THIRD ATTEMPT TO CLIMB AORANGI
_Photography on the Tasman Glacier—Attempt to scale Mount De la Bêche_
Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends.—_Childe Harold._
It is a thousand pities that the ennobling pursuit of mountaineering is
so neglected in this wonderland of peaks and glaciers. Such advantages
as we enjoy surely cannot exist much longer without calling out the
spirit which lies dormant in hundreds of the lovers of adventure and
worshippers of the beautiful in Nature, who live on in our midst from
day to day in a conventional and monotonous round.
There are pleasures in the pursuit of adventure amongst the great
snow-fields and glaciers which only those who are initiated can
thoroughly enjoy.
Ask the man who goes climbing what these pleasures are, and he cannot
tell you, he cannot define them—yet he feels them, and they are ever
luring him on. They are indefinite, inexpressible; but there is a sort
of ‘mountain fever’ which comes when one has once ‘lost one’s heart
to the great mountains.’ In the work all a man’s best physical, and
many of his mental, powers are brought out and strengthened. There is
the energy, perseverance, and patience to last through a long day’s
swagging, the pluck to face all sorts of dangers amongst the snow,
ice, and rocks, combined with the prudence to know when, for the safety
of oneself and the party, to give in and restrain enthusiasm. There are
the qualities of organisation and system, for which plenty of exercise
is found; indeed, one cannot overrate the benefits which accrue.
Let any who have indulged in different branches of athletics put their
swags on their backs and go for a mountain climb, and I venture to say
that there are greater opportunities for bringing their frames into
good going order and testing their muscular abilities than can be met
with in any school of athletics.
I have known men in England who have revelled in all our great national
games, but who invariably put mountaineering at the head of the list
after once having tasted the sweets of climbing and been captivated by
the charms of the world above the snow-line.
To the artistic what do not the mountains offer? To the botanist, the
geologist, the naturalist, the athlete, and even to the invalid? The
strange new world one enters in sub-Alpine regions, the ‘foretaste of
heaven’ one seems to get above the snow-line.
In out-of-the-way New Zealand we have all these benefits at hand, and
yet we leave the opening out and exploration of our great glacier
systems to foreigners and to visitors from distant lands.
But this is digressive, and I must tell the story of our third visit to
the Tasman Glacier.
On the evening of March 23, 1889, the visitors at the Hermitage
were suddenly moved to compassion, mingled with no small amount of
amusement, in beholding through the fast-falling snow-flakes the
arrival of a dog-cart and tandem.
The leader of the team, a big chestnut draught-mare, seemed to be doing
all the work, and pulling along wheeler, cart and all. The travel-worn
and weary occupants of the vehicle were Mr. M. J. Dixon and myself, and
we had taken French leave for Mr. Huddleston’s chestnut at Birch Hill,
six miles down the road from the Hermitage, our leader having almost
given in after a 250-mile journey from Christchurch.
Another bold, would-be mountaineer, Mr. P. H. Johnson, accompanied
us with the knocked-up leader, and following in the coach was Mr.
F. Cooper, a photographic operator from Messrs. Wheeler and Son of
Christchurch, who was to join our party for a week’s work amongst the
scenes of the Tasman Glacier.
The morning of the 24th revealed the flats around the Hermitage all
snow-covered, and the day was devoted to completing preparations for a
fortnight’s camp on the glacier.
On the 25th, the weather improving, our party left the Hermitage, being
joined by James Annan and William Low, the former a boundary keeper on
the rabbit fence, the latter engaged to help us with the swagging. Two
better men over rough ground never put swag on back, and both entered
into the spirit of the expedition and worked like Trojans to make it a
success.
We drove our dog-cart down to the Hooker River at the usual
crossing-place—the point of the Mount Cook Range—over two or three
miles of boulders which tested the merits of the coachbuilder’s art to
the utmost, as also the driver’s ability to stay in the cart. Here we
found that a wire rope, some 200 feet in length, had been thrown across
the river to facilitate the work of the rabbiters, who were engaged
in keeping back the hordes of ‘silver-greys’ which were making their
way northwards and ruining run-holders right and left. On this wire
rope is slung, on runners, a rude box, travellers entering the same
pull themselves across, and almost invariably take the skin off their
knuckles with the runners. Crossing by this rope we piled our swags on
to Annan’s packhorse and walked three miles up the valley to a patch
of Wild Irishman scrub, where since our last visit a small galvanised
iron hut had been built. A day’s delay here with bad weather, and then
we shouldered our swags, and on the evening of the 27th reached our
well-known Ball Glacier camp.
Our plans were as follows: To do a few days’ work with the
photographer, so as to settle his business first, and then be free
to tackle Aorangi during the following week. We wished to give the
photographer every assistance in our power, as such scenery does not
often come within reach of the photographic artist, however energetic
he may be, and can only be approached by a properly equipped Alpine
party, strong enough to carry a good supply of provisions and all the
necessaries for preserving life in such out-of-the-way parts.
Our first excursion, then, was to cross the Tasman Glacier and make
for the point of the Malte Brun Range at the turn in the glacier just
opposite the point of De la Bêche. Here it was that Dr. von Lendenfeld
had made his bivouac for his remarkable ascent of the Hochstetter
Dome in 1883, when he was accompanied by his wife and one porter—an
ascent that took twenty-seven hours of constant ice and snow work. This
excursion would effect the double purpose of giving us some practice in
ice work, and of securing a fine set of views.
The day was gloriously fine, and we felt our spirits rise as we
scrambled over the massive lateral moraine of the Ball Glacier, across
the glacier itself—which, by-the-by, shows very dirty ice at this
point, being laden with rocks brought down many years since in the
avalanches from the great ice-seamed crags of Aorangi, which towered in
lofty grandeur above us—then over the medial moraine between the Ball
and Hochstetter Glaciers, where a halt was made, and views of Aorangi
and the Hochstetter ice-fall were secured.
Once more we stood before this marvellous piece of Nature’s handiwork,
again we heard the thunder of the avalanches, again we saw the
glinting, bristling _séracs_, and gazed in silence and admiration on
the ice-fall of the Hochstetter.
Crossing the Hochstetter we struck up the medial moraine between that
and the Tasman, straight for the point of De la Bêche.
[Illustration: MOUNT COOK AND THE HERMITAGE
[_Wheeler & Son, Photo._]
The best walking on the New Zealand glaciers is almost invariably found
upon the margin of the medial moraine close to where it joins the clear
ice, so that one is travelling over a mixture of ice and rocks. The
clear ice is too hummocky and entails much undulating progression,
if I may use such an expression, and the moraine itself—well,
the walking on the moraine itself cannot be fitly described in
parliamentary language.
We secured many good views as we proceeded with a 10 × 8 camera. Mount
Haidinger on our left was particularly fine, its eastern face being
almost entirely clothed with the Haast Glacier, which struck us as
being one of the finest cascades of ice we had yet seen, larger in
extent than the ice-fall of the Hochstetter, though not so picturesque.
Time was fast going, and we found that to get off the glacier before
dark it would be requisite to strike away to our right, over a mile of
much crevassed ice, to the gully next in the Malte Brun Range, which we
had originally set out to reach. Jumping crevasses and cutting a few
occasional steps, we at last arrived at the eastern side, finding a
very suitable place to pitch our Whymper tent, and discovering to our
joy a small supply of firewood.
The gully in which we camped had its origin far away up in the
red-sandstone precipices of Malte Brun, and in its bed rushed down a
foaming mountain torrent fed everlastingly by the many small hanging
glaciers above. This stream rushed headlong into a large tunnel of ice
in the side of the Tasman Glacier, over which was formed a tremendous
cave, above which, again, were sheer walls of ice capped with morainic
accumulations, the height from tunnel mouth to moraine summits being
about 500 feet.
A view of this cave was secured by the photographer.
Friday the 29th was a morning to be remembered. Thick mists covered
the peaks and seemed to hang over us like a pall. Here and there a
shaft of sunlight penetrated to the ice-field at our feet. Only now and
then would the rude screech of a kea remind us that we were not really
dreaming in some enchanted land.
We had often talked of attempting the ascent of Mount De la Bêche when
we should have polished off Aorangi; but as Aorangi seemed to require
so much ‘polishing off,’ and we were now camped so close to De la
Bêche, we thought we might as well try our hand at the mountain and see
what we could do in a one-day’s trip from this point, while we left the
artist to his own devices for the time being.
De la Bêche, then, it was to be. So off we started after a breakfast
of sheep’s tongues and Liebig, putting our oilskins on our backs and
taking our axes, and striking due north for the foot of the long
_arête_ which descends from the mountain and separates the Rudolf
from the Tasman Glacier. Halfway to our ridge we had to put on the
rope, for legs began to go through the now snow-covered crevasses in a
promiscuous and unpleasant fashion.
It was indeed like an enchanted land, for the atmospheric effects were
extraordinary. High up, shadowed in the mist, were reproduced the
forms of the highest peaks of Mounts Malte Brun and Darwin. There was
no mistaking their familiar outline, which was thrown out in the mist
thousands of feet above, like the spectre on the Brocken.
[Illustration: CROSSING THE HOOKER RIVER
[_Wheeler & Son, Photo._]
Then the atmospheric effect of the mist hanging over the Rudolf Glacier
was most wonderful. Looking up the glacier, we seemed to gaze into
an enormous blue grotto, the sides being the slopes of the main chain
with all its broken glaciers, and the western slopes of De la Bêche,
whilst the overhanging mist furnished the roof or ceiling. A soft,
warm, blue colour pervaded the whole, beautiful beyond expression.
Arriving at the foot of our mountain we commenced the ascent, finding
the snow of the ice slopes in a loose and powdery condition, and having
to exercise much judgment to avoid precipitating avalanches in the
steeper pinches.
We climbed without the rope, rapidly, and alternately in snow and
rocks, finding the latter very good—mostly of a red sandstone on which
the nails of our boots took good hold. Looking now and then at the
aneroid, we began to feel confident of making the ascent and returning
to our camp by nightfall. But it was not to be, for, at an altitude of
8,100 feet, we were brought up by a very bad _bergschrund_ and ridge of
rocks succeeding it.
To the unlearned in Alpine parlance perhaps an explanation of the
nature of a _bergschrund_ is necessary. At the upper termination of
nearly all highly situated ice slopes there almost invariably occurs
between the rocks above, or between the ice slope and the permanent
clinging ice above, a large gap or crevasse, partially filled or
bridged with new snow during the winter months, but more open as the
warmth of spring and summer causes the snow to melt and the ice to
shrink away.
This crevasse or gap is called a _bergschrund_, and occasionally one
may find in it places where the ice nearly or quite touches the
rocks or ice of the upper side, or sometimes a sound snow bridge may
be discovered. These bridges afford the only means of crossing wide
_bergschrunds_. At the place in question a sharp ridge of ice, the
lower lip of the _bergschrund_, led on to a frail snow bridge with a
dip of some six feet or so in the centre, over a bottomless abyss some
fifteen feet wide.
Dixon cut steps along the ice ridge, having first to remove a foot of
fresh snow from the surface, and then we walked this novel tight rope,
the _bergschrund_ on our left and steep ice slopes on our right, and
crossed the bridge in safety to a small ledge of ice where there was
only just room for three to stand. Could we proceed? The rocks above
were very bad and ice-coated. I went at them, clearing the inch or so
of ice to get my fingers into chinks in the rock, and ‘squirming’ up
on my stomach, clinging with toes and fingers, and feeling disposed to
hang on by my teeth or even by the proverbial eyelids, reached, fifty
feet above, the crest of the ridge.
I had been in some queer places in the mountains, but, pardon the use
of a colonial expression, this one decidedly ‘took the cake,’ and I
shall never forget the start I received when I found myself looking
over a sheer upright face of rock on to an unnamed tributary glacier of
the Rudolf, 1,000, perhaps 2,000, feet below. I dared not stand up and
could scarcely crawl, but lay full length on the steep eastern slope
looking over the sharp ridge down the western precipice. On the right,
the razor-like _arête_ of rock continued upwards, and seemed almost, if
not quite, inaccessible.
[Illustration: AORANGI FROM THE BALL GLACIER
[_Wheeler & Son, Photo._]
Then there was a long-range discussion between Dixon and Johnson
on the ledge below and myself on the ridge, ending in a decision to
descend.
I never to this day can imagine how I came down that fifty feet of
rocks without slipping into the crevasse below, but, by the aid of
Dixon’s directions, I managed to find chinks in the rock-face for the
toes of my boots, and reached the ledge to breathe the air of relief
once more.
Here we held a council of war. We might, by a traverse of the ice
ridge below, gain the rocks again above this bad place; but the summit
was yet 2,000 feet above us, the cold so intense that the steel of
one’s axe would adhere to the hand, the time was fast going, and
the photographer and our men would be much concerned if we stayed
out another night, besides which we were short of provisions, our
original intention having been to stay out but one night. We decided to
acknowledge ourselves beaten for the time being and to return to camp.
It goes against the grain with Dixon and me to turn back beaten from
a peak. Indeed De la Bêche and Aorangi are the only ones to which we
have lowered the colours of our grand old school—Christ’s College
Grammar School, of Christchurch, New Zealand—and the latter we have
since revenged ourselves upon. The former will not run away, and we are
nursing a vindictive feeling against this noble triple-topped summit.
Descending very rapidly, glissading now and then in safe places, we
reached the foot and struck over the Tasman Glacier again for our camp
on the Malte Brun.
Well for us that we had turned from De la Bêche, for an hour from
camp, Dixon, who had been complaining of not feeling up to the mark for
some days and had been lagging—an unusual thing for him—was suddenly
seized with violent cramp in the stomach and thighs. We thought at the
time it was only temporary, consequent upon great physical exertion and
drinking too much snow-water; but unfortunately he did not seem able to
shake it off, and we had some difficulty in reaching camp over the maze
of crevasses which occur in the glacier just where our Malte Brun Creek
enters.
Here was a nice state of affairs. One of our best men gone wrong. How
about Aorangi next week?
Saturday morning found us ‘tuckerless’ and hungry, and Dixon worse
rather than better.
At 9 A.M. we struck camp and started for the Ball Glacier—really
only four hours distant. Whilst taking some views an hour from camp
we suddenly heard shouts down the glacier, and found that it was our
trusty men, Annan and Low, who, being concerned about our lengthened
absence from the lower camp, had come out to look for us.
Johnson, Low, and Annan took the bulk of the swags and started
independently for the Ball Glacier, whilst I stayed to follow at a more
leisurely pace with Dixon and the photographer. Dixon could only walk
for a few minutes at a time and required to rest very frequently, so I
sent Cooper on alone, not dreaming for a moment that he could go wrong
in such simple ground, where no crevasses to speak of occurred.
[Illustration: ICE CAVE, TASMAN GLACIER
[_Wheeler & Son, Photo._]
It was 5 P.M. ere we arrived at the head-quarters after a gallant
struggle on Dixon’s part. These are the times which test a man’s
capabilities, these are the trials of endurance to which the
unfortunate who chances to be taken ill in these Alpine regions is
subjected, and it was a great relief to all to see the afflicted one
struggle bravely into camp.
But a new trouble arose. There was no photographer, and he ought to
have turned up long ago. Johnson set out to look for him, and after
an absence of an hour I was just putting up a swag of mackintoshes,
provisions, &c., prepared to spend the night photographer-hunting on
the glacier, when Johnson’s figure appeared against the sky on the
crest of the lateral moraine, shortly followed by that of the missing
man, who had wandered down past the camp instead of turning off at the
right place. Low and Annan had gone down the valley, and were to come
up next day with more provisions.
The next day being Sunday, we decided to have a day’s well-earned rest.
Messrs. Brodrick and Sladden, of the Survey Department, came up with
Annan and Low to dinner, bearing with them medical comforts for the use
of our invalid.
As there were still some dry plates left unexposed, Cooper and I went
out about 10 A.M. and climbed to a height of 1,000 feet above the camp,
on the Ball Glacier spur, from whence we secured a panoramic view on
four plates of the glacier and the mountains opposite.
From this point, seeing Aorangi looking so grand, we pushed on up the
ridge, intending to secure an exposure from a high altitude. Upwards
we climbed, and the further we went the more I was lured on towards
the main southern ridge of the mountain. I even conceived the idea of
making a pass over to the Hermitage _viâ_ the Hooker Glacier. But the
work became more difficult, and we got into patches of snow and were
unfortunately without our ice-axes. This made our progress more slow
and cautious. Still we pushed forward, the scene becoming grander at
every step.
At length the light began to fade, and I saw that to get an exposure
of the peak from the main ridge was hopeless, so Cooper unlimbered his
instrument and I pushed on alone, determined to reach the saddle, at
least, and see over to the other side. Reaching the final snow—that
covering the actual head of the Ball Glacier, which had been below us
on our right all the day—I sped across it as fast as I could go, and
keeping a sharp look out for indentations indicating covered crevasses,
reached the rocks of a peak situate a little south of the saddle of the
Ball Glacier. Crawling over a snow bridge spanning the _bergschrund_,
which crumbled uncomfortably under me as I laid hold of the rocks on
the upper side, after a short scramble I attained the summit.
How shall I tell of the view southwards which met my astonished gaze?
How describe the glorious sunset effects? Life is not long enough to
attempt it.
I was on the nameless peak south of the Ball Glacier saddle at an
altitude of 7,540 feet—the highest peak south of the great majestic
mass of Aorangi himself, who towered up for another 5,000 feet above me.
[Illustration: MOUNT DE LA BÊCHE (10,021 FEET) FROM THE TASMAN GLACIER
[_Wheeler & Son, Photo._]
I quote from Mr. Green to give some idea of what he thought of our
mountains from this point:—
‘Deep down below us lay the Hooker Glacier, reminding us of the
downward view from the _arête_ of the Finsteraarhorn, while beyond, the
glacier-seamed crags of Mount Sefton towered skywards.
‘Further off lay the _mer de glace_ of the Mueller Glacier, a splendid
field of white ice, its lower moraine-covered termination lost in the
blue depths of the valley at our feet. The high ridge connecting Mount
Sefton with Mount Stokes alone prevented us from seeing the western
sea. It was a glorious day, scarcely a breath of air stirring; no
cloud visible in the whole vault of blue; ranges upon ranges of peaks
in all directions and of every form, from the iced-capped dome to the
splintered _aiguille_. It was a wonderful sight, those lovely peaks
standing up out of the purple haze; and then to think that not one had
been climbed! Here was work, not for a short holiday ramble merely, not
to be accomplished even in a lifetime, but work for a whole company
of climbers, which would occupy them for half a century of summers,
and still there would remain many a new route to be tried. Here, then,
we stood upon the shoulder of the monarch of the whole mountain world
around us, within less than 5,000 feet of his icy crown, but a long,
jagged, ice-seamed ridge lay in our path. Was it accessible? Let us
see!’
It was not accessible, as anyone who has read Mr. Green’s interesting
book will know, and I could see from my standpoint very plainly that
Mr. Green, with Emil Boss and Ulrich Kaufmann—two of the finest
mountaineers in the world—could not do otherwise than accept a defeat.
Just such a scene as Mr. Green describes I saw, only that its mystic
beauty was intensified by the soft glow of evening as the sun sank
lower and lower, at last dipping behind a bank of crimson clouds
hanging over a saddle to the westward.
I seemed spellbound and almost riveted to the spot, and could only tear
myself away when I realised the awkward position of the photographer
and myself, trapped, as it were, by the fast-closing darkness, 4,000
feet above our camp, with all sorts of climbing difficulties below.
Clambering down the rocks and jumping the _bergschrund_, away I sped
over the névé slopes, and reaching Cooper after an hour’s absence,
found him just packing up his camera.
It is too long a story to tell of all our troubles and adventures in
getting down the mountain in the dark; letting ourselves down on to
the rocks, scraping our hands on sharp edges, plunging knee-deep in
soft snow, following false ridges terminating in precipices down to
the Ball Glacier below, retracing our erring steps, and at last coming
to vegetation again; then going down off the ridge towards the Tasman,
trying to hit the head of a long shingle slip I was acquainted with,
hearing 2,000 feet above the camp the first ‘cooee’ from our anxious
mates below, and getting down eventually at half-past ten, ravenous,
and almost torn to pieces by the sharp rocks, Spaniards, and scrub.
Johnson—always self-denying and considerate for others—was out
photographer-hunting again, having gone on to the Ball Glacier and
shouted himself hoarse; he arrived back in camp at 1 A.M. (having been
guided home by a fire which I had kept going on the moraine since
our return), after having experienced a fruitless hunt of eight hours
over rough rocks and ice. This finished the photography, and on the
following day Cooper and Low went down to the Hermitage. A finer week
for securing negatives could not have been wished for, and the thirty
exposures resulted in the best set of mountain views yet obtained in
New Zealand.
Now ensued a few days’ rest, Dixon, Johnson, and I being left in camp
with a week’s provisions and designs on Aorangi, when Dixon should have
recovered his strength.
Only one short excursion did Johnson and I make, to see if it were
possible to reach the Great Plateau from the eastern buttress of the
mountain, and so save crossing the Hochstetter Glacier and climbing
the Haast Ridge beyond. Our endeavours were fruitless, for at a height
of some 6,300 feet we were brought up by a high wall of rock. I still
think, nevertheless, that the plateau could be reached in this manner
when a good deal of snow fills the rocky _couloirs_ or ditches which
in places descend in this wall of rock. Should this be so, it will
no doubt prove to be the route of the future for reaching the Linda
Glacier and Aorangi.
The rock-climbing here, however, is very dangerous, as the frost has
split the rocks up in all directions. One small stone thrown down from
above sufficed to start many tons of loose matter in the _couloirs_,
which rattled down to the glacier below, sending up clouds of dust in
its descent.