T. C. Fyfe.
“Once, in the days before the luxury attendant upon huts and chimneys had crept into the Tasman Valley, I was cooking scones on an improvised oven made out of an old nail-can, when a number of keas flew down from the great shoulder of Mount Cook above the Ball Glacier. They watched the culinary operations for a time at a respectful distance, and it was quite evident that some of them had never before seen a fire. One, more daring or more inquisitive than the rest, came closer and closer to it, and I watched him from an adjacent rocky seat cocking his head first on one side and then on the other as he eyed the glowing embers. Finally, he walked right up to the fire and picked out a live coal with his beak. The result was startling. He dropped it with a loud scream, and, after a few seconds of vituperation, flew away to the moraine. There he was joined by all the other keas, and, judging from their chatter, they held a committee meeting, and carried a condemnatory resolution about the cook who exhibited to the eye of unoffending keas a beautiful red thing that made the beak so sore, and that filled the mouth with anger.
“But it is at the first streak of dawn they are liveliest. We came to the conclusion that the offenders were young birds out all night on the spree and coming home with the milk. On occasions, at the Ball Glacier Hut, their antics were the cause of much bad language in various tongues, for it was impossible to sleep during the entertainment. They held a sort of circus or gymnastic performance, but it lacked variety. About a dozen sat in a row on the ridge of the corrugated iron roof of our hut. One of them said ‘Off!’ and they glissaded down, scratching and clawing with their feet all the way, amid the great applause of the audience outside, and the curses loud and deep of the victims inside.
“The intervals were filled up by the whole troupe prowling round the hut yelping like puppies, with now and then a cry like that of a very fractious baby. And so it went on, for hours, unless someone was willing to get up and out and chase them off the premises. And then there would be heard more strong language, as the shivering pyjamaed individual, groping about in the dusk for some suitable missile, would tread on a meat-tin, or knock his big toe against one of the many rocks that surrounded the hut.”
One day, during our enforced idleness in the hut, a surfaceman engaged on the track came up to consult our doctor. He had been suffering dreadfully from toothache. After a careful diagnosis, it was resolved that the tooth must come out. But how? That was a question to puzzle a layman, for there were no dentist’s instruments within ninety miles of the Tasman Glacier. Nevertheless, it was decided to operate, and the doctor and I and the patient filed out of the hut to do the dreadful deed. We sat the victim down on a boulder, and while I held his head the doctor, with the blade of his penknife, skilfully dug out a much decayed molar! After it was all over the victim gave a sigh of relief, but did not seem quite satisfied. He felt around amongst the remaining caverns with the tip of his tongue, and at last found speech. “Thank ’oo very much, Dachter Cax—but—but—are ’oo shure you’ve gat the roight wan?” I confess I had my doubts on the point, but the doctor assured him it was all right, and he went away satisfied. Verily faith is a great thing! However, the little bloodletting had a soothing influence for the time being, and the real cause of the trouble was afterwards extracted at the Hermitage, with a more suitable instrument than a penknife.
The weather continuing bad, Dr. Cox decided to walk down to the Hermitage. After two or three days the weather cleared, and Hodgkins and I did a little rock-climbing on one of the spurs of Mount Cook, and some step-cutting on the ice cliffs of the Ball Glacier. On Saturday the 28th the weather had cleared. We devoted the morning to photography, and at 2 p.m., as there was still no sign of Dr. Cox or Fyfe from the Hermitage, we left with swags for the De la Bêche Bivouac, some eight miles farther up the glacier. The journey up over rough moraine and hummocky ice took us four hours and twenty minutes. My shoulders ached with the swag straps, and we all felt a little tired with the unwonted exercise of swagging over the loose rocks of the moraines, and with the jumping à la kangaroo from hummock to hummock of the white ice. At 8.30 p.m. the three of us turned into our sleeping bags under the rock. It was a glorious evening, and, through the entrance of our cave-bedroom, we looked far down the valley to the cold grey snows on the summit of Aorangi, which, an hour or so before, had been bathed in the golden splendour of evening. The morrow promised to be fine, and, thinking it a pity to waste a day, we decided to make the ascent of the Hochstetter Dome, hoping that Cox and Fyfe would have arrived by the time we got back. Alas! Cox climbed no more with us that year. On an ordinary level path near the Hermitage he sprained his ankle badly, and it was not healed for months.