me fell the doubtful pleasure of waiting in freezing inaction, while Peter steadily cut his way up to the length of his rope. While we waited we were severely pelted with the sharp pieces of ice sent flying by the step-cutter directly above us. Alex sustained a nasty gash in his hand from a particularly vicious piece.
My thick coat protected my arms from cuts, but at a later date I discovered some very creditable bruises as my share of the performance. With heads low bent to the icy wall in front, we heard the chunks of ice rattle over our heads, and sustained only a blow now and then. It was a wonder to me how many bits did manage to miss us, directly in the line of fire as we were, and fly harmlessly past. After about half an hour Peter paused in his work to anxiously inquire if I felt quite safe. On my replying, most untruthfully, that I did not mind a bit, he attacked the arête again. For another hour he worked without ceasing, and we progressed about 200 feet. The weather now began to look doubtful; clouds had been creeping steadily and softly up from the west, and everything but the summit of Mount Cook was lost in swirling mists, while gusts of icy wind moaned eerily past us. We paused to face the situation; as nearly as we could calculate we were still 400 feet from the summit, and that at our present rate of progress meant at least two hours more step-cutting. As we discussed the situation the mists suddenly enveloped us and the wind increased in violence. The arête ahead of us vanished in the fog, and looking backward we could see but few yards. Very reluctantly we decided that it would be folly to continue under such conditions. We had no doubt of our ability to reach the summit, but to descend this sharp and icy arête, in the teeth of a westerly gale, with our steps but faintly visible in the fog, was a very serious matter, so sadly we faced about and began to descend. It was a most nerve-racking proceeding. I, as the weakest and least skilled member of the party, felt the responsibility heavy
