From Mount Cook over the Copland Pass to the West Coast.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXI, Issue VI, 8 August 1903, Page 386

From Mount Cook over the Copland Pass to the West Coast.

A TRIP NEVER BEFORE DONE BY LADIES.

(By Miss Constance Barnicoat.)

Last autumn the route from Mount Cook to the West Coast via the Copland or Fitzgerald’s Pass was for the first time traversed by three ladies, of whom 1 wa-. one, under the escort of the Government guides, Clarke and Smith, from the Hermitage. Hitherto some dozen men had had the monopoly of this track (which is as bad as it is beautiful), among them Mr. Fitzgerald himself, who gave his name to the pass; Zurbriggen, the Swiss guide; and Mr. Pringle, the Tourist Department photographer. When 1 went down to the Hermitage Hotel, Mount Cook, in March, I found that this trip, which may some day become famous, but of which I had never even heard, had already been arranged for two West Coast ladies, Mrs. Thomson, of Greymouth, and Miss Perkins, of Westport; and 1 and a young Englishman. a practised mountaineer, who happened to be at the Hermitage, decided that we would go over too. Of course everyone undertaking so rough a trip, over country for the most part trackless and rarely with anything better than a blazed track, would have first to satisfy the guides as to their fitness. It is no trip for delicate people, nor, indeed, for anyone who is not very tough indeed, much tougher than the average woman. I was a fortnight and more training on the moraines and mountains around the Hermitage before going, though I was really ready to start long before that; but 1 warn anyone thinking of such a trip that they will probably have to spend at least three or four days going expeditions before the guides will consent to take them. There is no taking people likely to give out half-way. Also they will have to submit to very much reformed dress, but since there is no one but the keas and the guides to see, that really does not matter. Anything but a more or less boyish dress—better more than less—is utterly impossible. The whole trip is only 26 miles, but those 26 miles took us three and a half days, which was considered very fair time. During those days we had to camp out, and of course we saw not a sign of any soul but ourselves. April is fully late for such a trip, because of the snow on the pass; and the very morning before we were to have started we woke up to find the mountain-tops all hidden in the thick whiteness of falling snow, and the ground around the Hermitage like a great sheet. Three days afterwards, however, we made a start, in an inauspicious drizzle, knowing that even then the snow could not be in good condition, but that if we waited it would probably be worse. We took a tent and four sleeping bags, and, of course, had to carry besides all our provisions and some for the guides coining back—far too much weight for so few shoulders. As for luggage on such a trip, you can only take what will go in a rue-sack, which is next to none; everything else must be sent overland to Hokitika or Greymouth, which takes a tremendous time, and the luggage is quite likely not to be at its destination when you are. We did not start till about three on a Friday afternoon, seven of us, including the Swiss porter, whom we only took to the top of the pass. That day our way lay over the Hooker moraine, which is not so rough as some of the other moraines, but still rough enough to be very slow walking, and of course no track can ever be made across any moraine. Our camp was under a huge hollowed out boulder, on a small plateau on the other side of the moraine.

Next morning everyone got up in the dark, and we started at daybreak in a thick, drenching drizzle—a peculiarly dismal morning, soaking everything, even to the flannelly flowers of the edelweiss, clinging forlornly to the dripping rocks. What was most grievous was that, so far from seeing a view, which in clear weather is magnificent, we could not even see the nearest mountain spur. That morning—Saturday—till about 11, we climbed dripping rocks, steep but not bad enough for a rope to be needed. About 11 the rope was put round us; we bad reached the snow of the pass. It was most bitterly cold, an icy wind was blowing, and the scene was unspeakably bleak, lonely, and desolate. For nearly an hour we w’ere roped three pud

four, the guides going first, cutting steps and seeing that the snow, which was sometimes up to our knees, was perfectly safe. Once over the pass we sent the Swiss porter back, congratulated ourselves,

and drank one another’s health in whisky. On the other side, the West Coast side of the Southern Alps, we soon got into sunshine, weak and watery though it was, and even found the last of the mountain lilies lingering in a

sheltered corner. But those who want to see the alpine flowers should be much earlier in the season, about December or January. Before unroping, there was a long stretch of snow fit to glissade on,

which was absolutely delightful, and. thoroughly soaked through whatever shreds of our garments were not soaked, through already. That day was the most tiring of all. After crossing the pass, going down a long mountain slope (where you could sit down and slip if you did not mind

risking tearing your garments to tatters). and getting over several rivers, there was the very worst conceivable piece of scrub, which had to be got through somehow. It was trackless, densely thick, full of prickles, and the only relief from it —and -that a very doubtful one —was getting up and down into the river bed and climbing over colossal boulders. I do not know which is worst, the West Coast boulders or the .West Coast scrub. This last two miles took from about 2.30 till nearly f in the evening, when we reached our camp, under quite the most enormous boulder 1 ever saw, in the thick bush. That nigut all six of us slept under this boulder, which will be a permanent camp for everyone going along this route —at least until a better one is known.

Next day, Sunday, was perfectly fine and bright. The whole time we were following a scarcely perceptible—to the unpractised eye quite imperceptible—trade through the bush—the thick, soaking wet, exquisite West Coast bush, with the most luxuriant moss and every kind of fern, from the tree-fern and todea superba to the filmy hymenophilum, growing over everything. That night we reached a earnp near what is, 1 believe, the only hot spring anywhere in that district. The way to it is at present through lawyer-ridden bush and a flaxswamp, with warm, deep slush half way to your knees; and when there, there are no steps nor even a board from winch to get in, so that you sink into more thick, warm mud, added to which tue sand flies are distracting, so that under present conditions a bathe in it is more of a toil than anything else. But some day a delightful bathing place might, be made out of it, as steps could easily be put to it, and the water is of a temperature that would be, by most people, considered just right. Tire last day, Juonday. we were again up in the dark, and away at the break of a threatening day, which soon became pouring wet. We had most of this day through another blazed track in the bush, always the same thick, ferny \\ e.-t Coast bush, absolutely exquisite, with every moss and fern drenched to the last pitch of drenchiugness. It was a most tiring morning; we could not stop to rest "much, for all the wood and stones —winch were often our only band, or foot holds —were soaking wet, and specially slippery in consequence, and we had to cross a certain creek, celebrated for getting up. within a couple of hours sometimes, into a raging torrent. As we did not want to wait in the soaking bus.:, and pouring rain while Architect s Creek went down, we hurried along as fast as possible, and once safely over it had our last meal of food almost as sodden as ourselves. In the afternoon, after a long tramp through more busli, over wet and slippery’ bowlders, creeks, and finally a track through some bush that was a prolonged bog—latterly we crashed through everything, rivers, bogs and all—we reached the fiat on which, somewhere, if we could only find it, was the first sign of civilisation we had seen for days, Mr Scott’s homestead, the first accommodation house, at which cvervone crossing by- this route will have to stay at least one night, and more, if the rivers hedging it; in on every side Imppen to be. as they’ often are, impassable. After Scott’s, which is about 12') miles south of Ross, it is a serious business getting to Hokitika. Much of the way 1 rode in state on a ninn siddle, and on the very laziest horse I ever set eyes on; the last day’ I cycled on a highgeared man’s machine 1 managed io get hold of. Bide you must, for there are always the rivers every few miles, mostly unbridged, often full of quicksands, and always more or less dangerous. Besides, the roads are, at least to my thinking, far too rough for a bicycle. and the dragging of even the lightest machine over tln se rieketty suspension

bridges is an experience I do not want to repeat, it took me from Wednesday morning till last Saturday to get from Scott’s to Hokitika, and then I was a day and a-half ahead of everyone else. Some people might say—ls it worth it? Very inueh so indeed, I should say’. Whether crossing the snow, going step by step up an ice-slope, finding an uncertain foothold in the scrub, or fording a river, I enjoyed it all to the very top of my bent, and I think everyone else did too. But you must be strong to do it, and not only strong, but enduring, which is not tile same thing. In conclusion, I cannot say how much I think we all owe to the guides who piloted us through. They are both kindness and eonsidt ration itself, and I could not wish others doing the same trip anything better than that the guides who went with us should also go with them.