THE WESTLAND GLACIERS
I was back at Waiho Gorge and content--seventy miles from the
nearest train, and with a mail once a week.
At Waiho, there are a few small huts, three cottages and the hotel.
The Glacier Hotel is a two-storied wooden building, with verandah
and balcony, and accommodation for between thirty and forty; it
has a dining-room, smoking-room and two sitting-rooms, in one of
which is an excellent piano; there are two bathrooms with a good
supply of hot and cold water, and soon the house will be lighted by
electricity--the power to be brought from a convenient waterfall
close by. Under the same roof is a store, where you can buy
groceries, boot-laces and tobacco, and in the same store you find
a post-office with a telephone--that indispensable luxury of the
back blocks. It is in the parish of Ross, and four times a year the
Anglican clergyman drives seventy miles to hold a service. While I
was staying here, the Bishop of Christchurch took a journey of two
hundred miles to conduct a Confirmation in the smoking-room: there
were nine candidates, some of whom had come more than forty miles.
The Presbyterian minister also comes from Ross and holds a service,
and sometimes the Roman Catholic priest spends a night at the hotel.
At this hotel, tourists may feel that they are visitors and
friends, so kindly is their welcome, and so homelike and pleasant
are the arrangements made for them. No one need be dull--something
is always happening--a draper comes through with his pack of goods
for sale; a farmer rides up with his daughters from a homestead
thirty miles south, on their way to a dance held in a hall twenty
miles further on; news too continually filters through--for the
settlers all know one another, and take the keenest interest in
each other's welfare. Catering is sometimes difficult. There
are cows for milk, chickens and a kitchen garden, sheep too, in
paddocks not far off; but all other provisions must either come in
the weekly coach or by steamer to the small township of Okarito,
seventeen miles away. Okarito is like other west coast harbours,
in having a bar, which, in stormy weather, makes it impossible for
even a small steamer to enter or leave the port. Often, for weeks
at a time, the inhabitants of Waiho Gorge must depend on the mail
coach for their supplies.
I had come back to learn more of the mountains and their ways, if
only the weather would allow me to climb.
For a short expedition up the Franz Josef Glacier, a hut stocked
with provisions and blankets stands ready a few hours' tramp from
Waiho, and for a day on the Fox, the farmhouse at Weheka serves as
base; but for any long climb up either glacier, the climber must
be equipped with tent, sleeping-bag, food, clothes, and sometimes
a small spirit-stove. The great drawback to such mountaineering
is that these necessaries must all be carried, and, as my guide
considered that I had enough to do to carry myself, my only share
was my own small camera.
In Westland, an Alpine tent is made of thin white mackintosh, with
mackintosh floor and loose outer fly, also of mackintosh. The tent
measures six feet by seven feet. The ridge-pole is of rope slipped
through the top of the tent, and fastened securely to the spikes of
two ice-axes set up at each end. The rope is next made firm round
heavy stones, and the strings of the fly are held in place by more
stones. Sleeping-bags are of eider-down or of blankets doubled over
and stitched. For food you have bread, butter, tinned meats, tinned
fruit, tea and milk. I spent several nights in a tent and found it
surprisingly comfortable. When the tent has to be pitched on bare
rock, the floor, in spite of extra clothing and a sleeping-bag,
makes a hard bed, especially if bad weather compels you to stay in
the tent longer than one night; but if it is possible to camp near
shrubs, you can then collect branches and ferns, and these, packed
closely together under the mackintosh, make a floor like a spring
mattress. Whichever it was--either soft or hard--I contrived to
sleep very well.
My first long expedition from Waiho was up the Franz Josef Glacier
to Cape Defiance Hut, with a climb next day up Mount Moltke, a
mountain which rises immediately behind the hut and is between
seven and eight thousand feet in height. It is an easy climb.
After an early breakfast we left the hut at half-past seven. First
we climbed up a rough track through the bush, where coprosmas and
currant-trees bore dense and gorgeous clusters of berries--red,
yellow and pink; then over grassy slopes, and on and up, by rocky
ridges and snowfields; again more rocks and more steep slopes of
snow, until at eleven o'clock, we stood on the summit, with the
pure air and the view for our reward.
On one side is the sea, to-day only partially seen through great
masses of cloud floating below us. On the other side, all was
clear, and before us stretched, from north to south, the whole
range of the main Divide, from Elie de Beaumont to Mount Cook and
beyond--a vision of whiteness on their background of blue sky.
While we watched, the distant peaks gradually disappeared behind
white mist, and presently, as we climbed down the snow-slopes, we
too were enveloped in mist, and walked as grey ghosts in a ghostly
world. Before reaching Cape Defiance, the mist cleared, and out
shone the sun once more.
From Waiho, the Franz Josef Glacier with its great white steps is
a road ever beckoning onwards, and the ascent of Moltke is, so to
speak, a halt by the way.
It was the end of April, and the Franz Josef was even more deeply
crevassed than the Tasman had been a month before; the weather
too was unsettled, with heavy clouds in the west--not fit weather
in which to begin a long climb. After ten days of watching and
waiting, the weather cleared. We, that is, the guide and I, left
Waiho on a radiant afternoon, and climbed up to Cape Defiance Hut.
Here we were welcomed enthusiastically by keas, young and old, who
chattered on the bushes or hopped inside the hut.
The following day was still fine, so after an early lunch, we set
out to cross the glacier, the guide carrying our tent, food and
change of clothing. At first the ice was smooth and easy to walk
on, gradually the cracks grew deeper and the ridges narrower, and
I had to be roped and to wait patiently while many steps were cut,
and twice the guide left me sitting on the rucksack and went ahead
to pick out the best route for us both to take. The glacier here is
steep as well as broken, and you climb a thousand feet in a very
short time.
[Illustration: ICE PINNACLES, ALMER GLACIER. _To face page 149._]
We were by this time close to the side, opposite the Almer Glacier,
a fine little glacier which fairly tumbles down the mountain side,
ending in an extraordinary array of huge broken pinnacles, like so
many Leaning Towers of Pisa--blocks of green and white ice, with
summits half-melted and all ready to fall. We hurried quickly past,
and, once on the mountain, were soon safe from danger of falling
pinnacles or rolling boulder. A stiff climb of an hour took us up
the ridge. First we climbed on loose shingle, then over rocks and
slopes of slippery snow-grass; and, at about five thousand feet, we
stood on the snow-line, among patches of snow, lying between big
grey rocks. Even at this height, there were many roots of an Alpine
ranunculus with leaves like those of an English buttercup, growing
side by side with the edelweiss. The only bird was a tiny mountain
wren with no tail, which fluttered about the rocks.
Our tent was pitched on the bare rock, and, with the help of a
spirit "cooker," we had an excellent hot stew, followed by tinned
apricots and many cups of tea.
At eight o'clock it began to rain, and rained or snowed quietly
and continuously all night long. At dawn a thick mist hid glacier
and mountains. We had hoped to climb up behind the Almer Glacier,
and to ascend Mount Drummond, a mountain over eight thousand feet,
which only one man, a surveyor, has ever climbed.
With the weather in its present mood, we could only wait where we
were, and in the intervals of eating and sleeping, we whiled away
the time in playing patience, with the cards set out on a towel on
the floor.
It cleared a little in the afternoon, and we were able to crawl out
and stretch our legs by scrambling up the rocks at the back of the
tent. We felt cheered too, as we could again see the Franz Josef
Glacier and dim outlines of the mountains.
After a chilly night, we had breakfast by candle-light at six
o'clock. Later the sun rose in a cloudless, pale blue sky, showing
snow lying in a thin covering close round our tent, and the tent
fly coated with frozen sleet.
In spite of blue sky the weather still looked uncertain--not
suitable for our intended attempt to climb Mount Drummond. We could
only take advantage of the good weather while it lasted, and so
we climbed higher up the snow-slopes of the rock on which we had
camped, and over a steep ridge above the snow-slopes. From this
point we had an excellent view of the head of the Franz Josef,
and could see some four miles of its course curving downwards far
beneath in a confused mass of broken ice--white shot with blue.
The glacier is fed by an immense field of pure white snow, behind
which rise several high peaks of the Alps. Directly opposite us
was Graham's Saddle--a broad white stairway leading between two of
the peaks, and affording access, as I knew, to the Tasman Glacier
on the other side. Rocky spurs run out from the dividing range,
and from another range at right angles, into this vast snowfield;
and near the junction of the latter range with the Divide, Mount
Spencer erects a steep, snowy cone of over 9,000 feet.
On our way back to camp, we stopped to look for quartz crystals,
which form here in quantities, and stick out at all angles from
the sides and overhanging portions of the rocks: most of them are
clear as glass, six-sided and sharply pointed, some are an opaque
green; they vary in size from an eighth of an inch to two or three
inches, and are very hard to detach, even with the sharp point of
an ice-axe.
As we rolled up the tent, the weather was clouding over, and no
sooner were we well on the ice of the Franz Josef than snow began
to fall, and continued falling until we reached Cape Defiance Hut.
It was not an enjoyable tramp down the glacier in the driving
snow and on ice with a surface of polished glass--indeed it was
one of those days that make you wonder whether it is worth while
to climb at all. One old kea emphatically disapproved; he joined
us, and perched on the ice near, and remonstrated loudly with us
at our rashness in venturing on such a day; at last, we spoke so
threateningly that he flew off in disgust.
We were soon soaked to the skin, as snow quickly finds its way
through woollen jersey or tweed coat, and one cannot climb in a
mackintosh. After six hours' incessant climbing, it was good to be
safe inside the hut, and enjoy a fire, hot tea and dry blankets.
After the snowstorm came a high wind, which howled furiously round
the hut that night. It was blowing still, when on the following
afternoon we started on our final three hours' climb down the
glacier; but it was sunny too, and the hot sun had slightly melted
the ice, and made it less slippery, so that climbing was easier
than on the previous day. As we came back along the forest track to
Waiho Gorge, the wind dropped completely, and the close of the day
could not have been more lovely. There, behind the forests, stood
Mount Drummond, and its resplendent whiteness and inaccessibility
seemed to mock us from afar.
The bad weather had made everyone in the valley anxious, fearing
lest our tent might have been blown over or the glacier have
proved impassable, and that morning two men had set forth towards
the glacier as a search party, and had returned relieved, after
seeing two black specks moving among the ice-falls.
Three weeks later we made another attempt to climb Mount Drummond.
All went well between Waiho and Cape Defiance; the glacier was in
perfect condition, and you could walk anywhere without the least
difficulty.
On the following day we crossed the glacier immediately below the
hut, and were dismayed to find the surface more smoothly polished
and glasslike than on the day when we came down from the Almer; we
could not walk a yard without step-cutting, and we took two hours
to climb three quarters of a mile. That brought us to the nearest
point on the opposite side: to climb further would have been sheer
waste of time. All we could do was to scramble a short way up the
mountain side, and pitch the tent, hoping for better weather on the
morrow. Alas for our hopes! The morning dawned dull and gloomy,
with thick clouds rolling up from the sea, and by the time we had
struck camp, down came the rain, and we had a wet and tedious
climb back to Cape Defiance.
Rain poured in torrents all the next day, so we waited at the
hut. The next day again was equally wet; however, at breakfast we
finished our last crumbs of bread and biscuit, and were compelled
to go, however bad the weather.
The keas had entertained us during our stay at Cape Defiance by
their absurd cries and friendly inquisitiveness, and a whole troop
of them escorted us some way down the glacier, until finding our
progress very slow, they flew away to shelter.
We were absent so long, that when in the afternoon we walked calmly
into the hotel, we found that a search party was intending to start
with lanterns at five o'clock next morning to look for us.
On the Fox Glacier we had fewer adventures, and were more
successful in carrying through what we attempted, though there too
we were compelled to strike camp in the rain and trudge back to the
homestead, drenched to the skin and with our mountain unclimbed.
At last came a bright sunny morning, free from any threatening
cloud-bank out to sea. We set off hopefully on horseback and rode
three miles through the bush to the foot of the glacier. We left
the horses to feed along the track, then climbed for three hours
up the glacier. Next we lighted a fire among the stones, in a
sheltered nook under the steep mountain side, and had lunch and a
short spell.
Above its first smooth layers of ice the Fox is tremendously
broken into gigantic pinnacles, impossible for climbing, and you
are forced to take refuge amongst boulders and slippery rocks
at the side. Higher still is the main ice-fall of the Fox--more
pinnacles and ridges of ice coming down between the mountains in a
wide frozen cascade--almost as magnificent as the great ice-fall
on the Franz Josef. We crossed the glacier at the foot of the fall
and did not attempt to climb up far among the séracs, but made for
the side, and wormed our way up steep gullies through coarse wet
grass, and then scrambled along smooth, glacier-worn rocks high
above, where we held on carefully to flax, cotton-grass, or any
overhanging branch.
Late in the afternoon we came out on the bed of a precipitous
creek, and on the further side of it found a small platform, some
ten feet by seven, thickly overgrown with rank green grass, open
to the glacier on one side, and on the others ringed about closely
with many trees. Here we pitched the tent, with a soft floor of
ferns and the leafy branches of veronicas, senecios and broadleaf
trees. A fireplace of stones was soon built against the mountain
side among ferns and biddies, and the wood fire burnt cheerily: it
was too cold for sitting outside, so we had dinner inside the tent,
looking out at our camp-fire and the dark cliff beyond the noisy
creek; later the moon rose, showing the glacier beneath, white in
the moonlight.
At 9 p.m. we crawled into our sleeping-bags and slept. We awoke
cold during the night, but after warming the tent with a small
spirit lamp, we ate slices of currant loaf, and soon went to sleep
again. At four-thirty the camp fire was lighted, and at five
o'clock we had breakfast. It was an excellent breakfast of tea,
bread and butter and delicious nectarine jam, and I even had a
boiled egg.
At seven we left our camp and set off up the creek-bed for the
summit of Chancellor Ridge. The dawn was clear and cold, with
the glacier and forests in cold grey shadow; the sea was a quiet
grey, and above the horizon we saw the shadow of the earth in deep
blue-grey on a sky of orange. Striking away from the creek across
slopes of snow grass, we climbed up rocky ridges, and at about
five thousand feet came out on a bare ridge, where I was put on
the rope: then on up a steep snowfield, and over a rounded dome
of snow where the surface was like pie-crust; next over slippery
ice which had a sprinkling of snow, and where steps had to be
chipped. Finally we had a stiff climb up the actual summit--a short
and steep knob of rock, half concealed by snow; and on the top we
found a tiny ledge of grey rock, with streaks of white and green
quartz, and scanty green moss clinging to it. The summit is only
between seven and eight thousand feet high, in New Zealand hardly
to be considered a mountain, still, when we gained it successfully,
my guide said briefly: "First lady to reach the summit, I must
congratulate you." So we shook hands and were happy.
[Illustration: MOUNT MOLTKE AND VICTORIA GLACIER FROM CHANCELLOR RIDGE.
_To face page 159._]
It was now ten o'clock and brilliantly sunny, and we stood alone
in a world of snow. Below lay the head of the Fox Glacier--a great
snowfield encircled by mountains. Immediately above the head of
the glacier stood Mount Tasman, only a couple of miles from us,
its base firmly planted in the snow, from base to summit clothed
in a spotless mantle of pure white. On the far side of the range
bounding the Fox, was Mount Cook: as seen from this point, a snow
mountain of one aspiring peak. To the left of Tasman stretched
a succession of snow-clad mountains, continuing until joined by
another range at right-angles. Rising in a mountain at the head of
the latter range, was the Victoria Glacier--a long river of dirty
white ice, flowing down towards the Fox in a deep valley on the
left of Chancellor Ridge.
The main direction of the Southern Alps is parallel with the
coastline, and when we turned our backs upon Mount Tasman we looked
across the Victoria Glacier to a dazzling snow peak beyond, and
down the Fox valley with its forest ranges to boundless miles of
blue sea. On the sea--apparently floating on its surface--were
narrow strips of cloud--grey, white and gold--and on the shore,
some twenty miles distant, we saw lines of white surf on the
irregular beaches between the tree-clad bluffs.
After a well-earned lunch of sardines, sandwiches and pineapple,
we retraced our steps down the slopes of snow to the rocky ridge,
and from there took a different route and climbed down a steep
rock-face. It was not very easy climbing, as the ground, sheltered
from the sun, was still frozen hard; so my guide kept a cautious
hand on the rope, while I found foothold and handhold. Below the
rock-face we came back to snow grass and stony creeks, and so to
last night's camping ground.
At half-past two we left the camp for the climb down. While we were
still on the glacier, the sun set in a sky of deep red, changing
to orange, yellow and pale blue. Ice-steps are hard to see in
the short New Zealand dusk, and by the time we reached the final
moraine it was quite dark, and we congratulated ourselves on
being safely off the ice. No horses were to be found, so we had to
walk for the last three miles through the bush, and at half-past
seven walked quietly into the farmhouse sitting-room, tired but
triumphant.
For a final view of the mountains, nothing can be better than a
ride down the Waiho river-bed to the coast. The Waiho is a short
river of thirteen miles, flowing in a river-bed three-quarters
of a mile wide. It flows always as a roaring torrent, sometimes
a narrow blue stream through the grey stones, but in flood-time
a mighty river of yellow water churning madly between its banks,
and whirling along with it lumps of ice, stones and mighty forest
trees. By the river banks and on rocky islands in its bed are many
low-growing shrubs, most of them some variety of coprosma--"black
scrub" as the settlers call it--which may either creep along the
ground or grow to a height of ten feet; and in the autumn every
bush, large and small, was laden with berries--berries of black,
crimson, scarlet, orange, white, grey or blue. Many of the berries
are translucent, and shine in the sunlight like beads of Venetian
glass, and the trees are blue or red from top to bottom with only
slight suggestions of green leaf and black twig. In New Zealand
the mistletoe berry is yellow, and was particularly abundant this
autumn, growing on any tree, among branches already lavishly gay.
Above the river banks tall currant-trees bear clusters of pink,
white or black berries, while the pines have berries of red or
purple. Often too, hanging from the branches of the trees, and
twining round the ferns and drooping grey-green "gie-gies" which
clothe their trunks, are garlands of scarlet supple-jack.
With the Waiho at its normal level, one can ride close to the
water, and the horses will pick their way carefully among the
boulders and fallen tree-trunks, cantering on any smooth stretch of
grass. While the horse chooses the way, his rider is free to give
full attention to the beauty of river, mountain and forest.
Looking back from the mouth of the river we saw the whole range of
the Alps. In the centre of the picture was the Franz Josef Glacier
with its immense white snowfield behind, and the Almer Glacier
flowing into it on the left: prominent above the snowfield stood
Mount Spencer in raiment of white, like a stately lady proud of
her position: stretching away from Mount Spencer and the Franz
Josef Glacier on either side, as far as eye could see, peak after
peak was outlined in delicate purity against the blue, the summits
varying in height and shape, some broad and rounded, others sharp
and pointed, no peak standing out unduly from the rest--a range of
mountains absolutely right in proportion, one harmonious whole,
and all beautiful together. As seen from here, the Alps have as
foreground forest-clad mountains encircling the Franz Josef Glacier
and rising one behind the other below the snowy peaks; gradually
they give place to quite low hills and to the scrub of the
river-bed on which our horses stood.
As we rode on towards the sea, we passed clear pools left by the
river in the shingle, and in the still water the mountains were
reflected; we saw Mount Cook, Tasman and the rest at our very feet,
while in reality they were at a distance of forty miles and more.
To-day all was calm, but the Waiho in its short course of thirteen
miles can be cruel and terrible, and only lately a man was drowned
as he tried to cross it. Lying in the river-bed are the gaunt
bleached corpses of forest-trees, a few all the way and very many
at the mouth, where they lie thickly along the shore; these trees
had their roots undermined by the Waiho in flood-time, and when
the flood went down the trees fell and died--they were the one sad
sight of an otherwise perfect morning.
After rounding a steep bush-clad bluff, we came out on the shore of
the Tasman Sea, a quiet grey and blue sea, with the tide coming in,
and great white curling breakers dashing against the beach--those
mighty breakers which are ever rolling on the Pacific coasts--we
cantered through the surf on firm grey sand, the spray flying round
us as we rode. Ever in the distance, against the blue, rose the
snowy peaks, whose loveliness compelled us to look again and yet
again, until it was a relief to rest the eyes on the grey sameness
of the sand.
Forty years ago this beach was thronged with miners seeking gold;
now not one lives here, and there is very little gold left, though
we did come across three "beach combers," who were washing sand in
wooden troughs, in the hope of finding a deposit of gold at the
bottom.
[Illustration: SOUTHERN ALPS FROM MOUTH OF WAIHO RIVER.
_To face page 164._]
The bluffs, which here run down to the sea, are ancient glacial
moraines--high-piled heaps of boulders and loose soil, covered now
with wind-swept tea-tree bushes, tall forest trees and crimson rata
vine, and between the headlands, where once the glaciers flowed,
are peaceful lagoons bordered with flax plants and rushes.
At low tide you may skirt the bluffs on the sand between sea and
cliff, but sometimes you must ride over them--up a steep track
through scrub and forest, where a horse accustomed to the beach
will carry you safely; and from his back, you look down through
tall brown trunks on the blue sea far below.
A ride of six miles from the mouth of the Waiho brings you to
Okarito--a tiny township and port--its one street all grass-grown,
and only a few houses and the wharf to mark what was, in the
days of gold, a big and thriving town. In those days it had two
Churches, many banks and hotels, and in the saloons, gay doings
night after night.
Another eight mile ride through the forest brought us to a small
hotel, where I joined the mail coach which took me back to trains
and towns, and very sorrowfully I said goodbye to the mountains and
to my friends in Westland.