My holiday being at an end I had to return to Dunedin, and reluctantly took leave of my companions on the Thursday morning, leaving them patiently waiting to give the weather a final chance of clearing. This was my one and only attempt to climb Mount Cook before making the traverse of it some years later. Mr. Turner in his book says that I had tried to climb Mount Cook for twenty years and “was grateful that the author’s expedition gave me success at last.” This is on a par with several other extraordinary statements that his book contains.
The Hooker River.
Matheson accompanied me on my 14-mile tramp in the driving rain down to the Hermitage. We got wet crossing the glacier streams, which were all so high that we had doubts about being able to ford the Hooker River. However, we managed to get across safely on the old grey mare, though blocks of ice were coming down by the score in the ever increasing and rapidly flowing current. In the evening we drove another 14 miles to Glentanner station, which was reached with difficulty, as the mountain torrents that crossed the road had torn up their channels so that there were no good fords, while in one place the road was almost completely washed away. In another cutting a great slip that had come right across the road almost capsized the trap, though we went very carefully over it. In order to get to Dunedin up to time it was necessary for me to cross the Tasman next day and make a rapid passage down to Fairlie Creek; but, to our dismay, we were told that we could not possibly cross the river in the trap. I then decided to ford the stream with one of the horses, and walk the many weary miles to Lake Tekapo that night; but on arriving at Glentanner the manager said it would not be safe even to attempt to ford the river on horseback. Here was a dilemma. The alternative was to catch the coach at Lake Pukaki next morning, and young Ross, the station manager, generously offering to provide me with a saddle-horse, I got up at 2 a.m. and started on my lonely 25-mile ride along the lake-side. It was clear overhead, but Aorangi-wards the moon cut through the breaking fringe of storm-cloud. Occasionally a startled rabbit crossed my track in the moonlight, or a pair of Paradise ducks trumpeted forth a defiant note from a safe distance in the lone lagoons of the Tasman flats. In front was the changing eastern sky, tinted with the rose of morning; and, behind, the depressing gloom of the great mist-shrouded Tasman Valley, where my climbing companions were no doubt still waiting and scheming to conquer the monarch of the Southern Alps. I reached the Pukaki River at 6 a.m., and was rowed across in time for breakfast before the coach left. That evening I was in Fairlie Creek, having accomplished the 75 miles in the one day. From an upland plain I got my last glimpse of the Southern Alps. The weather had cleared, and the mountains stood up gloriously in the noonday sun—Sealy, Sefton, the Footstool, Stokes, and Tasman vying with one another; but, above them all, the mighty ridge of Aorangi. They were like old friends. It was with a sad heart I saw them one by one disappear. And once again I came to the conclusion that, for the man with a limited holiday, mountaineering is a game of chance with the weather, and that the weather generally holds at least three aces and a long suit.
CHAPTER VI
THE CONQUERING OF AORANGI—continued
“Ah me! it was a toilsome hill,
With storms as black as night,
Yet up its slopes of gleaming white