Splendid Endeavour

The Harrier Club, though ever gentlemanly, tolerates no indignities. For instance, during the running of the Endeavour Cup everyone walked up the mighty hills that, had to be surmounted, yet when, on the Tinakoris, a sentry made bold to ask the leading runners what right they had to be there (on the hills, not in the lead), Ian McDowell put him in his place sharply by telling him it was a race, and he would have to get any explanations he wanted later, when we were not so busy. Ian him-self then devoted the next five or six miles to winning the race.

Ian ran well to win, pestered as he was throughout by Dick Daniell and Myles O'Connor. These two irresponsibles were quite unable to make up their minds what the placings were going to be till the last ten yards or less, when in the best Endeavour. Cup finish for years, Ian won by three yards from Dick, with Myles scarcely a yard further back. It was a Stirling effort by all three to put in such, a finish after eight tough miles. The cup itself, which is awarded on a sealed handicap, was won by Steve Wilson, who, it is [unclear: rumoured], ran up some of the hills, Unethical.

In the evening the annual Club Dinner was held in the Grand, and despite the war it was as fine a Club Dinner as ever we have had. Representatives of other Varsity sports clubs helped to fill the gaps caused in our membership by the war, and several former Varsity harriers who have not been able to turn out this season were there. It was a good chow.

Afterwards many of us had a birthday—Dorian's.

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.

"Laborare Est Orare"

The sudden waning of enthusiasm among University trampers at the prospect of a working party did not deter five of the more condescending from wading through the five-mile to Tawhai, having first mortified the flesh among the gorse-bushes of Gollan's Valley.

An exciting evening was spent in clashing through the undergrowth in' search of a number of thoroughly bushed women whose shrill cries, arising from somewhere in the Turere, disturbed the still night air. Despite these privations and the effort of our labour, we nevertheless returned in good humour to Muritai on Sunday, thanks to the stimulating effect of Lewis Carroll and Omar Khayyam.