CANOEING ON THE NEW ZEALAND RIVERS
_The Waimakariri_—_The enormous rainfall_—_Descent of the Waitaki
River_—_The Tasman branch_—_Lake Pukaki_—_Leaky canoes_—_The
Pukaki Rapids_—_The Waitaki Gorge_—_Out on the plains again_—_Sixty
miles’ paddle to catch the train_—_Home once more_
Canoeing on the New Zealand rivers is desperately exciting work.
On the west coast of the South Island there is a canoe club, whose
members build boats in watertight compartments specially suited for
the rough journeys which they undertake. Some of these men are adepts
at canoe-sailing, and think little of going out to sea in their
cockle-shells and even making long coastal journeys. The brothers Park
have established quite a reputation by their adventurous journeyings.
On one occasion they crossed the South Island with their canoes,
towing up the Teramakau River, crossing a saddle of 1,700 feet at its
head, descending the Hurunui and then coasting fifty miles down to
Christchurch. On another occasion the crossing of Cook Straits was
effected by them.
On the eastern side of the island not much canoeing has been done,
with the exception of the navigation of two of the largest rivers (the
Waimakariri and Waitaki) from their sources to the sea by Mr. Dixon and
myself.
I well remember how universal was the outcry against our attempting to
descend the Waimakariri in 1889, upon which occasion we conveyed the
canoes up to the head waters in the Southern Alps, and came down ninety
miles of rapids at a tremendous rate, going through the celebrated
gorge fourteen miles in length. Dixon reached Christchurch in one
day—a wonderful feat—but I was not able to accomplish more than half
the distance, and took two days over it. This involved a descent of
2,550 feet in altitude from the starting point.
In the following year the Waimakariri was again navigated by myself
and three other kindred adventurous spirits, when a number of line
photographic views of the scenery in the gorge were secured.
The descent of the Waitaki River, however, promised some exciting work,
in addition to giving a grand insight into the story of the ancient
glacier formation—a subject of great geological interest.
The rainfall in the New Zealand mountain districts is enormously
heavy, as much or more than 150 inches per annum being registered in
some parts. The rivers consequently carry a phenomenal amount of water
for their length, and the calculations as to their discharge give
wonderful results. The Clutha River in Otago—the largest river of the
South Island—discharges as much water per annum as the Nile! It seems
a strange statement to make; but such is the fact, the calculations
having been made by competent men.
[Illustration: IN THE ICE-FALL OF THE ONSLOW GLACIER
[_Wheeler & Son, Photo._]
The day following our return from Aorangi we left the Hermitage at 9
A.M., and by 1 P.M. had begun our exciting journey of 140 miles to the
sea.
The Tasman River takes its rise from the Tasman and Murchison Glaciers,
and is soon joined by the Hooker, which drains the Hooker and Mueller
Glaciers. Its course from Mount Cook to its delta at the head of Lake
Pukaki is thirty miles in length, and the fall is considerable, the
terminal face of the Tasman Glacier being 2,456 feet above sea-level,
whilst the altitude of Lake Pukaki is 1,717 feet. The first mile or two
of the journey was marked by several strong rapids, and we could not
avoid shipping much water; and, added to this, we soon found that some
old cracks in the canoes had opened out through exposure to the sun,
although they had been carefully covered over with sacking during our
absence in the mountains. This gave us some cause for anxiety, and the
discomfort of paddling in boats which were half full of water soon made
itself painfully apparent. Indeed, there is nothing more calculated
to put a man out of temper with all the world and his surroundings,
to goad him to strong language, and to give him an uncomfortable and
miserable time generally, than to have to sit for hours in a boat that
floats like an unmanageable log, to say nothing of the increase of
danger to which he is consequently exposed in some parts of a river
such as the Tasman, running, as it does, something approaching ten
knots in many places.
I don’t think Dixon and myself are likely to forget the tortures of
the four hours which we passed through on reaching the lake. Here the
cracks in my boat, which was decidedly the worse of the two, had to
be jammed up with handkerchiefs, &c., before we dared to venture on a
journey of eight or nine miles to the ferry at the other end of the
lake, where is situated the exit of the Pukaki River.
As we scraped over the sandy shallows and pushed off into deep-green
water, my heart sank within me at the idea of having to cross the lake
in its present rough state (for a strong nor’-wester was blowing) in
our frail canoes, which were not built in watertight compartments, and
were quite unsuited for the work. Every ten minutes or so I would have
to stop paddling and bale for dear life with the lid of the ‘billy,’
and the craft would immediately swing round broadside on to the seas,
which seemed to do their best to upset her.
At first we kept edging away for the southern shore, and about half-way
down the lake succeeded in getting within reasonable swimming distance,
which, to a certain extent, we retained for a short time.
In the distance we could make out the island close to the ferry, with
some trees on it, and from our direction there appeared to be but
three. My thoughts at once flew back to the island on the Lake of
Geneva, which Byron has immortalised in his ‘Prisoner of Chillon,’
and on which poor Bonnivard would gaze with sadness and yearning for
freedom and life.
And then there was a little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view.
A small green isle, it seemed no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor;
But in it there were three tall trees,
And o’er it blew the mountain breeze.
And by it there were waters flowing,
And on it there were young flowers growing
Of gentle breath and hue.
I made sure my hair would be grey, like poor Bonnivard’s, before this
lake was crossed; but soon the wind dropped, and we paddled ashore at 9
P.M. close to the hotel and called for brandy and water hot, and seldom
was the indulgence more justified.
At Pukaki Ferry we enjoyed a well-earned night’s rest, and on Sunday
morning we effected repairs to the leaky canoes, in which operation
we received much valuable advice and assistance from Mr. John Gibb,
artist, who was spending a few days in sketching at this point. By 1
P.M. we were on board again and looking forward to reaching Rugged
Ridges—Mr. W. G. Rutherfurd’s station on the southern bank of the
Waitaki—before nightfall. But we little knew what was ahead of us.
A survey of the river from an eminence of the old moraine through which
it has formed a channel, revealed, as far as the bends of the stream
could be followed, a rushing, seething mass of foam-covered water, with
numberless blocks of rock barring the clear passage of the current, and
though we shot the first two rapids below the exit from the lake it
took us until seven o’clock in the evening to navigate six miles of the
river’s course.
It is not easy to describe the wild course of the river in its descent
through the enormous ancient moraine deposits, some of which might
almost be classed as mountains, and must rear their tops to a height
of 1,000 feet above the level of the river. Such an immense body of
rushing water, receiving, as it does, the whole of the drainage of the
Southern Alps, from the head of the Mueller Glacier to that of the
Murchison, necessarily creates great havoc amongst the glacial and
fluviatile deposits through which it descends, and, as a matter of
course, all the smaller stones are hurried and rolled along to form
shingle on the river-beds further down, leaving the larger ones, which
alone can stand against the force of the flood. The natural consequence
is a stream of the most broken and impetuous character, a stream whose
rushing, roaring, and foaming drowns all sounds contiguous to it;
rapid after rapid of seemingly tempest-tossed and crested billows,
of whirlpools and eddies, of back-waters and heavings into surface
currents, and never a still pool to be found anywhere.
Imagine, then, the troubles of two canoeists in navigating this stretch
of water. No canoe or boat in the world would have the slightest chance
of going through, out in the current, without being smashed into
match-wood and its occupants infallibly drowned, for swimming would
avail a man nothing in such a place.
All we could do, then, was to keep close to the bank and let our frail
boats down by the tow-lines amongst the rocks in the comparatively
shallow water. Now shoving them off into a fair stretch and hauling
them up short in time to avoid contact with some ugly rock in front,
then scrambling along ourselves and coiling our lines as we advanced,
clambering over water-worn and slippery rocks, tearing our way
through the Wild Irishman scrub, or wading a few steps middle-deep in
the turbid water to the points where we had brought our respective
canoes up. Then repeating the same performance over again and again,
bruising our legs against rocks, slipping down amid the slimy stones,
scratching the skin off and receiving numerous thorns from the
scrub, wishing we had never been born, lamenting the hardships of our
lot, anathematising canoes, ropes, paddles, river, rocks, scrub, and
everything in creation.
No, that seven miles journey was _not_ all that could be desired; but
having put our hands to the plough, we both made up our minds that we
would go through with the undertaking, even if we had to repeat the
same performance down to the sea every day for a week, and the worse
the river got the more pig-headed we became. We had beaten Mount Cook,
and we meant also to gain a victory over the Pukaki and Waitaki, if it
cost us our life-blood. At some places where a number of large rocks
were congregated close to the river’s bank we would be compelled to
take the boats out, and shouldering them, climb round the rocks on
shore, and launch them afresh in better water below.
At one time, Dixon, who was leading, accidentally dropped his paddle,
which was whisked away by the current in a trice. He made a great
effort to recover it, and plunged in up to his armpits in the turbulent
water, but failed to reach the truant paddle. Seeing his difficulty I
pushed my boat out to him, and he seized my paddle and, jumping into
the canoe, gave chase to the one he had lost. I ran along the bank,
but could not keep near him; and in fear and trembling I watched him
nearing a horrible fall amongst some sharp teeth-like rocks. I thought
his last moment had come, but just before reaching the danger he
overtook the lost paddle, which he grasped with one hand, and, jumping
out of my canoe, held the tow-rope and brought the boat up within a few
feet of the fall. The whole affair was the work of a few moments, and
was a wonderful exhibition of smartness and presence of mind.
By 7 o’clock we began to think that we had had about enough for the
day, and, putting the boats ashore, we walked back, over the old
moraine and along the rabbit fence (which, by the way, I hear is doing
its work splendidly), to the Pukaki Ferry for the night.
By 7 A.M. next morning we were again with the canoes, and once more
performing gymnastic feats along the rocky bank. But our reward was now
near at hand, for after an hour or so we got on board and sneaked down
the quieter sides of one or two pools. The moraine deposits gave way to
those of fluviatile origin, and the size of the stones in the river-bed
decreased rapidly; consequently we soon began shooting the rapids again
and were making grand headway. The country on either hand opened out;
from our left came in the Tekapo River, and soon after, as we sped on
under Ben More, on our right the Ohau. Now we were in the Waitaki,
which is formed by the junction of these three rivers. ‘Waitaki,’ or
‘Waitangi,’ means ‘Crying water.’
The hydrographic area of the Waitaki Basin is 4,914 square miles, more
than three times as great as that of the Rakaia or Waimakariri, and it
drains most of the principal eastern slopes of the Southern Alps.
The eastern source of the river drains the Godley and Classen Glaciers
with their numerous tributaries, forms the Godley River, and flows
into Lake Tekapo (some fifteen miles in length); it issues from the
southern end of the Lake and curves a channel for itself through the
ancient moraine, when it becomes known by the name of the Tekapo River,
which, flowing for a distance of about twenty-five miles, joins the
Pukaki; all these, with the addition of the Ohau, the junction of which
is a few miles further down, form the Waitaki River. The Hopkins and
Dobson Rivers drain that part of the Alps immediately south-west of
Mount Sefton, and flow into Lake Ohau. The stream issuing from thence,
under the name of the Ohau River, runs for a course of thirteen miles,
and joins the Pukaki and Tekapo as before mentioned.
After the union of these three systems of drainage the course of the
river runs through a wider bed for about five or six miles before
entering a gorge some ten miles in length. Down this fine stretch of
water we now enjoyed a delightful paddle, and soon we sighted Black
Forest sheep station, with its rows of green willow trees, on our left.
Here various kinds of river birds lent an aspect of life and gaiety to
the scene—gulls, terns, paradise and grey duck, teal, dotterel, stilt,
and red-bill soared over us, or rose in startled dismay as we shot by.
We had left the snows behind us and were fast being closed in by the
foot-hills. We neared the gorge at 11 A.M. and paddled ashore on the
Otago side and boiled the ‘billy’ for lunch.
It seemed a delightfully quiet hour after all we had been through; we
sat and smoked in happiness and watching the rabbits skipping about
amongst the bracken. We were certain, if only by that, that we were in
Otago, where rabbits are the monarchs of all they survey.
The Mackenzie country hands had told us that we should find the gorge
_a little rough_, so we knew we were in for it presently; yet for a
couple of miles we found the river good going, though some ominous
spurs of bed rock now and then entering the current—the first bed rock
we had met with since leaving Mount Cook—foretold what we were coming
to.
After going round a few ugly corners the white water became more
frequent, until suddenly we were brought up by an awkward rapid into
which we dared not venture.
[Illustration: THE SURFACE OF A GLACIER
[_Wheeler & Son, Photo._]
A survey from the cliffs, sixty feet above the stream, disclosed a
tongue or groyn of rocks running out into the stream in an oblique
direction from the Otago side, and shooting the main body of the
current on to the rocks opposite. A long stretch of straight water
followed, but the whole stream was confined in rocky banks so close
together that one might throw a biscuit across, and the pace of the
current was something terrific. For half an hour we considered the
situation, finally determining to shoot the rapid. There was really
only about eight or ten feet of safe water close to the point of
the groyn of rocks, and this was right in the body of the current.
On either hand were eddies and whirlpools of the most formidable
character, which, in the event of our making a bad shot, might swirl us
among the rocks on one side or the other, and had such been the case
we trembled to think what would have been our fate. However, at it we
went, Dixon as usual leading, with a head as cool as a cucumber,
and I following, like a spaniel after his master. One wild rush, a
few strokes of the paddle, a mad tossing about in a sheet of crested
foam, half-a-dozen bucketfuls of water on board, and we were through,
breathing again as we tore down the hurrying, but straight and safe,
current below.
Though we met with no greater obstacles to canoeing than this rapid in
the gorge, such performances were several times repeated, and we had to
land now and again to survey the course ahead.
To describe the mad plunging of the river through the gorge is not an
easy matter. Here and there, perhaps, a long even stretch is met with,
but for the most part the river makes a succession of bends bounded
by rocky cliffs on either hand, now and then masses of rock crop up
through the water, against which the stream is banked up by the force
of its mad career to a height of ten or twelve feet; immediately under
the sides of the rock there are vicious-looking heavings, eddies, and
whirlpools, which, if one chances to get into them, twist the boat
about like a feather when blown upon the water’s surface. A black swan
and three cygnets kept ahead of us for the last six miles of the gorge,
but as we entered with relieved feelings upon the more open country,
they eluded our further pursuit in a backwater. Another few miles
and we reached our destination for the night—Mr. W. G. Rutherfurd’s
station, Rugged Ridges—where a warm and hospitable welcome made us
feel that once more we were in the regions of civilisation.
Leaving next morning at 4.30, we gave ourselves eleven hours to
catch the train for Christchurch, at Waitaki, a distance by water
of sixty miles. Four hours saw us in Duntroon (thirty miles), where
we astonished the natives in disgracefully tattered boating attire,
and indulged in that from which we had long been estranged—‘a long
shandy’—and by 9.15 we were off again at eight miles an hour, shooting
down the most beautifully safe and rippling rapids, scaring ducks,
plover, gull, stilt, swan, and all manner of wild fowl; now and then
startling a mob of horses or cattle from their peaceful browsing,
or astonishing some slow-going shepherd or cowboy as they stared
open-mouthed at such an uncommon sight as two madmen in cockle-shells
of canoes rushing down their boatless river, until we put the final
touch to the whole enterprise by carrying our boats up to the station
at Waitaki South (to the amazement of four railway navvies), at 1 P.M.,
having averaged eight miles an hour for sixty miles, allowing for one
hour stoppages.
The distances by water, allowing for sinuosities in the course of
the rivers from Aorangi to the sea, may be roughly summarised as
follows:—From the end of the Mount Cook Range to Pukaki Ferry,
thirty-four miles; from the Ferry to Rugged Ridges, thirty-eight miles;
and from thence to the railway bridge near the sea at Waitaki, sixty
miles; a total distance of 132 miles.
If it were not for the Pukaki Rapids the trip might be comfortably
accomplished in three days, and at a stretch could be done in two;
but the way to enjoy it would be to travel in a good staunch canoe,
with watertight compartments and such accessories as the west coast
canoeists are in the habit of using, and spend a week over the journey.
L’ENVOI
This little book has but told the story of the ramblings and adventures
of a lover of Nature. I fear that I have signally failed to do
justice to her features, or to convey any adequate idea of her mystic
influence. Would that I could impart that which I can feel.
Should it fall into the hands of Swiss climbers it may serve to show
that the brotherhood of the mountains extends even to out-of-the-way
New Zealand, and that in that country, as well as in the Old World, the
ineffable glories of the mountains have power to charm and to captivate
the hearts of men.
APPENDIX
It has been suggested to me that this work would be more complete if
it contained at least a short record of Alpine expeditions undertaken
by parties (other than those organised by the writer) to the glacier
regions which have been under notice. The suggestion is one which the
writer accepts with much pleasure.
The first recorded expedition to the Mount Cook district, as far as I
am able to gather, is that of the late Sir Julius von Haast (then Dr.
von Haast), the narrative of which may be found in his interesting and
learned work ‘The Geology of Canterbury and Westland,’ published by the
‘Times’ office of Christchurch, now unfortunately out of print, and
difficult of access to the majority.
His work was necessarily more that of exploration than of climbing,
and although later surveys have corrected and modified many of his
estimates of the sizes of glaciers and heights of mountains, it must
be remembered that in the days when he visited the locality (in 1862
and 1870) the difficulties of travelling and of securing supplies were
much greater than at the present time, and the work of exploration
consequently much more difficult.
Of Alpine work (carried on in the sense of the word as understood by
Alpine climbers) he did not effect much, his energies being chiefly
confined to geological, botanical, and zoological observations whilst
he was engaged in a geological survey of the province of Canterbury.
His excursions on the glaciers appear to have been confined to a short
trip up the Tasman, probably to some six miles or so from the terminal
face, and a short exploration of the lower portions of the Mueller and
Hooker Glaciers.
His literary contributions are of greater value to science than to
the domain of Alpine record; but naturally they are of the deepest
interest to the latter class of literature, inasmuch as they tell the
tale of the opening out of fresh Alpine fields which are destined
to become—indeed they are now fast becoming—areas of great
mountaineering importance.
Though Von Haast was perhaps the first man of science or literature to
visit these great glaciers, yet their existence was well known to a few
run-holders and early settlers who had penetrated even thus far into
the mountains in the ‘early days’ of New Zealand.
It is to Mr. Edward Percy Sealy of Timaru, however, that we owe the
first close acquaintance of the Mueller, Hooker, and Tasman Glaciers.
Mr. Sealy was a surveyor by profession and a photographer of no mean
ability, and to his energy and perseverance we are indebted for results
which furnished Dr. von Haast with material for constructing his map of
this part of our Alps.
Upon visiting the glaciers at the present time, and being impressed
with the difficulties of transit, one cannot but be filled with
admiration for the man who achieved such splendid results in
photography, burdened as he was with all the necessary and cumbersome
paraphernalia pertaining to the old wet-plate system then in vogue.
Mr. Sealy traversed nearly the whole length of the Mueller Glacier in
1867, and in 1869 pushed his way up the Hooker as far as the tributary
Empress Glacier, and up the Tasman as far as the great turn at Mount De
la Bêche.
To Mrs. Leonard Harper, of Ilam, belongs the honour of being the first
lady to cross to the Aorangi side of the Tasman River.
On this occasion (in March 1873) the party consisted of Mr. and Mrs.
Leonard Harper, of Christchurch, Messrs. G. Dennistoun, G. Parker,
Melville Gray, Wright, C. Smith, and Flint. They camped at Governor’s
Bush, close to where the Hermitage now stands, and went on to the
Mueller Glacier and to the terminal face of the Tasman. Mr. and Mrs.
Harper returned across the Tasman River, leaving the rest of the
party to attempt the passage to the west coast by the Hooker Saddle,
at the head of the glacier of the same name. In this, as may be easily
conceived—considering that the members of the party were inexperienced
and not properly equipped for such an expedition—the party was
unsuccessful, only reaching a point just above where the clear ice
merges into the moraine, and where the crevasses began to appear
formidable.
For many years after this the glaciers were not traversed to any extent
save by camping-out parties, who contented themselves with short
excursions about the terminal faces, until, in 1882, a fresh interest
was awakened in their existence by the visit of the Rev. W. S. Green
with Herr Emil Boss, of Grindelwald, and Ulrich Kaufmann as guide.
His advent was indeed an awakening, and the apathy of the Colonials
regarding the scenic marvels of their own country was somewhat aroused.
The sensation caused by his memorable ascent of Aorangi, after repeated
struggles with flooded rivers and all those hindrances which seem to
fall inevitably to the lot of men who first open out a new district,
has become quite an event of history in the annals of the colony.
Full particulars of Mr. Green’s doings will be found in his admirable
book, ‘The High Alps of New Zealand,’ published by Macmillan & Co.
To Mr. Green undoubtedly belongs the honour of having first introduced
into New Zealand the proper system of Alpine climbing, and he will ever
be looked back to as the father of the noble sport in the colony.
Then, in 1883, followed the visit of Dr. R. von Lendenfeld, a
mountaineer and scientific man of great attainments. He was accompanied
by his plucky wife, and, aided by porters procured in the colony,
during a stay of nineteen days on the Tasman Glacier completed a survey
of the same, and finished up his work by ascending the Hochstetter
Dome, whose higher and easternmost summit he attained in an expedition
extending over a period of twenty-seven hours from his last camp under
the Malte Brun range, accompanied by his wife and one porter.
Full particulars of his work were made public in Petermann’s
‘Mitteilungen,’[3] and a short English notice of the same may be found
in the ‘Alpine Journal,’ vol. xii. page 163.
[Footnote 3: _Ergänzungsheft_, No. 75. Dr. R. von Lendenfeld, _Der
Tasman-Gletscher und seine Umgebung_.]
Shortly after this the Hermitage Company, Limited, was formed, and
the Hermitage Hotel erected near the terminal face of the Mueller
Glacier. This first Alpine hotel of New Zealand was not built without
many serious difficulties, and the ultimate success of the undertaking
speaks volumes for the perseverance of the enthusiastic manager, Mr.
F. F. C. Huddleston. This gentleman has made various excursions on
the Mueller and Hooker Glaciers since the building of the Hermitage,
and possesses an intimate knowledge of the Alpine district around the
hotel. He has, with a party of two others, penetrated, I understand, as
far as the junction of the Empress Glacier on the Hooker, and has since
effected the passage of the Ball Pass from the Tasman to the Hooker
Glaciers.
In 1886 the author began his visits to the districts with properly
equipped Alpine parties, the results of which expeditions have been
given in the foregoing pages.
In 1889 the Government surveys were extended to the Mueller and
Hooker Glaciers, under Mr. Brodrick, a gentleman whose capability and
never-failing pluck in carrying out his work in such rough country is
only equalled by his modesty concerning his Alpine achievements, which
are necessarily incidental to his profession in the district.
Those of my readers who are acquainted with survey and topographical
work amongst the Alps will appreciate the results of but two seasons’
work in the map of the four great glaciers appended to this book.
Climbers will be interested to know that amongst difficult points
attained by Mr. Brodrick are the saddles at the head of the Mueller
Glacier, that connecting the Murchison and Classen Glaciers, the lower
summit of the Hochstetter Dome, and a peak of 8,015 feet on the Liebig
Range.
In 1890, Mr. Malcolm Ross, of Dunedin, a gentleman who has done much
travelling and some exploring in the Southern Lakes district, and
had tried his ’prentice hand upon Mount Earnslaw, visited the Tasman
Glacier in company with his wife. Bad weather frustrated his attempts
at mountaineering, with the exception of an ascent of a peak of about
7,000 feet on the Mount Cook Range, and a partial ascent of Mount
Sealy. He traversed the Tasman Glacier to a point some miles beyond the
junction of the Hochstetter Glacier.
In December 1890 Messrs. A. P. Harper, R. Blakiston, and Beadel made an
excursion to the Tasman Glacier, but bad weather kept them prisoners at
camp nearly all the time of their stay. Messrs. Harper and Blakiston,
after retreating from the Tasman, succeeded in reaching for the first
time the saddle at the head of the Hooker Glacier (8,580 feet), after
a trying expedition. This had been attempted several times before, but
owing to numberless crevasses was found to be unattainable. Being early
in the season and after a considerable snow-fall, however, the party
in question found the crevasses mostly covered, and they were aided,
moreover, by Mr. Harper’s skill and knowledge of Alpine work.
Again, in January 1891, Messrs. Harper and Johnson visited the Tasman
Glacier, and besides attaining a high saddle (about 7,500 feet) in the
Malte Brun Range and making a nearly complete ascent of Mount Sealy,
secured a fine collection of photographs.
* * * * *
Such, in brief, is a history of what Alpine work has been accomplished
amongst the Southern Alps of New Zealand. Other glacier excursions, it
is true, there have been, but they are few, and with the exception of
the expeditions of Mr. Sealy and the Government Survey to the Godley
and Classen Glaciers farther north, and of a few attempts to climb
Mount Earnslaw in the Southern Lake district, are not worthy of much
note as Alpine expeditions, undertaken in the orthodox manner with axe
and rope.
As these lines are being penned the New Zealand Alpine Club is in
process of formation, and the writer hears with pleasure of the
probabilities of success which are likely to attend the efforts of the
promoters of the club.
Letters of advice and encouragement from prominent members of the
English Alpine Club have at various times come to hand, and the
friendly interest of mountain explorers of the early days of the
colony gives promise of an auspicious birth to one of those bodies of
enthusiasts whose aims may not be mercenary and self-seeking, but whose
operations may contribute their little unit to the art, literature, and
scientific observation of the times.
Who can say what the future may bring forth in the matter of Alpine
climbing in New Zealand? There is an immense field—magnificent
glaciers and noble peaks without number, as yet practically untouched.
One can already see visions of parties of enthusiasts threading their
way amongst intricate ice-falls, cutting steps up hard ice slopes,
conquering by persistent effort splendid rock peaks, drinking in the
glories of a new and fascinating world. Not climbing from a gymnast’s
point of view, but climbing because—why? They cannot tell you why; but
because they feel and know the physical and spiritual benefits of a
closer contact with Nature, with an Omnipotent and Ever-guiding Hand,
which rules all things and creates a heaven even upon earth.
_A SHORT GLOSSARY OF TECHNICAL ALPINE TERMS._
_Arête._—A ridge either of rock, ice, or snow, or combinations of all
three.
_Bergschrund._—The crevasse or deep moat almost invariably found
between the sides and upper portions of a glacier or ice slope and the
rocks above, or the permanent clinging ice above, as the case may be.
Of late the meaning of the term has become extended, and almost any
crevasse in the upper parts of a glacier with one lip higher than the
other comes under the designation.
_Col._—Saddle, or dip in a ridge.
_Cornice._—The overhanging edge of an _arête_ caused by drifting snow.
_Couloir._—A ditch or deep gully in the mountain side; in the upper
regions being usually floored with ice and swept by avalanches.
_Crevasse._—The rent caused by fracture of the ice under tension.
_Gendarme_, or _rock tower_.—A mass of rock on the crest of an _arête_.
_Moraine._—The accumulation of detritus which has fallen from the
mountains on to the ice and is carried down upon it.
_Névé_, or _firn_.—Snow in a transition stage between snow and ice.
The large fields of this feeding a glacier are spoken of as the _névés_
of the glacier.
_Séracs._—Blocks of ice broken into polyhedral masses (mostly cubic)
by the body of the ice being crevassed in various lines of fracture. So
called from the resemblance the blocks bear to a certain kind of cheese.
_Shale slips_ and _shingle and boulder fans_ are of very common
occurrence in the New Zealand mountains and are caused by the discharge
of detritus down _couloirs_, from which when emerging it spreads out
into fan-shaped slopes.
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Transcriber’s note:
Footnote numbers have been changed to 1, 2 and 3, to avoid confusion.
The spelling of Ranunculus lyalii in the Table of Illustrations and
on Page 86 have been corrected to lyallii. (The species was discovered
by David Lyall, a noted Scottish botanist and doctor.)
Ranunculus lyallii is spelt correctly on Page 9.
Obvious punctuation errors were corrected.
The changes are as follows:
In the CONTENTS, Chapter III—river-crossing changed to river crossing.
Page 10—northeastern changed to north-eastern.
Page 12—ice-streams changed to ice streams.
Page 30—river bed changed to river-bed.
Page 30—downstream changed to down-stream.
Page 35—breakwind changed to break-wind.
Page 54—look-out changed to look out.
Page 55—life-time changed to lifetime.
Page 66—shangai changed to shanghai.
Page 84—ice-blocks changed to ice blocks.
Page 89—one day changed to one-day.
Page 93 and Page 139—mountain-side changed to mountain side.
Page 97—red-sandstone changed to red sandstone.
Page 101—step cutting changed to step-cutting.
Page 103—foot-hold changed to foothold.
Page 114—water-courses changed to watercourses.
Page 119—cockleshells changed to cockle-shells.
Page 120—starting-point changed to starting point.
Page 126—rabbit-fence changed to rabbit fence.