THE FIRST CROSSING OF MOUNT COOK—_concluded_
“And now that I have climbed and won this height,
I must tread downward through the sloping shade,
And travel the bewildered tracks till night.”
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
We spent altogether twenty-five minutes on the summit of the
mountain—12,349 feet above the sea. The views were certainly grand and
very beautiful, but not so fine as from between the altitudes of 10,000
and 11,000 feet, for the simple reason that, from the greater height of
the summit, all the lesser mountains were dwarfed, and many of those
that looked imposing from below had now dwindled into insignificance.
Having repacked our rücksacks, we gave one last glance about us, and
then started down the slope on the other side of the mountain. We were
now met by a wind, which, of course, at this altitude, was very cold.
The snow slope was not steep, but it was frozen, and we had to cut a
number of steps before we could reach the rock arête. In half an hour
we were on the highest rocks of this arête, and, to our dismay, we
found them in the worst possible condition for climbing—plastered with
snow and ice, and fringed with great icicles. We might have returned to
the summit and climbed back to safety before nightfall down our upward
route; but we were very keen to “col” the peak for the first time, and
decided to take the risk. Very little was said, and, after a brief
consultation between Fyfe and myself, the word was given to continue
the descent, and we started with grim determination to conquer the
difficulties and overcome the dangers that lay between us and the upper
slopes of the Hooker Glacier, thousands of feet below the summit on
the western side. It now became a question, not only of climbing with
care, but also with all possible speed; for there was no place on this
long ridge, in its present condition and with the cold wind blowing,
where we could bivouac in safety. We had reckoned on a comparatively
easy climb down these rocks, and also upon crossing the bergschrund
at the head of the Hooker Glacier before nightfall, but soon saw that
this would be out of the question, especially as one of the party was a
slow climber. Fyfe repeatedly urged him to hurry and trust for safety
to the rope. Fyfe was now in the responsible position—last man on the
rope. I came next, and Turner was between me and Graham, who, under
general directions from Fyfe, led down. After descending a few hundred
feet, we soon found that, owing to the ice-glazing and the new snow,
it was impossible to keep to the crest of the ridge, and the descent
became largely a series of traverses across difficult and, at times,
precipitous faces of rock, mostly on the eastern face of the arête. On
the west the climbing was even more difficult, and there was a bitter
wind blowing, so we avoided that side as much as possible. In one place
we had to climb back from the eastern face through a gap of overhanging
rock and great icicles. Peter smashed the greater part of the icicles
with the handle of his ice-axe, and the broken pieces went swishing
down the precipices towards the Hooker. Under the circumstances, there
was naturally some hesitancy in selecting the best route; but there
was little time for undue deliberation, and as Graham paused now and
then in some doubt Fyfe would call out, “Will it ‘go,’ Peter?” Peter,
in quiet and solemn tones, would invariably give the one answer, “Well,
it doesn’t look too good,” and then would come the answering admonition
from Fyfe, “Get down—get somewhere!”
At last we came to a break in the ridge that looked utterly
unscaleable. We halted and glanced ahead and from side to side. Then we
cast longing eyes to some snow slopes leading down to the Linda Glacier
on the east; but that was thousands of feet below us. “Will it ‘go,’
Peter?” we asked, and back came the non-committal reply, “It doesn’t
look too good.” There was considerable hesitancy. It now appeared that
the moment for decisive action had come, so I suggested that we should
unrope, and be lowered down singly over the face of rock. I was lowered
down first, and then, untying, the rope was hauled up, and Graham was
lowered. I had gained a footing on a knob of rock that jutted out from
the snow and ice in a narrow “chimney”; but there was not room on this
for two people, so I cut a few steps and climbed down some twelve or
fifteen feet, and held on in a somewhat insecure position. I confess
that I was anxious to see the last man make his appearance: for, with a
keen wind nearly freezing the fingers with which I clung to the rock,
and without even the “moral” support of the rope, my position was not
altogether one to be envied. Graham climbed down the slanting “chimney”
for a few feet towards me, and then Turner was lowered to the knob of
rock on which I had gained my first secure footing. It remained for
Fyfe to get down. His was a position of the greatest responsibility,
and it required a cool head and splendid nerve, for there was no
one to lower him. He had to use the rope doubled and hitched over a
projection of rock. The greatest care had to be exercised, especially
for the first few feet, in case the rope should slip over the knob.
Fyfe, however, managed to get down in safety, and then we all roped up
once more. There was no room for us to shift our positions to revert
to the original order on the rope, so that now I had to take the lead.
We climbed round the foot of the steep wall that had cut us off,
and once more gained the crest of the ridge; but it would not “go,”
and we crossed to the eastern face, scrambling down a short broken
couloir, and then traversing back to regain the ridge. I had to hack
a hole through long icicles that were hanging from a jutting rock.
There was just room to crawl through, the knapsack grazing the broken
fingers of ice above. There might have been a route on the eastern
side of this face; but a glance down the dark precipices and couloirs,
filled with clear ice, to a depth of three or four thousand feet, was
somewhat startling, especially when that glance was made in search of a
practicable line of descent. Besides, under such conditions as we were
face to face with, the known is always preferable to the unknown, and
the more so when time is so important a factor in a climb. We knew the
ridge we were on could be descended, but we might easily have got into
a _cul de sac_ on those grim, ice-plastered eastern precipices.
Our difficulties, however, were by no means over, for, in a few
minutes, I was peering over the face of a dangerous-looking,
precipitous cliff. A glance showed that there was no practicable route
either to the right or the left. The afternoon was wearing on; there
was no time for hesitancy, so I went over the edge, and, with the
assistance of the spare rope, scrambled down a steep chimney with
square smooth sides and few hand-grips. This chimney, however, fell
away from the perpendicular near its foot and sloped inwards. On its
final twelve feet there were neither hand nor foot holds. There was
accordingly nothing for it but to unrope again, and be lowered down
singly. Graham lowered me down with one rope, Fyfe and Turner anchoring
on the rocks above. For a little way, by clawing at the rock with
feet and hands, and by the friction of my body, I was able to descend
with some slight amount of dignity, and told Graham to lower away.
Then, as I reached the part where the chimney sloped inward from the
perpendicular, I lost contact with the rocks, and hung suspended like
Mahomet’s coffin between heaven and earth. The strain of the rope round
one’s waist, threatening to effect a complete change in one’s internal
anatomy, a vague clawing at air with one’s hands and an equally vague
searching for foot-hold with the nether limbs as you dangle in space
at the end of a forty-foot rope with precipices and snow slopes of
over a thousand feet below, have a chastening influence on the most
seasoned mountaineer, and, however exhilarating the experience may
be, it is always with feelings of supreme satisfaction, and almost of
devout thankfulness, that he once more comes to close grips with mother
earth. At all events, when, after these brief and more or less graceful
gyrations at the end of that particular rope, the strain was removed
from my waist, and foot-holds and hand-holds once more became actual
realities, no complaint was made, even though the middle finger of my
left hand, which had been cut on the sharp rocks, was spurting blood,
and dyeing the snow a beautiful crimson.
The spot on which my feet again met the mountain was not the best of
landing-places, for the rock shelved outwards into snow. It was now
Peter’s turn to descend, so I planted myself as firmly as possible and
watched the operation. He was a good stone and a half heavier, so there
must have been a considerable strain on Fyfe’s arms. As he slid off
the rocks into the air, his ice-axe caught in the chimney, and sent
him swinging round like a top. I saw a long body and a swirling mass
of arms and legs above me, preceded by an excellent felt hat that went
sailing down on the wind to the Linda Glacier thousands of feet below,
and then a somewhat dishevelled but cool mountaineer, with a little
assistance as to where to plant his feet, landed beside me. Peter’s
descent was so comical that I could not refrain from laughter. Turner
was the next man, and Fyfe urged him forward. The rope was fastened
round his waist, and he too cut a comical figure as he slid off from
the perpendicular, clawed vainly at vacancy, and eventually landed
beside us. Fyfe’s grinning countenance above, peering over the edge of
the precipice, as if he were enjoying the sport, was quite a study.
Sensational as this performance was, especially until a landing-place
had been found, a more serious one remained for Fyfe to accomplish. I,
however, well knew Fyfe’s capabilities, otherwise I should never have
undertaken such a descent. We had been together in other tight corners
before, and I had absolute faith in his ability to get down safely.
Once more he hitched the double rope over a rock, and scrambled over
the edge of the precipice. The only rock available was slightly loose,
so he had to be very careful at the start in case the rope should
slip over the projection. Such experiences are apt to be a little
nerve-shattering, and these two sensational descents—especially the
latter one—must have put some strain upon his nerve. However, he was
again equal to the emergency, and, assisted by Graham’s long reach as
he swung like a pendulum over the last few feet, he was soon beside us
in safety.
A halt was called for a few minutes while we donned our spare clothing.
I gave Graham my hat, as I had a spare cap in my rücksack, and then
bound my bleeding finger with strips of adhesive plaster. After all,
there was something very exhilarating in such difficult work. Every
nerve and muscle was at full tension, and thoughts of all else save the
matter in hand were banished from the brain. The way ahead now seemed
clear. We had “drunk delight of battle with our peers,” and, thus far,
had won.
Roping up once more in the old order, we continued the descent. We were
still a long way from the saddle, and the summit of Mount Hector seemed
very far below. The climbing, however, now became easier, and in places
we were able to make fairly quick progress. Eventually, at a quarter to
seven on Wednesday evening, we had left the dreadful arête behind us,
and Peter cut steps across a frozen ridge that led from Green’s Saddle
into the long 2000-feet couloir that sloped steeply down to the Hooker
Glacier. It was a quarter to seven on the evening of Wednesday, and,
as we had now been going since 11.15 p.m. on Tuesday, or for 19-1/2
hours, we hoped to find the couloir in good order. Our hearts sank as
we saw Graham plying his ice-axe. Fyfe shouted to him to endeavour to
do without the cutting, and to kick steps; but this was impossible—the
slope was frozen hard! The wind was also increasing in violence, and
bitterly cold. There was still the alternative of cutting down to the
Linda Glacier on the eastern side, and of a comparatively easy and
comfortable descent, out of the wind, to the great plateau, from which
we could gain the Glacier Dome and then descend to the Bivouac Rock
by means of our steps of the night before. The matter was mentioned
between Fyfe and myself; but we scarcely gave it a second thought, and
decided to stick to our original intention to “col” the peak. The word
was given to go forward down the couloir, and young Graham, who was
leading, treated us to a splendid example of ice-craft and physical
endurance as he hacked a way with his axe down that 2000 feet of
frozen slope. It was a narrow, steep gully varying in width from about
fifteen to twenty yards, and flanked on either side by great walls of
precipitous rock.
Hour after hour went by, and we appeared to be getting no nearer to the
foot of the couloir. The wind seemed to pierce to our bones, and every
now and then it would send a shower of broken ice from the precipices
above swishing down about our ears. Some of the bits were big enough
to hurt. In one place we took to a rib of rock in the middle of the
couloir. Occasionally the rocks on the left of the couloir were used
for hand-grips, thus enabling Graham to cut smaller steps. Turner, at
this stage, began to feel the want of sleep, and asked me to talk to
him to keep him awake. The mere suggestion of a man’s falling asleep
in such a situation was, of course, sufficient to keep one more than
ever on the alert, especially as, if Turner had slipped, it would have
devolved upon me, being next above on the rope, to hold him up. A few
minutes later, some bits of rock—dislodged, no doubt, through the
falling icicles that were broken by the wind—came whizzing past us, and
as Turner immediately cried out, “Oh, my head! my head!” I knew that
he had been struck. In a moment the handle of my axe was driven into
the frozen snow and the rope hitched around it; while Fyfe, behind me,
had already taken a firm stand. Turner, in his account of the accident,
says: “We would have been dashed to eternity if I had fallen and upset
Graham out of his steps while step-cutting, which would have been a
very easy matter.” Such, however, was not the case, for both Fyfe and I
had the rope absolutely taut, and, being well anchored, we could easily
have held up three times Turner’s weight. As a matter of fact, he could
not have fallen a single yard.
Fortunately, the accident was not a serious one. It resolved itself
into a scalp wound about three-quarters of an inch long, and Turner,
after a few minutes, was able to continue the descent. Stones falling
from such a great height—probably a thousand feet or more—acquire an
extraordinary velocity. Indeed, they come so fast as to be invisible,
and you can only hear them whizzing past. Had this stone struck Turner
on the top of the head, it would undoubtedly have cleft his skull in
twain. Luckily, it only grazed the back of his head at the base of the
skull.
We had now descended about a thousand feet of the couloir. The sun had
dipped to the rim of the sea, and the western heavens were glorious
with colour, heightened by the distant gloom. Almost on a level with
us, away beyond Sefton, a band of flame-coloured cloud stretched
seaward from the lesser mountains toward the ocean, and beyond that
again was a far-away continent of cloud, sombre and mysterious, as if
it were part of another world. The rugged mountains and the valleys and
forests of Southern Westland were being gripped in the shades of night.
A long headland, still thousands of feet below us, on the south-west,
stretched itself out into the darkened sea, a thin line of white at its
base indicating the tumbling breakers of the Pacific Ocean.
Difficult as was our situation, Fyfe and I could not refrain from
occasional contemplation of this mysterious and almost fantastic
scene of mountain glory. Turner was concerned mostly with his head,
and Peter had to devote his whole attention to the step-cutting. We
climbed down a rib of rock in the dusk between the lights, and then
zigzagged on down the couloir in the steps cut by the never-tiring
Graham. Presently the moon rose and bathed the snowy slopes of Stokes
and Sefton and other giant mountains in a flood of silver. After the
accident we kept closer in to the rocks to evade any falling icicles or
stones that might come down. Graham, anxious no doubt to get out of the
couloir, was now making the steps rather small, and there was sometimes
difficulty in seeing them in the semi-darkness, and in standing in them
once they were found; but we got occasional hand-grips on the rocks, so
that the danger from a slip was reduced to a minimum. On one occasion
I did slip in a bad step; but Fyfe was easily able to hold me on the
rope. Down, down, down we went on this apparently never-ending slope.
Hour after hour went past, and still the end of the couloir seemed a
long way off.
Very little was said. Occasionally there would be a request by Turner
asking me to hold him tight on the rope, or a plaintive cry of “Peter!
where are the steps?” Peter was non-committal. He had enough to do to
cut the steps without telling us where they were, and there was the
additional fact that, in some instances, identification might not have
been altogether an easy matter. But, if Peter was too busily engaged to
be other than non-committal, I, on the other hand, had sufficient time
to be optimistic, and I made a point of answering cheerily that Turner
was doing splendidly, and that there was only another couple of hundred
feet of step-cutting. As a matter of fact, there was more—nearly a
thousand feet of it—but, under the special circumstances, I have no
doubt the recording angel has overlooked all the lies I told between
half-past nine and twelve of the clock that night, both in regard to
the length of the couloir and the figure cut by our now despondent
companion.
Nine o’clock, ten o’clock, eleven o’clock went past, and still we
could not see the final bergschrund at the foot. Fyfe took a turn at
step-cutting, but quickly relinquished the task in favour of Graham.
Fyfe, however, relieved Graham of his knapsack, and, with his double
load, must have had a difficult time coming down in those “economical”
steps that Graham was making for the sake of speed. Speed! The word
seemed a mockery. We went almost at a snail’s pace!
The wind continued bitterly cold, and the shadow of the precipices in
the moonlight seemed to fill the head of the valley with gloom. Some
lines of Shelley’s seemed to fit the situation—
“The cold ice slept below,
Above, the cold sky shone,
And all around
With a chilling sound,
From caves of ice and fields of snow
The breath of night like death did flow
Beneath the sinking moon.”
Towards the bottom, the couloir broadened out somewhat, and the work
was easier. We progressed a little more quickly, and at last reached
the bergschrund. This schrund, in ordinary seasons a very formidable
one, had been often in our minds during the past few weeks, and gave
us some concern from the commencement of the descent; but we reckoned
that we could cross it somehow, even if we had to sacrifice an ice-axe
and one of the lengths of Alpine rope. The first attempt to find a
bridge failed; but Graham, with a pretty bit of snow-craft in the
uncertain light, found a comparatively safe snow bridge, over which we
crossed one by one, while the others anchored with their ice-axes and
held the rope taut in case the man on the bridge at the time should
show an unpraiseworthy inclination, by reason of his weight or the
rottenness of the snow under him, to explore the unknown depths of the
schrund. In a few minutes we were all across in safety, and, just after
midnight—on Thursday morning—we stepped on to the upper slopes of the
Hooker Glacier, and the first crossing of Mount Cook had been safely
accomplished.
Going down a little way to where the slope eased off, and gathering
together on the ice, we lit the lantern, hung it on an ice-axe stuck in
the snow, and proceeded to explore the rücksacks for food and drink.
We had been climbing for twenty-two and three-quarter hours, with but
little food or drink. Even now we could scarcely eat; but the little
water and a very small quantity of wine left in the bottles were soon
disposed of. I had some of my Demerara sugar, and the others were
content with a sardine or two and a little bread and jam. What remained
of our provisions we now threw away. Fyfe, Graham, and I also indulged
in a little whisky that Dr. Fitchett had sent us to the Ball Hut, and
a small flask of which Fyfe had carried in his rücksack during the
descent. Now that the mental strain of the climb was practically over,
we felt that a little stimulant would do us no harm. Drink and sleep
were what we most needed. We almost went to sleep standing up.
After our long spell of over twenty-two hours’ climbing, we had now to
devote ourselves to a journey of ten or eleven miles down the Hooker
Glacier and the valley at its termination to the Hermitage. There was
some little trouble amongst the enormous crevasses and séracs, which,
even in the moonlight, were a magnificent sight. We got through the
first crevasses by candle-light, and then plodded on down the glacier
by the light of the moon. Twice we got blocked, and had to retrace our
steps to find a route through the maze of crevasses and broken ice. The
sunrise was splendid. The silver of the moon gave place to the grey of
dawn, and then the higher snows were flushed with rose and gold, the
ice-cap of Mount Stokes being the first to catch the glow. The great
ice-paved valley, loath to reveal the secrets of its grandeur, waited
yet awhile in the sombre shade. But presently the sun searched the
dimmest recesses of the lower crags, blazed upon the gleaming snows,
and all the world was filled with light.
But it will be as well to draw a veil over the details of that long,
dreary walk—the zigzagging to find a way down through the broken ice;
the jumping of many crevasses; the uncertain steps along the crumbling
live moraine; and the mechanical, sleepy trudge along the final
pathway. Our throats were parched, and, early in the morning, the roar
of a waterfall on the range across the valley mocked our thirst; but
on the final slopes of the clear ice of the glacier we broke the frozen
surface of some pools with our ice-axes and drank mighty draughts.
Hour by hour we plodded on down the valley, lifting our feet almost
mechanically, halting at every stream, and falling asleep at every
resting-place, till some resolute member of the party would prod
the sleepy ones into mechanical action once more. Never, in all my
life, have I travelled such long, weary miles. Towards the end of the
journey, the one impression fixed indelibly on the brain seemed to
be “the Hermitage.” Once across the Hooker River, it was “the Bar,”
which loomed large in our minds with a capital B. We pulled ourselves
together for the last hundred yards; but I am afraid it was with a
rather faltering stride that we reached the winning-post after our long
struggle of thirty-six hours from the Bivouac Rock many miles away on
the other side of the great range. Turner, for sartorial reasons, had
to make a bee-line for his bedroom; but the three New Zealanders went
boldly into the kitchen of the Hermitage and discussed a bottle of wine
amidst the congratulations of friend Macdonald and his worthy family.
Fyfe and Graham followed this up with ham and eggs and copious draughts
of milk. I had a jug of hot milk, a hot bath, and bed. We had not had
a wash nor taken off our clothes for several days, and were now in a
position to fully appreciate the luxuries of civilization. I slept till
the dinner-gong woke me in the evening, and as there was not time to
dress I had dinner in bed. Later on, Fyfe, Graham, and Clark came into
my room, and we climbed the mountain over again.
On the way down the Hooker I had sworn to myself that I would never
climb another peak; but so strange an animal is man, and so fascinating
is his most glorious sport, that no sooner had we recovered from our
exertions than we now immediately began to discuss plans for the ascent
of Mount Sefton! But next day, through the glasses, we could plainly
see great icicles hanging from the rocks on the main arête. The ridge
was plastered with ice, and we had no immediate desire to repeat the
performance we had just gone through.
THE END
INDEX
Accident to wagonette, 56;
to Mr. Low, 166;
to Turner, 305.
Ada, Lake, 232.
Adamson, 58, 91.
Age Glacier, 240.
Alpha, Mount, 124.
Alpine Club, tribute to, 21.
Ex-President, 21.
Amery, L. M. S., 12.
Annan, 30, 41.
Aorangi conquered, 115.
Architect’s Creek, 212.
Arthur Valley, 224.
River, 232.
Aspiring, Mount, 10, 19.
Austria, Emperor of, 3, 5.
Avalanche shoot, an, 187.
Avalanches, 78, 80, 95, 110, 130, 182, 290, 291.
Ball Glacier, 40, 69.
Hut, 14, 68, 160.
Balloon, Mount, 223, 224.
Beech trees, 120.
Beret, Mount, 269.
“Billy Barlow,” 208.
Birch Hill station, 14, 55.
Bivouac Rock, De la Bêche, 134, 143, 166.
at Malte Brun, 181.
in Tasman Valley, 35.
Mount Cook, 15, 18, 61, 77, 87, 89, 102;
view from, 62, 286.
on Mueller, 131.
on Plateau, 79, 87, 92, 93.
on Tutoko, 254.
Bivouacs on the Wataroa, 193, 199.
Blue Lake, the, 32, 34.
Boss, Emil, 14.
Botanical paradise, a, 124.
Bowen Falls, 233, 235.
Broderick, Mr. T. N., 20.
Brown, Professor Mainwaring, 216, 263.
Buller, Mr. Percy, 270.
Sir Walter, 123.
Burke’s Pass, 54.
Camp concert, 258.
cookery, 37, 70, 220, 228, 279.
in a storm, 101.
life, 159.
meditations, 42.
on Tasman moraine, 58.
Carrier Pigeons, 71, 91.
Celmesia flat, 34.
Celmesias, 123.
Chamois, acclimatization of, 3.
Churchill, 158.
Clark, Jack, 17, 19, 109, 110, 168, 266.
Cleddau River, 236.
Clinton River, 261.
Coach journey, 27.
Conway, Mount, 19.
Sir W. M., 280, 288.
Cook, Mount, 10, 18, 19, 20, 22, 26, 268.
(Bivouac), 15, 18, 61, 62, 77, 87, 89, 102, 286.
descent of, 297.
eastern arête, 82.
final ice-cap, 98.
first crossing of, 264.
first traverse of, 18.
Green’s attempts, 14.
Hooker route, 105.
hut, 34.
ice-cap, view from, 99.
middle peak, ascent of, 106.
north-west arête, 112.
ridge, cairn on, 113.
summit reached, 113.
summit of, 295.
sunset on, 305.
Cook-Hector Couloir, 111, 114.
Copland River, 212.
Couch, Quiller-, 147.
Cox, Dr. Norman, 129, 134, 135, 143.
Crow, orange-wattle, 242.
Cuckoos, 122.
Dadelszen, Miss von, 270.
Dampier, Mount, 20.
Darwin, Mount, 17, 271.
Dawn on Mount Cook, 81.
De la Bêche, 17, 36, 99, 165.
and the Minarets, 165.
Bivouac, 134, 143, 166.
Dieffenbach, 6.
Dixon, M., 17, 53, 57, 61, 81, 86, 100, 103.
Dobson, G., 17.
Donne, T. E., 3.
Douglas, Mount, 19.
Du Faur, Miss, 20.
Dundas, Mount, 124.
Earle, L. M., 19.
Earnslaw, Mount, 121.
Edelweiss, 124, 218.
Elie de Beaumont, 19, 99, 267, 272.
Elliot, Mount, 224.
Empress Glacier, 107.
Fairlie Creek, 25.
Fiddian, Dick, 210, 211.
Fitchett, Dr., 270.
Fitzgerald, E. A., 18, 53, 160.
Fitzgerald’s Pass, 208, 213.
Footstool, the, 17, 19.
Forrest Ross Glacier, 41, 145.
Fox Glacier, 154.
Freshfield, Douglas, 119.
Glacier, 40.
Frying-pan Flat, 8.
Fyfe, T. C., 17, 18, 49, 53, 69, 81, 83, 88, 89, 96, 98, 100,
103, 105, 106, 129, 179, 236, 261, 264, 298, 302.
in Wataroa River, 202.
leg injured, 194, 195, 199.
Gillespie’s Beach, 207, 208, 209, 210.
Glacier Peak, 19.
action, 217.
Dome, 78, 92, 100, 289.
Glaciers, ancient, 54.
Glentanner station, 55, 75.
Glissading, 84, 108.
Godley Glacier, 54, 178.
Graham, Alexander, 18, 19, 20.
George, 17, 69, 95, 103, 105, 109, 113.
Peter, 19, 20, 168, 290, 298, 299, 302, 304.
Grampus, chased by, 235.
Grand Plateau, 78.
camp on, 79, 87, 92, 94, 100.
Great Bear, the, 252.
Grebe, crested, 242.
Green, Rev. W. S., 14, 21, 24, 31, 32, 40, 98.
Mount, 271.
(porter), 285.
Green’s Fifth Camp, 31, 47, 52.
Rocks, 85, 95, 100.
route, attempts by, 65, 105.
Saddle, 105, 111, 112, 113.
Grey warbler, the, 123.
Gunn, Alexander, 206.
Haast, Dr. von, 17.
Glacier, 40.
Mount, 19, 99, 290, 293.
Haidinger, Mount, 18.
ascent of, 144, 154.
Hall’s Arm, 263.
Harper, A. P., 53, 160, 178.
Hart, Mount, 223.
Head, Captain, 19.
Hector-Cook Couloir, 111, 114.
Hector, Mount, southern arête, 112.
Hermitage, the, 29, 53, 90.
Hickson, Miss, 270.
Highland hills, 118.
Hochstetter, 6.
Dome, 189.
Glacier, 39, 46, 79, 94, 102.
Ice Fall, 40.
Hodgkins, Messrs. B. and F., 71.
W. J. P., 129, 137, 143, 236, 250, 261.
Höhnel, Rear-Admiral Ritter von, 3, 5.
Holdsworth, Mount, 118, 120.
Homer’s Pass, 263.
Hooker Cage, 30, 33, 48, 57.
bergschrund, 109, 111, 114, 308.
Glacier, 106, 110.
camp on, 106.
River, 30, 74, 266, 284.
route, 105.
Hot springs, 196.
Howitt, Mr., 17.
Huddleston, Mr., 48.
Ice-axe lost, 96, 113.
-cap, descent from, 99.
falling, 85.
Islington, Lord, 21.
Jervois Glacier, 224.
Johnson, Dr., 118, 119.
Jukes, Mount, 99.
Kaka, the, 122, 242.
Kakapos, 227, 238, 241.
Kaufmann, Ulrich, 14.
Keas, 3, 4, 32, 47, 137, 142, 162, 267, 279.
Ketetahi, 8.
Kinsey, J. J., 150.
Kiwi Land, in, 215.
Kiwis, 241.
Kron Prinz Rudolf Glacier, 169.
Kronecker, Dr. Franz, 17, 181.
Lamb, Charles, 163.
Lendenfeld, Frau von, 25.
Dr. von, 31, 32, 36.
Mount, 19, 293.
Saddle, 276.
Liebig Range, 37.
Linda Glacier, 15, 80, 81, 85, 87, 94, 100.
Lindon, Mr., 276, 277, 282.
Mrs., 20, 276, 277, 282.
Longton, Mr. and Mrs., 270.
Low, R. S., 18, 165, 166.
Mackenzie, Hon. Thos., 216.
Plains, 26, 99.
MacKinnon, Quintin, 222, 262, 263.
Malte Brun Bivouac, 181.
Mount, 17, 19, 294.
Range, 37, 40, 70, 81, 99, 135.
Mannering, G. E., 17, 52.
Marchant Glacier, 212.
Mark Twain, 211.
Matheson, 69, 70, 73, 74.
Maungaterera River, 120.
M‘Donald, Claude, 19.
M‘Intosh, W., 270.
Milford Sound, 10, 222, 233.
Minarets, the, 18, 165, 175.
Mintaro, Lake, 222, 224, 258.
Mitre, the, 124.
Peak, 235.
Moa, the, 243.
Mountain duck, 242.
Mueller Glacier, 130, 131.
Bivouac, 131.
Mummery, 20, 281.
Murchison Glacier, 37, 267.
River, 267, 268.
Nansen, 176.
Newton, Rev. Mr., 18, 19, 165.
Ngapukaturua, Mount, 125.
Ngatimamoe tribe, 217.
Ngauruhoe, 6, 8, 9.
North Island, fauna and flora, 121.
Nor’-wester, the, 54.
_Notornis Mantelli_, 242.
Nun’s Veil, 267.
Okarito, 208.
Omega, Mount, 124.
Pacific breakers, 155.
Ocean, 99.
Paradise ducks, 36, 75.
Parker, Gilbert, 156.
Penguin Rocks, 145.
Photography under difficulties, 96.
Pigeons, wood, 122.
Pioneers, the, 17.
Plateau Bivouac, 79, 87, 92, 93.
Precipices on Mount Cook, 300.
Priestley, 147.
Pukaki, Lake, 26, 99.
River, 27, 75.
Quill, William, 238, 263.
Ramsay, Professor, 118.
_Ranunculus insignis_, 123, 190.
_Lyallii_, 132.
_Raoulia Rubra_, 124.
Red Admiral butterfly, 121.
Crater, 8.
Reeves, Hon. W. P., 126.
Ribbon-wood, 159.
Rimutaka Railway, 116.
Roaring Creek, 225.
Roberts, G. J., 178.
Rock avalanche, 113, 114, 131.
Rohutu, 206.
Ross, D. M., 9.
John, 261.
Kenneth, 53, 61, 78, 100, 101, 103, 226, 236, 250, 260, 261.
Mrs. Malcolm, 33, 37, 41, 119, 129, 131, 137, 228, 233, 261.
—, station manager, 75.
Rothschild, Lord, 243.
Route-finding, 165.
Ruapehu, 6.
Rubber shoes, 153.
Ruskin, 218.
Schönbrunn, 3, 4.
Scott, Captain, 63.
Scott’s Homestead, 211.
Sealy, Mount, 19.
Pass, 178.
Range, 48, 132.
Seddon, Hon. Mr., 206.
Sefton, Mount, 18, 19, 130, 132.
Shackleton, Sir E., 63.
Sillem, H., 19.
Sinclair, Dr., 17.
Ski, 57, 86, 94.
Southern Alps, 9, 209.
Cross, the, 252.
Stars, 252.
Spencer, Professor Baldwin, 276, 282.
St. David’s Dome, 19.
camp near, 109, 110, 114.
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 161, 252.
Stokes, Mount, 110, 309.
Stones, falling, 113, 114.
Storm on Glacier Dome, 100.
at Mount Cook Bivouac, 65.
at hut, 73.
Stott, L., 276.
Sugar as a food, 288.
Sun-bonnet brigade, 159.
Sunset on Mount Cook, 305.
Sutherland, Mount, 224.
Mr. and Mrs., 238, 284.
Swagging in the Alps, 135.
Swags in couloir, 68, 78, 89, 103.
_Sydney Bulletin_, 172.
Takitimo Range, 217.
Tararua Forest, 120.
Range, 116.
Tarawera eruption, 7.
Tasman Glacier, 18, 99, 294.
Moraine, 31, 36.
Mount, 15, 18, 20, 40, 99, 293, 295.
River, 54, 55.
Spur, 92.
Taupo, Lake, 6.
Te Anau, Lake, 262.
navigation, 218.
Te Heuheu, 6.
Te Mari, 8.
Teichelman, Dr., 18, 19, 165.
Tekapo, Lake, 26, 99.
Terraces, Pink and White, 7.
_The Times_, 11.
“The Times” Glacier, 272.
Thompson, Hughie, 209.
Thomson, D., 20.
Thrush, the New Zealand, 242.
Tongariro, 8.
Torris Peak, 19.
Totara berries, 44.
Tourist Department, 3.
Turner, Samuel, 74, 264, 274, 275, 299, 302, 304, 305.
Tutoko, Mount, 240, 251, 254.
Tyndall, Professor, 296.
Valleys, in the, 128.
Vegetable sheep, 123.
Victoria Glacier, 155.
Volcanic mountains, 5.
Waimangu geyser, 7.
Waingawa fever, 120.
Wairarapa Plain, 117.
Wakatipu, 10.
Lake, 218.
Walter, Mount, 271, 272.
Wanaka, 10.
Warbrick, Joe, death of, 7.
Ward, Sir Joseph, 3.
Wataroa River, 178, 191, 202, 203.
Water-power, 11.
Weka, the, 241.
West Coasters, the, 211.
White Island, 6.
Whymper Glacier, 183, 189, 190.
Wild cattle, 204.
Williams, the Misses, 158.
Wood pigeon, 242.
Wrens, Alpine, 36.
Ziele, C., 226, 261.
Zurbriggen arête, 290.
Mattias, 18, 22, 53, 160, 295.
Zurbriggen’s axe, 150.
_Printed by_ MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED, _Edinburgh_
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_February, 1914._
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No. 1883 Mayfair.
Mr. Edward Arnold’s
SPRING
ANNOUNCEMENTS, 1914.
KULU AND LAHOUL.
=An Account of my Latest Climbing Journeys in the
Himalaya.=
By LIEUT.-COL. THE HON. C. G. BRUCE, M.V.O.
6TH GURKHA RIFLES; AUTHOR OF “TWENTY YEARS IN THE HIMALAYA.”
_With Numerous Illustrations from the Author’s Photographs._
_One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =12s. 6d. net.=
It has been said that no one can ever hope to know more than a few
corners of the Himalaya. Yet an exception must surely be made in favour
of Colonel Bruce. Outside Nepal there is no considerable section of the
range, from Sikkim to Chitral and Hunza, with which he has not some
personal acquaintance, while of Nepal itself he knows as much as is
possible for a European. This has been shown in his valuable earlier
work, “Twenty Years in the Himalaya,” in which he describes his varied
experiences as a mountaineer and an officer of the Gurkhas, including
ascents in the company of Conway, Mummery, Longstaff, and other
well-known climbers.
In his latest expedition Colonel Bruce filled up his most considerable
outstanding gap by a thorough exploration of the mountains of Kulu and
Lahoul, which have hitherto been neglected by climbers. The country
visited lies nearly due north of Simla, in the centre of the group
of small states which intervene between Garhwal and Kashmir, and a
very large amount of most interesting ground was covered in the six
months spent there. The record is not a mere tale of mountaineering
achievement, for the author treats his subject lightly, and at the same
times brings his wide knowledge of native life into play in describing
the history and folklore of the two districts. Mrs. Bruce contributes a
chapter on “A Lady’s Point of View.”
LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43 MADDOX STREET, W.
A CLIMBER IN NEW ZEALAND.
By MALCOLM ROSS, A.C., F.R.G.S.
_With numerous beautiful Illustrations. Demy 8vo._
_Probable price_, =15s. net.=
A work dealing with climbs and exploration in the New Zealand Alps. As
one of the founders and Vice-President of the New Zealand Alpine Club,
and editor of its journal, the author is well qualified to write on the
subject of climbing and mountain exploration in his native land.
The charm and adventures attendant upon exploration in the Alps of a
new country are most graphically described. Indeed, there is not a dull
page in the whole book, while some of the adventures were of quite a
thrilling nature. The book is something more than a mere record of
ascents. From beginning to end it has quite a literary flavour, and
there is, also, running through its pages a quaint vein of humour and
philosophy. Such chapters as “Above the Plains” and “An Interlude” will
appeal to a wide circle of readers. Mrs. Malcolm Ross, a well-known New
Zealand authoress, comes into the book a good deal, and her amusing
descriptions of camp cookery and of the Kea, or mountain parrot, add to
the interest of the work of her daring and talented husband. The author
has illustrated his book with some very excellent and artistic pictures
from his own photographs.
HANNIBAL ONCE MORE.
By DOUGLAS W. FRESHFIELD, M.A.,
VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY; TREASURER OF THE
HELLENIC AND ROMAN SOCIETIES; FORMERLY PRESIDENT OF THE ALPINE CLUB;
AUTHOR OF “THE EXPLORATION OF THE CAUCASUS,” “ROUND KINCHINJUNGA,” ETC.
_Illustrated. 8vo._ =5s. net.=
In this little volume Mr. Freshfield has put into final shape the
results of his study of the famous and still-debated question: “By
which Pass did Hannibal cross the Alps?” The literature which has grown
up round this intricate subject is surprisingly extensive, and various
solutions have been propounded and upheld, with remarkable warmth and
tenacity, by a host of scholars, historians, geographers, military men,
and mountaineers. Mr. Freshfield has a solution of his own, which,
however, he puts forward in no dogmatic spirit, but in such a fashion
that his book is practically a lucid review of the whole matter in each
of its many aspects. To an extensive acquaintance with ancient and
modern geographical literature he unites a wide and varied experience
as an alpine climber and a traveller, and a minute topographical
knowledge of the regions under discussion; and these qualifications—in
which many of his predecessors in the same field of inquiry have
been conspicuously lacking—enable him to throw much new light on a
perennially fascinating problem.
THE LIFE OF
ADMIRAL SIR HARRY RAWSON, G.C.B., G.C.M.G.
By LIEUT. GEOFFREY RAWSON, R.I.M.
_With Illustrations. Demy 8vo._ =12s. 6d. net.=
This book, which has been written by a relative of the late Admiral Sir
Harry Rawson, gives a deeply interesting account of the Admiral’s long
and varied career in China, the Near East, Africa and Australia.
Entering the Navy as long ago as 1857, when the sailing ship still held
the seas, Sir Harry, as a young cadet, thirteen years of age, took part
in the China War of 1858-60, being present in the _Calcutta’s_ launch
at the capture of the Taku forts.
In 1863, when only nineteen years of age, he held Ning-po for three
months against the rebels, with 1,300 Chinese troops under his
command. He served for two commissions as Commander of the battleship
_Hercules_, and acted as Flag-captain in both the Channel and
Mediterranean Squadrons.
During the Egyptian Campaign of 1882, he acted as principal Transport
officer, and after his promotion to Flag rank, was appointed
Commander-in-Chief on the Cape Station, 1895-98. Whilst holding
this important position, he landed the Naval Brigade which captured
Mweli, the stronghold of a rebel Arab chief; part of his squadron
bombarded the palace at Zanzibar; and, in 1897, he commanded the
famous expedition for the capture of Benin, which was successfully
accomplished.
For more than two years he commanded the Channel Squadron, and the work
contains a chapter devoted to the naval manœuvres of 1900.
The book terminates with a well-told account of Sir Harry’s
Governorship of New South Wales, and a chapter on his short-lived but
no less famous brother, Commander Wyatt Rawson, who led the historic
night march over the desert to Tel-el-Kebir.
RICHARD CORFIELD OF SOMALILAND.
By H. F. PREVOST-BATTERSBY,
WAR CORRESPONDENT OF THE “MORNING POST” IN SOUTH AFRICA AND SOMALILAND.
_Illustrated. Demy 8vo._
It was the news of his death that made the world acquainted with
Corfield’s name, but everyone who had served with him knew him as a man
of extraordinary charm, with some secret source of power which had an
amazing influence over savage peoples, and regarded a notable future as
assured to him.
He had gone as a mere boy to the South African War, serving afterwards
in the South African Constabulary. He had just returned home on
leave from his five years’ service when he was appointed to the new
Tribal Militia being raised in Somaliland. He remained there till the
country was evacuated, and the militia disbanded, in 1910, acquiring
a remarkable reputation for handling the most “difficult” natives in
Africa.
He was at once transferred to Northern Nigeria, and after a year’s
work, signalized by striking successes with the pagan tribes, was
specially requisitioned to raise and command a force of camelry, to
which the governance of Somaliland was to be entrusted. In nine months
he performed miracles in a country literally reeking with blood,
100,000 of the inhabitants having been massacred since the country
was evacuated, and restored in that short time the confidence of the
natives in the honour of the British Government.
He lost his life in a gallant attempt to check a Dervish raid, which
was spreading fresh ruin over the country; but those who read his
life will discover that his action touched a much deeper issue than
the succour of a starving people. He died for England’s old ways of
honour—for the keeping of faith to unfortunate dependents, for his
country’s good name.
TEACHING FOR LADS.
=For use in Bible Classes and Confirmation Classes.=
By the REV. PETER GREEN, M.A.,
RECTOR OF ST. PHILIP’S, SALFORD, AND CANON OF MANCHESTER; AUTHOR OF
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has himself used with his own classes. Canon Green has the exceptional
faculty of combining a knowledge of philosophy with a wide experience
in actual practice. He is a theorist who has really put his theories to
the test. In his two previous works there has been found a freshness
about his whole treatment of the subject that is most stimulating, and
it may be confidently asserted that readers of the new volume will
derive equal pleasure and profit from its perusal.
THE ORIGIN OF ATTIC COMEDY.
By F. M. CORNFORD,
FELLOW AND LECTURER OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE; AUTHOR OF “FROM
RELIGION TO PHILOSOPHY,” “THUCYDIDES MYTHISTORICUS,” ETC.
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This book tries to show that the peculiar structure and features of
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A detailed examination of the extant plays brings to light, under
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incidents: _Agon_, Sacrifice, Feast, Marriage, _Kômos_. The theory
is that this canonical sequence presents the stereotyped action of a
folk-drama (like the English Mummer’s Play), which itself preserves
the outline of a well-known seasonal ritual. This ritual turns out to
be substantially identical with that which, according to Professor
Murray, lies behind Tragedy. The stock masks in the Old Comedy are
shown to be the essential characters in the supposed folk-drama. On
this view, various features of Aristophanic Comedy, such as the _Agon_
and _Parabasis_, about which widely different views are now held, can
be satisfactorily explained. It follows also that Aristophanic Comedy
is not a patchwork of heterogeneous elements, but a coherent whole, and
in all probability a native growth of Attic soil. Athenian Comedy and
Tragedy have a common source in ritual of the same fundamental type.
The causes of their differentiation—a problem of great interest in the
history of drama—are treated in the last chapter.
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readers interested in the origin and growth of the drama. Greek
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THE REVIVAL OF THE RELIGIOUS LIFE.
By FATHER PAUL BULL, OF THE HOUSE OF THE RESURRECTION, MIRFIELD.
_Crown 8vo._ =3s. 6d. net.=
The purpose of the author of this volume is to give an outline sketch
of the ideals of the Religious Life, and the attempts to realize
that life in history, and to trace the various manifestations and
interpretations of the ascetic and mystic spirit of the Gospel. Father
Bull has spent twenty-two years of his life in trying to realize these
ideals, and feels that both the infinite joy of the attempts and also
his consciousness of abysmal failure may have qualified him to offer
an opinion on the glory and the perils of the Religious Life—the word
“Religious” being here used in its original technical sense for a
corporate life under rule. In urging the need for a fuller revival of
the Religious Life for men in the English Church, the author deprecates
mere imitation of what has been done in past times and in other lands,
and considers it important to accumulate as soon as possible a body of
experience, to discuss principles and see what adaptations of these
principles are necessary to meet modern conditions. The book should
prove of great interest and utility to all who are concerned with the
religious tendencies of our times.
ESSAYS ON FAITH AND IMMORTALITY.
By GEORGE TYRRELL.
Arranged, with Introduction, by M. D. PETRE, his Biographer.
_One Volume. Crown 8vo._ =5s. net.=
This volume comprises, for the most part, matter hitherto unpublished
which existed in the form of notes and essays amongst the MSS. which
Father Tyrrell left behind him. To this have been added a few articles
already published, either in England or abroad, in various periodicals,
but which are not now easily obtainable, and which possess a certain
importance. One of these latter essays, in particular, has attained
considerable celebrity, and is yet almost unprocurable—namely, the one
entitled “A Perverted Devotion,” which played so large a part in the
drama of its author’s life.
The essays have been divided into two parts, of which the first may
be said roughly to deal with problems of faith, the second with the
ever-recurring problem and mystery of personal immortality. This second
part is specially characteristic of George Tyrrell’s mind, with its
spiritual tact and delicate power of intuition. Some of the many to
whom this question is the question of all questions will find in these
essays, not a scientific answer to their difficulties, but illuminating
hints and suggestions to help them in their own search. The essays,
in fact, as a whole, are not definite treatises, but the musings and
gropings of a deeply spiritual mind in its quest of truth.
_NEW NOVEL_
BARBARA LYNN.
By EMILY JENKINSON,
AUTHOR OF “SILVERWOOL,” “THE SOUL OF UNREST,” ETC.
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of Nature, but made to feel the pulse of romance and tragedy. “Barbara
Lynn” shows a distinct advance in the work of this gifted young
writer. The style, as in her earlier books, is powerful, individual,
lucid. There is the same love of wild and majestic scenery, and power
to convey impressions of it to others; the same knowledge of human
character and of sympathy with country folk, and capacity to enter
into their lives and experiences. But with these gifts, which have
already given distinction to Miss Emily Jenkinson’s work, we hear a
deeper chord struck in “Barbara Lynn.” It comes out especially in the
presentation of the character of the girl whose name gives the title
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Transcriber’s Notes
Page 84, Page 86 and Page 95—changed bergshrund to =bergschrund=
Page 106—changed reconnaisance to =reconnaissance=
Page 123—changed carying to =carrying=
Page 131—changed brillant to =brilliant=
Page 188—changed precipate to =precipitate=
Page 283—changed Geoffry Winthorp to =Geoffrey Winthrop=