The western arête was steep, and in places very icy, which involved the cutting of many steps. Contemplating these steps from the point of view of the descent did not increase our cheerfulness, as they were in rather rotten ice and would be exposed to the full glare of the midday sun. Beyond making them as deep and safe as possible, there was nothing to be done, so we proceeded upward and left the descent to take care of itself. Two nasty schrunds caused us some difficulty, but at last we conquered all obstacles and at 7.15 a.m. stood triumphantly on the summit of the Silberhorn (10,500 feet). Naturally our first thought was for the Tasman arête, which had been hidden from our view as we climbed. With one accord our glances swept it searchingly. The silence that followed was ominous—personally I felt cold shivers running up and down my spine as I viewed the last 1,000 feet of our proposed climb from close quarters. From the Tasman Glacier the ridge seems to rise out of the Silberhorn in a gentle softly inviting slope. From our newly gained summit it rears a knife-like edge for 1,000 feet, at the most appalling angle I had ever beheld or imagined. On its south side the ridge drops sheer to the Linda Glacier beneath; on its north it falls away sharply to a great schrund which runs the whole length of the north-east face. This schrund makes a great gap in the arête about 200 feet from the saddle, a gap that we must somehow overcome if we were to gain the longed-for summit. Here and there on the steep and narrow ridge shone unmistakable patches of ice, leaving us no illusions as to the kind of ascent we were up against. Silently I took in the whole appalling ridge, which could be compared with nothing in my experience but the razor-like arête leading from the summit of Mount Cook to the middle peak—and this arête we had hastily disclaimed any desire to set foot upon, except on the upward grade. If we succeeded in ascending to the summit of Mount Tasman, we had to face the infinitely worse
