This was finished about 8.30 p.m., and shortly afterwards I crawled into my sleeping-bag and tried to go to sleep. I was very comfortable, the grass being as good as a spring mattress, but I was much too excited at the prospect of my first real mountain to sleep. About midnight it began to drizzle with rain, and in the depths of despair I lost consciousness. About 2.30 a.m. I was awakened by the crackling of a fire, and put my head out to find Graham already busy with preparations for breakfast. Dressing hastily, or rather undressing, as in a bivouac one puts on all spare clothes to keep out the cold, I came out to view the morning. To my relief it was quite fine, so I scrambled on to a convenient boulder to await the dawn. It proved a beautiful one. Immediately beneath us lay the Hooker Valley, all filled with soft white morning mist, which hid the base of the mountains while their summits stood out clear against the deep blue sky, in which innumerable bright stars twinkled and flashed. As I watched, the stars faded one by one and the first streaks of dawn lighted the eastern skies. Brighter and brighter grew the colours, and soon a patch of rose lit up the dead-white snows of Mount Sefton; onward and upward it crept until the whole summit flushed to glowing crimson. One after another the light caught the surrounding peaks, edging their cold snows with glittering gold. Up came the sun from his hiding-place behind Mount Cook, scattering the mists before him, till the perfect colours of dawn faded before his triumphant majesty as he heralded in a glorious summer day.
Breakfast disposed of, we struck camp and climbed rapidly to the top of the range. We descended a little and traversed along its Muller side until we came to a huge snowfield. It being still early, the surface was quite hard. The crunch, crunch of the frozen snow and the tingling morning air set my blood racing, till I wanted to run and frisk like a sporting lamb from pure joy of life
