A climber in New Zealand

by Malcolm Ross

CHAPTER XIX

THE FIRST CROSSING OF MOUNT COOK—continued

“Tighten the muscle, feel the strong blood flow,

And set your foot upon the utmost crest!”

Geoffrey Winthrop Young.

During the next seven days my ankle mended slowly, and a biologist—the nearest approach to a doctor within ninety miles—expressed the opinion that there was a splinter off the bone. So far as I was concerned I had now given up all thoughts of attempting the ascent of Mount Cook; for, with a weak leg, I should be likely to endanger the whole party. It was with a sad heart that I watched the expedition start off once more for the Tasman, in the hopes of accomplishing the first traverse of Mount Cook.

Fyfe and Graham, however, were keenly anxious for me to accompany them, and it was decided, on the day they left for Mount Cook, that I should give my leg a good trial on the Sealy Range, and, if it stood the test, rejoin the party the same evening at the Ball Hut. Accordingly, in company with Professor Baldwin Spencer, Mr. and Mrs. Lindon, and Jack Clark, I went up the Sealy Range. We spent a delightful day, the weather being glorious, and the views of Sefton, Mount Cook, and many other mountains, magnificently grand. My leg stood the test, and I returned to the Hermitage in high glee, feeling confident that another day’s rest at the Mount Cook Bivouac would complete the cure. Accordingly I bade farewell to my friends at the Hermitage, and that evening rode up with Clark, in the moonlight, to the hut. Crossing the dangerous Hooker River, we changed horses, Clark insisting that I should cross on the safer of the two, and giving instructions that I should hold on to his mane if he got bowled over. However, these horses, which are wonderful at crossing rivers, got over safely. Never shall I forget that glorious ride in the moonlight. We galloped over the tussock flats, and then slackened our pace as we entered upon the narrow and uncertain path between the dark spur of Aorangi on our left and the great moraine of the Tasman Glacier that loomed on our right like some titanic jumble of rock-work. The talk was of climbing and climbers, reminiscences of former victories and defeats, glorious days spent amongst the higher snows, and of brave companions who had shared our Alpine joys and sorrows in the years now past. Meanwhile the stars, dimmed by a glorious moon, swung westward o’er our path, the fourteen miles went past like four, and presently, about 10 p.m., we spied the solitary light of the hut window, like a star in the lower darkness, and our cheery jodelling awoke the echoes of the valley and brought an answering shout from Graham and Fyfe. They were glad to see me, and delighted to hear that I was fit to climb again.

On Monday, the 8th January, we ascended to the Bivouac Rock, on the Haast Ridge, from which the early New Zealand climbers made their heroic, though unsuccessful, attacks on the monarch of the Southern Alps. We climbed the steep rocky ridge with heavy swags—tent, sleeping bags, ice-axes, Alpine rope, and provisions for three or four days. Green, a promising climber, came with us in the capacity of porter. It was necessary to shovel the snow from the little stone platform on which we were to sleep, and we had no sooner got camp pitched than the weather changed. Dense clouds, borne on southerly airs, quickly filled the valley, blotting out from view the moraines and icy tongues of the Great Tasman Glacier thousands of feet below. We made a billy of tea, and dined on bread-and-butter and cold mutton, after which Green very reluctantly left us to join Clark and a party at the Malte Brun Hut farther up the glacier. Graham went down with him over the first snow slopes. As he did not return for some considerable time we got rather anxious, and Fyfe went to see what was the matter. Presently he returned with Graham, and we heard Green jodelling from the misty depths thousands of feet below us. We gave him answering jodels from the Bivouac, this interchange of signals being kept up till Green’s voice grew fainter and fainter, and at last we got tired of answering him. Then we made things snug about our eerie perch, and turned in for the night. The four of us were packed like sardines in a tin, but, with our clothes on, in the eider-down sleeping bags, and under the shelter of my Whymper tent, with its waterproof floor, we were fairly warm and comfortable. Those of us who were smokers lit our pipes and were happy. Then the clouds that had overwhelmed the ridge began to patter-patter on the tent roof in gentle rain, which, later in the night, turned to snow. Visions of a night in this same bivouac years ago, when the lurid lightning dazzled our eyes, the thunder shook the ridge, and the tent was frozen to the rocks in a terrible storm, came back to me. But that is another story, and has been told elsewhere in this book.

Above the Clouds.

We breakfasted at seven o’clock next morning, after fourteen hours of the tent—cold mutton, tea, bread-and-butter, and jam. The weather was warm and the new snow was peeling off the slopes of Mount Cook. Avalanches hissed and thundered all around us, the mountains being literally alive, and in a most dangerous condition for climbing. This, however, did not concern us greatly, for we had decided to rest for a day at the Bivouac, and there was, at last, a good prospect of the weather’s clearing. We spent the day in delightful idleness, lazying on the warm rocks, pottering about the camp, and photographing. Fyfe acted as chief cook, and for each meal prepared a billy of delicious hot tea, using as fuel a little bit of deal board we had brought up, together with some old candles found under the Bivouac Rock. With these he melted snow and boiled the water. We also added to our water supply by spreading snow on a warm sloping rock, and allowing the drip therefrom to collect in a billy and an empty fruit-tin. For the greater part of the day we were above the lower stratum of cloud, which spread itself like a fleecy counterpane over the great valley, or swathed itself about the giant peaks, leaving the dark summits standing in startling yet stately grandeur as pointed islands in a vapoury sea of white and grey. Now and again this counterpane would be torn by some sportive wind or partially dissolved by the warm rays of the sun, and, through the holes thus made, we could see the upper snows of the Great Tasman or its lower tongues of attenuated ice flowing between the piled débris of the grey moraines—the largest in the Southern Alps—thousands of feet below. Later, as the mists gradually dissolved, we obtained glorious views of the great Alps, with their tributary glaciers pouring streams of broken ice down the sides of the valley to feed the parent stream. Here were all our old friends, Haidinger, and De la Bêche, and the Minarets—whose 10,000-feet summits Fyfe and I had trodden—looking down at us with a lofty disdain, and, across the valley, Malte Brun, the Matterhorn of the Southern Alps, heaved his strong shoulders of grim dark brown rock up through the veil of surging mist, and cleft the azure blue of heaven, recalling to my mind Fyfe’s memorable first ascent and his equally memorable entry in the visitors’ book I had left at the hut—“Played a lone hand with Malte Brun, and won.” Yes, all our old friends were here, strong in their might, each with his own unchanging character, and as one recalled the joyous days spent on slope and summit, the pulses quickened and the hour-glass ran in golden sands. “Glorious creatures; fine old fellows!” as Lamb says. We bowed before them and gave them reverent greeting, befitting their greatness, thinking that

“When time, who steals our years away,

Shall steal our pleasures too,

The memory of the past will stay,

And half our joys renew.”

It was decided not to go to sleep that evening, but to start for the traverse of Mount Cook before midnight. We, however, crept into our sleeping bags inside the tent in order to keep warm. Turner had complained of the dampness at the end of the tent the night before, so I took his place, and gave him an inside berth. At 10 p.m. Fyfe was astir boiling us a billy of tea, and at 10.20 we breakfasted! The sky was clear, and the moon was shining; but, higher up the range, the clouds were pouring over between Haidinger and De la Bêche. This did not augur well for success. On going through our rücksacks again, we discarded a few things to make them lighter, but, what with cameras, spare clothing, food, and the two aluminium water-bottles, one filled with claret and the other with water, we had to carry from 15 lb. to 20 lb. each—rather heavy loads for so long and difficult a climb.

Our provisions consisted of half a loaf, 1 large tin of ox tongue, 1 tin of sheep’s tongues, 1 tin of sardines, 2 tins of jam, some butter, 2 oranges, 2 lemons, a few raisins, and about a pound of brown sugar, upon which latter I subsisted almost entirely on all our climbs. I had remembered reading about the virtues of brown sugar in one of Sir Martin Conway’s books, and my wife had obtained some special brown Demerara sugar for me from our grocer. Then I looked the subject up in Conway’s book on the ascent of Aconcagua. After mentioning the necessity for light foods, such as soup and jam, for high ascents, he states that on the Aconcagua climb more important than all these was a great tin of coarse brown Demerara sugar, the finest heat-producing, muscle-nourishing food in the world. For men taking violent exercise, such as soldiers on active service or athletes in training, a plentiful supply of sugar was, he stated, far better than large meat rations. A quarter of a pound per day per man was his allowance on the mountain-side, and he was inclined to think that this might be increased to nearly half a pound with advantage, cane sugar, of course, being selected for this purpose.

We were aware that on such a climb, what with the great exertion, the want of water, and the reduced atmospheric pressure, we should be able to eat very little, and that, if we were successful, most of the provisions we were taking would not be needed. Still there was the danger, in consequence of a sudden storm, or other unforeseen difficulties, of our having to spend the night out on an exposed ledge of rock at an altitude of 10,000 or 11,000 feet, in which case our lives would depend upon a supply of extra clothing and food. Therefore we dared not with prudence make our loads any lighter.

At 11.15 p.m. on the night of Tuesday, January 9, we started, having rolled up all our belongings that we did not require in the sleeping bags, and these, in turn, in the tent. This made one big bundle, which we jammed under the rock as far as possible and weighted down with stones, so that it should not be blown away. We took with us also one 65-foot length and one 50-foot length of Alpine rope made by Buckingham, of London, and tested to a breaking strain of 2000 lb. In single file, in the moonlight, we toiled up the snow slopes leading to the Glacier Dome, 1300 feet above our bivouac. For the most part we climbed upwards in solemn silence, each one being busy with his own thoughts, and wondering, no doubt, what the day would bring about. Ten minutes after midnight we had left the final steep snow slope of the Dome behind, and looked across the great plateau that stretches, at an altitude of over 7000 feet, for a distance of some four miles, at the foot of the precipitous slopes of Mounts Cook and Tasman. From the Dome we had now to descend 700 feet, and then cross the plateau to gain the foot of the north-eastern ridge that was to lead us to the summit of our peak. The snow was in bad condition, and we sank in it over the boot-tops. In places it was in that most tantalizing of conditions with a frozen crust that let one foot through, while the other foot held on the surface. While we were crossing the plateau, a vivid streak of lightning, or an unusually brilliant meteor, flashed athwart the northern sky, and a weird effect was produced by the moon, which, with a great halo around it, was dipping westward over the snowy peak of Mount Haast. For a few moments the moon, with half its halo, seemed to rest on the very apex of the mountain. We crossed the rest of the plateau in the shadow of the high peaks of the main divide, behind which the moon had now sunk, and, presently, in the dim, uncertain light we came up against the débris of a great avalanche that had fallen from the slopes of Mount Tasman. A mass of broken ice and snow was piled in confusion to a height of 15 or 20 feet, and we had to make a detour to avoid the obstruction.

Mount Tasman.

At about a quarter past 2 a.m. we commenced to ascend the long snow slope leading to the Zurbriggen arête; and in the dusk before the dawn we reached a bergschrund that might have given us a good deal of trouble to cross. Graham led carefully through the broken ice, and, peering into the dull grey light, thought he saw a bridge over which we might crawl in safety. We made a traverse to the right and climbed round under the overhanging wall of ice that formed the upper lip of the schrund, and which, had it fallen, would have crushed us out of existence. At this hour of the morning, however, it was perfectly safe, and Graham, disappearing round a huge block that towered above, crossed a frail snow bridge and gained the upper lip of the schrund. Turner followed, and I paid out the rope as he, too, gradually disappeared from view round the corner, Graham driving the handle of his axe deep in the snow, while Fyfe and I, below, took a firm stand and kept the rope taut. In a few minutes we were all safely across, and congratulating ourselves upon having so easily overcome the first serious obstacle of the climb.

We were now fairly on to the long 3000-feet snow slope that leads up to the rocks of the Zurbriggen arête. This slope was found in fairly good order. In places we could kick steps, but in other places the steps had to be chipped with the ice-axes. As we slowly climbed upwards the slope got steeper and steeper. Indeed, the angle was just about as steep as it is possible for snow to hold. After about half-an-hour’s climbing we were startled by a magnificent avalanche that fell with thundering roar from high up on the broken ice-slopes of Mount Tasman. It crashed on to the great Plateau 2000 feet below, sending ice-blocks to a great distance, and throwing up a cloud of snow like some huge breaker that sends its spray high in air above a rock-bound coast.

It was cold work standing in the steps in the chilly dawn with the ice chips from the leader’s axe swishing about us. Presently the sun rose gloriously over the Eastern ranges, and we were revelling in its generous warmth on the slope where, before, we had been half frozen. But the combination of sun and slope became almost more intolerable than the slope without the sun. Three thousand feet of such work is apt to become a shade monotonous even to the keenest disciple of snow-craft. This particular wall is so long and so steep that the climber must give his attention almost continually to the matter in hand. He has little time to admire the view. The steps must be cleaned out, and the rope must be held taut. Each man must keep his distance. Otherwise, a slip might be fatal. But it is monotonous work climbing slowly, hour after hour, in zigzags, with your face to the white wall. You have time to review your past life for years and years, and to think of the future for years ahead. With the dead uniformity of it all, and the never-ceasing glare in the stagnant atmosphere, there comes a monition of impending drowsiness. This you fight with an effort of the will, and some pretence at enlarging the steps that the leader has made, but which are, already, large enough in all conscience. While I was standing in the steps at a spot about half-way up the slope I felt a strange tug on the rope, and thought it must have caught in some obstruction or have been struck by a falling block of ice; but, on looking round, I could see nothing to account for it. Some hours afterwards, while we were resting on the warm rocks above, Fyfe smilingly asked me if I had felt the pull, and then the rascal, still smiling, informed me that it was the result of a moment of actual somnolence on his part. For a second his brain had become dulled and his feet had come to a sudden stop on this never-ending ladder of ice. As the rope was taut, and I had a firm footing, the danger was nil; but it would never do for the leader to be so taken, and the leader on that particular slope has enough to do to keep him very wide awake.

Hour after hour went by, and we began to get very tired of the endless snow slope, so traversed to the right to gain the rocks. We found them difficult, with few holds for hands or feet, and so coated with snow and ice that progress was almost impossible. Reluctantly we had to traverse back to the snow slope. It was 6.40 a.m. before we reached the rocks on the main arête. A halt was called on a narrow ledge of snow. There we had a drink and some bread and marmalade, and took a number of photographs.

A bank of cloud loomed above the eastern mountains, but the sun was clear in the blue above, and as there was, at last, every prospect of fine weather, our spirits rose proportionately to the elevation gained. From this point a beautiful snow ridge rose in a gentle curve to a series of rocky crags. There was just room for our feet on this narrow ridge. On the right a steep couloir led down to the Linda Glacier, and on the left the mountain fell away in very steep slopes, for over three thousand feet, to the Grand Plateau. At the end of the snow ridge we had some fine climbing up a shoulder of rock. This was scaled without incident, except that of a falling stone which Turner dislodged, but which, fortunately, went past without hitting either Fyfe or myself. Then we climbed along another narrow snow arête, which, though steeper than the first one, was somewhat shorter. On gaining the rocks at the head of this ridge at 9 a.m., we halted for an early lunch. We replenished the wine-bottle and the water-bottle with the drippings of snow that we melted on a slab of warm stone.

We had now gained an altitude of between 10,000 and 11,000 feet, and the views were magnificently grand. Tasman, the second highest mountain in New Zealand, with his wonderful slopes of snow and ice, and a magnificent snow cornice, was quite close to us on the north. Then came Mount Lendenfeld, and the jagged, pinnacled ridge of Haast, which, from this point of view, seemed to bid defiance to the mountaineer. Farther along, on the main divide, rose the square top of Mount Haidinger, from which the magnificent schrunds and broken ice of the Haast Glacier fell away towards the Tasman Valley. Beyond that, the rocky peak of De la Bêche, and the beautifully pure snows of the Minarets cleft the blue, leading the eye in turn to the gleaming masses of Elie de Beaumont and the Hochstetter Dome at the head of the Great Tasman Glacier. Across the valley Malte Brun towered grandly above all the other rock peaks of the range, and still farther away, towards the north-east, was the finest view of all, range succeeding range, and mountain succeeding mountain for more than a hundred miles, or as far as the eye could reach. In the distance, to the north of the main range, we looked down on a sea of clouds upon which the sun was shining, the higher peaks piercing the billows of mist and looking like pointed islands. We could plainly trace our steps along the snow arêtes that we had climbed, and across the Plateau thousands of feet below. Lower still were the great schrunds and toppling pinnacles of the Hochstetter Ice Fall, and below that the magnificent sweep of the Great Tasman Glacier. Eastward a few fleecy cumulus clouds sailed over the foot-hills, and beyond were the plains of Canterbury and the distant sea.

An hour passed all too quickly amidst scenes of such magnificence and grandeur; but there was still a long climb ahead, and, in high spirits, we started to cut steps up another very sharp snow ridge with a drop of four thousand feet on one side. Balancing on this narrow ridge and gazing down those tremendous slopes was quite an exhilarating performance. This ridge brought us to the last rocks, which were steep and afforded some fine climbing. At the top of these rocks we found Zurbriggen’s match-box under a few pieces of splintered rock, and left a card in it. Fyfe led up to a shoulder below the final ice-cap, still cutting steps, and then the order on the rope was reversed and Graham went to the front. This shoulder turned us to the left, and soon we gained the final snow arête that rose steeply almost to the summit. The last bit of the ice-cap afforded easy climbing, and at one o’clock on Wednesday afternoon we stepped on to the topmost pinnacle of Aorangi—thirteen hours and forty-five minutes from the time we left our Bivouac. The view was again magnificent—almost indescribable. We looked across the island from sea to sea, and in addition to the views northward, eastward, and westward, we now beheld a glorious Alpine panorama stretching to the south as far as the eye could reach. The giant Tasman and all the lesser mountains were dwarfed, and the whole country was spread out like a map in relief at our feet. Hector, the third highest mountain in New Zealand, seemed a pimple; St. David’s Dome had become a low peak; but Elie de Beaumont, near the head of the Tasman, still looked a grand mountain, the effect of distance seeming to make it the more imposing.

Through rents in the clouds to the westward patches of sea appeared like dark lagoons. I stepped out of the rope to secure the first photograph that had ever been taken of the summit of Mount Cook; then we congratulated each other, and while Graham got the provisions out of the rücksacks Fyfe employed himself in taking in the view and coolly cutting up his tobacco for a smoke.

Fyfe had intended to take the pulses of the party, and I to make some careful notes of the surrounding mountains; but we did not do so. Professor Tyndall in his famous description of the ascent of the Weisshorn says that he opened his notebook to make a few observations, but he soon relinquished the attempt. There was something incongruous, if not profane, in allowing the scientific faculty to interfere where silent worship was a “reasonable service.” Thus felt we as we gazed around at the marvellous panorama. Then thoughts of the descent began to obtrude themselves. We had climbed Mount Cook from the Tasman side. A more serious problem now presented itself. Could we descend on the Hooker side, and so make the first crossing of Aorangi?

A 3000 foot snow slope.

Summit of Mt. Cook.

CHAPTER XX

THE FIRST CROSSING OF MOUNT COOK—concluded

“And now that I have climbed and won this height,

I must tread downward through the sloping shade,

And travel the bewildered tracks till night.”

Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

We spent altogether twenty-five minutes on the summit of the mountain—12,349 feet above the sea. The views were certainly grand and very beautiful, but not so fine as from between the altitudes of 10,000 and 11,000 feet, for the simple reason that, from the greater height of the summit, all the lesser mountains were dwarfed, and many of those that looked imposing from below had now dwindled into insignificance.

Having repacked our rücksacks, we gave one last glance about us, and then started down the slope on the other side of the mountain. We were now met by a wind, which, of course, at this altitude, was very cold. The snow slope was not steep, but it was frozen, and we had to cut a number of steps before we could reach the rock arête. In half an hour we were on the highest rocks of this arête, and, to our dismay, we found them in the worst possible condition for climbing—plastered with snow and ice, and fringed with great icicles. We might have returned to the summit and climbed back to safety before nightfall down our upward route; but we were very keen to “col” the peak for the first time, and decided to take the risk. Very little was said, and, after a brief consultation between Fyfe and myself, the word was given to continue the descent, and we started with grim determination to conquer the difficulties and overcome the dangers that lay between us and the upper slopes of the Hooker Glacier, thousands of feet below the summit on the western side. It now became a question, not only of climbing with care, but also with all possible speed; for there was no place on this long ridge, in its present condition and with the cold wind blowing, where we could bivouac in safety. We had reckoned on a comparatively easy climb down these rocks, and also upon crossing the bergschrund at the head of the Hooker Glacier before nightfall, but soon saw that this would be out of the question, especially as one of the party was a slow climber. Fyfe repeatedly urged him to hurry and trust for safety to the rope. Fyfe was now in the responsible position—last man on the rope. I came next, and Turner was between me and Graham, who, under general directions from Fyfe, led down. After descending a few hundred feet, we soon found that, owing to the ice-glazing and the new snow, it was impossible to keep to the crest of the ridge, and the descent became largely a series of traverses across difficult and, at times, precipitous faces of rock, mostly on the eastern face of the arête. On the west the climbing was even more difficult, and there was a bitter wind blowing, so we avoided that side as much as possible. In one place we had to climb back from the eastern face through a gap of overhanging rock and great icicles. Peter smashed the greater part of the icicles with the handle of his ice-axe, and the broken pieces went swishing down the precipices towards the Hooker. Under the circumstances, there was naturally some hesitancy in selecting the best route; but there was little time for undue deliberation, and as Graham paused now and then in some doubt Fyfe would call out, “Will it ‘go,’ Peter?” Peter, in quiet and solemn tones, would invariably give the one answer, “Well, it doesn’t look too good,” and then would come the answering admonition from Fyfe, “Get down—get somewhere!”

At last we came to a break in the ridge that looked utterly unscaleable. We halted and glanced ahead and from side to side. Then we cast longing eyes to some snow slopes leading down to the Linda Glacier on the east; but that was thousands of feet below us. “Will it ‘go,’ Peter?” we asked, and back came the non-committal reply, “It doesn’t look too good.” There was considerable hesitancy. It now appeared that the moment for decisive action had come, so I suggested that we should unrope, and be lowered down singly over the face of rock. I was lowered down first, and then, untying, the rope was hauled up, and Graham was lowered. I had gained a footing on a knob of rock that jutted out from the snow and ice in a narrow “chimney”; but there was not room on this for two people, so I cut a few steps and climbed down some twelve or fifteen feet, and held on in a somewhat insecure position. I confess that I was anxious to see the last man make his appearance: for, with a keen wind nearly freezing the fingers with which I clung to the rock, and without even the “moral” support of the rope, my position was not altogether one to be envied. Graham climbed down the slanting “chimney” for a few feet towards me, and then Turner was lowered to the knob of rock on which I had gained my first secure footing. It remained for Fyfe to get down. His was a position of the greatest responsibility, and it required a cool head and splendid nerve, for there was no one to lower him. He had to use the rope doubled and hitched over a projection of rock. The greatest care had to be exercised, especially for the first few feet, in case the rope should slip over the knob. Fyfe, however, managed to get down in safety, and then we all roped up once more. There was no room for us to shift our positions to revert to the original order on the rope, so that now I had to take the lead. We climbed round the foot of the steep wall that had cut us off, and once more gained the crest of the ridge; but it would not “go,” and we crossed to the eastern face, scrambling down a short broken couloir, and then traversing back to regain the ridge. I had to hack a hole through long icicles that were hanging from a jutting rock. There was just room to crawl through, the knapsack grazing the broken fingers of ice above. There might have been a route on the eastern side of this face; but a glance down the dark precipices and couloirs, filled with clear ice, to a depth of three or four thousand feet, was somewhat startling, especially when that glance was made in search of a practicable line of descent. Besides, under such conditions as we were face to face with, the known is always preferable to the unknown, and the more so when time is so important a factor in a climb. We knew the ridge we were on could be descended, but we might easily have got into a cul de sac on those grim, ice-plastered eastern precipices.

Our difficulties, however, were by no means over, for, in a few minutes, I was peering over the face of a dangerous-looking, precipitous cliff. A glance showed that there was no practicable route either to the right or the left. The afternoon was wearing on; there was no time for hesitancy, so I went over the edge, and, with the assistance of the spare rope, scrambled down a steep chimney with square smooth sides and few hand-grips. This chimney, however, fell away from the perpendicular near its foot and sloped inwards. On its final twelve feet there were neither hand nor foot holds. There was accordingly nothing for it but to unrope again, and be lowered down singly. Graham lowered me down with one rope, Fyfe and Turner anchoring on the rocks above. For a little way, by clawing at the rock with feet and hands, and by the friction of my body, I was able to descend with some slight amount of dignity, and told Graham to lower away. Then, as I reached the part where the chimney sloped inward from the perpendicular, I lost contact with the rocks, and hung suspended like Mahomet’s coffin between heaven and earth. The strain of the rope round one’s waist, threatening to effect a complete change in one’s internal anatomy, a vague clawing at air with one’s hands and an equally vague searching for foot-hold with the nether limbs as you dangle in space at the end of a forty-foot rope with precipices and snow slopes of over a thousand feet below, have a chastening influence on the most seasoned mountaineer, and, however exhilarating the experience may be, it is always with feelings of supreme satisfaction, and almost of devout thankfulness, that he once more comes to close grips with mother earth. At all events, when, after these brief and more or less graceful gyrations at the end of that particular rope, the strain was removed from my waist, and foot-holds and hand-holds once more became actual realities, no complaint was made, even though the middle finger of my left hand, which had been cut on the sharp rocks, was spurting blood, and dyeing the snow a beautiful crimson.

The spot on which my feet again met the mountain was not the best of landing-places, for the rock shelved outwards into snow. It was now Peter’s turn to descend, so I planted myself as firmly as possible and watched the operation. He was a good stone and a half heavier, so there must have been a considerable strain on Fyfe’s arms. As he slid off the rocks into the air, his ice-axe caught in the chimney, and sent him swinging round like a top. I saw a long body and a swirling mass of arms and legs above me, preceded by an excellent felt hat that went sailing down on the wind to the Linda Glacier thousands of feet below, and then a somewhat dishevelled but cool mountaineer, with a little assistance as to where to plant his feet, landed beside me. Peter’s descent was so comical that I could not refrain from laughter. Turner was the next man, and Fyfe urged him forward. The rope was fastened round his waist, and he too cut a comical figure as he slid off from the perpendicular, clawed vainly at vacancy, and eventually landed beside us. Fyfe’s grinning countenance above, peering over the edge of the precipice, as if he were enjoying the sport, was quite a study.

Sensational as this performance was, especially until a landing-place had been found, a more serious one remained for Fyfe to accomplish. I, however, well knew Fyfe’s capabilities, otherwise I should never have undertaken such a descent. We had been together in other tight corners before, and I had absolute faith in his ability to get down safely. Once more he hitched the double rope over a rock, and scrambled over the edge of the precipice. The only rock available was slightly loose, so he had to be very careful at the start in case the rope should slip over the projection. Such experiences are apt to be a little nerve-shattering, and these two sensational descents—especially the latter one—must have put some strain upon his nerve. However, he was again equal to the emergency, and, assisted by Graham’s long reach as he swung like a pendulum over the last few feet, he was soon beside us in safety.

A halt was called for a few minutes while we donned our spare clothing. I gave Graham my hat, as I had a spare cap in my rücksack, and then bound my bleeding finger with strips of adhesive plaster. After all, there was something very exhilarating in such difficult work. Every nerve and muscle was at full tension, and thoughts of all else save the matter in hand were banished from the brain. The way ahead now seemed clear. We had “drunk delight of battle with our peers,” and, thus far, had won.

Roping up once more in the old order, we continued the descent. We were still a long way from the saddle, and the summit of Mount Hector seemed very far below. The climbing, however, now became easier, and in places we were able to make fairly quick progress. Eventually, at a quarter to seven on Wednesday evening, we had left the dreadful arête behind us, and Peter cut steps across a frozen ridge that led from Green’s Saddle into the long 2000-feet couloir that sloped steeply down to the Hooker Glacier. It was a quarter to seven on the evening of Wednesday, and, as we had now been going since 11.15 p.m. on Tuesday, or for 19-1/2 hours, we hoped to find the couloir in good order. Our hearts sank as we saw Graham plying his ice-axe. Fyfe shouted to him to endeavour to do without the cutting, and to kick steps; but this was impossible—the slope was frozen hard! The wind was also increasing in violence, and bitterly cold. There was still the alternative of cutting down to the Linda Glacier on the eastern side, and of a comparatively easy and comfortable descent, out of the wind, to the great plateau, from which we could gain the Glacier Dome and then descend to the Bivouac Rock by means of our steps of the night before. The matter was mentioned between Fyfe and myself; but we scarcely gave it a second thought, and decided to stick to our original intention to “col” the peak. The word was given to go forward down the couloir, and young Graham, who was leading, treated us to a splendid example of ice-craft and physical endurance as he hacked a way with his axe down that 2000 feet of frozen slope. It was a narrow, steep gully varying in width from about fifteen to twenty yards, and flanked on either side by great walls of precipitous rock.

Hour after hour went by, and we appeared to be getting no nearer to the foot of the couloir. The wind seemed to pierce to our bones, and every now and then it would send a shower of broken ice from the precipices above swishing down about our ears. Some of the bits were big enough to hurt. In one place we took to a rib of rock in the middle of the couloir. Occasionally the rocks on the left of the couloir were used for hand-grips, thus enabling Graham to cut smaller steps. Turner, at this stage, began to feel the want of sleep, and asked me to talk to him to keep him awake. The mere suggestion of a man’s falling asleep in such a situation was, of course, sufficient to keep one more than ever on the alert, especially as, if Turner had slipped, it would have devolved upon me, being next above on the rope, to hold him up. A few minutes later, some bits of rock—dislodged, no doubt, through the falling icicles that were broken by the wind—came whizzing past us, and as Turner immediately cried out, “Oh, my head! my head!” I knew that he had been struck. In a moment the handle of my axe was driven into the frozen snow and the rope hitched around it; while Fyfe, behind me, had already taken a firm stand. Turner, in his account of the accident, says: “We would have been dashed to eternity if I had fallen and upset Graham out of his steps while step-cutting, which would have been a very easy matter.” Such, however, was not the case, for both Fyfe and I had the rope absolutely taut, and, being well anchored, we could easily have held up three times Turner’s weight. As a matter of fact, he could not have fallen a single yard.

Fortunately, the accident was not a serious one. It resolved itself into a scalp wound about three-quarters of an inch long, and Turner, after a few minutes, was able to continue the descent. Stones falling from such a great height—probably a thousand feet or more—acquire an extraordinary velocity. Indeed, they come so fast as to be invisible, and you can only hear them whizzing past. Had this stone struck Turner on the top of the head, it would undoubtedly have cleft his skull in twain. Luckily, it only grazed the back of his head at the base of the skull.

We had now descended about a thousand feet of the couloir. The sun had dipped to the rim of the sea, and the western heavens were glorious with colour, heightened by the distant gloom. Almost on a level with us, away beyond Sefton, a band of flame-coloured cloud stretched seaward from the lesser mountains toward the ocean, and beyond that again was a far-away continent of cloud, sombre and mysterious, as if it were part of another world. The rugged mountains and the valleys and forests of Southern Westland were being gripped in the shades of night. A long headland, still thousands of feet below us, on the south-west, stretched itself out into the darkened sea, a thin line of white at its base indicating the tumbling breakers of the Pacific Ocean.

Difficult as was our situation, Fyfe and I could not refrain from occasional contemplation of this mysterious and almost fantastic scene of mountain glory. Turner was concerned mostly with his head, and Peter had to devote his whole attention to the step-cutting. We climbed down a rib of rock in the dusk between the lights, and then zigzagged on down the couloir in the steps cut by the never-tiring Graham. Presently the moon rose and bathed the snowy slopes of Stokes and Sefton and other giant mountains in a flood of silver. After the accident we kept closer in to the rocks to evade any falling icicles or stones that might come down. Graham, anxious no doubt to get out of the couloir, was now making the steps rather small, and there was sometimes difficulty in seeing them in the semi-darkness, and in standing in them once they were found; but we got occasional hand-grips on the rocks, so that the danger from a slip was reduced to a minimum. On one occasion I did slip in a bad step; but Fyfe was easily able to hold me on the rope. Down, down, down we went on this apparently never-ending slope. Hour after hour went past, and still the end of the couloir seemed a long way off.

Very little was said. Occasionally there would be a request by Turner asking me to hold him tight on the rope, or a plaintive cry of “Peter! where are the steps?” Peter was non-committal. He had enough to do to cut the steps without telling us where they were, and there was the additional fact that, in some instances, identification might not have been altogether an easy matter. But, if Peter was too busily engaged to be other than non-committal, I, on the other hand, had sufficient time to be optimistic, and I made a point of answering cheerily that Turner was doing splendidly, and that there was only another couple of hundred feet of step-cutting. As a matter of fact, there was more—nearly a thousand feet of it—but, under the special circumstances, I have no doubt the recording angel has overlooked all the lies I told between half-past nine and twelve of the clock that night, both in regard to the length of the couloir and the figure cut by our now despondent companion.

Nine o’clock, ten o’clock, eleven o’clock went past, and still we could not see the final bergschrund at the foot. Fyfe took a turn at step-cutting, but quickly relinquished the task in favour of Graham. Fyfe, however, relieved Graham of his knapsack, and, with his double load, must have had a difficult time coming down in those “economical” steps that Graham was making for the sake of speed. Speed! The word seemed a mockery. We went almost at a snail’s pace!

The wind continued bitterly cold, and the shadow of the precipices in the moonlight seemed to fill the head of the valley with gloom. Some lines of Shelley’s seemed to fit the situation—

“The cold ice slept below,

Above, the cold sky shone,

And all around

With a chilling sound,

From caves of ice and fields of snow

The breath of night like death did flow

Beneath the sinking moon.”

Towards the bottom, the couloir broadened out somewhat, and the work was easier. We progressed a little more quickly, and at last reached the bergschrund. This schrund, in ordinary seasons a very formidable one, had been often in our minds during the past few weeks, and gave us some concern from the commencement of the descent; but we reckoned that we could cross it somehow, even if we had to sacrifice an ice-axe and one of the lengths of Alpine rope. The first attempt to find a bridge failed; but Graham, with a pretty bit of snow-craft in the uncertain light, found a comparatively safe snow bridge, over which we crossed one by one, while the others anchored with their ice-axes and held the rope taut in case the man on the bridge at the time should show an unpraiseworthy inclination, by reason of his weight or the rottenness of the snow under him, to explore the unknown depths of the schrund. In a few minutes we were all across in safety, and, just after midnight—on Thursday morning—we stepped on to the upper slopes of the Hooker Glacier, and the first crossing of Mount Cook had been safely accomplished.

Going down a little way to where the slope eased off, and gathering together on the ice, we lit the lantern, hung it on an ice-axe stuck in the snow, and proceeded to explore the rücksacks for food and drink. We had been climbing for twenty-two and three-quarter hours, with but little food or drink. Even now we could scarcely eat; but the little water and a very small quantity of wine left in the bottles were soon disposed of. I had some of my Demerara sugar, and the others were content with a sardine or two and a little bread and jam. What remained of our provisions we now threw away. Fyfe, Graham, and I also indulged in a little whisky that Dr. Fitchett had sent us to the Ball Hut, and a small flask of which Fyfe had carried in his rücksack during the descent. Now that the mental strain of the climb was practically over, we felt that a little stimulant would do us no harm. Drink and sleep were what we most needed. We almost went to sleep standing up.

After our long spell of over twenty-two hours’ climbing, we had now to devote ourselves to a journey of ten or eleven miles down the Hooker Glacier and the valley at its termination to the Hermitage. There was some little trouble amongst the enormous crevasses and séracs, which, even in the moonlight, were a magnificent sight. We got through the first crevasses by candle-light, and then plodded on down the glacier by the light of the moon. Twice we got blocked, and had to retrace our steps to find a route through the maze of crevasses and broken ice. The sunrise was splendid. The silver of the moon gave place to the grey of dawn, and then the higher snows were flushed with rose and gold, the ice-cap of Mount Stokes being the first to catch the glow. The great ice-paved valley, loath to reveal the secrets of its grandeur, waited yet awhile in the sombre shade. But presently the sun searched the dimmest recesses of the lower crags, blazed upon the gleaming snows, and all the world was filled with light.

But it will be as well to draw a veil over the details of that long, dreary walk—the zigzagging to find a way down through the broken ice; the jumping of many crevasses; the uncertain steps along the crumbling live moraine; and the mechanical, sleepy trudge along the final pathway. Our throats were parched, and, early in the morning, the roar of a waterfall on the range across the valley mocked our thirst; but on the final slopes of the clear ice of the glacier we broke the frozen surface of some pools with our ice-axes and drank mighty draughts.

Hour by hour we plodded on down the valley, lifting our feet almost mechanically, halting at every stream, and falling asleep at every resting-place, till some resolute member of the party would prod the sleepy ones into mechanical action once more. Never, in all my life, have I travelled such long, weary miles. Towards the end of the journey, the one impression fixed indelibly on the brain seemed to be “the Hermitage.” Once across the Hooker River, it was “the Bar,” which loomed large in our minds with a capital B. We pulled ourselves together for the last hundred yards; but I am afraid it was with a rather faltering stride that we reached the winning-post after our long struggle of thirty-six hours from the Bivouac Rock many miles away on the other side of the great range. Turner, for sartorial reasons, had to make a bee-line for his bedroom; but the three New Zealanders went boldly into the kitchen of the Hermitage and discussed a bottle of wine amidst the congratulations of friend Macdonald and his worthy family. Fyfe and Graham followed this up with ham and eggs and copious draughts of milk. I had a jug of hot milk, a hot bath, and bed. We had not had a wash nor taken off our clothes for several days, and were now in a position to fully appreciate the luxuries of civilization. I slept till the dinner-gong woke me in the evening, and as there was not time to dress I had dinner in bed. Later on, Fyfe, Graham, and Clark came into my room, and we climbed the mountain over again.

On the way down the Hooker I had sworn to myself that I would never climb another peak; but so strange an animal is man, and so fascinating is his most glorious sport, that no sooner had we recovered from our exertions than we now immediately began to discuss plans for the ascent of Mount Sefton! But next day, through the glasses, we could plainly see great icicles hanging from the rocks on the main arête. The ridge was plastered with ice, and we had no immediate desire to repeat the performance we had just gone through.

THE END