putting on the rope we started up the snow slopes leading to the west arête. We climbed in the following order—Murphy in the lead, then myself, Mr. Fisher and Mr. Chambers last. The going was good, up steep, frozen snow slopes that only required a chip with the ice-axe now and again. As we progressed the sun beat down upon upon us from a cloudless sky, and not a breath of wind stirred the air. We reached the col at the foot of the main west arête after a couple of hours' hard work. Up this we climbed for some time, and then traversed off to the left. We had two hours' step-cutting on solid ice at an angle of 60 degrees on the final slopes. Murphy was in fine form, and hacked his way in zigzag traverses. The traverses were not very long, so we spent much of our time turning at the corners. Once, not so long ago, I used to be unhappy when the critical moment arrived for changing feet and manipulating the rope to the other side; now I was glad to find it came like second nature, and I was able to inspire the man behind me with confidence and keep his rope taut while Murphy went ahead with his steps. At last we triumphantly reached the summit and stood looking over into Westland. It was the loveliest view in my mountaineering experience. With the exception of the panorama from the summit of Mount Cook, I had never obtained a perfect view of Westland. Glorious as is that view, one is really too high up to take in its full beauty; the mere fact that there is nothing but the blue of the skies above you tends to flatten everything somewhat, although you realize its loneliness and grandeur; while from Mount Green you are struck by its soft and friendly beauty. White peaks nestle around you, some higher, some lower; domes, spires and minarets pierce the blue sky in ever-changing loveliness, while at their feet the white glaciers curve, mile after mile of white and silver and blue, blue, silver, and white, till the eye turns from the dazzling sheen to the wonderful contrast of the west.
