HOW I GOT THE SHOT

Words And Images

BY GAVIN LANG

On a four-day traverse of the NZ Alps, mountain guide and photographer Gavin Lang took these two incredible shots—one a sunset shot from a crevasse where he and his partner made camp, and one the next morning as they continued on at sunrise.

Read the full story—and many more—in his recent book, Seeking the Light, as he ice climbs, rock climbs and skis his way to photographing NZ’s 24 highest summits.

06:53, January 15, 2020

Lukas setting off from Middle Peak Hotel after an open bivouac. The morning light is tinged with yellow-orange haze from recent Australian bushfires.

The highly sought after grand traverse, or “High Mile”, on Aoraki/ Mt Cook involves ascending High, Middle and Low peaks. It’s up to the climber to choose the direction, route and descent on what is guaranteed to be a memorable undertaking.

The first recorded traverse across the 1.5 kilometres of ridge line was in 1913. It was hailed as a historic achievement, especially so because the group included a woman, Freda du Faur—the first female climber known to be active in New Zealand.

For those not content with the original version, a remixed and remastered Long Player—including Mt Dampier, Mt Vancouver and Malaspina—packs an exhilarating range of climbing styles, conditions and challenges.

If you like to sleep in a warm, cosy bed at night rather than throwing yourself into the anxiety of keeping your shit together during multiple uncomfortable days and nights, this is not for you.

But if you pick your weather window and travel light, you have a chance to enjoy the sunsets and sunrises from the most incredible vantage points in New Zealand, well away from the madness of crowds, and experience some exhilarating terrain that is as unrelenting as it is rewarding.

Joining me was Lukas Kirchner, an enthusiastic, do-it-all adventurer. We chose to gain the Low Peak via White Dream on the South Face of Aoraki, the first pitch of which would prove to be the hardest of the entire climb. This meant, however, that if we or the route were not in condition, we could figure this out early on and retreat. Beyond here, if conditions are ripe, a long stint at altitude awaits you beyond the technical crux.

Every mountain adventure begins with uncertainty. Uncertainty creates the thrill of the unknown, which is necessary for personal growth. It keeps us on our toes, spurs resourcefulness and makes us more resilient. And resilience plays a vital role in survival. Despite a mountaineer’s need to manage risk and stay in control, a paradox of mountaineering emerges: without risk, there is no reward.

We reached the top of Pudding Rock mid-afternoon and set up our lightweight bivouac. At 2am the following morning, stars sparkled over our tentless bivvy, and below us the head torches of two friends skimmed across the glacial moraine, fluttering rapidly back and forth. Alastair McDowell and Rose Pearson were applying the fast and light style of ‘trailpinism’ in an attempt at a sub-24-hour grand traverse of Aoraki.

We, on the other hand, took a slovenly two hours to pack up our down quilt, roll mats, eat our breakfast and get moving.

Light emerged early on, poking through the darkness, and good conditions on the Noeline Shelf helped get us to the start of the route quickly. The sun clipped the top of La Perouse and a light show began across the valley, but we knew the South Face wouldn’t get sun until early afternoon. As we neared White

Dream, I still had doubts about its condition. It was mid-summer, and the freezing level was very high, but it would reach its peak over the next few days, so it was now or never.

Four pitches of steep, challenging ice, including two long simul-climbing pitches, brought us level with the hanging serac to our right. It felt comforting to know that a colossal collapse of the icefall couldn’t harm us anymore. I cannot imagine what even a fist-sized piece of fast-moving ice could do to a climber moving through a difficult ice section.

Our destination, Middle Peak Hotel, was visible across the upper Empress Shelf and with just the Low Peak to tag en route, we took our time over lunch before setting off.

Once installed in the highest penthouse suite in New Zealand, we finished dinner and got organised for an early night. We marvelled at the sunset, yet although the sun is incredibly warming, once it goes below the horizon it’s best to be tucked away in bed. We were nearly 2000 metres higher than Pudding Rock; it was a lot colder.

The views south towards Low Peak and Mount Cook Village, the lights and the cellphone coverage all created a strangely ‘connected’ feeling, when the reality of isolation was obvious. It seemed implausible to be so remote but be able to call home.

At dawn the sun pushed through the high cloud, splashing the glaciers and peaks around us with dazzling light. The dust in the air from the recent Australian bushfires amplified the rays in a rare way for this part of the world, far from big cities and pollution. The sky in the Southern Alps is usually clear but the valley haze and the yellow-tinged fair-weather cumulus made it feel like climbing in the French Alps.

It was refreshing from a photography perspective to have this dusty yellow sky, but also disturbing to see the effects of raging forest fires thousands of kilometres away.

As we set off we had the luxury of moderately hard snow, a texture we call polystyrene. This firm, squeaky snow aids easy cramponing. The sharp ridgelines were flattened off and only a small cornice existed. These details helped make movement fast and we moved from camp to the summit in a little over an hour. The High Mile was in the best condition I’ve ever experienced, and despite our dawdle and my indulging in photographs and film, we made good progress.

We stopped for a while and contemplated bivvying near the summit to catch the sunset, but with so many hours of daylight left, our priority was finding respite from the radiation.

Moving quickly down the straightforward rock and ice steps on the summit rocks, we reached the schrund at the top of the Linda Shelf. We began to create shade by rigging the bothy bag over our heads with poles and axes.

We woke that morning at one, but after three nights of bivouac, we were feeling weary. Insulating against the elements is a difficult task. When it’s done well, the extra weight and bulk required to carry the gear makes climbing technical ice or rock limiting. Our compromise was to use wafer-thin roll mats and share an ultra-thin duvet. It gave us just enough shelter to not freeze, but comfortable and salubrious it was not. Almost in unison we proclaimed how happy we were that it was time to get moving: “Thank fuck that’s over.”

We prized Lukas’ disintegrating foam mat from the frozen snow, grateful it had survived the few nights. We began our morning with an easy downhill march across the Linda Shelf.

The air was still and the stars were bursting all around. Well below us, the flashing lights of another climbing party on the Linda Glacier strobed around on the ice at Teichelmann’s corner. The first signs of daylight had not yet appeared but the towering presence of the North Ridge of Aoraki could be seen where there was an absence of stars.

We reached the summit of Dampier shortly after 7am, followed by Mt Vancouver before 10am, and finally Malaspina.

At the summit block of Malaspina, I darted about snapping photos as Lukas climbed the compact red rock. The soft wet snow acted as a kind of safety net. I couldn’t belay until he had placed some gear, then just a few metres shy of the summit, he found the first piece of protection and I scurried over through the calf-deep wet snow to offer a belay.

I scrambled up to join him at the summit, content to sit and enjoy this rare piece of warm dry rock while the sun’s rays moved off the eastern snow slopes. After some time reflecting on our ultra grand traverse, we cantered down the Linda Glacier towards Plateau Hut.

Modern climbers are more accomplished than ever, and we don’t just mean on the wall. We’ve always valued boldness, whether that means having the vision to push highpoints into the unknown or having the audacity to demand more for our home planet. To be a strong climber means full commitment to the sport and to our communities. It means not just working towards futuristic first ascents, but working towards a better future. And we aren’t going to get there alone.