We had now been seventeen hours with every nerve and muscle constantly in action, and yet, as the darkness set in and the awful glare of the sun had left us, we began to freshen up, and lighting one of our Austrian climbing-lanterns we retraced our footsteps of the morning, being most careful never to deviate from them. Soon it became very dark, for there was no moon, and we could but dimly distinguish the ghostly forms of the white-robed peaks which shut us in on all hands.
Hour after hour we plodded on. On one occasion we were brought up by the crevasse into which Dixon had nearly fallen in the morning; it had opened wider during the day, and only after walking along its line of fracture in both directions for half an hour did we discover a bridge which seemed sufficiently strong. We crossed in our usual way, sliding over at full length, and putting some weight on to our axe-handles laid lengthways on the snow to distribute the weight as much as possible.
As the night wore on, the crust of the snow became harder, and after passing through that most unpleasant crusted stage when it will bear until all the weight is put on one foot, became quite pleasant to walk upon, and over the lower part of the Linda Glacier and across the plateau we made a fair pace. As we reached the rise off the plateau on to the Haast Ridge the wind increased in violence, and we had great difficulty in keeping our lanterns (two of which we now kept going) alight.
The crest of the ridge was gained, and the descent of the dangerous snow slopes to the bivouac, 1,200 or 1,400 feet below, commenced. We were soon in trouble again amongst bergschrunds and crevasses, and on two occasions, in going down and feeling for the next step behind, I found on showing a light that my hind leg was dangling in a crevasse!
I must not weary you, dear reader, with further monotonous descriptions of crossing these deadly enemies of the mountaineer, suffice it to say that after an exasperating hunt on the steep slopes and in the dark for our bivouac—the candles being just finished—we finally discovered it at 2.45 a.m., an hour before daylight, having been twenty-three hours constantly hard at work without any halt worthy the name.
Sleeping soundly till 9 a.m. we made up our swags, and by 11 a.m. were on the downward route again for the Ball Glacier camp.
It was quite a wrench to leave our friendly rock, which had become a haven of rest and refuge to us on this upper beat. Five nights have I spent under its protection at different times, and as often have I arisen with the early morn to gaze upon those vast and sublime solitudes of Nature so grandly unfolded to view. From this little home—out of which if one stepped one had to be careful not to lose one’s footing and make a rapid descent to the Hochstetter Glacier on one hand or to the Freshfield on the other—I have seen the rosy tints of the newly-born day creep downwards from the hoary snow-caps of the mountains, and when evening drew on have watched the afterglow envelop all in its warm embrace, even black rocks turning to a deep crimson which seemed to pervade the higher peaks ere the black and cold night once again grasps them in his icy hold.
Here had tired limbs been laid to rest whilst wearied minds dreamed dreams of success and hope, gaining renewed vigour with the morning light to go forth afresh into new struggles and enjoyments. Here in the heart of great Nature’s solitudes the thoughts flew back to homes of comfort and of love. What wonder that we should have formed associations with such a spot?
The Ball Glacier camp was reached at 4.30 p.m., where we found Mr. Sladden of the Survey party anxiously awaiting our arrival, with that forethought which shows the kindly feeling and consideration for others that characterises men of worth in these outlandish parts.
That evening Dixon went across with Sladden to the Survey camp in the Murchison Valley, leaving me to wait for an expected friend from Christchurch.