A bank of cloud loomed above the eastern mountains, but the sun was clear in the blue above, and as there was, at last, every prospect of fine weather, our spirits rose proportionately to the elevation gained. From this point a beautiful snow ridge rose in a gentle curve to a series of rocky crags. There was just room for our feet on this narrow ridge. On the right a steep couloir led down to the Linda Glacier, and on the left the mountain fell away in very steep slopes, for over three thousand feet, to the Grand Plateau. At the end of the snow ridge we had some fine climbing up a shoulder of rock. This was scaled without incident, except that of a falling stone which Turner dislodged, but which, fortunately, went past without hitting either Fyfe or myself. Then we climbed along another narrow snow arête, which, though steeper than the first one, was somewhat shorter. On gaining the rocks at the head of this ridge at 9 a.m., we halted for an early lunch. We replenished the wine-bottle and the water-bottle with the drippings of snow that we melted on a slab of warm stone.
We had now gained an altitude of between 10,000 and 11,000 feet, and the views were magnificently grand. Tasman, the second highest mountain in New Zealand, with his wonderful slopes of snow and ice, and a magnificent snow cornice, was quite close to us on the north. Then came Mount Lendenfeld, and the jagged, pinnacled ridge of Haast, which, from this point of view, seemed to bid defiance to the mountaineer. Farther along, on the main divide, rose the square top of Mount Haidinger, from which the magnificent schrunds and broken ice of the Haast Glacier fell away towards the Tasman Valley. Beyond that, the rocky peak of De la Bêche, and the beautifully pure snows of the Minarets cleft the blue, leading the eye in turn to the gleaming masses of Elie de Beaumont and the Hochstetter Dome at the head of the Great Tasman Glacier. Across the valley Malte Brun towered grandly above all the other rock peaks of the range, and still farther away, towards the north-east, was the finest view of all, range succeeding range, and mountain succeeding mountain for more than a hundred miles, or as far as the eye could reach. In the distance, to the north of the main range, we looked down on a sea of clouds upon which the sun was shining, the higher peaks piercing the billows of mist and looking like pointed islands. We could plainly trace our steps along the snow arêtes that we had climbed, and across the Plateau thousands of feet below. Lower still were the great schrunds and toppling pinnacles of the Hochstetter Ice Fall, and below that the magnificent sweep of the Great Tasman Glacier. Eastward a few fleecy cumulus clouds sailed over the foot-hills, and beyond were the plains of Canterbury and the distant sea.
An hour passed all too quickly amidst scenes of such magnificence and grandeur; but there was still a long climb ahead, and, in high spirits, we started to cut steps up another very sharp snow ridge with a drop of four thousand feet on one side. Balancing on this narrow ridge and gazing down those tremendous slopes was quite an exhilarating performance. This ridge brought us to the last rocks, which were steep and afforded some fine climbing. At the top of these rocks we found Zurbriggen’s match-box under a few pieces of splintered rock, and left a card in it. Fyfe led up to a shoulder below the final ice-cap, still cutting steps, and then the order on the rope was reversed and Graham went to the front. This shoulder turned us to the left, and soon we gained the final snow arête that rose steeply almost to the summit. The last bit of the ice-cap afforded easy climbing, and at one o’clock on Wednesday afternoon we stepped on to the topmost pinnacle of Aorangi—thirteen hours and forty-five minutes from the time we left our Bivouac. The view was again magnificent—almost indescribable. We looked across the island from sea to sea, and in addition to the views northward, eastward, and westward, we now beheld a glorious Alpine panorama stretching to the south as far as the eye could reach. The giant Tasman and all the lesser mountains were dwarfed, and the whole country was spread out like a map in relief at our feet. Hector, the third highest mountain in New Zealand, seemed a pimple; St. David’s Dome had become a low peak; but Elie de Beaumont, near the head of the Tasman, still looked a grand mountain, the effect of distance seeming to make it the more imposing.
Through rents in the clouds to the westward patches of sea appeared like dark lagoons. I stepped out of the rope to secure the first photograph that had ever been taken of the summit of Mount Cook; then we congratulated each other, and while Graham got the provisions out of the rücksacks Fyfe employed himself in taking in the view and coolly cutting up his tobacco for a smoke.
Fyfe had intended to take the pulses of the party, and I to make some careful notes of the surrounding mountains; but we did not do so. Professor Tyndall in his famous description of the ascent of the Weisshorn says that he opened his notebook to make a few observations, but he soon relinquished the attempt. There was something incongruous, if not profane, in allowing the scientific faculty to interfere where silent worship was a “reasonable service.” Thus felt we as we gazed around at the marvellous panorama. Then thoughts of the descent began to obtrude themselves. We had climbed Mount Cook from the Tasman side. A more serious problem now presented itself. Could we descend on the Hooker side, and so make the first crossing of Aorangi?
A 3000 foot snow slope.
Summit of Mt. Cook.