Читать книгу With Axe and Rope in the New Zealand Alps - George Edward Mannering - Страница 6

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First impressions—Swagging—The Hochstetter Glacier—Defeat—The perils of river crossing

‘To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first.’

It was on March 24, 1886, that I left Christchurch, in company with my cousin, Mr. C. D. Fox, on my first visit to the great Tasman Glacier and Mount Cook, or Aorangi.[1]

[1] The Maori name of Mount Cook is ‘Aorangi,’ or, more properly, ‘Ao-Rangi.’ The commonly accepted meaning of the term is ‘Sky-piercer’ but as the Maori language admits of many varieties of translation, each version hovering about the region of true meaning, it is only natural that authorities should differ as to the correct construing of the word.

One good Maori scholar, whose reputation as such is almost pre-eminent, gives the poetical translation of ‘Light of Day’—a singularly beautiful one, for it is the first peak to catch the morning light and the last to show the glow of evening.

Another very well-known Maori scholar, the Rev. J. W. Stack, assures me that the most reasonable interpretation that can be put upon the word ‘Ao-Rangi’ is ‘Scud Peak’; and this is a singularly apt one, for the prevailing nor’-west winds always cause condensation and the gathering of cloud-banners about the higher parts of the mountain. ‘Heaven-piercer’ and ‘Cloud-piercer’ are also often used, but are to a certain extent fancy names.

I often look back now with feelings of amusement at the audacity with which we determined to make our first attempt to scale the great monarch of the Southern Alps, and wonder how we could have been so self-satisfied with our own powers and confident of our ability in undertaking such a gigantic task. I can only suppose that it was ignorance of what lay before us, and a clear case of ‘fools rush in where angels fear to tread’; for when my thoughts run back over the toils, hardships, and bitter lessons of experience undergone during the past six years, and when I think of the position of two completely inexperienced men (as far as true Alpine work is concerned) launching straight out into such an undertaking, my heart seems to quail at the idea. It is true that we both had heard and read of much Alpine work, and had been for some time in touch with climbing-men, also we were both practised in hill-walking and accustomed to such work as mustering sheep, pig-hunting, and shooting over what in England would be termed rough mountains, so that as cragsmen we could scarcely be classed as novices. As to any knowledge other than theoretical of the conditions of snow and ice, however, we might be termed tyros, though Fox had done a little scrambling on the Swiss glaciers. Nevertheless, we had sufficient ‘cheek’ to consider ourselves wise and strong enough to go straight into a really difficult piece of Alpine work, and, laughing at all discouragement, we set off for the mountains.

I have already described the customary route to the glaciers of Mount Cook, so will not weary my readers with a long narrative of the journey.

At Timaru (four hours by rail from Christchurch) we completed our stock of provisions, consisting of biscuits, tinned meats, &c., and took the evening train on to Fairlie Creek (forty miles further inland), where on arrival we hired a horse and buggy and drove to Ashwick Station, seven miles distant on the road to the mountains.

The next day’s journey took us over Burke’s Pass and into the Mackenzie country, past the beautiful Lake Tekapo, and on to the ferry situate at the southern end of Lake Pukaki.

The road itself winds through bleak tussock plains, interesting only from a geological point of view; but all monotony of the immediate surroundings is completely lost when one looks further afield and gazes on the marvellous beauty of such scenes as the Southern Alps from Lake Tekapo, or the Ben Ohau Range from the plains. Even the most fastidious globe-trotter could not fail to be deeply impressed with such a picture as Aorangi from Lake Pukaki.

To look at Aorangi from this approach is enough to damp the spirit of the stoutest Alpine climber that ever breathed, and is quite sufficient to account for the disbelief and incredulity cherished in the mind of many a shepherd in the Mackenzie country regarding the possibility of ascending the peak.

History repeats itself, and just as we hear of the native mountaineers of the Himalayas, Andes, and Caucasus discrediting ascents of glacier peaks around whose very bases they and their ancestors have lived and died, so we find that our own countrymen, whose calling needs their constant presence amongst their flocks on the lower ranges, refuse to believe that mountains presenting such an appearance as Aorangi are in any manner of way to be scaled.

The following day brought us to the Hermitage. A low mist had hidden the higher peaks throughout the day, and led to a surprise on the following morning which I little dreamt of.

I wonder if all Alpine climbers, in first ‘tasting the sweets of climbing,’ are similarly impressed with their initial Alpine view!

No words of mine can describe the ecstasy which seemed to pervade my whole being as on the early, cloudless morning the wonderful picture of Mount Sefton reared itself in indescribable sunlit grandeur above the old bush-clad moraine close by the Hermitage. Here, indeed, was a new and a fairy-like world to live in. As we sat in the verandah of the Hermitage the ice-seamed crags appeared to rise up and up until they culminated in a long serrated and corniced ridge, seeming almost to overhang the very spot where we rested.

A scene of mountain glory never to be forgotten, a memory to last a lifetime!

More than 8,000 feet above us were built up those ice-clad precipices, their glaciers glinting in the bright morning light, their avalanches tearing down the mountain sides and waking the echoes of a hundred ravines and valleys with their thunder.

Where is the man who can describe these

palaces of Nature, whose vast walls

Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps?

Where is the mountaineer—not the mere gymnast, but the Nature-loving mountaineer—who can tell the feelings of such a first impression?

And yet even this scene seems to fade in the memory and suffer by contrast with those of other pictures in the New Zealand Alps, for up the Tasman Valley, where later on in the day we wended our way, fresh vistas of Alpine glory were unfolded to view.

Aorangi from the Hermitage is also a grand sight. The mountain seems to possess a startling individuality and a majestic grandeur somewhat different in character from its worthy neighbour Mount Sefton. The view is more distant, but the bold outline of the peak stands out in relief against the blue of the heavens, and rears a face of glacier-clad precipices to a height of 10,000 feet above the Hooker Valley at the mountain foot. Light clouds float about the peak and lend an ethereal air to its beauty, imparting a fairy-like, floating appearance to the peak itself. At other times the outlines are apparently clear cut against the sky, giving an air of lasting and monumental dignity, and conveying the idea of stability from past ages to ages to come.

After an early lunch, and accompanied by Mr. Huddleston (the landlord of the Hermitage), and one of his men, we started off for the Tasman Glacier. The first part of the way leads down over stony flats to the termination of the Mount Cook Range, and at this point the Hooker River is crossed.

On this occasion we double-banked over on horse-back without much difficulty; but very often the Hooker River is quite impassable with horses, the torrent being confined in a narrow boulder bed of about 200 feet in width, which in flood time, during the warmer months of spring and summer, is quite filled with a roaring torrent, often bearing down with it blocks of ice from the Mueller and Hooker Glaciers above.

Turning in a north-easterly direction round the end of the range we shaped our course up the Tasman Valley, and in two hours’ time from the Hermitage arrived at the terminal face of the great glacier, which fills the whole of the valley from side to side, a width of about two miles. Here, then, the hard work was about to begin, for the horses could not proceed further, and it was necessary to carry everything from this point on our own backs.

Ah! good reader, have you ever carried a swag, a real swag—not a Swiss knapsack—but a real, torturing, colonial swag? When you take it up and sling it on your back in the orthodox fashion you remark: ‘Yes; I think it does weigh fifty pounds.’ In ten minutes your estimate of its weight has doubled. In an hour you begin to wonder why Nature has been so foolish as to make men who will carry swags; bad language seems to slip out ‘quite in a casual way,’ and you begin to bend forward and do the ‘lift.’ But the ‘lift’ does not seem to fulfil quite all that is said in its praise, for soon the torturing burden settles down again and drags on to your shoulders more heavily than ever. After a bit of nice balancing over loose moraine the swag triumphs. Down you go, and the wretched thing worries you, whilst you bark your fingers and swear horribly, bruising your knees and shins, and cursing the day on which you saw the light of a hard and feelingless world. You recover and repeat the performance as before, and by the time your day’s work is done you find out to your own demonstrated satisfaction that the burden weighs at least five hundred-weight. You sling it off and give it a malicious kick, with the result that you break a thermometer or some such delicate instrument. Then you try to walk, but stagger about like a drunken man; there is no small to your back, your back tendons are puffy and tired like those of an old horse, your head swims, and your eye is dim. Patience and rest, however, gradually bring you round, and soon you regain strength and spirits in feeling that at least you have conquered a day’s difficulties and have brought your board and lodging so far with you.

Ah! think of it, you knapsack mountaineers, you feather-bed Swiss mountaineers, with your tracks, your hotels, your guides, your porters, and your huts. No; this New Zealand work is not like yours.

But then, you see, we are enjoying what you cannot get. Exploring and opening out virgin fields, learning to be our own guides—and porters—from that best of masters—hard experience.

We struck up the little valley which here exists between the lateral moraine on our right and the hill on our left, and toiled on amidst dense scrub so gnarled and matted that we could at times walk on it as on a spring bed, though now and then going through, of course. The scrub alternated with slopes of loose strips of moraine. By evening we reached a little blue lake which feeds the creek issuing from the valley’s mouth, and here we pitched our tent for the night.

The sub-Alpine vegetation here is interesting and varied. Wild Irishman (te matakuru of the natives or matagowrie of the shepherds), Spaniards, with leaves like carving-knives and points like needles, having stalks sometimes eight or ten feet high; stunted totara, many varieties of veronica, celmisias with large marguerite daisy-like flowers, the beautiful white ranunculus, and a hundred bushes and creepers all mixed up in the most glorious confusion amid rocks sometimes covered with slippery moss, over and amongst which it is anything but pleasant to force one’s way. The mountain sides are clothed almost up to the snow-line with beech, totara, ribbon-wood, veronica, and other trees, the rich foliage being beautifully varied; but not having sufficient time to cut bedding, we spent an uncomfortable night. The first evening is always the worst in camp. In the morning we continued our rough journey up the valley and our struggle with the ‘worrying’ swag.

Soon we discovered traces of fires and old camps, and we knew we were on the tracks of Green’s and Von Lendenfeld’s parties. An hour for dinner under a splendid waterfall, and more toiling onwards, till at last we were over the last boulder-face from the mountain on our left, with the Ball Glacier in full view. Fox, bending down, picked up a portion of an old veil, shortly after I found a goggle box, then came a tomahawk lying on a rock, then the historical tent poles of Mr. Green, and we knew we had reached ‘Green’s fifth camp.’

Off came the swags, and right glad we were to be done with them. If a man were only built on the same lines as a Mount Cook grasshopper he might ‘stand some show’ in those parts, for these insects are the most accomplished rock acrobats, jumping twenty or thirty times their own length at a spring, landing on their heads or anyhow with a bang, and squaring up for the next jump as coolly as cucumbers.

We found many relics of Green’s and of Von Lendenfeld’s parties, amongst them a surveyor’s chain, which, with Green’s tent poles, we have for the last five seasons used to pitch our tents.

Scarcely were we made snug for the night when down came a terrific nor’-wester, blowing with fearful violence, making the tent boom and shake till we expected it to blow to ribbons. Rain poured down, thunder, lightning, and avalanches all lent their aid, and the elements seemed to be having a generally rowdy time of it. All this, of course, meant snow on the higher peaks; our spirits fell to zero very quickly, and we gave up all hope of tackling Aorangi for at least a day or two.

The nor’-wester is the Föhn wind of New Zealand, similar in character to the Föhn winds of Switzerland or the Pampiero of the Andes. Warm air laden with moisture travels from the equatorial and Australian waters, till, striking the range of the Southern Alps, precipitation ensues, the wind descending on to the eastern plains dry and hot.

Having studied Von Lendenfeld’s map of the Tasman Glacier and its surrounding peaks made in 1883 we knew our whereabouts; but as yet we had not seen the peak of Mount Cook, having been toiling up close under the eastern flank of the range, which continues from the peak proper for a distance of ten or twelve miles in a south-easterly direction.

The morning broke beautifully clear, and we were early aroused by some inquisitive keas, or mountain parrots, which perched on the tent and set up an unearthly screeching. These birds are ridiculously amusing and tame, and we frequently replenished our larder with them by the aid of a shanghai, or common schoolboy’s catapult, with which instrument of warfare I have the rather questionable credit of being somewhat of an adept. When I think of the savoury fries and stews which the shanghai has brought to our camp table—the table being usually a rock or a large lily leaf—I begin to be reconciled to the haunting regrets for apple-destroying and window-smashing which so often beguiled the tedium of a scholastic career.

We determined not to attempt any climbing so soon after the storm, but set out to reconnoitre the route taken by Mr. Green.

Mounting the steep lateral moraine of the Ball Glacier we were soon across it and on to the clear ice of the Hochstetter stream beyond, and felt the joyful crunching of our well-nailed boots as we tramped along over the uneven surface.

There is something exhilarating in this setting foot on the clear ice after days of clambering over cruel rocks, something that seems to thrill one as the nails go ‘crunch, crunch’ and give such grand foothold, a cheerful ring in the clink of the ice-axes, a peculiar charm in the tinkle of the little surface streams, a sense of peace and loveliness in all around, an inspiration of awe and grandeur in the glorious masses of mountains which rear their hoary heads for thousands of feet above, whilst over all there seems to hang an invisible and imperious over-ruling and omnipotent Power directing the marvellous workings of Nature. Here man may feel his littleness and his unworthiness, and yet with Byron he feels what is so beautifully expressed in ‘Childe Harold’—

I live not in myself, but I become

Portion of that around me; and to me

High mountains are a feeling.

The Hochstetter Glacier is one of the most impressive and beautiful sights in the Southern Alps. Its supplies come even from the very summits of Aorangi and Mount Tasman, the two noblest mountains in Australasia. Avalanches from the eastern and northern slopes of Aorangi descend to a large ice plateau situate at an altitude of 8,000 feet. From between the great north-eastern spur of Aorangi and the southern slopes of Mount Tasman the Linda Glacier issues also into this plateau; it was discovered and named by Mr. Green. From the eastern slopes of Mount Tasman and the southern flanks of Mount Haast avalanches also descend to the plateau, which must be some ten or twelve square miles in area. This plateau has but one outlet—the fall of the Hochstetter Glacier. Viewed from below, the frozen cascade tumbles in the wildest confusion over a precipice of 4,000 feet to join the Tasman Glacier at an altitude of 4,000 feet (roughly speaking), and presents a most wonderful appearance. The fall at the top is probably about a mile and a half in width, narrowing to one mile at its foot, and the ice is broken up into séracs, cubes, pinnacles, and towers of all shapes and sizes, intersected by crevasses of the divinest bluish-green colour, and each pinnacle crested with a white cap of unconsolidated snow. One enormous rock protrudes through the ice in its southern and lower portion, crowned with toppling séracs 200 or 300 feet in height, which at regular intervals fall over the face of the rock and descend in magnificent avalanches. First comes a report like a pistol shot, then follows an almighty crash accompanied by clouds of snow and ice dust, succeeded by a low rumbling thunder as the blocks expend their impetus on the gentler slope below, and finally settle down again into solid ice, to continue their journey of centuries towards the terminal face of the glacier nine miles down the valley. Above the fall stand out, in bold relief against the clear sky, the giant forms of Aorangi and Tasman.

To stand before this wonderful piece of Nature’s work and gaze on the weird and fascinating forms of the attendant peaks is an experience not to be forgotten.

The awful and solemn silence of the mountains, broken only now and again by the crash and thunder of an ice avalanche or the screech of a solitary kea, the complete desolation, the loneliness and remoteness from the haunts of men, all tend to inspire one with deep thoughts and feelings. One line in Walter C. Smith’s ‘Hilda’ expresses more than pages of mine would do—

The silence of the mountains spoke unutterable things.

In two hours’ time we were across the glacier and on the point of the ridge descending from Mount Haast, which bounds the northern side of the ice-fall. We began the ascent of the ridge amongst snow-grass and lilies, but soon the vegetation gave way to rockwork, and when a height of about 5,000 feet was attained we made sure that this was our correct route, and, mist coming on, we descended again, and reached our Ball Glacier camp in the evening.

We resolved to make our attempt on the peak early the following morning, and accordingly, at 5 a.m. packed our swags, containing ‘tucker’ for three days, spirit lamp, blanket, opossum rug, mackintoshes, instruments, a change of warm clothing, &c., intending that night to find a bivouac at 8,000 feet if possible.

Starting at 5.20 a.m. we crossed the Ball Glacier in the very dim light of a waning moon, and were on the Hochstetter ice at peep of day, and making good time across, reached the point of the Haast spur in an hour and three-quarters. A thick mist hung over us, and we waited for an hour for it to lift, amusing ourselves by smoking and botanising, and watching the antics of some queer little wrens. These birds are absurd-looking little creatures with long legs and longer toes, plump buff-coloured breasts, no tails, staring little eyes, and look for all the world like boiled potatoes with their jackets on, set up on hairpins and let loose on the rocks.

As the mist cleared we tackled the ascent, and found it pretty stiff work, although we had snow-grass to assist us for some way up; but the rocks above this began to show signs of rottenness, and much care was required to avoid dislodging them. We made good progress to about 5,000 feet, when we were quite baffled for a time, and were forced to leave the main arête and look for a more promising route on our right. Here we proceeded cautiously, crawling through a narrow niche in some overhanging rocks with a precipice of some hundreds of feet below. Then the climbing improved till our view upwards was bounded by an indefinite saddle in the rocks, which might have led to anywhere, but which did lead, as we subsequently found out, to the easy snow slopes above.

As the day advanced small falls of stone occurred, which caused some annoyance and danger, but we managed to avoid being struck by any. Then followed another stretch of rotten rock which Fox absolutely declined to tackle, and as it could not be turned by a détour we were brought up on this route.

Fox suggested descending again to cross a large glacier coming down from the ridge on our right, and trying the rocks on its opposite side. This plan we eventually carried out, but it was a fatal mistake as far as climbing Aorangi was concerned. Descending for about 1,000 feet we stepped on to the ice of what we then thought was the lower part of the Linda Glacier—owing to a strange error in Von Lendenfeld’s map—but which in reality was the Freshfield Glacier. We put on the rope and our goggles, both indispensable in crossing such a snow-covered ice stream.

On taking to the rocks on the other side we soon gained the lowest ice slopes, covered with six or eight inches of snow in splendid order, and adhering well to the ice; now and then we took to the rocks, but climbed mostly by the snow slopes till we reached the crest of the ridge and looked over a precipice to Mount Haidinger and the Haast Glacier below.

It was now 11 a.m., and after a short rest, upon my suggesting a move upwards, Fox said that he did not fancy the rocks above—which certainly did look bad—and counselled a retreat. Of course I was disappointed, and reluctant to give up the attempt so soon, yet there did seem to be no end to the difficulties above, and experience has since taught me that Fox was wise in his counsel, for it was indeed simple madness for two greenhorns to tackle such work.

I soon forgot my troubles in gazing on the scene which burst upon us as we gained the ridge. Below lay the major part of the Haast Glacier, descending in a similar manner to the Hochstetter ice-fall from the corniced arête of Mount Haidinger, a marvellous mass of sérac ice. A long rest here, and a resolve to revisit the locality during the next season with a stronger party, and we began the descent.

My first experience of glissading on the snow slopes below was decidedly amusing; but the art is easily acquired, and after the inevitable spill or two one soon gets into the way of putting one’s axe directly behind and not at the side, as is the first impulse. Many and many a good slide have I enjoyed during the last six years, and I know no more exhilarating sensation.

MOUNT TASMAN (11,475 FEET) AND THE HOCHSTETTER ICE-FALL

[Wheeler & Son, Photo.

In winter time, on the front ranges, we have sometimes made glissades of 2,000 to 3,000 feet without a stop, and on one occasion, in crossing the Mount Cook Range, Mr. Arthur Harper and I glissaded close on to 4,000 feet with only occasional stoppages for crevasses.

Reaching the bottom of the slopes we made an examination of the Haast Glacier at its junction with the Tasman, which disclosed a terribly crevassed stream, the ice appearing like the leaves of a half-opened book, the alternating crevasses occupying by far the greater space. There ensued an aggravating scramble over the moraine, followed by a weary trudge across the ice of the Hochstetter, and we reached our camp at the Ball Glacier by nightfall.

Sleep visited our wearied eyelids that night and had never seemed so sweet, but the morning broke raining and stormy, and as it was from the nor’-west and looked like continuing, we determined to make homewards for the Hermitage at once.

Then ensued the awful scramble down between the moraine and the mountain side with those terrible swags, but, being by this time in good trim, we arrived at the terminal face of the glacier in four hours and a quarter, a distance which occupied Mr. Green with Emil Boss and Ulrich Kaufmann thirteen hours in coming down in their final retreat.

On reaching the Hooker, we found the river running strongly and rising fast with the nor’-west rain, but after some looking about discovered a possible ford where the river anastomosed into four branches, and steadying ourselves with our ice-axes, waded through the torrent. Cold! Cold was no word for it, and the force of the current was terrible as it rushed over an uneven and treacherous bed of boulders.

But we got through safely, and soon the Hermitage, our haven of refuge, was in sight, and we struck up the shingle flats at a merry pace, reaching our destination in seven hours and a quarter from the Ball Glacier camp.

On returning from the Hermitage we thought, by crossing the Tasman River and driving down the opposite bank, to avoid driving round Lake Pukaki, and so to save thirty miles of travelling. As a rule the river is not crossable in the summer months, but on this occasion we were assured of the practicability of getting over; and leaving the track at Birch Hill Station, we drove out into the great expanse of shingle which forms the river-bed.

We had crossed all the streams but the last, and were within a few yards of the further bank of that, when our horse, poor old Nipper, sank in a quicksand, and as soon as the current caught his body we saw it was all up. The horse and buggy got broadside on to the current, and quick as thought we jumped for it, just as the conveyance was turning over for the first time, Fox down-stream and I up.

The first thing I knew was that I was being washed into the bottom parts of the buggy, then sideways up, but struggling out and gaining a footing, the first impulse was to whip out my pocket-knife and cut the horse free, and, in my haste, both blades were broken before a stitch of the harness was cut. Fox, in the meanwhile, recovered his feet, and was holding Nipper’s head above water as we all moved gradually down-stream with the force of the current, the horse and buggy rolling over and over. With Fox’s knife I was more successful, and cut the horse free. Fortunately we were being washed into shallower water on a spit of shingle, and we were able to wade out with the horse, after which we returned to extricate the buggy, which had come to a standstill on its side, and was fast being silted up with moving shingle. It required all our strength to free it, and in doing so one of the wheels ‘buckled.’

I have no doubt that we presented an amusing and half-drowned appearance as we stood on the bank and called the roll. All that was missing was my mackintosh, a mat, and whip.

Then we jumped on our buckled wheel till it sprang back into its normal shape, and splicing up the harness, wended our way back across the minor streams to the track at Birch Hill, wetter, sadder, and wiser men.

We reached Pukaki Ferry an hour after dark and Fairlie Creek the next evening, where we found the township in a state of jollification over the annual race-meeting. Most of the New Zealand country townships boast of their annual race-meeting, the racing lasting one day, and the whisky part of the proceedings generally running into three.

Then we took the train for Christchurch.