A climber in New Zealand

by Malcolm Ross

CHAPTER XX

THE FIRST CROSSING OF MOUNT COOK—concluded

“And now that I have climbed and won this height,

I must tread downward through the sloping shade,

And travel the bewildered tracks till night.”

Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

We spent altogether twenty-five minutes on the summit of the mountain—12,349 feet above the sea. The views were certainly grand and very beautiful, but not so fine as from between the altitudes of 10,000 and 11,000 feet, for the simple reason that, from the greater height of the summit, all the lesser mountains were dwarfed, and many of those that looked imposing from below had now dwindled into insignificance.

Having repacked our rücksacks, we gave one last glance about us, and then started down the slope on the other side of the mountain. We were now met by a wind, which, of course, at this altitude, was very cold. The snow slope was not steep, but it was frozen, and we had to cut a number of steps before we could reach the rock arête. In half an hour we were on the highest rocks of this arête, and, to our dismay, we found them in the worst possible condition for climbing—plastered with snow and ice, and fringed with great icicles. We might have returned to the summit and climbed back to safety before nightfall down our upward route; but we were very keen to “col” the peak for the first time, and decided to take the risk. Very little was said, and, after a brief consultation between Fyfe and myself, the word was given to continue the descent, and we started with grim determination to conquer the difficulties and overcome the dangers that lay between us and the upper slopes of the Hooker Glacier, thousands of feet below the summit on the western side. It now became a question, not only of climbing with care, but also with all possible speed; for there was no place on this long ridge, in its present condition and with the cold wind blowing, where we could bivouac in safety. We had reckoned on a comparatively easy climb down these rocks, and also upon crossing the bergschrund at the head of the Hooker Glacier before nightfall, but soon saw that this would be out of the question, especially as one of the party was a slow climber. Fyfe repeatedly urged him to hurry and trust for safety to the rope. Fyfe was now in the responsible position—last man on the rope. I came next, and Turner was between me and Graham, who, under general directions from Fyfe, led down. After descending a few hundred feet, we soon found that, owing to the ice-glazing and the new snow, it was impossible to keep to the crest of the ridge, and the descent became largely a series of traverses across difficult and, at times, precipitous faces of rock, mostly on the eastern face of the arête. On the west the climbing was even more difficult, and there was a bitter wind blowing, so we avoided that side as much as possible. In one place we had to climb back from the eastern face through a gap of overhanging rock and great icicles. Peter smashed the greater part of the icicles with the handle of his ice-axe, and the broken pieces went swishing down the precipices towards the Hooker. Under the circumstances, there was naturally some hesitancy in selecting the best route; but there was little time for undue deliberation, and as Graham paused now and then in some doubt Fyfe would call out, “Will it ‘go,’ Peter?” Peter, in quiet and solemn tones, would invariably give the one answer, “Well, it doesn’t look too good,” and then would come the answering admonition from Fyfe, “Get down—get somewhere!”

At last we came to a break in the ridge that looked utterly unscaleable. We halted and glanced ahead and from side to side. Then we cast longing eyes to some snow slopes leading down to the Linda Glacier on the east; but that was thousands of feet below us. “Will it ‘go,’ Peter?” we asked, and back came the non-committal reply, “It doesn’t look too good.” There was considerable hesitancy. It now appeared that the moment for decisive action had come, so I suggested that we should unrope, and be lowered down singly over the face of rock. I was lowered down first, and then, untying, the rope was hauled up, and Graham was lowered. I had gained a footing on a knob of rock that jutted out from the snow and ice in a narrow “chimney”; but there was not room on this for two people, so I cut a few steps and climbed down some twelve or fifteen feet, and held on in a somewhat insecure position. I confess that I was anxious to see the last man make his appearance: for, with a keen wind nearly freezing the fingers with which I clung to the rock, and without even the “moral” support of the rope, my position was not altogether one to be envied. Graham climbed down the slanting “chimney” for a few feet towards me, and then Turner was lowered to the knob of rock on which I had gained my first secure footing. It remained for Fyfe to get down. His was a position of the greatest responsibility, and it required a cool head and splendid nerve, for there was no one to lower him. He had to use the rope doubled and hitched over a projection of rock. The greatest care had to be exercised, especially for the first few feet, in case the rope should slip over the knob. Fyfe, however, managed to get down in safety, and then we all roped up once more. There was no room for us to shift our positions to revert to the original order on the rope, so that now I had to take the lead. We climbed round the foot of the steep wall that had cut us off, and once more gained the crest of the ridge; but it would not “go,” and we crossed to the eastern face, scrambling down a short broken couloir, and then traversing back to regain the ridge. I had to hack a hole through long icicles that were hanging from a jutting rock. There was just room to crawl through, the knapsack grazing the broken fingers of ice above. There might have been a route on the eastern side of this face; but a glance down the dark precipices and couloirs, filled with clear ice, to a depth of three or four thousand feet, was somewhat startling, especially when that glance was made in search of a practicable line of descent. Besides, under such conditions as we were face to face with, the known is always preferable to the unknown, and the more so when time is so important a factor in a climb. We knew the ridge we were on could be descended, but we might easily have got into a cul de sac on those grim, ice-plastered eastern precipices.

Our difficulties, however, were by no means over, for, in a few minutes, I was peering over the face of a dangerous-looking, precipitous cliff. A glance showed that there was no practicable route either to the right or the left. The afternoon was wearing on; there was no time for hesitancy, so I went over the edge, and, with the assistance of the spare rope, scrambled down a steep chimney with square smooth sides and few hand-grips. This chimney, however, fell away from the perpendicular near its foot and sloped inwards. On its final twelve feet there were neither hand nor foot holds. There was accordingly nothing for it but to unrope again, and be lowered down singly. Graham lowered me down with one rope, Fyfe and Turner anchoring on the rocks above. For a little way, by clawing at the rock with feet and hands, and by the friction of my body, I was able to descend with some slight amount of dignity, and told Graham to lower away. Then, as I reached the part where the chimney sloped inward from the perpendicular, I lost contact with the rocks, and hung suspended like Mahomet’s coffin between heaven and earth. The strain of the rope round one’s waist, threatening to effect a complete change in one’s internal anatomy, a vague clawing at air with one’s hands and an equally vague searching for foot-hold with the nether limbs as you dangle in space at the end of a forty-foot rope with precipices and snow slopes of over a thousand feet below, have a chastening influence on the most seasoned mountaineer, and, however exhilarating the experience may be, it is always with feelings of supreme satisfaction, and almost of devout thankfulness, that he once more comes to close grips with mother earth. At all events, when, after these brief and more or less graceful gyrations at the end of that particular rope, the strain was removed from my waist, and foot-holds and hand-holds once more became actual realities, no complaint was made, even though the middle finger of my left hand, which had been cut on the sharp rocks, was spurting blood, and dyeing the snow a beautiful crimson.