmalade, together with a small pot of bovril, and the tea and sugar tabloids, reckoning that, with our sleeping bags and some spare clothing, this would be as much as we could conveniently carry over so difficult a pass. We estimated also that this quantity of provisions would be just about enough to see us down to civilization on the West Coast. It was with a somewhat rueful countenance, therefore, that, after supper, we now looked at the two empty tins that had contained the jam and marmalade, and beheld only enough bread left for one frugal meal. Had Fyfe’s leg been sound we should not have minded, but it was now terribly inflamed and swollen to abnormal dimensions, so that we were not sure whether he would be able to stand another day’s rough walking.

Having dried our things, we scooped out, with our ice-axes, two hollows in the shingle on a bank overhung by trees, and, getting into our sleeping bags, lay down in them for the night. Should it come on to rain, it was decided to get up at any hour of the night and endeavour to cross the river before it became flooded. The sandflies were numerous and very troublesome, but they left us shortly after sundown. The shingle bank made a soft bed in comparison with the rougher rocks of the glacier moraines, to which we had been used on the eastern side of the divide, and under ordinary circumstances I doubt not that we should have slept long and soundly; but Fyfe’s leg grew worse and worse, and all night long he tossed, moaning, from side to side in a vain endeavour to get relief from the pain. I lay awake for hours, listening, and wondering whether we could cross the river in safety, and whether in the event of our doing so he would be able to continue the journey. Then I would commence to devise schemes for getting him down to the coast should he knock up altogether. I fully expected that I should have to leave him here and proceed alone down the valley in quest of aid. Once or twice during the night, when he was more than usually restless, I ventured an inquiry as to how he fared, and received a gloomy, monosyllabic answer that was the reverse of cheering. And then it was, in the silences of the night, as I lay a-thinking and a-planning, that the lines I have put at the head of this chapter came into my head, and I could not refrain from repeating them over and over again to myself—

“Good Luck is the gayest of all gay girls,

Long in one place she will not stay,

Back from your brow she brushes the curls,

Kisses you quick, then runs away.

But Madam Bad Luck, she soberly comes,

No fancy has she for flitting,

Snatches of strange, sad songs she sings,

Sits by your side and brings her knitting.”

Well, after all our good fortune, here was Madam Bad Luck come at last, and it really looked as if she had “brought her knitting.”

The camp fire dies down, and a weka or some night bird stirs the dry leaves near at hand. I watch the stars come out, and one fine star rise slowly above the eastern horizon. The night is clear and cold.

“And stretching, stretching over all,

Bends the unmeasured sky, that glows

With its pale stars—like the full close

Wherewith Eternity shall wall

Time round when Time shall fall.”

CHAPTER XV

ACROSS THE SOUTHERN ALPS—concluded

“The’ was ’bout half a minit when I’d hev sold out mighty cheap an’ took a promise fer the money.”—American Author.

When dawn came, Fyfe was still tossing restlessly in his sleeping bag. We got up at 5 a.m., and partially undressed for the crossing of the river. We got over the first branch without difficulty; but the second stream ran swift and deep. Fyfe got near mid-stream, hesitated a moment, and then plunged ahead. But he had scarcely gone a couple of yards when he was swept off his feet and was at the mercy of the current. His swag was over one shoulder, in one hand he carried the Alpine rope, and in the other his ice-axe. I never expected to see swag, ice-axe, nor rope again, and I was just on the point of rushing down-stream with a view to intercepting Fyfe at a bend in the river before he should be carried down to the gorge, once into which there would have been no hope for him. Many years ago a man was drowned while attempting to cross this same river below the gorge. Fyfe, however, with grim determination stuck to all his belongings, and, after a stroke or two, he came to the surface again and floundered into shallower water. The current there was still strong, and he was knocked off his feet for the second time. But in two minutes he had got through the worst of it, and as he gained the farther shore he turned round and laughed. He told me afterwards that, though he had set his teeth with grim determination, and was all the more minded, after his involuntary sousing, to get even with the river, he would not have cared—so great was the pain from his wound—had he been swept into the gorge, whether he got through it dead or alive.

It was now my turn to cross, and as I looked ruefully over the broad stream at my dripping, half-clothed companion, I realized that what he had so narrowly escaped might, perchance, happen to me. Fyfe came back, as far as he dared, into the current, and endeavoured to throw one end of the Alpine rope back to me; but the stream was much too wide, and he failed in his efforts. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to make the attempt, and I waded in. By going a few yards farther up-stream, I took the current at an easier angle, and, though it was touch and go at one time, I crossed in safety. At that early hour of the morning, both the water and the air were icy cold, and when I reached the farther bank Fyfe’s teeth were chattering. We lit a fire to dry our wet things, and between the process of undressing and dressing we were attacked by myriads of sandflies. Ahead was a steep hill covered with dense bush, up which we had to climb, and we knew not what was beyond. Moreover, we had to be content with tabloid tea and saccharine for breakfast, as we wished to keep our last bit of bread as an emergency ration. While we were drying our things a small wren came hopping about, in quite a friendly way, and, though it went to my heart to do it, I killed him with my catapult. Still, in the event of my having to leave Fyfe, one or two of these birds, small as they were, would not be amiss.

One cannot make a very full meal of tabloid tea sweetened with saccharine, and it is scarcely the sort of food for a climber when he has to go through dense forest, and up a steep hill, with a swag on his back. At one time we thought of abandoning our swags so that we might make quicker progress. Fyfe’s leg pained him at every step, and he told me afterwards that he was busy wondering during all this morning why he had ever been born. On gaining the top of the hill we found several gullies running in the direction of the river. We crossed near the head of these, and arrived at a comparatively flat area on top of a ridge, but could see nothing owing to the tallness of the trees. At length with a joyful shout I came suddenly on an old disused track on which were the recent footprints of a bullock.

We presumed that the animal was being used by some lonely miner as a means of transport to his “claim,” and came to the conclusion that if we followed the tracks we should find food and help near at hand. A closer examination of the tracks, however, revealed the fact that the bullock had gone up and down the path, and we could not tell which prints were the newer. Moreover, look we ever so closely, we could find, nowhere, any sign or trace of the presence of man; and, finally, the mystery was solved, and our hopes again dashed to the ground, by the sudden appearance of five or six wild cattle, big and fat, and with great horned heads, that went tearing past us through the forest, and vanished over the brow of the hill into the valley out of which we had just climbed. The noise they made, as they crashed through the undergrowth at close quarters, startled us somewhat, and the first inclination was to dodge behind the trunks of the splendid trees that grew in such luxuriance in this forest primeval. But it was soon apparent that they were much more frightened of us than we were of them, so we continued our weary march down the narrow, half-overgrown track, which led us out of the forest and back to the river a little way below the mouth of the gorge. Here, on the beach, the first thing that met our gaze was the footprints of a man! We would have given a great deal to have found that man, but, like the footprints of the bullock, his tracks, also, went both ways, and it was impossible to decide at which end of his journey he was. I tried very hard to make out which were the more recent footprints, but there appeared to be no difference. They had apparently been made on the same day. We afterwards found that the man was a miner and that he was working hard by.

Here we halted to have some warm tea, and we now ate all our bread except about two cubic inches, which we kept as a memento of the trip. I also plucked and cooked the wren, grilling him at the end of a stick. He was a tender morsel, but very, very small! At this point there was some debate as to whether we should swim the river to the left bank or proceed down the bank upon which we now were, so, while Fyfe rested, I went exploring, and, at the mouth of the gorge, found an old and rickety footbridge made of fencing wire and saplings suspended high above the water. As Fyfe’s leg grew still worse, I now threw away the blanket out of my sleeping bag, and, to ease his burden, took most of his things in my pack. We crossed the bridge in some trepidation, for it swayed ominously and looked most insecure. On the other side of the river we found another disused track, in places completely overgrown with ferns and scrub. It led us to the river-bank a mile or so farther on, where we came upon the footprints of a man, a horse, and a dog, and we followed these down the valley. Sometimes the tracks were along the shingle beach, at other times they went into the bush. Occasionally we lost them altogether. Then one of us would suddenly come upon them again, and cry out, “Oh, here’s the horse!” while the other would, perhaps, remark, “Here’s the man,” or “Here’s the dog also.” In this manner we made our way down the valley, where there was, as yet, no sign of cultivation, nor of any habitation. The river was now a stately stream, flowing over a broad shingle bed. Indeed, it is the third largest river on all the West Coast, only the Buller and the Haast exceeding it in size.

About eleven o’clock I was overjoyed to see the head and shoulders of a horse appearing above one of the gravel banks in the river bed. We found a small but very intelligent boy in charge, and immediately subjected him to a running fire of questions. He told us he was the son of Alex. Gunn, of the Wataroa Ferry. Now it chanced that I had a letter of introduction from the late Mr. Seddon, then Prime Minister of New Zealand, to Mr. Gunn, so we made haste down to his house, some three and a half miles farther on. We spoke of leaving our swags for the horse to carry, but on second thoughts we decided to finish our contract in style, and left them on our own backs, regretting all the time that we had done so. At 12.30 in the afternoon we walked into what is marked on the map as the township of Rohutu. It consisted of one house!

In the house we found an elderly man with his wife and a large family, the youngest of which was only three months old. In this home we received a most kindly and hospitable welcome, and remained several days in the hope that rest and hot fomentations would heal the wound in Fyfe’s leg. But the leg got no better, and after a time it was decided that I should go south some forty miles to Gillespie’s Beach and return to the Hermitage via Fitzgerald’s Pass, while Fyfe went on to Hokitika, where he had his leg opened up by a doctor, and two or three pieces of bone taken out.

We said farewell on Wednesday, February 24, he going north, and I going south in company with the mailman, on horseback. It was raining heavily when I left the Wataroa Ferry, and I had no overcoat, but Mr. Gunn rigged me out in true West Coast fashion, with one sack tied round my loins and another fastened round my shoulders. Then we started off down the wonderful and historic West Coast, where the climate is as wet and the liquor as fiery as any in the whole wide world. The pack-horse that carried the mails was a particularly obstinate brute, and while I was helping the mailman to drive it along it suddenly lashed out vigorously with its heels and kicked me on the leg. In a few seconds the leg was terribly swollen, and the pain was so acute that I feared the bone had been injured. Luckily, however, the iron shoe had just missed the shin bone, and my leg was to some extent protected by the putties I was wearing. Otherwise it had gone harder still with me. Here was a nice state of affairs—to be laid by the heels in this manner on a level road after all one’s adventures amongst unexplored glaciers, mountains, and rivers! However, I decided to ride on to Okarito, and, for the next few miles of the journey, was able to reflect on the fact that all our original party except my wife were now hors de combat with injured legs. It seemed doubtful if I should now be able to return alone over Fitzgerald’s Pass. An injured leg is not the best of companions on a solitary mountain journey.

After we had proceeded a few miles through the bush we came upon some men who were driving cattle, and, strangely enough, one of these young fellows had just been kicked on the chest by the horse he was riding. Such accidents are among the little troubles that the pioneer has to put up with, and as there is usually no doctor within a hundred miles one simply damns the cause of the injury, applies the ordinary simple remedies—or even a horse embrocation—leaving Nature, with the assistance of plain living, to complete the cure. It is wonderful how many things can be cured by simples and how well you are when the doctor is a hundred miles away!

We arrived at Okarito in the evening in the pouring rain, and for one night we enjoyed the luxury and comfort of an hotel. Here I met quite a character who was locally known as “Billy Barlow.” He had been a “star” in the halls in London many years ago, and could still act Hamlet and sing a good comic song.

On Thursday we made an early start for Gillespie’s. The Main South road from this point was, in places, more imaginary than real, so we kept to the sea-beach. The heavy rain had ceased and the sun shone brightly on the shore, while inland great masses of cumulus cloud piled themselves above the mountain-tops. Our spirits were high, and the horses, too, seemed to revel in the glorious morning as they galloped along the firm, wet sands. The breakers came tumbling shoreward; above us were the cliffs of the sea-beach, covered in places with beautiful ferns and shrubs, through which, at intervals, the silver streak of some waterfall flashed in the sunlight. Beyond, the tall trees rose on a sort of tableland, and the forest stretched away to the foot-hills, above which gleamed the long line of glory of the Southern Alps. Peak after peak I recognized. Here were all our old snowy friends with their backs turned on us, but looking grander than ever in their stateliness of beetling crag and gleaming cone, above the sombre green of their forest setting. In riding along the beach to Gillespie’s the traveller has to study the tides. In places there are bold rocky bluffs that cannot be passed at high water. We were late enough at the last bluff, and Hughie Thompson, the mailman, shook his head dubiously as the foaming breakers came thundering amongst the big rocks. We waited some minutes, anxiously watching, and then made a dash for it, I, who came last, just escaping a big wave that broke as I passed. The pack-horses used in this mail service are, however, wonderfully sagacious animals. On occasions they have been left to their own devices whilst the mailman has taken a safer route along the rocks higher up. At such times they will be seen patiently watching the receding waves till a good opening occurs, when they will dash along to a safe standpoint, there to await another opportunity before dashing on again. Several men, however, have been drowned while rounding these bluffs, and their horses dashed to death on the rocks by the remorseless surf. In other cases the horses have escaped by swimming. The turbulent, unbridged rivers, too, have claimed heavy toll of the daring pioneers.

Gillespie’s Beach is a small mining settlement with one hotel and a few diggers’ huts. I had to wait here for some days, but did not grudge the time, as both my leg and the weather were bad. Eventually I moved on farther south, and stayed in a hut with four miners and an entertaining young Maori named Friday. The hut was on a small cattle ranch owned by an old West Coaster who was then in the Hokitika Hospital. His nephew, Dick Fiddian, a strong, bright, Lancashire lad, was in charge, and, as I was not very sure that my leg would hold out, I engaged him to accompany me part of the way on my return journey to the Hermitage. All the people I met on the way down shook their heads gravely when they learned that I purposed crossing the Alps alone; but I knew if my leg held out for the first two days I should be all right. I was rather pleased than otherwise that the weather continued bad, for the enforced idleness gave my leg a chance to mend. Much bathing with warm water and rubbing with a horse embrocation, a panacea for all outward ailments in these parts, had considerably reduced the swelling.

One night we were visited by a severe thunderstorm, and the rain fell in torrents. But we made merry inside the hut, and, after a supper of boiled fish and potatoes, held a grand concert. “Friday,” with a Maori song, some parts of which, I am afraid, would not bear translation, was the hero of the evening. Even “Billy Barlow” would have had to play second fiddle to our man Friday. I can still see his expressive dark features and his expansive grin, revealing a set of beautiful pearly teeth, and hear, in imagination, the strange songs that were sung. I can see again young Foster, and Head, and Wick, and the Maori, and a quiet old Scotsman sitting round the big log fire that went roaring up the capacious chimney, all keeping time with their feet as they drawled out a melancholy chorus to each verse of an interminably long love-song:—

“I’ll take you home, Kathleen,

Across the ocean blue and wide;

To where your heart has ever been,

Since first you were my bonnie bride.”

Kathleen was evidently an exile in a strange land, and, apparently, could not get used to her new surroundings.

Fine, bronzed, broad-chested fellows the singers were, leading a healthy, happy life in these western wilds, and I shall never forget their kindness to the lonely pilgrim who had chanced within their domain.

My leg mended slowly, but I spent the time in delightful idleness, by day fishing for flounders and mullet, and by night mainly occupied in hunting—the quarry being that diminutive species of chamois so humorously described by my old friend and fellow-traveller, Mark Twain. But the more one slaughtered the more there seemed to be. No sooner had you killed one than you found a hundred prepared to come to his funeral!

At last the time came for me to turn my face again towards the mountains, for I knew my wife, who was waiting at the Hermitage, on the other side of the great mountain chain, would be getting anxious about my non-arrival. So one fine morning Dick Fiddian and I got horses and rode to Scott’s Homestead, situated on a little island between the forks of the Karangarua River. We were warmly welcomed and pressed to stay the night, but I decided to hurry on. Here I purchased two loaves of bread, four dozen hard-boiled eggs, some bacon, cheese, tea, sugar, and butter for my journey. The butter, unfortunately, owing to the heat, melted and ran out of the tin in which it was enclosed into the blanket in my sleeping bag. It was not at all pleasant getting into a buttered sleeping bag, and I would much rather have had the said butter on my bread than on my bed. However, there was no use crying over spilt milk, or spilt butter, and we ate our dry bread with a good grace, that atoned, in a measure, for the absence of the butter.

We camped the first night under an overhanging rock near Architect Creek, several miles up the Copland, which is the right-hand branch of the Karangarua River. My companion was an excellent bushman and a good hand with a swag.

He had built a large fire close by the side of our bivouac; but I, who had not of late been used to such warm quarters, found it mighty unpleasant, and lay sweltering in my sleeping bag, warding off the attacks of mosquitoes, and vainly endeavouring to sleep.

The next day we went right up to the head of the valley—a good day’s march, as the blazed tracks made in the bush were in places completely obliterated by slips from the hillside or new vegetation that had grown since they were cut. Our bivouac this night, near Mount Sefton and the Marchant Glacier, at the head of the valley, was as cold as the previous night’s was warm, for the temperature was below freezing-point, and without an axe we could get no suitable wood to build a big fire.

Next morning, early, I said good-bye to Dick, and started up the valley alone. This was the first crossing of the pass from the West Coast, and there was little data as to the line of route. To add to the difficulty the last thousand feet had to be climbed in a fog; but luckily I had, before the fog descended, taken a compass-bearing of the general direction of the pass, and this stood me in good stead. The summit of the range was gained after slightly more than two and a half hours’ climbing. Here I waited for an hour till the clouds had risen, when I was able to enjoy the views on every hand. Then I commenced the descent. It was quite clear weather on the eastern side of the divide. There was a bit of rock work to begin with, which, seeing I was alone, I did very carefully. Then I crossed the top of a glacier and got some good glissading down snow slopes and shingle shoots, till, in an incredibly short space of time, I found myself eating a second luncheon on the old moraine of the Hooker Glacier. I was in splendid form, and my leg had stood the strain well so far. The whole descent occupied only an hour!

There can be no doubt that this pass, discovered by Fitzgerald, a member of the Alpine Club, is the best route for tourists proceeding from the Hermitage to the West Coast.

On the old lateral moraine of the Hooker Glacier I gathered some very fine edelweiss, which I took with me to the Hermitage. I arrived there early in the afternoon, but was in no plight to be seen, for my knees were sticking through great holes in my knickerbockers, my coat was torn, and I was bronzed and bearded, if not like the pard, at least like a man who hadn’t shaved for several weeks, which is perhaps worse, though I do not know for certain, never having seen the pard. I tried to slink into the Hermitage by the back way, but the rattle of my pannikin against the ice-axe drew the attention of one of the sun-bonnet brigade in my direction, and I had to run the gauntlet of their hearty congratulations, while at the same time I had to walk backwards into the house, because it was not only the knees of my nether garments that had suffered on this particular expedition!

In a very few minutes I was steeped in a luxurious hot bath, and an amused listener to the remarks on my personal appearance made by the Hermitage maid—“I’m glad ’e’s back, Mrs. Ross; but ain’t ’e a sight. Lord! mum, no tramp could look wuss!”