THE CONQUERING OF AORANGI—_continued_
“Ah me! it was a toilsome hill,
With storms as black as night,
Yet up its slopes of gleaming white
That little band of men
Went climbing up, and up, until—
They just climbed down again!”
_A Fragment._
While Matheson and myself were proceeding down the Tasman Valley in the
rain the others stayed on at the hut, hoping for fine weather to enable
them to renew the attack on Aorangi. For a little exercise and pastime
they paved the earthen floor of the hut with flat stones. Next day the
weather cleared sufficiently to allow of their making an excursion
on the Tasman Glacier, where they got further exercise and some good
practice in step-cutting. On the following day, the barometer having
been steady for some time, they breakfasted at 3.30, and started once
more, with fairly heavy swags, for the Bivouac. Arrived at the foot of
the Tasman ridge, Graham was deputed to fry some chops left there on a
previous visit, while the others went ahead, and, spreading out over
the snow-fan formed by the avalanches from the couloirs above, began
another search for the swags. They soon found that they should have
to exercise some caution in the ascent of the spur, for, as the sun
began to rise in the heavens, the fresh snow responded to its influence
in avalanches. But I must let my brother Kenneth tell the rest of the
story.
“Not finding any trace of the swags,” he writes, “Dixon and I crossed
the large couloir to the north to gain the more accessible and safer
one down which we had thrown the swags. He stayed to watch the head
of it and give warning in case of danger while I crossed, and then
came over himself. He had hardly gained the rocks on the opposite
side when a grand snow avalanche came sweeping down the couloir,
literally bounding along in its rocky bed like sheep going through a
race. Deeming the rocks the safer, we kept along a narrow ridge until
we came to where vegetation terminated, and, gathering some dry scrub
and roots, we agreed to boil the billy and carry on some fuel to the
Bivouac in order to save our kerosene for the cooking lamp. After
a delay of about two hours through having to melt snow, and after
experiencing great difficulty in boiling the billy through the scrub
being rather damp, we started for the Bivouac, which we reached about
five o’clock. Having previously left the tent here in a snowstorm, we
had now to set to work and dig it out of the frozen snow in order to
have it dried before carrying it on to the Plateau. While it and the
wet biscuits were spread out to dry, we made a good pot of porridge—on
the thin side, so as to answer as a drink and a meal—and filled a can
with soup to carry on with us.
“At seven o’clock we made a start for the Plateau, and, after about two
hours’ hard going through soft snow, we made the top of the Dome, where
we were met by a stiff breeze, accompanied by a light sleet. Descending
the Dome half-way to the foot of the Plateau, we decided to pitch
camp. Excavating a hole three feet deep in the snow and building it up
round the edges two feet more, with a shovel we had carried up for the
purpose, we seemed to have a tolerably snug little yard of snow walls
to protect our tent from the unmerciful north-wester. At 10 p.m. we had
the tent well pitched, with the rope and the ice-axes, and the four
pairs of ski for pegging-out stakes. A bolster of snow was left running
along one side of the tent under the floor for our heads to rest upon.
About eleven o’clock we turned in, but found to our sorrow that the
heat of our bodies inside caused the light sleet outside to thaw, and
trickle through the tent, making things all the more unpleasant now
that we had no sleeping bags. On getting up next morning, we found our
blankets quite wet, and pools of water on the floor of the tent. Still
worse, we were convinced that in a very short time everything would be
enveloped in a dense mist, which gradually crept up the Hochstetter Ice
Fall, obliterating everything in its slow and stealthy advance, and,
finally, wreathing the giant Aorangi in an impenetrable, dense white
mantle from head to foot. After having breakfast and adjusting our ski,
as the snow was soft, we took the compass bearing of a ‘hot plate’
on the side of the mountain above the crevasses at the head of the
Hochstetter Ice Fall, and made a start about six o’clock, but before
we had got half-way across the Plateau we could not see a chain ahead.
Dixon, getting in the rear with compass in hand, kept us in a straight
line, while we advanced, endeavouring to make the Linda, in the hope
that the fog might clear with the advancing day. However, it was not to
be. After keeping on for half an hour in this manner, we encountered
some crevasses on our left, while we heard avalanches ahead and to our
right from the sides of Cook and Tasman, and, not being able to judge
our distance, we came to the conclusion that prudence was the better
part of valour and decided to return. About 7 p.m. we ‘turned in’ to
have a good rest for an early start about one o’clock next morning.
The man lying nearest to the door was instructed to keep one eye open,
and give the alarm should the weather clear. At 11.30 Fyfe had a peep
out, and found the night to be clear and starry, with not a cloud in
the sky. The lamp was at once lit, and the operation of melting snow
begun. It takes a considerable time to melt a supply for four men,
for it is impossible to sufficiently concentrate the heat with any
ordinary lamp or stove. At 2 a.m. on the 18th, we again got our ski
adjusted, and made good progress down the gentle slope of the Plateau,
assisted by the light of the moon in avoiding the crevasses. On gaining
the lower slopes of the Linda we found our position none too secure
from avalanches, and were, so to speak, ‘between the devil and the
deep sea.’ At the Tasman corner we crossed the track of an avalanche,
while farther on to the left it was evident there was also danger from
ice-cliffs on the Cook side. However, taking turn about at breaking
steps—the slopes being now too steep for ski—we made fair progress,
though in places of drift the snow was almost thigh-deep.
“We were well up the Linda when the dawn began to tint the eastern sky
with a pale blue light, which gradually deepened into the ruddy glow of
morning. The sun rose, and with it a bank of cloud made its appearance
above the horizon, while the long, winding valley of the Tasman, below,
was obscured in a sea of mist. Across the valley the dark, frowning
peaks of Malte Brun seemed grander than ever in the dusky light of
early morn, towering high above their dense white base of mist. About
eight o’clock we were at the head of the Linda, opposite a saddle in
the northern arête. Here a halt was called for lunch, and we had a
consultation as to what route we ought to take. Fyfe considered, from
the look of the ice-cliffs above the first couloir on Green’s route,
that it was very unsafe to attempt an ascent from that direction, and
guaranteed to take us up the northern arête of rock. He considered it
would be all the more creditable if we succeeded by that route. Dixon
and myself held firm in favour of Green’s route, and argued that, as it
had been proved a practicable one, it would be wasting time and a good
day to attempt the other. However, after some discussion it was decided
to try the arête, and, about eight o’clock, the ascent was begun.
Rounding a corner of projecting rock, a small couloir was entered,
where we had to use the greatest caution, as the snow was not in good
order, there being only a thin coating on the surface of the rocks, and
the perpendicular cliff of the lower part of the ridge falling 2000
feet below on to the lower slopes of the Linda Glacier. One man moving
at a time, while the others kept a good anchorage with their axes, we
climbed the last bit of the snow slope, and the first of the rock-work
was begun. Fyfe, taking the lead, did not keep us waiting; in fact, I
had not been more than five minutes in his company on the rocks before
I came to the conclusion that he was exceptionally good at rock-work,
apparently being capable of detecting the safest and slightest
foot-hold or hand-grip with wonderful rapidity. I, being in the
rear, soon found that I was to have the benefit of any loose stones
dislodged above. However, I must say, in justice to the leaders, that
they proved themselves to be no novices at rock-work, and only on one
occasion had I to duck my head to prevent my being scalped—a piece of
rock passing within two inches of my head. At 11.30 we got on to a flat
ledge of rock, where we were able to sit down with safety, and enjoy
a hunk of bread, tinned beef, and preserved fruit, which we vowed was
the greatest delicacy we had ever enjoyed. All agreed that the climb
was worth doing for the enjoyment derived from that meal. After waiting
for a drink of water from snow spread on the rocks to melt, we again
commenced the climb. On ascending a bit of a snow slope, two routes
presented themselves—one leading to the left and eastward side of the
top of the arête, over good reddish rock, and the other leading to the
right and westward side, over a slaty, grey rock. The latter being
more in our direct line for the peak, we decided to take it; but soon,
to our sorrow, we found we had taken the worse and more unsafe of the
two, the rock being so broken that it was almost impossible to get a
safe foot-hold or hand-grip. The utmost caution had to be exercised to
prevent the starting of stones or loose fragments of rock. Keeping to
the left, we were not long in regaining the good rock, and in feeling
much safer. From the commencement of the climb Fyfe had frequently been
interrogated by those in the rear as to the possibility of advancement,
when we would be assured that it looked much easier ahead. But the easy
part never seemed to get any nearer, and at 2 p.m. we were brought to a
standstill by a great wall of rock. The possibility of its ascent was
discussed, and each one had a look at the barrier, and was asked his
opinion. Fyfe declared he could get up, but might not, he thought, be
able to come down again; so, not knowing what was beyond, or whether
it was possible to gain the arête from the saddle for which we were
making, we came to the conclusion that there was nothing left for us
but to return half-way by the track we had come, when we would be able
to get on to a snow slope running almost at right angles and leading
in a more direct line on to Green’s track. This snow slope we had
noticed when we were lunching on our way. We concluded it would save
a good hour, and so enable us to get on to Green’s track and climb by
moonlight. Accordingly we ‘put about ship,’ descending in the opposite
order to which we had made the ascent. We had not been long on the
downward track before I was warned by a voice from above calling, ‘Look
out! look out! look out below!’ and before I had time to realize what
had happened, or what was going to happen, Fyfe’s axe went whizzing
past and stuck erect in a small patch of snow 200 feet below, exactly
in our upward marks.
“At three o’clock we got to the head of the snow slope before
mentioned, and found it to be in a most dangerous condition, with hard
ice eight inches from the surface. We now decided to take advantage of
the warm rocks, on which we might have a spell, and perhaps a sleep,
until the snow became firmer, when we would be able to proceed with
greater ease as the sun went down. Graham and I volunteered to cut
steps down the slope, while the others, who complained of not having
had enough sleep, might stay on the rocks, enjoy a spell, and join us
at the bottom.
“We had not proceeded far when Graham was seized with cramp, and said
he would have to return. For some time we tried to struggle on, but
every time he stooped to clean out a step he had another seizure,
until, finally, we were compelled to return to our mates, whom we found
enjoying a snooze on small ledges of rock, with hats and comforters
drawn about their heads to protect them from the glare of the sun. At
five o’clock, after the shadows of western peaks had gradually crept
across the Linda, and the sun began to disappear behind Mount Tasman,
we once more awoke to activity, and, after having something to eat,
began the descent of the snow slope, the condition of which had now
slightly improved.
“We decided to keep along the upper part of the slope until we cleared
a precipice of rock below, when we would be able to glissade to the
bottom and gain the Linda. On reaching the place from whence we
intended to glissade, we found the ice destitute of snow, and also hard
and rough; but nevertheless, in order to save time, we preferred to
glissade it to cutting steps down. Uncoupling ourselves from the rope,
Dixon went first, turning a somersault before reaching the bottom and
skinning his nose, but fortunately shooting the small bergschrund at the
bottom in safety. Graham went next, while I followed, and succeeded
in giving the same acrobatic performance as the first man, to the
amusement of the others, and also to the detriment of my unfortunate
knuckles. Fyfe came last, and, half-way down, struck a stone that had
been frozen to the ice, slightly straining the tendons of his heel. An
hour more and we were at the bergschrund below Green’s Rocks, where we
were compelled to cut steps, there being only a slight coating of snow
on the top of the ice. At 7 p.m. we stood on the other side of Green’s
Rocks, testing the hard clear ice of the bottom couloir of the route
chosen by Kaufmann. A consultation was held, and the advisability of
advancing discussed. So far as we knew, it would take about seven hours
at least to cut to the top from where we stood. This meant 2 a.m., and
as the thermometer read 26, too cold for standing out all night, we
decided to return to camp, and make another attempt on the following
day, when we could take advantage of the steps already cut. Just after
crossing the bergschrund below Green’s Rocks, before mentioned, and
while we were plodding along the face of the upper slope of the Linda,
we were aroused from our reverie at being defeated and speculations
on the chances of success on the morrow by the alarm of danger from
some cause, while at the same time Fyfe, who was in the lead, began
to traverse the slope at a record pace, the rest of us giving him a
hard run for first place. On looking up at the source of the alarm, we
beheld a huge block of ice tearing down in our direction accompanied by
a small one. These had broken away from the ice-cliffs above Green’s
Rocks. Fortunately for us, the snow on the Linda was not sufficiently
hard to bear the weight of this monster disturber of the public peace,
and so we were allowed a little more time to escape from its clutches.
“The large block, weighing about six tons (as we judged from the
dimensions of it taken on passing it partly embedded in the snow below)
passed close on one side, while the small piece, which I had not
noticed, seemed to whiz past my eyes on the opposite side, within a few
feet. A fragment from one of the blocks struck me on the temple, raised
a new phrenological bump, and caused a slightly dizzy sensation for a
minute.
“Getting on to the tracks we had made coming up in the morning, we
started off down the Linda at the ‘double-quick,’ and soon reached
the place where we had deposited our ski on the way up. Graham and
Dixon decided to put theirs on, but Fyfe and I preferred to carry
ours, as we agreed that the snow was too hard and the slope too steep
for us to be able to use them to any advantage. Now, the gentle art
of ‘skilobning’ is not altogether without its amusing features, and a
man with ski on a hard and steep snow slope is sometimes pretty much
as helpless as a fish out of water. However, the two pairs of ski
having, on this occasion, been properly adjusted to the respective feet
of Dixon and Graham, we once more started off, quite unconscious of
impending disaster. Suddenly there was a tug on the rope from behind,
and on looking round, much to my amusement, I beheld some twelve feet
of timber being aimlessly brandished about in the air with Dixon’s
legs as the motive power! Then Graham, who was on the rope in front
of me, would fall prostrate, embrace the merciless, hard-frozen snow
with a suddenness that was disconcerting, and experience the greatest
difficulty in adjusting his lengthy feet for further advancement.
In such a predicament, until the ski are brought parallel, it seems
almost an impossibility to prevent their crossing, one over the other,
either in front or behind, this making them to appear the most awkward
things a man could possibly put on his feet; yet in soft snow they are
indispensable, and enable one to slide along almost without effort over
the soft snow where otherwise he would have to plough waist-deep and
it would be an impossibility to proceed. After a few tumbles and the
use of quite a number of forcible adjectives, the ski were dispensed
with for the time being, and, following our marks up by the light of
an Austrian climbing-lantern, we reached camp about 10.30 p.m., having
been about twenty and a half hours on the go, pretty well all the time.
After turning in, and while we were discussing what day of the week it
might be, I discovered it to be my birthday, and with seeming mockery
from my half-asleep companions, while I lay shivering with cold, I
was wished ‘many happy returns of the day’; and I now wish the same
to any poor mortal who may spend his birthday on this same plateau or
at the same altitude of about 8000 feet above sea-level in the New
Zealand Alps, with no better prospect before him than being put on
half-allowance for breakfast the following morning.
“Next morning on getting up we found the snow falling gently. We had
a talk over matters as to whether or not we ought to wait and give
Cook another trial, although our provisions were now all but done.
Finally it was decided that three should go down to the Bivouac for
some meat and biscuits that had been left there, while I should stay
in camp and spread out the blankets to dry, should the weather clear.
I had spent rather a miserable night in the cold damp blankets, having
been an ‘outside man,’ and was rather pleased to see, shortly after
the departure of the others, the snow gradually becoming heavier and
heavier, for this guaranteed my being able to have a sleep now that I
had monopolized all the blankets, for I should not be able to spread
them out to dry. The three who went to the Bivouac were to boil a
quantity of rice, make some porridge, and breakfast there, bringing
back all the spare food they could muster. I, who stayed behind, was
left a sumptuous breakfast in the form of one sardine!
“About one o’clock, having got warm and having enjoyed a good sleep,
I was awakened by a yell at the door of the tent and a call from
Fyfe—‘Squirm out of that, old man!’—and so my peaceful slumbers were
brought to rather an abrupt termination. Upon entering the tent he
appeared clothed in a mantle of white, having glissaded down the slope
from the summit of the Dome. About twenty minutes later the other two
put in an appearance with a kettle of rice, but had not brought on
any other provisions, as they decided we should have to pack up and
go back until the weather took up again. I now ate my breakfast and
dinner together—one sardine for the first course, with the rice and
the scrapings from a marmalade jam tin as dessert. It was rather an
awkward business getting the rice out of the small kettle, but we soon
had spoons of all designs at work, fashioned out of empty tins, etc. A
council of war was held, and it was unanimously decided to stick to our
guns, and not abandon the siege, though the combined efforts of all the
demons of wind, hail, rain, and snow seemed anxious to drive us from
out their stronghold. The elements had repulsed us again and again, but
still, like true Britons, we lingered on, expecting yet to accomplish
the task we had set ourselves. The last of our bread was gone, so we
agreed to return to the hut to replenish our larder, leaving behind us
the tent and all that we did not actually require.
[Illustration: CAMP ON PLATEAU.]
[Illustration: CROSSING THE MURCHISON.]
“Fyfe was dispatched without a swag, so that he could hurry on and get
to the Hermitage that night—a long journey—while we stayed behind to
carry on the blankets and wet clothing to be dried at the hut. About
three o’clock we got a start, and, at the Bivouac on the way down, had
some porridge, which the others had made in the morning. On arriving at
the head of the couloir down which the swags had been thrown ten days
previously, Graham and I were to search it, while Dixon searched one to
the south of it, having an idea that it was possible they might by some
means or other have bounded out of the main couloir. About two-thirds
down our couloir I came to a sudden declivity in the snow and had to
take to the rocks to avoid it, coming into the couloir again below it.
On looking backward I could just see part of a swag showing through the
snow. Digging it out with my axe, I discovered it to be the lighter
of the two. I thought I had now a good chance of finding the other,
as it must be farther down, so, taking up the one I had found, I gave
it a start, concluding that the other—the heavier one—not having been
stopped by the same obstruction, would probably be close to where this
one would now land. On overtaking it on the snow-fan below the mouth of
the couloir, and looking forward about sixty yards, I saw what appeared
to be a slab of rock lying in the snow, but which, I was delighted to
find, proved to be the other swag resting on the top of some avalanche
snow. Giving them both a start on the slope, I set them going again,
quickly overtook them, and, keeping them before my feet, soon glissaded
to the bottom, where I was joined by my mates.
“We then decided to take them on to a shingle fan to the right, there
to unpack and spread the contents out to dry.
“On reaching the hut we found a note left by Fyfe warning us to be
careful of the provisions as he understood the Hermitage was very
sparingly stocked. Next morning (Wednesday) we were up at eight
o’clock, after a good night’s rest, to spread out the blankets and
clothing to dry, expecting Fyfe to turn up in the afternoon, when we
should make another start for the plateau. The afternoon came round,
but with no sign of Fyfe, and as there was no bread and meat left at
the hut we felt anything but amicably disposed towards him. However,
as long as we had a little flour we were not going to starve, and, as
I said I had seen such a dish as flour porridge, my mates prevailed
upon me to attempt the making of some. After dishing out a reasonable
portion for any three white men I found I had still a plateful left,
and began to censure myself for having used too much flour, to us now
so precious. However, I was soon relieved from any anxiety on that
score by inquiries as to whom the other plate was for. Saying it was
a supposed surplus, I soon had volunteers for its consumption—just to
prevent its going to waste. After finishing the last of our cigarettes
that had been wet and dried, and indulging in the perusal of some of
the hut literature, we retired for the night. About nine o’clock it
began to blow, gradually increasing to a howling nor’-wester, which
threatened to carry off the roof of the hut, rendering sleep almost an
impossibility until there came a lull towards morning, when we managed
to drop off.
“It was late when we awoke next morning, our breakfast of maizena being
at 11 a.m. At three o’clock I took up the field-glasses, and started
off to see if I could find trace of Fyfe, who had not yet put in an
appearance. We were now becoming very anxious lest an accident had
befallen him in the Hooker River. I had not gone more than a mile when
I saw him in the distance wending his way along the moraine, following
closely in the footsteps of the old grey mare. On his arrival at the
hut we learned that the pigeon we had liberated had arrived safely in
Dunedin with his message, and that a newspaper Fyfe had seen told of
rough weather having been prevalent all over the country during the
last week. This was consoling news to us, as we were now justified
in expecting a spell of fine weather. He also told us how he had met
Adamson coming to look for us the day we had come down to the hut.
Failing to find any trace of us, he was to have returned to light a
fire on the moraine opposite the hut, which was to have been the signal
for two men to join him from Glentanner and form a search party. My
brother on his way down had told Adamson that we had only provisions to
last until Saturday or Sunday at the latest, and, if we did not put in
an appearance by that time, he might consider that there was something
wrong. It was Tuesday evening when he arrived at the hut, and there was
still no sign of us. Hence his alarm for our safety. After partaking
of a stew, which Graham had volunteered to ‘build,’ from a little of
all the different ingredients he could lay hands on in our replenished
locker, we retired with renewed hopes of getting a fine day and an
early start in the morning for our fourth departure from this point for
the summit of hoary Aorangi. The morning of Friday 23rd saw us up at
4.30. The barometer had kept steady through the night, so we had a good
breakfast, and at 6.30 a.m. we began to file out of camp once more.
There were some ominous clouds drifting about overhead, but, as the
wind was from the south, we hoped it might keep fine. At nine o’clock,
after drying the things left on the shingle fan, we began to ascend the
Tasman Spur, and reached the Bivouac at 12.30 p.m., where we boiled the
billy with some scrub that we had carried up, and had dinner. Three
p.m. saw us on the top of the Glacier Dome, where we were again met
by a gusty wind, carrying with it clouds of snowdrift, which, coming
in contact with the hands and face, stung like needles. On descending
to the site of our previous encampment we found the excavation filled
up with fresh snow, so we had to set to work to clear the foundation
and get the tent out. The tent having been pitched, some porridge was
made in order to save our bread and meat, in case we should again be
weather-bound. We lay down, intending to make a start any time between
eleven and six o’clock, should the weather show any signs of clearing.
Eleven o’clock came, but the wind and haze increased, though not to any
great extent. On waking at six o’clock we found a small cornice hanging
over our heads and feet, and the tent almost collapsing from the weight
of snow upon it. A quantity had accumulated inside, having drifted
through a hole at the door, and Graham, on awaking, found himself being
embraced by a wreath of the ‘beautiful snow.’ Eventually he had to
turn out to shovel it away from round the tent and brush it off his
blankets, without stopping in the act, you may be sure, to bestow one
glance of admiration upon it for either its beauty or its purity. The
weather cleared a little, and we had a fair breakfast of cold roast
mutton and scone crumbs, with a cup of tea. Dixon spent most of the
afternoon in clearing a space round the tent, and about four o’clock
we had our dinner of porridge. During the afternoon the weather had
cleared sufficiently to allow us to get a few shots with the camera at
the surrounding peaks and our tent in the snow. At six o’clock the wind
began to abate, and as the sun disappeared over Tasman our tent was
almost instantaneously frozen as hard as a board. The wind gradually
died away as the dark mantle of night spread over us, and at eight
o’clock, after having lain for a considerable time counting my breaths
between the gusts to prove that the said squalls were becoming fewer,
the last feeble effort of the nor’-wester exhausted itself in a vain
endeavour to flap the sides of our now frozen tent.
“Intending to make an early start, and not being able to sleep owing
to the cold frosty air, we lay chatting, singing, and discussing the
possibility of our success on the morrow, while Fyfe, to retain as
near as possible the normal heat of his body, burnt a candle under his
blankets.
“About 9.30 p.m. the lamp was lit, and a kettle of snow put on so
that we might have a good substantial meal before leaving, as we had
been economizing as much as possible—our two previous meals that day
consisted principally of porridge and a little meat _minus_ bread.
About twelve o’clock (midnight) we crept out of the tent, one man
staying inside to pack all the spare clothing, etc., into a sleeping
bag, and to pass out such articles as we required, while the others set
to work to unfasten the ski and ice-axes that were holding up the tent.
At 1 a.m. we were roped together, ready for another attack upon the
ice-walled fort of Aorangi.
“The night was clear and starry, not a cloud being visible, and we
climbed in a dead calm. The great avalanche king himself seemed
hushed to rest in the awful stillness of the midnight hours as we four
mortals, like demons of the night, roped together, filed out of camp,
the only visible sign of which was now a small square excavation in
that great ice plateau of about 1000 acres in area, guarded and fed
by the stupendous cliffs of Aorangi, Tasman, Haast, and the Glacier
Dome—giants of the ice regions, whose seemingly inaccessible peaks
towered far above us. The broken, rugged flow of the Hochstetter Ice
Fall stretched away thousands of feet below, forming a grand safeguard
against mortal intrusion to this great ice-field. And yet, thought I,
as we climbed slowly down the gentle slope of the plateau in the gloom
of the eternal hills at the midnight hour, people wonder what there is
in mountaineering. Ah! I mused, let the most unintellectual or the most
unobservant mortal step into our place—let him see and feel, and he
will believe that there is a something here which awakens the dormant
faculties of the mind and inspires one with thoughts profound.
“Marching silently onward for some time, each one busy with his own
thoughts, we soon found ourselves at the lowest part of the plateau,
and, half an hour later, beginning to ascend the lower slope of the
Linda. The snow was quite hard, but we had carried our ski up in case
a thaw might set in and they should be required on our return. By 2.30
we had gained the broken ice of the Linda, and a halt was called to
light the climbing-lantern and deposit the ski. We stuck them in the
snow in the form of a triangle and lashed them together to prevent
their being blown away. Not being able to judge accurately, in the
nighttime, the distance between Mounts Tasman and Cook, we soon found
we had kept a little too much to the left, and had struck the track of
an avalanche from the side of Mount Cook, that we had on the former
attempt avoided. However, preferring to cross—it being early in the
morning—to retreating down a slope, we wended our way among the huge
ice-blocks and reached the other side in safety. The remnant of the
waning moon was now about the horizon, and soon the grey morning made
its appearance in the east, enabling us to proceed without the use of
the lantern. Good progress was made now, without any difficulty in
avoiding the crevasses, and, about sunrise, we reached the bergschrund,
from which point to Green’s Rocks we had previously cut steps. We
found them still in good order, only requiring a slight cleaning out.
After entering there, as if in objection to our intrusion, we were
greeted by a sharp crack, the ice evidently breaking under our feet.
On nearing Green’s Rocks Graham complained of feeling ill. A slice of
lemon was prescribed first, and then a little brandy, but neither had
the desired effect. We cautioned him to give warning if he felt himself
becoming incapable, while we proceeded, keeping a good hold with our
axes at each step. Occasionally we had to stop to give him time to
revive, but succeeded in gaining Green’s Rocks in safety. The sun had
not yet reached this part, and his feet, he said, felt as if they were
frost-bitten. Leaving him in Dixon’s charge, Fyfe and I proceeded to
cut steps up the couloir until the sun should reach them, when we were
to go back for lunch. In half an hour we returned and found Graham
recovering. The provisions were handed out, but, our supply of jam
having given out, and it being too early to melt any snow on the
rocks, the bread seemed to object to being eaten with meat alone. I
managed to get two mouthfuls down, but the third positively refused to
be swallowed, and I was compelled to give it best. A few photographs
were taken here with my brother’s kodak, which we had recovered with
the swags, and Fyfe was adjusting the legs of his camera, to take some
half-plate views, when they suddenly came asunder and two of them slid
away down over the ice-cliffs on to the Linda. He threw the remaining
one after them. A few seconds later the cap of the lens fell from his
numbed fingers, and he was with difficulty restrained from adding the
rest of the camera to the downward procession.
“About eight o’clock another start was made, and on reaching the
termination of the steps I had cut, Fyfe took the lead and we made good
progress. At last we took to the rocks, having hugged the couloir all
the way for shelter from falling blocks of ice that might start from
ice-cliffs above. The rocks we found in bad and dangerous condition,
being coated in places with ice, and consequently we made very little
more headway than if we had had to cut every step. On getting up a
steep piece of rock at the head of the first couloir the rope behind
me got foul. We were compelled to carry our axes for use on the
ice-covered rocks, instead of having them slung on our wrists, and in
order to clear the rope, I put mine down on what I thought to be a safe
ledge. While I stooped to clear the rope, however, my axe slipped off,
and was last seen hurrying off in the direction of Fyfe’s camera legs,
some hundreds of feet below. This was a bad job for me, but I had to be
reconciled to the position, and accept the assistance of a wand about
three feet in length and one inch thick, which Dixon was carrying
for a flagstaff. At 11.30 we had gained the foot of the second and
upper couloir, where a halt was called for dinner. Here we discovered
a splendid hollow-surfaced rock, with a pool of water, apparently
fashioned by nature for the purpose of quenching the thirst of weary
travellers like ourselves. Putting some oatmeal and sugar and a lemon
into the water where it rested, we partook of as refreshing a drink as
I had ever tasted. Taking turn about, we soon drank the fountain dry,
but had only to spread some snow on the rock to replenish the supply.
Having enjoyed our midday meal, Dixon and Graham volunteered to cut up
this couloir, while Fyfe and I, after our arduous morning’s work, had
a spell. I had a shot or two with the kodak, while Fyfe adjusted his
camera on some flat pieces of rock, one man holding it steady while the
other made the exposure. As it was too cold for a long stay of enforced
idleness, we soon hailed the others above, requesting them to stop
cutting until we had overtaken them. The ice chips which they dislodged
acquired a great velocity before reaching us, making a humming sound in
their descent. In a short time we had overtaken them, and when half-way
up the couloir we again took to the rocks to avoid the steep ice at
the top. Then, getting on to a more gentle slope, we cut steps up it
to some sérac ice, preferring to chance the possibility of getting
over this, as it seemed quite feasible. We kept slightly to the right
in preference to going direct on to the arête, where we should have to
cut every step, while here we were able to proceed by cutting only a
few in places for about a hundred feet. The bergschrund and final ice
cap were now in sight close at hand, and borrowing Dixon’s axe I once
more relieved Fyfe of the step-cutting. In half an hour we had reached
the schrund, and found no difficulty in crossing it at the eastern
side close to the arête. Here we discovered a curious formation,
of which Green says nothing in describing his ascent. Instead of
finding the ice-cap hard clear ice, as we had expected, we found it
to consist of a covering of horizontal icicles, giving it a perfect
honeycomb appearance and rendering step-cutting a very easy matter.
This slope and the one above it was at an angle of only 30 degrees. On
returning we found that this formation had its disadvantage, as the
broken icicles had almost obliterated our steps. I was here relieved
by Graham, and he and I made rapid progress up the first slope above
the bergschrund for half an hour, the other two having stayed behind
for a short spell. We were working hard and willingly, congratulating
ourselves that we should have the summit of Aorangi under our feet in
an hour at the latest, when we were hailed by Fyfe, asking if we did
not think it was time to turn.
“It was now five o’clock, the time he said Green had turned,—we found
afterwards he had not turned till an hour later,—and he had, we all
knew, to spend an anxious night on a narrow rock ledge below the bottom
couloir. To make things worse, we had left our lantern at Green’s
Rocks, as we had expected to be back there in daylight, but we had
now little time to spare to gain that point before darkness set in.
Deferring to those who had called out from below, as we understood
they, the older and more experienced climbers, had decided to retreat,
we halted in our steps and discontinued the ascent. I am of opinion
now that we should have gone on. The hardest and most difficult work
had been safely accomplished, and there only remained about an hour’s
step-cutting up a fairly easy slope of some 30 degrees or less.
However, we thought it well then to act on the advice of the others.
We stopped a few minutes to admire the great panorama of mountain,
glacier, lake, river, forest, and sea below us. From the point of
turning a marvellous panorama of Alpine grandeur merged into distant
forests, whose dark shadows loomed in strong contrast to the ice-clad
mountains and the ocean to the westward. To the north a long vista of
snow-capped mountains was visible until lost in extreme distance. The
higher peaks stood in bold relief against a dark blue and cloudless
sky, rearing their snow-clad summits far above the dense mist that
rolled in the valleys at their base. The silver sheen of the River
Tasman enabled us to trace the windings of its numerous branches for
miles. We could see Lakes Pukaki and Tekapo, but the greater part of
the Mackenzie country was invisible below a dense rolling mist that
made us conjure up visions of the Arctic regions. The higher peaks at
the head of Lake Tekapo were clearly visible—one, which we took to be
Mount Jukes, being particularly prominent. The frowning Malte Brun
Range, to which we had so often looked up, was now below us. Nearer
at hand, Haast and the ice-clothed Tasman—a glorious peak from this
point—reared their snowy heads aloft. Far down below in the gloom of
evening lay the Great Tasman Glacier, guarded by the everlasting hills,
the beautiful Elie de Beaumont and De la Bêche, near its head, half
hidden in the clouds. Westward was the ocean, visible for miles and
miles, more than 12,000 feet below us.
“Soon after 5 p.m. the descent was commenced. Down the long ice-ladder,
roped together, we slowly went in single file, the axes of my
companions clinking into the ice at every step. I, unfortunately, was
now without an axe, and I had often to grip the steps with my hands
till the skin was pretty well worn from off my knuckles, and there was
risk from frost-bite. We, however, made good progress down to Green’s
Rocks, and got out of the last of our steps at 8 p.m., just as it was
getting dark. Half an hour afterwards we lit the lantern and made
a quick passage down to the foot of the Linda. We then crossed the
plateau once more and reached our camp too tired to discuss future
plans till the morning.
[Illustration: ELIE DE BEAUMONT.]
“It was too cold to sleep, but we rested till daybreak. A cold wind
was blowing, and there were signs of more bad weather. Our provisions
were at an end, and as it meant a long delay to get a further supply,
and both Dixon and I had now to return, we decided to accept defeat
for the present. We accordingly set to work to pack up the swags,
while Fyfe, taking only his camera, started off ahead. By the time we
had reached the top of the Dome with our swags the wind had increased
to a gale, and it was with the greatest difficulty that we managed to
get to the top of the Dome. It was only by making a rush every now and
then between the stronger gusts of wind that we succeeded at all. A
gust of wind would catch the swags, and we had continually to crouch
low down in order to prevent ourselves from being blown away. It was
very difficult work for me, who had now no ice-axe, and before long my
knees as well as my knuckles were skinned through coming into frequent
contact with the frozen névé. Arriving at the top of the Dome, we were
just in time to see Fyfe disappearing down below in the direction of
the Bivouac, _en route_ to the hut. The start he had got enabled him,
as he had nothing but the camera to carry, to get down to the sheltered
side of the ridge before the full force of the gale could strike him.
We climbed down from the Dome on rocks and snow. The snow slopes
were frozen hard, and we had to cut steps and descend backwards on the
rope because of the strong wind and the heavy swags we were carrying.
The light driving snow and the force of the wind made it difficult for
us to open our eyes. After about six hours’ continuous hard work we
got under the shelter of a rock. We were shivering with the cold, and
presented rather a strange appearance with the icicles hanging from our
hair, our moustachios, and even our eyebrows. Fyfe and I had lost our
hats—they had been blown away—and a handkerchief that I had tied round
my head had also been blown away.
“We waited a while in hope of the wind’s moderating, and then, as it
was getting late, we decided to push on. About two chains farther on
was another rock, and here we stopped and had a further consultation.
We were all pretty well exhausted by this time through our long battle
with the wind, and I especially was very tired, as I had come down all
the way without an ice-axe, so we decided to camp, and pitched the
tent in the shelter of the rock. The storm that night was something
awful. The snow and the wind—now a howling blizzard—continued, and the
prospect was dolorous in the extreme. The tent was pitched on the snow
after we had scraped a level place for it. We then divided what little
food we had left—some oatmeal and sugar, which we mixed with a little
snow and partook of—and retired for the night. Sleep was out of the
question; we simply lay and shivered all night, though Graham on the
inside was not so badly off. We afterwards learned from Fyfe that the
gale was so severe in the Tasman Valley that the end wall of the hut
sagged in several inches, and, being rather afraid of a collapse, he
got up and shifted his quarters to the leeward compartment.
“We were astir at seven o’clock next morning, and having packed the
swags we started off in what we thought to be the right direction; but
what with the snow and the drift we could not see many yards ahead,
and soon found ourselves on the verge of the precipices above the
Hochstetter Ice Fall. We had to retrace our steps for some distance,
and in order to shorten our journey we then took to a steep snow slope
a little to the right of the track we had come down. Here we found the
slope in such bad order—a layer of soft snow superimposing the clear
ice—that we had again to cut steps almost right up to the rock we had
camped under. We then found that we had been only about two chains from
the top of the ridge leading to the Bivouac Rock! To get to the latter
we had now to keep to the rocks, as the snow was dangerous. It was not
till about midday that we reached the Bivouac. It was then beginning to
clear and the wind was not strong, so we spent some time trying to melt
snow on the rocks, but with very poor results. Here we got some tinned
meat that had been previously opened; but Dixon’s hands were so cold
that he let the tin slip, and it went sliding down the swag couloir
beyond recall.
“After a halt of about an hour we started for the hut, and finding the
snow in the long couloir better than any we had traversed that day, we
took to it. We decided to throw the swags down once more, but first got
into a position from which we could watch their entire descent. The two
heaviest swags went right down the couloir, bringing up on the snow
within a few feet of each other. The lightest swag, however, stopped
some two chains higher up. No damage was done, and a few things that
came out of the lightest swag we were able to pick up on the way down.
We made rapid progress down the couloir, and were soon surprised to
see Fyfe coming up in search of us. We shouted to let him know we were
still alive, and he waited while we came down. We learnt that he had
spent a very anxious night throughout the storm at the hut, and had
upbraided himself a good deal for having left us. On the following
morning he was undecided what to do. He thought of going down to the
Hermitage for assistance, but finally concluded that if anything had
happened to us we would not by that time be alive, so he decided to
start off and see for himself before giving any alarm. His heart was
in his mouth as he wended his way up the Tasman spur, and saw at the
bottom of the couloir the swags, but no sign of the climbers. He was
actually afraid, for a time, to go near them. He expected to get some
clue by closer examination; but when he reached them, he could not tell
from the shoulder-straps whether they had been sent down intentionally
or not. He saw, however, that they had come down that morning, and,
placing them together, he started up the slope, hoping for the best,
and soon was overjoyed to hear our shouts above. Recognizing that we
were all in the flesh, and concluding that it must take a good deal in
the way of exposure to kill an average mountaineer, he retraced his
steps, and, sitting down on the swags, patiently awaited our arrival.
“Here my narrative may as well end. I need say nothing about our
journey back to civilization. Dixon and I had reluctantly to return.
Fyfe and Graham remained to try again. Since then Dixon has gone back
once more from Christchurch, and at the moment of writing, for all I
know, he may be shivering in storm under the Bivouac Rock, or frizzling
in the glare of a fierce noonday sun on the remorseless white slopes of
the Upper Linda. Looking back on our battles with wind and weather, on
a mountain in such vile condition, thinking of all our hardships and
privations, and looking, too, at my slowly healing knuckles, which I
nearly lost altogether in contact with ice-steps of the upper couloirs,
my only regret is that I am not with them.”