With Axe and Rope in the New Zealand Alps

by George Edward Mannering

We were now well equipped for the attack, having obtained 160 feet of Alpine rope, three good ice-axes from M. Fritz Boss of Grindelwald, and suitable nails for our boots. Inglis had his camera and two dozen plates.

On arriving at the Hermitage we found that the Hooker River was up and quite impassable for horses, consequently we were forced to cross the Mueller Glacier by the Hermitage, walk up the Hooker Valley, and cross the terminal face of that glacier on to the western slopes of the Mount Cook Range, after which we worked our way down the river till opposite the Hermitage again, where a length of fencing wire was thrown across the torrent by which we were able to take our swags over.

The roar of the torrent was deafening, and oral communication across was quite impossible. The wire on our side was made fast eight or ten feet above the water, and on the other about twenty feet. Three cheers were given us by the party of tourists on the other bank, to which we replied, and then we were cut off from the haunts of men for a week, and thrown quite on our own resources for clothing, food, and shelter—board and lodging, in fact.

Then came the arranging of swags, adjustment of carriers, &c., and we soon discovered that we had all we could carry—over 50 lbs. each. Then followed the toiling down the steep bank of the river to reach the end of the range, in the piping heat and glaring sun, now and then having to ascend the slopes to avoid the river, which rushed along close to the rocks.

At one place in particular we experienced some difficulty, having to resort to the use of the rope to climb a ditch or couloir in the rock-face where the river boiled past at a terrific pace. Here the camera was accidentally dropped, and falling down fifty feet or so, lodged on a ledge which overhung the water. Strange to say, when recovered it was found to be quite uninjured!

By dint of continued exertion and considerable expenditure of adipose tissue we at last turned the end of the range, and upon reaching the first water as we struck up the Tasman Valley, boiled the ‘billy’ and made a good lunch.

The wind now began to rise from the nor’-west, and clouds of dust were sweeping down the valley, so we lost no time in pressing on to a patch of Irishman scrub a mile or so below the terminal face of the glacier. We hurriedly cut some bedding and pitched the tent before the rain came on, in rather close proximity to an old creek-bed, which had apparently been dry for some time.

That creek made up for lost time during the night, and soon the rain came down in bucketsful as we lay our wearied limbs to rest in our oiled calico blanket-bags. The thunder crashed and the lightning flashed, and the Tasman River began to roar, and by one o’clock such a quantity of rain had fallen as to convert the dry creek-bed into a roaring torrent, whose waters threw up a bank of shingle, and, turning its course (horror of all horrors!), came right into our tent. In less than a minute from the time that we felt the first trickle there was a foot of water in the tent, and all our impedimenta of every description were sopping or floating about in the dark, and in imminent danger of being washed away.

Hurriedly we collected all we could into our blanket-bags, got into our boots somehow, and made for higher ground. We could not see a rise in the ground, but after wading about found a small portion out of water, and, with much strong language and trouble, succeeded in repitching the tent—after a fashion.