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  “Well,” said Jim, made the sign of the cross over Steve Smith and cut the rope. I had forgotten to bring a Bible. We covered the body first with small rocks, in case there were any carnivorous rodents up there, and then with larger boulders.

  Long Haul on La Perouse

  Norman Hardie

  At the beginning of time, according to Maori legend, the children of Rangi, the Sky, came down to earth and Aorangi, one of the sons, set off to explore in his canoe with three of his brothers. The canoe ran aground forming the South Island of New Zealand and the four children became four great peaks of the Central Alps. Aorangi, which means “sky-cloud”, is now better known as Mount Cook (12,349 feet/3,764 metres) though the old name is still used by the Maoris. The South Island does indeed look like an upturned canoe, with the spine of the Central Alps running up the centre. Though these mountains are not so lofty as other ranges on earth, they are heavily glaciated, with the ice creeping down to 2,000 feet above sea level. They also get more than their fair share of precipitation. The moist air sweeps across the Tasman Sea, sucking up moisture like a sponge, only to wring out its soggy clouds over the western flanks of the Alps. Higher, like a good wife’s washing, it is a uniform white at the colder elevations. To the south-west in Fiordland the peaks are rain-washed, vertical and smooth; in places even the all-pervading jungle cannot cling. While to the east of the Alps the rainfall is slight, the ground parched and the country baked brown. Indeed, it is a memorable experience to travel over Arthur’s Pass, on the road or rail link between the two coasts and witness these changes. As one drops down to the western seaboard, the encroachment of the bush is felt. It is everywhere, elbowing in, the offspring of the 200 odd inches of rain per year. It is varied and picturesque country, with tree ferns, cabbage trees and lancewood, to name but a few of the junior members of a lofty family with such big brothers as rata and rimu trees.

  The main chain of the Central Alps forms a baffle wall between two great seas, the Pacific to the east and the Tasman to the west. It is from the latter that the violent storms sweep in, usually preceded by their advance packs of hogsback clouds, sure get-back-to-the-valley signs, recognised and feared by all Kiwi climbers.

  A range of mountains which provides possibly the best Himalayan training ground in the world must inevitably be a rough, tough place. It is. The mountains are both dangerous and difficult. There are inevitably accidents.

  During my stay in New Zealand I got to know several of the mountain guides who were employed by the New Zealand Government Tourist Board. Harry Ayres was then chief guide at the Glacier Hotel at Franz Josef and together with Mick Bowie and that earlier generation of founder guides, Peter and Alex Graham, they had a fine tradition and safety record. It was Harry who gave me a job after an abortive gold prospecting trip on the West Coast in the early ’fifties.

  The New Zealand guides have never been exponents of Grade Six climbing. The emphasis in their training was on knowledge of the peaks, basic mountain craft and the well-being of their clients. They could cut steps for twelve hours a day and Mick Bowie would still have enough spare energy to puff away at his pipe whilst doing so! One wonders how many modern “tigers” would stand up to such physical exertion?

  It was with this backbone of guides, Mick Bowie and Harry Ayres, that a rescue was successfully completed from close to the summit of La Perouse which will probably never be equalled in sheer protracted effort. Over the years I’ve witnessed the transition from sweat and toil rescue to the quick whisk by helicopter. I can’t say that I regret this change – it’s a lot easier – yet something has been lost. Before, it was team effort, where men worked as a closely knit unit, often exposed to danger themselves, always subjected to the grinding, arm-stretching work obligatory in taking a casualty off a mountain. But with this hardship an understanding and compassion was generated which isn’t a part of the clinical and remote evacuation by a helicopter.

  The accident on La Perouse was before the days of helicopters in New Zealand and from the men on that rescue a powerful nucleus of Himalayan climbers was born. The name of Norman Hardie will be forever linked with that hard core of Kiwi climbers that explored the remote area to the south and east of Everest. In that fascinating wild country our paths crossed on several occasions, in the depths of the Hongu valley and in the steamy Choyang, but I met him first in Christchurch. Norman, like his colleague, Ed Hillary, is an unassuming man. Here he gives his account of the La Perouse rescue of Ruth Adams, still vivid to him over the intervening years, and an enduring monument to the determination of a small group of men:

  The peaks near Mount Cook are named after Pacific navigators. Some, such as Tasman, Drake, Torres and Magellan preceded Captain Cook in time, and others came after him. Among the latter are Vancouver, Hicks, Dampier and La Perouse. On the ridge to La Perouse are three peaks named after British Admirals, Sturdee, Beattie and Jellicoe who were not Pacific navigators.

  At the beginning of 1948 Mount Cook had been climbed seventy-four times and La Perouse merely twelve. On 6 February the South Ridge of Cook was ascended for the first time by Ruth Adams, Ed Hillary and the two guides, Mick Sullivan and Harry Ayres. (Through Ed’s inability to get leave at Christmas, when most amateur New Zealanders do their mountaineering, he had made several climbs with Harry). Three days later the same party set off at 4.00 am to climb La Perouse. The normal route in those days involved three hours’ travelling from Gardiner hut, up the Hooker Glacier, then over Sturdee, Beattie, Jellicoe and Low before the ice ridge to the main summit. It is generally a long hard snow and ice climb, with several big pitches of fragile rock on the buttresses of the British admirals, and on the slopes to Low. Mount Low was named after R. S. Low of the Scottish Mountaineering Club, who was in the party that made the first ascent of La Perouse in 1908.

  These four made good progress on a fine morning until they encountered an ice wall on the descent from Low to the last col before La Perouse. Hillary and Ayres got down the wall but, on finding it far from easy, called to the rear pair to divert round the end of it. Ruth and Mick cramponed to a steep slope and were working their way down this when Ruth slipped. She slid down the ice slope out of control, passed the position where Mick was firmly placed and, to his horror and that of the two spectators, their rope snapped in what was really not a major fall. Ruth slid onwards about sixty feet, dropped over a short cliff and was stopped by a projecting rock – the only obstacle which could have prevented her going a further 4,000 feet.

  Mick had been given that rope by a client from Europe in 1938, and he regarded it so highly that he locked it away for safekeeping on the outbreak of war, bringing it out again in 1948 for the special climbs which he and Ruth undertook that year. Although the rope looked in good condition, it had apparently rotted in the damp atmosphere of the West Coast.

  The three climbers rushed to Ruth, secured her to the slope, and made their assessment of the situation. She appeared to have a broken wrist, possibly a damaged back, and definitely bruising and concussion. Clearly without further assistance the party could not carry her over the long tortuous route they had ascended. In 1948 there were no helicopters in New Zealand and no climbers carried radios. Getting the news out, and assembling the rescue team in this remote site was to be a major effort. The injured woman was a long day’s march for a climber from the first telephone; and Christchurch, the nearest centre for mountaineers, was a further 170 miles away.

  Ed Hillary stayed with Ruth, and spent most of the day cutting an ice cave and lining its floor with rock slabs, to give some security for the night. His patient regained consciousness and although cheerful, was quite unable to walk. The two guides had rushed back down their ascent route to Gardiner hut, where Mick picked up food, a cooker, two sleeping bag covers, a bag for Ruth, and climbed solo back up to the accident scene, doing the last hour in the dark. They all sat in the cave, ate a bare meal, and huddled together for the night, two without sleeping bags. In fact, Mick Sullivan spent the subsequent
five nights without a bag. Meanwhile Harry had run on down to the Hermitage Hotel at the foot of Mount Cook and reported to the chief guide, Mick Bowie. Immediately a call was put through to Christchurch, so that late on the night of the accident a strong group of climbers received the bad news.

  Mick Bowie was nearing the end of his distinguished guiding career. He had been chief guide for many years. He had once led a mountaineering expedition to southern China and had spent several war years with the New Zealand Army in Egypt and Italy. Mick led the whole rescue operation. Also at the Hermitage were three trainee guides whom he brought in from other climbs, as they returned to the hotel in the dark. Equipment was packed for an air drop. Before dawn they all set off for the climb to Gardiner hut and then right on to the accident site, which they reached as darkness was falling, on the second night.

  During that day a single-engined plane had dropped three loads in accurately placed positions and with minimal damage. Thus the patient, Ed Hillary and Mick Sullivan received a stretcher, a tent, food, fuel, a long rope and another sleeping bag. Apart from receiving this equipment there was very little they could do for the day.

  On this same complex day the Christchurch party drove to the Hermitage in the dark hours of the morning. I was then a junior engineer at a hydro-electric construction project on the way to the Hermitage. At 5.00 am Bill Beaven, from one of the Christchurch cars, woke me vigorously and said, “The Mount Cook South Ridge party has had an accident on La Perouse. Can you come?”

  “I’ve got a busy day. But Bill, you appear quite cheerful for a search party member!”

  “Well, yes. It should be an interesting trip. If we act quickly everyone should get off safely – and it’s a good team.”

  “I’ll try my best. Start without me, and I’ll catch you if I can.”

  I rushed to the Chief Engineer’s house, explained the situation as I saw it. He said he would drive me to the Hermitage, but first he had to eat. I then ran to the rooms of two of my work mates and handed to them the duties that were to have been mine for the next few days. My climbing gear took just a minute to gather.

  In this early morning activity the local policeman, who was not a mountaineer, was woken from his slumbers. As the police had just been given the responsibility for rescue operations, he announced he was also coming. Ted Trappitt, a good friend of mine, is now in one of the senior police posts in New Zealand, but on that occasion I felt his presence on such a technical climb could be a great embarrassment. The policeman, my boss, and I, drove with some speed to the end of the road. For the last few miles La Perouse became visible – a great ice peak towering above multiple shining cliffs. Between the cliffs are steep gullies, and even from fifteen miles away I was able to point out the great cones of avalanche debris at its base. Ted Trappitt became silent.

  At the hotel we obtained more information. Harry Wigley, the pilot, had read a message stamped in the snow when he made his air drops, and it stated, “O.K. all well.” He also reported, the three on the site were about a hundred yards on the west side of the main divide.

  Ted looked at me, with a brief smile, “That hundred yards is a relief. The accident is outside my boundary of operations.”

  Carrying as little as possible, I set off alone, some two hours behind the Christchurch party. Fortunately for me, the long car journey in the dark had taken its toll on the others and I was able to overtake them before I became committed to any really technical climbing. Some were passed, returning, having decided they were not fit enough, straight from office desks, for this type of major rescue. Our Christchurch party had now Harry Ayres, the guide, at its head. He had replaced broken crampons from his run down the glacier the previous day, stolen a few hours sleep, and was on the way up again. The whole tourist and climbing operation from the Hermitage was to be left without any climbing guides for a week.

  We were astonished to find a long line of steps cut up the face of Jellicoe, not to Harper’s Saddle, the normal route. Mick Bowie had made a new direct route to save time and all of us followed these widely spaced footholds in the fading light of the second night after the accident. Darkness overtook us as we were working our way up the icy face. Our group scattered in pairs on this unknown territory, and I was relieved to be roped to Bill Beaven who had been one of my main climbing companions for several years. We pressed slowly upwards assisted by the light of one feeble torch. It was bad enough, looking after our own safety, recognising the correct positions for our boots and ice axes, but every few minutes we were alarmed by the whistle of rocks passing over us, like cannon fire.

  “Bill, that mountain is mighty loose up there.”

  “We should stop at a crevasse lip every time they start. Each climber ahead is ‘gardening’ when they reach that hundred feet of black rubble at the crest of the ridge.”

  “Yes, a good idea.”

  But when the next group reached the rocks we were not near a protective crevasse. There was no option but to keep climbing. Needless to say, strong words were hurled up the slope as each rock barrage descended. I heard later that Mick, leading his three new guides up that first ascent took time off to give just one command to those further down the rope.

  “No bloody mistakes here.”

  At midnight, at the crest of the ridge, our group of eight unrolled sleeping bags on the ice and slept until daylight. Two were still on the face and they spent the night there. With the weather remaining fine so far, the absence of tents and snow caves did not matter. Breakfast was a slender snack in swirling mist. We struggled along the crumbly ridge and then there were stretches of guide-cut bucket steps, until at 10.00 am we were at the accident site.

  Thus, forty-eight hours after the fall the team was fully assembled. In total we were sixteen climbers and one patient. Among the climbers was Dr Gerry Wall, now a Member of Parliament, who had been a student at medical school with his patient, Dr Ruth Adams. His examination revealed no alterations to the original diagnosis by Ruth’s climbing companions. She was put securely in a stretcher, given sedatives and prepared for the long journey. We rummaged among the airdropped supplies and it appeared that Ruth would have all that she was likely to need, but it was more than evident the sixteen climbers were destined for a very hungry journey.

  Mick Bowie had given much thought to the two known routes off the mountain. The one we all knew by then, over Low, Jellicoe and Sturdee, was long and steep, involving many risks from further accidents with such large numbers moving about on great areas of rotten rock, and much New Zealand rock is very treacherous. The weather seemed to be deteriorating, and on that route there appeared to be the likelihood of two more nights on the ice at above 9,000 feet.

  The alternative was to descend to the West Coast side where the route off the mountain was technically easier, and by the second night the party should be at the Gulch Creek Rock, an enormous glacial erratic which could shelter the party under its overhangs. There would be alpine scrub for fuel there and we would be secure, but still some three days of trackless forested gorge from civilisation. In the interests of getting everyone off the mountain safely, as fast as possible, Mick chose the West Coast route, down to the shelter rock and then out via the Cook River. La Perouse at that time had been climbed only three times from the West, but in our party was a man who had been on one of these climbs. Doug Dick had been in a trio, including David Lewis, later known for his solo yachting, that had climbed La Perouse in 1938. For this expedition-type climb no real tracks had been cut through the bush, and for ten years no one had returned to the Cook River. Carrying the stretcher in this country would be a formidable task, but there would be fewer risks of a fatality by this choice of route.

  To reach the North-West Ridge of La Perouse it was necessary to climb a further 500 feet, to a point not a 100 yards along from the summit before beginning the descent. That climb was hot and frustrating, with ropes being trampled, big packs having to proceed forward and three vertical ice walls to be scaled. In the morning the gui
des had gone ahead, cut steps and put ropes and belays at the worst places.

  It soon became apparent that the six, or sometimes four, handling the stretcher could not also carry their full packs. Nor could they be roped together and hold coils of slack rope. Progress came to a halt just 200 yards from the accident site. Men on each side of the stretcher, working on very steep snow, bumped their heads into the packs of those ahead. Crampon spikes tore into climbing ropes. Previously silent complaints were now sometimes murmured. We halted. The guides approved the removal of the climbing ropes, and delegated jobs to most of us. Some without packs were to do the stretcher work. Others were somehow to manage the additional packs and be available for a turn on the stretcher carrying, sliding and pulling. Consequently there was much travelling back and forwards for packs and equipment; some climbed with two rucksacks. In weather which had earlier been threatening, seventeen people emerged at 4.00 pm just beside the summit of La Perouse. No one seriously considered diverting to bag that rarely climbed peak.

  As the clouds dispersed it was comforting to hear Doug Dick telling Mick, “When we came up in 1938 we used this snow ridge ahead. One can’t go to the end of it. We have to go down a steep face to the west to avoid the enormous bluffs which drop away from the ridge end. It’s all rather steep but reliable for quite a distance. But lower down there is loose rock where we had troubles ten years ago.”

  For the descent along the ridge, new techniques had to be tried and adopted. Our giant leader, Mick, tied 400 feet of airdropped rope to the stretcher. He established a firm anchor and the carriers moved on to the extent of the rope and then rested, as Mick walked forward to anchor for a further move of 400 feet. In the late afternoon the slope steepened and by winding in and out of a crevassed area we eventually reached temporarily easier ground. As the light was fading we emerged on to an exposed but rocky terrace at about 8,000 feet. Here we stopped for the night.