Rabindranath Tagore.
A high bivouac in the Southern Alps, across which sweep the great summer ocean air currents, may, at any time, and without much warning, lend a spice of adventure to a big climb. And so it now happened. Before we could get comfortably warm in our bags, and settle down for the night, ominous gusts of wind began to flap the sides of our tent, and to send the snow swirling down the gullies. The wind gradually increased, and by half-past ten it was howling round our bivouac with the force of a gale. The sides of our tent flapped wildly, and at last it became evident that it could not stand against such a gale, but would be blown to shreds if left standing, so I got up, and levelled it to the ground. Hanging on to the rope to avoid being blown away, I took a glance round. The soft snow from the tops of Haast and Haidinger, caught by the wind, was blown like a great cloud-banner half-way across the Tasman Valley, while the moon went plunging into the storm-clouds that came sailing in torn masses overhead. It was evident that we were in for a bad nor’-wester, and as I crawled back under the folds of the tent and into my sleeping bag beside my recumbent companions I could hold out little hope for the morrow. Hour after hour the wind raged. There was no improvement till morning. Then the wind seemed to abate somewhat, and we pitched the tent again. It was bitterly cold, and snow was beginning to fall. It looked as if we were going to be caught in a trap, but we were loath to retreat, and stuck to our guns in the hope that before the day was over the gale would have blown itself out. But matters began to get worse instead of better. The wind once more increased in violence, and was now accompanied by driving rain, hail, and snow. We could do nothing but wait patiently in our sleeping bags and hope for the best. Towards evening we broached a tin of sardines, and managed to get enough water from the floor of the tent to allay our thirst. Then night closed round our storm-tossed bivouac, and the driving rain beat through the canvas, and formed pools on the waterproof floor inside. Several times we baled the tent out with pannikins, but there was no keeping it dry, and at last we were content to lie in our sleeping bags in the water. About 10 p.m. there was a vivid flash of lightning followed by a loud peal of thunder, and this was succeeded by another and yet another, each peal coming nearer than the one preceding it. The hours went slowly by, and at midnight the storm was at its height. The lightning came like balls of fire, and while the wind howled round the crags, the thunder crashed incessantly, making the Bivouac Rock, and even the ridge itself, tremble. Sleep was out of the question, but we huddled up in our sleeping bags, and occasionally told a story or sang a song. Someone quoted ironically—
The Mt. Cook Bivouac.
“There is beauty in the bellow of the blast,
There is grandeur in the growling of the gale,
But to him who’s scientific
There’s nothing that’s terrific
In the falling of a flight of thunderbolts!”