With Axe and Rope in the New Zealand Alps

by George Edward Mannering

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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