MOUNT DE LA BÊCHE (10,021 FEET) FROM THE TASMAN GLACIER
[Wheeler & Son, Photo.
I quote from Mr. Green to give some idea of what he thought of our mountains from this point:—
‘Deep down below us lay the Hooker Glacier, reminding us of the downward view from the arête of the Finsteraarhorn, while beyond, the glacier-seamed crags of Mount Sefton towered skywards.
‘Further off lay the mer de glace of the Mueller Glacier, a splendid field of white ice, its lower moraine-covered termination lost in the blue depths of the valley at our feet. The high ridge connecting Mount Sefton with Mount Stokes alone prevented us from seeing the western sea. It was a glorious day, scarcely a breath of air stirring; no cloud visible in the whole vault of blue; ranges upon ranges of peaks in all directions and of every form, from the iced-capped dome to the splintered aiguille. It was a wonderful sight, those lovely peaks standing up out of the purple haze; and then to think that not one had been climbed! Here was work, not for a short holiday ramble merely, not to be accomplished even in a lifetime, but work for a whole company of climbers, which would occupy them for half a century of summers, and still there would remain many a new route to be tried. Here, then, we stood upon the shoulder of the monarch of the whole mountain world around us, within less than 5,000 feet of his icy crown, but a long, jagged, ice-seamed ridge lay in our path. Was it accessible? Let us see!’
It was not accessible, as anyone who has read Mr. Green’s interesting book will know, and I could see from my standpoint very plainly that Mr. Green, with Emil Boss and Ulrich Kaufmann—two of the finest mountaineers in the world—could not do otherwise than accept a defeat.
Just such a scene as Mr. Green describes I saw, only that its mystic beauty was intensified by the soft glow of evening as the sun sank lower and lower, at last dipping behind a bank of crimson clouds hanging over a saddle to the westward.
I seemed spellbound and almost riveted to the spot, and could only tear myself away when I realised the awkward position of the photographer and myself, trapped, as it were, by the fast-closing darkness, 4,000 feet above our camp, with all sorts of climbing difficulties below. Clambering down the rocks and jumping the bergschrund, away I sped over the névé slopes, and reaching Cooper after an hour’s absence, found him just packing up his camera.
It is too long a story to tell of all our troubles and adventures in getting down the mountain in the dark; letting ourselves down on to the rocks, scraping our hands on sharp edges, plunging knee-deep in soft snow, following false ridges terminating in precipices down to the Ball Glacier below, retracing our erring steps, and at last coming to vegetation again; then going down off the ridge towards the Tasman, trying to hit the head of a long shingle slip I was acquainted with, hearing 2,000 feet above the camp the first ‘cooee’ from our anxious mates below, and getting down eventually at half-past ten, ravenous, and almost torn to pieces by the sharp rocks, Spaniards, and scrub.