with plenty of time to muse over the events of the past few days and to let my wandering thoughts fly back even further, to the struggles of the past five years whilst attempting to conquer Aorangi.
What is the climber's reward for all his trouble? Why does he climb? Who can tell?
Is it renown he struggles for? No; I am convinced that is a very infinitesimal motive. For mercenary ends? No; there is no financial harvest to reap.
I have often tried to think why men undergo such labour and hardship, but cannot come to any definite conclusion. To overcome set tasks ('pure cussedness' the Americans would say) is one reason (after once putting one's hand to the plough). To gain physical and mental strength, to raise and purify the mind in Nature's great school, are both potent reasons. But, above all, there is some mysterious influence pervading all true mountaineers—a mountain fever, a close kinship with Nature (call it what you will), a hidden impulse that grows on a man who has once felt what it is to taste the sweets of climbing and to enjoy the fascinations of the world above the snow-line.
My friend did not arrive, so I made my way over to Mr. Brodrick's Survey camp on the Murchison, walking through a thick mist, and steering across the Tasman by the aid of a compass—a distance of seven miles, or three hours' walking from camp to camp.
Here I found Cooper—Messrs. Wheeler & Son's photographic operator—who was down securing views of the district for a lecture which I was to deliver before the Australasian Association for the Advancement of Science.
