A climber in New Zealand

by Malcolm Ross

There, under the tall beech trees, we build a great log fire, and, all unheeding of the gently falling rain, boil the “billy” and enjoy our first camp meal, amidst scenes of almost Arcadian simplicity. It is the memories of such meals that remain when recollections of Voisin’s, in the Rue Saint-Honoré, or the Ritz, in Piccadilly, have been dimmed by the passing years. And I am sure that no delicacy in a Savoy supper, and not even Delair’s famous canard à la presse at the Tour d’Argent could be more delicious than the grilled bacon that came to us, in these wilds, still sizzling from the red coals of the camp fire. Overhead we could hear the strange sound from the beating of the air by the wings of a wood-pigeon and note the scarlet flash of the kaka’s underdress as he flew across the valley uttering his discordant screeches of protest. Nearer, the quiet native thrush, with russet tail, would peer at us from the tangled undergrowth, while the little wrens, confiding to the verge of boldness, would come hopping to us, and, after eyeing us with curiosity, but without suspicion, would peck the crumbs that fell at our feet.

By the time our meal was at an end and we had re-embarked, the rain-clouds were low on the mountains with their “burden of unshed showers,” and a stiffish breeze from the middle fiord was chasing a squadron of white-crested waves aslant the lake. But we got out of this disturbance into smoother waters and steamed slowly along the western shore at the feet of the great forest-clad mountains. And high in heaven we got a glimpse of one snow-capped peak that rent the clouds asunder with startling suddenness and then vanished again beneath its ashen drapery. Later, other peaks came out, and, in the breaking clouds, the majestic grandeur of the scene was slowly revealed. The walled summits closed in upon us as we went, the cold night air dissipated the swirling mists, the stars stole out one by one, and the serrated edges of the mountains on either hand were silhouetted against the evening sky as our vessel puffed along. Narrower and narrower became the lake, and as we rounded the final turn the blackness of the water and the towering precipices ahead seemed to be luring us to destruction. The captain and the engineer exchanged orders, but there was no slackening of speed, and just as the doctor, who had been stationed in the bow as a look out, was straining his eyes in a hopeless effort to fathom the cimmerian darkness, the vessel went full tilt on to the beach, and we found ourselves suddenly at the end of our journey, and, as the engineer remarked to the captain, “in a devil of a place.” Luckily no damage was done, and we had only missed the proper landing—a shelving, sandy beach—by a few yards. The men of our party scrambled out over the bow, knee-deep in the cold water, the ladies were carried from the side, and then swags and provisions were quickly transferred from the steamer and up a short bush path to the hut near by. A roaring fire was soon blazing up the spacious log chimney, and the expedition settled down to discuss the pannikins of steaming hot tea and the liberal camp bill-of-fare that the self-appointed cooks—the doctor’s wife and “the poetess”—had spread on the rough bush table for our delectation.

On Lake Te Anau.

The walk from Milford Sound has been described as the finest walk in the world, and, although this is an exaggeration, it has sufficient of beauty, and grandeur, and variety to make it world famous. But it has been so much described that it were futile for my poor pen to add anything here, except, perhaps, to say a word or two about the views from and about the pass, which is named after my old friend and fellow-explorer, Quintin MacKinnon, whose body, these many years now, has lain at the bottom of the deep, cold lake that he loved so well. One of the loneliest spots on the journey is Lake Mintaro, at the eastern foot of the pass. The lake itself reflects the surroundings, and the few wildfowl on its waters look at themselves as in a mirror—

“The swan on still St. Mary’s lake

Floats double—swan and shadow.”

With the dying day the gloom of the narrow valley deepened. The glow of sunset fell for a few moments on the mountains down the valley, and the tracery of the dark beech trees stood boldly out against the gold. The trumpet note of the Paradise ducks—which are not ducks, but geese—sounded from the lake, and the plaintive cry of the orange-wattled crow—three clear, sad notes in a minor key—came from the hillside in the dying day. The trees were grey with clinging mosses, Mount Hart towered on the left, and across the lake the grim precipices of Mount Balloon, inaccessible from this side, rose in wild grandeur for thousands of feet—a solid wall of black granite seamed with snow; while just overhead, on the left, the enormous buttresses of the mountain range in places overhung, and seemed ready at any moment to topple over and compass our destruction. The valley is narrow and gloomy, and almost completely shut in from the late autumn sun, so that as the evening wanes one is glad to seek the shelter of the hut and to pile on the beech-tree logs till a great sparking fire goes roaring up the capacious chimney.

Late in the season as it was, we only gained the summit of the pass after a weary trudge through snow. Our reward was the view. One has seen nobler mountains, greater glaciers, and more beautiful snow-fields; but the wild and rugged grandeur of the surrounding country cannot fail to leave a lasting impression. The blackness of the mountain walls, the narrowness of the valleys, and, above all, the nearness of the views, charmed and surprised us. In the valley up which we had journeyed the mountain ranges rose above the mists. Deep down below us was Lake Mintaro with the lonely hut. Turning to the right, we saw the long ridge of Mount Hart, leading to a fine rock peak, and, beyond it, behind Mount Sutherland, the glacier that feeds the Sutherland Falls, gleaming in the morning sun. Down the Arthur Valley range after range, streaked with snow, rose, clear cut, against a blue sky, merging, near the horizon, into pale green; while right opposite the pass—the grandest and most striking sight of all—was Mount Elliot, with the pretty little Jervois Glacier stretching between its twin peaks. The sun just tipped a patch of snow on the left of either peak, while the glacier itself and the stupendous black precipices flanking Roaring Creek were in shadow. Two streams of frozen snow clung to the rocks below the higher end of the glacier, and, still farther round, a peculiar cleft in the rock ran down slantwise from near the summit to the shoulder of the mountain for fully a thousand feet. Occasionally a block of ice fell from the edge of the glacier, or a rock avalanche rattled down sheer into the valley, thousands of feet below. Mount Balloon rose on the right, but, in point of grandeur and beauty, it was not to be compared with Mount Elliot, the dark precipices of which stood out in vivid contrast against the foreground of snow which the saddle this day afforded. The fine crags of Mount Balloon frowned defiantly down upon me, so Fyfe and I, leaving our burdens on the pass, went off to test them from a climber’s point of view. We went straight at the precipices that rise above the pass, kicked steps up a short snow couloir, and then zigzagged up the rocks, climbing towards what appeared to be an arête, running down into the valley at the head of Roaring Creek. We got on very well for a while, but the sun began to work round on to our side of the mountain, and, melting the snow, made the rocks slippery and the vegetation in the crevices and on the ledges dripping wet, so that we had to exercise more than usual care. The heat of the sun, moreover, began to loosen the frozen snow on the ledges of a wall of rock that towered above us for nearly a thousand feet, and masses came crashing down in unpleasant proximity. In nearly every case, however, the falling pieces became so disintegrated through coming from such a great height that there seemed little danger, and we proceeded. The climbing was unlike anything we had previously experienced, and we went at it independently, trying the rocks in different directions. Fyfe almost got blocked on a difficult bit of the cliff near the head of the couloir, and had to leave his axe behind. The couloir narrowed as we proceeded, furtively glancing up every now and then at the chunks of frozen snow that came whizzing down from the heights above. Some of the chips occasionally struck us, and the fusillade was becoming just a little unpleasant, when suddenly there was a louder crash above, and we saw, descending from a great height, a larger mass than any that had preceded it. We instinctively ducked our heads into the snow as the falling mass struck the edge of the couloir above us a little to the right, and came swishing down the slope in a thousand pieces. This was hardly good enough, so, recognizing that discretion was the better part of valour, we turned and beat a precipitate retreat. With the rocks free from snow these crags would, however, make quite a fine climb; but now it was quite clear the mountain was not in a condition to be trifled with. We had further evidence of this a few minutes later, for as we were glissading down the couloir a chip of rock came whizzing past us, too close to be pleasant. Fyfe went down first, and was skirting the base of the first great precipice that rises from the saddle on the Milford side, when there was a crash above. I yelled to him to look out, but he had seen the rock coming, and in a moment had ducked his head down and his heels up the slope, so that if the rock did strike him it would not be in a vulnerable part. To me, looking down from a height of 200 or 300 feet, the attitude he presented was most comical; and although I could not but recognize the danger and admire his quickness and presence of mind, I could not at the same time refrain from laughter. The rock fell within half a dozen yards of him and buried itself in the snow.

Later, my brother Kenneth and I made two efforts to ascend the peak, as we had discovered a route from the head of the valley on the Milford Sound side, leading to an easy arête that led right on to the summit; but each attempt was nipped in the bud by bad weather. One afternoon in company with Mr. Ziele, a member of our party, we left the Beech Huts at Sutherland Falls, and climbed to a bivouac near the pass, feeling confident that on the morrow the peak would be ours. We found an ideal place for a camp. A small stream trickled through the bush near at hand. Lower down we could hear the ceaseless murmur of the waters of Roaring Creek, and over the tree-tops immediately below us we got a glimpse of the frowning precipices of Mount Elliot. Kenneth lit a great camp-fire right on the path, and while I built up a rude platform of branches and twigs, Ziele busied himself cutting the fronds of Todea Superba and other ferns, so that we should have an easy couch. It was dark before we finished, but we continued our operations by the aid of the firelight, and at 7.30 p.m. we crawled into our sleeping bags for the night. The cries of the kiwi and kakapo sounded close by; the fire crackled on the path near at hand; while above the monotonous lullaby of Roaring Creek and all the other noises came, every now and then, the roar of an avalanche from the Jervois Glacier just across the valley. Two kakapos, half flying, half running, rushed past us through the bush, and the shrill whistle of a weka on the slopes above was answered by the quack! quack! quack! of a blue mountain duck in the creek below. Then a wind began to sigh ominously in the trees, and a falling barometer warned us of further defeat. But our bed was a comfortable one, and the old campaigners, at all events, were soon in the land of dreams.