IN KIWI LAND—_continued_
“My summit calls. Its floors are shod
With rainbows laughing up to God.
But ah, the jagged ways and bleak
That give upon that lonely peak!”
ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER.
The time had now arrived for us, on this journey, to do a little
climbing and some real exploration, so one morning early in May, and
much too late in the season, Fyfe, Hodgkins, Kenneth, and I started
off up the Cleddau River, with the object of making a first ascent
of Tutoko, the highest mountain in Fiordland. The guide who convoys
tourists overland to Milford from Te Anau and vice versa accompanied
us. So far as we could ascertain from him, and from Sutherland, who had
resided in these parts for about twenty-five years, no one had explored
the head waters of this branch of the Cleddau, and the ascent to Tutoko
had never even been attempted. We had three days in which to accomplish
our undertaking, and as we were promised some rough travelling through
the forest and over the river boulders, besides which there was the
prospect of a difficult climb, we decided to push on with all haste.
Our plan was to establish a camp, as far up the valley as we could
the first day, climb the mountain on the second day, and on the day
following return to the Sound. We started at 8 a.m., tracking through
the bush behind Sutherland’s, and then skirting the right bank of the
Cleddau, there a broad-flowing stream. We followed an old, disused
bush-track cut by Sutherland some years previously, and then emerged on
to a comparatively open piece of flat, with only a clump of trees here
and there in the middle. Fyfe, who was still suffering terribly from
neuralgia, could, bravely as he bore the pain, proceed no farther, and,
greatly to our regret, and his own disappointment, he had to return to
the Sound.
We carried, in addition to a tent, our sleeping bags, a camera, the
ice-axes and Alpine rope, and provisions to last us four days. We were
not likely to starve, whatever happened, as the valley abounded in
game, and we had with us two dogs—Tubs, belonging to Sutherland, and
Rover, belonging to the guide. Rover went about his work quietly, and
in spite of our admonitions was continually bringing us kakapos he
had killed. Tubs, on the other hand, roamed at large through the bush
making a great noise but killing nothing—although on one occasion he
very nearly succeeded in killing himself. But more of that later.
Proceeding for a mile or so over comparatively open ground, we were
able to obtain a good view of our surroundings. Barren Peak, the end
of the Barren Range, rose abruptly on our left, Mount Moreton towered
massively in front, and on its right, up the left-hand branch of
the Cleddau, we saw the mountains where it is supposed that young
Quill lost his life in the attempt to discover a pass from Wakatipu
to Milford Sound. His footprints were found on the brink of a
precipice overlooking the left-hand branch of the Cleddau River, and,
subsequently, his brothers, making search in the valley, on the Milford
side, found a portion of a skull which may, or may not, have been his.
Some two and a half miles from the Sound the river forks. Turning
abruptly to the left, we re-entered the forest, and then followed, for
a few miles, the north branch of the river, now for seven or eight
miles a foaming torrent, swollen with the rains, and hurrying seaward
over its boulder-strewn granite bed. We struggled over and around
these great slippery boulders, in some places balancing ourselves with
difficulty, in others slipping knee-deep into pools of icy-cold water.
Then, by way of variation, we would march back into the forest. On
either side the trees came down to the water’s edge. The bush was wet
and gloomy, and occasionally we sank to the knee in springing moss
and decaying leaves. The trees were covered with moss and lichen;
no sunshine penetrated, and, what with the gloom and the smell of
rotting vegetation, a depressing influence is apt to steal over the
stranger unused to such solitudes. All the time we heard the muffled
roar of the river on our right, varied at intervals by the piercing
scream of some kaka, hidden in the higher branches of the tall beech
trees. Occasionally there was a loud barking from a distance. This was
from Tubs, who was assisting at the death of some poor kakapo. Tubs
did the barking, but Rover did the killing, and presently would turn
up smiling, and looking very pleased with himself, because he had a
full-sized kakapo in his mouth. Some of these birds were very fine
specimens, and one old fellow, with bristling whiskers and dilapidated
wings, we judged to be the patriarch of all Kakapo Land.
A number of streams that came down through the bush from the mountains
on the left had cut deep channels for themselves, and, swag-laden as
we were, we did not at all enjoy clambering down one steep bank and up
the other. After a time we would get tired of this bush travelling,
and, for the sake of variation, take to the boulders again. The nails
in our boots could get no grip on the smooth wet granite, and it was
sometimes entertaining to the last man to watch the peculiar gymnastic
progression of those in front—albeit, if he let his eyes wander from
the rock on which he was treading, he was soon, himself, providing a
more entertaining exhibition. Our remarks were not frequent, but, as
they might say in the parish of Drumtochty, a few purple adjectives
were “aye slippin’ oot.” From the forest we could see nothing of the
surrounding country: from the bed of the stream the view was superb.
The coloured granite boulders, with the foaming river struggling over
and around them, made a striking foreground, the graceful beech trees
an exquisite middle distance, and the massive snow-clad mountains,
towering high above, a noble background. We waited three-quarters of an
hour for lunch and then journeyed on, as before, sometimes keeping in
the river bed, at other times scrambling through the forest.
Near the head of the valley we came upon some open country, and
obtained a good view of the mountains ahead, and of the ranges on
either side. The mountains swept round the head of the valley in a
grand amphitheatre. Straight ahead was a long, snow-filled couloir
leading to a narrow col, on the right of which rose, abruptly, the
serrated edge of a peak that held on its shoulder an ice-field of
considerable extent. Then came another mass of rock, shelving gradually
towards a larger glacier that occupied the heights to the north, and
flowed low down into the valley. From the middle of this field of
ice there rose a huge _gendarme_, or tower of rock—a landmark for
miles around. On our right another narrow valley began to open out.
A waterfall fell over a precipice opposite, and, a mile and a half
distant, we could see a glacier leading up to the foot of a high peak
with a beautifully rounded dome of snow close to it on the right. This
peak we took to be Mount Tutoko, 9040 feet in height, though it was
impossible to tell which was the higher of the two mountains, and only
one was marked on the map. We judged that the right-hand one was the
higher, as it stood farther back and carried the greater glacier, and
so we made up our minds to attack it on the morrow. A critical glance
at the lower portion of the glacier revealed séracs and crevasses, and
it seemed as if we should have a fairly long climb. We had now to wade
through the river, which we did with some difficulty. Then, crossing
the flat, we followed the bed of a mountain torrent that came from the
ice-field which we named the Age Glacier. We were less than a mile
from the ice, but it took us a good hour, tired as we now were, to
accomplish that distance. The bed of the stream got rougher and rougher
as we proceeded, and at last we were forced to the bush, through which
the leader proceeded, bill-hook in hand, slashing every few steps at
some sapling or branch that barred the way. It seemed strange to be
carrying ice-axes in such a place. The last bit of the journey was over
an old moraine covered with dense forest. At length, shortly after
sunset, we emerged from the bush, and, with a sigh of relief, threw off
our swags, for our day’s work was happily at an end.
While two of us went on to reconnoitre the lower part of the route,
the other two pitched the tent and boiled the billy. After supper we
partially dried our wet clothing, and then turned into our sleeping
bags for the night. We were too tired to talk; but I listened for a
time to the crackling of the camp fire, the murmur of the stream, and
the strange cries of the night birds that were now wandering through
the forest in search of food. Kiwis and kakapos appeared to be about
us in plenty, but more especially the latter. The kakapo breeds every
second year, three or four young ones being found in each nest; but
the kiwi lays only one egg. As if to compensate for this difference,
the little kiwi is a very independent fellow, while Master Kakapo, on
the other hand, requires a considerable amount of attention before he
can shift for himself. The kiwi is out of the nest almost as soon as
he is out of his shell. There are four species of kiwi, but, so far as
I know, only one kind of kakapo. Both birds are easily tamed, and make
interesting pets, the kakapo in particular being a very affectionate
fellow. A professor friend of mine—when he lived in a hut on the wild
West Coast, in the days before he was a professor—had one that became
very much attached to him. They are practically blind in the daytime,
and, on our return, we caught one on the track in the Clinton Valley.
He was staggering about, and bumping up against the trees just as if
he had been out all night and was coming home with the milk. Lying in
my sleeping bag there, I could hear also the strange whistle of the
weka, that other curious, flightless bird with his strange feathers,
his long beak, and his rudimentary wings. He is distributed over a very
wide area in New Zealand, and is so fearless a bird that he will come
right into your tent and even eat out of your hand. He is, however, an
inveterate thief, and particularly fond of walking off with any little
bright thing that you may happen to leave lying about the camp. He is
very fat and oily under the skin, and if, by any chance, you require
to use him as food, you must boil him before you grill him. He has,
however, such a friendly, confidential, inquisitive way with him that
you would never dream of killing him unless you were hard put to it
in the matter of provisions. He is not found in large numbers about
Milford Sound. Perhaps the climate is too damp for him.
One of the handsomest birds found in the sounds and on the southern
lakes is the crested grebe, which builds its nest under scrub or
overhanging bushes near the water’s edge. These beautiful birds
are much rarer than either the kakapo or the kiwi. The kea—in some
localities so destructive of sheep—is also to be met with in the Alpine
parts of Fiordland; but in these localities he knows nothing of sheep,
and is still a vegetarian. He comes into this story elsewhere, and,
of all the New Zealand birds, he is the one that is most fascinating
to the mountaineer. Duck of various species are met with, the most
interesting being the blue mountain duck, who has a peculiar whistling
note, and who seems almost to have lost the use of his wings.
Other interesting birds frequently met with on our journey were the
kaka (a tree parrot), the wood pigeon, the New Zealand thrush, and the
orange-wattle crow. The _Notornis Mantelli_, of which there are only
four specimens in existence, once inhabited this region, but is now,
to all intents and purposes, extinct. No specimen has ever been taken
alive. The last one found was killed by a guide’s dog in the vicinity
of Lake Te Anau, and was sold to the Dunedin Museum for quite a large
sum. A good specimen would now fetch as much as £500. As a matter of
fact an agent, acting for Lord Rothschild, wanted to buy the last
one found, and offered a sum considerably larger than was offered by
the New Zealand authorities; but the guide, being a patriotic New
Zealander, accepted a much smaller sum rather than let the specimen
go out of the country. It is just possible that a very few more
specimens of this handsome bird may be found in the unexplored wilds
of Fiordland; but there cannot be very many more left. The gigantic
moa, which once wandered over the upland plains of Lakeland, is, of a
surety, extinct. If one specimen could be found, it would be a prize
indeed. At present the birds of Fiordland have few if any natural
enemies, and none of the commoner kinds are likely to become extinct
for years to come, unless through the ravages of ferrets, stoats,
weasels, and cats that have been introduced into the neighbouring
country with a view to keeping down the rabbits on the sheep runs—a
kind of acclimatization that is almost criminal.
But in following the birds I have wandered off the track, so, now, let
us return to our mountain. Next morning the old familiar clink of the
ice-axes on the rocks of the moraine sent a thrill of pleasure through
us, while a sniff of the keen mountain air, and the prospect of a stiff
climb, cheered us onward, as, leaving behind the depressing gloom of
the dark, trackless forest, we resolutely strode forward to attack our
peak.
We could not help remarking on the purity of the glacier, and the
almost complete absence of moraine, owing, no doubt, to the hardness of
the granite rock of which the mountains in this region are composed.
In similar situations in the vicinity of Mount Cook there would be
long slopes of scree on the mountain sides, and the snout of the
glacier would be buried under a morainic accumulation. Here the clear
ice flowed, unencumbered, to the terminal face. As we climbed the
rocky buttresses above our camp we observed on this glacier—of which
we were the discoverers—a fine mass of sérac ice from which blocks
came crashing down on to the lower part of the glacier. A great deal
of this broken ice had fallen at one time or another, and, while we
were scrutinizing the glacier for a safer route, a splendid avalanche
thundered down. The glacier was steep, and the ice hard, so that there
would have been much arduous step-cutting by that route, even if we
could have avoided the ice-fall. We therefore kept to the rocks, and
made our way upwards, zigzagging, by ledges, through a series of
precipices.
[Illustration: HOMEWARD BOUND.]
On leaving the old lateral moraine, we crossed a stream that issued
from an enormous cleft in the granite. We then commenced the ascent
proper. The rock, except where it was absolutely precipitous, or
actually overhung, was clothed with a slippery grass, alternating with
Alpine plants and shrubs, and, though this vegetation seemed to give
good hold, we, not being used to it, did not care to trust it too much,
so that at first our motto was “Slow but sure.” One or two vertical
bits of rock gave us some little trouble at the start, and the dogs
soon had to give the ascent best. The irrepressible Tubbs had a narrow
escape here, tumbling over backwards, but managing to pull himself
up just in the nick of time on the verge of an awful precipice, thus
escaping certain and ignominious death, as it were, by the skin of his
teeth. Our guide, at this point, apparently, thought discretion the
better part of valour, and returned to the camp. From an upper ledge
we shouted instructions to him to have a soft bed and a good supper
ready for us on our return, but not to be alarmed if we did not come
back that day, for, if the peak were worth doing, and should prove
difficult, we might spend the night out on the rocks.
After some time we reached the crest of a ridge overlooking the
ice-fall, and saw, stretching away before us, a beautiful snow slope
that led, in gentle undulations, to the steeper ice slope that barred
the way to the final peak. We progressed rapidly over this plateau, the
snow being just soft enough to permit of our getting a good grip with
the nails in our boots. The peculiarity of the glacier was its purity.
Not a stone of any kind was to be seen on its surface. Our route now
lay plainly before us. By making a slight detour we could easily avoid
the bergschrunds and crevasses that extended from the ice-fall almost
to the head of the plateau. From that point there was the slope of
frozen snow, up which we should have to cut steps to the final rocks.
These rocks might afford us half an hour’s scramble, and then, heigh
presto! Tutoko would be conquered. Already we counted our victory won.
We were confident of topping the peak by 2 p.m. at the latest. Alas! we
were never more mistaken in our lives.
We stopped in the middle of the plateau for a morsel of lunch, and
divested ourselves of our superfluous clothing, which, under such
circumstances is always a mistake, and for which we were heartily
sorry afterwards. Close at hand on our right rose a splendid rock
peak, with a steep snow couloir leading up to a shattered pinnacle—
“The fretwork of some earthquake—where the clouds
Pause to repose themselves in passing by.”
This we thought of attacking on our return, so confident were we of
gaining an easy victory over Tutoko.
The snow on the plateau was so hard, and the crevasses and schrunds
were so marked, that we never dreamt of putting on the rope till
Kenneth, who was leading, cut a step or two up a short, steep, curving
slope, and found himself on the edge of a yawning bergschrund. The
mountaineering authorities define a bergschrund as a big crevasse with
its upper edge higher than its lower edge. Here, however, was a schrund
that, paradoxical as it may seem, had a curving lower lip that rose
above its upper edge, and so it happened that as we were proceeding
up the glacier we found ourselves on dangerous ground before we were
aware of it. But the snow was so hard that even this thin overhanging
lip would have held the whole party safely. We deemed it wise, however,
at this stage, to put on the rope, and we bore away to the right to
avoid other schrunds, eventually reaching the crest of the range and
overlooking a pass that led down into the Holyford. Here there were
some most remarkable pinnacles of rock, and the radiation of the heat
from one of the larger buttresses had melted the ice of the plateau,
which stood back from it in a beautiful amphitheatre some forty or
fifty feet thick. This we named the Colosseum. The ice at the top was a
pure white, but gradually merged into beautiful tints of bluish green
lower down, where, owing to the greater pressure, it was more compact.
The bold granite battlements, rising above the delicately tinted
Colosseum ice, half in sunshine, half in shadow, and the broad expanse
of the plateau combined to make as effective an Alpine picture as could
well be imagined, and we now longed for the camera which our tired
shoulders had rebelled against carrying beyond the head of the valley.
Cameras were heavy in those days.
From the Colosseum to the final snow slope was but a few hundred yards,
and up to this point we were well satisfied with our progress. Now,
however, our troubles began. The névé was so hard that every step had
to be cut with the pick end of the axe. Midway up the slope was an
overhanging wall of ice, and up to this we cut steps, only to find,
when too late, that we could not surmount the obstacle, so we turned
abruptly to the right and made a traverse to where the wall ran out.
Then we made a more difficult traverse back again, above the wall, and,
ascending gradually, after a good deal of left-handed step-cutting, we
gained the final rocks. These, to our dismay, we found glazed with ice.
It was the penalty we paid for coming so late into these low latitudes.
At the point where we first gained the rocks, they were so steep and so
glazed with ice that it was practically impossible to get on to them.
There was nothing for it but to make a traverse along the slope for
some distance in the hope of finding an easier place at which to attack
them. Kenneth led round here, the step-cutting being arduous. Sometimes
he was out of sight round a corner, and while he was chipping away, we
held on with our axes and stood firmly in the steps till he called to
us to move on a step or two. The ice chips went swishing down the slope
over the ice wall and into a bergschrund at the top of the plateau.
Occasionally we were able to hook the rope over a projecting knob of
rock, but, for the most part, the rocks afforded no hold. Kenneth,
however, made the steps wide and deep, and, so long as we moved one at
a time, managed the rope skilfully, and kept our heads half as cool as
our feet were, the danger was practically nil, for everything above
was frozen, and there could be neither avalanche nor falling rock to
fear. Still the situation was sufficiently exhilarating, and Hodgkins
afterwards informed us that on mature reflection he had come to the
conclusion that the pictures in the Badminton book on mountaineering,
instead of being, as he had at one time imagined, greatly exaggerated,
were wonderfully true to nature.
With this sort of work hour after hour slipped by, and still our peak
looked down defiantly on us. At length, when we did get on to the
rocks, progress was slower than ever, and, eventually, we had to turn
back from the line of route we had selected and take to an ice-filled
couloir that was both steep and slippery, with smooth slabs of rock
showing through, in places, just under the ice. Up this we slowly
hacked our way and gained some broken rocks above, where the climbing
was still difficult. In one place the rocks were perpendicular, and,
owing to the ice and the nature of the rock, the holds were few and far
between. The ice had to be chipped off the rocks, and it rained down on
the heads and hands of those below with rather unpleasant force, till
at length we reached the highest rocks, and called a halt. The views
were splendid. On the one hand was the valley of the Holyford, on the
other that of the Cleddau. Inland, we looked over a wilderness of peaks
rising, near at hand, in savage grandeur, and farther away mingling
and fading in the dim haze of distance. But all the while
“the broad sun
Was sinking down in his tranquillity,”
and, as we had spent hours on those rocks and ice slopes where we only
expected to spend minutes, it behoved us to think of the descent.
There was a further pinnacle of the peak above us, and, earlier in
the season, with the rocks in good condition, we should have waltzed
up it in quick time. But now, with the rocks in this frozen state, it
was clear that there would be step-cutting—and difficult step-cutting
at that—all the way, and not only step-cutting but the uncovering
of the rock itself, so that if we wished to get off the mountain in
daylight, it was already high time to think about the descent. We took
one last look around, and, then, very slowly, and cautiously, with our
faces to the mountain, we climbed down, the last man, when opportunity
offered, hitching the rope around some pinnacle, so that the others
might descend more safely. We had turned none too soon, for just as
we reached the foot of the rocks the sun, in a blaze of golden glory,
pushed his rosy rim behind a bank of westering cloud, and all the
choicest and most delicate tints from Nature’s palette seemed blended
in the evening sky above the far away mountain-tops. Someone has wisely
said, or written, that if you must have a sunset in your book, by all
means have it, but let it be a short one; and in this case we must
perforce follow such excellent advice, for we had scarce time to notice
detail, though we could not help every now and then stealing a glance
from our icy staircase to the glowing west beyond.
But there was no time to stop. The keen air and the gathering gloom
warned us to get off those steep and slippery ice slopes before dark.
But it would have been dangerous to hurry, so down we went, faces to
the wall, with no sound to break the silence save the clink! clink!
clink! of our axes in the ice, and an occasional admonition from
Kenneth to the plucky Hodgkins to take the steps faster. But Kenneth’s
legs are long and Hodgkins’s legs are short, and, as the steps had been
made at intervals to suit the former, it was not so easy for the latter
to comply with the request. Still we made good progress, considering
the difficulties, and at length emerged from the shadow of the peak
into the moonlight which now gleamed on the final slope just above
the plateau. Here we had adventures. The temptation to indulge in a
glissade was too strong to be resisted, so, unfastening myself from the
rope, I made a traverse across the slope so as to evade the bergschrund
below, and started off on a standing glissade. But the slope was
steeper, and the snow harder, than I imagined, and, though I used my
axe as a brake with all the skill I could, I quickly lost control, and
went whirling down at an alarming speed. Away went my hat and away went
my axe, but I just managed to keep my feet till, with strange gyrations
of arms and legs, I landed, breathless with excitement, on the gentler
slopes of the plateau, 300 or 400 feet below. The others, profiting by
my experience, came down more slowly, trusting simply to the hold they
obtained with their axes, for we had made no steps here in going up.
All went well till Kenneth suddenly found Hodgkins whizzing past him
down the slope in the direction of the bergschrund. Kenneth, however,
was equal to the emergency, for, quick as thought, he clutched the
slack of the rope with one hand, and dug his axe into the slope with
the other, bringing his companion up with a round turn a few feet below
him. Once off these slopes the strain of the past few hours was at
an end, and we ran down the plateau in the moonlight to where we had
left our coats in the morning. Here we hastily donned them, and then
continued our race across the plateau. On the last snow slopes we had
to slow down, as the gradient was steeper, and the snow was now frozen
quite hard. The ice fall was a glorious sight in the clear moonlight.
Once off the snow, it was not an easy matter to keep to our route, and,
lower down, in the shadow of the valley, the difficulty was increased.
All things considered, however, we managed to hit off the route
wonderfully well; but, at last, in the darkness, we were completely
stuck up at a point not more than 2000 feet above our camp. There
was only one way by which we could descend, but all our efforts to
find the exact spot were unavailing. I tried to the right in several
places, making an awkward traverse across a steep and slippery wall of
granite, and, eventually, on finding myself hanging over the face of an
awesome precipice above the glacier, I gave up the search. On rejoining
my companions we held a short council of war, with the result that,
rather than risk an accident, we decided to stand the night out on the
mountain. There was no shelter where we were, nor any dry grass nor
fern with which to make a comfortable bivouac, but, luckily, the night
was fine. The temperature fell quickly, and the provoking part of the
situation was that, only some 2000 feet below, we could see the glimmer
of our camp fire—so near and yet so far. We shouted and jodelled to our
guide in hopes that he would hear us, come up to the foot of the cliff,
and give us a clue to the route; but all our shouting and jodelling
were in vain. The only answer was the rumble of an avalanche from the
séracs opposite, and visions of the soft bed and the hot supper that we
had been longing for quickly faded away. We were none too warmly clad,
and we had but a limited stock of provisions—three small scones and the
scrapings of a tin of jam, which we now disposed of, washing the crumbs
down with a drink of icy cold water from a little pool in a rock close
at hand.
The temperature continued to fall till by ten o’clock it was several
degrees below freezing-point, and the pool of water on the rock became
a frozen mass. We selected a spot where there was a comparatively flat
rock about a dozen yards long, on which we might promenade at intervals
to keep up the circulation. The stars shone in a wonderfully clear sky,
star beyond star, until they seemed to melt or mingle into a pale glow
in the realms of illimitable space.
“No one,” says Stevenson, “knows the stars who has not slept, as the
French say, _à la belle étoile_. He may know all their names and
distances and magnitudes, and yet be ignorant of what alone concerns
mankind—their serene and gladsome influence on the mind.” There is a
great deal of truth, though not, perhaps, the whole truth in this bit
of Stevensonian philosophy. But, at any rate, it is in such bivouacs
as these that one realizes to the full the wondrous beauty of the
Southern constellations: not of the Southern Cross itself—which, one
might almost say, is a feeble thing as compared with the regal radiance
of those seven resplendent suns of The Great Bear that have scarce
changed their positions since the days of Ptolemy, two thousand years
ago—but of the Southern firmament as a whole. I have heard English-men
profess their disappointment with their first view of the Cross and its
attendant constellations; but let them sail to the far South, or camp,
in late autumn, in the high mountains, or even go out on one of our
clearer winter nights, and they will begin to understand our pæan. One
can easily comprehend their first disappointment, for, in the same way
was I, too, disappointed, when, sailing through tropic seas, I first
saw The Bear, and, also, later, in England. But soon it began to dawn
upon me that neither the haze of smoky London nor the moist summer air
of southern England was the medium through which one should search for
the beauty of the heavens; and, finally, one clear, dark night, in the
Isle of Arran, I began to form a higher estimate of the beauty and
magnitude of the Northern constellations—an estimate that was more than
justified, when, later in the year, after witnessing the most gorgeous
sunset imaginable from the summit of a pass in the High Carpathians,
I descended into the darksome valley, and saw The Great Bear, in all
his glory, with his two pointers leading the eye on to the Pole Star,
serene and immovable in his place in the Northern sky. Nevertheless, I
must still hold that our Southern firmament bears the palm, and more
especially that part of the Milky Way—invisible in the North—that is
strewn with millions of bright stars, and that glows with the nebulous
mingled haze of still more distant myriad suns.
One begins then to realize that
“To other worlds that spin in space
Our world looks just a shining star.”
But, perhaps, I shall be told that one whose ignorance of astronomy is
in inverse ratio to his knowledge of mountains cannot be trusted to
make comparisons; and I quite agree that it is as futile to attempt
comparisons between groups of stars as between groups of mountains, for
each has a beauty and a grandeur that cannot be justly estimated the
one against the other. And, moreover, no author, however obscure, can
afford to have a charge of parochialism levelled at his head in regard
to the firmament, though, mind you, there are people quite ready to
take up this attitude, as I myself know, for I once heard a young lady
clinch an argument with an acquaintance, about the relative beauties
of their cities, with this triumphant assertion, tacked on to an
admission—“Well, your harbour may be beautiful; but, you should see the
moon we have in Auckland!”
But I have been drawn, by this dissertation on the stars, from the
matter in hand. We certainly had full opportunity of studying the
beauty of the Southern stars that night. A cold wind began to sigh
through the rocks, and it was not long before we commenced to tramp
resolutely up and down our rocky platform, marking time to a song sung,
or a tune whistled. This got somewhat monotonous after about half an
hour, and, for a change, we lay down in the lee of some detached rocks
near our platform and tried to sleep. But granite rock is not exactly
a feather mattress, and the Milky Way makes rather a cool counterpane,
so it was not long before we had resumed our platform march. Then we
coiled up once more in the shelter of the rocks. At first it was “one
man one rock,” but experience, which teaches many things, subsequently
taught us that “three men one rock” resulted in a greater conservation
of bodily warmth, albeit the outside man got somewhat the worst of the
bargain, and was always the first to resume the march. However, we were
sufficiently magnanimous to take turn about on the outside, and in this
way we did fairly well, and some of us even managed to sleep. We spent
the night in half-hours under the rock trying to sleep, and half-hours
perambulating the narrow platform, singing songs, telling stories,
making speeches, and trying to get warm again. But the hours passed so
slowly that after a time we were afraid to look at our watches. For
once we thought an autumn night unnecessarily long; and, truth to tell,
we would willingly have exchanged all the glories of the Southern Cross
for a hot supper, our warm sleeping bags, and a glowing camp fire. I
tried to console myself with the fact that this cold, autumn bivouac
was better than our midsummer one on Aorangi on that terrible night
when the snow, drifting higher and higher every hour, threatened to
overwhelm us, when the lightning played around us, and the incessant
thunder shook the tottering ridge. We had endured all that with a Mark
Tapleyan philosophy and some pretence of jollity, so that now, when
the elements were propitious, we were not so much inclined to grumble,
but rather cheered ourselves with the thought that when morning dawned
one should have gained a new experience. And so we talked and joked
and sang; and had anyone chanced that way an hour after midnight he
would have been amused, and mayhap astonished, to see three yawning and
shivering mountaineers, with hands deep in pockets and hats tied down
over ears, solemnly marking time on the rock to the strains of a weird
melody from Kenneth’s _répertoire_.
But notwithstanding all our inventions the night seemed long. Some
kola wine which we doled out at intervals in small doses kept away
hunger and, we imagined, had a sustaining effect. And, somehow, the
hours did pass. The stars began to lose their lustre and fade slowly
away, till only one dim twinkling orb was left—
“And east and west, without a breath,
Mixt their dim lights, twixt life and death,
To broaden into boundless day.”
With the first streak of dawn I set about the putting on of my boots,
which I had discarded during the night for tennis shoes; but I now
found them hard frozen. However, by sitting on them, one at a time, for
ten or fifteen minutes, I thawed them out sufficiently to permit of my
getting my feet into them.
With the daylight we saw our route clearly enough—not fifty yards from
where we had spent the night. We were not long in hurrying down to the
tent. Once again beside the cheery camp fire we felt happy, and not
one jot the worse for our strange experience and our five-and-twenty
hours on the mountain, though inclined to agree with one of Crockett’s
characters that “a reeking dish of porridge is the delightsomest of
scenery to a famished man.”
After breakfast we lost little time in packing up, and then we marched
back down the valley through the forest primeval to Milford Sound. From
there we commenced the long trudge back over the pass and down the
Clinton Valley to Lake Te Anau. The weather, which had been remarkably
fine for the past three or four days, showed signs of breaking, and by
the time we had crossed Lake Ada we saw we were in for a drenching.
We had very hard work getting the big boat back up the Arthur River
to the upper landing, and at several places in the rapids the four
rowers had to get out and push, waist-deep in water. Once or twice we
thought we should have to abandon our task altogether, but eventually
perseverance and determination won the day. A gentle rain had begun to
fall, so we hurried on to the Beech Huts, where we arrived in a rather
moist condition early in the afternoon.
Next morning we again shouldered the inexorable swag, and started
off up the pass. Before we quitted the huts we had a “cleaning-up,”
and left the place in as orderly a condition as we could. It was
raining heavily as we commenced to climb the steep incline into the
bush—heavily and hopelessly, and not even the Mark Tapley of our party
could prophesy a change for the better. The mountains had shrouded
themselves, and the waterfalls were riotous. But above us, in the
branches of the trees, undeterred by rain or storm, the birds sang
cheerily, and now and again a kakapo blundered across the track,
blinded by the daylight. Before we had gone far we were soaked to the
skin, and the track was naturally heavier and more difficult to climb.
Soon we got out of the forest into the low scrub. Then came the steep
pull up the tussocky slopes, down which, ten days before, some of us
had attempted to glissade. Now there was no remnant of the snow that
then lay so thickly on the pass, but the foot sank deep in the marshy
ground, and numberless little noisy streams bore witness to the heavy
rains and melting snow.
On the top of the pass a strong wind was blowing, ruffling the sullenly
grey surface of the tarns, and whistling through the tussocks. Near the
cairn built there we went to the edge of the great wall of granite
which falls sheer to the valley below. Far down lay the Mintaro Lake
and hut, mere specks in the misty distance. The mountains in front
of us loomed up through the mist, that, lifting a little, gave us a
glimpse of the spun silver of a waterfall or the rugged grandeur of a
granite peak. But there was still some distance to go before we reached
our little haven, and on we trudged, serenely conscious that by this
time it was quite impossible to get any wetter. A little care was
necessary in the descent, but soon the Clinton River was waded, and
the Mintaro Hut reached. There, before a blazing fire, a council of
war was held as to the advisability of going on farther that day. It
was urged that the next hut was more comfortable and drier, and could
easily be reached by dusk; so, after some hot tea, we took up our swags
and plodded on down the Clinton Valley, now a wonderful sight with
countless waterfalls streaming over the dark rocks. Wet and a little
tired with the heavy walking, we reached the half-way hut at 6 p.m.
There is a delicious feeling of virtuous well-being when—after a weary
tramp—clothes are changed, and, pannikins in hand, all gather round the
huge log fire that crackles so cheerily up the great wooden chimney. No
tea—even be it the finest Pekoe, enriched with the thickest of cream
and sipped from the daintiest Dresden—tastes like “billy” tea. We had
quite a festive appearance as we sat round the fire that evening. One
man especially, who sported a white “sweater,” gave a gala air to
the proceedings, and my wife’s pink-and-white dressing-gown was, at
any rate, a piquant contrast to her “business suit” in which she had
climbed the pass, waded the swollen streams, and cheerily held her own
in the long day’s march. Tea over and the dishes washed—lately we had
hit upon the idea of this being taken in alphabetical order—four of
us settled down to whist. The others read, smoked, talked, or lounged
in their bunks. For the labour was all but over. To-morrow was a mere
afternoon stroll: to a certain extent our ambitions had been realized,
and our expectations fulfilled, and though the rain continued and the
jealous mists still hid everything up and down the valley from us,
we were happy. Hot cocoa and then early to bed was voted the correct
thing, and all slept soundly that night.
In the morning the rain was still steadily falling, and there was
little hope of its clearing. We waited two or three hours, and then
started for Te Anau. On the way down I stopped to take a photograph of
Quintin MacKinnon’s Hut, standing lonely and tenantless amid the tall
beech trees on the picturesque banks of the Clinton River. As we neared
the lake we heard the steamer’s whistle echoing up amongst the mountain
heights, and a few minutes later, with a fervent “Thank Heaven!” we
slung our swags on the floor of the hut at the head of Lake Te Anau.
This being our last night in the wilds,—for to-morrow we should be,
winds and waters concurring, in the comfortable hotel at the foot of
the lake,—we resolved to have a concert—a smoking concert. After a
substantial tea, and the usual whist contest, seats were taken on the
bunks, the table, and a bench, which had an amusing habit—amusing,
at least, to the onlookers—of tipping up suddenly unless it were
evenly balanced. Everyone had to sing, no excuse being taken. Medical
certificates, physical disabilities, were of no avail; each was to
give one verse, to which was to be appended—by the whole company—the
rousing refrain of “Rule Britannia!” One could scarcely imagine a more
unmusical set than we were, taken as a whole, but everyone did his
best. One warbled a love ditty in a voice that was perhaps tremulous
with emotion; another—from a dim corner, where he blushed unseen—a
sailor’s song; while the last man, when it came to his turn, made a
hasty retreat to the door, only to be brought back forcibly by his
coat-tails. When he again took his seat, he brought down the house by
a spirited rendering of “The Man who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo,”
displaying a talent which none of us had ever given him the credit
for possessing. An encore was insisted on, and by the time we had all
sung again we were certain of at least one thing—the refrain of “Rule
Britannia.” The captain and the engineer, who were in the steamer, had
been asked up to join in our convivialities, but they did not put in an
appearance. Away down in the dim shadows one could now and then catch
the notes of the latter’s flute, and I have no doubt they could hear
something of our so-called musical attempts. To finish up our concert,
Kenneth was called upon for “The Wild Colonial Boy,” as sung by him on
Mount Tutoko. I can see him now, his handsome bronzed face and dark
eyes lit up by the firelight, waving his pipe backwards and forwards
in time to the tune, and singing the lawless ditty with the greatest
vigour, while all of us, in a delightfully promiscuous way, shouted the
refrain—
“We’ll gallop o’er yon mountains,
And roa-m o’er yon plains,
And scorn to die in slave-ry,
Bound down in i-ron chains.”
It was a song, with endless verses, of the old bush-ranging days in
Australia. The exploits of the gang were belauded, and they themselves
were made out to be great heroes, whereas, as a matter of law and
justice, they should all have been hanged! However, this perversion of
sentiment did not detract from the merits of the song as a song, and so
we all vigorously demanded an encore, which was promptly given.
Someone says that there is a certain pain always in doing anything for
the last time, and certainly as we said “Good-night” on this our last
day in the Clinton Valley, most of us must have wished ourselves able
to put Time’s dial-hand back. The merry evening in that hut will be
among our many pleasant memories of the trip—a trip in which one and
all worked heartily, often in the face of impediments and dangers,
from the beginning to the end. Fyfe and Kenneth had laboured under
difficulties, the former suffering terribly from neuralgia, and the
latter having, from the second day out, a heel on which there was a
section of raw flesh the size of a two-shilling piece. How he managed
to climb at all under such circumstances was often a puzzle to me.
Hodgkins, who was comparatively new to such rough work, did remarkably
well; while the good-natured Ziele was invaluable in camp. My brother
John surprised us with the cool manner in which he threw another man’s
camera in addition to his own heavy swag over his shoulders, lit his
pipe, and strolled without apparent effort, smoking all the time, to
the top of the pass; and last, but not least, my wife was all times, I
think, the cheeriest and the pluckiest of the party.
Next morning there was a big flood in the Clinton, and the river had
overflowed its bounds to such an extent that it was no easy matter
getting to the steamer. The men waded out with the swags and cameras
and afterwards pushed a boat up the edge of the stream for my wife and
me. Into this we got, and once fairly out in the current we were shot
down like a cork into the quieter and safer waters of the lake.
And now shall I attempt to describe our sail down the wonderful lake? I
am afraid I can do it but scant justice. There was no gale to vex the
waters through which our little craft cut her way. The rain had ceased,
and the heavy pall of ashen grey was slowly but surely resolving itself
into noble piles of cumuli. Peak after peak came out, here black with
overhanging precipice, yonder, where less steep, snow-flecked. And ever
and anon the cloud masses that were slowly rent asunder would, more
slowly still, with ever-varying change, heal themselves up again and
softly drape the beetling crags. Now a peak would be hidden completely;
then the clouds would break, revealing with startling suddenness some
rocky pinnacle high in heaven. Farther down the sun came out, and the
mists formed themselves in bands athwart the lower hills. The high
mountains at the head of the lake slowly recede. On our right a purple
cone flecked with new snow rises above the mists and then is cloaked
as with a thick veil. A black promontory, with tree-serrated edge,
clear cut against a bank of sunlit mist, juts out ahead. Mists and high
snow-capped mountains on the right, trees and the low land on the left;
away up the North Fiord a patch of blue sky; and southward gleams of
green. Below us the dark waters of the great lake; and yonder, on Lone
Island, standing out against the sombre trees, left by some long-melted
glacier, a granite obelisk—MacKinnon’s monument. Our journey is coming
to an end, and in the gloom of this restful autumn evening a feeling
in which there is a tinge of sadness steals over those of us who are
such barbarians as to enjoy a taste of the nomad’s existence. And
ever I find my thoughts recurring to the fate of the lost explorers
of Fiordland—Mainwaring Brown, William Quill, and Quintin MacKinnon.
Widely different in temperament, in character, and in education,
each had the same love of undefiled nature, and each had felt the
fascinating spell of the great unexplored mountain region.
“Gone to Lake Gertrude Saddle, and trying to get down to Cleddau
Valley.—WILL QUILL, 15/1/91, 7 a.m.” Thus ran the last words of Quill’s
diary, written on a paper bag and left in the tent at the foot of
Homer’s Pass. In endeavouring to find a way to Milford he probably
slipped and fell over a precipice. Mainwaring Brown perished, no one
knows how, in endeavouring to find a pass from Manapouri to Hall’s Arm;
and poor MacKinnon, who had gone through many adventures by flood and
field, was no doubt knocked off his boat by the boom in some sudden
squall, and drowned in the lake. Brave fellows all of them. Of the
manner of their going hence we know little, but of this we may be sure,
that when the time came for them to leave for that other country,
“Where ends our dark, uncertain travel;
Where lie those happy hills and meadows low,”
there would be no flinching nor bemoaning, but that bravely and
unmurmuringly they would depart. The charm of the unexplored, of the
sombre forests, of the beautiful rivers, and of the giant mountains
seemed to beckon them on—on to unknown graves.