Notwithstanding our deviations and undulating course, we made the summit of the great spur at midday.  Such a scene as here opened out before us is difficult to describe.  If it had been a flat plain with the usual domestic accessories there would be only a dreary circumscribed and more or less familiar picture, but here we were among the silent mountains untouched by the hand of man, in the clearest atmosphere in the universe, with magnificent and varying panoramas stretching away from us on every side.  To the north we could see far into the upper gorge of the Rangitata, with its precipices and promontories receding point by point in bold outline to the towering peaks forty miles beyond, and below it the wide flats of the great river, with its broad bed and streams so rapid that they could not be frozen over.  On the east the low undulating downs stretching away towards the plains, while westward they ran in huge spurs to the foot of the Alpine range, towering 13,000 feet above us.  Turning southward was seen the lower gorge, with its hills almost meeting in huge precipitous spurs, with stretches of pine forests clothing their slopes.

Turn where we would over those immense panoramas all was white, pure, dazzling, glittering white, with a deathlike stillness over all.  No life, no colour, save a streak of grey-blue on the broad river bed, and the shadow thrown by the mountains in the depths of their frowning gorges.  The cold grey cloudless sky itself was scarcely any contrast.  It was a magnificent wilderness of snow, and we viewed it spell-bound till our eyes ached with the glare and we felt a strange desire to lie down and sleep.

Such is invariably the attendant sensations under these circumstances, whence the danger.  If one once gives way to the drowsiness and longing for rest, he is gone.  The sleep comes quickly, but it is a sleep from which there is no awakening—­hence the precautions taken on such an expedition to have as large a party of strong men as possible to assist each other in case of failure.  The need for such caution was fully verified in our case.

We were fortunate in discovering a number of sheep on the leeward of the spur where the snow had drifted off and lay comparatively light, and some were feeding off the tops of tall snow grass which remained uncovered.  In other places numbers were living under the snow as the breathing holes testified.  The visit and inspection were as satisfactory as we hoped, and after a short rest and hasty lunch, we started on our return journey, which, as it would be in our old tracks, and for the most part downhill, would be very much easier than the previous one.

It was well that our homeward journey was easier, or the trip would not have ended as satisfactorily as it did.  We all felt on starting that we had had nearly enough work, and looked forward longingly to the snug huts two miles distant.  It was now half-past one, and by three o’clock darkness and severe frost would set in (indeed, it was freezing all day).  We originally trusted to reach the station by that hour, but we had delayed longer with the sheep than we should have.