“We then decided to take them on to a shingle fan to the right, there to unpack and spread the contents out to dry.
“On reaching the hut we found a note left by Fyfe warning us to be careful of the provisions as he understood the Hermitage was very sparingly stocked. Next morning (Wednesday) we were up at eight o’clock, after a good night’s rest, to spread out the blankets and clothing to dry, expecting Fyfe to turn up in the afternoon, when we should make another start for the plateau. The afternoon came round, but with no sign of Fyfe, and as there was no bread and meat left at the hut we felt anything but amicably disposed towards him. However, as long as we had a little flour we were not going to starve, and, as I said I had seen such a dish as flour porridge, my mates prevailed upon me to attempt the making of some. After dishing out a reasonable portion for any three white men I found I had still a plateful left, and began to censure myself for having used too much flour, to us now so precious. However, I was soon relieved from any anxiety on that score by inquiries as to whom the other plate was for. Saying it was a supposed surplus, I soon had volunteers for its consumption—just to prevent its going to waste. After finishing the last of our cigarettes that had been wet and dried, and indulging in the perusal of some of the hut literature, we retired for the night. About nine o’clock it began to blow, gradually increasing to a howling nor’-wester, which threatened to carry off the roof of the hut, rendering sleep almost an impossibility until there came a lull towards morning, when we managed to drop off.
“It was late when we awoke next morning, our breakfast of maizena being at 11 a.m. At three o’clock I took up the field-glasses, and started off to see if I could find trace of Fyfe, who had not yet put in an appearance. We were now becoming very anxious lest an accident had befallen him in the Hooker River. I had not gone more than a mile when I saw him in the distance wending his way along the moraine, following closely in the footsteps of the old grey mare. On his arrival at the hut we learned that the pigeon we had liberated had arrived safely in Dunedin with his message, and that a newspaper Fyfe had seen told of rough weather having been prevalent all over the country during the last week. This was consoling news to us, as we were now justified in expecting a spell of fine weather. He also told us how he had met Adamson coming to look for us the day we had come down to the hut. Failing to find any trace of us, he was to have returned to light a fire on the moraine opposite the hut, which was to have been the signal for two men to join him from Glentanner and form a search party. My brother on his way down had told Adamson that we had only provisions to last until Saturday or Sunday at the latest, and, if we did not put in an appearance by that time, he might consider that there was something wrong. It was Tuesday evening when he arrived at the hut, and there was still no sign of us. Hence his alarm for our safety. After partaking of a stew, which Graham had volunteered to ‘build,’ from a little of all the different ingredients he could lay hands on in our replenished locker, we retired with renewed hopes of getting a fine day and an early start in the morning for our fourth departure from this point for the summit of hoary Aorangi. The morning of Friday 23rd saw us up at 4.30. The barometer had kept steady through the night, so we had a good breakfast, and at 6.30 a.m. we began to file out of camp once more. There were some ominous clouds drifting about overhead, but, as the wind was from the south, we hoped it might keep fine. At nine o’clock, after drying the things left on the shingle fan, we began to ascend the Tasman Spur, and reached the Bivouac at 12.30 p.m., where we boiled the billy with some scrub that we had carried up, and had dinner. Three p.m. saw us on the top of the Glacier Dome, where we were again met by a gusty wind, carrying with it clouds of snowdrift, which, coming in contact with the hands and face, stung like needles. On descending to the site of our previous encampment we found the excavation filled up with fresh snow, so we had to set to work to clear the foundation and get the tent out. The tent having been pitched, some porridge was made in order to save our bread and meat, in case we should again be weather-bound. We lay down, intending to make a start any time between eleven and six o’clock, should the weather show any signs of clearing. Eleven o’clock came, but the wind and haze increased, though not to any great extent. On waking at six o’clock we found a small cornice hanging over our heads and feet, and the tent almost collapsing from the weight of snow upon it. A quantity had accumulated inside, having drifted through a hole at the door, and Graham, on awaking, found himself being embraced by a wreath of the ‘beautiful snow.’ Eventually he had to turn out to shovel it away from round the tent and brush it off his blankets, without stopping in the act, you may be sure, to bestow one glance of admiration upon it for either its beauty or its purity. The weather cleared a little, and we had a fair breakfast of cold roast mutton and scone crumbs, with a cup of tea. Dixon spent most of the afternoon in clearing a space round the tent, and about four o’clock we had our dinner of porridge. During the afternoon the weather had cleared sufficiently to allow us to get a few shots with the camera at the surrounding peaks and our tent in the snow. At six o’clock the wind began to abate, and as the sun disappeared over Tasman our tent was almost instantaneously frozen as hard as a board. The wind gradually died away as the dark mantle of night spread over us, and at eight o’clock, after having lain for a considerable time counting my breaths between the gusts to prove that the said squalls were becoming fewer, the last feeble effort of the nor’-wester exhausted itself in a vain endeavour to flap the sides of our now frozen tent.
“Intending to make an early start, and not being able to sleep owing to the cold frosty air, we lay chatting, singing, and discussing the possibility of our success on the morrow, while Fyfe, to retain as near as possible the normal heat of his body, burnt a candle under his blankets.
“About 9.30 p.m. the lamp was lit, and a kettle of snow put on so that we might have a good substantial meal before leaving, as we had been economizing as much as possible—our two previous meals that day consisted principally of porridge and a little meat minus bread. About twelve o’clock (midnight) we crept out of the tent, one man staying inside to pack all the spare clothing, etc., into a sleeping bag, and to pass out such articles as we required, while the others set to work to unfasten the ski and ice-axes that were holding up the tent. At 1 a.m. we were roped together, ready for another attack upon the ice-walled fort of Aorangi.
“The night was clear and starry, not a cloud being visible, and we climbed in a dead calm. The great avalanche king himself seemed hushed to rest in the awful stillness of the midnight hours as we four mortals, like demons of the night, roped together, filed out of camp, the only visible sign of which was now a small square excavation in that great ice plateau of about 1000 acres in area, guarded and fed by the stupendous cliffs of Aorangi, Tasman, Haast, and the Glacier Dome—giants of the ice regions, whose seemingly inaccessible peaks towered far above us. The broken, rugged flow of the Hochstetter Ice Fall stretched away thousands of feet below, forming a grand safeguard against mortal intrusion to this great ice-field. And yet, thought I, as we climbed slowly down the gentle slope of the plateau in the gloom of the eternal hills at the midnight hour, people wonder what there is in mountaineering. Ah! I mused, let the most unintellectual or the most unobservant mortal step into our place—let him see and feel, and he will believe that there is a something here which awakens the dormant faculties of the mind and inspires one with thoughts profound.
“Marching silently onward for some time, each one busy with his own thoughts, we soon found ourselves at the lowest part of the plateau, and, half an hour later, beginning to ascend the lower slope of the Linda. The snow was quite hard, but we had carried our ski up in case a thaw might set in and they should be required on our return. By 2.30 we had gained the broken ice of the Linda, and a halt was called to light the climbing-lantern and deposit the ski. We stuck them in the snow in the form of a triangle and lashed them together to prevent their being blown away. Not being able to judge accurately, in the nighttime, the distance between Mounts Tasman and Cook, we soon found we had kept a little too much to the left, and had struck the track of an avalanche from the side of Mount Cook, that we had on the former attempt avoided. However, preferring to cross—it being early in the morning—to retreating down a slope, we wended our way among the huge ice-blocks and reached the other side in safety. The remnant of the waning moon was now about the horizon, and soon the grey morning made its appearance in the east, enabling us to proceed without the use of the lantern. Good progress was made now, without any difficulty in avoiding the crevasses, and, about sunrise, we reached the bergschrund, from which point to Green’s Rocks we had previously cut steps. We found them still in good order, only requiring a slight cleaning out. After entering there, as if in objection to our intrusion, we were greeted by a sharp crack, the ice evidently breaking under our feet. On nearing Green’s Rocks Graham complained of feeling ill. A slice of lemon was prescribed first, and then a little brandy, but neither had the desired effect. We cautioned him to give warning if he felt himself becoming incapable, while we proceeded, keeping a good hold with our axes at each step. Occasionally we had to stop to give him time to revive, but succeeded in gaining Green’s Rocks in safety. The sun had not yet reached this part, and his feet, he said, felt as if they were frost-bitten. Leaving him in Dixon’s charge, Fyfe and I proceeded to cut steps up the couloir until the sun should reach them, when we were to go back for lunch. In half an hour we returned and found Graham recovering. The provisions were handed out, but, our supply of jam having given out, and it being too early to melt any snow on the rocks, the bread seemed to object to being eaten with meat alone. I managed to get two mouthfuls down, but the third positively refused to be swallowed, and I was compelled to give it best. A few photographs were taken here with my brother’s kodak, which we had recovered with the swags, and Fyfe was adjusting the legs of his camera, to take some half-plate views, when they suddenly came asunder and two of them slid away down over the ice-cliffs on to the Linda. He threw the remaining one after them. A few seconds later the cap of the lens fell from his numbed fingers, and he was with difficulty restrained from adding the rest of the camera to the downward procession.
“About eight o’clock another start was made, and on reaching the termination of the steps I had cut, Fyfe took the lead and we made good progress. At last we took to the rocks, having hugged the couloir all the way for shelter from falling blocks of ice that might start from ice-cliffs above. The rocks we found in bad and dangerous condition, being coated in places with ice, and consequently we made very little more headway than if we had had to cut every step. On getting up a steep piece of rock at the head of the first couloir the rope behind me got foul. We were compelled to carry our axes for use on the ice-covered rocks, instead of having them slung on our wrists, and in order to clear the rope, I put mine down on what I thought to be a safe ledge. While I stooped to clear the rope, however, my axe slipped off, and was last seen hurrying off in the direction of Fyfe’s camera legs, some hundreds of feet below. This was a bad job for me, but I had to be reconciled to the position, and accept the assistance of a wand about three feet in length and one inch thick, which Dixon was carrying for a flagstaff. At 11.30 we had gained the foot of the second and upper couloir, where a halt was called for dinner. Here we discovered a splendid hollow-surfaced rock, with a pool of water, apparently fashioned by nature for the purpose of quenching the thirst of weary travellers like ourselves. Putting some oatmeal and sugar and a lemon into the water where it rested, we partook of as refreshing a drink as I had ever tasted. Taking turn about, we soon drank the fountain dry, but had only to spread some snow on the rock to replenish the supply. Having enjoyed our midday meal, Dixon and Graham volunteered to cut up this couloir, while Fyfe and I, after our arduous morning’s work, had a spell. I had a shot or two with the kodak, while Fyfe adjusted his camera on some flat pieces of rock, one man holding it steady while the other made the exposure. As it was too cold for a long stay of enforced idleness, we soon hailed the others above, requesting them to stop cutting until we had overtaken them. The ice chips which they dislodged acquired a great velocity before reaching us, making a humming sound in their descent. In a short time we had overtaken them, and when half-way up the couloir we again took to the rocks to avoid the steep ice at the top. Then, getting on to a more gentle slope, we cut steps up it to some sérac ice, preferring to chance the possibility of getting over this, as it seemed quite feasible. We kept slightly to the right in preference to going direct on to the arête, where we should have to cut every step, while here we were able to proceed by cutting only a few in places for about a hundred feet. The bergschrund and final ice cap were now in sight close at hand, and borrowing Dixon’s axe I once more relieved Fyfe of the step-cutting. In half an hour we had reached the schrund, and found no difficulty in crossing it at the eastern side close to the arête. Here we discovered a curious formation, of which Green says nothing in describing his ascent. Instead of finding the ice-cap hard clear ice, as we had expected, we found it to consist of a covering of horizontal icicles, giving it a perfect honeycomb appearance and rendering step-cutting a very easy matter. This slope and the one above it was at an angle of only 30 degrees. On returning we found that this formation had its disadvantage, as the broken icicles had almost obliterated our steps. I was here relieved by Graham, and he and I made rapid progress up the first slope above the bergschrund for half an hour, the other two having stayed behind for a short spell. We were working hard and willingly, congratulating ourselves that we should have the summit of Aorangi under our feet in an hour at the latest, when we were hailed by Fyfe, asking if we did not think it was time to turn.
“It was now five o’clock, the time he said Green had turned,—we found afterwards he had not turned till an hour later,—and he had, we all knew, to spend an anxious night on a narrow rock ledge below the bottom couloir. To make things worse, we had left our lantern at Green’s Rocks, as we had expected to be back there in daylight, but we had now little time to spare to gain that point before darkness set in. Deferring to those who had called out from below, as we understood they, the older and more experienced climbers, had decided to retreat, we halted in our steps and discontinued the ascent. I am of opinion now that we should have gone on. The hardest and most difficult work had been safely accomplished, and there only remained about an hour’s step-cutting up a fairly easy slope of some 30 degrees or less. However, we thought it well then to act on the advice of the others. We stopped a few minutes to admire the great panorama of mountain, glacier, lake, river, forest, and sea below us. From the point of turning a marvellous panorama of Alpine grandeur merged into distant forests, whose dark shadows loomed in strong contrast to the ice-clad mountains and the ocean to the westward. To the north a long vista of snow-capped mountains was visible until lost in extreme distance. The higher peaks stood in bold relief against a dark blue and cloudless sky, rearing their snow-clad summits far above the dense mist that rolled in the valleys at their base. The silver sheen of the River Tasman enabled us to trace the windings of its numerous branches for miles. We could see Lakes Pukaki and Tekapo, but the greater part of the Mackenzie country was invisible below a dense rolling mist that made us conjure up visions of the Arctic regions. The higher peaks at the head of Lake Tekapo were clearly visible—one, which we took to be Mount Jukes, being particularly prominent. The frowning Malte Brun Range, to which we had so often looked up, was now below us. Nearer at hand, Haast and the ice-clothed Tasman—a glorious peak from this point—reared their snowy heads aloft. Far down below in the gloom of evening lay the Great Tasman Glacier, guarded by the everlasting hills, the beautiful Elie de Beaumont and De la Bêche, near its head, half hidden in the clouds. Westward was the ocean, visible for miles and miles, more than 12,000 feet below us.
“Soon after 5 p.m. the descent was commenced. Down the long ice-ladder, roped together, we slowly went in single file, the axes of my companions clinking into the ice at every step. I, unfortunately, was now without an axe, and I had often to grip the steps with my hands till the skin was pretty well worn from off my knuckles, and there was risk from frost-bite. We, however, made good progress down to Green’s Rocks, and got out of the last of our steps at 8 p.m., just as it was getting dark. Half an hour afterwards we lit the lantern and made a quick passage down to the foot of the Linda. We then crossed the plateau once more and reached our camp too tired to discuss future plans till the morning.