problem of descending by the same route, a route on which a slip meant annihilation for all of us. All these things raced through my brain before I turned a questioning look on my silent guides. Their faces were grave, they knew by many years' experience what I could only guess at. At last Peter shook his head dubiously and turned from the icy ridge. "Looks bad, Alex?" he questioned. "Bad as it can be," his brother agreed, and we all sat down in the snow to think it over. A few moments' consideration ended in the decision to obtain a closer view of the arête and see if the schrund were an impossible chasm or no. Rapidly we skirted round the west side of the Silberhorn and descended to the Tasman Saddle and began the ascent towards the break in the arête. When we reached this, we paused to take some food and let out the rope to its full length, which gave us about 30 feet apiece. We also decided to leave the rucksac behind us, taking nothing but a bottle of brandy in case of emergencies, and a few dried fruits and biscuits which would be slipped into our coat-pockets. We managed to cross the schrund by descending a few feet of the icy precipitous south face and coming up again on the upper lip. This upper lip consisted of a 20-foot perpendicular wall, up which Peter cut steps while Alex and I hung on the steep face below as best we could. At last our leader safely reached the arête above the schrund and called to me to follow on. I crawled cautiously up the icy wall, very thankful for the support of the rope held taut above me, safely gained the arête, and waited while Alex repeated the performance. One difficulty at any rate was surmounted, and we were disposed to be somewhat elated. Our elation died a speedy death, when we discovered the arête stretching away above us was solid ice from base to summit. Breathing a curse on our luck, Peter started cutting steps where our predecessors had cheerfully kicked their way on snow. To Alex and
