That little band of men
Went climbing up, and up, until—
They just climbed down again!”
A Fragment.
While Matheson and myself were proceeding down the Tasman Valley in the rain the others stayed on at the hut, hoping for fine weather to enable them to renew the attack on Aorangi. For a little exercise and pastime they paved the earthen floor of the hut with flat stones. Next day the weather cleared sufficiently to allow of their making an excursion on the Tasman Glacier, where they got further exercise and some good practice in step-cutting. On the following day, the barometer having been steady for some time, they breakfasted at 3.30, and started once more, with fairly heavy swags, for the Bivouac. Arrived at the foot of the Tasman ridge, Graham was deputed to fry some chops left there on a previous visit, while the others went ahead, and, spreading out over the snow-fan formed by the avalanches from the couloirs above, began another search for the swags. They soon found that they should have to exercise some caution in the ascent of the spur, for, as the sun began to rise in the heavens, the fresh snow responded to its influence in avalanches. But I must let my brother Kenneth tell the rest of the story.
“Not finding any trace of the swags,” he writes, “Dixon and I crossed the large couloir to the north to gain the more accessible and safer one down which we had thrown the swags. He stayed to watch the head of it and give warning in case of danger while I crossed, and then came over himself. He had hardly gained the rocks on the opposite side when a grand snow avalanche came sweeping down the couloir, literally bounding along in its rocky bed like sheep going through a race. Deeming the rocks the safer, we kept along a narrow ridge until we came to where vegetation terminated, and, gathering some dry scrub and roots, we agreed to boil the billy and carry on some fuel to the Bivouac in order to save our kerosene for the cooking lamp. After a delay of about two hours through having to melt snow, and after experiencing great difficulty in boiling the billy through the scrub being rather damp, we started for the Bivouac, which we reached about five o’clock. Having previously left the tent here in a snowstorm, we had now to set to work and dig it out of the frozen snow in order to have it dried before carrying it on to the Plateau. While it and the wet biscuits were spread out to dry, we made a good pot of porridge—on the thin side, so as to answer as a drink and a meal—and filled a can with soup to carry on with us.
“At seven o’clock we made a start for the Plateau, and, after about two hours’ hard going through soft snow, we made the top of the Dome, where we were met by a stiff breeze, accompanied by a light sleet. Descending the Dome half-way to the foot of the Plateau, we decided to pitch camp. Excavating a hole three feet deep in the snow and building it up round the edges two feet more, with a shovel we had carried up for the purpose, we seemed to have a tolerably snug little yard of snow walls to protect our tent from the unmerciful north-wester. At 10 p.m. we had the tent well pitched, with the rope and the ice-axes, and the four pairs of ski for pegging-out stakes. A bolster of snow was left running along one side of the tent under the floor for our heads to rest upon. About eleven o’clock we turned in, but found to our sorrow that the heat of our bodies inside caused the light sleet outside to thaw, and trickle through the tent, making things all the more unpleasant now that we had no sleeping bags. On getting up next morning, we found our blankets quite wet, and pools of water on the floor of the tent. Still worse, we were convinced that in a very short time everything would be enveloped in a dense mist, which gradually crept up the Hochstetter Ice Fall, obliterating everything in its slow and stealthy advance, and, finally, wreathing the giant Aorangi in an impenetrable, dense white mantle from head to foot. After having breakfast and adjusting our ski, as the snow was soft, we took the compass bearing of a ‘hot plate’ on the side of the mountain above the crevasses at the head of the Hochstetter Ice Fall, and made a start about six o’clock, but before we had got half-way across the Plateau we could not see a chain ahead. Dixon, getting in the rear with compass in hand, kept us in a straight line, while we advanced, endeavouring to make the Linda, in the hope that the fog might clear with the advancing day. However, it was not to be. After keeping on for half an hour in this manner, we encountered some crevasses on our left, while we heard avalanches ahead and to our right from the sides of Cook and Tasman, and, not being able to judge our distance, we came to the conclusion that prudence was the better part of valour and decided to return. About 7 p.m. we ‘turned in’ to have a good rest for an early start about one o’clock next morning. The man lying nearest to the door was instructed to keep one eye open, and give the alarm should the weather clear. At 11.30 Fyfe had a peep out, and found the night to be clear and starry, with not a cloud in the sky. The lamp was at once lit, and the operation of melting snow begun. It takes a considerable time to melt a supply for four men, for it is impossible to sufficiently concentrate the heat with any ordinary lamp or stove. At 2 a.m. on the 18th, we again got our ski adjusted, and made good progress down the gentle slope of the Plateau, assisted by the light of the moon in avoiding the crevasses. On gaining the lower slopes of the Linda we found our position none too secure from avalanches, and were, so to speak, ‘between the devil and the deep sea.’ At the Tasman corner we crossed the track of an avalanche, while farther on to the left it was evident there was also danger from ice-cliffs on the Cook side. However, taking turn about at breaking steps—the slopes being now too steep for ski—we made fair progress, though in places of drift the snow was almost thigh-deep.
“We were well up the Linda when the dawn began to tint the eastern sky with a pale blue light, which gradually deepened into the ruddy glow of morning. The sun rose, and with it a bank of cloud made its appearance above the horizon, while the long, winding valley of the Tasman, below, was obscured in a sea of mist. Across the valley the dark, frowning peaks of Malte Brun seemed grander than ever in the dusky light of early morn, towering high above their dense white base of mist. About eight o’clock we were at the head of the Linda, opposite a saddle in the northern arête. Here a halt was called for lunch, and we had a consultation as to what route we ought to take. Fyfe considered, from the look of the ice-cliffs above the first couloir on Green’s route, that it was very unsafe to attempt an ascent from that direction, and guaranteed to take us up the northern arête of rock. He considered it would be all the more creditable if we succeeded by that route. Dixon and myself held firm in favour of Green’s route, and argued that, as it had been proved a practicable one, it would be wasting time and a good day to attempt the other. However, after some discussion it was decided to try the arête, and, about eight o’clock, the ascent was begun. Rounding a corner of projecting rock, a small couloir was entered, where we had to use the greatest caution, as the snow was not in good order, there being only a thin coating on the surface of the rocks, and the perpendicular cliff of the lower part of the ridge falling 2000 feet below on to the lower slopes of the Linda Glacier. One man moving at a time, while the others kept a good anchorage with their axes, we climbed the last bit of the snow slope, and the first of the rock-work was begun. Fyfe, taking the lead, did not keep us waiting; in fact, I had not been more than five minutes in his company on the rocks before I came to the conclusion that he was exceptionally good at rock-work, apparently being capable of detecting the safest and slightest foot-hold or hand-grip with wonderful rapidity. I, being in the rear, soon found that I was to have the benefit of any loose stones dislodged above. However, I must say, in justice to the leaders, that they proved themselves to be no novices at rock-work, and only on one occasion had I to duck my head to prevent my being scalped—a piece of rock passing within two inches of my head. At 11.30 we got on to a flat ledge of rock, where we were able to sit down with safety, and enjoy a hunk of bread, tinned beef, and preserved fruit, which we vowed was the greatest delicacy we had ever enjoyed. All agreed that the climb was worth doing for the enjoyment derived from that meal. After waiting for a drink of water from snow spread on the rocks to melt, we again commenced the climb. On ascending a bit of a snow slope, two routes presented themselves—one leading to the left and eastward side of the top of the arête, over good reddish rock, and the other leading to the right and westward side, over a slaty, grey rock. The latter being more in our direct line for the peak, we decided to take it; but soon, to our sorrow, we found we had taken the worse and more unsafe of the two, the rock being so broken that it was almost impossible to get a safe foot-hold or hand-grip. The utmost caution had to be exercised to prevent the starting of stones or loose fragments of rock. Keeping to the left, we were not long in regaining the good rock, and in feeling much safer. From the commencement of the climb Fyfe had frequently been interrogated by those in the rear as to the possibility of advancement, when we would be assured that it looked much easier ahead. But the easy part never seemed to get any nearer, and at 2 p.m. we were brought to a standstill by a great wall of rock. The possibility of its ascent was discussed, and each one had a look at the barrier, and was asked his opinion. Fyfe declared he could get up, but might not, he thought, be able to come down again; so, not knowing what was beyond, or whether it was possible to gain the arête from the saddle for which we were making, we came to the conclusion that there was nothing left for us but to return half-way by the track we had come, when we would be able to get on to a snow slope running almost at right angles and leading in a more direct line on to Green’s track. This snow slope we had noticed when we were lunching on our way. We concluded it would save a good hour, and so enable us to get on to Green’s track and climb by moonlight. Accordingly we ‘put about ship,’ descending in the opposite order to which we had made the ascent. We had not been long on the downward track before I was warned by a voice from above calling, ‘Look out! look out! look out below!’ and before I had time to realize what had happened, or what was going to happen, Fyfe’s axe went whizzing past and stuck erect in a small patch of snow 200 feet below, exactly in our upward marks.
“At three o’clock we got to the head of the snow slope before mentioned, and found it to be in a most dangerous condition, with hard ice eight inches from the surface. We now decided to take advantage of the warm rocks, on which we might have a spell, and perhaps a sleep, until the snow became firmer, when we would be able to proceed with greater ease as the sun went down. Graham and I volunteered to cut steps down the slope, while the others, who complained of not having had enough sleep, might stay on the rocks, enjoy a spell, and join us at the bottom.
“We had not proceeded far when Graham was seized with cramp, and said he would have to return. For some time we tried to struggle on, but every time he stooped to clean out a step he had another seizure, until, finally, we were compelled to return to our mates, whom we found enjoying a snooze on small ledges of rock, with hats and comforters drawn about their heads to protect them from the glare of the sun. At five o’clock, after the shadows of western peaks had gradually crept across the Linda, and the sun began to disappear behind Mount Tasman, we once more awoke to activity, and, after having something to eat, began the descent of the snow slope, the condition of which had now slightly improved.