Pitching the tent was out of the question, so piling stones upon it we spent a miserably cold night, and by the time morning came all thoughts of tackling Aorangi had flown, and soon we were speeding down to our refuge at the Ball Glacier camp again.
Thus ignominiously ended my fourth attempt to climb Mount Cook.
In the afternoon Annan went down the valley with directions to join us two days afterwards at the Hermitage, Harper and myself being determined to cross the southern spur of Aorangi at the head of the Ball Glacier, and work our way down the Hooker Glacier to the Hermitage.
THE FIRST CROSSING OF THE BALL PASS
Starting on a misty morning, we climbed what we call the Ball Glacier spur—a ridge which diverges from the main ridge of the Mount Cook Range at a point immediately south of the Ball Pass. It was by this ridge that Mr. Green’s first and unsuccessful attempt was made, and up this same route I had climbed the previous season with the photographer.
The major part of the climb is easy, good foothold being obtained on the red sandstone rocks. In the upper part snow-fields alternate with the rocks. The Ball Glacier lies couched in the valley on the right, vast precipices going sheer down to it from the crest of the ridge, whilst the slopes on the left descend to the Tasman Valley.
After four hours of climbing we reached the main southern arête, and paused on the snow saddle for lunch and rest, and to admire the splendid prospect of the eastern faces of the mountain, and the ever-fresh, marvellous panorama of the Tasman Glacier.
Erecting a cairn on the rocks close by, and christening the saddle after that father of mountaineering—John Ball—we commenced the descent on a good snow slope towards the Hooker Glacier. All the mountains on the western side were enveloped in mist, which, however, fortunately hung high enough to enable us to discern the whole extent of the Mueller Glacier and most of that of the Hooker.
Bearing away southwards to avoid the crevassed parts of the slope below, we were soon enjoying a merry glissade—sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, whizzing down in a cloud of snow which curled up from our feet and showered down upon us.
Ah, the exhilaration of a good glissade! How you seem to fly through the air and cleave the fast-speeding surface! How the snow hisses and the axe grinds! How the excitement thrills you as you look out for danger ahead, or rushing avalanches behind! There is nothing to touch it—switchback railway, going downhill on a bicycle, skating—all are far behind.