Pizzles in Paradise

by John Hicks

  Our trip to the Mueller hut was a short acclimatisation trip we had been advised to make while we waited for an alpine guide to become available and take us on a tour across the Main Divide.

  ~

  Here we were, on the névé of the Franz Josef Glacier. The ski plane that had deposited us was a receding buzz. It disappeared over a ridge and the three of us were alone in the centre of a vast silent whiteness. Our guide, Dave McNulty, proceeded to initiate us into the intricacies of glacier travel and, as a roped trio, we descended to the Almer hut. The weather was still fine and from our vantage we could see the broken top of the Franz Josef Glacier itself. At this point the enormous mass of its névé contorts into the precipitous defile that takes it almost to sea-level on the west coast. The Almer hut perches high on a small rocky island in a sea of ice and snow, yet in sun-warmed rock crevices a beautiful ranunculus displayed its flowers. Such a delicate life-form in such a harsh environment.

  We were soon to witness just how harsh it could be. Telltale wisps of cloud from the west presaged a nor’west storm and, in the morning, Dave warned us that we could face difficulties. The alternative, an escape to the west coast down the unstable Franz Josef, was not particularly appealing. The weather was still fair so, optimistically, we took the risk and set off east for the Graham Saddle.

  We ate and packed in a hurry and soon we were muffled in our waterproofs and retracing our steps of the previous day. The pace was fast and the snow quite deep and, although Viv and I were reasonably fit, it was tiring work. The cloud dropped lower until it was only just possible to see nearby rocks through the mist. I was very glad that we were in Dave’s expert hands.

  As we climbed, the wind increased, the temperature dropped and large flakes of snow began to flail us. Our main concern now was to reach the ridge before conditions became impossible. Viv wrote about the experience from her perspective.

  As far as I was concerned conditions were almost impossible now. I could hardly keep up with Dave. The stops to struggle with our crampons and to tie the rope around our waists had frozen my hands and the effort of forcing my tired muscles to move faster seemed to make me colder still. Eventually I felt myself being pulled along by the rope every time I lagged. All the time the wind was whistling bitterly about our faces and visibility was nil.

  The ground seemed to come up to meet me and I stopped, only to be jerked by the waist and forced to go on. Instead of having fallen I found I was climbing a near vertical wall of ice-hard snow without a clue as to what was above or beneath. My fear enlivened me and I found new strength to climb. The top of the wall gave onto a level patch of snow and Dave was yelling that we were at the top of the saddle.

  Too cold to stop, we pressed on, passed an outcrop of snow-plastered rock and turned into the teeth of the gale. Almost immediately the ground ran away beneath us and we began the descent. Thoroughly heartened I followed, only to come to the lip of a deep, blue-green crevasse and have my newfound courage cut to shreds.

  [Little were we to know that the Rudolph Glacier, normally a safe descent, was in Dave’s words ‘badly cut up this year’. In such conditions it was to be a perilous undertaking.]

  We walked along the fissure and found a snow bridge, with no retreat and no other way to cross; I steeled myself and, as the lightest member of the party, crossed first. Keeping my eyes on my feet I tried to walk lightly and fast, while the green depths leered up at me. Safely across I belayed for the others to follow.

  Although we were very hungry and lacked energy it was just too cold to stand around, so on we went, crossing smaller crevasses and teetering down rocky ribs on our crampons. Once we had to descend on the path of a stone chute, anxiously looking up in case our passage disturbed a further fall of rocks; and once a descent over rocks was more than I could manage, so the others lowered me down on the end of the rope.

  More than once I felt like giving up and sitting in the snow to sleep, but there were always the men, urging me on. Speed was essential. There was still a long way to go. The clouds seemed to be lifting and the snow becoming lighter and soon we could see down the valley: a waste of moraine, rocks and dirty ice, stretching for miles and miles. In the lee of a huge boulder we fumbled with dates and chocolate although by now I felt too tired to eat and then, before our muscles seized, we were off again. Now the imminent danger was past, my mind lapsed into semiconscious blankness while my legs and feet marched on… and on.

  With the glowing warmth of the hut, the companionship of its occupants, and a steaming mug of billy tea warming my hands, I began to come out of my fatigued stupor, but it was not until the following morning—Christmas Eve—that I realised how wonderful it was to be alive.

  [Our refuge was the de la Bêche Hut. I felt that I too was reaching my limits as we ascended the steep slope of loose moraine to gain that glowing warmth.]

  Awakening the next morning I realised the weather had deteriorated yet again. The wind was muffled and a little snow-light glared through the single windowpane of the bunkroom. I snuggled deeper into the heat of my sleeping bag. Before long the sound of clumping boots on the wooden floor forced me into an effort to spur myself awake and join John and Dave in their preparations for breakfast. All that remained was a misty descent of the Tasman Glacier to the Ball Hut, a welcome bath (a special privilege granted by the guiding company in token of the ordeal we had been through) and a return to our tent the following day.

  What sort of man would put his wife through that? We had never planned it that way, but it is what can be expected in the mountains. In better weather we may have danced up the gleaming cones of the Minarets (our planned objective), but fate decreed a darker lesson. After our trip Dave took me aside and told me that Viv was someone very special. He had never seen a woman put up with so much with such courage and no word of complaint. That would be interpreted by some as a sexist remark, but, knowing Viv as I do, it is surely the truth. For three days we had been impressed with the friendly professionalism of this modest man. In true guiding tradition he had put our comfort before his. It was profoundly upsetting to learn of his death in an avalanche a few years later.

  In the annals of mountaineering our little adventure would not rate a mention. Joe Simpson, in his remarkable book Touching the Void, describes breaking his leg near the summit of a remote Andean peak, being left for dead after falling into a crevasse, and crawling his way back to base camp over agonising days, just in time to surprise his companions who, sad and fearful, were preparing to depart in the sure knowledge of his death. By comparison I have described a mere stroll over the Graham Saddle in which the participants got a bit wet and tired.

  Each to his own threshold of fear and pain, to me the mountains are special—an inspirational package of landform, and natural history—a balm to the soul, a place to share with someone you love. I am in awe of the Whympers, Shiptons, Bonningtons and Simpsons of this world, but for me it is the mountain realm and not the mountaineering that appeals. Physical elevation is less important than elevation of the spirit. Viv and I are content to tramp the valleys and passes and merely gaze at the upper heights. A monk at Thyangboche monastery famously remarked to one Himalayan climber, ‘Why would I want to tread the snows when I can ascend them in spirit?’ A modern answer could be, ‘For an adrenalin rush’. Since the life of a rural veterinarian provides sufficient of these in the normal course of events, as you will see, I feel no need to seek more in times of leisure.

  ~

  ‘I don’t want to be too critical, but why have you reverted to feet and inches for mountains; you who so eagerly advocate the metric system?’

  ‘I did think about that, my dearest. For the practical world of money and science I totally support the logic of metric measures, but for me mountains have always been about dreams, the passion and romance of discovery hidden in dusty tomes. An antiquated system of measurement may be inconsistent with the modern world, but the weight of history is on my side. It suits my purpose. The mountain ranges
of the world are arrayed in my mind in feet. I’m sure that Frank Smythe would approve. Let the pragmatists divide my figures by 3.281 if they must.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Communication is the Key

  People don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.

  For the three years we were in Taranaki we managed to holiday in the South Island at least once a year. There were interesting places to see in the North Island and we visited the volcanic areas, climbed and skied on Ruapehu, but we were forever drawn to the Southern Alps. Although happy in our jobs, I did not want to spend a lifetime as a dairy specialist. I needed to gain experience with other species for which my hard-won years at university had prepared me.

  It was time for a change, and a practice in Ashburton on the Canterbury plains was to provide just that. We farewelled our Taranaki friends. Viv forsook her secretarial job for a proofreading one with the Ashburton Guardian, and I forsook dairy cows for a mix of sheep and beef farms, dogs, cats and a smattering of horses. I also came into the sphere of influence of some remarkable vets.

  From Steve Catalinac I learned the value of communication. For Steve, life was for laughs. It is fun to be with such people. He could be careless and made mistakes, as we all do—but he made more than most. A litigious client and clever lawyer could have taken him to pieces. So how did he always come up smelling of roses? Join me in a typical Steve episode ...

  Mrs Liza Abernethy owned an aggressive Chihuahua called, perhaps, Rastus. Rastus’s type-A personality was trapped within a tiny body. But life is a matter of mind over matter, and Rastus, despite his feeble frame, quite successfully managed to tyrannise his family. I have never been able to understand how such little dogs can hold sway over a group of humans collectively hundreds of times their size, and perhaps intelligence, but it frequently happens. The children in such families often reflect similar behavioural tendencies but, unfortunately, the remedy I am about to describe cannot be applied to them.

  Of course the simplistic answer is no longer fashionable. Wild dogs live in a dominance hierarchy. They respect power; the rules of the jungle apply. This doesn’t mean that you thrash him every time he growls (although it could well come to the determined and judicious use of a rolled up newspaper) but he certainly should not be accorded preferential treatment. There are psychological ploys to try. He has to be fed as a subservient pack member: after the rest of the family. As with so many pet problems it is the owner who needs the counselling, not the animal. Liza probably felt so sorry for Rastus that she couldn’t bear to see the poor little mite waiting for his food with those big sorrowful eyes. She would persuade herself that her kindness would appeal to his better nature and he would henceforth be a reformed character. Tosh!

  In the mid-seventies vets were experimenting with female sex hormones to control aggression in male dogs. It’s all so much easier if you can bypass any suggestion of owner inadequacy by providing a solution out of a bottle. Steve had ordered a bottle of slow release progestagen and was itching to experiment. Rastus seemed an ideal subject and was duly injected.

  It is entirely possible that Steve, in his enthusiasm, hadn’t considered the likelihood of side-effects from his treatment. After all, it was only one millilitre that he injected. A small volume, but this was the smallest breed of dog known to man. The one millilitre vial was a standard human female dose. We discussed it amongst ourselves:

  ‘How heavy is Rastus, Steve?’

  ‘About two to three kilos I suppose, Brian.’

  ‘What is the recommended dose for behaviour modification?’

  ‘It’s early days; people seem to be a bit hazy about it. Look, do you jokers reckon I’ve been a bit heavy-handed?’

  ‘Well, the dose you have given him would be sufficient to stop a sixty kilo woman conceiving for six months.’

  Steve seemed only slightly fazed. ‘When you look at it like that, I suppose it could give his system a bit of a shake up—but at least we’ll have given it an honest go and find out if it really works. Besides, I can’t very well suck it out again.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s going to be a bit expensive treating a Rotty at that sort of dose rate. [Rottweilers are a large breed of dog with a reputation—often misplaced—for aggressiveness.] You could solve China’s population problem for marginally less.’

  A modicum of disingenuous hyperbole can go a long way. Steve was spurred into action. A few minutes later he was phoning up pharmacists and the Poisons Centre and doing a rapid literature search focusing on the effects of progestagen overdosage in dogs. Later again, he was writing a letter to Liza. The great thing about Steve was that he really did care. The theme of the letter was that he wanted her to record any changes that she noted in the behaviour of Rastus because this was a new technique and any observations would be valuable in helping vets to fine-tune the dosage required. He had just read a very recent paper which said that there might be localised hair loss at the site of the injection and that occasionally the penis could shrink dramatically. Since Rastus wasn’t intended for breeding he hoped this wouldn’t bother her if it occurred.

  Yes, penile atrophy and hair loss were the side-effects of over-dosage. (If someone could market a human drug with exactly the opposite effects they would make a fortune!) As luck would have it, Liza was a diligent client who entered enthusiastically into the spirit of his inadvertent experiment. He received weekly letters from her, complete with measurements of Rastus’ penile length. Steve took great delight in regaling us with the details of Rastus’ penile regression which he plotted on a ‘penis chart’ by his desk. The fact that Liza was able to take these measurements was itself testimony to the efficacy of the therapy. No one had even been able to pat his tummy before. Liza was thrilled with the interest and care that Steve had shown Rastus, who was now very contented, if rather rotund (another side-effect of the progestagen). Steve, for his part, was thrilled that Rastus’ apparatus stopped shrinking while it still served as a useful conduit for his bladder.

  Unfortunately, the causes of aggression in dogs are multifactorial and the solution is hardly ever as simple as a single injection. These days there are animal psychologists who make a living attempting to manage such problems. Their approach usually involves adjusting the owners’ inconsistencies. A favourable outcome can never be guaranteed so, if children are at risk, and they usually are, there is only one recommendation that I would make. Pets are pets. If your relationship with your pet has become an ordeal there is something wrong. The unquestioning devotion and playful nature of your dog should comfort, amuse and entertain you and give you good reason for mutually beneficial exercise. If there is any doubt that he might take the face off one of your neighbours’ children, he should be euthanised.

  ~

  Most of us carefully conceal areas of knowledge where our professional expertise is thinly spread. But just as the art of good conversation involves a modicum of risk-taking, so the process of acquiring veterinary proficiency necessitates pushing your comfort zones: within reason. As a recent graduate I remember being mortified when an uncle, who happened to be a doctor, asked me a technical question about horse doping, which I couldn’t answer.

  ‘But you’re a vet now; you’re supposed to know about these things.’

  Should I have explained that I had spent three years dealing with dairy cows and had hardly touched a horse in that time? That a veterinary degree doesn’t teach you everything, but merely provides a foundation on which to build? That you only build on the basis of your interests and experience? I have never had any interest or much contact with the racing industry or doping. Even now, after more than thirty years as a vet, I wouldn’t be able to answer his question. No more would he, as a general practitioner, have been able to tell me about brain surgery.

  I regret if I have disillusioned those of you who have hitherto had untrammelled faith in our illustrious profession. The fact is no single individual can know everything. The nemesis for many vets is bir
ds. Infrequently they flutter into our lives and, when they do, there is a mad scuffle for textbooks. If the bird is a dead one the scuffle is more leisurely. The usual recourse is to wrap it in plastic and pass the buck to some unfortunate veterinary pathologist at the local animal health laboratory. They then do the autopsy and provide some useful interpretation of their findings that the vet, having clued himself up, can pass back to his client.

  Steve had a growing band of admirers. Many were the clients who insisted on seeing him; no other vet would do. And Steve was always obliging, always prepared to push the boundaries of his comfort zone. Or perhaps he never knew where they were, but was confident of his supreme ability to talk his way out of uncharted territory. Even he, however, must have been feeling particularly bullet-proof, or have had an inordinate amount of time on his hands, when he decided to autopsy the budgie himself. This was the budgie that had just died in his hand when he gently lifted it off the perch in its cage—unfortunately not an uncommon experience for vets dealing with nervous and sick small birds.

  When Steve first came to me about it, I thought he was joking. So perhaps I was untactful to tell him that ‘fell off his perch’ is a humorous Liverpool euphemism for death, and ‘taken off his perch’ didn’t have quite the same linguistic resonance. Steve hurriedly explained that he was serious and had to find something wrong with the wee mite (or words to that effect). He was going to do an autopsy and send anything that looked remotely suspicious, off to the lab. In the process of doing this he found what he took to be abnormal looking lymph nodes in the deceased bird’s abdominal cavity and packed them off, neatly labelled, to the Lincoln Animal Health Laboratory.