GETTING SCHOOLED

Tom O’Halloran represented Australia as a rockclimber at the Tokyo 2020 Olympic Games. In 2022, he was given the opportunity to join an ‘Introduction to Mountaineering’ course in the Australian Alps. It was the second time Tom had seen snow in his life.

“This is fucked,” I think for the third time in ten seconds. The snow seems to be coming in faster than we can get rid of it. At this point, having lost my gloves in the snow twenty minutes earlier, my hands can’t feel the shovel; the numbness is an infuriating contrast to my stinking, roasting-hot body.

It has been an hour of digging, sawing and hacking at snow, and the area still looks no closer to somewhere I’d pitch a tent—setting camp being the objective now, after several km of snowshoeing earlier today. And just prior to losing my gloves, I had hit the ‘hangry zone’. Then, to put icing on the cake—god I’d smash a cake right now, BTW—the bloke next to me seems to be enjoying himself.

“Ahhh,” he says. “Where else would you rather be.”

It’s a statement more than a question. I continue to wish ill things on the snow. I wonder if it would be OK to just bail, somehow find my own way back to the car, and then just drive the seven hours home.

Why, I think to myself, do people put themselves in these situations?

SEVEN HOURS EARLIER, life had been a heck of a lot more cheerful. I was driving up to Guthega in the Snowy Mountains to meet the guides and other clients of Climbing the Seven Summits (CTSS) Australian Alpine Academy’s ‘Introduction to Mountaineering’ course. Winding up the dirt road, seeing gum trees in a blanket of white for the first time, my tiny mind was exploding with froth.

As a kid in Brisbane, I’d been fascinated by the big snowy mountains and the crazy people who played in them. I did school assignments on Ernest Shackleton and early Himalayan climbers. When I read South—Shackleton’s diary of the twoyear epic of shipwreck, hunger and, somehow, hope—the overriding thought was, “I want to do that! ” It seemed like the most awesome thing you could do with your time. “That’s adventure!”

To this day, I am still so impressed by those stories that, to get more into character, I grew a little beard especially for this trip. I think I was also secretly hoping for that frozen beard look, too.

But as I now help dig out our campsite, the snow blowing hard, doing its best to mess with me, the absurdity of spending time in the snow hits me. Why would you come out here? We’re doing all this work to just survive. To not die. We willingly walk in here, to camp for a few days, then walk back out? We could just go camping elsewhere. The romance of adventure is shattered. Shackleton survived his ordeal; I’m not so sure of my own fate.

That night, we tuck into a yummy and filling meal cooked by the guides, which does wonders to raise my spirits. But as I lay in my tent, heading off to sleep, I’m still not sold on this whole snow thing.

UNZIPPING THE TENT THE NEXT MORNING feels like stepping out of a portal. There are clear blue skies and not a breath of wind. An untouched blanket of white, under the gum trees, stretches far off to distant, mountainous horizons. The scene can’t have been more different to twelve hours earlier, and I apologise to Mother Nature for all of yesterday’s moaning. I am overwhelmed by a mix of dumbfounded awe, love and gratefulness. There are very few times in my life a landscape has left me feeling this way. Far out, I think, the world is a beautiful place.

Just before things felt not awesome on Day One

That morning, we learn a few self-arrest and ‘moving through the mountains’ skills. The whole group lines up on the side of a snowy hill and we’re told to pretend we’re in a ‘falling to your death’ scenario. It’s easy to feel a bit silly, to not shout ‘FALLING’ loudly, and to not fully commit to the move. Then you look around at the landscape, and it’s easy to see how you could get into strife quickly. I realise it’s probably worth committing 100% to the skill practice. Suddenly it feels really cool to dive into the snow face first, shouting at the top of my lungs, forty metres from the tent on this beautifully still, sunny day.

After lunch, we trek out to Blue Lake for ice climbing, the part of the trip I’ve been totally frothing for. However, prior to the walk, while getting my gear together in the tent, I notice a puddle of water. Damn. Likely the snow I’d accidently dragged in with my boots earlier. I get a little annoyed at Past Tom. He’d been fairly confident he could make it in and out of the tent without taking off his big boots and making a mess. It’s not the first time I’ve been frustrated at Past Tom. He’s a carefree bugger, more often than I’d like to admit. Despite feeling a little more comfortable out here, clearly there are some subtleties to snow life I’m yet to learn.

Blue Lake does not disappoint. A big horseshoe of snowy mountains sits above the frozen lake. I’m not a skier or snowboarder, but far out, I can imagine how cool it would be going 1000km/h down those gullies and faces. One hundred metres of insanity. But we’re here to go up the walls, not down them.

Ice climbing turns out to be everything I’d hoped for. It is familiar, unnerving and heroic. I’m so used to rock climbing and having the feeling of fingers on rock, my toes feeling every little crystal through the sensitive 4mm of rubber on my shoe. I

CAN I REALLY TRUST THIS?

I SNEAK MY WEIGHT ONTO THAT ARM, TRUSTING EVERYTHING. “JUST STAY THERE, LITTLE BUDDY,” I SAY TO THE AXE. “YOU CAN DO IT. THERE’S NOTHING MORE YOU COULD WANT TO DO IN THE WORLD THAN JUST STAY SNUGGLED INTO THAT ICE.” can make tiny adjustments as I feel my way up the face, making sure I have the best possible contact I can. There are, however, no such luxuries with ice climbing.

Whack, whack, thunk go the ice axes. Kick, kick, clunk go the crampons. “It looks like I have a hold of something,” I think. Two inches of the tip of the axe have disappeared, but who knows what that means. I give a few little test pulls. It seems OK. Can I really trust this? I sneak my weight onto that arm, trusting everything. “Just stay there, little buddy,” I say to the axe. “You can do it. There’s nothing more you could want to do in the world than just stay snuggled into that ice.” It does. I’ve successfully made my third ice climbing move. Rad! Now just another fifteen metres to the top.

THE CLEAR SKIES CONTINUE ALL DAY, and then it’s the stars’ turn to put on a show. The light of the sky illuminates the snowy faces surrounding the lake as we pack up and start walking the few kilometres back to camp. Headtorches stay in pockets. I love that, the moon and the stars being all you need to get home. I pretend I’m in the ye olde times with Shackleton. None of the modern bits and pieces getting in the way. Just the simplicity and calm of nature. These moments, surrounded by night in the real world, always make me beautifully and painfully aware of just how small I am.

To compound that feeling, as we near the lake’s mouth, we see the main event: one of the biggest, clearest and badass full moons I’ve ever seen. I feel even smaller and more grateful for life.

THE FOLLOWING DAY IS THE BIG ONE —a 23km round trip to the summit of Kosciuszko. I am nervous. That’s a lot of walking in snow. That’s a lot of walking in brand new boots. That’s a lot of walking if you haven’t brought enough food or clothing or water. Imagine being thirsty out there, surrounded by water. It would be the pits.

We start before sunrise, the moon still lighting the way, but it’s on its home run to bed. Soon the sun takes over, and we’re met by another moment that makes me feel utterly small in this landscape. The colours reflecting around the mountain range are almost psychedelic, and for over twenty minutes, the snow turns blue, pink, red and orange. We all trip over ourselves trying to capture the moment on camera. As is often the way, the photos don’t do the scene justice. You have to be here.

The day becomes another bluebird classic, almost warm. By this point in the trip, we’ve all got comfortable with each other, and it’s nice to have the hours of walking to chill out and chat. I never feel comfortable in group environments; I don’t know that many do. But the new faces are the added bonus to these trips. Sign up for the experience, stay for the company.

Soon we are having a final break in the sun at the base of the Kosci summit ridgeline. Reapply sunscreen, eat some food, drink water, check feet for pressure points, take some more photos. Everyone is buzzing—we are about to climb to the top of Australia and see everything. We set off.

Within fifteen minutes, though, clouds roll in. Just some misty wispy bits to start, but then the real stuff comes to play. We quickly set our packs down and add warmth and shell layers. It then gets a bit uncomfortable; conditions are similar to the first evening at camp when I was ready to go home. However, having experienced the gloriousness of what this world can be, I can’t help but smile. This is a bit more like it. This is real. It even feels a little adventurous—questing for the top, the team staying together with one shared goal. Our collective hopes rise as we see a rocky mountain top appear out of the cloud in front of us, only to realise it’s another false summit. It’s the fourth so far.

For close to ninety minutes, we blindly walk into nothingness, knowing the destination, but not how far. It’s a small lesson in

IMAGES - CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT

Please don’t break, bridge. This water looks cold

I still don’t understand how ice climbing works. There’s nothing holding on!

It doesn’t get much better: sunshine, good people and new experiences.

(Credit: Tom O’Halloran)

Couldn’t wipe the smile off my face…or the snow

This was every bit of cool managing emotions and expectations in this environment. I guess it’s a lesson equally applicable in life.

Suddenly, through the mist and cloud, the summit plaque is ten metres ahead of us, sitting atop an unassuming rise. It’s not quite the final heroic scramble I’d, for some reason, expected. Well, wanted. But nonetheless, we’ve made it. Just like that. Twenty-metre visibility, for 360 degrees. I’m not sure if this is a journey- or a destination-type victory. Or neither. I have a strange flat feeling. This is the top of Australia?

Then, on my final few paces to the top, as if by some miracle, the clouds lift and unveil the world. I am in the middle of the most extreme landscape of my life. Mountains, valleys and snow extend in every direction, with hardly a sign of human construction and interference. The sun slices through gaps of cloud, illuminating sections of snowy faces. The harsh light only underscores the steep ruggedness here and the raw awesomeness of Nature.

Soon it’s time to head back to camp. This is when the fun begins; we’re about to get a real taste of what Australia can do.

The CTSS guides have been watching the clouds all day, assessing conditions and making calculations. When we leave the summit, Rob, the lead guide, says, “Keep warm clothes and shell layers at the top of your pack and get ready. We’ll probably get a pretty good little storm in two hours.” It turns out we could have set our watches to it.

Setting

The

CONTRIBUTOR:

Snow unrelentingly smashes me. The wind howls like nothing else; staying upright takes all my concentration and power. We’re in single file, thirteen of us, not more than a metre apart. You can’t, for fear of losing the whole group, lose sight of the person in front. And the people behind you trust you with their life as well. We march and march, not able to stop until it’s over. Up and down the snowy mountain faces, one foot in front of the other. Hoods up, heads down.

I find myself in an odd headspace. An empty nothingness, but in a good way. All I can do is put the discomfort aside and get through it. We’re still a few hours from camp, though; the end point. Wanting this situation to be over gets me nowhere. That said, I really did feel like a cup of tea and a fire, though. And maybe an Anzac biscuit. Or some of mum’s fruit cake, warmed up with ice cream on the side. “Not helping, Tom!’

I wonder, then, what Shackleton and his Endurance crew really went through. Two years out on the ice, the team relying on each other to stay alive and march forwards in the direction of an uncertain rescue. I can’t imagine the level of hope you’d need to stay positive through all that, to push away the thoughts of dying, there at the frozen bottom of the world.

The meat of the snowstorm lasts 45 minutes, and I am grateful to see it go. When we sit down to refuel, the landscape is new again. Where our tracks had been earlier that day, there is now nothing. Just clean, untouched snow. The storms were an etch-a-sketch eraser, wiping the board clean. It feels like we’re heading off on our own little adventure to explore a whole new world, one that’s totally serene and wild and unknown. To return to my earlier question: This is the top of Australia? It certainly is. And it’s incredible. W