THE FIRST CROSSING OF MOUNT COOK—_continued_
“Tighten the muscle, feel the strong blood flow,
And set your foot upon the utmost crest!”
GEOFFREY WINTHROP YOUNG.
During the next seven days my ankle mended slowly, and a biologist—the
nearest approach to a doctor within ninety miles—expressed the opinion
that there was a splinter off the bone. So far as I was concerned I had
now given up all thoughts of attempting the ascent of Mount Cook; for,
with a weak leg, I should be likely to endanger the whole party. It was
with a sad heart that I watched the expedition start off once more for
the Tasman, in the hopes of accomplishing the first traverse of Mount
Cook.
Fyfe and Graham, however, were keenly anxious for me to accompany them,
and it was decided, on the day they left for Mount Cook, that I should
give my leg a good trial on the Sealy Range, and, if it stood the
test, rejoin the party the same evening at the Ball Hut. Accordingly,
in company with Professor Baldwin Spencer, Mr. and Mrs. Lindon, and
Jack Clark, I went up the Sealy Range. We spent a delightful day,
the weather being glorious, and the views of Sefton, Mount Cook, and
many other mountains, magnificently grand. My leg stood the test, and
I returned to the Hermitage in high glee, feeling confident that
another day’s rest at the Mount Cook Bivouac would complete the cure.
Accordingly I bade farewell to my friends at the Hermitage, and that
evening rode up with Clark, in the moonlight, to the hut. Crossing
the dangerous Hooker River, we changed horses, Clark insisting that
I should cross on the safer of the two, and giving instructions that
I should hold on to his mane if he got bowled over. However, these
horses, which are wonderful at crossing rivers, got over safely. Never
shall I forget that glorious ride in the moonlight. We galloped over
the tussock flats, and then slackened our pace as we entered upon the
narrow and uncertain path between the dark spur of Aorangi on our left
and the great moraine of the Tasman Glacier that loomed on our right
like some titanic jumble of rock-work. The talk was of climbing and
climbers, reminiscences of former victories and defeats, glorious days
spent amongst the higher snows, and of brave companions who had shared
our Alpine joys and sorrows in the years now past. Meanwhile the stars,
dimmed by a glorious moon, swung westward o’er our path, the fourteen
miles went past like four, and presently, about 10 p.m., we spied the
solitary light of the hut window, like a star in the lower darkness,
and our cheery jodelling awoke the echoes of the valley and brought an
answering shout from Graham and Fyfe. They were glad to see me, and
delighted to hear that I was fit to climb again.
On Monday, the 8th January, we ascended to the Bivouac Rock, on the
Haast Ridge, from which the early New Zealand climbers made their
heroic, though unsuccessful, attacks on the monarch of the Southern
Alps. We climbed the steep rocky ridge with heavy swags—tent, sleeping
bags, ice-axes, Alpine rope, and provisions for three or four days.
Green, a promising climber, came with us in the capacity of porter.
It was necessary to shovel the snow from the little stone platform on
which we were to sleep, and we had no sooner got camp pitched than the
weather changed. Dense clouds, borne on southerly airs, quickly filled
the valley, blotting out from view the moraines and icy tongues of
the Great Tasman Glacier thousands of feet below. We made a billy of
tea, and dined on bread-and-butter and cold mutton, after which Green
very reluctantly left us to join Clark and a party at the Malte Brun
Hut farther up the glacier. Graham went down with him over the first
snow slopes. As he did not return for some considerable time we got
rather anxious, and Fyfe went to see what was the matter. Presently
he returned with Graham, and we heard Green jodelling from the misty
depths thousands of feet below us. We gave him answering jodels from
the Bivouac, this interchange of signals being kept up till Green’s
voice grew fainter and fainter, and at last we got tired of answering
him. Then we made things snug about our eerie perch, and turned in for
the night. The four of us were packed like sardines in a tin, but, with
our clothes on, in the eider-down sleeping bags, and under the shelter
of my Whymper tent, with its waterproof floor, we were fairly warm and
comfortable. Those of us who were smokers lit our pipes and were happy.
Then the clouds that had overwhelmed the ridge began to patter-patter
on the tent roof in gentle rain, which, later in the night, turned to
snow. Visions of a night in this same bivouac years ago, when the lurid
lightning dazzled our eyes, the thunder shook the ridge, and the tent
was frozen to the rocks in a terrible storm, came back to me. But that
is another story, and has been told elsewhere in this book.
[Illustration: ABOVE THE CLOUDS.]
We breakfasted at seven o’clock next morning, after fourteen hours
of the tent—cold mutton, tea, bread-and-butter, and jam. The weather
was warm and the new snow was peeling off the slopes of Mount Cook.
Avalanches hissed and thundered all around us, the mountains being
literally alive, and in a most dangerous condition for climbing. This,
however, did not concern us greatly, for we had decided to rest for
a day at the Bivouac, and there was, at last, a good prospect of the
weather’s clearing. We spent the day in delightful idleness, lazying on
the warm rocks, pottering about the camp, and photographing. Fyfe acted
as chief cook, and for each meal prepared a billy of delicious hot tea,
using as fuel a little bit of deal board we had brought up, together
with some old candles found under the Bivouac Rock. With these he
melted snow and boiled the water. We also added to our water supply by
spreading snow on a warm sloping rock, and allowing the drip therefrom
to collect in a billy and an empty fruit-tin. For the greater part of
the day we were above the lower stratum of cloud, which spread itself
like a fleecy counterpane over the great valley, or swathed itself
about the giant peaks, leaving the dark summits standing in startling
yet stately grandeur as pointed islands in a vapoury sea of white and
grey. Now and again this counterpane would be torn by some sportive
wind or partially dissolved by the warm rays of the sun, and, through
the holes thus made, we could see the upper snows of the Great Tasman
or its lower tongues of attenuated ice flowing between the piled débris
of the grey moraines—the largest in the Southern Alps—thousands
of feet below. Later, as the mists gradually dissolved, we obtained
glorious views of the great Alps, with their tributary glaciers pouring
streams of broken ice down the sides of the valley to feed the parent
stream. Here were all our old friends, Haidinger, and De la Bêche, and
the Minarets—whose 10,000-feet summits Fyfe and I had trodden—looking
down at us with a lofty disdain, and, across the valley, Malte Brun,
the Matterhorn of the Southern Alps, heaved his strong shoulders of
grim dark brown rock up through the veil of surging mist, and cleft
the azure blue of heaven, recalling to my mind Fyfe’s memorable first
ascent and his equally memorable entry in the visitors’ book I had
left at the hut—“Played a lone hand with Malte Brun, and won.” Yes,
all our old friends were here, strong in their might, each with his
own unchanging character, and as one recalled the joyous days spent on
slope and summit, the pulses quickened and the hour-glass ran in golden
sands. “Glorious creatures; fine old fellows!” as Lamb says. We bowed
before them and gave them reverent greeting, befitting their greatness,
thinking that
“When time, who steals our years away,
Shall steal our pleasures too,
The memory of the past will stay,
And half our joys renew.”
It was decided not to go to sleep that evening, but to start for
the traverse of Mount Cook before midnight. We, however, crept into
our sleeping bags inside the tent in order to keep warm. Turner had
complained of the dampness at the end of the tent the night before,
so I took his place, and gave him an inside berth. At 10 p.m. Fyfe
was astir boiling us a billy of tea, and at 10.20 we breakfasted! The
sky was clear, and the moon was shining; but, higher up the range, the
clouds were pouring over between Haidinger and De la Bêche. This did
not augur well for success. On going through our rücksacks again, we
discarded a few things to make them lighter, but, what with cameras,
spare clothing, food, and the two aluminium water-bottles, one filled
with claret and the other with water, we had to carry from 15 lb. to 20
lb. each—rather heavy loads for so long and difficult a climb.
Our provisions consisted of half a loaf, 1 large tin of ox tongue, 1
tin of sheep’s tongues, 1 tin of sardines, 2 tins of jam, some butter,
2 oranges, 2 lemons, a few raisins, and about a pound of brown sugar,
upon which latter I subsisted almost entirely on all our climbs. I
had remembered reading about the virtues of brown sugar in one of Sir
Martin Conway’s books, and my wife had obtained some special brown
Demerara sugar for me from our grocer. Then I looked the subject up
in Conway’s book on the ascent of Aconcagua. After mentioning the
necessity for light foods, such as soup and jam, for high ascents, he
states that on the Aconcagua climb more important than all these was a
great tin of coarse brown Demerara sugar, the finest heat-producing,
muscle-nourishing food in the world. For men taking violent exercise,
such as soldiers on active service or athletes in training, a
plentiful supply of sugar was, he stated, far better than large meat
rations. A quarter of a pound per day per man was his allowance on
the mountain-side, and he was inclined to think that this might be
increased to nearly half a pound with advantage, cane sugar, of course,
being selected for this purpose.
We were aware that on such a climb, what with the great exertion,
the want of water, and the reduced atmospheric pressure, we should
be able to eat very little, and that, if we were successful, most of
the provisions we were taking would not be needed. Still there was
the danger, in consequence of a sudden storm, or other unforeseen
difficulties, of our having to spend the night out on an exposed ledge
of rock at an altitude of 10,000 or 11,000 feet, in which case our
lives would depend upon a supply of extra clothing and food. Therefore
we dared not with prudence make our loads any lighter.
At 11.15 p.m. on the night of Tuesday, January 9, we started, having
rolled up all our belongings that we did not require in the sleeping
bags, and these, in turn, in the tent. This made one big bundle,
which we jammed under the rock as far as possible and weighted down
with stones, so that it should not be blown away. We took with us
also one 65-foot length and one 50-foot length of Alpine rope made by
Buckingham, of London, and tested to a breaking strain of 2000 lb. In
single file, in the moonlight, we toiled up the snow slopes leading to
the Glacier Dome, 1300 feet above our bivouac. For the most part we
climbed upwards in solemn silence, each one being busy with his own
thoughts, and wondering, no doubt, what the day would bring about.
Ten minutes after midnight we had left the final steep snow slope of
the Dome behind, and looked across the great plateau that stretches,
at an altitude of over 7000 feet, for a distance of some four miles,
at the foot of the precipitous slopes of Mounts Cook and Tasman. From
the Dome we had now to descend 700 feet, and then cross the plateau
to gain the foot of the north-eastern ridge that was to lead us to
the summit of our peak. The snow was in bad condition, and we sank in
it over the boot-tops. In places it was in that most tantalizing of
conditions with a frozen crust that let one foot through, while the
other foot held on the surface. While we were crossing the plateau, a
vivid streak of lightning, or an unusually brilliant meteor, flashed
athwart the northern sky, and a weird effect was produced by the moon,
which, with a great halo around it, was dipping westward over the snowy
peak of Mount Haast. For a few moments the moon, with half its halo,
seemed to rest on the very apex of the mountain. We crossed the rest of
the plateau in the shadow of the high peaks of the main divide, behind
which the moon had now sunk, and, presently, in the dim, uncertain
light we came up against the débris of a great avalanche that had
fallen from the slopes of Mount Tasman. A mass of broken ice and snow
was piled in confusion to a height of 15 or 20 feet, and we had to make
a detour to avoid the obstruction.
[Illustration: MOUNT TASMAN.]
At about a quarter past 2 a.m. we commenced to ascend the long snow
slope leading to the Zurbriggen arête; and in the dusk before the
dawn we reached a bergschrund that might have given us a good deal of
trouble to cross. Graham led carefully through the broken ice, and,
peering into the dull grey light, thought he saw a bridge over which
we might crawl in safety. We made a traverse to the right and climbed
round under the overhanging wall of ice that formed the upper lip of
the schrund, and which, had it fallen, would have crushed us out of
existence. At this hour of the morning, however, it was perfectly
safe, and Graham, disappearing round a huge block that towered above,
crossed a frail snow bridge and gained the upper lip of the schrund.
Turner followed, and I paid out the rope as he, too, gradually
disappeared from view round the corner, Graham driving the handle of
his axe deep in the snow, while Fyfe and I, below, took a firm stand
and kept the rope taut. In a few minutes we were all safely across,
and congratulating ourselves upon having so easily overcome the first
serious obstacle of the climb.
We were now fairly on to the long 3000-feet snow slope that leads up to
the rocks of the Zurbriggen arête. This slope was found in fairly good
order. In places we could kick steps, but in other places the steps had
to be chipped with the ice-axes. As we slowly climbed upwards the slope
got steeper and steeper. Indeed, the angle was just about as steep as
it is possible for snow to hold. After about half-an-hour’s climbing
we were startled by a magnificent avalanche that fell with thundering
roar from high up on the broken ice-slopes of Mount Tasman. It crashed
on to the great Plateau 2000 feet below, sending ice-blocks to a great
distance, and throwing up a cloud of snow like some huge breaker that
sends its spray high in air above a rock-bound coast.
It was cold work standing in the steps in the chilly dawn with the
ice chips from the leader’s axe swishing about us. Presently the sun
rose gloriously over the Eastern ranges, and we were revelling in its
generous warmth on the slope where, before, we had been half frozen.
But the combination of sun and slope became almost more intolerable
than the slope without the sun. Three thousand feet of such work is
apt to become a shade monotonous even to the keenest disciple of
snow-craft. This particular wall is so long and so steep that the
climber must give his attention almost continually to the matter in
hand. He has little time to admire the view. The steps must be cleaned
out, and the rope must be held taut. Each man must keep his distance.
Otherwise, a slip might be fatal. But it is monotonous work climbing
slowly, hour after hour, in zigzags, with your face to the white wall.
You have time to review your past life for years and years, and to
think of the future for years ahead. With the dead uniformity of it
all, and the never-ceasing glare in the stagnant atmosphere, there
comes a monition of impending drowsiness. This you fight with an effort
of the will, and some pretence at enlarging the steps that the leader
has made, but which are, already, large enough in all conscience. While
I was standing in the steps at a spot about half-way up the slope
I felt a strange tug on the rope, and thought it must have caught
in some obstruction or have been struck by a falling block of ice;
but, on looking round, I could see nothing to account for it. Some
hours afterwards, while we were resting on the warm rocks above, Fyfe
smilingly asked me if I had felt the pull, and then the rascal, still
smiling, informed me that it was the result of a moment of actual
somnolence on his part. For a second his brain had become dulled and
his feet had come to a sudden stop on this never-ending ladder of ice.
As the rope was taut, and I had a firm footing, the danger was nil; but
it would never do for the leader to be so taken, and the leader on that
particular slope has enough to do to keep him very wide awake.
Hour after hour went by, and we began to get very tired of the endless
snow slope, so traversed to the right to gain the rocks. We found them
difficult, with few holds for hands or feet, and so coated with snow
and ice that progress was almost impossible. Reluctantly we had to
traverse back to the snow slope. It was 6.40 a.m. before we reached the
rocks on the main arête. A halt was called on a narrow ledge of snow.
There we had a drink and some bread and marmalade, and took a number of
photographs.
A bank of cloud loomed above the eastern mountains, but the sun was
clear in the blue above, and as there was, at last, every prospect of
fine weather, our spirits rose proportionately to the elevation gained.
From this point a beautiful snow ridge rose in a gentle curve to a
series of rocky crags. There was just room for our feet on this narrow
ridge. On the right a steep couloir led down to the Linda Glacier, and
on the left the mountain fell away in very steep slopes, for over three
thousand feet, to the Grand Plateau. At the end of the snow ridge we
had some fine climbing up a shoulder of rock. This was scaled without
incident, except that of a falling stone which Turner dislodged, but
which, fortunately, went past without hitting either Fyfe or myself.
Then we climbed along another narrow snow arête, which, though steeper
than the first one, was somewhat shorter. On gaining the rocks at
the head of this ridge at 9 a.m., we halted for an early lunch. We
replenished the wine-bottle and the water-bottle with the drippings of
snow that we melted on a slab of warm stone.
We had now gained an altitude of between 10,000 and 11,000 feet, and
the views were magnificently grand. Tasman, the second highest mountain
in New Zealand, with his wonderful slopes of snow and ice, and a
magnificent snow cornice, was quite close to us on the north. Then came
Mount Lendenfeld, and the jagged, pinnacled ridge of Haast, which, from
this point of view, seemed to bid defiance to the mountaineer. Farther
along, on the main divide, rose the square top of Mount Haidinger, from
which the magnificent schrunds and broken ice of the Haast Glacier fell
away towards the Tasman Valley. Beyond that, the rocky peak of De la
Bêche, and the beautifully pure snows of the Minarets cleft the blue,
leading the eye in turn to the gleaming masses of Elie de Beaumont and
the Hochstetter Dome at the head of the Great Tasman Glacier. Across
the valley Malte Brun towered grandly above all the other rock peaks
of the range, and still farther away, towards the north-east, was the
finest view of all, range succeeding range, and mountain succeeding
mountain for more than a hundred miles, or as far as the eye could
reach. In the distance, to the north of the main range, we looked down
on a sea of clouds upon which the sun was shining, the higher peaks
piercing the billows of mist and looking like pointed islands. We could
plainly trace our steps along the snow arêtes that we had climbed, and
across the Plateau thousands of feet below. Lower still were the great
schrunds and toppling pinnacles of the Hochstetter Ice Fall, and below
that the magnificent sweep of the Great Tasman Glacier. Eastward a few
fleecy cumulus clouds sailed over the foot-hills, and beyond were the
plains of Canterbury and the distant sea.
An hour passed all too quickly amidst scenes of such magnificence and
grandeur; but there was still a long climb ahead, and, in high spirits,
we started to cut steps up another very sharp snow ridge with a drop
of four thousand feet on one side. Balancing on this narrow ridge
and gazing down those tremendous slopes was quite an exhilarating
performance. This ridge brought us to the last rocks, which were steep
and afforded some fine climbing. At the top of these rocks we found
Zurbriggen’s match-box under a few pieces of splintered rock, and
left a card in it. Fyfe led up to a shoulder below the final ice-cap,
still cutting steps, and then the order on the rope was reversed and
Graham went to the front. This shoulder turned us to the left, and
soon we gained the final snow arête that rose steeply almost to the
summit. The last bit of the ice-cap afforded easy climbing, and at one
o’clock on Wednesday afternoon we stepped on to the topmost pinnacle
of Aorangi—thirteen hours and forty-five minutes from the time we left
our Bivouac. The view was again magnificent—almost indescribable. We
looked across the island from sea to sea, and in addition to the views
northward, eastward, and westward, we now beheld a glorious Alpine
panorama stretching to the south as far as the eye could reach. The
giant Tasman and all the lesser mountains were dwarfed, and the whole
country was spread out like a map in relief at our feet. Hector, the
third highest mountain in New Zealand, seemed a pimple; St. David’s
Dome had become a low peak; but Elie de Beaumont, near the head of the
Tasman, still looked a grand mountain, the effect of distance seeming
to make it the more imposing.
Through rents in the clouds to the westward patches of sea appeared
like dark lagoons. I stepped out of the rope to secure the first
photograph that had ever been taken of the summit of Mount Cook; then
we congratulated each other, and while Graham got the provisions out of
the rücksacks Fyfe employed himself in taking in the view and coolly
cutting up his tobacco for a smoke.
Fyfe had intended to take the pulses of the party, and I to make
some careful notes of the surrounding mountains; but we did not do
so. Professor Tyndall in his famous description of the ascent of the
Weisshorn says that he opened his notebook to make a few observations,
but he soon relinquished the attempt. There was something incongruous,
if not profane, in allowing the scientific faculty to interfere where
silent worship was a “reasonable service.” Thus felt we as we gazed
around at the marvellous panorama. Then thoughts of the descent began
to obtrude themselves. We had climbed Mount Cook from the Tasman side.
A more serious problem now presented itself. Could we descend on the
Hooker side, and so make the first crossing of Aorangi?
[Illustration: A 3000 FOOT SNOW SLOPE.]
[Illustration: SUMMIT OF MT. COOK.]