THE CONQUERING OF AORANGI—_continued_
“It thunders, and the wind rushes screaming through the void,
The night is black as a black stone.”
RABINDRANATH TAGORE.
A high bivouac in the Southern Alps, across which sweep the great
summer ocean air currents, may, at any time, and without much warning,
lend a spice of adventure to a big climb. And so it now happened.
Before we could get comfortably warm in our bags, and settle down for
the night, ominous gusts of wind began to flap the sides of our tent,
and to send the snow swirling down the gullies. The wind gradually
increased, and by half-past ten it was howling round our bivouac with
the force of a gale. The sides of our tent flapped wildly, and at last
it became evident that it could not stand against such a gale, but
would be blown to shreds if left standing, so I got up, and levelled
it to the ground. Hanging on to the rope to avoid being blown away,
I took a glance round. The soft snow from the tops of Haast and
Haidinger, caught by the wind, was blown like a great cloud-banner
half-way across the Tasman Valley, while the moon went plunging
into the storm-clouds that came sailing in torn masses overhead. It
was evident that we were in for a bad nor’-wester, and as I crawled
back under the folds of the tent and into my sleeping bag beside my
recumbent companions I could hold out little hope for the morrow. Hour
after hour the wind raged. There was no improvement till morning. Then
the wind seemed to abate somewhat, and we pitched the tent again. It
was bitterly cold, and snow was beginning to fall. It looked as if we
were going to be caught in a trap, but we were loath to retreat, and
stuck to our guns in the hope that before the day was over the gale
would have blown itself out. But matters began to get worse instead
of better. The wind once more increased in violence, and was now
accompanied by driving rain, hail, and snow. We could do nothing but
wait patiently in our sleeping bags and hope for the best. Towards
evening we broached a tin of sardines, and managed to get enough water
from the floor of the tent to allay our thirst. Then night closed round
our storm-tossed bivouac, and the driving rain beat through the canvas,
and formed pools on the waterproof floor inside. Several times we baled
the tent out with pannikins, but there was no keeping it dry, and at
last we were content to lie in our sleeping bags in the water. About 10
p.m. there was a vivid flash of lightning followed by a loud peal of
thunder, and this was succeeded by another and yet another, each peal
coming nearer than the one preceding it. The hours went slowly by, and
at midnight the storm was at its height. The lightning came like balls
of fire, and while the wind howled round the crags, the thunder crashed
incessantly, making the Bivouac Rock, and even the ridge itself,
tremble. Sleep was out of the question, but we huddled up in our
sleeping bags, and occasionally told a story or sang a song. Someone
quoted ironically—
[Illustration: THE MT. COOK BIVOUAC.]
“There is beauty in the bellow of the blast,
There is grandeur in the growling of the gale,
* * * * *
But to him who’s scientific
There’s nothing that’s terrific
In the falling of a flight of thunderbolts!”
and Dixon sang a song about a juvenile Celestial who had caught a
bumble bee, and, taking it for a “Melican butterfly,” put it in the
pocket of his pantaloons with disastrous results! As the night wore on
there was no abatement of the storm, but rather it seemed to increase
in fury. The lightning was wonderfully vivid, the balls of fire being
succeeded by a bluish light. The incessant thunder, at each crash,
drowned the noise of the storm. It was grand in the extreme. Each
moment I expected the rock under which we lay would be splintered by
an explosion. “Is this blessed rock quite safe?” I inquired of Dixon,
who had spent many nights under it, but never such a one as this.
“No—not very,” was the answer. So we pondered quietly and put our trust
in Providence, and—the laws of chance! Sleep was out of the question.
After some time I looked at my watch by a flash of lightning, and
found it was 3 a.m. Snow was falling heavily, and weighing down the
weather side and end of the tent. I had magnanimously taken the outside
berth, and now I could feel the snow curling up over my head in the
slack of the tent outside. I beat it down repeatedly, but, like the
pain caused by the peach of emerald hue, “it grew! it grew!” till it
was once more arching overhead, and I had to sit up and plant my back
defiantly against it. Long before morning it had formed a bank outside
the tent four feet high, and, when the welcome dawn appeared, though I
was still in a sitting posture, it was once more curling over my head,
while Kenneth, who was next the rock, had a small cornice arching over
his recumbent form! By this time the water in which we were lying
had by some means or other got through into our sleeping bags, and
this made matters still more uncomfortable. Peering out through the
tent door in the early dawn, we saw the snow still falling, and, below
us, an apparently bottomless cauldron of swirling drift. The wind had
moderated somewhat and the thunder had ceased, but the situation was
anything but reassuring, so we decided to beat a retreat to the lower
regions. We breakfasted on cold plum pudding, and, creeping out of our
bags, hurriedly packed our swags and got ready for a start. The tent
had to be abandoned, as it was frozen to the rocks, and the stones to
which the guy-ropes were attached were buried deep in the snow. We were
soon roped together and at the top of a steep couloir leading down some
three or four thousand feet to the Tasman Valley below us. Attaching
the swags to the rope, we attempted to tow them behind us, but, as the
snow was soft and the slope steep, this became dangerous work, and we
decided to let them slide down the couloir before us. They went off
with great rapidity for some 100 feet or so, then bounded over a huge
tower of rock that jutted out from the middle of the couloir, and
disappeared from view. Relieved of the swags, we proceeded cautiously,
going with our faces to the slope as one would come down a ladder,
making good anchorage with our ice-axes at every step in case we should
start an avalanche. There were one or two nasty places, but nothing
happened, and, getting on to easier slopes lower down, we were able
to turn round and practically walk down the remainder of the gully.
We could find no trace of the swags, and came to the conclusion that
they must either have been arrested on the crags above or buried in the
soft snow below. We decided to hunt for them on the following day, and
wended our way back across the Hochstetter and Ball Glaciers to the
lonely hut, defeated but not altogether disheartened. Arrived at the
hut, the first thing we did was to get out of our wet clothes; but,
as our spare garments were in the lost swags, a new problem presented
itself for solution. We made shift with what was at hand. Dixon attired
in a bath towel, to which he subsequently added a mackintosh; Kenneth
gracefully clad in a grey blanket; myself in an airy costume composed
of a short serge frock discarded by a former lady climber, made a
fashionable trio such as had never before graced the Ball Hut, and that
aroused many a vain longing for my lost camera, which, like our spare
clothing, was in the buried swags. Breakfast—after our long spell of
thirty hours at the Bivouac, with little to drink, and that little
not of the best—was very welcome. At midday we turned into our bunks,
and dozed away the afternoon. The weather continued bad, and towards
evening we were startled by a large rock which came crashing down the
mountain-side in close proximity to the hut, warning us that what with
falling stones and the danger of a break in the Ball Glacier a few
hundred yards higher up the valley, the said hut was in anything but
a safe position. Day closed in, and, one by one, we dozed off again
till at about 9.30 p.m. we were aroused by a further noise outside, and
in our half-sleepy condition imagined we were going to be bombarded
by another rock avalanche. Presently, however, the door opened, and
in walked three men with ice-axes, Alpine rope, and other climbing
paraphernalia. They proved to be Fyfe and George Graham (members of the
N.Z.A.C.) and Matheson (a runholder who had come up to see something of
the Great Tasman Glacier). There were now six of us in camp, and it
became necessary to modify our arrangements, so we discussed plans, and
resolved to make a very early start as soon as the weather cleared.
Sunday was occupied mainly as a day of rest, some necessary
preparations in the way of cooking, etc., only being made. Graham
constituted himself chef of the Hotel de Ball, and it was not long
before the smell of a savoury stew was wafted in through the hut door.
Alas for the hopes thus engendered! When we came to eat the stew we
found that our cook—with the best of good intentions, no doubt—had
dosed the dish liberally with what he believed to be salt, but which
he afterwards ascertained to be tartaric acid! Someone suggested that
if we now added soda it would counteract the effect of the acid, but
we were not in a mood for experiments—so we gave the whole lot to
Matheson’s dog, and at the end of the day the dog was still alive! We
then made the further distressing discovery that there was no salt in
the camp, and for the next three days we had to cook our meat and bake
our bread without it. This was not so bad as long as we had soda and
acid with which to bake scones, but at last the acid likewise gave out,
and we were in a quandary. Dixon suggested citrate of magnesia as a
substitute, but I prevailed upon Matheson, whom we made baker-in-chief,
to try fruit salts,—a bottle of which we found in the hut,—and this he
did with excellent results.
The weather cleared gradually, and by 8.30 a.m. the peaks of the Malte
Brun Range were standing out above the top of the moraine, grander than
ever, in their tracery of newly fallen snow—their grim precipices,
which had slipped their mantle of white, being accentuated by the deep
snow in the corries. The barometer had risen a tenth, the wind was from
the south, and everything seemed to make for success at last.
As the weather was apparently clear down country, this seemed a fitting
opportunity to liberate one of the carrier pigeons lent me by Messrs.
B. and F. Hodgkins before leaving Dunedin. Attaching a message, written
at the Bivouac, to the bird’s leg, we liberated him at 10 a.m., all
hands turning out to give him a “send off.” It was an interesting
experiment, as the bird had been taken right into the heart of the
Southern Alps, and had to rise from a valley surrounded by mountains
of from ten to twelve thousand feet in altitude. He rose gradually to
a great height, making ten gyrations in one direction, and then with a
sweep round in the opposite direction he seemed to suddenly make up his
mind, and, taking a bee-line over the Liebig Range, disappeared in the
direction of the coast at Timaru. He reached home at 4.30 p.m., having
accomplished the journey in six hours and a half. It may be worth while
remarking that when the bird reached Dunedin he was still flying at a
very high elevation.
We now waited only for settled weather, as we were a very strong party,
and had every confidence in our ability to conquer more than ordinary
difficulties. Matheson, our newly formed acquaintance, was ready to
join us, and to go with us to the summit if need be; so Dixon nailed
up his boots with hobs and clinkers for the ice-work. We went early to
bed, and pondered over the chances of success. There was one thing that
made our minds uneasy—the amount of newly fallen snow on the higher
slopes. This would render climbing difficult, if not dangerous. Still,
we could but try, and if there should be any danger we decided to
travel at night and camp in the daytime. By this means we should also
avoid the terrible glare and heat from the snow slopes of the Upper
Linda Glacier.
The people of Australia—who may be taken as able to judge—say there
are three hot places—Hay, Hell, and Booligal—and that in the matter
of temperature these should be put in the order named! On a cloudless
summer day, when the sun beats through the stagnant air and is
reflected from the snow and the surrounding slopes, the Linda, in any
reliable classification, would probably come in after Hay and before
the other place.
It was decided that we should rise on the morrow at 2.30 a.m.; but
slumber held the hut till four o’clock, and it was five before we
were ready for another start. We had not gone far before the storm
descended upon us again, and there was nothing for it but to retreat
to the shelter of the hut. Clouds obscured the mountain-tops, and it
was snowing at the Bivouac. Disconsolately we marched back, and by the
time we had regained our habitation the wind, accompanied by driving
hail and snow, was once more sweeping down the valley. It now became
a game of patience, but though all this gloomy weather and lack of
sunshine was very depressing, we kept up our spirits and determined
to set out again on the first opportunity. There was some chance of
our running short of provisions, as we were now a large party, and it
was arranged that Fyfe should walk down to the Hermitage for bread
and tinned meats, while Dixon, Matheson, Graham, and I went to look
for the swags, leaving Kenneth in charge of the camp. Accordingly we
proceeded once more across the Ball and Hochstetter Glaciers, and on
past our lower camp. By the time we got near the Tasman spur the snow
was driving round us in blinding gusts, and we had frequently to crouch
under a crag, and hold on all we knew to prevent our being blown away.
Owing to the heavy snowfall, the whole aspect of the lower portion of
the mountain was changed, and we had some difficulty in finding the
exact couloir down which we had sent the swags; but at last we reached
what we thought was it, and Dixon and Graham proceeded with some
difficulty right up to the spot where the swags were seen to disappear
over the middle rock. Owing to the great depth of snow, however, no
trace of them could be found. Matheson and I searched another couloir
to the right, but, not liking the look of it, and knowing there was
danger from ice-blocks that occasionally fell from the edge of a
glacier at its head, fully a thousand feet above, we beat a retreat to
our camp. We halted at our cache at the foot of the Tasman spur, and
Matheson knocked over a kea with his ice-axe, simply stunning it and
subsequently catching it alive. We afterwards caught another at Green’s
Fifth Camp. On our way down the glacier the wind was so violent that
we could not stand against it, and it simply blew us before it over
the smooth ice, while the driving rain that had now set in drenched us
once more to the skin. We got back to camp at half-past one, and Dixon
and Graham came in an hour afterwards—cold, hungry, and wet. Kenneth
had cooked us a hot dinner, which we thoroughly enjoyed; and once more
we turned in to wait for fine weather. That night there was another
thunderstorm almost as violent as the one we had experienced at the
Bivouac; but the lightning was not so vivid, and the thunder—though one
or two peals shook the hut—was not quite so close.
Tuesday, the 13th, was spent in camp; but, the bad weather continuing,
we could not get our clothes dry, and again the costumes worn were at
all events original, if not conventional. Next morning the ground about
the hut was covered to a depth of several inches with snow. Fyfe made
his appearance shortly after breakfast, and the result of his foraging
expedition was regarded as highly satisfactory, especially as he had
brought up a fresh supply of bread and a quantity of salt. We were
getting tired of eating mutton without salt, and though the scones that
Matheson had baked—with fruit salts in place of soda and acid, which
had run short—were excellent, still we welcomed the new supply of bread.
My holiday being at an end I had to return to Dunedin, and reluctantly
took leave of my companions on the Thursday morning, leaving them
patiently waiting to give the weather a final chance of clearing. This
was my one and only attempt to climb Mount Cook before making the
traverse of it some years later. Mr. Turner in his book says that I had
tried to climb Mount Cook for twenty years and “was grateful that the
author’s expedition gave me success at last.” This is on a par with
several other extraordinary statements that his book contains.
[Illustration: THE HOOKER RIVER.]
Matheson accompanied me on my 14-mile tramp in the driving rain down to
the Hermitage. We got wet crossing the glacier streams, which were all
so high that we had doubts about being able to ford the Hooker River.
However, we managed to get across safely on the old grey mare, though
blocks of ice were coming down by the score in the ever increasing
and rapidly flowing current. In the evening we drove another 14 miles
to Glentanner station, which was reached with difficulty, as the
mountain torrents that crossed the road had torn up their channels so
that there were no good fords, while in one place the road was almost
completely washed away. In another cutting a great slip that had
come right across the road almost capsized the trap, though we went
very carefully over it. In order to get to Dunedin up to time it was
necessary for me to cross the Tasman next day and make a rapid passage
down to Fairlie Creek; but, to our dismay, we were told that we could
not possibly cross the river in the trap. I then decided to ford the
stream with one of the horses, and walk the many weary miles to Lake
Tekapo that night; but on arriving at Glentanner the manager said it
would not be safe even to attempt to ford the river on horseback. Here
was a dilemma. The alternative was to catch the coach at Lake Pukaki
next morning, and young Ross, the station manager, generously offering
to provide me with a saddle-horse, I got up at 2 a.m. and started on
my lonely 25-mile ride along the lake-side. It was clear overhead, but
Aorangi-wards the moon cut through the breaking fringe of storm-cloud.
Occasionally a startled rabbit crossed my track in the moonlight, or
a pair of Paradise ducks trumpeted forth a defiant note from a safe
distance in the lone lagoons of the Tasman flats. In front was the
changing eastern sky, tinted with the rose of morning; and, behind, the
depressing gloom of the great mist-shrouded Tasman Valley, where my
climbing companions were no doubt still waiting and scheming to conquer
the monarch of the Southern Alps. I reached the Pukaki River at 6 a.m.,
and was rowed across in time for breakfast before the coach left. That
evening I was in Fairlie Creek, having accomplished the 75 miles in
the one day. From an upland plain I got my last glimpse of the Southern
Alps. The weather had cleared, and the mountains stood up gloriously in
the noonday sun—Sealy, Sefton, the Footstool, Stokes, and Tasman vying
with one another; but, above them all, the mighty ridge of Aorangi.
They were like old friends. It was with a sad heart I saw them one by
one disappear. And once again I came to the conclusion that, for the
man with a limited holiday, mountaineering is a game of chance with the
weather, and that the weather generally holds at least three aces and a
long suit.