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Title: Beyond the Southern lakes : the explorations of W.G. Grave
Author: Grave, W. G. (William George)
Published: A.H. & A.W. Reed; Wellington, N.Z., 1950
BEYOND THE SOUTHERN LAKES
The Explorations of W. G. Grave
BEYOND THE SOUTHERN LAKES
THE EXPLORATIONS OF W. G. GRAVE
EDITED BY ANITA CROZIER
Foreword by Sir Thomas Hunter
A. H. & A. W. REED WELLINGTON
First published December 1950
A. H. & A. W. Reed
182 Wakefield Street
Wellington
New Zealand
PRINTED AND BOUND IN AUSTRALIA BY HALSTEAD PRESS PTY LIMITED, NICKSON STREET, SYDNEY 4
SET IN LINOTYPE JANSON
To
MY FATHER’S MEMORY
PREFACE
Many people have expressed the hope that someday a permanent record would be made of the work of exploration carried out by parties led by W. G. Grave into the hinterland of the Western Sounds of Otago. It is now fifty-three years since the first of those expeditions.
J ✓ I Grave was always extraordinarily reticent about his own achievements, and it is to be regretted that many interesting details of his explorations have departed with him. In an “In Memoriam,” N. Z. Alpine Journal, 1935, Dr. G. M. Moir wrote: “Old Bill, as we used in his absence to refer to him, sometimes said that he ought to write a book of his travels, but I fear that the demands of his work prevented this. No doubt he would have written a good book, for his heart was in the mountains. I well remember the day I walked with him up the Cleddau, where the majestic surroundings, and the glorious morning inspired him to recite line after line of French verse remembered from his youth. Grave’s bushcraft was amazing, and in my diary are jotted down several of his maxims. I wish that I had recorded also some of those exciting anecdotes which he often related with unvarying detail.”
Some of Grave’s diaries shared the fate of the more illustrious manuscript of Carlyle’s French Revolution—burnt by a careless housemaid.
This record of exploration has been compiled chiefly from his diaries and lecture notes. Thanks are recorded to the Otago Daily Times and the Oamaru Mail for permission to quote from articles by W. G. Grave. Wherever possible, Grave’s own accounts have been given verbatim.
We are indebted in particular to the following who have supplied additional information: Sir Thomas Hunter
8
Preface
for contributing the Foreword and character sketches: Dr. G. M. Moir, Dr. D. R. Jennings, Messrs. E. R, Williams and R. S. M. Sinclair, Airs. A. C. Gifford, Miss I, Lyttle, and Mr. MacKenzie for access to Donald Sutherland’s Visitors’ Book.
Anita Crozier
14 Oban Street
Dunedin
April rjth, 1950
FOREWORD
It is fitting that the explorations of William George Grave and the parties that he led are here recorded; it is especially appropriate that this work is done by a daughter of the explorer. I appreciate the honour of being asked to contribute this Foreword.
Whether it is made clear in the narrative or not, in these ventures Bill (as he was known to his many friends) was both the organizing and the driving force. It was he who thought out the projects, who selected both companions and supplies, and who kept the members of the party hard at work till success was achieved or the impossibility of achievement clearly demonstrated. When Grave agreed to turn back it was clear proof that nothing could be gained by going on.
The Tutuko trip aroused Grave’s enthusiasm and when the first attempt on the Glaisnock failed he looked round for a team that would make success certain. My first close association with Bill Grave was on the football field. At the Waitaki Boys’ High School it was then customary for masters to play for the school in matches against teams that did not represent other schools. Bill was not a player with a knowledge of the finer points of the game and of its strategy and tactics. He was the “grafter”. All through the game you could see his stocky figure putting every ounce into the forward struggle—and what ounces they were! He never let up; whatever the fortunes of the game he carried the flag “No Surrender” until the final whistle. I looked upon it as a great compliment when such a man invited me to join the party that went up the Glaisnock in January 1900. As Bill and I belonged to the staff of the same school we did our training in the back country between the Waitaki and Otepopo Rivers. Thus I soon
IO
Foreword
came to appreciate the qualities that made Grave a great explorer and climber. One of the training trials was to reach the headwaters of the Otepopo River and then to follow the course of the stream to its mouth. Over the hills to the source was one thing, but coming down the river bed, with its pools, gorges, and waterfalls, was another. But the plan had to be carried out to the full even when it meant risky jumping from rock to rock through gorges, wading the pools when they were shallow enough and swimming them when they were not. It was tough work, but the best of training, and Bill saw that there was no evasion of the tasks. Bill was rather slow in movement and in the forenoon most of the party felt they could head him. But when everyone else had had enough for the day Bill went to the front of the trail and demanded that further progress be made. In the first few days on the Glaisnock this meant that we had the slow and unpleasant experience of pitching camp in the dark. But Bill was eminently fair. “Start early enough,” he said, “and we can camp in daylight.” On all my trips with Grave, therefore, I was responsible for rousing the camp as soon after daylight as possible so that we might be able to pitch camp before darkness descended on us. This plan worked admirably; we made the distance upon which Bill had insisted.
Grave did not like to give up, and on my trips with him he never did. The closest approach to it was on Hunter Pass on the Worsley-Sutherland Sound trip. Once over the summit of the pass we seemed to be completely blocked. Grave set us to prepare breakfast, and while this was being done he poked about here and there until he discovered a way by which we reached Starvation Creek. Coming back, when the going was heavy and the food very scanty, you could read “No Surrender” in his shoulders and his swag. He brought the party through. Bill was the companion who would not only never let you down but in difficult times and places would willingly
II
Foreword
bear some of vour burdens. The only times when his temper was ruffled were when the party's daily advance was not sufficient or when one of the party too easily allowed his load, or part of it, to be borne by others. He had a fine sense of justice, not only in the school, but also in the mountains, and this stimulated boys and companions alike to give of their best. When we came back from the Glaisnock trip the Boer War was on and Grenfell joined the forces. Grave set himself the task of insuring that in Oamaru there should be a worthy memorial to those who had served in the struggle. The monument stands to this day and, to those who know, it is a memorial not only to those who served but also to William George Grave, without whose persistent efforts it would never have existed.
On behalf of his old comrades who have made the final trek and of those who have still to make it, I salute his memory.
Per uarios casus, per tot discriimna rerum Tendimus in Latium.
Vergil, Aeneid, I.
T. A. Hunter
Wellington
March jth, ip'po
CONTENTS
Initiation 17
Exploration of the Tutoko Valley and First Attempt on Mt. Tutoko 23
Personalities 3 1 Gifford, Talbot and Grenfell. By Sir Thomas
Hunter 3 2
Te Anau Exploration: Franklin Mountains 40
Glaisnock to Bligh Sound 40
Worsley to Bligh Sound 44
Worsley to Sutherland Sound 48
Exploration of Joe's River and the Neale Burn 60
The Quest for a Route between Lake Wakatipu And Milford Sound 68
Cleddau Exploration 69
Moraine Creek Trip 74
A Pass at Last 80
Grave - Talbot Pass 89
Development of the Route 96
First Ascent of Mt. Balloon 99
First Ascent of Mt. Pembroke 104
Tutoko Again 110
First Ascents of Mts. Park and Christina 113
Finale 118
Explorations and First Ascents 123
ILLUSTRATIONS
W. G. Grave’s Explorations Endpaper map A. Talbot and W. G. Grave 32
Grave Couloir from western slopes of Mt. Tutoko 33
In the Glaisnock, 1900 48
Lake Adelaide 49
Early days in the Upper Hollyford 64
Grave and Talbot on ridge south of Cleddau, i9°7 6 5
Mr. Grave from the west 8o
Balloon Peak and fog-filled valley of the Clinton from Mt. Elliot 8i
Mr. Pembroke from Harrison River 104
Mr. Tutoko and ice-falls of the Age Glacier 104-5
Mt. Christina from above Talbot’s Ladder 105
INITIATION
"po.ME achieve happiness best by seeking out the wildest and most inaccessible corners of the earth, t<J and there subjugating their bodies to discomfort and even peril in search of an ideal, which goes by the simple word 'discovery-'—discovery not only of physical objects, but of themselves." This description of F. S. Smvthe's might well be applied to William George Grave, who was at all times enthusiastic in his devotion to the mountains, where he was perhaps more himself than in the clamorous life of the town, beset with the cares of his profession.
Grave has been called "the foremost of the second generation of explorers in the mountains of Western Otago". He loved the wilds, and had a passion for penetrating virgin territory. Grenfell, one of his closest companions on the early trips, said "that essential quality in a pioneer or explorer, the ability to overcome difficulties, was a marked characteristic in W. G. Grave. His spirit rose to meet them; he gloried in mastering them; he had a fierce joy in accomplishment. His doggedness, determination, and enthusiasm were his wonderful attributes."
"On the march, the immense swag Grave carried gave his short figure a curious stoop. When they set out up the Glaisnock in 1899, each man had two 60 lb. packs, and for the first stage made a double trip. In those days, before the wapiti had spoiled the forest, scrambling through the tangled undergrowth proved such hard work, that, for later stages Grave insisted on carrying both swags together! With his huge swag, and his head lifted up to peer through the trees at the peaks ahead, he presented an unforgettable appearance, which typified his indomitable perseverance."
B
23
Beyond the Southern Lakes
Thus wrote G. M. Moir in the New Zealand Alpine Journal.
Born in Oamaru, on June 26th, 1870, William George Grave was the second son of Mr. and Mrs. James Grave. His father owned a fleet of sailing ships, one of which, the Fleur de Mauritius, was seized by pirates off the coast of China, and another, the Elderslie, a three-masted schooner, was wrecked near Oamaru on May Bth, 1875. For many years one of the masts stood in the grounds of the family home in Oamaru.
Grave received his early education at the Oamaru North School where he won a scholarship enabling him to enter Waitaki Boys' High School. Here he had a distinguished career, and was dux of the school.
The wanderlust came early upon him, and while still a pupil at Waitaki, he persuaded three schoolmates and a master, A. C. Gifford, the respected companion of many later trips, to accompany him on a walking tour of about 350 miles, over the old coach roads of North and Central Otago. This was in December 1887 and the party included A. C. Gifford, Chase, Elder, Sumpter and Grave, who was then seventeen years of age. For packhorses they used Gifford’s hack and Elder’s spring dray horse. Grave wrote a detailed account of this trip for the school magazine, the Oamaruvian, published in August 1888. Not only did they accomplish their purpose, but they also climbed the ranges about Ohau, Pembroke and Queenstown. The trip was full of incident, including a feverish chase into the darkness, in pursuit of their horses escaping into the Knobby Range, near Clyde. One of the party had his heel so badly trodden upon while leading the horse down a rough slope, that thereafter he was compelled to ride behind the pack. There was a somewhat ignominious ending to the whole excursion, when the entire party was seriously affected by drinking stagnant water, and had to be conveyed home the last few miles.
Climbing on the Kakanui Range, near Oamaru, tramp-
Initiation
24
ing and cycling and collecting fossils and geological specimens about the countryside, were the chief delights of the young man.
At the age of nineteen, he went for a period as tutor to a family of six children, at a homestead near Lake Tekapo. Late into the winter nights he pursued his private studies by the light of a home-made candle, whose flame was wont to sputter out frequently as it encountered maggots in the tallow.
Pencilled notes in an old school exercise book tell the story of a tramping trip in December 1892, via Dansey's Pass, over the Nevis, and by sundry routes and tracks to Lake Manapouri—a record of exceptional rainfall, severe floods, and the joys and discomforts of the vagabond life. About four years after the discovery of the McKinnon Pass route to Milford Sound, Grave, with George Crawshaw, walked from Oamaru to Manapouri, Te Anau, and the Sutherland Falls. "Our first visit to this beautiful lake (Te Anau)," writes Grave, "came within very little of terminating fatally for us both. We had secured a light skiff, hardly big enough to hold two persons, and as the day was calm we pulled over the lake and up the South Arm. Time passed unheeded, and as we started to return late in the afternoon, the weather suddenly changed to a howling nor'wester. For three hours I baled without a moment's respite, while Crawshaw kept the boat's head to the waves. Finally, as the gale drove us near the shore, the boat swamped and sank, and we struck out for land. It was fortunate for us that at this point a long shingle spit ran out into the lake."
Thus, having served his apprenticeship, Grave became qualified for the more arduous and serious undertaking of penetrating terra incognita.
It was only in holiday months that he could devote himself to this consuming interest, for by now he had become a master on the staff of his old school, Waitaki. While carrying out his duties, he made time to study and
20
Beyond the Southern Lakes
gain his M.A. degree, and later LL.B.. He also completed the requirements for a B.Sc. but unfortunately his final papers were lost at sea. All this was by his own efforts, as his distance from a University necessitated an extra-mural course. He worked to a system of study in the evenings, with an allowance of four hours’ sleep, from which he roused himself by the horrible device of an alarm clock in a kerosene tin; then more study in the early morning. In time he rose to the position of First Assistant at Waitaki, and was acting-Rector before the appointment of the late Frank Milner.
Here we give a description from Grave’s lecture notes of the nature of the country which proved for him such an irresistible attraction year by year:
“Near the west coast of Otago, there are still to be found tracts of unexplored country. Three factors have contributed chiefly to this condition of affairs. The country consists entirely of mountains separated by deep canyons, and nowhere throughout the world do mountains rise so precipitously. It is these vertical walls of Fiordland that present the most serious obstacle to exploration. The second deterrent is the enormous rainfall, which in this district sometimes exceeds 200 inches annually. During the summer months it rains about five days in the week, and the mountain torrents are impassable. Besides, the drenching bush makes one miserably wet.
“In consequence of this heavy rainfall, the bush is very dense; in many places impenetrable; so that the slasher is frequently requisitioned to cut one’s way. The difficulties encountered are so great that the distance covered by an exploring party rarely exceeds three and a half miles a day.
“And now a few words as to the origin of the Sounds. The Fiords of Western Otago are clearly of different origin from the Marlborough Sounds. They have been formed by the action of ice. At one time the glaciers of New Zealand were far more extensive than at present, and
Initiation
26
to the action of these glaciers we owe the incomparable sounds, lakes and canyons of Fiordland, and also the magnificent waterfalls of this region.
“For a glacier cuts its way straight downward, like a chisel, and as it deepens its valley, the sides remain perpendicular, for the pressure of the ice is chiefly downward. The main glaciers having a greater weight of ice, cut their way more deeply than their tributary glaciers, and it is due to this fact that we have such magnificent waterfalls.
“For some reason the glaciers disappeared, and the glacial valleys themselves were drowned, thus forming the Sounds, or Fiords. The tributary glacial valleys are now seen as hanging valleys, i.e., a valley that enters the main valley not on a level with the floor of the main valley, but high up the sides. The streams now flowing in these hanging valleys enter the main valley by waterfalls. This is one of the most marked and beautiful characteristics of Fiordland.
“The knowledge gained of these regions by Government exploration has been much increased by the work of private explorers, who without reward or fee, urged on by an irresistible impulse, have penetrated the fastnesses of nature.
“In the year 1880 Donald Sutherland of Milford Sound explored the Arthur Valley, and discovered the world famous Sutherland Falls. Eight years later, after repeated attempts, Quinton McKinnon succeeded in finding a route along the Clinton Valley, and over the McKinnon Pass to the Sutherland Falls. C. W. Adams, Chief Surveyor of Otago, Thomas Mackenzie and W. S. Pillans were at that very period endeavouring to find a pass from the falls to Te Anau. A portion of Joe’s River, which flows into Lake Ada, was explored also. And later a party appears to have crossed from the Arthur Valley to Sutherland Sound, which was discovered by Sutherland about this time.
27
Beyond the Southern Lakes
“In 1890, the face of the Sutherland Falls was scaled by Quill, who discovered the lake from which the stream issues before taking its wonderful leap. Two years later, in an attempt to find a route from Wakatipu to Milford Sound, Quill lost his life. The following year McKinnon perished in the waters of Lake Te Anau.”
EXPLORATION OF THE TUTOKO VALLEY AND FIRST ATTEMPT ON MT. TUTOKO
December 1 1898
IN December 1897, \V. G. Grave, Dr. J. R. Don (Rector of Waitaki Boys' High School), his brother William Don of Dunedin, and A. C. Gifford, then of Wellington College, set out on a geological trip to the head of the Tutoko Valley, and made the first ascent of what is now called the Grave Couloir.
G. M. Moir, in the N. Z. Alpine Journal, 1938, makes this comment: "It is an interesting fact that these three men, Dr. J. R. Don, A. C. Gifford, and W. G. Grave, who played an outstanding part in establishing the early prestige of Waitaki High School, were also pioneers of mountaineering as we now know it in Western Otago."
It was through his association with Dr. Don that Grave became interested in geology, an interest which developed and added to the purpose of his later trips. Several references to geological formation, etc. will be noticed in the following accounts.
Grave writes the story of the trip to the Tutoko Valley as follows:
"In 1897 I took pan in my first exploring expedition. In that year, steamers passing along the western coast of Otago reported that Mt. Tutoko, a peak over 9000 feet high, near Milford Sound, was in eruption. At the same time came a report from Martin's Bay, further up the coast, that the settlers had found volcanic ash in their water barrels; while Sutherland of Milford Sound produced pumice that he declared had been brought down
*4
Beyond the Southern Lakes
by the Cleddau River which drains the slopes of Tutoko. “With the purpose of investigating the question of the volcanic activity of Tutoko, our party made its way overland to Milford Sound. Our stores and equipment had been sent round to Milford by steamer, and while we were awaiting the arrival of the boat which was two days late, we took a run up the Cleddau Valley. About four miles up, where a stream comes in from the north, we obtained our first view of Tutoko, the monarch of this region. We gazed with astonishment. From its summit a long dark streamer rolled away, like the smoke from a mighty factory chimney. “Certainly it is a volcano!” we cried. Unfortunately Gifford, our photographer, having hurt his foot, had not come with us, and we lost the opportunity of permanently recording the appearance of a most remarkable phenomenon. We afterwards found not the slightest sign of volcanic activity about the mountain.
“The explanation of this dark streamer is somewhat difficult to find. It could certainly have been nothing more than a cloud effect. A possible explanation may be that the sky being clear, the westerly wind then blowing was far from saturated with vapour. The moisture condensed only as the wind passed over the highest point of Tutoko, and once condensed, the snowfields behind kept it in a state of condensation while carried along by the wind. Whatever the cause may have been, the long dark streamer was remarkable, and was seen by several people that year.
“We returned to Milford, and when the boat arrived, unloaded our stores, but our ice axes could not be found on board. They had apparently been stowed out of sight in the hold and did not turn up till the boat got back to Dunedin. From a couple of oars, and out of some old augers, fossickers’ picks, files and a gun barrel, we turned out four very creditable ice axes. However the late arrival of the boat and this further delay had cost us four days. “We now set off up the Cleddau, branching off into
Exploration of the Tutoko Valley
30
the Tutoko Valley. The going was rough and at times difficult. Wherever the river was not roaring down some cataract, we kept to its bed, wading most of the time.
“Our second day brought us opposite the Age glacier on the south side of Tutoko. Mr. Malcolm Ross had a short time previously made his way up the Tutoko River to this point, and climbed the Tutoko Range from this glacier.
"Late in the afternoon of the following day, we reached the head of the valley. There Tutoko rose before us—a veritable giant, its bare rock walls towering above us, crowned with a great snowfield, the broken faces of which emitted a deep blue sheen. Ever and anon, an avalanche, breaking away, fell with a thundering sound into the valley below.
"While the other two remained behind to make camp, Dr. Don and I went forward to prospect the way for the next day's climb. I must confess that when I first got on to the glacier, my knees trembled greatly, for our way appeared to lie right beneath an ice fall from which tons of ice came crashing down every few minutes. I did not relish the idea of passing under it. Fortunately, however, we were able to avoid that danger.
"We were up next morning at two o'clock, but having omitted to bring candles, we had some trouble in preparing for the climb. About an hour after starting out, heavy mist and rain came on, and we were obliged to return to our camp, where the weather detained us two more days. Then, once again we made a start, and experienced no difficulty till we had ascended 4000 feet. Our way lay up a narrow glacier, or couloir, flanked by vertical walls of rock, which at first towered 3000 feet above us. Looking downward, we beheld the valley, a rolling sea of cloud, Tutoko and his fellow peaks rising like enchanted islands from the foam.
"We had now to resort to step cutting. Soon we came
26
Beyond the Southern Lakes
to a deep crevasse stretching right across the couloir. The rock walls on either side were unscalable, and it was with great hesitation the first man essayed to pass over a narrow ice bridge. Soon another crevasse blocked our way, and as we sat near the brink while our photographer was endeavouring to obtain a photo of it, a huge boulder, detached from the wall above, came bounding down the couloir, passing within a foot of Will Don's head. We were not long in making a move onward.
"Crevasses and ice bridges now became more numerous. Being unskilled in mountaineering, we found the rope often a source of danger, and used it only when we had to. We were thus moving along, unroped, close under the cliff, nearing the top of the couloir, when we heard a crack. There was a cry of "Avalanche!" Each of us started to rush away from the wall, but after the first step or two, to our horror, Gifford slipped, and shot rapidly down towards the crevasses below. After going down about sixty yards, he received a momentary check, managed to get his axe into the ice, and thus stayed his headlong course.
"We had forgotten the avalanche in our excitement. It was, however, a very small one. We moved no more after this unroped.
"Just as we reached the top of the couloir, a little over 6000 feet, rain, blinding sleet, and a howling gale came on. We waited three hours for the weather to clear, but as it only became worse, we reluctantly decided to beat a retreat. The doctor went first, but as he continually slipped, we were afraid his heavy weight would bring all down, so we put the lightest member of our party in the lead.
"The descent was more difficult than we had anticipated. We found that the steps we had cut in ascending were much too far apart, and almost useless. To make matters worse, apparently loosened by the heavy rain, stones and
Exploration of the Tutoko Valley
32
boulders from the cliffs began to hurtle past us. Their humming noise made one's flesh creep. Eventually, after five hours' most exciting time, we reached camp, thankful to get back in safety.
"When Gifford showed the photos later to Mr. Malcolm Ross, he declared that it was sheer madness to have attempted to climb the mountain by the route we had taken. However, it was not so much in madness, as in blissful ignorance of the hazards of the route, that we had made the ascent of the couloir, and it was only in descending that we realized the dangers of the situation.
"Unfortunately, almost all the negatives of this expedition, and all those of our next trip, were destroyed in the big Hawker Street fire at Wellington, when twentythree houses were burnt. Mr. and Mrs. Gifford lost their home in this fire just three weeks after their marriage.
"For two days the terrific storm kept us in our tent. Our dry river bed was now a foaming torrent, which, rushing bank high, broke through just above our tent, cutting us off on an island, without food, and anxiously waiting to make the return journey.
"As we later passed the scene of our earlier camp, we found a large tree lodged by the flood ten feet higher than the site.
"Although we did not succeed in climbing Tutoko, we were quite convinced from different views we had of it, that there was no evidence whatever of volcanic activity."
The following entry was found in the Visitors’ Book kept by Donald Sutherland of Milford Sound: u r i n n nri 1 • i i • i
“January 10th, 1898. The undersigned have just returned from a week’s exploration up a branch of the Cleddau. The object of the journey was to ascertain whether there were any traces of recent volcanic action—Mt. Tutoko reported to have been lately in eruption—and to take note of the geology of the district. We studied and photo-
33
Beyond the Southern Lakes
graphed the mountain from the S.S.West, West, and N. West, no trace of any eruption appearing. We tried to ascend the mountain by glacier trending N.W. from head of valley. Followed this glacier up to its source, 6000 feet, aneroid, hoping that it would join the magnificent ice platform that occupies the head of the valley, that we might be able to scale Tutoko from the west. But we found instead that the glacier ended in a pass that almost certainly leads down to Harrison Cove. To note the discovery of the new pass, we built a cairn on the left of the pass, about 80 ft. above the pass, and bearing S.W. magnetic from it. Unfortunately, heavy mist came on as we reached the top, so that we could see nothing far below. But the appearance of the face of the ice cliff, looking down towards the south, proved almost beyond doubt that it is the same that fills the head of the valley above Harrison Cove.
"We found the glacier made a very fair route, steep, but not much crevassed on the whole. It is unfortunately not a safe route, being badly swept by stones during the heat of the day. The stone channels, of which there are two, well defined, should be avoided if possible. We had intended as we returned to try the ascent of Tutoko by the route taken by Malcolm Ross and party, but bad weather, only one climbing day out of five, and shortage of supplies, sent us back home.
"In the cairn at the top of the pass are contained the following: One bottle enclosing a threepenny piece (all the coin we had!) with our initials scratched on it. The top of a tin goggle box, also with our initials, and a paper containing our signatures as follows:
"Dr. J. R. Don, Waitaki Boys' High School, Oamaru.
A. C. Gifford, Wellington College.
W. G. Grave, Waitaki Boys' High School, Oamaru.
Wm. G. Don, Dunedin."
Exploration of the Tutoko Valley
34
fit is interesting to note that the first crossing by Grave Couloir to Harrison Cove has just been made, Christmas 1949, bv Dr. R. Rodda and partv, fifty-two years later. -Ed.]
Grave's account continues: "When we returned to the head of Lake Te Anau, Dr. Don and his brother left us, Gifford and I waiting for some friends whom we were going to take over to Milford. Owing to the steamer breaking down, they did not arrive, and we put in the time making short excursions.
"One of these was up a small stream, which on some maps is called the Neale Burn. Donald Ross accompanied us. He is well known for his fortunate capture of the Notornis Mmtelti, now in the Dunedin Museum. We discovered a small lake, about a mile in diameter, which we named after him, Lake Ross. Previous to its discovery, he had declared that we should find a lake there, as the waters of the Neale Burn were always clear, even when in flood; the sediment brought down by the river settling to the bottom of the lake.
“Some years later, the first tourist to visit this lake from the head of Lake Te Anau, writing an account of his trip in a Dunedin paper, spoke of it as Lake Donne, the name we had given it on its discovery having apparently been changed for some reason unknown to me.”
Apparently Grave and Gifford were much attracted to Milford, for a further entry in the Visitors’ Book a year later, reads:
“ Jan. 2nd 18pp. Came up Lake Te Anau in whale-boat 222 with Capt. Menzies. Camped one night at head of North Fiord. Rowed all next day against a head wind reaching Garvies at midnight. Tested the various huts on the track by spending a night at each. Went to 5 miles up the Cleddau, and had a grand view of Mt. Tutoko.
Beyond the Southern Lakes
35
The pleasure of our trip was greatly increased by Mrs. Sutherland's thoughtfulness and kindness."
The haunting challenge of Mt. Tutoko never left Grave. A quarter of a century later it had still defied a number of assaults when Grave returned to the attack—but more of that later.
PERSONALITIES
Ix these pages the names of certain men recur from time to time. These are the good companions to whom Grave, had he written this book himself, would undoubtedly have paid the highest tribute.
Of those who shared the adventures of the earlier exploits, only one is left: Sir Thomas Hunter, K.8.E., M.A., M.Sc, Principal of Victoria University College; one of New Zealand's foremost educationalists. In the book The University and the Community, a collection of essavs written in honour of Sir Thomas Hunter by his colleagues, and presented to him, one may read the details of his impact on the University life of New Zealand in general and Victoria in particular. Reference was made to his prowess on the sports field, but we looked in vain for some mention of the part he played in the exploration of New Zealand, some fifty years ago.
Sir Thomas still retains to an amazing degree the vigour and enthusiasms of his youth—that spirit which characterized his bearing on what was perhaps the most gruelling expedition Grave ever undertook, Worsley to Sutherland Sound, 1905. Grave's references later in these pages to the dependability, competence and splendid calibre of Hunter as a companion on that occasion, speak for themselves. Hunter was the youngest member of those parties. He acquired the nickname "Oilskin", not as one might imagine from the constant need for wearing a waterproof, but from the literal fact that he suffered from sunburn, and carried some oil with which to lessen the pain. Two passes bear his name: Oilskin Pass, at the head of the Glaisnock, and Hunter Pass in the Worsley.
Through the generosity of Sir Thomas Hunter we are
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able to give the following first-hand descriptions of Grave's other companions, Gifford, Talbot and Grenfell.
GIFFORD, TALBOT and GRENFELL
By Sir Thomas Hunter
If you wish to know men, explore with them in the wilds of Fiordland. Where all supplies have to be carried on the back, where the weather is usually wet, where food is limited and strictly rationed, where the conditions of travel are difficult and four men and their supplies must find what accommodation they can in a 6 x 8 tent—these are conditions that show the real fibre of men and expose their very souls. Looking back on my explorations in the Te Anau-Milford area I find in my memory, even after the lapse of half a century, sharply defined pictures of my companions: Gifford, Grave, Grenfell, Talbot, Tennent. Of these Grave and Talbot went on to much greater exploits and have left their mark on alpine achievements in this Dominion. Unfortunately both Talbot and Tennent lost their lives in World War I.
For me there were three major trips: the first, from the Glaisnock River to Bligh Sound; the second, from the Worsley River to Bligh Sound and the third from the Worsley to Sutherland Sound. Grave and I went on all these trips, Gifford on the first onlv and Talbot only on the second, while Grenfell travelled with us on the first and third occasions. At the time we explored the Glaisnock, Gifford and Grave had alreadv had some experience in the bush and a certain measure of bushcraft. Gifford, the oldest member of the party, was then about forty years of age, while the infant of the group was in his early twenties. Gifford made friends easily and firmly. He was the good companion. His special studies were in mathematics and astronomy and he left his mark on science by his advocacy and proof of Bickerton's partial impact theory of the
A. Talbot and If', (i. Grave
Photo: Edgar R. Williams, 1": Grave Couloir From Western Slopes <>\ Woiint Tutoko
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origin of the solar system.* But his interests were at once wide and deep. He possessed great knowledge of and skill in photography. To decades of boys at Wellington College he was affectionately known as “Uncle Charlie” and many of them, who like Stalky were “as the beasts that perish” in mathematics, were fascinated by Gifford’s skill in making real to them the wonders of photography and of the heavens.
For these trips of exploration we trained assiduously, and this preparation culminated in a journey on bicycles from Oamaru to Lake Te Anau before the days of the “free-wheel” and the bitumen road. We picked up Grenfell at Gore and completed the journey up the North Arm and through the “Narrows” by rowing boat hired for the occasion. By the time we landed at the mouth of the Glaisnock, therefore, we knew a good deal of one another and were ready for the steady discipline ahead of us.
Gifford was tall, loose-limbed, fair with a sandy, thin, beard and fair hair that was worn somewhat long and on this trip had a habit of thrusting itself triumphantly through a hole in his felt hat. He reminded us so vividly of the picture of the hero of Daniel Defoe’s popular work that he was promptly and inevitably dubbed “Crusoe” by which name, almost as affectionate as his pupils’ “Uncle Charlie”, he was known through the weeks that followed. A person of more even temper it would be hard to find. No matter how difficult the road and how frequent the punctures, no matter how awkward the pack or uncomfortable the camp, no matter how dreary and disagreeable the weather or how short the food supplies, Crusoe made no complaints but was always cheerful and ready to help a comrade in difficulty. Naturally he was the “official” photographer and even in the very difficult circumstances of this journey produced photographic work that earned
*S. H. Jenldnson. New Zealand and Science , 1940.
c
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high praise when it was exhibited. These were the days before films and in addition to his quarter-plate camera, its stand with telescopic legs, and slides, Crusoe carried six dozen quarter-plates. It also fell to his unkindly lot to wait till his fellows were snugly in their sleeping bags before he doused the fire and, retiring to a most uncomfortable position in his blanket bag, proceeded to change the plates. But so patient and self-sacrificing was Crusoe that one hardly realized the work that fell on him until, a few weeks after our return, each member received a set of beautifully finished prints that have remained a joy for life.
Grave and I made our own swag bags, as big as an outsize in pillowslips, with broad carrying straps so placed as to give a well-distributed and balanced load. We saw to it, too, that our blankets and spare clothes provided a pad that protected our backs from the tins we had perforce to carry. For this trip Crusoe had bought a large, elaborate and very expensive rucksack with which we on occasion experimented. But we soon dropped it. But Crusoe never complained and carried the uncomfortable rucksack cheerfully from daylight to dark. Once coming back from a visit down Bligh Sound at low water we were compelled by the incoming tide to take to the bush and Crusoe, with his hands fully engaged with his camera, had a nasty fall; indeed we thought he had broken some ribs. But he refused our offer to relieve him of some of his load though weeks afterwards he confessed that for some days he suffered a good deal of pain. Gifford was also very cautious; perhaps this was necessary to offset the rashness of some of the newcomers. He did not like us to cross the river even when we got better conditions by so doing for he feared that sudden flooding might prevent our return. On subsequent trips when we threw caution to the winds and took risks, we often laughingly asked ourselves what Crusoe's reactions would have been if he had been with us.
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\\ hat an interesting companion he was! His knowledge of astronomy, chemistry and botany, his wide human interests ensured that if we were compelled by adverse conditions to spend a day in camp—four men and their effects in a 6 x 8 tent—Gifford could while away the hours by interesting and informative talk, given with a simplicity and a modesty that were added charms. As a member of such an expedition as ours he had all the ' irtues: kindliness, friendliness, humour, consideration, s\ mpathy, courage, capacity for hard work, persistence. For the many who knew and loved him his soul goes marching on in their own lives.
Whenever I think of Arthur Talbot there flash into my mind two incidents: one on the lower reaches of the Worsley and the other on the Worsley Pass and its approaches. The first trip up the W orsley was unique in our experience because the weather was continuously fine. Grave and I had tried to prepare our new companions (Talbot and Tennent) for the hardships of the journey by vivid descriptions of pouring rain, wet bush, and even wetter clothes. When the skies remained blue the schoolmaster in Talbot, never doubting the word of his companions, sought in science the reasons for the difference. Again and again he proved to his own satisfaction, if not to ours, why this was a dry valley among all the other wet valleys. If he had gone with us the following year he would have had great difficulty in explaining the very different weather we experienced. The second incident might be called “the romance of a railway ticket”. On this occasion, shirking the long bicycle ride, we went by train to Lumsden and thence by bicycle to Te Anau. At the Lake Hotel we changed into our bush clothes and left our town effects with the proprietor. Through the absence of mind that Talbot often showed, he found himself well up the W r orsley Valley with his flimsy paper return-ticket in his
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pocket. Worse was to follow, for half-way down the Pitt River he discovered one morning that he had lost it. He jumped to the conclusion that he had left it at a most uncomfortable camp we had had on a slip that had come down into a small lake that we called “Bernard’s Hole”, after Bernie Tennent. Coming back we decided to avoid these difficulties by keeping high up above the lake side. Unfortunately, in a somewhat difficult place, Talbot slipped and fell about 30 feet down a steep bank. His swag fortunately caught in some young beech trees and this saved him from a fall of some 300 feet on to the rocks below. Though he was considerably shaken by this accident he insisted, when we came to the lake side, that he must go back to the old camp to get his ticket. Grave went with him but the journey proved fruitless. Arriving in camp late at night Talbot in the dark spilled a big billy of boiling water on his legs. One leg was considerably burned and must have been very painful. As our supplies were on the other side of the pass we could give him but one day’s rest. Then dividing his load among us, we by means of the rope helped him up the steep climb to the pass. It must have been a gruelling experience for him. We arrived at the pass before dusk, and here, walking slowly and painfully with a stick through the sparse scrub (believe it or not), Talbot picked up his ticket that must have been carried from our camp (some distance away) by an inquisitive weka. This accident put an end to further exploration, and as soon as he was able, we brought him back to Te Anau. He showed real grit in what must have been a very painful passage. This was Talbot’s first venture in these fields, but under Grave’s tuition he went on to become one of New Zealand’s great climbers and with Grave the discoverer of the Grave-Talbot Pass.
Talbot was tall and dark with a good figure and carriage. In these respects he had advantages over Grave in climbing, for the latter was shorter and thickset. But
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what Grave lacked physically he more than made up in determination and thoroughness. This was the age of moustaches. Tennent was the only one to begin a trip clean-shaven; no one ended it without the fruitful beginning of a full beard.
Talbot, like Gifford and Grenfell, had qualities that made him a worthy companion on such trips. He had neither the great gift for friendship of Gifford nor the humour and banter of Grenfell. But he had courage and fidelity. He would not let a companion down. All these men could be trusted to the full. One would have to seek far and wide before one could find better companions for the hardships, difficulties and the many frustrations of these exploring ventures at the beginning of this century.
Alf Grenfell was the entertainer of the party: the humorist, the singer, the story-teller, the actor. I can hardly refrain from laughing even now when I recall my first meeting with him. The first day we had ridden our bicycles from Oamaru to Waihola and expected to make Gore in the early evening of the second day. But after we passed Clinton the road became worse and worse until it ended in a sea of mud through which it was not possible to proceed. We stayed for the night at Pukerau and went on by train next morning to Gore. There at the station to meet us was Grenfell. He was short but thickly and solidly built; it was however his face that fascinated you. For the part of the funny man on the stage he needed no artificial aids. There his face would be his fortune. It was plastic, mobile and could assume many different patterns as the times and occasions required. He possessed a fine voice and often charmed and cheered us with his delightful songs. Exploring was new to him and at first he felt its burdens. But he never faltered, and in the most depressing conditions his face would assume a quizzical form that compelled laughter. He was a natural
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story-teller, and was artist enough not to permit a literal rendering weaken the point of the yam. By common consent he was re-christened “Gulliver” and he played the part with distinction. This was the period of the Boer War, and Gulliver gave full voice to the songs of the day: “Soldiers of the Queen” and “Sons of the Sea”. At the conclusion of the trip he joined the forces and served overseas. He did not return in time to be available for the first trip up the Worsley but he was with us on the second trip—an experience that tried him to the full, and showed again the good metal of which he was made. On this occasion the weather was just the opposite of that we had experienced the year before. On the earlier trip we had a light shower on one or two occasions but on the second trip there were not more than four or five days out of about forty in which it did not rain. Most of the time it poured and it was quite useless to attempt to dry one’s clothes. These were hung on the trees at night and wrung out to be put on wet when we were ready to move off in the morning. It was a very trying trip. If we got over the pass we had permission to come back along the Milford track and use the provisions there. If we did not get over we expected to be back in a couple of weeks to explore the North Clinton. We therefore took with us provisions for about two and a half weeks only. But we had reckoned without Sutherland Sound which we reached with nearly all our provisions gone and had to fight our way back in wet, bitter weather, living on an odd bird or two that fell to Grave’s rifle. Gulliver was really ill and nothing but his cheerfulness and great spirit carried him through. We did what we could to spare him by “rigging” the loads to make his lighter. He would not have allowed it if he had known. He never complained, and was always anxious to bear his full share of the burdens and the hardships of the journey. It is no wonder if on the return trip the songs “She is far from the Land” and “The Night has a Thousand Eyes” had not the vim and vigour of the outward
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passage. When we were able to see ourselves alongside normal people we wondered how we had pulled through, and we specially appreciated the courage and steadfastness of Gulliver. He was a cheery person and one it was good to have known in times that tried the souls of men. He stood all the tests.
TE ANAU EXPLORATION: FRANKLIN MOUNTAINS
1899-1905
Between the years 1899-1905 W. G. Grave and others made four expeditions during long summer vacations, to explore the wild regions lying to the west and north of Lake Te Anau, to the coast.
In 1899 Grave, A. C. Gifford and Murray set out with the hope of finding a route from the north arm of Lake Te Anau to Bligh Sound. Grave's own account follows:
GLAISNOCK TO BLIGH SOUND. 1899 AND 1900
Incessant rain, making the mountain torrents impassable, and the breakdown of one member of the party, compelled us after the lapse of a week to return. We had covered a distance of only four miles. Landing at the head of the North Fiord, we set off up the Glaisnock River. Our first day’s march brought us to the foot of the Glaisnock Falls, about three miles up-stream. The second day saw us, less than half a mile further on, foiled in an attempt to cross the Glaisnock River. The following morning, the rain having temporarily abated, we succeeded in crossing where the stream branched. An hour later we discovered that we were on an island, to get off which we were compelled to retrace our steps to the point of crossing. Late in the afternoon, just abreast of the island, having advanced less than a mile, we found further progress barred by a raging mountain torrent, swollen by the incessant rain. After some hours we managed to bridge this by felling a couple of trees. Half a mile further on another mountain torrent barred our way. Thereupon Murray declared he had hurt his knee and could go no
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further. As we were carrying a very small spare tent, I wished to leave him with a good supply of provisions, while we made our way with light swags up the river. Gifford, mindful of the fate of Professor Mainwaring Brown, who disappeared when with a party exploring from Manapouri to the Sounds, would not hear of this, and the following day we retraced our steps.
The next year, January 1900, Hunter, Gifford, Grenfell and I renewed the attempt to reach Bligh Sound. We started from the foot of Lake Te Anau in a small boat, rowing and sailing to the head of the North Fiord, a distance of forty miles. We passed through the famous “Narrows”, at which point the North Fiord is almost cut in two by landslip material brought down on either side. Beyond the opening, which is about a chain across, the lake opens out again to a width of more than two miles.
From the head of the fiord we made our way upstream to the foot of the Glaisnock Falls. Here the river, after rushing over a fine fall some thirty feet high, boils along in a narrow rock-bound gorge for about a quarter of a mile. Passing two mountain torrents, one of which the previous year we had bridged with trees, we came on the third day to another stream, a short distance up which one of the party, Grenfell, discovered beautiful falls over 100 feet high. We called them Gulliver Falls, after his nickname.
Nearing the headwaters of the Glaisnock, the larger trees gave way to ribbonwood, veronica and coprosma scrub. The Glaisnock ends in the cirque so common a feature of most of the valleys in this region. Geologists have not yet satisfactorily explained the formation of these cirques.
After some difficulty we managed to get to the top of the pass which we found to be a little over 4000 feet in height. We named it Oilskin Pass, again from a nickname of one of the party. From its summit we descried a lake which we reached two days later. It was 1800 feet above
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sea level, about a mile long, and somewhat less in width. We could see no outlet, for the mountains closed in all round it. This we named Lake Crusoe, another party nickname. Though the lake was only a mile long, we were two days before reaching the further end. Here we found the outlet to be a narrow, rocky gorge, not more than ten yards wide, the walls of which rose perpendicularly for several hundred feet. Across the entrance to the gorge, fallen rocks and trees, barring the progress of the river, had formed the lake. The stream issuing from the lake beneath the barrier, rushed headlong down the gorge till it reached the main valley, 1700 feet below. We saw that the lake was in a hanging valley, but the most astonishing feature is its narrow outlet.
We found later that a wide lake with a narrow outlet is by no means rare. Probably when the main valley and the hanging valley were filled with glaciers, the outlet was far wider, for above the rocky walls of the gorge, there is a gentle slope on each side to the top of the mountain. But when the glaciers disappeared, mountain torrents took their place. Along our hanging valley such a one rushed, and fell with a mighty roar into the valley far below. The rapid rush of the waters at the outlet soon cut deeply downward, forming the present narrow, rock-bound gorge. We were unable to descend by the gorge, and had to climb to the top of the ridge, and down into the gorge some 1000 feet below the lake. The stream in its descent flowed underground for some distance.
At the foot of the cataract we came upon the shores of what we afterwards found to be Lake Beddoes, three miles from Bligh Sound. Thence by the Pitt River to the sound, where we erected signal poles to mark our successful crossing.
Our first night at the sound was rather exciting. We had camped near the banks of the Pitt River, a quarter of a mile from its entrance to the sound. It had now been raining for a week without cessation, and by nightfall the
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river had risen above its banks and, invading the bushcovered flat, spread out all around us, leaving us on a little island scarcely bigger than the tent. "Gulliver" and "Oilskin" suggested that we should take to the trees before the waters rose higher and flooded us out. But the prospect of passing the night perched in the branches of trees whilst a West Coast rain descended in torrents, was far from inviting. In the darkness we moved camp to higher ground. During the night there was a loud crash overhead and morning light revealed that a big dead tree had been blown right across our tent but had been held up by the branches of other trees—a lucky escape! Although it was still raining as hard as ever, the flood had subsided, having been caused by the full tide waters of the sound damming back the river.
Two years later we were at Bligh Sound again, and remembering our earlier experience we selected a camping ground a foot or two higher. Again the flood waters surrounded us, this time submerging our former camp site although it was not raining heavily at the time.
As the weather cleared a little we made a good fire and tried to dry our clothes which had now been wet for a week. A penguin standing a couple of yards from the fire was, during the whole of the time, a most interested spectator. We took a photo of him, and when we left he was still standing there. A couple of fish we caught at the sound formed a welcome addition to our bill of fare; for we were now reduced to oatmeal without sugar or salt. Rats seem to flourish here. They envied us our fish, and were bold enough to try and carry them off in the dusk of the evening as we were making preparations for our meal.
I never think of our day at the sound without somewhat guilty feelings. We had gone a little distance down the sound, and on our return, the rising tide forced us to climb up into the bush at a point where a tree jutted out from the bank, about six feet above a deep pool. As I
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swung myself up, the tree gave an ominous crack, but I gave no warning. "Crusoe" came last, and was almost up when the tree snapped. Then all we saw of "Crusoe" was his hat floating quietly on the water. A moment later he reappeared at the surface and took possession of his hat. His newly dried clothes were wet once more, but we were soon all in the same condition. When we left the sound the next day it was still raining, and did not clear till we reached Te Anau, a week later. We would leave our wet clothes outside the tent all night after the day's march, although we didn't altogether relish getting into them again in the morning.
Three days after leaving the sound, we were back at our depot on the other side of the pass. We were pretty hungry by this time, and here we had a delay of two hours to satisfy our inner needs with an enormous meal. From that time forth we always spoke of the cirque at the head of the Glaisnock as the "Mortal Gorge".
As we journeyed down through the groves of ribbonwood, at the headwaters of the Glaisnock, we saw that a most desolate transformation had taken place. While on our way up through these same groves which were in full bloom—a reallv wonderful sight—swarms of caterpillars, clinging to the leaves, had got on to our faces and down our necks as we brushed through the wet trees. On our return, three weeks later, the caterpillars had vanished, and the groves of ribbonwood were as bare as an orchard in winter. Moths were fluttering everywhere about the stricken trees.
This expedition lasted three and a half weeks, two and a half of which it rained continuously.
WORSLEY TO BLIGH SOUND. JANUARY 1903
It was our intention to attempt this trip in 1901, but two days before the date fixed for leaving, Grenfell joined a contingent for South Africa, and nothing further was done
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till January 1903. Hunter, Tennent, Talbot and I made up the party. The weather during the whole trip, four and a half weeks, was excellent. It was the only time we were fortunate in this respect. On this occasion we explored the Worsley, Castle River, Pitt River, and Terminus Valley, leaving Prospect Valley for the following year. Seeing that on previous trips we had run short of provisions, we decided to carry a larger stock. Leaving a depot at the mouth of the Worsley River, we started off, each carrying a 90 lb. swag.
The Worsley is for the first four miles very flat and open. \\ ith its clumps of beech trees it presents a beautiful, park-like appearance. About a mile up the valley are the fine St. Mary's Falls, which should be visited by all who have a day to spare when staying at Glade House, at the head of Lake Te Anau. These falls were discovered long before our exploration of the W'orsley, but beyond this no one appears to have penetrated.
We first of all explored Castle Valley, which opens out on the right, three miles up the Worsley at the foot of Mt. Kane. Pitching camp at the entrance, we made a three days' expedition with light swags up the valley. It runs parallel to the Clinton Valley, from which it is separated by a range of astounding precipitousness, continuing to the head of the valley about ten miles in length, and probably ending behind the Sutherland Falls.
Near the head was Castle .Mountain, 7000 feet, from which numerous avalanches fell as we passed along. Castle Mountain as seen from the Clinton side, is not at all remarkable. As seen from Castle Valley, it is truly astonishing! For the last five miles the ridge has the appearance not of a range of mountains, but a mighty perpendicular wall, built by giants. Neither scrub, nor moss, nor any other growth appears on its walls of'solid rock. As the valley ended in a precipitous cirque, impassable and unscalable, we returned to the camp we had left pitched on the Worsley.
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We now made our way up the Worsley, not altogether pleased to take up the burden of life once more in the shape of our heavy packs. Passing two other valleys on the right, which we later named Terminus and Prospect Valleys, we came to the foot of a fine waterfall, 400 feet high. Above the cataract, the Worsley Valley extends for about five miles. Its floor is almost dead level. Swamp grass, veronica, and coprosma scrub fill the whole valley. Paradise duck and grey duck in great numbers were seen upon the sluggish waters. The scenery at the head was bare and desolate; the mountain walls scantily clad with vegetation.
Climbing a peak, we beheld a valley leading westward, and saw that the pass, about 4000 feet, was easy of ascent, the only difficulty, as- it happened, being caused by the almost impenetrable veronica scrub. From the summit of the peak, which we called Lookout Peak, we could see, far below in the western valley, a small lake. The name first suggested, possibly from a presentiment of coming evil, was Lake Avernus. Lake Bernard, however, it was named, after its discoverer, Bernard Tennent.
Two days later, after descending a long cataract, we were on the shores of Lake Bernard. The aneroid registered 1500 feet above sea level, The lake was peculiarly silent. Save the distant cataract, no sound was heard. No bird life was seen on its waters. Half-way round the lake we found ourselves blocked by steep and bare rocky bluffs, about 500 feet high, which descended into the waters of the lake at a spot where a great slip had brought down a number of trees. We tried to construct a raft, but the timber was too heavy to bear our weight. We camped amongst the ruins wrought by the rock avalanche.
The following morning it was necessary to climb up a very steep face for some hundreds of feet, and one of the party nearly came to an untimely end, when the scrub to which he was clinging gave way. His companions rescued him not a moment too soon. When we descended at the
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further end of the lake, we were astonished to find no outlet. The western shore rose 200 feet above the lake. From the driftwood on the shore, we saw that the lake was liable to rise sixty or seventy feet above its level at that time.
We soon saw that a huge landslip had completely blocked the valley, and was now overgrown with dense bush. The waters of the lake passing underground, reappeared about half a mile further down the valley. The crossing of this landslip was one of our most trying experiences. The boulders and intervening spaces were alike covered with deep moss, and we were continually falling down between the rocks, our swags alone at times preventing us from falling to the bottom of some deep hole.
Dropping down a cataract, we reached more level country, and a few days down the Pitt River brought us to Lake Beddoes and Bligh Sound.
The return journey was rendered exciting on reaching Lake Bernard, when Talbot fell over a precipice, 300 feet high, and was caught up by his swag after falling 30 feet. As we could see nothing of him, we thought he had gone altogether till we heard a voice say “Get my hat!” Talbot was hauled up, and when we spoke of the terrible fright he must have had, he indignantly denied having been perturbed. “What do you think I did while I was hanging there?” he asked. “I took out my watch, felt my pulse, and it was normal!”
He had a miraculous escape, but he must have been shaken by his fall, for that evening he upset a billy of boiling water over his leg and it was more than a month before he could put a boot on again.
We had only one day’s provisions left, and were on the western side of the mountains. There was no game on Lake Bernard, and after waiting for one day we were compelled to move. We got to the top of the Worsley Pass that night, and were fortunate enough to knock over some kaka. The following day we went some distance down
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the eastern side of the pass, and left Talbot for three days, while we returned to the mouth of the Worsley for provisions. On rejoining Talbot we found his leg no better, and reluctantly passed Prospect Valley which we had intended to explore, and turned into Terminus Valley, Talbot carrying nothing and limping along in a slipper. At the head of Terminus Valley we discovered a lovely lake, nestling at the foot of a high peak, whose perpendicular faces barred further progress. We then returned to Lake Te Anau.
WORSLEY TO SUTHERLAND SOUND. DECEMBER 1904-JANUARY 1905
On Thursday, December 22 nd, 1904, a party of four, Grave, Hunter, Grenfell and Smith, a new man, left for the head of Lake Te Anau. We landed stores in order later to explore the north branch of the Clinton River. Then, re-embarking, we started with two and a half weeks' provisions for the mouth of the Worsley. Here, with rain pouring steadily down upon us, we landed, and with a farewell whistle from the steamer, we were left alone.
Our intention was to proceed up the Worsley and make for Sutherland Sound, and try from there to reach Milford Sound. We carried 160 lb. of provisions, consisting of peasmeal, oatmeal, flour, rice, tinned meat, ship's biscuit, cocoa, milk powder, and a little sugar, which we supplemented with saccharine. The kit of each consisted of a specially constructed swag bag, oiled sleeping bag, blanket bag, pyjama suit, singlet and stockings for the night, and an oiled overall for travelling in the wet bush. The general outfit contained a 6 x 8 tent and fly, 70 ft. halyard line, quarter-plate camera and six dozen plates, pea rifle, and 200 rounds of ammunition, ball of strong twine, clothes line, two slashers, three billies, half a dozen boxes of matches in airtight tins, and 2 lb. of candles for starting fires. In these regions of enormous rainfall, where the wood was
/;/ the Glaisnock, njoa T. A. Hunter. A. C. Gifford and W. (i. (,
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always soaking, it often took much patience and care to get a fire going. We used to put a piece of lighted candle on the ground, and build a pyramid of beech twigs over it, carefully pile on other material, fanning all the while with a tin plate. Even so, it sometimes took two hours before the fire would go without fanning and attention.
o o Immediately on landing, we made our way towards the Worsley, through dense bush. Here much difficulty was experienced owing to the number of lagoons we encountered. In about an hour the Worsley was reached, and an attempt was made to cross at the ford discovered the year before. Grenfell and I started to cross, but the rush of water soon showed us that the attempt must fail, and before long we rejoined our companions. This check was serious, for on the right bank the way lay along easy, flat and open country for some miles, while the left bank descended at intervals in steep bluffs to the water’s edge. An hour later, thoroughly wet, we decided to camp. With the aid of a candle Hunter, who had had a good deal of experience in wet bush, soon had the fire going merrily, and with the tent pitched we made ourselves snug in our sleeping bags.
Next morning there was not much improvement in the weather. After following the river for a mile, Hunter and I managed to get across. Grenfell and Smith then followed, but Smith got into difficulties, and had it not been for the support of Grenfell, he would have fared badly in the raging waters. With as little delay as possible the rope was brought out, and both landed safely on terra firma.
We camped that night opposite Castle River, about four miles from the mouth of the Worsley. Shortly before reaching camp, Smith had the misfortune to hurt his knee, and put off his swag, but Hunter, whose rapidity in moving through bush was at times remarkable, soon brought in the abandoned swag. Saturday was again showery. Moving along past Terminus Creek, we reached
Lake Adelaide Photo: G. M. Moir
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Beyond the Southern Lakes
Prospect Creek, where the real work of exploration was to begin. Night after night we heard the kakapo booming, nor even by day did they cease, though strange to say we actually saw only one during the trip. We also sighted a kiwi on one occasion. Our evenings in camp passed pleasantly enough listening to Grenfell’s delightful songs.
* - 1 f W o D D On Christmas morning we recrossed the Worsley, and began to ascend Prospect Creek, which descended for a mile in a very steep and difficult cataract. Hundreds of fallen trees, most of which were quite rotten and dangerous to walk upon, made the route, already difficult, still more so. When we stopped for a meal, so soaked and rotten was everything, that, for the first time, we were unable to get a fire going. By four o’clock we had reached the top of the cataract, and found ourselves on the shores of a small lake, about a mile long, and somewhat less in breadth. This we named Lake Brownlee, after the donor of our Christmas pudding.
Four miles beyond, we saw the end of Prospect Valley. A magnificent mountain rose like a gigantic wall, 3000 feet straight out of the valley, then sloping steeply back to its dark, rocky summit, it rose another 3000 feet. The whole of the slope was covered with snow, save one dark ridge that led to the top. From the snow slope stood out a steep face of blue ice, and soon we beheld an avalanche tear away and hurl itself with a thundering roar into our valley 3000 feet below. The camera was brought to bear on the mountain, but unfortunately the ground-glass plate had been broken in sending up the supplies, and Hunter was obliged to focus with a small bit of glass he managed to save.
Next morning, as there seemed not the slightest prospect of our finding a pass, we determined to go up to the head of the valley without packs. Again the rain descended in torrents. In about three hours we came upon another lake, somewhat smaller than the first, which we named “Sumor” after the party’s hungry man. Two hours later
5<
Worsley to Sutherland Sound
we were at the head of the valley. Here we saw a gap on the west side which offered us but little hope. As wc were within a few yards of where the avalanches were continuallv coming over, we contented ourselves with a few minutes' inspection, and then started to return to camp. This in due course we reached, and leaving our saturated clothes outside, made ourselves pretty comfortable in our sleeping bags.
During the night, however, a stream of water flowed through our tent. Daybreak found us outside, nude, endeavouring in five minute spells each, to divert the waters. For the rest of the day we remained in camp. On the following morning the rain ceased, and as our blankets were now wet, it was decided to take advantage of the fine day to dry things. Hunter, who at the beginning of the trip injured his arm, was now obliged to have it put in splints, and we feared that he had broken a bone in the wrist. However, he had no desire to turn back.
Grenfell and I decided to climb the mountain opposite, but the climb was far more arduous and dangerous than we had anticipated, and it was 5 p.m. before we succeeded in getting on to the snow near the top. Grenfell who had had no experience in this kind of work, did not relish this, but I assured him that it was safe enough. Still, a few minutes later, I disappeared into a crevasse, and was only saved by thrusting out my arms. Calling out to Grenfell to keep back, lest the weight of both should cause a further break in the snow, I managed to wriggle out on my back. Looking down the crevasse, we found it to be some forty or fifty feet deep. The ascent was then continued, but as we had neither rope nor alpenstocks, it was far from safe, and we were not sorry when the lateness of the hour compelled us to return to camp. We had obtained a fine view of the Worsley which we explored the year before, but could not see anything of the country we were now to go through. We descended, and about 7.30 p.m. reached the
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Beyond the Southern Lakes
lake, and stripping, we waded and swam across to our camp.
Next morning, thinking there was but little chance of getting over the pass, we stored most of our provisions under a rock, and set out with light swags for the head of the valley. Scarcely had we started when the rain came on again. In five hours we had reached the foot of the pass. We found an excellent place for a camp. An enormous rock, overhanging on all sides, afforded shelter for our fire, no matter what direction the rain came from. Our camp was pitched just a few hundred yards away from where the avalanches fell with a mighty roar.
Our first night at the head of Prospect Valley we are not likely soon to forget. As we were falling asleep, the tent was lit up by a vivid flash, and peal upon peal of thunder, echoing from wall to wall, rolled down the valley. It seemed as if the very elements themselves were entering into rivalry with the avalanches, and the thunder was getting the best of it. But the avalanche was not to be outdone, for two days later, after heavy rain, it surpassed itself, descending with a terrific roar, so that it seemed as if the whole mountain were about to fall upon us.
The next day, our eighth day out, was beautifully fine. It was the first on which no rain fell. We started off from camp without swags to try the pass. After ascending 500 feet, we came to a place where it was necessary to climb some difficult rocks, or else to go up over a steep snowface for two or three hundred feet. Hunter being able to use only one arm, we considered the route over the snow the better. Return was therefore made to camp for the slasher, and alpenstocks were cut. Fastening on the rope, we made our way up the snow face; the man in front, using the slasher, cut steps in the soft snow without much trouble.
Soon we joined Grenfell who had already got up over the rocks. The rest of the way was pretty easy, and no difficulty was experienced till nearing the top. Here
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62
Smith sat down for a spell. The others were soon on top and were dismayed to find it sheer down on the far side. A short time elapsed, and Smith found his way there also, a hundred yards distant from the rest, and the gloom on their faces was for a moment dispelled on beholding Smith springing suddenly back. The moment he had reached the top he had looked over a precipice of over 1000 feet.
The height of the pass was found to be 3800 feet, and we named it Hunter Pass. Grenfell and I, without much hope of success, set about finding a way down. In the course of a couple of hours we managed to descend 400 feet to a small platform. While cautiously peering over the edge of this we received signals from the other two on top. It seemed to us that they were trying to warn us against going any further. We therefore quitted the platform, and tried elsewhere without success. As time was wearing on, and a mist arising, we returned to the top. We then found that we had mistaken the signals. Looking down, we saw a narrow cleft leading from the platform. We hurried back to camp.
Next morning, leaving Hunter behind that the rest might be of benefit to his arm, we went back down the valley to bring up the remainder of our stores from Lake Brownlee. We found on reaching our depot that most of the stuff was wet through. Nearing our camp again after nine hours' drenching, our spirits began to rise, for Hunter had promised to have ready for us one of his famous "duffs". These duffs were quite a feature of our trips. Occasionally they contained a liberal supply of "animal protein" as the chef would use a doughy hand to disperse a cloud of sandflies from his face.
Waking on New Year's morn, we experienced Rip Van Winkle's feelings on arising from his long sleep. It was snowing, and it seemed to us that we must have slept for six months, and that summer had passed to winter. Had anyone come up the valley during the next three
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days, he would have thought that he had come upon a veritable tribe of cave dwellers on beholding us crouched round our camp fire under the great rock. For three days the snow continued to fall. On January 3rd we became sick of staying in camp, and in a moment of madness we decided to pack up and try the pass. Leaving the camp at noon, we soon reached the snow face. A perfect blizzard was raging. Here we found that the steps we had cut previously were all filled in, and it was no light task, with a 60 lb. swag, to cut new ones. An avalanche swept across our route, 100 yards ahead. In less than an hour, however, we were over the snow face, and found the rest of the way easy enough till nearing the top, where the recent snow and ice on the rocks made the way rather dangerous.
We carried a tin with our names inside, and had intended to build a cairn on top, but arriving there, our one thought was to get out of the fearful blast. Tin and cairn were alike forgotten. We hurried past the summit tarn, and as the wind dashed the spray upon the grass, it formed long icicles.
Before long, we reached the point where we meant to descend. It was now 4.30 p.m. Here it was necessary to lower the packs one by one, fifty feet at a time. The snow lay thick, and every rock was covered with icicles, some of which were over two feet in length. Soon we were all frozen. By 7.30 p.m. we had gone down 400 feet to the platform reached some days before. Grenfell and I climbed about 100 feet down the cleft and found it fearful. We returned to report, and it was decided to put the sleeping kits, the tent and a few provisions into one bag, and hurl it over the precipice, trusting to luck to recover it when we reached the bottom. When all was ready we took it over to the cleft, but thereupon the others declined to descend, and nothing was left for us hnr to nass the night where we were.
We had very little choice of sleeping quarters. A small hollow on a ledge where the water ran down was the
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64
only spot available, and throwing in some green scrub, bog pine we called it, we drew for places. With a little dry scrub we managed to start a fire, and found to our joy that the green stuff burned fairly well. Soon we had a billy of cocoa, and rapidly devouring some meat and biscuit, we got into our sleeping bags. All night long the wind howled, and the snow fell upon us, but with the tent and fly spread above us and our bags buttoned close, we did not suffer a great deal from the cold, though none of us succeeded in getting any sleep.
At daybreak we put our heads out, only to beat a sudden retreat. About 8 a.m. the weather slightly improved, and we crawled out. Smith and Grenfell had had enough, and wanted to return. Hunter and I went to inspect the cleft once more, but the icicles were thicker than ever, and Hunter soon said that he was not going down there. That settled the matter, and the swags were packed for retreat.
While the porridge was being made, I climbed down some distance in another direction, and discovered a way down. Grenfell and I tried the route out after breakfast, and the party decided to give it a last try. By 5 p.m. we had reached the bush line 1000 feet below. A short spell to boil the billy and we were away again, camping 500 feet further down. We had thus spent about thirty hours getting over the pass.
Next day we continued our way down what we had reason later to call Starvation Creek. In about two and a half hours we came to a point where our stream joined a larger one from the north. This we afterwards found to be the Dark River. Here, although it was still early, we found it necessary to have dinner, for after the two previous days' experiences Hunter was the only one who had any energy left.
With considerable difficulty we crossed the Dark River. For some time this river flowed through a gorge with precipitous sides, then, reaching flatter country, it entered
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a swampy lake. Here we camped. From the number of swans on the lake, we called it Swan Mere. It was about a mile long, and of equal breadth. Late the following afternoon we passed by a similar lake which we named Game Mere. Progress was difficult through swampy woods, now sinking above the knees in ooze, now falling into holes between moss-covered boulders; at times on hands and knees over swamp.
At nightfall we camped on the shore of a large sheet of water. From the sides the mountains rose to about 500 feet. We thought at first that we had arrived at Sutherland Sound, but the aneroid registered 300 feet above sea level. Next morning we found no evidence of a tide, and we began to suspect that we were on the shores of a large lake. In the afternoon, Hunter and I climbed a knob which we dubbed the “Dumpling”, and discovered that it was indeed a lake, seven miles long and three miles broad. The party decided to name it Lake Grave.
The following morning we started on our way round the lake in bad weather. We found it necessary to climb up 1800 feet to get over the high bluffs that rose straight from the water’s edge. Smith became rather knocked up with climbing, and we were obliged to camp early about 1500 feet up. We had to construct a platform with boughs of trees on which to erect the tent. We did not move camp the next day, but at nightfall the day after we reached the lower end of Lake Grave.
Soon we came on another small lake which we did not name, and half a mile further on we saw the sound below us, but the river, dropping down rapidly through a narrow gorge, blocked us. We had to go back some distance and bridge the river. Four hours after setting out, we had only succeeded in getting across the river at a spot opposite our camp of the night before. Fortunately we met with no further obstacle, and reached Sutherland Sound as night came. This inlet, which lies between Milford and Bligh Sound, is rarely visited because of a bar
Worsley to Sutherland Sound
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at the mouth. It will not bear comparison with Milford, but is much finer than Bligh Sound.
We spent the morning of a beautiful day fishing, in which we were fairly successful. In the afternoon, as we had only two days’ provisions left, we started on the return journey. We had taken three weeks on the outward trip. We knew that we must now depend entirely on the gun, or starve. We had hitherto been fairly successful with the gun. At times it had been necessary to dash into the rushing waters up to the neck, to secure the game, or to swim far out into the lake for it.
[Though Grave does not mention it in his notes, his diary reveals that it was generally he who was the marksman, and he who dared the icy waters to recover the prize.—Ed.]
Our troubles began on the second day of the return. Late in the afternoon we came to a bad spot where it was necessary to use the rope, but when we opened the pack we found to our dismay that it was gone. Despair settled down upon us. We were without food, and now the rope was gone, and without a rope we knew it was hopeless to think of scaling that dreaded pass. We started back to look for the rope, but we felt not the slightest hope of finding it, for we cut no track as we passed through the bush, and the spongy moss rarely retained any trace of footprints. To our intense relief, we chanced upon the rope in about an hour’s time.
The rain now came on again, and for the next eight days it just deluged. Grenfell was suffering from a terrible boil which completely closed one eye. No game was to be seen anywhere. Game Mere and Swan Mere we passed, but the only two ducks we saw were beyond the range of our small rifle, and when we did see any birds the heavy rain made it impossible to get a sight on them.
At length we came to the spot where the Dark River passes through a narrow rocky gorge. We knew that we must cross here and ascend Starvation Creek, which comes
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from Hunter Pass. We could not, however, find the junction of the rivers, the dense rain completely blotting out the other side. The compass showed that we were bearing in the wrong direction. We made up our minds to camp, and hope for some improvement in the weather. The moss was horribly wet and the depressions made in it by our bodies became pools of water.
The weather was no better next morning. We could not see across the river. We went back to the gorge and threw a tree across. Then making our way up the other bank, we came at last to Starvation Creek. We shot a duck at the entrance, the last we obtained for four days. By nightfall we had reached the bush line at the foot of the pass, but could see nothing of the pass. One mountain duck among four starving men was far from satisfying, and we turned in hungrier than ever.
As bad as ever again next day—to attempt the ascent would have been madness. A spoonful of dried apples was served out to each man for that whole day. The following day we were still there. This time our day's allowance was a spoonful of dried milk each. The third day of our camp on the mountain was as grim as ever. Still we could not move. A spoonful of cocoa for each man's ration. All this time we were holding two tins of meat as a reserve for the day we should make the difficult ascent to the pass. The previous crossing had taken thirtysix hours. Hunger began to make itself felt keenly. We gnawed the lower portion of a flax-like plant, astelia, but it was bitter and nauseous stuff, and made us feel sick.
We resolved that no matter what the weather was the next day, the grim ascent must be tried. We knew well enough what failure would mean. I think that third day was the most miserable any of us ever spent. No one spoke much. About 5 p.m. we heard a weka clucking near the tent. I trembled so much in fear that I should miss it that I could hardly take aim. It fell. We were not long getting the fire going. A few minutes later, a kea,
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perhaps attracted bv the unexpected sight of smoke, drew near. In no time it was in company with the weka in the billy. We were saved! But for the timely arrival of these birds, we could never have had the strength to scale the pass the next day. We wandered about the rocks, but we were wretchedly weak. Next morning, after seven days' downpour, the rain eased off, and we were able to pick out our route. We made a stew with our two precious tins of meat and the last handful of peasmeal. But the peasmeal had gone bad and the result was rather ghastly.
Shortly after quitting our camp we reached the point where the real climb began. Smith was too much weakened to manage this without the help of the rope, but rain and mist began to obscure the way again, and we had to urge upon him that our only hope of safety lay in not losing a moment. Any delay promised to be fatal to the whole party.
In about four hours we were glad to see the last of Hunter Pass, the Devil's own pass as we had been referring to it of late. We pressed on down Prospect Valley with a spell of only five minutes in fourteen hours' going, and in the evening reached the Worsley. Here we knew there would be game in plenty. Nor were we mistaken. We had great difficulty in crossing the Worsley which was in flood, and very nearly drowned Smith, who by mistake, instead of putting the rope round his body, had tied it to his pole.
Two days later we were at the mouth of the Worsley, ready with signal fires for the steamer when it passed up Lake Te Anau, and glad enough we were when she hove in sight. It was only when we boarded her and compared ourselves with other people that we realized the serious condition of some of the party.
[Grave's sisters say that when he returned from this trip they could scarcely recognize him. They kept him in bed for a fortnight, and gradually fed him back to normal. Although in such a state of health, Grave and
Beyond the Southern Lakes
Hunter had actually cycled home from Lake Te Anau. -Ed.]
EXPLORATION OF JOE'S RIVER AND THE NEALE BURN. DECEMBER 1905-JANUARY 1906
On December 28th our party set out from the head of Lake Te Anau to explore the north branch of the Clinton or Neale Burn. The members of the party were Grave, Grenfell, Talbot, Flower, and Professor P. Marshall. Leaving Glade House early in the afternoon, we made our way for some time along the Milford Track, up the Clinton Valley. After four miles we reached the spot where the Neale Burn joins the Clinton. Thereupon, wading the river, we set forth into the unknown.
Our swags were lighter this year than usual, being only 56 lb. per man, and some of us, as we passed rapidly over the beaten track, had rejoiced at their lightness. But when we had to force our way through the dense bush we soon came to the conclusion that we had quite enough to carry. Of late years we have given up cutting tracks as we proceed, for we generally found that the work of track cutting fell wholly on one or two of the more energetic of the party, the others following leisurely and comfortably on the heels of the hardworking track-cutter.
Thus, we made our way through the bush as best we could, often crawling on hands and knees through dense undergrowth. Wherever the river would permit, we took to it and waded up-stream in its icy waters. Three hours of this, and we were ready to camp, well satisfied in that we had left the Clinton over two miles behind. During the night rain fell, and the next morning was far from promising. However we were soon on our way- On our left, the mountains formed an unbroken, precipitous wall, rising from 4000 feet to 6000 feet, and separating the Neale Burn Valley from that of the Clinton. On our right, the mountains stood out more as separate peaks.
69
Joe’s River and the Neale Bum
70
Towards middav we neared a hanging valley on our right hand about iooo feet above the floor of the main valley. The stream descended in a mighty leap to the valley below. Later on we came to another hanging valley, opposite which we camped. We were now about seven miles from the junction with the Clinton. We pitched camp upon a sandy flat alongside the river. During the night rain came on, and as it did not cease the next day we did not move our camp. The river had meantime been rising steadily, and we soon found ourselves on an island. By nightfall the waters had risen to the level of the tent, and as the torrent was raging on either side of us, we knew that we could not possibly cross it. The night was passed not without some anxiety. Fortunately, when things had become somewhat critical, the rain ceased and the river fell rapidly.
We were early on the move, but found the soaking bush none too pleasant. The flooded state of the river prevented us from wading up its bed. Along its banks the undergrowth was dense and dripping. Floundering, scrambling and crawling, we made but little progress. Each man had to take his turn in the lead and force a passage. Dinner time arrived and we had not accomplished a couple of miles. Soaked through though we were, we were glad of a long spell. After dinner we managed to cross the river, and found the going considerably improved.
We left the river and made our way over the talus slopes at the foot of the mountains, and by evening we were about three miles from the head of the valley. The head of the valley was enclosed by fine mountains, which we afterwards found to be Balloon and Elliot. One mountain was especially grand, its two rocky peaks standing out above an extensive snowfield.
We celebrated our arrival at the head of the valley that night bv something of a concert, for it was New Year's Eve. The night was perfect, and the scene magnificent.
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The moon, nearing its western goal, lit up with wondrous beauty the grand sentinels of the valley that lay slumbering in the darkness, while the stars shone in all their myriads. Unfortunately, that perfect night was followed by snow and rain next morning, which effectually prevented us from seeking for a pass.
D I A day later, without swags, we started off to look for a pass. The end of the valley, winding round Mt. Elliot, was still hidden from us, and seemed to retreat as we advanced. At last the end was reached. We found an impassable cirque. In thick rain we hurried back to camp. Next day, in the rain, we went back down the valley. As we were making our way over the snow and debris of a winter’s avalanche, suddenly a loud report was heard, and a mass of rocks bounding down the mountain fell within a few feet of the doctor. The rest of the journey we performed wading down-stream, often up to the waist. Late in the afternoon we reached the river flat where we had camped on the way up. Near this was a hanging valley, and with the idea of seeking a pass in this direction, we camped at the foot of a cataract descending from it. tt r i f • i 1 *1 i • i •
We made a fairly early start without packs, climbing beside the cataract for about 700 feet till we reached the hanging valley. A name suggested for this cataract was Epidote Cataract, on account of the great quantity of epidote in the rocks here. We clambered up the face without any difficulty, and reached the valley above. On our way up we came upon an immense block showing some very fine examples of faulting. Of all the hanging valleys I have seen, this is by far the most interesting. It might be termed a double hanging valley.
About a mile from the top of Epidote Cataract the vallev seemed to end in a sloping, scrub-covered wall, about iooo feet high. Towards the centre of this wall. Flower Fall, as we named it, descended with a drop of two or three hundred feet. It took us some little time to negotiate this wall, but after we had scrambled to the top
Joe's River and the Neale Bum
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we found ourselves looking down upon a small lake, about forty or fifty feet below. How this lake had been formed is a mystery. It seems unlikely that glacial action is responsible for it. A wall of live rock rises, as I have said, for 1000 feet above the lower portion of the hanging valley, and fifty feet above the lake. Possibly it may owe its origin to the faulting of the rocks. I have already referred to an example of faulting that we had seen just below, and the double hanging valley itself seems to strengthen my supposition.
Whatever the cause of its origin, Iceberg Lake as we called it is certainly very interesting. It is 3400 feet above sea level, and somewhat less than a mile long. On its surface floated numerous small icebergs, which were continually breaking off the extremity of a snowfield on a peak above the lake.
Beyond the lake, we found a pass at 3800 feet, leading to Joe's River and to Milford. Marshall Pass is in reality a double saddle. We climbed the saddle to the north-east, and found ourselves looking down into a valley whose stream empties itself into the Clinton near the head of Te Anau. While we were surveying the magnificent panorama displayed before us, a snowstorm came on. We went down to Iceberg Lake, and made our way to the other saddle, which we reached after some rather difficult climbing. From this saddle we saw a valley leading away to the north-east, in the direction of Lake Wakatipu. We thought at this stage that this must be the Hollyford. We returned to our camp below.
At this juncture, Dr. Marshall was reluctantly compelled to be on his way back to Dunedin, where examination papers awaited his attention. Some of the others went with him, but Talbot and I determined to finish the work. Next morning, January 6th, we parted company—they for Te Anau, and we to climb Marshall Pass. When about 500 feet up Epidote Cataract, we looked down and perceived the others emerging from the bush upon an
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open river flat, over half a mile away. Waving adieux once more, we moved upward in silence. The roar of the waters would have effectually drowned any conversation, had either of us been in the mood for it.
Up the face of Flower Fall the party had scrambled the previous day without too much trouble, but with heavy swags it was quite a different matter. Progress was slow, as it was necessary to haul up the packs with the rope. It was 5 p.m. before we gained the summit of the pass, where we were refreshed by the magnificent view of snow-clad mountains and deep valleys.
The descent on the other side began down steep, grassy, and scrub-covered slopes. In two hours we reached the bush line and found ourselves above a precipice some 500 feet high. As night was approaching, we considered it wiser to camp. We put off our packs and scouted round for a good spot to spend the night. When we went to pick up the swags again, we couldn't locate them anywhere. Half an hour was spent searching. Night was coming on apace, and the prospect of spending it on the mountainside without tent or blankets was none too pleasing. Fortunately, however, we stumbled over them at last, and were spared some discomfort.
Next morning, without much trouble the floor of the valley was reached. The river still flowed in a northeasterly direction. Reaching a vallev coming in on the left hand, we pitched camp that night at its entrance, and next morning after our usual practice we reconnoitred the valley without swags. Satisfied with our investigations, we returned for our baggage, and four miles up this valley came to the foot of a pass. At first it seemed impracticable, but we found numerous broad ledges, and the nature of the rocks here caused even the perpendicular faces to be studded with a series of steps. In fact, it seems to depend chiefly on the nature of the rocks whether a valley shall end in a pass or not. The well-known McKinnon Pass on the Milford Track illustrates this well. Much
Early days in the Upper Hullyford Mount Talbot in the distance
Grave and Talbot on ridge south of Cleddau, 1907 hirst snowfield «t Grave-Talbot Pan left o\ c<
Joe's River and the Neale Burn
76
of the rock there is a micaeous schist, which splits up and weathers rapidly.
Here might be pointed out the great difference between the mountains of Fiordland, and those of Central Otago or the East Coast. On the latter, there are gentle talus slopes of weathered rock from top to bottom, and precipices are all but unknown. No snow lies on them during the summer months. In Fiordland, all is precipice; sloping ridges are rare indeed. Deep snowfields lie on the southern slopes of all mountains over 5000 feet. In fact, so difficult to climb are the mountains of Fiordland, that A4t. Balloon, which rises not 3000 feet above McKinnon Pass, has not yet been scaled, although I believe it was attacked by Mr. Malcolm Ross, who lately succeeded in climbing Mt. Cook.
[W. G. Grave himself made the first ascent of Mt. Balloon, four years later, in 1910, with Talbot and Lyttle. -Ed.]
As we lunched on top of our pass, we observed a greenish streak winding through the valley below, and then we knew that we were looking down into the Arthur Valley, and the light green streak against the darker bush was the track to Milford. We realized then that the valley we had been in was not the Hollyford, but Joe's River.
Moving a little round the pass, we beheld on our left Sutherland Falls descend, as if in one glorious leap, from Lake Quill. Away to our right lay Milford, and the Bowen Falls. Right opposite we could see the Mackay and Giant Gate Falls. Beyond iMackay Falls we observed a large lake, at the foot of a very low pass leading westward. This pass probably leads down the Light River to Sutherland Sound, which we reached last year.
Tempted by the easiness of the ascent, we were soon on our way to the summit of a mountain rising from the pass. We reached a snow-covered ridge which we followed to the top. The view was wonderful. As there was hardly
E
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time to descend by the circuitous route by which we had climbed, we made our way in a straight line for the pass, glissading rapidly down a steep snowfield. When the snow became too steep, we had to take to the rocks for some distance. Later, thinking to try the snow again in spite of its steepness, we decided to test it. We threw a large stone on to the snow. An avalanche started at once, and bore down upon some nasty looking rocks rising above a precipice, which we later found to be fully 2000 feet. Needless to say, we avoided the snow, and in due course regained the pass.
We decided to return and explore Joe's River. Two days later, we camped opposite a valley coming in on the right, which appeared to lead back in the direction of Te Anau. Here the scenery was exceptionally fine. One mountain, especially, which separated two branches of the Joe's River, added a wonderful grandeur to the scene.
We explored another tributary coming in further down. The head was walled in with precipitous mountains, quite impassable. High up we beheld a hanging valley. A desperate climb brought us into this at 3700 feet. Here we found a small lake, to which we gave the name Buttercup Lake, on account of the thousands of buttercups that grew on its shores. Beyond, the cliffs towered above us for 2000 feet. After a short stay, we descended to the valley below, reaching camp at dusk.
Next day we proceeded down-stream, reaching within three miles of Lake Ada on the Milford Track, before camping. When we had quitted our companions, twelve days before, we had taken five days’ provisions. Needless to say, rations had been pretty meagre, and our supplies were now quite exhausted. We hoped to breakfast at the hut near the head of Lake Ada, but in this we were disappointed. Though we had less than half a mile to go to reach the head of the lake, it took us seven hours to get there. Steep bluffs descended to the water’s edge. We tried to pass these by wading in the water up to the arm-
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pits, but it was impossible. Then, after spending further time trving to work our way across them, we had to go back and climb right up above them. Descending again, we crossed the Arthur River without difficulty, and came out upon the track about a mile above the hut.
Although we had now been walking for eleven hours with nothing to eat, we decided to push on to the Falls Huts in order to catch the steamer down Te Anau the next day. We did not bother about the cage over the Arthur River, but waded in once more. It was not, however, deep enough for one of us, and for a minute or two he sat down in it, so that its pure waters might wash away some of the filthy mud of the bogs of Lake Ada. Arriving at the Falls Huts about 7 p.m., we were quite ready to do justice to the excellent meal that was put before us.
[As an outcome of his part in this expedition, Professor P. Marshall, D.Sc, F.G.S., wrote a short scientific treatise entitled "Vicinity of Lake Te Anau and Milford Sound", for publication in the Geographical Journal, iooB.-Ed.]
THE QUEST FOR A ROUTE BETWEEN LAKE WAKA TIPU AND MILFORD SOUND
For the next three seasons Grave led parties which carried out extensive exploration from Milford Sound and from the Hollyford Valley, in the hopes of finding the long desired route between Lake Wakatipu and Milford Sound. His account of this work follows:
Milford, the grandest of the West Coast Sounds, lies almost due west from the head of Lake Wakatipu, distant as the crow flies less than thirty miles. Short though the intervening distance is, hitherto no one had succeeded in finding a direct route between Wakatipu and the Sound, the Darran Mountains, attaining in Mt. Tutoko a height of over 9000 feet, proving an impassable barrier.
The western slopes of the Darran Range are drained by the Cleddau River, which flows into Milford Sound. The scenery of the Qeddau is more magnificent than that of any other river in the Sounds district. In some of the valleys of the Cleddau the mountains rise sheer for over 4000 feet and then slope upwards for another 4000 feet or more to lofty snow-clad peaks.
[Note that at this stage Grave uses the general term “Cleddau” to cover the Cleddau proper and its tributaries, Esperance, Gulliver and Donne, which were then nameless.—Ed.]
On the east, the Darran Range is drained bv the Hollyford River, which was first explored thoroughly about the year 1889, by the surveyor, E. H. Wilmot. The first recorded visit to the upper Hollyford was made by Homer and Barber a few months earlier, when they reached Homer's Saddle at the head of the valley. From different
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branches of the Hollyford, three saddles, each about 4000 feet high, lead to the Cleddau River. The Hollyford at its source divides into two short branches, Homer's Saddle being at the head of one branch, and Gertrude Saddle at the head of a short branch, three miles to the north. A mile to the north of Gertrude Saddle is the Lake Adelaide Saddle, at the head of Moraine Creek, the longest tributary of the Hollyford. All of these saddles are easily climbed from the Hollyford, but from each of their summits one looks down a precipice sheer for over 2000 feet into the Cleddau Valley below.
After Mr. Wilmot's exploration, as there appeared no prospect of finding a way over the Darran Mountains, the feasibility of putting a tunnel through Homer's Saddle was mooted. Simpson and Quill, members of a survey party, went up the Cleddau River from Milford Sound, but were unable to locate Homer's Saddle. Some time later, Quill, who was with a survey party in the Hollyford, set out alone for Homer's Saddle, on the top of which he erected a cairn and a pole. Returning to his camp, he left a note stating that he was going to try and reach the Cleddau by means of the Gertrude Saddle, a few miles distant. He was not seen again. A search party later found, along the precipice, tracks that ended where the moss had peeled away from the face of a rock, and here that intrepid climber met his death. Since that year, no serious attempt has been made to find a way from the Hollvford to Milford.
In our 1905 exploration of Joe's River we had hoped to find a pass leading to the Hollyford, but in this we were unsuccessful. Two years later, still imbued with the hope of finding a route from Milford, we decided to explore thoroughly the Cleddau River.
CLEDDAU EXPLORATION. 1907-8
In all there are six branches of the Cleddau River, and as far as I could ascertain, no thorough exploration of the
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river had been made. There were no maps that in any way showed the Cleddau and its branches.
Accordingly, on December 12 th, 1907, our party, Grave, Talbot, Grenfell and de Lambert, set out from Milford Sound. Our swags, weighed at Sutherland’s, turned the scale at 52 lb. each.
We made our way up the Qeddau, and passing by the Tutoko branch, explored in 1897 by Dr. Don, W. Don, Gifford and myself, we entered the next branch on the north, which we named the Donne Valley. This valley is about ten miles long. Mt. Underwood, 8000 feet high, forms its western wall. It rises vertically from the river for over 4000 feet. Above the precipitous wall great snowfields slope back to beautiful minaret peaks rising steeply out of the snow. Every now and then, avalanches break away and fall thundering into the valley below. Near the head of the Donne Valley, above the sheer rock wall, the ice rises vertically for some hundred feet, and a fine icefall descends almost to the valley floor. The eastern wall of the valley, attaining a height of about 7000 feet, rises bare and rocky, too steep to afford a resting place for snow. I have not seen a valley that equals the Donne for majesty and beauty. We found it climbable nowhere, though had we been equipped with ice axes, we might have made our way up the icefall at the source of the river.
In Anarch 1907, a report appeared in the papers that Sutherland, of Milford Sound, had discovered a low pass leading to Wakatipu. I was, truth to tell, extremely disappointed on hearing of this, as I had just a month previously arranged with Mr. Donne, then General Manager of the Tourist Department, to explore the Qeddau thoroughly in search of a route to Wakatipu. From a description this year Sutherland gave us of his “pass”, and from a map he drew, we located this “pass” at the head of the Donne Valley. He told us that from the shoulder of a peak he saw it afar. I think, however, he
Cleddau Exploration
7 1
would have altered his opinion had he made a closer inspection of it. As I have already said, we found no pass here.
We now retraced our steps down the Donne Valley till we came to the main river, and then making our way up this we entered a valley coming in from the southeast. This we called Gulliver Valley, Gulliver being the nickname of Grenfell, one of the party who has frequently accompanied me. This valley is not so grand as the last. It ends in cirques, low, comparatively speaking, but absolutely unscalable, rising bare and rocky to the Lake Adelaide and Gertrude Saddles. We made a desperate climb at the head of this valley, and succeeded in getting up about 3000 feet, only to be blocked by overhanging rocks. There was plenty of good scrub to hang on to at first, and later wiry grass, the only danger being one's hold might give way. We climbed upward for about seven hours before being finally frustrated.
The following day, leaving one of the party in camp to recover, we made our way down the Gulliver, and ascended a short, narrow hanging valley which came into the Gulliver from the south-west. Four miles up this we reached the head, where we found a low easy saddle at 2800 feet at the source of the stream. We believed that we had at last found a pass to the Hollyford. Two days later, New Year's Eve, saw our camp established at the head of this valley, and late in the afternoon Talbot and I reached the top, 4000 feet, after a climb of three hours. When we got on to the saddle, it was a veritable razor-back; the further side was a sheer drop of 300 feet. We were unable to walk across the saddle, so we straddled along it, one leg dangling over each side. Had the descent on the other side been practicable, it still would have been useless, as it led only to another branch of the Cleddau, and not to the Hollyford as we had hoped.
A few weeks later, after returning to Oamaru and examining the photos with de Lambert, we noticed that
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away to the left above a waterfall the mountain seemed climbable, and in submitting a report of our exploration to the Tourist Department, I named this Esperance Valley, as it still afforded us some slight hope of a pass.
But to return. iMaking our way down Esperance Valley, we reached the main valley of the Cleddau, up which we journeyed till we came to the head, where Homer's Saddle divides the Cleddau from the Hollyford. The saddle, about 4200 feet high, we did not think climbable, but we made an attempt a little further down the valley. Leaving one of the party at the foot, as the climb seemed hopeless and too dangerous, the rest of us succeeded, after the most desperate climb of the trip, in reaching the top of the ridge, 5300 feet, by 7 p.m. Here we looked into Talbot River, a branch of Joe's River that Talbot and I had explored two years before. The dark shadows thrown on the opposite mountain wall, rising rapidly up its face, warned us that night was fast approaching. Having had no time to look around, and resolving to climb the mountain again on the morrow, we started to descend. Darkness came on before we reached the foot of the mountain. A mile further down-stream our camp was pitched. The bush growing on the talus slopes that ran down to the river was exceedingly rough and difficult to traverse, even in daylight. In the dark, it was impossible. We took to the water, and till midnight we floundered downstream, making our way as best we could, with the aid of matches and an inch of candle, which finallv disappeared in the river, staggering over rocks and falling into deep pools up to the neck. Soaked to the skin, and regretting that we had tried to reach camp, we gave up the attempt. With difficulty in the darkness we gathered some dry wood, and kindling a fire, we lay round it till dawn, whereupon we had the mortification to behold our camp, not more than two hundred yards awav.
The following day we again climbed the mountain, and made our way along the ridge, but a peak rising abruptly
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proved an impassable barrier between us and Homer's Saddle. From this peak radiate four valleys, the Hollyford, the Cleddau, and two branches of Joe's River. From where we stood, we could almost throw a stone on to the saddle, and into the Hollvford, and without shifting our ground, we could easily have tossed one into each of the other three valleys.
This was the last and most southerly valley of the Cleddau, and the only one that could be used as a tourist route. There is a sixth vallev up the Cleddau, which is short and goes back towards the Arthur River.
It seemed to us that a track might be made from Homer's Saddle into the main branch of the Cleddau by blasting out the rock wall, as had been done round the bluffs at Lake Ada. The face of the wall is somewhat deeply cut into by gullies and this would render the track more easy of construction.
Five days later, we were back at Milford, disappointed that we had not found a route, but satisfied that no route at present exists, though one could be made without much difficulty.
The work of exploration from the time we left Milford lasted seventeen days. Owing to the unparalleled dryness, we lost no time at all. Under the weather conditions that usually prevail in this region, we could not have accomplished in six weeks what the fine weather this season enabled us to do in so short a time. We used the utmost efforts, and attempted far more dangerous climbing than on any previous occasion.
An astonishing feature of the last branch of the Cleddau was a stupendous chasm, about 200 yards long and a little more than a couple of yards wide. Down this the river rushed in a boiling cataract, the walls of which were excavated in many enormous potholes. Similar gorges are to be found on the Glaisnock and the Dark River, but not so magnificent as this one.
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We were surprised to find so little bird life in the valleys.
Sutherland’s cattle, now roaming wild in the bush, made our task much easier than it would otherwise have been. Their tracks were found for some miles up each of the valleys.
MORAINE CREEK TRIP. 1908-9
[Quotation marks denote where extracts from A. C. Gifford's account are used in conjunction with the notes written by W. G. Grave.—Ed.]
On looking over the photos of the Cleddau trip, it seemed to us that we had not thoroughly examined the valley from which we had climbed on to the saddle. This valley, leading as it did into another branch of the Cleddau, we had quitted without delay, but the photos opened up possibilities that had escaped our notice. In the account of the Cleddau trip that I sent in to the Superintendent of the Tourist Department, I called this Esperance Valley, and decided to go up the Hollyford the following season to see how things looked from that side of the mountains. Wilmot had mapped out the course of the Hollyford some twenty years previously. Accordingly, the year after we had explored the Cleddau, we set out for the Hollyford River.
The other members of the party were Talbot, Lyttle of Gore, and A. C. Gilford of Wellington. Gifford had been a member of the first three expeditions, but ten years had elapsed since he had accompanied me to Bligh Sound.
Leaving Kinloch at the head of Lake Wakatipu, we made our way with swags of 75 lb. up the Routeburn Valley, and crossing Harris Saddle, we descended to the Hollyford River. Here we placed all our solid provisions in a depot before crossing, as we expected the exploration of Moraine Creek to take three or four days at the most, and our intentions were, on this trip, to examine all the western tributaries of the Hollyford.
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The Hollyford is a river by no means to be trifled with, especially when in flood. For five days we camped on the bank, unable to cross owing to incessant rain. At length, the weather improving, we managed to get over with the aid of long poles and the rope, and set out up A4oraine Creek, the largest and most beautiful branch of the Hollyford. The rain, which had held off during the morning, started again, and we were treated to seventeen consecutive days of it. Unable to cross Moraine Creek, we went up the south bank where bluffs descending right into the river caused much difficulty and hard work in our progress up-stream. The northern bank of the river we found on our return journey to be much easier.
"After toiling continually upwards for two days, through almost impenetrable jungles of tangled bush, with the cataract roaring all the time in our ears, till we began to feel that nothing lay before us but an interminable series of dense thickets and turbulent cascades, suddenly we emerged into daylight and saw spread at our feet a beautiful open stretch of grassy flats nearly half a mile in length, diversified with clumps of trees, and with the creek no longer clamouring in its headlong rush, but winding silently and peacefully down the centre."
From the fringing bush the mountainous walls rise sheer to snow-clad summits. On a fine day, after traversing for some hours the gloom of the bush, to come upon this park with its exquisitely beautiful setting, fills one with inexpressible delight.
Here, at Tent Flat, we camped early, with the rain coming down in torrents, and icy cold. Hoping for an improvement in the weather we stayed where we were the following day, and made futile attempts whenever the rain ceased for a space, to dry our soaking clothes.
Beyond Tent Flat an ancient moraine, now bush clad, rose, extending across the valley, and beyond this a second moraine, each marking the temporary halting place of a shrinking glacier.
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“This moraine is well worthy of notice. It is of great size and considerable height, and the blocks of which it is built are stupendous. They are piled so loosely together, that as you jump or scramble from rock to rock, you see huge caverns in all directions beneath you. The great height of this moraine is probably due to the meeting of two glaciers which flowed in almost exactly opposite directions. The main glacier that hollowed out Lake Adelaide has long since disappeared, but the one which met it still remains though shrunk to a fraction of its former size. It is parallel to the glacier which ends above Tent Flat in a magnificent icefall, from which avalanches frequently tumble on to the talus slope below. Tent Flat itself probably occupies the site of an ancient lake formed through the moraine of this glacier blocking up the valley when the ice receded.”
The weather showing no signs of improvement, we moved onward. Towards evening we came out above the bush line, and making our way midst showers of sleet and snow over the upper moraine, we beheld Lake Adelaide lying dark and gloomy at the further end of the valley. The outlet of the lake is blocked by the moraine which rises high above its waters. We pitched camp near the lake amongst the great blocks of rock, and our only firewood, green beech and drachophyllum, was none too satisfactory.
The following day we made our way round to the further end of Lake Adelaide, whose beauty was yet for many days hidden from us, owing to the atrocious weather. Beyond the lake, a cataract descended from a hanging valley some 500 feet above the lake. Climbing up this we beheld, rising 600 feet above the valley floor, the saddle separating Moraine Creek from the Cleddau. At its foot nestled a small lake. The lower portion of the saddle wall being sheer for 300 feet, appeared unscalable.
Returning to camp, we were the next day detained by the weather, but the following morning, notwithstanding
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the rain, we moved our camp to the upper end of the lake. Here we waited anxiously for a fine day. On Friday, January Bth, it appeared to have come, for when we rose at 4 a.m. it was clear, though bitterly cold. Undeterred by a few flakes of snow which fluttered down as we boiled the billy, we made an early start for the saddle. But the snow came on in earnest, and we took shelter for a while under a rock about 450 feet above the lake. As the snowstorm grew worse we realized it was hopeless to attempt the search for a pass, and returned to our camp, wet through again.
At long last, we rejoiced in a fine day, and for the first time realized the beauties of the lake. Lake Adelaide is indeed a perfect gem, probably unequalled elsewhere in New Zealand in its alpine setting.
We were early away, but finding ourselves unable to get on to the saddle, we began to climb the mountain wall some little distance below the saddle. It was not long before the difficulties began.
“Grave, Talbot and Lyttle were good climbers, and it was soon clear that what might be a safe pass for them was not even a possible one for me. So, at 10.30 a.m., at 4000 feet above sea level, I wished them good luck, and goodbye in case they were successful in reaching Milford. Then seeking shade under a large rock, I anxiously watched their ascent. For three hours and a half, I saw them hanging on by toes and finger tips to the rocks, and struggling slowly upwards. In that time they rose barely 150 feet. Suddenly, glancing towards the saddle, I noticed new shadows cast by the afternoon sun. Ledges and ridges appeared which were invisible in the morning light, and it seemed now quite possible to find a way to the top, up a narrow water channel near the left-hand comer of the cirque. A quarter of an hour’s investigation showed that this route at all events presented nothing like such difficulties as the way the others were trying. A coo-ee brought them back, and after a light lunch, we made for
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the narrow crack at the foot of the saddle, and in less than an hour, all four of us were on top of the saddle.”
The view was superb. We saw Milford about nine miles distant. Directly beneath us, in the Cleddau Valley, the bush looked like a green carpet with the river winding through it as a silver streak. A peep was afforded into each of its tributary streams. Close beside us, to the south, was another saddle, and we speculated as to what lay beyond whether a valley leading to Lake Marian or to the upper Hollyford. Two of us who had been in the Cleddau the year before, examined with interest from a new point of view the scenes of some exciting climbs.
"The great question now arose. Was it possible to get down? A glance over the forbidding cliffs was almost sufficient answer. It would be easy to reach the bottom in a quarter of a minute, but not all in one piece. The descent to the Cleddau was sheer for over 2000 feet. We were reluctant to give up hope. From our vantage point we could not see the wall directly below. There might be, though it did not seem likely, some ledges which would afford a foothold. It would take some hours to find out, and it was now 6 p.m."
Gifford and Lyttle now returned to camp, and prepared the evening meal, the usual meagre allowance being doubled in honour of our having looked down on Milford. Talbot and I promising to come down about an hour later, set about a further examination of the precipices. The temptation to try the descent into the Cleddau was too great for us. By 8 p.m. the aneroid showed that we had gone down 800 feet, but we could get no further. I suggested that we should tie ourselves on to the rock and pass the night where we were. Talbot, however, preferred to make an attempt to get back, and we managed somehow to reach the top of the saddle by 9.20 p.m. and the descent down our "crack" to the valley. It was none too pleasant in the dark. However, shortly'after midnight
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we were safely back in camp, to the intense relief of our companions.
We keen to give it another go the next day, and were up betimes. Gifford decided against accompanying us, planning to wait one day in camp in case we returned. So again Talbot, Lyttle and I took our leave of him and made for the saddle. It was a glorious day but the heat was extreme, and with our hands torn by rocks and lawyers, we found our work under the blazing sun more exhausting than in the cool of the evening. Discouragement met us when, having again attained the ledge 800 feet below the saddle, and having made careful search, we were cut off by overhanging cliffs. There was nothing for it but to return. And so it came about that before dark we were all together again, enjoying the "duff" that Gifford had prepared.
I was still not quite convinced that the descent was absolutely impossible, given fair weather and sufficient time. However, our three weeks were almost up, and we decided to strike camp at daybreak. Having found the journey up Moraine Creek so rough, we came to the conclusion that the other side of the cataract might very well be better, and could hardly be worse. Coming home, therefore, we took a new route and were able to avoid some of the chief difficulties we had previously encountered.
"Every time the severity of the storm increased, someone would predict it as the last shower. Another remarked that if not actually the last one it was exactly like it. Someone else suggested that possibly 'More Rain' was the correct way of spelling the name of the creek. At last, on January 6th, though the sun still remained obstinately hidden, we enjoyed a fine day, but on the 7th and Bth it was like old times again, except that the temperature having fallen considerably, the rain was sometimes replaced by sleet, hail or snow. Thus, in the first fortnight, we enjoyed thirteen wet days, which establishes
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a record for these trips. Unfortunately, while skies weep, holidays fly by, and our progress was so much delayed that we spent all the time at our disposal in a single valley, and were separated most of the while from the bulk of our provisions. This necessitated our being careful of our stores. On days in camp we contented ourselves as best we could with two meals, by no means large ones. Singing, recitations, and impromptu lectures helped to pass the time, and made us less conscious that it was still before breakfast, although afternoon. One day, it was between 3 and 4 p.m. when we broke our fast. Sometimes we enjoyed the luxury of porridge, and then the privilege of scraping the billy was carefully awarded by lot. But as soon as it lost its novelty, we tired of standing unclothed in the pouring rain, patiently coaxing the sodden wood to burn, and we preferred to partake of cold refreshment. One meal, according to our menu card, consisted of four figs apiece and a fragment of cheese. Again we tried to supplement our provisions with local products, and made a stew of rice, wild cress, and snowgrass (Danthonia). The rice and cress were good, but the hay was cruelly hard to swallow."
A PASS AT LAST
December 22nd, 1909, found us once more steaming up Lake Wakatipu. Our party this year consisted of Talbot, Lyttle, and myself. Landing at Elfin Bav, we had hoped to obtain a packhorse to carry our swags along the Greenstone track as far as Lake Howden, but there was no horse available. Our loads were somewhat over 60 lb. apiece. Mr. Harry Birley, guide on the new track from Wakatipu to Lake Te Anau, with packhorses laden with supplies for the track, overtook us near the Greenstone hut. He was convinced that we hadn't a hope of getting through to Milford. We camped the following day beyond Lake Howden, a short distance down the Martin's Bav track,
Photo: It. K,„1,1,i Mount Grave From the tvest
Photo; I l; H illiams, 1917 Ihilloou Peak And fog-filled valley <>\ the CHut/m from Mount Elliot
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Leaving 50 lb. of provisions in a depot, and quitting the track, we struck a westerly course downward towards the Hollyford, with the intention of crossing the river and investigating the Lake Marian branch. We reached the Hollyford in heavy rain, and found ourselves unable to get across. The following morning was fine, but it was some time before we came to a spot where we could essay a crossing. Even then it took us two hours with our small slashers to drop a tree half-way across so that we could negotiate the part running deeply and swiftly along the bank. Before long we came to the junction of the Marian branch and the Hollyford, and saw that above the meeting of the waters the Hollyford was easily fordable.
We made our way up the branch river and the following morning saw us on the shores of Lake Marian, about 2000 feet above sea level, a mile and a half long and half a mile across. Instead of the usual green, its waters were a lovely blue that recalled the blue of Lake Tekapo, or the delightful colouring of the Huka Falls, on the Waikato. A moraine, rising some ioo feet above the lake, blocks the outlet, the water that issues making its way underground for some little distance. Owing to the fact of its outlet being blocked, the lake varies greatly in extent and level at different seasons.
The bush ends at the shore of the lake, save for a small patch half-way round. Cutting our tent poles here, we made our way to the further end of the lake, where we pitched camp, and then proceeded to the end of the valley, a couple of miles further on. Here the valley terminated in the usual precipitous cirque, and on the left, from a hanging valley, descended a fine waterfall some six or seven hundred feet high. As these falls were not marked on Wilmot's map, we named them Lyttle Falls. They appeared to come from a lake in the hanging valley, and in order to ascertain if this were so, we tried to climb up F
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the mountain wall opposite, but night coming on compelled us to desist without having settled the question. [There were indeed two small lakes above, which were not discovered till January 1924, from the summit of Mt. Barrier, and were named Mariana and Marianette.—Ed.]
Beyond the lake, the bush gives place to low scrub, chiefly Drachophyllum latifolium and mountain totara. The red fruit of the latter was especially abundant, attracting numerous keas, which took a great interest in our operations. On the open flat, near the lake, rabbits abounded.
The following day, December 28th, considering that no possible route was to be found in the Marian Valley, we returned by a forced march to the Hollyford. and pitching camp at the junction, hurried back to our depot near Lake Howden. Next morning we continued up the main valley of the Hollyford, crossing the river from time to time, as one side or the other appeared to offer the easier going, which, however, was at no time difficult. Rain was falling heavily, and continued without intermission for eight days. The health of the party was far from satisfactory. Lyttle, who had come on' the trip against the doctor's orders, was suffering from bronchitis and acute indigestion. Talbot got something in his eye. which we were unable to extract, and for two days he was in great pain, being unable to open the eye. And I was troubled with a bout of rheumatics. ...
[Dr. D. R. Jennings, with whom Grave often discussed this trip, supplies further details, N. Z. Alpine Journal 1942:
"Lyttle's doctor, who had disapproved of his going into such country, had inquired jokingly whether he" might he going there to look for a farm. To this there is a sequel. Towards the head of the valley, the party came upon an area of bush in which the trees had been overturned by an avalanche when they were younger. The branches of these trees had grown up like a forest from the horizontal
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trunks. ‘We had to be like monkeys to climb over those trunks and between those branches,’ said Mr. Grave. Up on the terrace above Monkey Creek junction that same day, a party of tired wet men, led as usual by Mr. Grave, came to an opening whence they saw a stimulating sight. Instead of the dripping wet bush, with its rotten logs and slippery green moss, ahead was a large area of flat, grassy, open country, with ‘easy going’. The diminishing Hollyford meandered across it, and a solitary beech tree stood near its centre. Two great misty mountains formed the background to the area, and made it an impressive place indeed. ‘Hey, Lyttle, look!’ said the humorist of the party, ‘there’s your farm.’ ‘So that is why we named the flat Lyttle’s Farm,’ said Mr. Grave.”]
We take up the narrative again in Grave’s own words;
Lyttle was far from well, and our progress up the valley was slow. Early on the morning of January 3rd, we reached the headwaters of the Hollyford. Talbot and I, leaving Lyttle to get a fire going under the shelter of a big rock, went up to the head of the valley, and in a couple of hours were on top of Homer’s Saddle, but rain and dense mist prevented us from seeing anything. We returned, and pitched our camp at the junction of the two streams, coming, the one from Homer’s Saddle, the other from Gertrude Saddle.
Next day, from the top of Gertrude Saddle we saw Milford Sound about ten miles distant. On the left of the saddle it was possible to get down two or three hundred feet, beyond that—a sheer precipice to the valley below.
In 1891, while endeavouring to make his way down this precipice. Quill lost his life. He appears to have been possessed of a most daring and adventurous spirit. As a boy, in a skiff of his own construction, he used to paddle down the Taieri River and out to sea. His climb up the face of the Sutherland Falls, and the discovery of the lake at the top that now bears his name, is well known. The mistake he made, however, was in climbing alone.
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What is sheer madness for one man to attempt, may often be accomplished without difficulty by a party of two or three, using a rope. After spending an hour on the saddle, we were compelled by the approach of night to return to camp. The following day, January 5th, was beautifully fine, and we were away early for Homer’s Saddle.
The rocks here contain a large quantity of hornblende, while great veins of epidote, traversing the rocks in all directions, render them more easily broken up by the action of frost. At the top of the saddle the way lies under a great mass of shattered rock. It has been suggested that Homer’s Saddle has been formed by some great earthquake that has shattered and overturned the top. However, the dip and the nature of the rock, and the action of the frost are quite sufficient to account for the formation of the saddle, without calling in the assistance of an earthquake. On the eastern saddle of Marshall Pass (between north branch of the Clinton and Joe’s River) and in numerous places elsewhere in the mountains of this region, one finds the rocks shattered to a similar degree.
Easy though the climb to the saddle is, Lyttle, in his poor state of health, was pretty well exhausted. Having secured an excellent photo of Lyttle and Talbot on the top of a rock pinnacle, looking over a great precipice, Talbot and I started to climb down Homer’s Saddle towards the Cleddau. After three hours’ work we had only accomplished 150 feet. This was enough for me, and though Talbot longed to try further, I would not agree to do so. After lunch on the saddle, we once more left Lyttle, and at 3 p.m. started to climb the ridge that leads to a peak to the west of the saddle. For 500 feet the ascent was not too easy, and at two or three places we met with difficulty, but roped together we made our way over these, Talbot going ahead and taking most of the risk. As these difficult places are not more than a few feet in extent, the route can easily be made safe by a little rock-cutting. After attaining a height of 4800 feet, the route became
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very much easier, following the gentle slope of the mountain up to the snow, over which we made our way without difficulty till at 6 p.m. we reached the top of the peak some 6000 feet high. We called it the Snowball. From the top of this peak we looked right down into Fsperance Valley. While I was securing some photographs, Talbot started to descend towards this valley. I followed, but was soon left behind by Talbot who made his way rapidly downward. A quarter of an hour later, Talbot returned, but his report was not altogether encouraging. By 7 p.m. we were back on top of the mountain, and made our way down to Homer's Saddle which we reached shortly after 9 o'clock. Darkness and thick mist then enveloped everything, and our passage from the saddle to our camp about a mile down the valley was accomplished only with a great deal of trouble. We reached camp about 10.30 p.m. and were delighted to find that Lyttle had an excellent meal ready for us.
The next morning, after breakfast, we said goodbye to Lvtcle. We expected to be absent four days if we succeeded in getting over. He told us that in all probability he would go back to Wakatipu without waiting more than one day for our return. At i p.m., we were once more on top of the Snowball. Nowhere in the whole Sounds district can a finer view be obtained. Far away to the east, one could see the blue-grev shingle slopes of the schist mountains that lie around Wakatipu; to the south, midst a host of lesser peaks, one could pick out Hart, Balloon and Elliot; away to the west of the Arthur Valley, in a long line, the snowy summits of the Danger and Terror Peaks, and the Mitre, a long razor-back; while as the eye ranged northward, it embraced in one vast, comprehensive view a host of great snow-clad peaks, from Pembroke to distant Aspiring. In the centre, but a few miles away, Tutoko, the monarch of Fiordland, stood forth in all his majesty. In contemplation of this glorious scene, time passed unheeded.
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At length we began the descent towards the Esperance. The first 600 feet was accomplished without difficulty. Then we came to a point where there appeared to be a sheer drop of 100 feet. Talbot first tried to make his way along a ledge that gradually narrowed till it disappeared. I refused to try this. The only alternative was to lower one of the party for zoo feet to examine what was below. I lowered Talbot, and as he descended, he saw that the ledges and snowgrass afforded more hold than had appeared to us from above. Then, removing the rope, he made his way down a bare rocky slope, but after some time he came back and said there was no hope of getting down. However, while I had been waiting to haul Talbot up again, I noticed a way up on to the ridge, and suggested that Talbot should see what prospect we had from there. Before long he returned, reporting that things looked very promising. We followed the ridge for about a quarter of a mile, and it now appeared to us that we could have come round by a different route, cutting off six or seven hundred feet of the climb, and the troublesome and somewhat dangerous descent.
Quitting the ridge, we worked down over easy grassy slopes and good rock ledges into Esperance Valley. At length we came to a point where we felt we ought to make towards the left. Still, the way straight down was very good, and in spite of our better judgment, we kept on. When only 500 feet from grassy, scrub-covered slopes we found ourselves on a sheer precipice. For some time we worked round this, the situation becoming more and more perilous as we advanced. Finally, we could proceed no further, and it was a case of choosing between two alternatives.
One course was to retrace our steps and climb up several hundred feeet to the point where previously we had seen a way to the left. The other alternative was to rope down the precipice. As it was now about 8 p.m., we chose the latter. Taking a turn round a small shrub (dracho-
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phyllum) Talbot lowered me for 80 feet. The rope did not run freely, and I went with a jerk for a few feet. For a second or two, I thought I had gone altogether. On my shouting to Talbot that we could get down another hundred feet, he came down on the double rope, and then pulled it after him. We had now cut off all chance of climbing back. Downward we must go. Each further stage was accomplished by tying the ends of a piece of snowgrass with a piece of string, and passing the rope through. There was not much danger of the snowgrass giving way. The chief risk was that the string might slip off the grass. When our supply of string gave out we used pieces of our bootlaces. Talbot, being a much better climber than I, had the more difficult and dangerous work of coming last.
A little before 9 o’clock, we reached the scrub slopes. Darkness had now come on, and as we were moving down hoping to reach the bush, Talbot suddenly stopped, saying that he was not going to have a repetition of the previous night’s stumbling down from the saddle. I myself was eager to get to the bush, but as Talbot had borne the brunt of the climbing, I did not insist on going on. We gathered some of the green scrub and lit a fire. Being very thirsty, we set out in the dark to try and find water, and soon came to a bare, steeply sloping rock face over which we made our way to where we heard running water. That night we lay round our handful of fire, partly sheltered by a small rock from the dense fog that drenched everything.
When daylight came we got up intending to continue our journey downward. We had not advanced ten yards, when we found ourselves on a precipice some 400 feet sheer. Then, in the daylight, we were unable to make our way over the bare slope above the precipice, across which in the dark and by match light, all unaware of the danger, we had gone in search of water.
For almost three hours we were compelled to wait till the fog disappeared. We were, however, compensated
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for the delay, as I managed to secure an excellent photograph of the peaks rising out of a billowy sea of cloud. Twenty minutes after it had cleared, we were down to the river bed and on our way to Milford about ten miles distant. The remainder of the trip was very level going, and thanks to Sutherland’s cattle an easy track already exists for several miles along the bank of the river.
We took about nine hours to reach Milford from the foot of the pass, but our progress was not very rapid. My chief difficulty was in trying to keep awake. Spending half a day at Milford, we returned by way of McKinnon Pass to Lake Te Anau, and then crossed by Birley’s route to Lake Howden.
As we lay one night in the open around our fire on the site of an old camp, keas annoyed us most of the night by rattling rusty tins among the rocks. After dropping off to sleep, I was awakened by a kea on my shoulder giving me sundry digs. Although I drove it off, it returned a second and yet a third time to disturb my slumbers.
At Lake Howden, we learned from the track-makers that Lyttle had returned. The day after we had left him, he set off down the Hollyford and then, alone, explored Monkey Creek. Returning to the Hollyford, he missed the place where, in coming up, we had forded the river. In attempting to cross, he was carried off his feet, and burdened with a heavy swag, was swept down-stream, badly bruised among the boulders, and cut about all over. He was finally carried by the current to the side of the river where he managed to cling to the rocks. Several of his toenails had been tom off.
I was extremely disappointed that Lyttle had not come with us. He is an excellent climber, and would have had no difficulty in crossing the mountain.
[Thus, at last Grave’s cherished ambition was fulfilled, and the route long desired by the Government had been found. It was given the name Grave-Talbot Pass. In the Milford Visitors’ Book we found this entry: “January
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7th, 1910. Arrived at Milford Sound, having crossed direct from Lake Wakatipu to the Sound via the Hollyford and the Cleddau. The first to succeed in traversing this route. W. G. Grave, Arthur Talbot.”—Ed.]
GRAVE-TALBOT PASS
The following year, 1910, Grave, Talbot and Lyttle again set out for the Milford district with the purpose of further investigating the new pass to Milford. They hoped on this occasion to accomplish two things. One was to find a way that would avoid the precipice on the Esperance side down which Grave and Talbot had made their perilous double roping descent the year before. The second object was to avoid the climb of the Snowball, later named Mt. Macpherson, by finding a way along the ridge below the summit. Working from the Milford side, both of these objects they successfully accomplished. Grave's account follows:
At 5.30 a.m. on Tuesday, December 29th, 1910, our swags weighed on Sutherland's verandah turned the scale at 54 lb. each. We were accompanied as far as the junction of the Cleddau and Tutoko Rivers by three friends who were desirous of viewing Mt. Tutoko, the monarch of Fiordland.
The morning mist at first gave little promise of our seeing anything of Tutoko, but gradually disappearing before the rising sun, the mists laid bare the tops, and clung in light wreaths to the lower flanks of the mountain walls, thus affording us an excellent view of the peak by the time we reached the junction of the rivers, some three miles from Milford.
About six miles up the river this majestic mountain stands forth, in appearance much resembling Mt. Cook, as seen from the Hooker Valley. Both mountains rise from their valleys about 9000 feet, so that Tutoko is no mean rival of Cook, the exquisite beauty of the surround-
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ings of the lesser mountain atoning for its diminished snowfields.
Bidding our friends goodbye, we crossed without difficulty the Tutoko River, which, owing to the heavy rain of the previous day, we had expected to find swollen and troublesome. Following the Cleddau, we soon came to a point where a glorious view of Tutoko is obtained, and much regretted that our friends were no longer with us, for they were staunch champions of .Mt. Cook.
To avoid an awkward bluff on the northern bank, we crossed the Cleddau, and continued along the southern bank following the tracks made through the bush by Sutherland's cattle. We passed the Donne Valley, and later without our knowledge also the Gulliver Valley up which we had intended to make our way. When we had gone about two miles past the junction, we came out of the bush on to the river bed, and noticing our mistake, I was in no very amiable mood, for I was suffering from a violent headache. Then I found that each of the others was in a like manner afflicted, but each had borne his affliction in silence. The cause of our indisposition, rightly or wrongly, we ascribed to a tin of sardines which we had partaken of some hours before in the broiling sun. Sardines are an unwonted luxury on our expeditions, and having but one tin, we had early desired to get rid of it.
Crossing the river, we took a short cut through the bush to Gulliver Valley, and after making our way along this for some time, finding the going difficult and troublesome, we decided to pitch an early camp. All through the night mosquitoes were buzzing about, and though they did us no harm, these insects, owing to our apprehension of injury, much disturbed our slumber. Next morning we made a late start, and crossing Gulliver stream we found much better going on the northern bank.
Soon we saw Esperance Valley open out, and now, instead of continuing up-stream until we reached the junction, we foolishly decided to try a short-cut through
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the bush to the Esperance. Before long we found ourselves going up and down ravines, giving ourselves no end of hard and useless work. It was not till 5 p.m. that we reached the cataract issuing from the narrow and precipitous Esperance Valley. At 8.30 p.m. we camped at the head of the valley, on the site of our camp of three years before, using the tent poles that had served us on the former occasion.
Our first day at the head of the Esperance broke dull and gloomy. The peaks were shrouded in mist, and it was useless to attempt any climbing. However, as the day wore on, the weather improved. Leaving our camp, we made our way up easy, grassy slopes till we reached a height of 3800 feet. Then for 500 feet we clambered up a narrow gully, the route being fairly steep, but in no way dangerous. This brought us to the top of the ridge. We were not able to make our way more than 300 yards along the ridge as a great mass of rock, which we named the “Chimney”, rose precipitously on all sides. On our own side of the valley, however, we noticed a series of broad, grassy ledges, leading away to the right, 150 feet below the Chimney. As it was getting late, we were obliged to return to camp.
For the next two days it rained, as it knows how to rain only on the West Coast. A continuous spray came through the tent, but in our oiled sleeping bags we were fairly comfortable. With a yard of calico stretched above the tent door as a fire fly, we even succeeded in getting a fire, and the tedium of the tent was relieved by making and consuming a plum duff, the only defect of which was its smallness.
At length the weather cleared, and we climbed up once more to the ledges we had noticed. These continued with slight intermissions right along the face of the mountain wall, and brought us to a point some distance above the scene of our desperate rope descent of the year before. Thus of the two serious difficulties of the previous year’s route, we had now eliminated one.
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Our way now lay up a steep rocky gully to the top of the ridge, which here reached a height of 5000 feet. Soon, however, dense fog and mist enveloped everything. We waited some time for this to clear away, but as the weather became worse, reluctantly we were compelled to retrace our steps. It was not long before we got into difficulties, for the mist obscured everything. We followed the wrong ledges, and soon found ourselves hanging on to snowgrass over perpendicular faces. We were relieved when we gained the top of the ridge just beyond the Chimney, and from this point the descent to our camp was easy.
The following day, leaving Lyttle to go down to the junction of Esperance and Gulliver Valleys for some tinned meat that we had left on our way up, Talbot and I started out from camp once more. Again up over the ledges without difficulty to the summit of the ridge. From here a glorious panorama of snow-clad mountains and deep valleys stretched away on all sides. Right in front of us rose the giant, Tutoko, and Underwood with its graceful pinnacles and feathery snow. From no other track in this region can such a view be obtained, for here one is in the heart of majestic mountains.
On the further side of the ridge a snowfield some 400 yards across extended from the peak above us, almost to the precipitous descent into the main branch of the Cleddau. Beyond the snowfield, a vertical rock wall, some 200 feet high, also stretched from the peak right across. Taking a level course across the snow, we found to our astonishment a track some four or five feet in width winding up the rock face. It almost looked as if made by man, except that as Lyttle later remarked, the workmen had omitted to remove the loose rocks from the pathway. From the top of the wall we crossed a second snowfield about 600 yards in width. Beyond this snowfield rose a rock wall similar to the last. Our route lay below this. A delightful glissade on the snow for 400 feet enabled us to pass underneath this wall, and a few minutes later, all the difficulties of the
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route being overcome, we were looking down into the Hollyford Valley.
We spent some little time enjoying the scene before us, and then at 5.30 p.m. we started on the return journey, reaching camp about 8.30 p.m. Lyttle had a substantial meal of rice and stewed apples ready for us, and thinking that we might repeat our follies of previous expeditions and not turn up till after midnight, had already piled up a great heap of brushwood in front of the camp. We were not sorrv, however, to disappoint him.
The following day, leaving our tent behind, the three of us with light packs of about 20 lb. each set out just before noon for the Hollyford. We spent some time on the way, taking photographs and building a cairn, and at sunset reached our old camp a mile down the Hollyford. The previous winter's snow and heavy rain had overwhelmed the tent, and almost everything we had left behind last year was destroyed. Strange to say, the tent itself was in good order, and matches and salt being in lever-lid tins were dry. We were delighted to find the salt, for having inadvertently left ours behind at Milford, we had now been about two weeks without any.
Although we had brought but two days' provisions over the pass, we decided to spend a day in the Hollyford. We made our way down to Monkey Creek, about three miles down the valley. Here we recovered two tins of meat that last year we had left in a tree. A lovely view of the snow-clad peaks at the head of the Hollyford was obtained from the flat opposite Monkey Creek, the bad weather we had encountered here last year having entirely hidden this delightful glimpse from us.
We then made our way up Monkey Creek which comes down from a hanging valley about 800 feet above the Hollvford. We hoped to have an excellent view of Mt. Christina, which rises right opposite, to a height of over 8000 feet. The view, however, was by no means as impressive as we expected. We arrived at the head of Monkey
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Creek at about four in the afternoon and found a saddle rising seven or eight hundred feet above the valley. Thinking we might be able to climb this, we decided to return on the morrow, and if we found the descent on the further side practicable, we proposed to follow the stream until we came out somewhere or other. We expected to strike the Clinton Valley by the stream that unites with it opposite McKinnon's old hut.
At daybreak next morning, a howling gale was raging, driving clouds obscured the mountains, and our Monkey Creek exploration had to be abandoned, which perhaps was just as well, as our provisions were almost exhausted As our tent was in a very exposed situation, we sought a more sheltered spot, and pitching camp, remained in the tent all day. Towards evening heavy rain set in, which lasted for two days, detaining us in the Hollyford Valley, and for three days we had but one meagre meal a day. It had now become absolutely necessary for us to return over the pass, and fortunately the morning of our fifth day in the Hollyford was fine.
In about an hour we were on Homer's Saddle. Here we passed the cairn erected by Quill just before he lost his life attempting to get down the far side of Gertrude Saddle.
Just as we reached the top of the saddle, a dense fog enveloped everything, and we could scarcely see more than a few feet ahead. After a climb of half an hour up the ridge, we struck a level course over the rocks and on to the snow. We kept rather too high and got in among some crevasses. We came upon a rock in the snow close to which we had passed in our glissade of some days before. This gave us our bearings, and we kept up the steep snow face until we reached the level snowfield. Soon we struck the rockv ridge dividing the two snowfields, and a moment or two later we located the track winding down the rock face and leading to the other snowfield. Endeavouring to
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make a level course across this, we reached the rocks on the further side in about ten minutes, and for a short time in the fog we had difficulty in finding the descent to the Esperance Valley. Once off the snow we were able to see much further than before. We were glad to find on reaching the shelves that we were below the fog, and were not long in attaining our camp. Once more we were in the land of plenty, and able to enjoy a hearty meal.
On the following day about noon, we set out for Milford. At sunset we reached the Tutoko Valley, and intended to cross the river before camping, but the enchanting picture of Tutoko, with its snowfields lit up by the last rays of the setting sun, and fittingly framed by dark bush-clad ridges rising steeply, decided us to camp at once. Never have I beheld a scene of more exquisite beauty.
We woke next morning to find its glory had departed. It was raining, and a depressing fog enveloped everything. An hour after striking camp, we reached Milford, where we received a hearty welcome from Mrs. Sutherland, and a number of tourists who were staying at the Sound.
[The advantages of the new route were considerable. Besides providing a route direct from Wakatipu to Milford, it was now possible to make a round trip.—Ed.]
To quote Grave’s own words:
“The track across the mountain will never be as easy as that over McKinnon Pass, which I have known ladies to cross in evening shoes. It will be more after the nature of the Copland Pass at Mt. Cook. Yet I feel certain that all who are energetic enough to undertake the walk from Wakatipu to Te Anau by the present track, and thence to Milford, would find no difficulty in crossing from Wakatipu to Milford by our route. They would be amply repaid by the exceeding grandeur of the scenery, and they would no longer have to walk for thirty three miles over a track they had traversed a day or two before.”
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THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE ROUTE. 1912-1925
The Government was interested in the possibilities of the new route, and in 1911-12 Grave and Talbot once more crossed the pass, this time accompanied by the Government Surveyor, D. Macpherson. There also went with them, on behalf of the Tourist Department, Guide J. Lippe, of Mt. Cook, who was to report on the nature of the pass as compared with the Copland Pass in the .Mt. Cook region.
At the beginning of 1914, the District Engineer, Dunedin, forwarded a report to the Public Works Department covering in detail the work required in trackmaking for the proposed route, and extolling the advantages of the round trip for the Te Anau-Milford tourist. With the favourable reception of this report, track-making operations were commenced on the Grave-Talbot route, but on the outbreak of war were suspended till 1919, when through the efforts of the Hon. E. P. Lee, the Government's continued financial support of the project was forthcoming. Grave went along to see the first group of students established under ex-guide J. Lippe. An old camp of the 1914 working party yielded one bottle of painkiller (there were no medical students with that team) and a tin of beautifully candied treacle, none the worse for its five years' sojourn in the open bush. Of necessity 7, stew for the workers had to be made in a zinc bucket, there being no billy large enough to cope with the student appetite. Nor could the cook satisfy their capacity for bread, and constantly complained at their rate of consumption. Not to be denied, the students, by careful study of his baking methods, soon qualified to make their own bread.
Later, under the enthusiastic leadership of D. R. Jennings, student groups were employed on the track during summer vacations, both in the Hollvford Yallcv and
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from the Milford side. Dr. G. M. Moir, author of the classic Guide Book to this region, was a member of the third and fourth working parties in 1920-1 and 192 1-2.
Dr. D. R. Jennings, who kept the Track Diary, says it was mostly a record of “rain and road done”. Recalling his association with Grave, he says “however such a small man carried such a large and heavy pack, I don’t know. One day he took me to view the Cleddau Chasm, which he had discovered some fifteen years before. He soon left me far behind, because he was small enough to wriggle through little holes in the virgin bush. What a sight the Chasm was in those days!”
Grave frequently visited the track-making parties. In 1914, shortly after his marriage, he took his wife to Lake Howden, which the first team used as their headquarters. Again in 1922 and 1923 Grave was in the district, when the students helped to pack his party up the valley for attempts on Mt. Tutoko, which they were particularly keen that he should be the first to climb.
Grave was popular with the students, who proposed the name of Mt. Grave for one of the dominant peaks of the region "in recognition of the work of this indomitable leader of many exploring parties in the district". Mt. Grave proved very inaccessible, and quite a difficult proposition to climb, so that it was not till December 1947 that the first ascent was accomplished by Dr. R. Rodda and party.
It was only in 1925 that the huts for the pass were completed, the McKenzie Hut at the head of the Hollyford, and the McPherson Hut in the Esperance. These huts were named after the bushmen who built them, and carried out the difficult task of putting wire ropes on the pass. Though a certain amount of work was done on the more difficult places, the route remains an alpine pass, only to be attempted by those with some experience in the mountains. The panorama from the pass is regarded as one of the most magnificent to be seen anywhere in the land.
For those prepared and able to make the crossing there
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is ample reward, and of course, in the days before the Homer Tunnel the pass was the only practicable route through this piece of country. Nowadays, however, the fine Hollyford-Milford road, with its new perspex-topped transport service, has opened some of New Zealand's finest scenery to all. How Grave would have rejoiced in the knowledge that this has been accomplished, for it was his constant desire that this mountain splendour should be made accessible.
Lyttle's name is perpetuated in "Lyttle's Dip" between the two snowfields on the pass, and in a peak in the Hollyford as well as other places already noted. The falls in the Esperance, near the hut, bear the name of de Lambert who accompanied Grave to the Cleddau in 1907-8. And, of course, Alt. Talbot, the beautiful peak that dominates the head of the Hollyford, is called after Grave's partner in this enterprise, as is also the rocky ridge leading from Homer's Saddle, known as Talbot's Ladder.
FIRST ASCENT OF MT. BALLOON
Grave’s first efforts and interests were in exploration, so that more of New Zealand’s lovely places might be known and appreciated by the people. But a man of such spirit and enthusiasm could not fail to be challenged by the highest peaks, mountains he had come to know and love in all their varying moods as they called him back to their hearts each succeeding year. He and his companions had the joy of being the first to reach the summit of some of the most notable peaks in the district.
The January 1911 party comprised W. G. Grave, A. Talbot, and A. Lyttle.
Here is the first ascent of Mt. Balloon as Grave described it.
On returning to Milford from the scene of our explorations, and having a day or two to spare while waiting for the steamer down Lake Te Anau, we thought we might climb the Mitre, hitherto unsealed. We did not expect to meet with any great difficulty, but heavy rain coming on, we abandoned the idea, and left for the Quinton Huts at Sutherland Falls.
The following morning was stormy, and in a halfhearted way we discussed climbing Balloon. The mountain appears to rise almost vertically for thousands of feet above McKinnon Pass, and to most people it would seem sheer madness to attempt the climb. How the peak got its name I don’t know, but I have heard it said that it was so called because it was thought that no one would reach its summit except in a balloon. Hitherto no one had climbed it, although I believe on one occasion an attempt had been made.
After dinner, having given up the idea of climbing the
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mountain, we set out from the Quinton Huts intending to cross McKinnon Pass. An hour later, as we came out above the bush, we saw A4t. Balloon before us, and in a moment we made up our minds to try for the summit. We threw off our swags and returned to the huts for provisions. With as little delay as possible we were on the track once more, and at length quitting this we reached the foot of the saddle between Mt. Elliot and Balloon. Here we bivouacked, at an elevation of 2800 feet. The wind was piercingly cold and we regretted that we had not camped lower down. Yet as soon as we got into our sleeping bags we were warm enough.
At daylight we were up, and at 5.30 a.m. started to climb the wall leading to the saddle. From a distance this looks almost perpendicular, and in fact it is fairly steep in places, but the snowgrass, with which the face is amply covered, afforded us excellent hold and we had no difficulty in reaching, after an hour's climb, the top of the saddle at an elevation of 4000 feet.
Here we looked down into the north branch of the Clinton, which some five years previously we had explored, discovering on that occasion a new route from Lake Te Anau to Milford over Marshall Pass. From our saddle a narrow rocky ridge led to the summit of the mountain. In places it seemed vertical, and looked exceedingly difficult and dangerous. Another route, which led up the face of the mountain, appeared much easier on the whole, but as there were one or two points we did not like the look of, where vertical walls appeared to rise from grassv slopes, we decided to try the ridge.
On the left the ridge descended from the summit of Balloon to the north branch of the Clinton, sheer for over 4000 feet, a rock surface swept bare of vegetation, snow or loose rocks. On the right the precipice ever increased as we ascended. Roped together, with forty feet of rope available between each man, we moved up one at a time, Talbot, our best climber, leading the way. We found the
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rock on our narrow ridge exceedingly firm, rotten rock being almost entirely absent. At times, however, there was but little hand or foot hold. When half-way up the ridge, coming to a corner where there was a little dry vegetation, I managed to kindle a signal fire which was seen by several tourists coming up the pass who, although we knew it not, were watching our ascent with interest. As we climbed up we encountered but few exceedingly difficult places, yet the continuous strain was somewhat trying. Not for a moment during the whole climb could we get away from the precipice on either side of us. We rarely came across a platform as much as a couple of feet wide, and had to be extremely careful in our movements, for had one of us slipped there is little doubt but that the three of us would have gone over the precipice. We made up our minds not to slip, and took good hold of the rock, even though at times it was only with the finger tips.
At length, after a little over five hours' climbing, to our surprise and delight we reached the summit, for as we moved we could see the way for only a few feet at a time, and were continually fearing that we should be blocked. The summit is a small platform, a few feet in extent. From this, we looked down a precipice of over 4000 feet into the Clinton Valley, while McKinnon Pass lay 3000 feet sheer below us.
Before long, we noticed on the track which winds along the top of the pass, several black dots, and as these moved, we knew they must be tourists crossing the pass. To attract their attention we sent down tons of rock over the precipice into the Clinton. We shouted, and tried to heliograph them with a Kodak tin. As we afterwards ascertained, they heard the rocks falling, but for some time could not see us. Later they made us out and caught our flashes. We knew that they had seen us for they remained stationary for a long time. At length there came up from below the faint sound of a cheer.
When they finally moved on, we built a cairn and
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left in a tin some coins and a bottle with a short record. While we were enjoying lunch on top, suddenly a snowstorm appeared to come on, but a moment or two later we noticed the gust of wind was bringing up from below not flakes of snow, but thousands of flakes of mica, some of them several inches long. We later tried to locate the spot from which the mica came, but by reason of the danger of moving about on the mountain because of the rotten nature of the rock everywhere near the summit, our search was unsuccessful.
As one would expect, the view from the summit is very fine. Across the peaks behind the Arthur Valley we beheld the ocean. Away to the north were higher, snowclad mountains. Several photographs were taken from the summit, and also while we were ascending. Unfortunately, a roll of twelve of these was afterwards lost during the descent.
Near the top of Balloon, we came across numerous specimens of a beautiful ranunculus, probably Ranunculus Buchanani, flowering profusely, a plant which, though common on the mountains round Lake Wakatipu, we had not before come across in Fiordland.
After spending about two hours on the summit, we started to descend following the route by which we had climbed the mountain. To Talbot was allotted the most difficult and dangerous position on the rope, that of descending last. As is usually the case, the descent was more arduous than the ascent. However, at about 7.30 p.m., with our hands much cut about by the sharp rocks we had been clinging to, we reached our bivouac.
Mt. Balloon is too precipitous for snow to lie on it. There were but one or two small patches on the mountain, and these not being on our route, we had nothing to drink all day, and were exceedingly thirsty by the time we returned to our bivouac. Hastily packing our swags, we started up over McKinnon Pass, and arrived at Pompalona Huts shortly before ten o’clock. There we
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received an enthusiastic welcome from those gathered at the huts, many of whom had watched our ascent, or seen us on the summit of the mountain.
[There has been only one other ascent of the formidable Balloon. This was made by E. R. Williams and J. Murrell in February 1914- Murrell wrote telling Grave that they had found his records intact on the summit.—Ed. |
FIRST ASCENT OF MT. PEMBROKE
Milford is of all the New Zealand Sounds the grandest and most charming. Looking down the Sound from Sutherland's Accommodation House, one is enchanted with the exquisite grandeur of the scene. Nowhere else in New Zealand do we find the rugged grandeur of the mountains set in a scene of such alluring beauty.
On the left hand, rises five thousand feet sheer from the waters that lave its base the majestic pile of the Mitre. On the right hand, almost it seems within a stone's throw, the beautiful Bowen Falls tumble in a gigantic leap, some 500 feet, foaming into the waters of the Sound. Beyond lies the Lion, crouching at the foot of Pembroke, which towers 7000 feet from the waters of Harrison Cove, its white snowfields glistening in the morning sun. Further down the Sound, the Stirling Falls, a white thread in the distance, but on closer approach a majestic fall, pour over a lofty precipice into the waters of Milford.
No one ever tires of Milford, nor does its beauty ever pall. Alike in brilliant sunshine, or when the storm bursts upon the mountains, and the rain descends in torrents; when intermittent gleams of sunshine light up the peaks,' and the mists rolling up the mighty walls reveal a thousand waterfalls, mightiest of them all the foaming Bowen, roaring and thundering in its mad career; Milford in all her varying moods is enchanting.
One morning, in December 1913, we stood on Sutherland's verandah at Milford, looking up at Pembroke. We had come from Wakatipu, over the Grave-Talbot Pass, bringing a Government surveyor with us to report on the new route, and also J. Lippe, guide from the Hermitage Alt. Cook. 5 '
Photo: P. Powell Mown Pembroke From Harrison River
Mount Tutoko and ice-falls of the Agi G
Photo: E. R. Williams, I9IJ
(top left) indicates point reached by Grave's party, /</-'-'
Photo: E. R. Williams, 1934 Mount Christina From above Talbot's Ladder
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Before returning, we decided to try the ascent of Mt. Pembroke, which had hitherto never been climbed. From Sutherland’s verandah we discerned, below the Pembroke glacier, a narrow, snow-filled couloir leading right up to the saddle between Pembroke and the peak on the right. This couloir, we thought, would afford the most satisfactory route for climbing the mountain.
Leaving Sutherland’s at 5 a.m., we rowed down the Sound, and shortly before seven o’clock, we pulled our boat up on the shores of Harrison Cove. After making the boat safe, and partaking of breakfast, we proceeded up the river that flows into Harrison Cove.
The bush was delightful in its variety, open in parts, with beautiful glades of fern trees. The going was easy. When three miles from the Sound, we found that the stream branched. Following the branch to the left, we soon came to a fine waterfall, descending from a hanging valley, some 300 feet above us. The snowfields on Pembroke were now hidden from view, but we were of the opinion that the hanging valley would lead us right to the foot of them.
After lunch, Talbot and Lippe with much difficulty scrambled up on the left of the waterfall, and about an hour later they returned to report that the waterfall stream led, as anticipated, right to the foot of the Pembroke glacier. Rain had now come on, and we decided not to proceed further, but to pitch camp at once. The following afternoon the rain ceased, and we made our way up the waterfall, clambering this time up on the right-hand side without difficulty. Along this stream we made our way for about a mile, pitching camp in the bush at its head. At 3 a.m. next morning Lippe’s alarm clock woke us. Breakfast being quickly despatched, we started off, and crossing the stream went up the rocks on the left hand of the chasm that the turbulent waters had cut out of the solid rock. Soon we reached the snowfields, and were delighted to see the whole of our route open up before us. Sometimes
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one finds that, after selecting a route from a distance, things do not always work out as expected, on closer inspection.
On the left hand the wall towered vertically above us, fringed by the broken snowfields. Our route lay up the narrow couloir at the foot. Looking up this, we saw that our progress was likely to be impeded by two rocky barriers. We then quitted the snowfield, taking to the rocks on the right, and were soon above the first barrier. The rocks were excellent going, and formed, as it were, a long staircase, easy of ascent. We had now got some two or three hundred feet above our couloir, and hoped to descend into it after passing the second barrier. In this, however, we were disappointed. Our rocky staircase, flanked by a wall on the right, soon stopped abruptly at the foot of a vertical wall in front of us.
On the left, there was a drop of some two or three hundred feet to the couloir. However, after retracing our steps for a short distance we found a series of easy ledges, leading down to the couloir. We now made our way up the snow, and soon stood at the foot of the second barrier. This rose vertically for about thirty or forty feet, and then sloped upwards till it reached the snowfield some seventy or eighty feet above. The rock was smooth and slippery, and afforded neither foot- nor hand-hold. Alongside a waterfall coming over the face, we found the best spot to tackle it. Lippe, with the rope round him, started up, only to fall back on to the snow when a few feet up. Our Mount Cook guide indignantly spurned Talbot's offer that he should have a go at the face. Lippe's next attempt was successful, and soon, with Lippe's assistance from above for which I confess that I was thankful, Talbot and I clambered up on to the snow. This is the only difficult part in the ascent of Pembroke. In some years, when there is more snow, tbe difficulty would probably almost entirely disappear.
We now continued up our couloir, which became steeper as we went. Talbot and I, although accustomed
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to rock climbing, were not experts with the ice axe, and as we insisted to taking our share of step-cutting, Lippe chafed at our slow progress. The morning sun had not yet reached us, and the air was very cold.
We decided to leave the couloir, and take to the rocks on the right. These we found excellent going, even the steepest faces being cleft into a series of steps. Soon we were on the shoulder of the peak to the right of Pembroke. From this point we descried Sutherland’s launch heading for Sandfly Point. We tried to heliograph them, but as we afterwards learnt, without success.
We soon regretted leaving our chosen couloir, which now lay far below. Following our ridge, we at length came to the point overlooking the col between Pembroke and the peak up which we had foolishly climbed. It was not without some difficulty, and a great waste of time, that we finally descended to the col.
The summit of Pembroke rose some 2000 feet above the col, snow-clad, except where steep faces of rotten rock stood out. We expected to have a bad time before reaching the summit, but whenever a rocky face seemed likely to impose an impassable barrier, a snow-filled couloir afforded us a means of getting above it. Shortly before three o'clock we reached the highest rocks, about 300 feet below the summit. Here we built a small cairn, and then cut our way up the last steep snow face, to the top. An excellent view of the coast was obtained, but towards the east the view was obscured by heavy banks of cloud rolling over the mountains.
After a short stay on the summit, we commenced the descent, and soon reached the col. We debated a moment whether to follow our morning's route, or go down by the couloir. Luckily, we adopted the latter course, and were soon glissading at a great rate. Suddenly, I saw Talbot shooting past me, and the next moment, I was going at headlong speed myself. With the assistance of
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our ice axes, and a strain on the rope from Lippe, our speed was checked without any damage.
After this, we descended more carefully, and at length reached the rocky barrier that had given us trouble in the morning. Lippe descended first, and in a few feet was out of sight. When about fifteen feet above the snow, he apparently decided to jump. He called out to Talbot, but I did not understand what he intended to do, and gave him no rope for the jump, with the result that he very nearly pulled us both over the face. Soon we were all down the barrier, and reached camp shortly before dusk.
The next morning, on awaking, we found it raining heavily. Striking camp, we moved down-stream towards the Sound. On our way, we came to an immense rock, under which a hundred or more people could camp. We took shelter there for a short time, but, as the weather showed no prospect of clearing, we started off again for the Sound, which we reached thoroughly wet through.
It was our intention, after climbing Pembroke, to try the Mitre. This peak had the previous year been scaled for the first time by Mr. Dennistoun of Peel Forest. Launching our boat, we rowed across the Sound. For three days we camped at the foot of the Mitre, where the stream from Sinbad Gully empties its waters into the Sound.
The weather was wild and stormy, and we waited impatiently for an improvement. At length, in the afternoon of our third day, it brightened, and we decided to climb up the shoulder of the Mitre and bivouac some distance above. I suggested taking our tent, but Talbot and Lippe were both against this. Within an hour after our leaving camp, it began to rain heavily. Soon we were wet through. We continued upward, hoping to find shelter somewhere, but in vain. At length we came to some rocks, and into these we crawled. However, we soon found them no protection from the rain. Talbot crawled out again and lay out all night in his sleeping bag. Lippe and I tried
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to delude ourselves into believing that the rocks afforded us some shelter. The wind howled through all night, and the rain came down upon us in torrents. In the ceaseless efforts I made to avoid it, I tore my sleeping bag well nigh to pieces.
Shortly after eight the next morning, there was a gleam of sunshine and Talbot and I, who from years of exploring in the West Coast bush had grown accustomed to the uncomfortable feeling of wet clothes, decided to get a move on and try the peak. Lippe, however, was for some time obdurate. At length, however, he reluctantly decided to come with us, and we quitted our bivouac. After a while we realized that we had no hope of completing the climb. A howling gale, bringing with it every few minutes sleet and snow, was raging. Shortly after eleven o'clock we gave up the attempt.
When we stopped for lunch we succeeded in getting a good fire going. This put us in better spirits, and ere long we were back to our camp below. We had just got into our boat, and were making for Sutherland's, when Sutherland himself came in sight in his launch, and took us in tow.
[A full account of the climb of Pembroke was written into Sutherland's Visitors' Book, the only items not included in the foregoing record being the fact that a tin plate was left in the summit cairn, and the statement that it was a most interesting climb, comparing very favourably with the Footstool at the Hermitage.—Ed.]
TUTOKO AGAIN
Grave felt very keenly the loss of his companions, Arthur Talbot and Bert Lyttle. Both were killed during the Great War. For a few years he did not return to the scenes of his former exploits. However, the urge was strong, and by the end of 1919 his thoughts were turning back to the mighty Tutoko, still unconquered.
By this time there was a rival in the field in the person of Samuel Turner, who had climbed extensively in many parts of the world, an individualist who spared no expense or organization to get the peaks he was after.
Grave’s trip in 1919, when he was accompanied by W. A. Kennedy of Christchurch and A. C. Gifford, was a reconnaissance of the two highest peaks, Christina in the Hollyford, and Tutoko in the Milford district. Impossible weather put any climbing out of the question.
Shortly after this, Turner wrote to one of Grave’s party claiming that he had made the first ascent of Tutoko, but he had mistaken for Tutoko a neighbouring peak, to which subsequently the name Madeline, after Turner’s daughter, was given by the surveyor, D. Macpherson.
Again in 1922 Grave planned an attempt on this peak, which in spite of five assaults still remained inviolate. This time his companions were Edgar R. Williams of Christchurch, and Brian Johns, now of Singapore, one of the students working on the track up the Esperance. At Milford Sound there were several empty cases labelled “Turner’s Third Tutoko Expedition” so in contradistinction this effort went by the name of “Johns’ Tutoko Expedition”. Two other students, G. M. Moir and D. R. Jennings, were of great assistance in packing the party up
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the Tutoko Valley. Some time was spent making an ice axe for Johns out of an old auger and a pick handle. We recall a similar incident on Grave’s first trip to the valley in 1898! Thanks to the excellent track made up the valley by Turner’s party, the going was easy. A base was established on the site of Grave’s camp of some twentyfive years before. All that was left of that historic visit were the rusted remains of a frying pan and two billies.
Next morning the party started out to examine a route which Williams and Murrell had seen from the valley in 1917. A high bivouac was established. From here climbing was difficult and the route no longer visible because of the steepness of the mountainside. Several rather awkward precipices had to be negotiated, until at about 8000 feet further progress was barred by an impassable bluff. The hour was late, and there was nothing else for it but to admit defeat.
1923 saw Grave and Williams renewing their assault, but in spite of more elaborate preparations, and more help from the students, the attempt was again unsuccessful. Moir says: “But for the fact that advancing years had diminished his pristine energy and stamina, I have no doubt that Grave would have succeeded.”
An extract from a letter to Grave from one of the students at Milford shortly afterwards reads: "B has made a pair of shorts out of the trousers you left up Tutoko, and looks fifteen in them. H appropriated the waistcoat to look 'aristocratic', and I fell heir to Williams' cast-offs, and carefully patched the seat, but they split at the knees and will have to be turned into shorts also. All the boys send their very best wishes to you, and are sorry you couldn't stay longer. Thanks for helping us with the grading of the track."
Turner had not been idle all this time, and in 1924, at his sixth attempt, and with the assistance of the leading alpine guide, Peter Graham, he made the first ascent of the peak, climbing from the other side. The ascent from
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the Tutoko River side has not yet been accomplished. Turner sent Grave an enlargement of himself on the summit of Tutoko inscribed thus:
"Samuel Turner, F.R.G.S., on the summit of Mt. Tutoko, first and second climb by S. Turner and Peter Graham, March 4th and 6th 1924. This photo is given to W. Grave, Esq. as a token of appreciation for his sportsmanlike statement in reference to Mt. Tutoko, wnicb I appreciate very much.
Samuel Turner.
July ist, 1924."
THE FIRST ASCENTS OF MTS. PARK AND CHRISTINA
December 1924 —January 1925
The party comprised G. M. Moir, R. S. M. Sinclair, H. Slater, K. Roberts and W. G. Grave. By this time G. M. Moir and his companions, carrying on Grave’s work in the Hollyford, had made a number of first-class expeditions, and had accomplished the first ascents of four of the Upper Hollyford’s highest peaks (Barrier, Talbot, Crosscut and Students). In the summer of 1924-25 this team planned an assault on Mt. Christina, the massive bastion of the Hollyford, which had defied two previous attempts by other parties. Knowing that Grave had long been interested in the mountain, and on account of his pioneering work in the district, the party invited him to climb with them. Although Grave was now fifty-five years of age, he did not need much persuasion.
Some twelve years previously Grave had attempted to climb Christina by the eastern slopes, and still favoured this route, while Moir’s party, whose climbing of the season before had revealed other aspects of the mountain, inclined towards the south face. Thus their views of the mountain as they approached from Lake Howden gave rise to much discussion and speculation.
On December 31st, as a preliminary climb, the party tackled Mt. Park, about 8000 feet, at the head of Monkey Creek. Besides being another first ascent, this peak commanded an excellent view of the south-west face of Christina. From the valley the monstrous bluffs of Christina appeared to defy the stoutest heart and the strongest limb.
H
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The ascent of Mt. Park took nine and a half hours. There was some consternation when it was discovered that Grave had come without his snow goggles, for the glare was particularly trying through the mist. A makeshift protection was made by blackening round his eyes with the burnt cork of the water bottle, and bandaging them with pieces torn from his coat lining. Small slits were left for his eyes, and thus adorned, Grave looked for all the world like a bandit. Even in spite of these precautions he suffered later from snow blindness.
The view from the summit was restricted by low cloud, and the party was disappointed in its hopes of seeing much new country. “In the valley west of the peak,” writes Moir, “Lake Thompson lay hidden, so that we could not make sure if it drained to the Neale Bum. Grave believed that he had looked into this untrodden valley on two previous occasions; once from the vicinity of Marshall Pass in January 1906, and again in January 1908 when he climbed up out of the Cleddau to the ridge south of Homer’s Saddle; but the lake was out of sight both times.”
Viewing Christina from Mt. Park through binoculars, the more they looked the less they liked their chances. There did not seem to be a place sufficiently flat even to support a bivouac. Though Grave doubted whether it would be possible to make a way up the steep cliff’s of the south face, the others were more hopeful, having had a bird’s-eye view of those same slopes from the south peak of Crosscut the year before.
Following a day’s rest, they moved into the cirque between Crosscut and Christina and thence, after several hours’ working up the steep lower faces of the mountain, they reached a narrow rock ledge just below the snowfields. Here, at an altitude of 4500 feet, they went to work with their ice axes to quarry out an area large enough for a bivouac. The tent was pitched low, and a
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protecting wall built, as a strong wind might have blown them off the ledge.
They drew straws for sleeping positions, that is with the exception of Grave, whose place was predetermined by the presence of a large stone which shortened the lying space; and he was the smallest man. Soon all was cosy, and the climbers settled for the night with high hopes for the morrow. But four pipes going at full puff in an Bx7 closed tent had caused Grave to feel ill, and seizing a pair of boots he stumbled over his companions and out into the night.
Time passed, and still Grave had not returned. The others began to feel uneasy, as the terrain was extremely treacherous and the night very dark. They shouted, but there was no reply. Added to the anxiety was the terrible discovery that Grave had taken Slater's boots and left his own—three sizes smaller! "Old Bill's gone over the cliff, it's pretty bad all right, but what about my boots?" moaned Slater. They decided nothing further could be done till daylight, and as they prepared to set out at first light they were astonished to see a tousled head pop up from the rocks a few yards away, where Grave, curled up like a cat, had slept through all the commotion.
This interlude upset their plans for rising at 2 a.m. to make a very early start for the top. It was an ideal day, Sunday January 4th, and after an excellent breakfast of cocoa, porridge, and cold boiled kea, at 5.30 a.m. they set foot on the frozen slopes of the first snowfield, Grave taking the lead for the first stage. Here the snow was pitted with stones of all sizes which had apparently hurtled down from scree above the cliffs. They decided to avoid this unhealthy spot on the return when the sun would have loosened many more missiles.
About 9 a.m. a mistake was made in the route, resulting in the loss of two or three hours, but by i p.m. a snow couloir led them to the summit ridge. Perched on the corniced snow arete which constitutes the summit, they
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had the whole mountain world at their feet-a magnificent panorama.
Soft snow made the descent rather dangerous. The heat of the afternoon sun caused the surface to slide off slowly in small avalanches, and even on the more gentle slopes Grave refused to glissade when there were rocks and other dangers below. However, the bivouac was regained without incident by 7.30 p.m. From their eyrie the climbers watched the changing effects of sunset and moonlight on the mist-filled reaches of the Hollyford far below. Next day in a misty drizzle they moved down off the mountain.
We record the comments of two of the climbers years later. R. S. M. Sinclair said: "Grave disliked rock and would avoid it if he could, but when he got on to snow he showed us how a mountain should be climbed. I have very happy memories of his quiet humour and interesting reminiscences. To him this was a luxury trip, as he recalled occasions when he had lived on roots and berries." And Moir wrote: "It is correct to say that our party would not have succeeded there without his snowcraft, nor should he without our initiative and careful selection of the route."
It was fitting that Grave's long term of pioneering, much of which had been spent in the Hollyford, should culminate in the experience of being among the first to stand on the crest of its highest peak.
D I A few days after the climb of Christina, Grave and some of his companions crossed to Milford via the Grave - Talbot Pass, where they were interested in the workdone the previous year on Talbot's Ladder by Dan A4cKenzie and Billy McPherson, blasting out footholes and installing wire ropes. When Grave and his friends arrived in the Esperance Valley these two bushmen who were engaged in building the hut, gave them an enthusiastic and hospitable welcome. "Next morning." savs Moir, "we inspected their saw-pit where even- stick of
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timber was being cut by hand in real pioneer fashion. It was a Herculean task because suitable trees at that altitude were few and far between, and much skill and hard work was needed to get the logs to the saw-pit."
Thence the party moved on to Milford Sound where they spent a few days boating and fishing at Anita Bay, after which spot, incidentally, Grave had named his eldest daughter. At this time Moir wrote in his diary: "Thought a lot today about what a remarkable man Grave is—explorer, bushman, mountaineer (an expert on snow), boatman, botanist, geologist and withal quite reserved and humble. He never appears to assert himself—perhaps it would be better if he did sometimes. He can cook too, but he leaves that to others now. He likes to potter round the camp and discuss the different plants and trees. At odd times he quotes from French and Latin classics. Music appeals to him, and he mentioned that he used once to play the violin. In snatches of song he revealed a fine voice."
FINALE
4 ‘ ’m afraid this mountaineering business will be the I death of you one of these days,” wrote Grave’s A uncle from the flatlands of Australia, in 1919, after receiving a collection of his nephew’s photographs. Although Western Otago was his first love, all mountains appealed to Grave. Strangely enough, his name also endures in the Wilberforce, in Canterbury, a part of the country unfamiliar to him. Here a surveyor, who had been a former pupil of Grave’s at Waitaki, named a tributary of the Wilberforce River, the glacier at its head, and the saddle above it, after him.
Grave did some climbing at Mt. Cook, about 1911, including the Footstool with guide J. Richmond, then on his first climb. Richmond later perished with others when overwhelmed by an avalanche on the Linda Glacier. On Grave’s ascent of Make Brun, the guide unroped on the summit, and falling off stuck on a ledge twenty feet below, thus necessitating a night out on the mountain for the whole party. The Minarets, Maunga Ma, Darby and Sealy were his other climbs at this time.
Now we proceed to gather up the loose threads, and weave them in to complete the picture. The summer of 1926 saw Grave at the Hermitage, initiating his young son of ten years into the delights of mountaineering with a climb of Sealy. Two years later he took him over the Grave-Talbot Pass to Milford. At Easter 1931, with L. V. Bryant, later a member of the 1935 Everest Reconnaissance Expedition, father and son made a possible first ascent of an 8000 feet unnamed peak on the Neumann Range, between the Hopkins and Dobson Valleys. This was one of the first climbs in the Ohau district, which
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soon afterwards became the scene of much climbing activity, one of the highest peaks, Mt. Ward, 8681 feet, being first climbed by Grave’s companion of the Tutoko efforts, E. R. Williams, Grave’s son Selwyn, and E. A. Hogg-
One incident we should like to mention in passing, will give an insight into Grave's unassuming nature. He was returning on one occasion with his young family from holidaying at the head of Lake Wakatipu, when two heavily bearded climbers joined the steamer at Elfin Bay. Grave asked about their trip, and was shown a map of the Hollyford and the Grave-Talbot Pass which they had just crossed. They gave a detailed description of the country, concluding with the remark, "If there's one person we should like to meet, it's Grave." Grave listened attentively, but refrained from disclosing his identity.
In his latter years some of Grave's happiest hours were spent in the secluded beauty of a country retreat on the Waianakarua River, south of Oamaru. We recall a visit he had here from A. C. Gifford, then well on in years, who astonished the family by vaulting the five-barred gate. Here, to his heart's content, Grave pursued his interest in wild life, and indulged his delight in the native bush of which he had a wide knowledge. On his journeyings he had always whimsically referred to the higher forest (2500-3000 feet level) as the "Goblin Woods". At Waianakarua, too, he had his "Goblin Woods". With the same slasher he had used on the West Coast trips he challenged the gorse that threatened to encroach upon his bush, and protected the native seedlings from careless foot and hungry rabbit. It hurt him to observe all thoughtless destruction of native flora.
There came a time in Grave's career when he left the teaching profession to enter into partnership with his brother in the legal firm of Lee, Grave and Grave, where he continued for some thirty years. From among the many
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tributes paid at the time of his passing, on September 19th, 1934, we quote the following:
"In his profession as a solicitor, Grave attained a very high standard of honour, which he maintained in his social and private life. He was the essence of sincerity. Whatever he did was born of the conviction that it was right. Nothing he undertook was ever left half done. He was a worthy citizen. Though he seldom appeared in the limelight, few men did more than he for Oamaru. He did not seek publicity. In the main street there is a monument to the South African Troopers. The money for this was raised almost entirely by Grave who spent six weeks on his bicycle canvassing the whole of North Otago. Incidentally, on the occasion of the unveiling ceremony, by some oversight he was not invited, and with his characteristic modesty he did not obtrude. . . . Keenly interested in politics, Grave was recognized as the power behind the Reform Party in North Otago for many years."
Latterly, Grave interested a number of his friends in forming a track round the cliffs of the Oamaru foreshore. Lowering himself on a rope from the cliff top, he undertook the preliminary work of cutting through the hard rock to gain an entrance. For seven years, on long summer evenings and Saturday afternoons, with a few others he toiled with pick and shovel on this project of a Marine Parade. Later, though his health was impaired, he supervised the group of "unemployed" who were engaged by the town council to complete the job. At the entrance to the Marine Parade there is a tablet inscribed thus:
THIS TRACK IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF W. G. GRAVE, M.A., 1X.B. 1935
At the unveiling ceremony Mr. F. Butterfield said they
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were gathered to pay their tribute to one of Oamaru's most illustrious sons. . . . He had the power of inspiring others by his example, and in many movements for the common good, he, by common consent, became the leader. The story of his work of exploration was an epic that had yet to be written. As Grave had immortalized himself by placing his imprint on the map of New Zealand, it was fitting that they of his native town should show their appreciation of a great citizen and a good man.
Grave was a much respected member of the New Zealand Alpine Club. A tribute from an Osonzac (Otago Section of N. Z. Alpine Club) included this comment: "Climbers and trampers alike will reap the benefits of his past efforts, and one and all are proud to voice their appreciation and admiration of his achievements. He would always go out of his way to render young climbers every possible assistance. To a new generation, the memory of his work will continue a fresh and unfailing inspiration. As late as 1934, the last year of his life, his interest and support were of great assistance in the formation of a branch of the N. Z. Alpine Club in the Oamaru district." This section has produced some of New Zealand's finest climbers.
His comrade of the early days, Alf Grenfell, was with him three weeks before his death. They talked over old times, Grave recalling the occasion in the Worsley when they ran out of provisions, and had nothing but a teaspoonful of sugar each per day. Grenfell, who was suffering from a painful boil, used his share as a poultice. Somewhat remorsefully. Grave said: “One of us should have given you his teaspoon of sugar; you might have died.”
We close this record with a quotation from G. M. Moir’s “In Memoriam”, where he says; “Grave’s work has a monument of unprecedented magnitude in the new Hollyford-Milford Sound road. Of those who now travel the new road in luxury, few realize the hard work, not
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to mention privations and dangers, endured without thought of reward by this hardy pioneer and his companions. Most appropriate is the line quoted by someone as we stood on the summit of Mt. Park. ‘Exegi monumentum acre perennis.’—l have erected a monument more lasting than brass. (Horace Odes.)”
EXPLORATIONS AND FIRST ASCENTS
Tutoko Saddle Jan. 1898. W. G. Grave, A. C. Gifford, Dr. J. R. Don, Wm. Don.
Oilskin Pass (head of Glaisnock) Between N. Arm of Te Anau and Bligh Sound. Jan. 1900. W. G. Grave, A. C. Gifford, T. A. Hunter, A. Grenfell.
Worsley Pass Between head of Te Anau and Bligh Sound. Jan. 1903. W. G. Grave, T. A. Hunter, A. Talbot, B. Tennent.
Look Out Peak North of Worsley Pass. Date and party as above.
Hunter Pass Between Worsley River and Sutherland Sound. Jan. 1905. W. G. Grave, T. A. Hunter, A. Grenfell, Smith.
Prospect Peak Junction of Worsley and Prospect Valleys. Jan. 1905. W. G. Grave and A. Grenfell.
Marshall Pass Between North branch of Clinton and Joe’s River. Jan. 1906 (summit). Prof. Marshall, W. G. Grave, A. Talbot, A. Grenfell, A. Flower, Brown. First crossing: W. G. Grave and A. Talbot,
Joe's River Pass Between Joe’s River and Arthur Valle) Jan. 1906. W. G. Grave and A. Talbot.
Mt. Edgar Jan. 1906. W. G. Grave and A. Talbot.
Cleddau All branches. Dec. 1907-Jan. 1908. W. G. Grave, A. Talbot, A. Grenfell, B. de Lambert.
Gulliver Peak Head of Cleddau, near Homer's Saddle. Jan. 1908.
Grave-Talbot Pass Wakatipu to Milford. Jan 1910. W. G. Grave and A. Talbot.
Mt. Macpherson Head of Hollyford. Jan. 1910. W. G Grave and A. Talbot.
Mt. Balloon From McKinnon Pass. Jan. 1911. W. G Grave, A. Talbot, A. Lyttle.
Beyond the Southern Lakes
141
Mt. Pembroke Milford Sound. Dec. 1913. W. G. Grave, A. Talbot, J. Lippe.
, _,. „„ r „ Mt. Park Upper Hollyford. Jan. 1925. G. M. Moir and party and W. G. Grave.
Mt. Christina Upper Hollyford. Jan. 1925. Party as above.
Unnamed Peak Neumann Range, Lake Ohau. Easter 193 1. W. G. Grave, L. V. Bryant, S. A. Grave.
Permanent link to this item
https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/books/ALMA1950-9917503703502836-Beyond-the-Southern-lakes---the-
Bibliographic details
APA: Grave, W. G. (William George). (1950). Beyond the Southern lakes : the explorations of W.G. Grave. A.H. & A.W. Reed.
Chicago: Grave, W. G. (William George). Beyond the Southern lakes : the explorations of W.G. Grave. Wellington, N.Z.: A.H. & A.W. Reed, 1950.
MLA: Grave, W. G. (William George). Beyond the Southern lakes : the explorations of W.G. Grave. A.H. & A.W. Reed, 1950.
Word Count
36,660
Beyond the Southern lakes : the explorations of W.G. Grave Grave, W. G. (William George), A.H. & A.W. Reed, Wellington, N.Z., 1950
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