Earthquakes—Arete Avalanches and Things

It is only once in years that one strikes such a good winter week-end in the Tararuas such as did this year's Arete party. Crisp mountain air, as clear as crystal—snow as soft and pure as swan down—mountain peaks covered with glittering whiteness. Such weather conditions almost made up for the fact that the party did not reach the top.

A thrilling ride on a bus carrier contrasted with plutocratic taxi transport, and followed by a scramble through forest blackness, enabled us to sink a welcome brew at Ohau hut—12.30 a.m.

Saturday dawned bright and sunny. Away at 8 a.m., boulder-hopping and splashing up the Ohau River. Up into the snow—enchanting perhaps, but unpleasant as it dripped off the trees and down our necks, and it was too soft.

5 p.m. saw us still ploughing through it—on the slopes of Arete. A mountain dancing a rumba neath our feet was a thrilling experience. Patches of ice and oncoming darkness and Tararua mist caused the leader to turn back at this stage—defeat, I suppose you'd call it.

Sunday was another perfect day, and retreat was difficult with the mountains smiling—calling us. A headlong dash through snow and forest, down river-bed, missing an avalanche by inches, hush again and then a road walk. Home at last, tired but happy.