FIRST ATTEMPT TO CLIMB AORANGI
_First impressions—Swagging—The Hochstetter Glacier—Defeat—The
perils of river crossing_
‘To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first.’
It was on March 24, 1886, that I left Christchurch, in company with my
cousin, Mr. C. D. Fox, on my first visit to the great Tasman Glacier
and Mount Cook, or Aorangi.[1]
[Footnote 1: The Maori name of Mount Cook is ‘Aorangi,’ or, more
properly, ‘Ao-Rangi.’ The commonly accepted meaning of the term is
‘Sky-piercer’ but as the Maori language admits of many varieties of
translation, each version hovering about the region of true meaning,
it is only natural that authorities should differ as to the correct
construing of the word.
One good Maori scholar, whose reputation as such is almost pre-eminent,
gives the poetical translation of ‘Light of Day’—a singularly
beautiful one, for it is the first peak to catch the morning light and
the last to show the glow of evening.
Another very well-known Maori scholar, the Rev. J. W. Stack, assures
me that the most reasonable interpretation that can be put upon the
word ‘Ao-Rangi’ is ‘Scud Peak’; and this is a singularly apt one,
for the prevailing nor’-west winds always cause condensation and the
gathering of cloud-banners about the higher parts of the mountain.
‘Heaven-piercer’ and ‘Cloud-piercer’ are also often used, but are to a
certain extent fancy names.]
I often look back now with feelings of amusement at the audacity with
which we determined to make our first attempt to scale the great
monarch of the Southern Alps, and wonder how we could have been so
self-satisfied with our own powers and confident of our ability in
undertaking such a gigantic task. I can only suppose that it was
ignorance of what lay before us, and a clear case of ‘fools rush in
where angels fear to tread’; for when my thoughts run back over the
toils, hardships, and bitter lessons of experience undergone during
the past six years, and when I think of the position of two completely
inexperienced men (as far as _true_ Alpine work is concerned) launching
straight out into such an undertaking, my heart seems to quail at the
idea. It is true that we both had heard and read of much Alpine work,
and had been for some time in touch with climbing-men, also we were
both practised in hill-walking and accustomed to such work as mustering
sheep, pig-hunting, and shooting over what in England would be termed
rough mountains, so that as cragsmen we could scarcely be classed as
novices. As to any knowledge other than theoretical of the conditions
of snow and ice, however, we might be termed tyros, though Fox had
done a little scrambling on the Swiss glaciers. Nevertheless, we had
sufficient ‘cheek’ to consider ourselves wise and strong enough to go
straight into a really difficult piece of Alpine work, and, laughing at
all discouragement, we set off for the mountains.
I have already described the customary route to the glaciers of Mount
Cook, so will not weary my readers with a long narrative of the journey.
At Timaru (four hours by rail from Christchurch) we completed our stock
of provisions, consisting of biscuits, tinned meats, &c., and took the
evening train on to Fairlie Creek (forty miles further inland), where
on arrival we hired a horse and buggy and drove to Ashwick Station,
seven miles distant on the road to the mountains.
The next day’s journey took us over Burke’s Pass and into the Mackenzie
country, past the beautiful Lake Tekapo, and on to the ferry situate at
the southern end of Lake Pukaki.
The road itself winds through bleak tussock plains, interesting only
from a geological point of view; but all monotony of the immediate
surroundings is completely lost when one looks further afield and gazes
on the marvellous beauty of such scenes as the Southern Alps from Lake
Tekapo, or the Ben Ohau Range from the plains. Even the most fastidious
globe-trotter could not fail to be deeply impressed with such a picture
as Aorangi from Lake Pukaki.
To look at Aorangi from this approach is enough to damp the spirit of
the stoutest Alpine climber that ever breathed, and is quite sufficient
to account for the disbelief and incredulity cherished in the mind of
many a shepherd in the Mackenzie country regarding the possibility of
ascending the peak.
History repeats itself, and just as we hear of the native mountaineers
of the Himalayas, Andes, and Caucasus discrediting ascents of glacier
peaks around whose very bases they and their ancestors have lived and
died, so we find that our own countrymen, whose calling needs their
constant presence amongst their flocks on the lower ranges, refuse to
believe that mountains presenting such an appearance as Aorangi are in
any manner of way to be scaled.
The following day brought us to the Hermitage. A low mist had hidden
the higher peaks throughout the day, and led to a surprise on the
following morning which I little dreamt of.
I wonder if all Alpine climbers, in first ‘tasting the sweets of
climbing,’ are similarly impressed with their initial Alpine view!
No words of mine can describe the ecstasy which seemed to pervade my
whole being as on the early, cloudless morning the wonderful picture
of Mount Sefton reared itself in indescribable sunlit grandeur above
the old bush-clad moraine close by the Hermitage. Here, indeed, was a
new and a fairy-like world to live in. As we sat in the verandah of the
Hermitage the ice-seamed crags appeared to rise up and up until they
culminated in a long serrated and corniced ridge, seeming almost to
overhang the very spot where we rested.
A scene of mountain glory never to be forgotten, a memory to last a
lifetime!
More than 8,000 feet above us were built up those ice-clad precipices,
their glaciers glinting in the bright morning light, their avalanches
tearing down the mountain sides and waking the echoes of a hundred
ravines and valleys with their thunder.
Where is the man who can describe these
palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps?
Where is the mountaineer—not the mere gymnast, but the Nature-loving
mountaineer—who can tell the feelings of such a first impression?
And yet even this scene seems to fade in the memory and suffer by
contrast with those of other pictures in the New Zealand Alps, for up
the Tasman Valley, where later on in the day we wended our way, fresh
vistas of Alpine glory were unfolded to view.
Aorangi from the Hermitage is also a grand sight. The mountain seems
to possess a startling individuality and a majestic grandeur somewhat
different in character from its worthy neighbour Mount Sefton. The view
is more distant, but the bold outline of the peak stands out in relief
against the blue of the heavens, and rears a face of glacier-clad
precipices to a height of 10,000 feet above the Hooker Valley at the
mountain foot. Light clouds float about the peak and lend an ethereal
air to its beauty, imparting a fairy-like, floating appearance to the
peak itself. At other times the outlines are apparently clear cut
against the sky, giving an air of lasting and monumental dignity, and
conveying the idea of stability from past ages to ages to come.
After an early lunch, and accompanied by Mr. Huddleston (the landlord
of the Hermitage), and one of his men, we started off for the Tasman
Glacier. The first part of the way leads down over stony flats to the
termination of the Mount Cook Range, and at this point the Hooker River
is crossed.
On this occasion we double-banked over on horse-back without much
difficulty; but very often the Hooker River is quite impassable with
horses, the torrent being confined in a narrow boulder bed of about 200
feet in width, which in flood time, during the warmer months of spring
and summer, is quite filled with a roaring torrent, often bearing down
with it blocks of ice from the Mueller and Hooker Glaciers above.
Turning in a north-easterly direction round the end of the range we
shaped our course up the Tasman Valley, and in two hours’ time from
the Hermitage arrived at the terminal face of the great glacier, which
fills the whole of the valley from side to side, a width of about two
miles. Here, then, the hard work was about to begin, for the horses
could not proceed further, and it was necessary to carry everything
from this point on our own backs.
Ah! good reader, have you ever carried a swag, a _real_ swag—not a
Swiss knapsack—but a real, torturing, colonial swag? When you take it
up and sling it on your back in the orthodox fashion you remark: ‘Yes;
I think it _does_ weigh fifty pounds.’ In ten minutes your estimate of
its weight has doubled. In an hour you begin to wonder why Nature has
been so foolish as to make men who will carry swags; bad language seems
to slip out ‘quite in a casual way,’ and you begin to bend forward and
do the ‘lift.’ But the ‘lift’ does not seem to fulfil quite all that
is said in its praise, for soon the torturing burden settles down again
and drags on to your shoulders more heavily than ever. After a bit
of nice balancing over loose moraine the swag triumphs. Down you go,
and the wretched thing worries you, whilst you bark your fingers and
swear horribly, bruising your knees and shins, and cursing the day on
which you saw the light of a hard and feelingless world. You recover
and repeat the performance as before, and by the time your day’s work
is done you find out to your own demonstrated satisfaction that the
burden _weighs at least five hundred-weight_. You sling it off and give
it a malicious kick, with the result that you break a thermometer or
some such delicate instrument. Then you try to walk, but stagger about
like a drunken man; there is no small to your back, your back tendons
are puffy and tired like those of an old horse, your head swims, and
your eye is dim. Patience and rest, however, gradually bring you round,
and soon you regain strength and spirits in feeling that at least you
have conquered a day’s difficulties and have brought your board and
lodging so far with you.
Ah! think of it, you knapsack mountaineers, you feather-bed Swiss
mountaineers, with your tracks, your hotels, your guides, your porters,
and your huts. No; this New Zealand work is not like yours.
But then, you see, we are enjoying what you cannot get. Exploring
and opening out virgin fields, learning to be our own guides—and
porters—from that best of masters—hard experience.
We struck up the little valley which here exists between the lateral
moraine on our right and the hill on our left, and toiled on amidst
dense scrub so gnarled and matted that we could at times walk on it
as on a spring bed, though now and then going through, of course. The
scrub alternated with slopes of loose strips of moraine. By evening
we reached a little blue lake which feeds the creek issuing from the
valley’s mouth, and here we pitched our tent for the night.
The sub-Alpine vegetation here is interesting and varied. Wild Irishman
(_te matakuru_ of the natives or _matagowrie_ of the shepherds),
Spaniards, with leaves like carving-knives and points like needles,
having stalks sometimes eight or ten feet high; stunted totara, many
varieties of veronica, celmisias with large marguerite daisy-like
flowers, the beautiful white ranunculus, and a hundred bushes and
creepers all mixed up in the most glorious confusion amid rocks
sometimes covered with slippery moss, over and amongst which it is
anything but pleasant to force one’s way. The mountain sides are
clothed almost up to the snow-line with beech, totara, ribbon-wood,
veronica, and other trees, the rich foliage being beautifully
varied; but not having sufficient time to cut bedding, we spent an
uncomfortable night. The first evening is always the worst in camp.
In the morning we continued our rough journey up the valley and our
struggle with the ‘worrying’ swag.
Soon we discovered traces of fires and old camps, and we knew we were
on the tracks of Green’s and Von Lendenfeld’s parties. An hour for
dinner under a splendid waterfall, and more toiling onwards, till at
last we were over the last boulder-face from the mountain on our left,
with the Ball Glacier in full view. Fox, bending down, picked up a
portion of an old veil, shortly after I found a goggle box, then came a
tomahawk lying on a rock, then the historical tent poles of Mr. Green,
and we knew we had reached ‘Green’s fifth camp.’
Off came the swags, and right glad we were to be done with them. If a
man were only built on the same lines as a Mount Cook grasshopper he
might ‘stand some show’ in those parts, for these insects are the most
accomplished rock acrobats, jumping twenty or thirty times their own
length at a spring, landing on their heads or anyhow with a bang, and
squaring up for the next jump as coolly as cucumbers.
We found many relics of Green’s and of Von Lendenfeld’s parties,
amongst them a surveyor’s chain, which, with Green’s tent poles, we
have for the last five seasons used to pitch our tents.
Scarcely were we made snug for the night when down came a terrific
nor’-wester, blowing with fearful violence, making the tent boom
and shake till we expected it to blow to ribbons. Rain poured down,
thunder, lightning, and avalanches all lent their aid, and the elements
seemed to be having a generally rowdy time of it. All this, of course,
meant snow on the higher peaks; our spirits fell to zero very quickly,
and we gave up all hope of tackling Aorangi for at least a day or two.
The nor’-wester is the _Föhn_ wind of New Zealand, similar in character
to the _Föhn_ winds of Switzerland or the _Pampiero_ of the Andes. Warm
air laden with moisture travels from the equatorial and Australian
waters, till, striking the range of the Southern Alps, precipitation
ensues, the wind descending on to the eastern plains dry and hot.
Having studied Von Lendenfeld’s map of the Tasman Glacier and its
surrounding peaks made in 1883 we knew our whereabouts; but as yet we
had not seen the peak of Mount Cook, having been toiling up close under
the eastern flank of the range, which continues from the peak proper
for a distance of ten or twelve miles in a south-easterly direction.
The morning broke beautifully clear, and we were early aroused by some
inquisitive keas, or mountain parrots, which perched on the tent and
set up an unearthly screeching. These birds are ridiculously amusing
and tame, and we frequently replenished our larder with them by the aid
of a shanghai, or common schoolboy’s catapult, with which instrument of
warfare I have the rather questionable credit of being somewhat of an
adept. When I think of the savoury fries and stews which the shanghai
has brought to our camp table—the table being usually a rock or a
large lily leaf—I begin to be reconciled to the haunting regrets for
apple-destroying and window-smashing which so often beguiled the tedium
of a scholastic career.
We determined not to attempt any climbing so soon after the storm, but
set out to reconnoitre the route taken by Mr. Green.
Mounting the steep lateral moraine of the Ball Glacier we were soon
across it and on to the clear ice of the Hochstetter stream beyond, and
felt the joyful crunching of our well-nailed boots as we tramped along
over the uneven surface.
There is something exhilarating in this setting foot on the clear
ice after days of clambering over cruel rocks, something that seems
to thrill one as the nails go ‘crunch, crunch’ and give such grand
foothold, a cheerful ring in the clink of the ice-axes, a peculiar
charm in the tinkle of the little surface streams, a sense of peace
and loveliness in all around, an inspiration of awe and grandeur
in the glorious masses of mountains which rear their hoary heads
for thousands of feet above, whilst over all there seems to hang an
invisible and imperious over-ruling and omnipotent Power directing the
marvellous workings of Nature. Here man may feel his littleness and
his unworthiness, and yet with Byron he feels what is so beautifully
expressed in ‘Childe Harold’—
I live not in myself, but I become
Portion of that around me; and to me
High mountains are a feeling.
The Hochstetter Glacier is one of the most impressive and beautiful
sights in the Southern Alps. Its supplies come even from the very
summits of Aorangi and Mount Tasman, the two noblest mountains in
Australasia. Avalanches from the eastern and northern slopes of Aorangi
descend to a large ice plateau situate at an altitude of 8,000 feet.
From between the great north-eastern spur of Aorangi and the southern
slopes of Mount Tasman the Linda Glacier issues also into this plateau;
it was discovered and named by Mr. Green. From the eastern slopes of
Mount Tasman and the southern flanks of Mount Haast avalanches also
descend to the plateau, which must be some ten or twelve square miles
in area. This plateau has but one outlet—the fall of the Hochstetter
Glacier. Viewed from below, the frozen cascade tumbles in the wildest
confusion over a precipice of 4,000 feet to join the Tasman Glacier
at an altitude of 4,000 feet (roughly speaking), and presents a most
wonderful appearance. The fall at the top is probably about a mile and
a half in width, narrowing to one mile at its foot, and the ice is
broken up into _séracs_, cubes, pinnacles, and towers of all shapes and
sizes, intersected by crevasses of the divinest bluish-green colour,
and each pinnacle crested with a white cap of unconsolidated snow.
One enormous rock protrudes through the ice in its southern and lower
portion, crowned with toppling _séracs_ 200 or 300 feet in height,
which at regular intervals fall over the face of the rock and descend
in magnificent avalanches. First comes a report like a pistol shot,
then follows an almighty crash accompanied by clouds of snow and ice
dust, succeeded by a low rumbling thunder as the blocks expend their
impetus on the gentler slope below, and finally settle down again into
solid ice, to continue their journey of centuries towards the terminal
face of the glacier nine miles down the valley. Above the fall stand
out, in bold relief against the clear sky, the giant forms of Aorangi
and Tasman.
To stand before this wonderful piece of Nature’s work and gaze on the
weird and fascinating forms of the attendant peaks is an experience not
to be forgotten.
The awful and solemn silence of the mountains, broken only now and
again by the crash and thunder of an ice avalanche or the screech of a
solitary kea, the complete desolation, the loneliness and remoteness
from the haunts of men, all tend to inspire one with deep thoughts and
feelings. One line in Walter C. Smith’s ‘Hilda’ expresses more than
pages of mine would do—
The silence of the mountains spoke unutterable things.
In two hours’ time we were across the glacier and on the point of the
ridge descending from Mount Haast, which bounds the northern side of
the ice-fall. We began the ascent of the ridge amongst snow-grass and
lilies, but soon the vegetation gave way to rockwork, and when a
height of about 5,000 feet was attained we made sure that this was our
correct route, and, mist coming on, we descended again, and reached our
Ball Glacier camp in the evening.
We resolved to make our attempt on the peak early the following
morning, and accordingly, at 5 A.M. packed our swags, containing
‘tucker’ for three days, spirit lamp, blanket, opossum rug,
mackintoshes, instruments, a change of warm clothing, &c., intending
that night to find a bivouac at 8,000 feet if possible.
Starting at 5.20 A.M. we crossed the Ball Glacier in the very dim
light of a waning moon, and were on the Hochstetter ice at peep of day,
and making good time across, reached the point of the Haast spur in an
hour and three-quarters. A thick mist hung over us, and we waited for
an hour for it to lift, amusing ourselves by smoking and botanising,
and watching the antics of some queer little wrens. These birds are
absurd-looking little creatures with long legs and longer toes, plump
buff-coloured breasts, no tails, staring little eyes, and look for
all the world like boiled potatoes with their jackets on, set up on
hairpins and let loose on the rocks.
As the mist cleared we tackled the ascent, and found it pretty stiff
work, although we had snow-grass to assist us for some way up; but the
rocks above this began to show signs of rottenness, and much care was
required to avoid dislodging them. We made good progress to about 5,000
feet, when we were quite baffled for a time, and were forced to leave
the main _arête_ and look for a more promising route on our right.
Here we proceeded cautiously, crawling through a narrow niche in some
overhanging rocks with a precipice of some hundreds of feet below.
Then the climbing improved till our view upwards was bounded by an
indefinite saddle in the rocks, which might have led to anywhere, but
which did lead, as we subsequently found out, to the easy snow slopes
above.
As the day advanced small falls of stone occurred, which caused some
annoyance and danger, but we managed to avoid being struck by any. Then
followed another stretch of rotten rock which Fox absolutely declined
to tackle, and as it could not be turned by a détour we were brought up
on this route.
Fox suggested descending again to cross a large glacier coming down
from the ridge on our right, and trying the rocks on its opposite side.
This plan we eventually carried out, but it was a fatal mistake as far
as climbing Aorangi was concerned. Descending for about 1,000 feet we
stepped on to the ice of what we then thought was the lower part of the
Linda Glacier—owing to a strange error in Von Lendenfeld’s map—but
which in reality was the Freshfield Glacier. We put on the rope and our
goggles, both indispensable in crossing such a snow-covered ice stream.
On taking to the rocks on the other side we soon gained the lowest ice
slopes, covered with six or eight inches of snow in splendid order,
and adhering well to the ice; now and then we took to the rocks, but
climbed mostly by the snow slopes till we reached the crest of the
ridge and looked over a precipice to Mount Haidinger and the Haast
Glacier below.
It was now 11 A.M., and after a short rest, upon my suggesting a
move upwards, Fox said that he did not fancy the rocks above—which
certainly did look bad—and counselled a retreat. Of course I was
disappointed, and reluctant to give up the attempt so soon, yet there
did seem to be no end to the difficulties above, and experience has
since taught me that Fox was wise in his counsel, for it was indeed
simple madness for two greenhorns to tackle such work.
I soon forgot my troubles in gazing on the scene which burst upon us
as we gained the ridge. Below lay the major part of the Haast Glacier,
descending in a similar manner to the Hochstetter ice-fall from the
corniced _arête_ of Mount Haidinger, a marvellous mass of _sérac_ ice.
A long rest here, and a resolve to revisit the locality during the next
season with a stronger party, and we began the descent.
My first experience of glissading on the snow slopes below was
decidedly amusing; but the art is easily acquired, and after the
inevitable spill or two one soon gets into the way of putting one’s axe
directly behind and not at the side, as is the first impulse. Many and
many a good slide have I enjoyed during the last six years, and I know
no more exhilarating sensation.
[Illustration: MOUNT TASMAN (11,475 FEET) AND THE HOCHSTETTER ICE-FALL
[_Wheeler & Son, Photo._]
In winter time, on the front ranges, we have sometimes made glissades
of 2,000 to 3,000 feet without a stop, and on one occasion, in crossing
the Mount Cook Range, Mr. Arthur Harper and I glissaded close on to
4,000 feet with only occasional stoppages for crevasses.
Reaching the bottom of the slopes we made an examination of the Haast
Glacier at its junction with the Tasman, which disclosed a terribly
crevassed stream, the ice appearing like the leaves of a half-opened
book, the alternating crevasses occupying by far the greater space.
There ensued an aggravating scramble over the moraine, followed by a
weary trudge across the ice of the Hochstetter, and we reached our camp
at the Ball Glacier by nightfall.
Sleep visited our wearied eyelids that night and had never seemed so
sweet, but the morning broke raining and stormy, and as it was from the
nor’-west and looked like continuing, we determined to make homewards
for the Hermitage at once.
Then ensued the awful scramble down between the moraine and the
mountain side with those terrible swags, but, being by this time in
good trim, we arrived at the terminal face of the glacier in four hours
and a quarter, a distance which occupied Mr. Green with Emil Boss and
Ulrich Kaufmann thirteen hours in coming down in their final retreat.
On reaching the Hooker, we found the river running strongly and rising
fast with the nor’-west rain, but after some looking about discovered
a possible ford where the river anastomosed into four branches, and
steadying ourselves with our ice-axes, waded through the torrent. Cold!
Cold was no word for it, and the force of the current was terrible as
it rushed over an uneven and treacherous bed of boulders.
But we got through safely, and soon the Hermitage, our haven of refuge,
was in sight, and we struck up the shingle flats at a merry pace,
reaching our destination in seven hours and a quarter from the Ball
Glacier camp.
On returning from the Hermitage we thought, by crossing the Tasman
River and driving down the opposite bank, to avoid driving round Lake
Pukaki, and so to save thirty miles of travelling. As a rule the river
is not crossable in the summer months, but on this occasion we were
assured of the practicability of getting over; and leaving the track
at Birch Hill Station, we drove out into the great expanse of shingle
which forms the river-bed.
We had crossed all the streams but the last, and were within a few
yards of the further bank of that, when our horse, poor old Nipper,
sank in a quicksand, and as soon as the current caught his body we saw
it was all up. The horse and buggy got broadside on to the current, and
quick as thought we jumped for it, just as the conveyance was turning
over for the first time, Fox down-stream and I up.
The first thing I knew was that I was being washed into the bottom
parts of the buggy, then sideways up, but struggling out and gaining a
footing, the first impulse was to whip out my pocket-knife and cut the
horse free, and, in my haste, both blades were broken before a stitch
of the harness was cut. Fox, in the meanwhile, recovered his feet,
and was holding Nipper’s head above water as we all moved gradually
down-stream with the force of the current, the horse and buggy rolling
over and over. With Fox’s knife I was more successful, and cut the
horse free. Fortunately we were being washed into shallower water
on a spit of shingle, and we were able to wade out with the horse,
after which we returned to extricate the buggy, which had come to
a standstill on its side, and was fast being silted up with moving
shingle. It required all our strength to free it, and in doing so one
of the wheels ‘buckled.’
I have no doubt that we presented an amusing and half-drowned
appearance as we stood on the bank and called the roll. All that was
missing was my mackintosh, a mat, and whip.
Then we jumped on our buckled wheel till it sprang back into its normal
shape, and splicing up the harness, wended our way back across the
minor streams to the track at Birch Hill, wetter, sadder, and wiser men.
We reached Pukaki Ferry an hour after dark and Fairlie Creek the next
evening, where we found the township in a state of jollification over
the annual race-meeting. Most of the New Zealand country townships
boast of their annual race-meeting, the racing lasting one day, and the
whisky part of the proceedings generally running into three.
Then we took the train for Christchurch.