Through South Westland/Part 2/Chapter 10

by A. Maud Moreland

CHAPTER X.

THE SILVER CONE

“Spirit of ice and snow,
Goddess, whose hands are laid
Upon the brows of men who needs must go
To seek thy loneliness, immortal maid,
Within thy fastness of thy frozen place;
Dost thou their toil behold?
Thine heart is dull with cold,
Cold is thy shrine, and colder thine embrace.”

As we rode to the door Mrs. Macpherson was just carrying two pails of glorious new milk from the cowshed, and Mr. Macpherson was saddling his mare; the children all came running to see the start, and the Lone Shieling looked very homely, and not at all lonely, under the flood of sunshine—for, indeed, the sun seemed to be trying to make amends for the days of storm. I had a cupful of new milk out of the pails. Duncan tied on the lunch bag, and we were off. Tom had lost a hind shoe, and the rough track was very trying; but, led by Mr. Macpherson, we made good progress, and occasionally found some grassy bits where we could canter. When opposite the Rob Roy gorge, we got a view of the glacier: the peaks above it had a fresh dusting of snow, and lay dazzling white under the glorious New Zealand blue. As we journeyed on, the mountains to right and left were tilted at the most extraordinary angles, the strata often exposed in ribs from top to bottom. Enormous slabs of slate lay about, and the colouring was a mixture of slatey-blue and red. We were obliged to ford several times—riding now this side now that of the river, and as we got higher we were surprised at the rich “feed” in the riverbed. We saw some of Mr. Macpherson’s cows up here—practically wild, the calves running with the mothers; and a young colt who will surely be a sure-footed beast, for it careered wildly over rocks and boulders where most horses would have broken a leg. From the mountains on both sides came many waterfalls, leaping from the very tops. Just ahead Mount Ansted showed a snowy shoulder, and behind the ranges on our left, but unseen, lay Lake Wakatipu and Mount Earnslaw. The valley up which we were travelling bore away to the right, and, as we went on, the mountains towered up in fantastic shapes and beetling precipices, and at their foot the river ran, a pale blue stream. The valley grew wilder the higher we got, filled with ancient morainic terraces, through which many streams and the river have cut their way. This must be very rich land, for the terraces were covered with beautiful grass slopes, and groups of fine trees scattered about gave a strangely park-like effect. Sometimes a long opening appeared between the trees, like some grass-grown carriage-drive that ought to lead to an ancient house, but of track or sign of man there was none. Here we left the horses.

Grander and grander views opened out as we went on. The cliffs on our left were crowned with glaciers, which curving over them, broke and sent long tongues down into gullies in the mountain sides. These again became waterfalls, leaping from such, heights they were changed to finest spray. At the foot of some of these falls were the Ice-caves we had come to seek, and somewhere ahead of us was the “Silver Cone.” Mr. Macpherson was now in full command—whittling a stick with feverish energy, another held in readiness under his arm, thick as his wrist, to be whittled away in no time! It seemed to give him an inspiration, and he had an unerring instinct where to go, for as far as knowledge went, we were now far past his farthest point, and he had to find the way. So, led by our Highlander, we plunged into the bush, almost as bad to get through as the Rob Roy, only the slopes were less precipitous, and the floor covered with moss a foot deep. Tree trunks, stones—everything alike were embedded in five or six different and equally lovely kinds. Little streams trickling through it, made fairy waterfalls where the sun caught the moisture, and covered the delicate sprays and fronds with diamonds. And in the moss grew orchids, curious rather than beautiful perhaps, but the spotted leaves of one variety, dotted with purple, were pretty. The tall Gastrodia Cunninghamii grew here, a dirty-green flower, spotted with white, whose starchy roots are said to have been used by the Maoris for food. I think the ferns were more varied than in the Rob Roy gorge, but nothing like the lavish variety of the South Westland forest. Overhead the trees kept off the sun, and all the gullies contained tumbling torrents from the glaciers hanging to the mountains on the left. Above one of these gullies Macpherson paused, whittling hard; the Ice-caves must lie farther along those cliffs to the left, and there was a swirling torrent between us and any possible track; he emitted some curious Gaelic ejaculations, and then plunged downward—and we followed, swinging ourselves by creepers and ferns, till we caught him up where he stood on a big boulder out in the water. Between them they helped me on to it too, and beyond where the big Highlander stood lay a churning rapid with one big stone large enough in the middle to hold us both—but the question was, how was I to get there? Gathering himself for the spring, he lit safely on the stone, and turning, stretched out his arms, bidding me jump. I was considerably above him, which made it easier, but I venture to say I never had, and never again shall have, such a leap to make. However, when the question is of being left behind or taking the risk, one never hesitates long—and I jumped. I felt his big arms close round me, and we pirouetted wildly for one moment, trying to keep our balance, and then—over we went into the tumbling water! He never let go, and landed me unharmed on the other side, none the worse beyond wet feet. And soon

after this we left the forest behind, and came out on the river.

And now we began to see the full beauty and the solemn grandeur of the place. To right and left the mountains converged till the whole valley was blocked by a mighty mass, well-nigh perpendicular, whose summits were snow-covered to within a few hundred feet of their tops, where the black rocks ran up in pyramids too steep for snow. Along this wall the eye travelled eastwards over pure snowfields to a magnificent ice-fall, looking from here as if it must actually be moving, its colour exquisite in its tones of green below the snow-white waves. And then, just as last year it was described to me on the West Coast, rose clear and pure the “great Silver Cone against the blue.” One unbroken wave of snow seemed to run up one side to the very top, which, looked at with the naked eye, appeared almost a point, but the field-glasses revealed a double crown. The face towards us was only lightly powdered with snow: it was almost sheer. From where it rose, the mountains presented a savagely broken view of riven rock and snow-field, culminating in a mighty curved wave of glacier, which overhung a sheer precipice—a purple, misty gulf, so deep and dark we could only guess its probable depth at a thousand feet or more. Farther up it looked like a great cleft in the mountain wall; and another glacier blocked the head of it—an awesome chasm.

All I had been told was true, and more; and as we gazed in silence we saw the whole lip of the curved wave break and plunge downwards, the roar reaching our waiting ears like artillery. It is always so strange when you see the actual avalanche shoot down, to hear it only when it has practically been turned to powder.

I was so fascinated by this sight that Mr. Macpherson, growing impatient, went on ahead to search for the Ice-caves. We followed him up a brawling torrent, over terraces of stones and tumbled fragments of the hills, till we came to a cleft where the rocks rose in two huge slabs, and wedged between them in a ravine was a mass of ice. From a magnificent archway in its face, large enough for three coaches to drive in abreast, the torrent gushed forth. The archway must have been quite forty feet high, its roof within curiously wrought as though kneaded by gigantic knuckles, and hung all over with big drops that fell incessantly—but in winter time these must be icicles. Looking into its vasty depths, one saw it bend round in a curve where the dim light gave way to almost utter blackness. We ventured in, stepping from stone to stone, balancing with fingers touching those strange ice-walls. On down this weird tunnel, till a light ahead and a deafening roar told us we were within sight of where the waterfall pours into a great black hole it has bored right through the ice. We could go no farther—water filled all the space from wall to wall, and there were no stepping-stones to be seen in the dim light. Deadly cold was gripping us; nor was it safe to remain after the great heat outside, and so we turned to go. As we emerged round the bend the blaze of sunshine without dazzled our eyes for a moment, and then we saw a sight few have seen. There, framed by the arch of ice, rose the Silver Cone—all that pure curve of snow, with its every rock, every purple shadow, sharp and distinct against a blue so intense, it seemed dark against the snow. From the cave we looked straight into the chasm below the peak, but could see neither to the bottom nor to the end of that misty gulf—only up to the glacier curling over the black precipice.

I needs must see how the water entered the cave. We climbed up on to the top of it, and proceeded over a slippery surface, rather sloppy in the hot sunshine, till we stood below the waterfall which shoots in unbroken volume into a round, black hole. A cloud like steam rises out of it, and hangs around the opening. Looking upwards you see the fall comes down in a succession of three grand leaps, having their beginnings in a glacier poised some thousands of feet above. I don’t know whether it is more weirdly strange to stand up there at the edge of the uncanny pot-hole, or in the dimness of the cave to hear the water thundering down without.

We clambered round a buttress of cliff beyond the Ice-cave, and came to the second wonder. I have no doubt it had once been very similar to the first, because a waterfall at the end of a short gully came down in a very similar manner, but the middle portion was gone, and what remained was a perfect ice-arch. Through this, one saw a second arch with the river foaming under. They were magnificent, and here, too, we had to climb on top, and Macpherson and I were photographed as we stood in the centre of the bridge. At this point he left us: we wanted, if possible, to get some good photographs, and he said he was going to find an easier way back—it may have been shorter, but easier it was not, and involved some terrific gymnastics in the way of scrambling.

I sat down on a boulder in front of the cave, glad to be alone, and free to look in silence—filled with that exultation that comes to the heart of the lover of mountains; and filled, too, with the strange yearning to be one with it all—to understand—to let the solemn majesty of the mountains sink into one’s being. Awe they inspire; and fear too!

At last, from far down near the bush, came a haloo, and we knew Macpherson was getting impatient at our long tarrying, and we started homewards. We had to cross the ice-torrent first, and here, after so many experiences, I nearly disgraced myself by slipping back off a rock; but Transome rescued me, and pulled me safely ashore.

Mr. Macpherson must have whittled away many sticks while waiting, and was confident his new route would bring us to the horses in half the time. Plunging down gullies, scrambling up slippery slopes through ferns and bush, we did at last come out, very hot and tired, on the grassy terraces, and threw ourselves down beside the lunch-bag. It was past four o’clock, and we had not eaten since the start; and I think he enjoyed his meal as much as we did. Then the horses were saddled, and in the yellow afternoon sunlight we rode down the west Matukituki valley, well pleased.

Mrs. Macpherson had made a famous redcurrant tart as a crown to her other hospitable efforts, and we sat chatting over our supper till the moon rose above the valley walls. The last tints of sunset vanished from the mountains, and a great peace fell upon all things. As we rode, for the last time, towards the “Gate of Death,” I turned and said good-bye to the Lone Shieling. It was all so still: the children had gone indoors to bed, and the soft, dark curtain of the night was falling across the mountains; we had come into the circle of the lonely home for a space, and now we vanished as suddenly as we had come; but I think we will never in after years forget.