A climber in New Zealand

by Malcolm Ross

That give upon that lonely peak!”

Robert Haven Schauffler.

The time had now arrived for us, on this journey, to do a little climbing and some real exploration, so one morning early in May, and much too late in the season, Fyfe, Hodgkins, Kenneth, and I started off up the Cleddau River, with the object of making a first ascent of Tutoko, the highest mountain in Fiordland. The guide who convoys tourists overland to Milford from Te Anau and vice versa accompanied us. So far as we could ascertain from him, and from Sutherland, who had resided in these parts for about twenty-five years, no one had explored the head waters of this branch of the Cleddau, and the ascent to Tutoko had never even been attempted. We had three days in which to accomplish our undertaking, and as we were promised some rough travelling through the forest and over the river boulders, besides which there was the prospect of a difficult climb, we decided to push on with all haste. Our plan was to establish a camp, as far up the valley as we could the first day, climb the mountain on the second day, and on the day following return to the Sound. We started at 8 a.m., tracking through the bush behind Sutherland’s, and then skirting the right bank of the Cleddau, there a broad-flowing stream. We followed an old, disused bush-track cut by Sutherland some years previously, and then emerged on to a comparatively open piece of flat, with only a clump of trees here and there in the middle. Fyfe, who was still suffering terribly from neuralgia, could, bravely as he bore the pain, proceed no farther, and, greatly to our regret, and his own disappointment, he had to return to the Sound.

We carried, in addition to a tent, our sleeping bags, a camera, the ice-axes and Alpine rope, and provisions to last us four days. We were not likely to starve, whatever happened, as the valley abounded in game, and we had with us two dogs—Tubs, belonging to Sutherland, and Rover, belonging to the guide. Rover went about his work quietly, and in spite of our admonitions was continually bringing us kakapos he had killed. Tubs, on the other hand, roamed at large through the bush making a great noise but killing nothing—although on one occasion he very nearly succeeded in killing himself. But more of that later.

Proceeding for a mile or so over comparatively open ground, we were able to obtain a good view of our surroundings. Barren Peak, the end of the Barren Range, rose abruptly on our left, Mount Moreton towered massively in front, and on its right, up the left-hand branch of the Cleddau, we saw the mountains where it is supposed that young Quill lost his life in the attempt to discover a pass from Wakatipu to Milford Sound. His footprints were found on the brink of a precipice overlooking the left-hand branch of the Cleddau River, and, subsequently, his brothers, making search in the valley, on the Milford side, found a portion of a skull which may, or may not, have been his.

Some two and a half miles from the Sound the river forks. Turning abruptly to the left, we re-entered the forest, and then followed, for a few miles, the north branch of the river, now for seven or eight miles a foaming torrent, swollen with the rains, and hurrying seaward over its boulder-strewn granite bed. We struggled over and around these great slippery boulders, in some places balancing ourselves with difficulty, in others slipping knee-deep into pools of icy-cold water. Then, by way of variation, we would march back into the forest. On either side the trees came down to the water’s edge. The bush was wet and gloomy, and occasionally we sank to the knee in springing moss and decaying leaves. The trees were covered with moss and lichen; no sunshine penetrated, and, what with the gloom and the smell of rotting vegetation, a depressing influence is apt to steal over the stranger unused to such solitudes. All the time we heard the muffled roar of the river on our right, varied at intervals by the piercing scream of some kaka, hidden in the higher branches of the tall beech trees. Occasionally there was a loud barking from a distance. This was from Tubs, who was assisting at the death of some poor kakapo. Tubs did the barking, but Rover did the killing, and presently would turn up smiling, and looking very pleased with himself, because he had a full-sized kakapo in his mouth. Some of these birds were very fine specimens, and one old fellow, with bristling whiskers and dilapidated wings, we judged to be the patriarch of all Kakapo Land.

A number of streams that came down through the bush from the mountains on the left had cut deep channels for themselves, and, swag-laden as we were, we did not at all enjoy clambering down one steep bank and up the other. After a time we would get tired of this bush travelling, and, for the sake of variation, take to the boulders again. The nails in our boots could get no grip on the smooth wet granite, and it was sometimes entertaining to the last man to watch the peculiar gymnastic progression of those in front—albeit, if he let his eyes wander from the rock on which he was treading, he was soon, himself, providing a more entertaining exhibition. Our remarks were not frequent, but, as they might say in the parish of Drumtochty, a few purple adjectives were “aye slippin’ oot.” From the forest we could see nothing of the surrounding country: from the bed of the stream the view was superb. The coloured granite boulders, with the foaming river struggling over and around them, made a striking foreground, the graceful beech trees an exquisite middle distance, and the massive snow-clad mountains, towering high above, a noble background. We waited three-quarters of an hour for lunch and then journeyed on, as before, sometimes keeping in the river bed, at other times scrambling through the forest.

Near the head of the valley we came upon some open country, and obtained a good view of the mountains ahead, and of the ranges on either side. The mountains swept round the head of the valley in a grand amphitheatre. Straight ahead was a long, snow-filled couloir leading to a narrow col, on the right of which rose, abruptly, the serrated edge of a peak that held on its shoulder an ice-field of considerable extent. Then came another mass of rock, shelving gradually towards a larger glacier that occupied the heights to the north, and flowed low down into the valley. From the middle of this field of ice there rose a huge gendarme, or tower of rock—a landmark for miles around. On our right another narrow valley began to open out. A waterfall fell over a precipice opposite, and, a mile and a half distant, we could see a glacier leading up to the foot of a high peak with a beautifully rounded dome of snow close to it on the right. This peak we took to be Mount Tutoko, 9040 feet in height, though it was impossible to tell which was the higher of the two mountains, and only one was marked on the map. We judged that the right-hand one was the higher, as it stood farther back and carried the greater glacier, and so we made up our minds to attack it on the morrow. A critical glance at the lower portion of the glacier revealed séracs and crevasses, and it seemed as if we should have a fairly long climb. We had now to wade through the river, which we did with some difficulty. Then, crossing the flat, we followed the bed of a mountain torrent that came from the ice-field which we named the Age Glacier. We were less than a mile from the ice, but it took us a good hour, tired as we now were, to accomplish that distance. The bed of the stream got rougher and rougher as we proceeded, and at last we were forced to the bush, through which the leader proceeded, bill-hook in hand, slashing every few steps at some sapling or branch that barred the way. It seemed strange to be carrying ice-axes in such a place. The last bit of the journey was over an old moraine covered with dense forest. At length, shortly after sunset, we emerged from the bush, and, with a sigh of relief, threw off our swags, for our day’s work was happily at an end.

While two of us went on to reconnoitre the lower part of the route, the other two pitched the tent and boiled the billy. After supper we partially dried our wet clothing, and then turned into our sleeping bags for the night. We were too tired to talk; but I listened for a time to the crackling of the camp fire, the murmur of the stream, and the strange cries of the night birds that were now wandering through the forest in search of food. Kiwis and kakapos appeared to be about us in plenty, but more especially the latter. The kakapo breeds every second year, three or four young ones being found in each nest; but the kiwi lays only one egg. As if to compensate for this difference, the little kiwi is a very independent fellow, while Master Kakapo, on the other hand, requires a considerable amount of attention before he can shift for himself. The kiwi is out of the nest almost as soon as he is out of his shell. There are four species of kiwi, but, so far as I know, only one kind of kakapo. Both birds are easily tamed, and make interesting pets, the kakapo in particular being a very affectionate fellow. A professor friend of mine—when he lived in a hut on the wild West Coast, in the days before he was a professor—had one that became very much attached to him. They are practically blind in the daytime, and, on our return, we caught one on the track in the Clinton Valley. He was staggering about, and bumping up against the trees just as if he had been out all night and was coming home with the milk. Lying in my sleeping bag there, I could hear also the strange whistle of the weka, that other curious, flightless bird with his strange feathers, his long beak, and his rudimentary wings. He is distributed over a very wide area in New Zealand, and is so fearless a bird that he will come right into your tent and even eat out of your hand. He is, however, an inveterate thief, and particularly fond of walking off with any little bright thing that you may happen to leave lying about the camp. He is very fat and oily under the skin, and if, by any chance, you require to use him as food, you must boil him before you grill him. He has, however, such a friendly, confidential, inquisitive way with him that you would never dream of killing him unless you were hard put to it in the matter of provisions. He is not found in large numbers about Milford Sound. Perhaps the climate is too damp for him.

One of the handsomest birds found in the sounds and on the southern lakes is the crested grebe, which builds its nest under scrub or overhanging bushes near the water’s edge. These beautiful birds are much rarer than either the kakapo or the kiwi. The kea—in some localities so destructive of sheep—is also to be met with in the Alpine parts of Fiordland; but in these localities he knows nothing of sheep, and is still a vegetarian. He comes into this story elsewhere, and, of all the New Zealand birds, he is the one that is most fascinating to the mountaineer. Duck of various species are met with, the most interesting being the blue mountain duck, who has a peculiar whistling note, and who seems almost to have lost the use of his wings.