A climber in New Zealand

by Malcolm Ross

We were now quite on the main ridge, but it was evident our peak was going to die hard. It was even doubtful if we should succeed. A short ice-slope intervened, and the axes were brought into play. The splintered ice went down the slope with a swish! swish! at every blow of the axe as we hacked the steps, till at length the slope was vanquished. Then a series of rocky teeth blocked the way, but we climbed over them, one after the other, and commenced to storm a dark precipice that was, beyond a doubt, in places, absolutely perpendicular. This precipice is plainly seen from the hut far down the Tasman Glacier, and it was a moot point whether it could be scaled. However, at it we went with a defiant jodel, and inch by inch, foot by foot, we pulled ourselves up. It was certainly a glorious climb, and whether we succeeded in reaching the summit ridge or not, we felt that this bit of rock-work was worth coming up for. But the rocks were very rotten, and we had to exercise the greatest caution. In some places one man had to assist the other, and the ice-axes were handed up after the leader had gained a secure stand. Only one man moved at a time, and there was a constant cry of “Have you a good hold?” before the climbing of any difficult bit was undertaken by either of us.

My axe weighed heavily on my mind. When passing through Christchurch I had asked Mr. Kinsey to lend me an ice-axe, and he generously gave me Zurbriggen’s. When a mountaineer gives away the trusty axe that has stood him in good stead on many an arduous expedition, it is like a soldier giving away his sword. Zurbriggen had presented his axe to Mr. Kinsey. It was an axe with a history, and prized accordingly. It had accompanied the famous guide to the top of some twenty peaks in the European Alps—the Gabelhorn, Dent Blanche, Monte Rosa, Matterhorn, Weisshorn, Roth-horn, Jungfrau, Silberhorn, Schreckhorn, Dôme, Nadelhorn, Mont Blanc, Finsteraarhorn, Aiguille de Charmoz (five peaks), Kühalphorn, Aiguille de Dru, and Aiguille de Géant—truly a goodly array. On top of the Nadelhorn, which is higher than Mount Cook, the axe and Zurbriggen spent the night. It was also with him on the summit of Mont Blanc for eight days and nights! Subsequently, in New Zealand he carried this same ice-axe on Mount Cook, and to the summits of Tasman, Sefton, Haidinger, and Sealy, also over Fitzgerald’s Pass to the West Coast and back over Graham’s Saddle.

Later on it did good work with me on the ascent of Haidinger, De la Bêche, the two Minarets, the descent of the pass from the head of the Great Tasman Glacier to the Wataroa, and the first crossing of Fitzgerald’s Pass from the West Coast. An axe with such a record had never before been seen in New Zealand, and it was naturally greatly prized by its new owner. Therefore it was that, though light enough in my hand as ice-axes go, it weighed heavily on my mind, and I was as careful for its safety as for my own. But there was always a haunting dread lest I should let it slip and never see it again. I was then half sorry I had brought it, but when we came to a slope up which steps had to be cut in the hard ice, we prized it highly, for it was cunningly made and of excellent design for that kind of work.

The storming of the great buttress put us thoroughly on our mettle, and so long as there was a knob to grip or a chink into which we could get our fingers we advanced slowly. In places the rocks were very rotten, and in places they were glazed, so that our progress was painfully slow. The mountain was certainly not in good condition, and this glazing of the rocks, which is a thing all mountaineers abhor, gave us much trouble. The rocks were so steep that often the leader’s feet were just above the other man’s head. At last, however, we got over the worst of it, and paused awhile to see what was ahead. Things looked more promising, and it seemed as if we should top the peak after all. The slope eased off considerably; but then there came another long stretch of bad rock-climbing with bits of ice-work, and our spirits sank. Verily this was a regular Teufelsgrat, and the devil and all his angels must have been present at the making of it. On two or three occasions we asked each other if it was worth going on, and I am free to confess that a very little excuse would have tempted me to turn at this point, but neither would give the word to retreat. I am inclined to think now that the modern rock-climbers might not think it at all difficult; but as the route has not again been attempted one cannot speak for certain. A snow slope intervened, and we went bravely at it, kicking steps in the half-frozen snow; but soon we found that the snow thinned out, and that there was glazed ice underneath. One felt in no mood for step-cutting at this stage of the climb, but, nevertheless, began to chip away at the hard ice. Then Fyfe took a hand. It was hard work, and slow. The snow had to be scraped off the slope and each step carefully cut with the pick end of the axe. Chips of ice came rattling down, hitting me on the head and hands, and filling up the steps that had been cut. I employed my time in clearing out the ice from the steps with one hand and throwing it athwart the slope, so that it would not fall in the line of steps below me. When one hand got half-frozen I gave the other one a share of the work. But my labour was mostly in vain, for such showers of ice and snow came down that most of the steps were completely filled up again as soon as they were cleaned out. I was not sorry when we gained the rocks above, though they were in places rather difficult. We made fair progress for awhile, but at length were brought to a complete standstill by a smooth sloping slab of rock that offered neither hand nor foot-hold. We could have cut up on the shady side of the ridge and avoided this obstacle, but there was now no time for difficult step-cutting. It was the rocks or nothing. We had brought with us a pair of rubber shoes for such an emergency as this, having on former expeditions proved their efficacy in swarming up smooth rocks. Fyfe having taken off his boots and put on the rubber-soled shoes, I got on firm standing-ground and gave him a leg up. The rope went out slowly and then stopped. It was now that my turn came. “Have you a good stand, Fyfe?” I asked. “No, not at all good,” came the reply; and, not daring to put any great strain on the rope under such circumstances, I scrambled up as best I could with only its “moral” support. It now seemed a short distance of the top, and we determined to push ahead as quickly as possible, for the afternoon was wearing on, and the descent began to weigh a little heavily on our minds. There appeared to be some likelihood of our spending the night out on the mountain, especially as there were still one or two bits of bad rock-work ahead of us. At one place Fyfe left his axe behind, in order the better to grapple with the difficult rock-work.

At last we gained the highest rocks and what seemed, from the De la Bêche Bivouac, to be the highest point of the ridge. We found, however, that there was a snow slope beyond this leading to the end of the summit ridge, and up this I cut till we gained the crest. Fitzgerald’s rocks were a long way off at the other end of the ridge, and much as we should have liked to have visited his cairn, there was no time to do so, even if we could have surmounted the cornice that seemed to bar the way. We were some 27 feet, according to the map, below the highest point of the mountain, so we did not claim its complete ascent.

From the summit ridge of Haidinger, over ten thousand feet above the sea, we had an Alpine view at once extensive and imposing. We were on the main divide, and we looked northward along its snowy crests and jagged pinnacles of rock to where a long snow arête led up to the dazzling summit of Glacier Peak. Beyond that again, stretching away towards the north-east, was a grand array of peaks and glaciers, several of the mountains rising to altitudes of over 10,000 feet. The magnificent sweep of the mighty Tasman lay below—thousands of feet down—and, on its eastern boundary, rose the gaunt precipices of the Malte Brun Range, culminating in a splendid peak 10,421 feet high. We looked eastward across the island to the dim sea-haze beyond Timaru; westward the lazy swell of ocean broke in a white line along the indented coast. Near at hand, on our left, the giant mountains of Cook and Tasman reared their hoary summits, and the children of these mighty monarchs stood around at respectful distance. But grand as all these were in their serene and stately loveliness, it was ever the west that held our gaze. Westward ho! What magic is there in these words! We felt their influence upon us once more as we gazed down at the broad expanse of spotless snow that fed the Fox and Victoria Glaciers; at the dark lakes embosomed in the darker forests that climbed upwards from the sea; and at the white line of the Pacific breakers, that, up where we were perched, seemed to fall with noiseless beat along the western shore.

In the glorious sunshiny weather, with such marvellous views all around, our stay was all too short. But we had to think of the descent, which promised to engage all our attention and require alike nerve and skill. So, reluctantly, we turned our faces eastward and went down the snowy crest to the highest rocks at this end of the ridge, where, under a flat stone, I left a card. There were not enough loose rocks to build a cairn. Returning to the ridge, we made our way down in the ice-steps, exercising the greatest caution, as we had now only one axe. The steps were for the most part filled up, and Fyfe had to feel for them with his feet after cleaning out those on a level with his face so that he could get a grip in them with his hands. The rope was kept taut, and I took good hold above, going down with my face to the slope, and using my axe as an anchor, digging the handle in where there was snow and the pick end where there was hard ice. With my face turned to the wall I could look between my legs and see Fyfe immediately below me, cautiously feeling his way down. When we got to his axe we were able to progress more rapidly. We wasted no time, but climbed steadily without a halt, for that grim precipice still lay below. Just above it the rocks were terribly rotten. It was almost impossible to avoid dislodging them, and I, who was now leading, was, for a time, subjected to a regular bombardment. First of all I was nearly knocked out of my steps by a blow on the leg. Then I was struck on the shoulder. A few minutes later, a flat chunk of rock that lay half buried in a bit of soft snow was dislodged by Fyfe and hit me fair on top of the head. This half-stunned me for the moment, and Fyfe was warned to keep a good hold while I leaned against the rock to recover. Luckily I have a good thick skull, and the rock struck me with the flat, and not endways on, so there was little damage done.

At length we reached the precipice. The descent was quite a work of acrobatic art, and the attitudes we sometimes got into would have been the envy of a contortionist, could he have seen them. “Swinging there over the world,” writes Gilbert Parker, in one of his graphic bits of description, “and not high enough to get a hold on heaven, it makes you feel as if things was droppin’ away from you like”; and that was somewhat like the feeling we had in descending this cliff. After a good deal of slow and careful climbing, we reached the plateau, and knew that our difficulties were over. We went down the final slope at a good pace, getting some fine glissading on two or three snow slopes. Below these, we took off the rope and hurried down over the final rocks. Some of the slates were very sharp and cut like a knife. One long cut on my hand bled profusely, and the handle of Zurbriggen’s axe was dyed a brilliant crimson. Fyfe was still more unlucky, for he knocked his leg on a projecting slate which cut a hole in his stocking and took a bit out of the leg just over the shin bone. Spartan like, however, he said no word about it until we reached the Bivouac.

In the gathering dusk of evening two tired mountaineers, battered and bleeding, but victorious and triumphant, sought the shelter of the Bivouac rock, where Hodgkins and my wife were kept busy for the next half-hour in the preparation of supper. We began with a steaming billy of porridge, then we had stewed tinned peaches, followed by mulligatawny soup, and tea made in the same billy as the porridge! The tea was not quite a success; but in those days we did not stick at trifles, and the mixture quickly vanished.