The weather had been bad at the Hermitage, but it now showed signs of clearing, and, after waiting two days, my wife and I decided on a trip up the Mueller Valley. We started one fine morning, she carrying the camera, and I three days’ provisions and the sleeping bags. For some miles from the Hermitage the ice of the Mueller Glacier is covered with great rocks and scree fallen from the mountains on both sides of the valley. Many of these rocks are in a position of unstable equilibrium, and, consequently, very difficult to walk over. As it was a hot day and we were not yet in form, we took matters somewhat easily, and, leaving our packs after half a day’s march, returned to the Hermitage.
Mount Sefton.
Next day we started off again, intending to make a bivouac half-way up the glacier. The weather was again fine, and a fierce sun beat down in the valley, making the rocks quite hot. We made many halts, and glacier pools, here few and far between, were in request. We lunched where the glacier curved round a bend in the valley, near two pretty waterfalls, a bluff of peculiar greenish-coloured rock, and some very fine ice cliffs. A glacier stream ran purling past, a strong jet of water, from which we filled our drinking-cups, pouring through an immense block of ice that was jammed in the bed of the stream. And every now and then an avalanche thundered down from the great ice cliffs that gleamed in the noonday sun high up on the shoulders of Sefton. One magnificent fall of ice arrested our attention and held us for a time spellbound. It broke from a gigantic cliff far up the mountain, and thousands of tons poured over the grim precipices with a roar as of loud thunder. The blocks were shattered into millions of pieces, and a great cloud of ice-dust rose into the air and slowly disappeared as the seething mass of ice reached the bottom of the valley and spread itself out like some great living, moving monster on the side of the glacier. The Mueller appeared to be much altered since our former visit some years ago, and in one place the debris of an enormous rock avalanche covered the ice, where before it was easy walking. Making our way up the ice cliffs to the right of the waterfalls, and then rounding a sharp bend in the glacier, we got amongst some very rough morainic boulders that had apparently tumbled from a rotten precipice on the left. Thence we climbed an old moraine and got a good view of our surroundings. Down below, on a narrow strip of level moraine, lay some huge rocks that promised us a good bivouac. Under one we found a little firewood, and beneath the lee of another a quantity of dried snow-grass, that afterwards served us for bedding. While I went to look for water, my wife walked to the farthest point of moraine we could see to look round the corner. Corners are always peculiarly tantalizing to her. We had no billy, nothing, in fact, except the little pannikin of our spirit-lamp, and before we separated we held a council as to the best method of carrying the water when found. The brilliant idea struck us of testing the much-vaunted waterproof capabilities of our rücksack, and off I started with it down to the glacier, where, after some time, I discovered a pool.
On returning I found my wife back, and huddled up in a blanket, for the sunshine had gone from the valley and it was intensely cold. Probably we felt it more so after the great heat of the day. Lighting my spirit-lamp, I started tea-making, but under difficulties. The tiniest little breeze wafted the almost invisible flame from one side to the other, and prevented the heat from reaching the pannikin. The snow-grass caught fire; I burnt my fingers; I almost lost my temper, and felt inclined to boot the whole inadequate contraption over the moraine. It seemed hours before we got that tea, and then it had a smoky flavour with which it would not have passed muster in the regions of civilization. Nevertheless, in this place, it was nectar to our parched throats, and we enjoyed it, sitting there under the shadow of that great rock, looking over towards the huge bulk of Sefton, cold against the amber sky.
It was really too cold to sit up late that night, so it was decided to gather our mattresses, and, knives in hand, we clambered up the hillside to cut snow-grass and the eidelweiss and small celmesia. Here we found some flowers of the ranunculus—the most perfect we had yet seen.
The rock under which we had to sleep only partially covered us, but the evening, so far, was beautifully fine. Everything promised well for the morrow, and, already, the first ascent of Mount Sealy seemed an accomplished fact. But, in the mountains, as elsewhere, hopes that are cherished as the evening fires die down, are apt to vanish before the morning fires are lit. So was it now. Our first blow, on turning out our packs, was the discovery that the Alpine rope had been left behind! Our hearts sank and our plans fell to the ground; but we were so eager over our proposed climb that we collected all our straps, fastened them together, and decided to climb with their aid rather than give it up altogether. Then we wormed ourselves into our bags, and endeavoured to sleep. But it was only a little after six o’clock, and since our infancy we had seldom gone to bed at such a preposterous time. As we lay watching the shoulder of Sefton, there came, creeping up behind it, a wreath of fleecy cloud, that gradually grew, and moved until it reached the summit. Puffs of warm wind stole across our faces. We feared a nor’-wester was coming up.
As I lay there an awful thought came into my mind. The rücksack was a fine pea-green colour, and we had noticed a peculiar taste about the water it had held. It was not merely a waterproof flavour. What if arsenic were employed in the preparation of the knapsack? Horrible thought! I instantly felt as ill as if I had been reading a medical encyclopædia, and was positive that, already, I exhibited all the symptoms of arsenical poisoning. Then my wife, who had dropped off into a doze, woke up in great excitement to tell me what she had just dreamt. She thought we were climbing up a steep snow slope by means of the aforesaid straps. Suddenly I disappeared down a crevasse, leaving her with all the straps dangling at her feet. She went as near to the great lip as she dared, but could only see down a short distance into its horrible blue depths. A good idea struck her. Hastily grasping the straps, she lowered the end into the crevasse. To her delight, she felt a pull on the improvised rope. She put forth all her strength and stood firm. Judge of her horror when the head of another man appeared, quite old, and bearded like Rip Van Winkle. “I’ve been down there for years! You certainly haven’t hurried yourself!” he remarked, as his head rose above the edge of the crevasse.
With the shock of this strange apparition my wife awoke, and as she retailed her droll dream to me we both laughed so loudly that sleep flew out of our cavern door, and seemed in no hurry to come back again.
For a mountain bivouac, however, our bed was not at all an uncomfortable one, and we did manage to sleep, though we were not at all reassured in our minds about the weather. One long, narrow streak of cloud, lit by the moon, trailed right across the heavens from the north-west, and boded ill. The barometer, too, began to fall, and it was evident that we were to have a change of weather. At 2.30 a.m. we were awakened by the first gusts of the approaching storm, and by the pattering of the rain on such portion of our sleeping bags as did not come within the shelter of the rock. This was the final blow to our plans. We had intended to rise early and start on our climb by candle-light; but now all we could do was to huddle as far under the rock as possible, in order to keep ourselves dry, and wait for daylight to enable us to beat a retreat to the more friendly shelter of the Hermitage. At 5 a.m. we wriggled out of our sleeping bags, and, in the pouring rain, walked down the glacier. Dripping wet from head to foot, we sneaked quietly into the house, and, after a wash—which we scarcely needed—and a change of clothes, we appeared at the breakfast-table, much to the surprise of the other inhabitants, who had been wasting their sympathy on the two mad mountaineers whom they thought to be storm-bound on the Mueller Glacier.