A climber in New Zealand

by Malcolm Ross

Our provisions consisted of half a loaf, 1 large tin of ox tongue, 1 tin of sheep’s tongues, 1 tin of sardines, 2 tins of jam, some butter, 2 oranges, 2 lemons, a few raisins, and about a pound of brown sugar, upon which latter I subsisted almost entirely on all our climbs. I had remembered reading about the virtues of brown sugar in one of Sir Martin Conway’s books, and my wife had obtained some special brown Demerara sugar for me from our grocer. Then I looked the subject up in Conway’s book on the ascent of Aconcagua. After mentioning the necessity for light foods, such as soup and jam, for high ascents, he states that on the Aconcagua climb more important than all these was a great tin of coarse brown Demerara sugar, the finest heat-producing, muscle-nourishing food in the world. For men taking violent exercise, such as soldiers on active service or athletes in training, a plentiful supply of sugar was, he stated, far better than large meat rations. A quarter of a pound per day per man was his allowance on the mountain-side, and he was inclined to think that this might be increased to nearly half a pound with advantage, cane sugar, of course, being selected for this purpose.

We were aware that on such a climb, what with the great exertion, the want of water, and the reduced atmospheric pressure, we should be able to eat very little, and that, if we were successful, most of the provisions we were taking would not be needed. Still there was the danger, in consequence of a sudden storm, or other unforeseen difficulties, of our having to spend the night out on an exposed ledge of rock at an altitude of 10,000 or 11,000 feet, in which case our lives would depend upon a supply of extra clothing and food. Therefore we dared not with prudence make our loads any lighter.

At 11.15 p.m. on the night of Tuesday, January 9, we started, having rolled up all our belongings that we did not require in the sleeping bags, and these, in turn, in the tent. This made one big bundle, which we jammed under the rock as far as possible and weighted down with stones, so that it should not be blown away. We took with us also one 65-foot length and one 50-foot length of Alpine rope made by Buckingham, of London, and tested to a breaking strain of 2000 lb. In single file, in the moonlight, we toiled up the snow slopes leading to the Glacier Dome, 1300 feet above our bivouac. For the most part we climbed upwards in solemn silence, each one being busy with his own thoughts, and wondering, no doubt, what the day would bring about. Ten minutes after midnight we had left the final steep snow slope of the Dome behind, and looked across the great plateau that stretches, at an altitude of over 7000 feet, for a distance of some four miles, at the foot of the precipitous slopes of Mounts Cook and Tasman. From the Dome we had now to descend 700 feet, and then cross the plateau to gain the foot of the north-eastern ridge that was to lead us to the summit of our peak. The snow was in bad condition, and we sank in it over the boot-tops. In places it was in that most tantalizing of conditions with a frozen crust that let one foot through, while the other foot held on the surface. While we were crossing the plateau, a vivid streak of lightning, or an unusually brilliant meteor, flashed athwart the northern sky, and a weird effect was produced by the moon, which, with a great halo around it, was dipping westward over the snowy peak of Mount Haast. For a few moments the moon, with half its halo, seemed to rest on the very apex of the mountain. We crossed the rest of the plateau in the shadow of the high peaks of the main divide, behind which the moon had now sunk, and, presently, in the dim, uncertain light we came up against the débris of a great avalanche that had fallen from the slopes of Mount Tasman. A mass of broken ice and snow was piled in confusion to a height of 15 or 20 feet, and we had to make a detour to avoid the obstruction.

Mount Tasman.

At about a quarter past 2 a.m. we commenced to ascend the long snow slope leading to the Zurbriggen arête; and in the dusk before the dawn we reached a bergschrund that might have given us a good deal of trouble to cross. Graham led carefully through the broken ice, and, peering into the dull grey light, thought he saw a bridge over which we might crawl in safety. We made a traverse to the right and climbed round under the overhanging wall of ice that formed the upper lip of the schrund, and which, had it fallen, would have crushed us out of existence. At this hour of the morning, however, it was perfectly safe, and Graham, disappearing round a huge block that towered above, crossed a frail snow bridge and gained the upper lip of the schrund. Turner followed, and I paid out the rope as he, too, gradually disappeared from view round the corner, Graham driving the handle of his axe deep in the snow, while Fyfe and I, below, took a firm stand and kept the rope taut. In a few minutes we were all safely across, and congratulating ourselves upon having so easily overcome the first serious obstacle of the climb.

We were now fairly on to the long 3000-feet snow slope that leads up to the rocks of the Zurbriggen arête. This slope was found in fairly good order. In places we could kick steps, but in other places the steps had to be chipped with the ice-axes. As we slowly climbed upwards the slope got steeper and steeper. Indeed, the angle was just about as steep as it is possible for snow to hold. After about half-an-hour’s climbing we were startled by a magnificent avalanche that fell with thundering roar from high up on the broken ice-slopes of Mount Tasman. It crashed on to the great Plateau 2000 feet below, sending ice-blocks to a great distance, and throwing up a cloud of snow like some huge breaker that sends its spray high in air above a rock-bound coast.

It was cold work standing in the steps in the chilly dawn with the ice chips from the leader’s axe swishing about us. Presently the sun rose gloriously over the Eastern ranges, and we were revelling in its generous warmth on the slope where, before, we had been half frozen. But the combination of sun and slope became almost more intolerable than the slope without the sun. Three thousand feet of such work is apt to become a shade monotonous even to the keenest disciple of snow-craft. This particular wall is so long and so steep that the climber must give his attention almost continually to the matter in hand. He has little time to admire the view. The steps must be cleaned out, and the rope must be held taut. Each man must keep his distance. Otherwise, a slip might be fatal. But it is monotonous work climbing slowly, hour after hour, in zigzags, with your face to the white wall. You have time to review your past life for years and years, and to think of the future for years ahead. With the dead uniformity of it all, and the never-ceasing glare in the stagnant atmosphere, there comes a monition of impending drowsiness. This you fight with an effort of the will, and some pretence at enlarging the steps that the leader has made, but which are, already, large enough in all conscience. While I was standing in the steps at a spot about half-way up the slope I felt a strange tug on the rope, and thought it must have caught in some obstruction or have been struck by a falling block of ice; but, on looking round, I could see nothing to account for it. Some hours afterwards, while we were resting on the warm rocks above, Fyfe smilingly asked me if I had felt the pull, and then the rascal, still smiling, informed me that it was the result of a moment of actual somnolence on his part. For a second his brain had become dulled and his feet had come to a sudden stop on this never-ending ladder of ice. As the rope was taut, and I had a firm footing, the danger was nil; but it would never do for the leader to be so taken, and the leader on that particular slope has enough to do to keep him very wide awake.

Hour after hour went by, and we began to get very tired of the endless snow slope, so traversed to the right to gain the rocks. We found them difficult, with few holds for hands or feet, and so coated with snow and ice that progress was almost impossible. Reluctantly we had to traverse back to the snow slope. It was 6.40 a.m. before we reached the rocks on the main arête. A halt was called on a narrow ledge of snow. There we had a drink and some bread and marmalade, and took a number of photographs.