IN THE OLDEN DAYS—_concluded_
“We walked in the great hall of life, looking up and around
reverentially. Nothing was despicable—all was meaning-full; nothing
was small, but as part of a whole whose beginning and end we knew
not.”—CARLYLE.
Next morning, though the barometer had fallen ominously, Annan and I
set out to climb the Hochstetter Dome. We toiled across the crumbling
moraines of the Tasman, the Ball, and the Hochstetter Glaciers, and
gained the clear, hummocky ice of the latter—one of the finest sights
in the Southern Alps. It issues forth from the great ice plateau at the
foot of the higher precipices of Mount Cook, descending in a wonderful
cascade of broken ice for over 3000 feet. It cuts into the Tasman at
an angle of about 45 degrees, and, the two glaciers flowing onward and
not pressing very closely together, there remains a deep chasm between
them. After proceeding a few miles, we find that there are two series
of crevasses—one formed by the pressure of the Hochstetter Glacier
causing the ice on the western side to move faster than that portion
of the glacier abutting on the Malte Brun Range, while another series
is caused by the bending round of the main ice stream in a grand sweep
between Malte Brun and De la Bêche, forming long crevasses which run
across the glacier on its convex side.
The sun shone out brightly, and the glare from the white ice was so
dazzling that we had to keep on our goggles to avoid snow-blindness. A
little beyond the Hochstetter Ice Fall we halted to admire the view.
Down the valley we could see the lower part of the Ball Glacier. Right
in front lay the gleaming ice slopes and dark precipices of Aorangi,
towering up, and culminating in the tent-shaped ridge 8000 feet above
us; and down from the great ice plateau, between the south-eastern spur
of Mount Cook and the Tasman spur, the Hochstetter Ice Fall poured its
beautifully coloured cascade of broken ice, in spires and cubes and
pinnacles—a wonderful sight—till it joined the Tasman, on which we now
stood. Every few minutes great masses of ice were broken off with the
superincumbent pressure, and went thundering down with loud roar over
a precipice on the left. Half a mile farther on was the Freshfield
Glacier, and over the bold rocky spur on which it rested appeared the
ice cap of Mount Tasman. Then came the glorious mass of the Haast
Glacier, in sunshine and shadow; and beyond this again other glaciers
and peaks in bewildering number and variety. The ruddy buttresses of
the Malte Brun Range bounded the view across the glacier on the right.
Words fail to do justice to a scene of such exquisite beauty and
grandeur.
“I tried vainly,” says the Rev. Mr. Green, “to recall the view in
Switzerland on the Great Aletsch Glacier in front of the Concordia Hut
to establish some standard for comparison. Then I tried the Görner
Glacier, on the way to Monte Rosa, but the present scene so completely
asserted its own grandeur that we all felt compelled to confess in that
instant that it surpassed anything we had ever beheld!”
While we were gazing the clouds increased, and a chill wind sprang
up. The higher peaks were becoming obscured in the clouds. It was
evident that a storm was brewing. It would have been madness to tackle
the Hochstetter Dome, so we left our swags behind, and, taking only
the ice-axes and the rope, made a bolt for De la Bêche, to see what
we could of the upper portion of the glacier. We made good progress
over hummocky ice, and at last, when opposite De la Bêche, obtained
a glimpse of the Lendenfeld Saddle. A fine unnamed glacier coming
from the shoulder of Mount Spencer I named the Forrest Glacier,
after my wife, who, by her pluck and endurance, had conquered all
the difficulties that lay between us and the enjoyment of this scene
of Alpine grandeur. Then we took a last longing look at the glorious
amphitheatre of mountains, and, turning our faces campward, beat a
hasty retreat. It was a pleasant surprise to my wife to see us back in
camp that afternoon. But I had better let her tell her own story.
“In the morning,” she writes, “I was wakened by Annan’s stentorian
voice giving vent to a poetic and sentimental ditty, of which the
following is the only verse he ever favoured us with:—
‘There’s the lion in his lair,
And the North Polar bear,
And the birds in the greenwood tree,
And the pretty little rabbits,
So engaging in their habits—
Who’ve all got a mate but me!’
“To judge from the boisterous cheerfulness of the singer his lonely
condition did not trouble him much. Backwards and forwards he went,
preparing breakfast, and various ditties furnished amusement to us for
at least half an hour. Our breakfast menu differed little from that
of any other meal, I always taking biscuit in preference to a stratum
from the pre-Adamite loaf poor Annan had carried up with many groans,
and coffee or tea always forming an adjunct to the meal, whatever it
might be. After breakfast, my husband and Annan made preparations for
their tramp onward up the glacier. This I had dreaded, for it meant
leaving me for two nights and two days alone in the camp. Many a moan
was made over me by my friends before we had started on our trip. One
had suggested that I should certainly stay, in preference to stopping
in the camp by myself, at the nearest station. The Tasman Glacier
does not, however, abound in stations, the nearest human habitation
being the Hermitage, fourteen miles away! I had long ago come to the
conclusion that investment in land on the moraine would not be a paying
concern. Another timid soul had placed before me the horrible position
I should be in were a tramp to walk into the camp and surprise me. We
were tramps ourselves, I reflected, and other people as adventurous
or as mad—some may consider the adjectives synonymous—we were not
likely to encounter. As regards burglars and fire I was safe, and in
fact there was absolutely no danger; but, for all that, I had a very
uncomfortable feeling as I watched my two protectors packing up their
traps. Beyond our camp there was no timber of any kind, so they could
light no fire, and unfortunately the spirits of wine had been left
behind. They would therefore have to make the best of cold victuals
while they were away, and console themselves with the cheerful prospect
of hot coffee and savoury stew on their return to camp. Then again,
as they had a difficult road to travel, they had to take as few
impedimenta as possible; so they limited themselves as to provisions,
and carried in addition only their sleeping bags and the Alpine rope.
“At about ten o’clock we passed round the stirrup-cup in the shape
of a steaming billy of tea, and off they started, after having made
everything as snug as possible for me. I watched them walking along the
moraine and scrambling to the top of the ridge. There they stopped,
turned round, waved their caps, gave a hearty cheer, to which I feebly
responded as I watched them disappear over the edge. I was now alone,
and a kea from the cliff above screamed derisively at me as I stood for
a moment gazing at the place where I had last seen my companions. Work
I decided was the best remedy for loneliness, on the principle that
Satan—in this case taking the shape of Melancholy—finds some mischief
still for idle hands to do. So I tidied up the two tents, piled more
wood on the fire, and sat down in the sunny doorway of our tent with
my fancy work. I could hardly help smiling, so incongruous did fancy
work seem with the wonderful scene around me; but for a time it took my
thoughts off my position, although my hands lay often idle in my lap
while my eyes feasted on the surroundings. It was about eleven, and
sunshine was pouring down on the level where our tents were pitched,
making the glossy green leaves of the mountain lilies glisten, and
turning the tussocky flat into a golden plain. In front stretched
the grey moraine wall, and on the other side the spur of Mount Cook,
clothed near its base with luxuriant vegetation. As I cast my eyes
up its steep face I caught sight of a totara bush, whose tiny red
turpentine-flavoured berries had been my joy in happier hours. Up I
mounted, very gingerly, to where the bush hung between two great grey
rocks, but somehow the berries had lost their flavour, and I did not
enjoy them. So I sat me down on one of the big stones and ruminated on
my position. Three days seemed a lifetime, but two nights an eternity!
In vain I remonstrated with myself, and reflected how much worse it
would have been had I been cast on a desert island ‘where tigers and
snakes prevailed,’ and I tried to recall all the cases of lonely
shipwrecked maidens I had read about, for consolatory purposes, but
it was of little use. I knew quite well that there was absolutely
nothing to fear, but it was the horrible loneliness and silence that
oppressed me, added to the fears I felt for my companions’ safety.
Should one slip happen, I thought the rope would be of little avail,
for one would not be able to bear the weight of the other, especially
if it came with a sudden jerk, and I remembered the warnings against
only two going on Alpine expeditions. Altogether my reflections were
of no enviable character as I sat high up on the cliff, looking down
on our two white tents and blazing camp fire, and across at the Malte
Brun Range, towering over the grey battlement, looking very black
against the blue sky, except where the white glaciers seamed its rugged
sides. When I got down to the level I took a lonely meal, and again
sat down to work. By this time a slight breeze had sprung up, and some
ominous-looking clouds were banking up towards the north. But I thought
little of that at first. Then the weather grew more threatening, some
raindrops fell, the wind flapped the sides of the tents, and blew the
dead ashes of my camp fire across the tussocks. I had not the heart to
re-light it, had I the matches to waste over the attempt. I possessed
but eleven, for one box had got wet, and our supply was very scant, so
I determined to let it remain out. Stronger and stronger blew the wind,
darker and darker grew the sky, and by this the head of the glacier was
closed up with mist and cloud. Evidently a storm was brewing, and in
the direction in which the adventurers were going. I knew a snowstorm
might come on quite suddenly in these parts, and I was not versed in
the mysteries of tent-pegging. Awful thoughts of my husband’s return
to find my prostrate form under the collapsed tent came before my mind
as I retired inside and coiled myself up in the rug. Some time after,
I went out to take another look at the weather, and I was standing
forlornly gazing round, when, to my delight, I heard a cheery yell from
the ridge, and saw two tiny black figures silhouetted against the grey
sky. You may be sure I bustled around after echoing a welcome, and by
the time the two travellers had reached the camp the perennial stew and
billy of tea were ready to be enjoyed.”
We also were glad to be back in camp. It was well we turned back, for
that same night there came on a terrible storm. The wind rose from
the north-west, and blew with such force that we thought every moment
the tents would be torn to ribbons. We strengthened them with the
spare rope, and put heavy stones all round the canvas on the ground
outside. Hour after hour the gale roared furiously; sleep was out of
the question. High up the mountain spur we could hear the wind howling
and tearing the Alpine foliage in its fury. Then it would swoop down
on our tent and send the sides flapping with reports like pistol
shots. Again, it would cease for a moment, as if to catch breath, only
to come swooping down on us with even greater vengeance. After what
seemed a very long time, I looked at my watch and found that only two
hours had gone by. The barometer still gave a very low reading, and it
was evident that we were in for a bad time. Soon after midnight the
rain came on, and the force of the wind beat it through the tent. I
rigged up a hood over my wife’s head with my waterproof coat and the
tin in which the biscuits were. Then, tying our caps down over our
ears, we coiled up in the ’possum rug and once more tried to sleep.
But the wind howled and the rain beat on the tent, and sleep was out
of the question. Twice during the night I had to get up, tighten the
ropes, and put bigger stones on the sides of the tent to prevent its
being blown clean away. For twelve hours we lay listening to the fury
of the storm, and at last the dawn came. Never were we more pleased
to see the first streaks of daylight. The weather gradually improved,
and though it was a showery afternoon we made a successful expedition
up the glacier, so that my wife might not go away without seeing the
Hochstetter Ice Fall and the beauties of the Upper Tasman.
Wonderful as were the many sights close to us, it was when we lifted
our eyes to the Hochstetter Ice Fall that the true grandeur of the
scene impressed us. From Mount Cook came a mass of broken ice, gigantic
cubes, and pinnacles, of the most exquisite and dainty colourings,
ethereal blues and greens. Down 3000 feet the great frozen cataract
poured its masses of ice, ever moving, yet to our eyes in perpetual
rest. Even while we looked a thundering roar, that had grown familiar
to our ears for the last two weeks, rent the air, as, over a black
face of the cliff that breaks the cataract, and serves to heighten the
beauty of its colouring, a great mass of ice crashed to the foot of the
mountain.
That evening we had a variety entertainment in our tent. We started
with a shooting match, taking for our target a small tin fixed on a
rock in front of the doorway. When it got too dark to see our mark we
lit the lantern, played spelling games, told stories, and talked over
the feats of our illustrious predecessors on the Tasman Glacier. As
a great treat, on our last evening in Green’s Fifth Camp, we had all
the onions left boiled for supper, with a little salt, and they were
delicious. Whether it was the effects of these or the fatigue of our
walk, I do not know, but, though it rained that night too, we slept
profoundly, and heeded not the elements.
Morning came misty and grey, but towards nine o’clock the sun came
out brilliantly, and the mist rose, showing us the mountains covered
with fresh white snow. We determined to press on to the shepherd’s
hut, at least, that day, as the weather was too unsettled to risk
staying longer. Standing for a moment on the crest of the moraine,
we looked down on the little flat where we had spent such a jolly
time. The wet leaves of celmesias, senecios, and mountain lilies were
flashing back the glittering sunlight, the dying smoke of our camp
fire drifted lazily across the face of the cliff, and a kea screamed a
derisive farewell to us as we took a mental photograph of the scene.
Then we reluctantly turned our backs upon it and our faces once more
to the grey moraine. The hut was reached early in the afternoon, and
we decided to continue our journey to the Hermitage. On arriving
at the Hooker we found that the cage had been left on the other
side, and could only be pulled over part of the way. This was a sore
disappointment. There was nothing for it but to retrace our steps to
the Mount Cook Hut, or for me to crawl along the rope and secure the
cage. We chose the latter alternative, and, while my wife averted her
gaze, I crawled along the wire rope and scrambled down into the cage,
which I managed to pilot across in safety. Both of us then got in and
started across, but we had a fearful time of it, as the pulling rope
had got into the current, and it was only with the greatest exertion
that we managed to extricate it. We were half an hour in crossing the
river, and reached the Hermitage in the darkness, after what was, for a
woman, in those days, a wonderful journey down from Green’s Fifth Camp.
[Illustration: CROSSING THE HOOKER.]
One morning, soon after our return to the Hermitage, I found myself
basking in the warm sunshine, dividing my attention for the most part
between a book and a cigar, and occasionally gazing up at the ice
cliffs of Mount Sefton, from which, every now and then, great masses
broke away and came tumbling over the precipices with thundering roar.
I was joined by Mr. Huddleston, the keeper of the Hermitage, who
suggested a climb on the Sealy Range, so, next morning, I started on
a lovely mountain ramble. It was a glorious day, and the glaciers at
the head of the Hooker were gleaming in the sunlight, while the long
southern arête of Mount Cook, right up to the summit, was in shadow,
and there was one patch of glistening white on the top of St. David’s
Dome. Mount Sefton, with the broken ice of its hanging glaciers,
was resplendent in full sunshine; and every now and then a great
avalanche thundered down from the highest slopes. The mocking-birds
were singing in chorus to the tuis’ liquid song, and the beat of the
hammers on the roof of the new buildings at the Hermitage was borne up
through the still air. Halting for a spell at a little lakelet high on
the shoulder of the mountain, I chanced to look up, and was surprised
to find someone on the rocks above me. He turned out to be the lad
who had so daringly crossed the Hooker River on the wire rope a few
days before. He had been employed in connexion with the new building
at the Hermitage, and, lured by the beauty and the grandeur of these
mountains, had climbed from the valley to get a better view. I offered
to share my luncheon with him, and he was easily persuaded to accompany
me on my scramble, and I, untutored climber that I was, made bold to
give him his first lesson in mountaineering. He told me his name was
Fyfe. It was a name destined to play no inconsiderable part in the
history of New Zealand mountaineering, and I little knew then that
in the years to come we two should be in many tight corners together
on the giant peaks of these great ranges, and that there would arise
situations in which the life of each would depend upon the skill, the
coolness, and the courage of the other. Yet so it was. But in this
day’s work there was not much adventure, and all we did was to reach a
point from which the view amply repaid us for our toil. Many fine peaks
and glaciers were in sight, and the rivers lay in the great hollows
between the ranges like thin threads of silver. In the midst of it
all rose the buttresses of Aorangi, pile on pile, to where its summit
snows gleamed in the setting sun. Far away, on the other hand, in the
yellow tussock plains of the lower country, lay the lakes—jewels in
a setting of dull gold. One began to realize that there were sermons
in stones, and that this was a cathedral in which one might hear them.
Certainly no cathedral floor of marble was ever so white as the snowy
sunlit floor on which we trod, and no cathedral dome so vast as the
blue above; while about us were the massive flying buttresses of the
mountain ranges supporting the higher peaks and domes of snow. It
required no stretch of the imagination to look back adown the aisles
of time to the days when greater glaciers carried their burden of grey
moraine across the distant plains, and even to the sea itself—to the
days when still higher peaks “towered vast to heaven.” The mills of
the gods were still grinding up here, and the mountains were crumbling
before our eyes; but, lower down, the beautiful sub-Alpine flora
clothed their sides—silvery-leaved celmesias, and many other flowers
and plants, with the golden-eyed ranunculus, wet with a passing shower,
gazing up into the eye of the sun. Perched up there, in the midst of
it all, away from the hum of cities, “the earth had ceased for us to
be a weltering chaos. We walked in the great hall of life, looking up
and around reverentially. Nothing was despicable—all was meaning-full;
nothing was small, but as a part of a whole whose beginning and end we
knew not.”
From this reverie was I awakened by an avalanche crashing down from
Sefton’s steep slopes. We turned and glissaded over the snow, lost our
way in the dark, lower down, and eventually arrived at the Hermitage an
hour after nightfall. My companion was thankful for the darkness, for
some of his garments had been sorely tried in the descent, and he badly
needed a cloak.
One other scramble, an unimportant first ascent, and my holiday was at
an end. Thus fell I in love with those beautiful mountains, on whose
great glaciers, steep ice-slopes, and grim precipices I was, in after
years, to spend many jocund days and some bitter nights. There have
been glorious mornings when we shouldered our packs and strode boldly
and joyously out into the unknown. There have been days when success
met us on the mountain-side, and, grasping us warmly by the hand,
led us to the almost inaccessible places, and persuaded the higher
crags and snows to yield up their inmost secrets. And there have been
other times when angry storms, resenting the intrusion, have chased
us incontinently back to tent or bivouac. Days, too, when the higher
snows, “softly rounded as the breasts of Aphrodite,” in return for all
our wooing, have given us but a chill response. Yet the sweet has been
very sweet, and the bitter never so sharp that it could not be endured
with fortitude, if not altogether with indifference. And, throughout
all our guideless wanderings—and I write it down here with some little
pride—no accident has occurred to mar the happiness of a generation’s
climbing.