Canterbury and Otago. Directly beneath our feet lay the Hermitage Valley filled with morning mists to the level of about 3,000 feet, out of which rose the countless spurs of the Benohau Range, like promontories from a sea of foam. Never was such a glorious day—not a breath of wind stirred, warm sunshine lit up the shining snows of countless peaks and sparkled on rushing rivers, green valleys, and far-away blue lakes. Human nature has but a limited capacity—this wide world was limitless. My eyes strayed from point to point: everything was different; old landmarks were swept away, or unrecognizable from a new angle. With a sigh almost of relief I turned my eyes to the little patch of snow on which we stood.
Westward, where we had ascended, it sloped gently down, and on the east, as I craned my neck to look over the brink, it fell in one sheer precipice for 4,000 feet, and with a gasp I sat back again; on the south we looked down upon a snow ridge sharp as a razor, leading to the middle peak; and beyond that again showed the rocks of the third peak. We speculated on the possibilities of a complete traverse of the three peaks from north to south, and decided it looked very ugly and would only be possible from south to north, taking the razor-like ridge beneath us on the upward grade. For the time my ambitions were satisfied, and I disclaimed any desire to attempt it, and turned my eyes northward. Here again the slope was not bad, and led down to Green's Saddle, from which a wickedly jagged rock ridge led up to New Zealand's highest virgin peak and third highest mountain, Mount Dampier; and on again in varied curves to the second highest peak. Mount Tasman. We spent two hours on the summit and took many photographs. Bitterly did I regret the fact that I was the merest amateur and knew nothing, only having owned a camera two months. No one had ever taken any successful pictures from the top of Mount Cook, and none had had
