IN THE OLDEN DAYS
“The bed was made, the room was fit,
By punctual eve the stars were lit;
The air was still, the water ran;
No need was there for maid or man,
When we put up, my wife and I,
At God’s great caravanserai.”
_From an Old Play—slightly altered._
From the shoulder of the Hochstetter Dome down a long valley between
the giant snow peaks of the Mount Cook Range on the one hand, and
the rocky buttresses of the Malte Brun and Liebig Ranges on the
other, swollen at intervals by tributary ice-streams, flowing with
imperceptible movement, comes the Great Tasman Glacier—a veritable _mer
de glace_—eighteen miles in length. Some six miles from its terminal
face the Ball Glacier descends from the south-eastern shoulder of
Aorangi, and pours its huge slabs of broken ice and a rubble of moraine
into the parent stream. At the foot of this glacier, in a hollow
between the moraine of the Tasman and the long southern arête of Mount
Cook, the Rev. William Spotswood Green, with Emil Boss and Ulrich
Kaufmann, pitched his fifth camp on the occasion of his memorable
expedition in 1882.
Thither, a somewhat young and inexperienced mountaineer, in company
with his wife, wended his way a few years later. The proposed
adventure caused much critical comment in the family circle and among
our friends. Some said we were mad: others envied us. Those were the
delightful days of pioneering, when the mountains were a sealed book to
all but a few faithful worshippers, and when adventures came, freely
and fully, without the seeking. There were no motor-cars to run you up
in a day from the confines of civilization; there were no well-trodden
tracks up the valleys; the turbulent rivers were unbridged; guides were
a genus altogether unknown; and, at the end of the long day’s journey,
there was no sheltering hut under which you could rest your weary
limbs. You were your own guide, your own porter, your own tent-pitcher,
and your own cook. They were days in which we accomplished little in
the matter of real climbing; but they were days in which the blood was
strong and Hope flew ahead on swift wings—days that are now gone, alas!
never to return.
Previous to our visit no Englishwoman had ever attempted this journey.
To a foreigner—Frau von Lendenfeld—belonged the honour of being the
first woman to traverse the Great Tasman Glacier. Frau Lendenfeld,
however, was a good mountaineer; and it is given to few women to do
such pioneering as she did in the Southern Alps. We were mere amateurs
at the game. Still, we were not to be daunted by the croakings of
friends who prophesied that our bones would soon be bleaching on the
glaciers. Accordingly, after a good deal of correspondence, much
planning and provisioning, and considerable consulting of maps and
photographs, we started on our eventful journey. After a day in the
train, we found ourselves at Fairlie Creek. Next morning, having had an
early breakfast, we were bowling along a good gravel road, behind four
spanking greys, well driven, on our way to Mount Cook.
Lunch at Lake Tekapo on a calm summer’s day, after hours of coaching,
was a delightful experience. Afterwards, with your pipe alight, you
stepped out into the hotel garden, and, a few paces in front of you,
lapping a rocky shore, were the beautiful turquoise-green waters of
the lake, reflecting the clouds and the mountains. Here horses were
changed, and we started off again on our long journey through the
dreary yellow tussock wastes of the Mackenzie Plains. Lake Pukaki was
our halting-place for the night. At sunset we sighted its waters.
Far up the valley, rising from the Tasman Flats, towered the great
mass of Mount Cook, its final peak gleaming in the sunlight, and its
snows reflected in the lake at our feet—here distinctly, and yonder
more faintly, as the distant waters were ruffled by a passing breeze.
After some time spent in a futile endeavour to get the dust out of
our clothes and our eyes and our ears, we dined on the rough fare
of the country. No delicate viands here! only the oily mutton-chop,
fried—think of it, ye later-day disciples of Lucullus—in grease that
boasted aloud of a long acquaintanceship with the pan! And for drink
you had your choice of the everlasting boiled tea with all the tannin
in it, of a cloudy and somewhat sour-tasting ale, or of an indifferent
whisky. I know there are Scotsmen who maintain that there may be good
whisky, and better whisky, and better whisky still, though there can be
no such thing as bad whisky; but such enthusiastic patriotism as this
could never have extended to a back-blocks New Zealand inn in the days
when we first went a-pioneering. We had one delicacy—jam. Yet, truth
to tell, we were uncertain whether it was stale strawberry or mouldy
gooseberry. My wife, after a microscopic examination, announced that it
was raspberry made from turnips! A diligent cross-examination of the
handmaiden—who, in the intervals of conversation with the coach-driver
in the kitchen, fairly hurled the viands at us—elicited the statement
that it was gooseberry. She was rather annoyed when doubts were
expressed as to her veracity, and we mildly suggested that it might
be pineapple! No, she was confident it _was_ gooseberry. How did she
know? “Sure, she saw it on the label, an’ if we didn’t belaive her we
could go into the back-yard, where she had thrown the tin, and see for
ourselves!”
The after-glow on Mount Cook, the glorious colouring of which was
mirrored in the lake, was some atonement for the want of delicacy in
the viands.
We were early on the road again next morning. Crossing the Pukaki River
on a ferry-boat, worked by the current, we drove over the tussocky
downs of Rhoboro’ Station, and entered what appeared to be the bed of
an old river, that had no doubt, at some distant date, cut its way
through this ancient lateral moraine, when the glacier of the Tasman
Valley was three or four times its present size.
The road followed an old bullock-dray track, through which morainic
boulders reared their hard heads, and not altogether in vain. Once, on
this very road, a thoughtful traveller, sorely bruised and battered
after some miles of jolting, stopped the coach and got down to examine
the wheels. The driver, a little puzzled, asked what was the matter,
and received the laconic reply: “Oh, nothing. I merely wished to see if
your wheels were _square_.” For the first mile or two we thought this
story a joke; after a few more miles, we began to think there might
be some truth in it; and, finally, we too found ourselves dubiously
examining the wheels. It is all very well when you are nicely wedged
in between a couple of really stout passengers; but, when you have
an angular tourist on your right and an iron railing bounding your
hip-joint on the left, the world seems a very grey world indeed, and
even scenery ceases to excite. On this particular day, however, our
driver added to the excitement of the ride in very material degree.
He had that morning received what is known in these parts as “the
sack.” In other words, he had lost his job, and he had not taken the
announcement with quite the grace of a Spanish grandee. He confided to
us with many adjectives—some more forcible than polite—that he was “out
for a picnic,” and he did not care if he killed a tourist or two. His
main object in life now appeared to be to get to his destination—in
pieces, if necessary—about an hour before the proper time, and at one
stage it seemed as if he might really kill a passenger, or, at least,
a horse, in the accomplishment of this quite unnecessary feat. The
crackings of his long whip were accompanied by a variety of oaths, and
other comments, of a staccato but emphatic nature. The height of his
enjoyment appeared to be reached on a steep incline leading towards
the lake. Down this we rattled, over stones and around sharp curves,
at a pace that would have done credit to Yuba Bill; and we said never
a word, but held our breath and the iron railing of the trap, till,
with a sigh of relief, we reached the bottom safely and breathed freely
again. To do him justice, he did know how to handle his team, and,
finally, our admiration for the fellow as a driver began to overshadow
our contempt for him as a man and a humanitarian.
During the next day’s drive there was no hostelry at which we could
obtain food and drink, so soon after twelve o’clock we halted and had
an _al fresco_ luncheon at a place known as “The Dog’s Grave.” There
was a little patch of scrub on the flat, where fuel was obtainable, and
a clear stream running past supplied good water. Near at hand was the
dog’s grave, with a little tombstone, the whole enclosed with a stout
wooden railing. The dog belonged to the survey camp established there
some months previously, and his master, grieving over his untimely
demise, gave him a decent funeral and a tombstone with an inscription
on it!
The latter part of the journey was over a very rough road; but the
splendid views ahead were some compensation for the jolting we
received. Our jehu, true to his promise, landed us at the Hermitage
an hour ahead of contract time. This inn, prettily situated at the
foot of an old lateral moraine of the Mueller Glacier, has since seen
many vicissitudes, till, finally, it passed into the hands of the
Government. It is now about to be pulled down, and another building
is being erected on a better site—none too soon either, because the
bursting of the glacier water through the old moraine has flooded the
rooms, and caused damage such as to make the situation quite unsafe.
Next day the fine weather with which we had been favoured broke.
High up in the heavens the storm-clouds were being driven before
the south-west wind, while a lower current from the north-west was
wreathing the rain-clouds around the highest peaks of Aorangi and
Mount Sefton. It was a battle between the two winds, but at last the
north-wester triumphed. A momentary glimpse was obtained of the highest
peaks of Mount Cook, and then the torn mists wound themselves about
it and hid it from view for the rest of the day. The north-west wind
struck us with great force, and, as we peered over the edge of the hill
down on to the rock-covered surface of the Mueller Glacier, we could
scarce bear up against it. The temperature quickly fell to 52 degrees,
then the rain came on.
By next morning the storm had abated, and the sun shone out. I
engaged a young shepherd, named Annan, with a pack-horse, and, after
arranging tents, ice-axes, and provisions, we started to fix a camp
some fourteen miles up the Tasman Valley. There was an anxious moment
with the pack-horse in crossing the Hooker River, now swollen with the
recent rains, and, as the animal struggled with loose boulders and
floating blocks of ice in mid-stream, we were quite prepared to see the
expedition come to a premature and ignominious end. Annan, however,
riding his own horse, managed to pilot the pack-horse in safety to the
farther shore, while I got into a small wooden cage, that dangled high
above the roaring torrent, and laboriously pulled myself over to the
other side. The pack-horse was taken as far as the terminal moraine of
the Tasman Glacier. Beyond this it was impossible to proceed with the
horses, and the packs had now to be transferred to our own backs. They
looked, indeed, a goodly pile.
[Illustration: THE HERMITAGE.]
Twenty-five lb. of biscuits, 12 lb. of tinned meats, 2 loaves weighing
14 lb., 4 lb. of oatmeal, 8 lb. of butter, 4 lb. of jam, 1 shoulder
of mutton, 2 lb. of onions, 2 lb. of tea, 1 lb. of cocoa, 1 lb. of
coffee, 4 lb. of sugar, 1 lb. of salt, 4 tins of sardines, and a few
pots of Liebig constituted the bulk of our provisions. In addition
to this, there were the 2 tents, 3 sleeping bags, 1 opossum rug, 1
large sheet of oiled calico, 2 ice-axes, 1 alpenstock, 100 feet of
Alpine rope, billies, spirit lamp, lantern, aneroid, thermometers,
and several other smaller articles, which all went to make up weight.
Before us was the long moraine of the Great Tasman Glacier, and over
this, for a distance of seven or eight miles, all these articles had to
be carried on our backs. It was no joke. We knew that the undertaking
was rather a difficult one, but had no idea how difficult it would be.
Annan selected from among the articles a swag weighing about 50 lb. I
made up one that would be probably 10 lb. lighter, and, covering up
the remainder with the oilcloth sheet, at three o’clock we started
off, hoping to reach Green’s Fifth Camp that evening. Profiting by the
experience of the Rev. Mr. Green and Dr. von Lendenfeld, we made no
attempt to get on to the clear ice in the middle of the glacier, but
kept to the rocks on the side of the lateral moraine that runs for
miles parallel with the great southern arête of Mount Cook. There was
fair walking for some little distance till we passed the group of tarns
of a peculiar greenish colour at the end of the moraine. Then the rocks
got rougher, and were piled in wilder confusion as we proceeded.
Of this same route Mr. Green says: “The lateral moraine, standing up
like some great battlement shattered in the war of the Titans, was
composed of huge cubes of sandstone and jagged slabs of slate, some
over 20 feet a side, and ready at any moment to topple over and crush
our limbs.” We found scrambling over these rocks very hard work on such
a hot afternoon, but made good progress, and soon found ourselves at
the Blue Lake, where Mr. Green weathered out a very severe storm on his
first trip up the Tasman. Just before reaching the lake there was a
bad bit of travelling through thick scrub, which Annan had not looked
forward to with any great degree of pleasure; but on reaching the spot
we found that a large slip had come down from the moraine, exposing
the clear ice of the glacier, and completely covering the scrub for a
distance of about 100 yards with morainic accumulation. The ice was
quite near, from which it would appear that there was more _live_
moraine than Dr. von Lendenfeld imagined. The slip gave us fairly good
walking, but we had some difficulty in getting through the last bit of
scrub at the Blue Lake. Beyond this we had to cross the débris of a
great talus fan that came down from the mountain-side, and then we came
to a piece of level ground, between the moraine and the mountain-side,
which afforded the only real bit of easy walking in the whole journey.
This flat—about a quarter of a mile long—was covered with large
tussocks, spear grass, veronicas, and a wealth of celmesias. Ahead the
moraine continued its course, in the words of Mr. Green, “looking like
some great railway embankment in the symmetry of its outline.” Here we
made our first acquaintance with that strange, curious, impudent, and
interesting bird the kea. A number flew down from the lower slopes of
the great mountain ridge and regarded us with a wondering curiosity.
I took the precaution to bag a brace as a welcome addition to our
larder, but with some considerable measure of regret, for though in
the surrounding districts the keas kill the sheep in the most cruel
manner, they are nevertheless fascinating and handsome birds. Our tent
was pitched that evening in a lonely spot between the moraine and the
great shoulder of Mount Cook, here clothed with an interesting variety
of sub-Alpine vegetation. For this purpose we used the tent poles and
the survey chain left here by some of the early Alpine explorers. We
spent a cold night, and next day, while I returned to the Hermitage for
my wife, Annan swagged up the rest of the provisions.
On the morning of Sunday the 1st April—rather late in the season—my
wife and I said good-bye to our friends at the Hermitage, and started
on foot for our camp at the Ball Glacier. It was hard work pulling
the two of us across the river in the cage, as the pull to the other
side was an upward one; but, after much exertion, and many splinters
in my hands from the rough Manila rope, the other side was reached in
safety. As we landed, two young fellows from the Hermitage approached
and beckoned us to send the cage back across the river to them. This
did not exactly suit our book, as, in the event of their taking the
cage back with them, we should be stranded on the Tasman side. So we
tied it securely to the post on our side of the river, and continued
on our journey. But before we had gone very far we were astonished to
see one of the young fellows commencing to scramble across the river
on the wire rope to get the cage, so that he might take his companion
over. One could not help admiring his nerve and daring; but we were
more concerned about our own faring should he leave the cage on the
wrong side of the river for us. However, we proceeded on our journey,
and, after an hour’s march, reached a deserted shepherd’s hut, where we
found Annan with a billy of refreshing tea awaiting our arrival.
The hut was rather an uninviting place, being dirty, and having no door
nor window, in addition to which it was inhabited by rats. A short
council of war was held, and, as it was early in the day, and the walk
up the Tasman moraine on the morrow was rather a big undertaking, we
decided not to stay at the hut, but to proceed as far as we could, and
sleep out in one of the hollows between the glacier and the mountain.
Accordingly we started for a point two miles distant, at the edge of
the glacier, where Annan and I had left part of our stores on the way
up. Having adjusted our swags, we were soon on the march, scrambling
over the boulders of the moraine. Our progress was slow, both Annan
and myself having heavy swags, while my wife, though displaying great
pluck, had not yet got used to the acrobatic feats necessary to the
keeping of one’s balance on the unstable boulders of the moraine.
We had a particularly lively time of it in the scrub at the Blue Lake;
and my wife’s jacket, which was tied to my swag, had been torn off, and
was lost among the bushes.
It was a sweltering hot day, but we toiled on, and towards evening
reached the celmesia flat, where Mr. Green had pitched his third camp.
My wife was by this time very tired, and so, while I gathered some
sticks and made the tea, she sat on a rock wrapped in the ’possum
rug. Annan decided to go on to the camp and come down again to have
breakfast with us early next morning. We were now close to the ice, and
after tea, as it began to get very cold, I set about to look for a good
spot for our bivouac. A hundred yards farther on some scrubby totara
bushes and a stunted Alpine pine grew close in to the glacier, and
under the latter, after a hurried inspection, we decided to camp. Its
branches would be some protection against the wind, should it come on
to blow, and, in the event of rain, they would also keep us fairly dry.
Some branches were cut for a mattress, and over that we put tussock
grass. On top of that we spread the waterproof sheet, and lying down
on that—with our clothes on, of course—pulled the ’possum rug over
us and sought a well-earned repose. We both dozed off, but presently
were awakened by a shrill scream. It was only the call of a kea far up
the mountain-side. Over the cold white snows on the shoulder of Mount
Cook, one solitary cloud hung, fringed with the gold of the setting
sun. Later the moon shone brilliantly through the clear frosty air,
and the peaks became silhouettes against the horizon. A rock avalanche
rattled down the side of the glacier. From across the narrow flat came
the cry of the mountain parrot; and a weka that had crept close to our
heads under the branches startled us with a loud screech. Then again
all was silent—silent as the tomb. Presently two other visitors made
a friendly call upon us: two tiny wrens—absurd little things, with
hardly the vestige of tails. They perched on the branches just over
our heads, so close that we could have ruffled their feathers with our
breath. They hopped about from twig to twig, speaking to us in their
soft, low bird voices; and, having studied us from every point of the
compass, they decided to give us up, and went off to roost in a totara
bush. At last we also went to sleep, and, making due allowance for the
hardness of our couch and the strange surroundings, managed to get a
fairly good night’s rest. When we awoke in the morning the frost lay
white on the bushes around us, save within a radius of a foot or two,
where the heat from our bodies had melted it, or prevented it from
forming. The temperature had fallen to 26° Fahr. On the way up we took
down a reading of 80° in the shade, so that there was thus a drop of
no less than 54° in a few hours! I was astir before sunrise, and on
going back to the Blue Lake for water to boil the billy the garrulous
Paradise ducks gave me a vituperative reception, while the solitary
mountain duck quacked a milder remonstrance. A shot from my pistol
made them think discretion the better part of valour, and while the
Paradise ducks took wing the grey duck scuttled off down stream in a
great hurry. After a short search, I found my wife’s jacket frozen hard
to the bushes, and, filling my billy, returned to the flat. On the way
up I gave a jodel that was answered by Annan far up the moraine, and in
a few minutes he had rejoined us. We breakfasted together, and shortly
after 9.30 were once more on the march. All the way up the valley we
had been getting glorious glimpses of the Mount Cook chain, and De la
Bêche, with its sharp peak and minarets of spotless snow, seemed to be
ever beckoning us onward. Towering in the distance above the dull grey
line of the great moraine, gleaming gloriously in the sunshine of early
morn, tinted with the soft rose of the after-glow, or looming coldly in
the mystic moonlight, this mountain seemed ever beautiful in outline,
majestic in form. Even the moraine was interesting, clothed as it was,
in places, with a great variety of Alpine plants, while structurally it
was always something to marvel at, if not to swear at.
“It is,” says Dr. von Lendenfeld, “larger than the moraines are in the
European Alps, the cause being the slower action of the New Zealand
glaciers, and the peculiarity of the rocks which surround them. There
are very few places to be found where the rocks are so jointed as they
are here. They are split along the different joints into polyhedric
masses by freezing water; they fall on the glacier and are carried down
the valley. _Ceteris paribus_, the slower the glacier moves the more
moraine will accumulate. For miles no part of the glacier is visible
through the moraine.” The glacier does not block up the whole valley,
there being quite a large space between it and the mountain-side,
except, in places, where great talus fans come down from the corries to
meet the live moraine of the glacier. Far away on the right were the
rocky peaks and hanging glaciers of the Liebig and Malte Brun Ranges,
and in between them the Murchison Glacier, once a tributary of the
Tasman, but now shrunken up its own valley for a considerable distance.
On our left we passed a high waterfall, and, nearing a spot known as
the Cove, came across a small iron stove—a relic of the Lendenfeld
expedition, abandoned early in the journey as being, no doubt, a luxury
too heavy to be carried over this rough ground. We had a rest at the
Cove, and whiled away half an hour with a shooting match, in which
my wife proved herself a good markswoman. A little farther on we had
luncheon—bread and sardines, with a pannikin of tea, again being the
bill of fare. After this, there was some difficult scrambling over
great rocks, many of which were so loose that we dare not put our
weight on them for more than a second. We toiled on in the heat of the
afternoon, and reached the camp at half-past three o’clock. While I
pitched the second tent Annan and my wife set about the camp cookery,
the latter making a glorious stew from mutton and onions, with a few
other ingredients. That was twenty-three years ago, but the memory of
the feast remains with us still. No French chef ever made ragout that
was welcomed so eagerly, or that disappeared so quickly. That night
we piled on all the clothes we could—in addition to those we had on.
We could hear the rocks rattling down the face of the glacier just
opposite our tent—a couple of hundred yards distant—but King Frost held
the glaciers themselves in his cold grip, and there were no avalanches
after nightfall. Being too tired to pay much attention to the screaming
of the keas, we soon fell asleep.