New Zealand Alpine Journal 2011

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ALPINE JOURNAL 2011

NEW ZEALAND ALPINE CLUB

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ALPINE JOURNAL 2011

Jamie Vinton-boot on mt Walter, mt Cook national Park. U kester broWn

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Images: First ascent West Rib of Mt Walter, Aoraki Mt Cook National Park, January 2011.

Paul Hersey, Shelley Hersey and Jamie Vinton-Boot joined by Kester Brown.

NEW ZEALAND ALPINE JOURNAL 2011

CONTENTS President’s Page Stuart Gray 8

NEW ZEALAND ROCK AND ICE Technospectacle – Dawn of a New Era Jamie Vinton-Boot Under Pressure Daniel Joll A Ski Traverse of the Southern Alps Erik Bradshaw I’m New Here Richard Thomson Walking the Dog Dave Bolger Tapuae-o-Uenuku and the Inland Kaikouras Shane Orchard Plans Are Just That Paul Hersey Complacency Fraser Crichton The Mount Forbes Project Terry Crippen and Angela Minto Mount Adams Di Hooper Mount Gunn and the Decade of Recession Ruari Macfarlane

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A History of De la Beche Hut Rob Brown Women of New Zealand Guiding Anna Keeling … Let the Reckless Come Colin Monteath Kids of the Khumbu Mark Sedon Sky Gods Donna Falconer

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AREA REPORTS Darran Mountains Tom Riley Barron Saddle – Mount Brewster Jamie Vinton-Boot Aoraki Mount Cook and Westland Jane Morris Wanaka Greg Johnston North Island Rob Addis

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OVERSEAS CLIMBING Afghanistan … From a Different Angle Pat Deavoll Dad and Son Route Marty Schmidt Adventure in the North West Fork of the Lacuna Glacier Graham Zimmerman Yangma Expedition Ken Baldwin and Colin Cameron Resorting to Plan D Yvonne Pfluger and Tim Church 4 x 8000 x 1 Marty Schmidt

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THE VERTICAL WORLD

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Failure in the Khumbu Graham Zimmerman Kyajo Ri and Kusum Kanguru, Khumbu 2011 Steven Fortune Mount Logan Marc Scaife To Tarasamalu and Back Kaaren Mathias What Lies Below Mayan Smith-Gobat Desert Pilgrimages Simon Carr

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126 129 130 132 133

OBITUARIES 60 64 68 72

Austen Deans 1915–2011 138 James Ferrier McCahon 1921–2010 139 George Band 1929–2011 140 Denis McLean 1931–2011 141 John Campbell Braithwaite 1935–2011 142 Bob McKegg 1938–2011 142

c o v e r Miroslav Kopecky just below the summit rocks on the Linda Glacier Route on Aoraki Mt Cook. Michal Karnik i n s i d e f r o n t c o v e r Ski tourers on the Tasman Glacier. Adrian Camm h a l f t i t l e Ice pyramid. Hinrich Schaefer t h i s p a g e Jamie Vinton-Boot and Paul Hersey on the first ascent of Honey Badger (WI3/4), Hopkins Valley. Troy Mattingley

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President Stuart Gray Executive Committee Chair Geoff Gabites Honorary Secretary Helen Wilton Honorary Treasurer Gillian Crombie Vice President North Island John Jordan Vice President South Island Nick Shearer

Committee Convenors Accommodation Richard Wesley Community Richard Thomson Access Chris Burtenshaw Climbing vacant Instruction Peter Cammell Rock Climbing Bruce Dowrick Expedition Fund vacant

Section Chairs Auckland Magnus Hammarsal Central North Island Paul McCullagh Taranaki John Jordan Wellington Hinrich Schaefer Nelson/Marlborough Mark Holmes Canterbury/Westland Clayton Garbes South Canterbury Nick Wall North Otago A Hugh Wood Otago Paul Prince Southland Ron McLeod Australia Chris Brown

National Office Staff Executive Officer Ollie Clifton Activities and Events Coordinator Pat Deavoll National Administrator Margaret McMahon Administration Assistant Narina Sutherland Managing Editor/Designer Kester Brown

New Zealand Alpine Journal Editor Kester Brown Proofing Rachael Williams, Lizzy Sutcliffe New Zealand Alpine Club PO Box 786, Christchurch, New Zealand Phone 64 3 377 7595 | Fax 64 3 377 7594 office@alpineclub.org.nz | alpineclub.org.nz NEW ZEALAND ALPINE JOURNAL 2011,Volume 63 Published by the New Zealand Alpine Club Designed and typeset in Minion and Univers by Kester Brown Printed by Spectrum Print, Christchurch.

ISSN 0110 1080

The Bonar Glacier tumbles into the Upper Waipara Valley

PRESIDENT’S PAGE

Nick Groves

STUART GRAY

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few weekends ago I was down at Mount Cook for the opening of the renovated Unwin Lodge, what a great weekend! There was fresh snow on the hills, blue skies and it was wonderful to spend time chatting to so many Club members and supporters, young and not so young, from all around New Zealand. The grandson of Dr Unwin cut the ribbon for the new bunkrooms and bathrooms, reclad exterior and improved services with landscaping to come. At a cost of $650,000, this is our largest ever investment and the Club owes a debt of gratitude to the many people who have donated and loaned their time, skills and money to make it happen.

Unwin Lodge is now more than just a place for a shower after a week in the hills. It’s a destination in its own right for Club members and their families and provides an excellent base for all those outdoor activities now available at Mount Cook and around the MacKenzie district. These include mountaineer8

ing of course and also cragging, cycling, walking and kayaking, to name a few. Our new Lodge Managers, ex-President of the NZAC Chas Tanner and Katrina McKenzie will make you very welcome. Plus, look out for the special interest weeks: alpine photography, painting, writing and yoga.

The relationship between climbers and backcountry land owners has been longstanding and generally very positive. Hence it was good to see the recognition of the contribution made way back in 1965 by our neighbours Josie and Gilbert Seymour at Ferintosh Station who generously donated the wood used for the main room at Unwin. Sadly we have recorded the recent passing of John Aspinall of Mount Aspiring Station who has been a consistent and strong supporter of the Club over many decades, as were John’s parents.

As climbers we rely on the goodwill of landowners on whose properties we traverse or use. This is becoming problematic in many areas, particularly access to

major crags located on farm land, in both the North and South Islands. Peter Cammell talked about this in his report last year. The list of closed crags is a long one. Peter has worked hard on getting the Mount Eden Quarry reopened, under the new name of the Auckland Grammar School Rock Wall, a process which has taken over a year and involved many meetings with the AGS Trust Board. It has not been easy.

NZAC has the opportunity to use its high standing and national status to manage access issues for the wider climbing community, but access can so easily be undermined by a few selfish climbers failing to respect the mana of the land or the rights of the landowner.

Alpine climbing goes from strength to strength, despite rumours of its demise. Just look at all the activity reported in this New Zealand Alpine Journal and in The Climber and look at the growth of our energetic Australian Section. Basic alpine instruction is a core activity of the Club and the basic courses run around the country by sections continue to be oversubscribed. Our National Instruction Programme provides a pathway for members to further develop their climbing skills. This programme employs professional guides and just keeps growing. This last winter we ran three such courses with excellent feedback. This coming summer we have six fully subscribed courses of various levels with the possibility of adding a seventh to meet demand. That’s 70 people on the national courses out there building the skills to climb mountains.

The tragic death of an instruction course student at Ruapehu in August 2010 brought into sharp focus the duty of care the Club has towards both our students and our volunteer instructors, who give so much time to pass on their skills. Over the last two years the Club has been developing a comprehensive Safety and Risk Operating Instruction Framework.

This includes an assessment of instructor skills and awareness of the terrain on which such courses are run. The framework will mean sections run courses which are effective, inspiring and safe. As part of this we are assisting volunteer instructors to upskill, an initiative which has been very well received.

Many people are becoming increasingly time constrained these days, such that they will often climb with guides and travel to accessible climbing meccas overseas. But those tough New Zealand transalpine trips are still happening, new mixed routes are being put up and the Darrans has produced the usual scary action. Climbing is in good health.

There is a lot of interest in climbing out there; just look at the ongoing stream of high quality publications devoted to New Zealand climbing, climbers, mountains and wilderness. We have biographies, essays, poetry, photographs and paintings to enjoy. The pile on my side of the bed just gets higher.

We had an impressive 5000 people attend our showings of the Banff Film Festival around New Zealand. The audience ranged from young climbers just starting out on the local crag through to baby boomers who yearn to get back into the hills. The Club needs to do a better job of telling these folk and the wider climbing community about ourselves and the value of Club membership. The Auckland Section may have found a good model by co-branding joint events with the Auckland University Rock and Alpine Club. 160 students and keen crag climbers attended the jointly run Reel Rocks film evening. On a less positive note the Taranaki Section has voted to close itself down, having struggled with membership for some years. Taranaki is blessed with a splendid mountain, some great rock and a youthful outdoors population so we will retain a presence there with the Banff festival and ensure there is a way for Taranaki climbers to easily belong to the Club.

After five years of committed leadership as Executive Officer, Ollie Clifton has indicated he wants to move on in early 2012. Ollie has successfully herded the Club through a wide range of complex issues. Thanks Ollie on behalf of all Club members.

You are leaving the Club a better organisation.

I am reminded daily of the sheer breadth and quality of what this Club does. Our members are a talented bunch, bound together by a love of climbing and the alpine environment. A relatively small number of individuals devote many hours overseeing and developing our various activities: the quality publications, the instruction courses, our hut and lodge network, our growing online presence, negotiating access, representing the New Zealand climbing community on national and international bodies, and the list goes on. I urge you to support the Club by getting involved with your local section.

The growth of social media and of people using networks outside the traditional Club format means NZAC must continue to evolve, adapt and grow. If we do this the future for climbing in New Zealand and for the Club is exciting.

I hope you can get into the mountains and onto the rock this summer. Safe Travels.

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Zac Orme onsighting the 55 metre first pitch of Revelations (27, 26, 25, 20), Moir Region, Darran Mountains. Zac went on to onsight the second pitch, before falling just below the top of the third pitch.

After close to four hours on the sharp end, he fell just one move away from jugs which signal the end of the difficult climbing.

Derek Thatcher

New Zealand Rock and Ice Jamie Vinton-Boot Daniel Joll Erik Bradshaw Richard Thomson Dave Bolger Shane Orchard Paul Hersey Fraser Crichton Terry Crippen and Angela Minto Di Hooper Ruari Macfarlane

On the summit ridge of Mt D’Archiac. Nick Groves 11

TECHNOSPECTACLE – DAWN OF A NEW ERA

by JAMIE VINTON-BOOT a b o v e Jono contemplating how to gain the ice ramp through the second rock band on the crux pitch.

Jamie Vinton-Boot

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t was my second winter trip to the Fox Névé with Jono Clark. The year before we had managed a single new route on the west face of Mount Haast (Talula Does the Hula) before the weather turned.

Talula was my first new winter route and, although only moderately technical, it was the climb that triggered my interest in winter alpine climbing—in a big way. I realised that there was a lot of potential for technical and committing routes, especially on the Fox Névé, and it was this style of climbing I wanted to focus on.

We drove down to Fox on a Saturday morning.

Thomas Adamson—my climbing partner from a few years back—was also coming along for the trip.

Thomas works long shifts as an exploration geologist

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in Aussie so his motivation was more for having a decent break and maybe climbing a few classics than it was for putting up new routes. Our motivations may have been different but one thing we all shared in common was a taste for good food so we took plenty of it. Judging by the amount of food we took you’d think we were expecting bad weather for the whole week. But actually the forecast looked amazingly good right through to the Friday.

While the forecast was good, we had no idea what conditions would be like or what we might climb. The plan was to fly into Pioneer Hut and see how things looked. The only preconceived idea I had was to see if The Mutant on Mount Lendenfeld’s west face was

formed up. Jono was also keen on The Mutant but we didn’t hold high expectations given it was probably too early in the season for the route to have formed.

At Fox the chopper pilot balked at the amount of kit and food we had. Luckily a second flight right after ours was only half full so we didn’t have to leave any of our precious supplies behind or fork out for a bigger machine. As the chopper rose over the crest of the névé the full expanse of the glacier spread out beneath us and finally revealed what we were in for. The higher and exposed faces were plastered white, but lower down, away from the brunt of storms, conditions looked thin. The Mutant would certainly be out.

On the Sunday all three of us did a warm-up climb on the west face of Mount Haast. We had intended to climb a new route, but it ended being as a direct start to Swimming with Sharks, a climb Jono had put up several years earlier. Three pitches of good moderate ice took us to a junction with Sharks and it would have only been a couple more pitches to finish it as a new route.

Unfortunately we got shut down on the fourth pitch by a short rock step and hollow ice above it. None of us were keen to push our luck on the first day of the trip so we descended and headed back to the hut to rest and eat. Despite not topping out, it was still a decent warmup and had given us a good feel for conditions.

On the Monday we rested during the morning— recovering from the previous day’s effort—and discussed the options for our next climb. From the hut, the Moonshine Buttress on Conway Peak looked appealing. We traced out everything that had been done and then realised that an obvious and direct line in the centre of the buttress was unclimbed.

That afternoon Jono and I wandered across the glacier for a better look. As we got closer it was obvious that the line wasn’t as steep as we had first thought.

It still looked reasonably good, just not what we were after. I didn’t exactly know what we were after, but I knew it wouldn’t be obvious and predictable.

We continued walking up past the buttress and across to the base of Conway. Jono pointed out The Vision and reckoned it was in pretty good condition.

In fact all of the gullies on the west face were plastered.

Only the steep sides of various corners were bare, forming nearly vertical rock bands here and there.

We gazed up at the face for few minutes, taking it in and working out potential routes between those that had been done already. I can’t remember how it came about but suddenly we had chosen a line. It went up some of the steepest sections of the face and through

two of the rock bands with only a thin streak of ice spanning from one gully to the next. Although I didn’t realise it at the time, what we had chosen was a line of most resistance. One thing was certain immediately though, it was the line we’d been looking for.

A small front was forecast to blow through by late morning the next day. It was still clear when we got up, but as we left the hut the cloud started rolling up the glacier. The temperature slowly increased so that by the time we got to the base of Conway we were down to a single layer, even though it was the middle of winter.

It was only Jono and I attempting the line on Conway. Thomas had opted for a sleep in and planned to walk up later and snap a few photos of us from the glacier below, if the weather cleared in time. I have no recollection of how I felt as we roped up and pre-

a b o v e Conway Peak and the line of Technospectacle. Jono and Jamie can just be made out climbing the final hard pitch of the route.

Thomas Adamson

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Jono Clarke near the summit of Conway Peak having just completed the first ascent of Technospectacle.

Jamie Vinton-Boot

pared for the climb, other than being way too sweaty from the approach and concerned about drying out.

Normally I feel slightly nervous before starting a winter route, but climbing with Jono gave me confidence to not worry about anything we could get ourselves into. I trusted his judgement completely and thought there was nothing climbable that he couldn’t do.

The cloud turned into snow just as we started climbing. Spindrift avalanches weren’t far behind and steadily increased in size and frequency as I belayed Jono on the first pitch. When I reached him, he was covered in snow. Then it eased off so we continued without any discussion. Apart from the weather, conditions were good.

The first pitch had led us into a moderately steep gully. Somewhere on the second pitch we needed to head left up steeper ice and onto a snow arête below the first rock band. Despite the poor visibility it wasn’t hard to find the way, all I had to do was climb the steepest ground I could see. At the top of the pitch I found a belay just below the arête. I would be well positioned to watch Jono climb the rock band without getting showered in snow or ice.

It had stopped snowing by the time Jono led off

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again, plowing his way through the arête. Beyond that he climbed inch by inch up a thin strip of ice which was the only way up. Finding protection was difficult and took Jono ages, but it wasn’t the type of terrain on which you could run it out. Jono’s stamina and patience were amazing to watch. If it had been my lead, I doubt I could have protected it so well.

The only difficulty in the next pitch was a short rock step which I led without much drama, then an airy traverse across soft snow to the base of the second rock band. As I belayed Jono up, I thought about which way we would go from there. Climbing through the rock above looked steep and desperate. The alternative was to keep following a thick ice ramp which led right from the belay up to easier ground. In reality I don’t think there was ever any question of the way Jono would go. As Buddha once advised, taking the most difficult option was firmly ingrained in our thinking.

Like the previous rock band, our line went up a narrow and precarious strip of ice, trending left a few metres above the belay, but this time it was a lot steeper. Most rational people wouldn’t have attempted to climb it, not without knowing if there would be any protection and when there was an

easier and predictable option just metres away. But rationality didn’t really enter into the equation for me and I doubt it did for Jono either. We sure didn’t want things to be easy and predictable.

While our minds were made up and we believed that it was possible, it still didn’t make actually climbing the pitch any easier. It took about ten minutes for Jono to commit fully to the thin strip of ice. When he eventually did, time slowed down to a crawl as he battled to get a decent piece of gear in. Very slowly he made upwards progress. He murmured down to me that it was hard, but thought he could make it. It was the first time I had heard Jono say openly that the climbing was difficult. He said it was the hardest climbing he had ever done in the mountains. Then just as suddenly as he had uttered those words, the pitch was over and I was following him up, marvelling at how thin and desperate the climbing was.

I led the final relatively easy pitch to the summit ice field, and then we traversed to the col just south of the summit and abseiled back down to the glacier.

How we ended up naming the route Technospectacle I’ve no idea, but it was a pretty accurate description.

The next day I climbed Central Couloir on Douglas

Peak with Thomas and the day after that, Jono and I did another new route on Haast. Like Technospectacle it was difficult and slightly desperate but it didn’t have the same exposed position and commitment factor. It was always going to be hard to match the experience I’d had on Conway.

Reflecting on the trip, it wasn’t the technical difficulties per say that stuck in my mind, but more so the attitude we took when we chose our lines and then climbed them. The way we did this had opened my eyes to a whole new dimension. I would no longer be blinkered by lines of weakness when I sought new ways to climb mountains, instead I seek lines of most resistance.

This realisation came about partly due to climbing with Jono, who is so solid on steep technical ground and has the skill and patience to keep going when things get desperate. It was also partly due to me coming into my own as I realised that I loved outrageously technical alpine climbing in outlandish settings. It was as though I was being born into a new era, the era of the alpinist, where it is all about technical difficulty and commitment. I am still new to it and have a lot to learn, but my imagination has been captured and how I perceive mountains has changed forever.

Jono traversing to the col south of the summit of Conway Peak, the Franz Josef Névé is on the right and the Fox Névé on the left.

Jamie Vinton-Boot

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UNDER PRESSURE

by DANIEL JOLL

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hat really motivates me about the Remarkables is the easy access and the endless natural lines. Yes there are some bolts in various places, mostly they are on summer routes, but generally speaking in winter conditions most climbs can be protected by a good range of natural gear. Under Pressure is a great example of this. I had spotted the line with Jono Clarke in 2010 but at the time was too scared to start up it. Not wanting to try it on top rope first I waited another season to build up my skills. Reading about Jono and Jamies’ new lines in the Fox Névé area provided the necessary motivation for me to try something a bit more daring at home. Jamie came to visit one weekend and that was the final motivating factor to push me to step up and try this hair-line crack.

In days gone by, cracks and faces such as the line of Under Pressure would not have been considered due to the technical nature of the climbing and the limited protection. These days however, with modern mixed tools and protection, we can contemplate the hair-line cracks which weave their way up some of the steepest sections of the Remarkables cliff faces. As luck would have it, hair-line cracks provide some of the best winter mixed climbing. These routes can often not be climbed in summer as the cracks are too thin for fingers but a steel ice axe pick fits perfectly.

We were unable to climb Under Pressure on our first attempt; it turns out that trying to warm up on an onsight attempt of a hard route on a winter’s evening leads to major flash pump. The route remained unclimbed until the following morning when we returned, this time doing a suitable warm up climb before tackling the thin overhanging seam. Both Jamie and myself sent the climb on our first goes on that second morning and it was a shared first ascent as we both put in an equal effort.

It was great to be able to share such a good new local route with a visiting Christchurch climber like Jamie.

The friendly competition was a necessary motivator for both of us to complete the route. Under Pressure now awaits its first onsight ascent.

The other winter highlight for me has to be Consolation Prize. Craig Jefferies, Danny Murphy and I waded through deep snow on the approach as we searched Double Cone for a steep new line. In the end we found a good crack system which followed an almost perfectly straight line through the steepest section of the west face of Double Cone. The route involved pitch after pitch of steep sustained climbing. Most pitches were between 50 and 55 metres long and on average took one hour to lead and another hour per pitch for the seconds to follow. All the pitches were led onsight and in the end I think this is likely the most sustained multi-pitch route in the area. In total it took us 17 hours from car to car. *** Most of the lines on the Remarkables are different to your typical Kiwi alpine climbs. Turn up with your snow stake, straight shaft ice tools and a couple of slings and it’s fair to say you will be in for quite an exciting day. The majority of the routes require a full rack of gear, usually double sets of cams from size zero to four, pitons, wires and the odd ice screw. They can also be deceptive. To date all the major lines completed on Double Cone and to a lesser degree Single Cone have ended up taking 12 to 17 hours to complete. That is surprising considering that the routes are not very long by usual alpine standards and the combined approach and descent in good conditions can usually be done in around three to four hours. The short approach is balanced by the fact that many of the climbs have very sustained and serious pitches which generally take quite a while to lead and second.

With so much potential for difficult naturally protected mixed lines in the M8 to M10 range, the next few years worth of development on the Remarkables is sure to be fast paced. Bring on winter 2012 and the Remarkables Ice and Mixed Climbing Festival! The festival will take place in August. Check out www.iceandmixedfestival. co.nz for more info.

Jamie Vinton-Boot making the second ascent of Under Pressure (M8), on the Telecom Tower, Remarkables. Erika Tovar 16 N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E

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A SKI TRAVERSE OF THE SOUTHERN ALPS words and photos by ERIK BRADSHAW

S a b o v e The last day of the traverse. On Conical Hill with Lake Harris and the Routeburn in the background.

itting in a hot pool, ski in one hand and screwdriver in the other, I have to laugh, this is not what most people think of ski mountaineering! I’m ten days into my first attempt to ski the length of the Southern Alps and things aren’t quite going to plan. *** It’s all part of an adventure which started as a dream when I was a young lad in Christchurch. I looked at the winter mountains, dreaming of travelling effortlessly across the tops and through the snow filled basins, as close as I could be to a bird soaring upon a

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mountain high. I would pull boards off the old fence and bend them into skis using hot water, string and nails. The wood inevitably broke and since it doesn’t snow that much in Christchurch my parents finally relented and took me skiing.

As I grew older I did what everyone else does; bought expensive ski gear, flew in to the Tasman, Fox and Franz Névés and ground up to Mueller Hut. It was good but I wasn’t the soaring bird of my dreams, more a beast of burden anchored to the earth by weighty, mechanical ski gear. There was so much country which I hadn’t skied, and which no

one ever visited in winter.

Ten years ago I changed my philosophy and decided that just being there, travelling in the mountains, was more important than the turns. I also learnt about our predecessors, especially in North America and Europe, who achieved far greater alpine traverses in leather boots and wooden skis than were even being attempted now. One of my heroes is Olav Bjaaland, a member of Amundsen’s polar expedition who in 1908 raced 50 kilometres in four hours without even showing signs of tiredness, a distant dream for the modern ski mountaineer.

Realising that all the improvements in technology of the last 100 years had resulted in us achieving less, I knew it was time for some radical re-invention.

My biggest advance came from changing the mechanism of attaching a leg to a ski, resulting in a new exoskeleton binding which is in the process of being patented. The design allows a flexible laceup walking boot to be enclosed in a carbon fibre exoskeleton attached to a titanium/aerospace aluminium crampon and binding. This setup is lighter than anything on the market, allows me to step off skis with crampons on and pivots in the ergonomically ideal manner so that ski touring uses the same muscle combinations as walking.

A ski traverse of the Southern Alps wasn’t in my realm of possibility while developing my new way of skiing. In 2009 I did a seven day traverse from Hokitika to Lake Tekapo. Then 2010 saw me ski from Mount Cook to the Haast Pass highway in six days. It was then that my dream of a Southern Alps traverse began to take shape. I knew of Graeme Dingle and Jill Tremain’s traverse in 1971 but I had visions of something much more ambitious, along the tops with as much skiing and as little valley travel as possible. All with no support except for where my path crossed a road. I was unsure whether I would be able to maintain the necessary focus and motivation, and whether my body and equipment could survive the harshness of the wild Southern Alps in winter for the three months I estimated I would need.

I realized the need for a different approach and worked on developing the Blitzkrieg approach to ski mountaineering. The ability to go fast, cover large distances and be fully self-contained so that I could camp when I ran out of daylight, rising at dawn to make best use of good weather. Besides working on ski equipment I took an interest in human physiology and endocrinology to try and solve the puzzle of

how to optimise my performance over the duration of the trip. *** The traverse starts in early August 2011 with a steady climb from St Arnaud up to Parachute Rock where skis are clipped on. The endless rows of mountains ahead of me are too much to contemplate so I focus on just the next section—getting to Lewis Pass.

By the end of the second day I have reached Travis Hut by skiing along the St Arnaud Range, which was mostly an icy traverse with the odd bit of windblown snow in the basins. From the hut it is over Rainbow Pass then into the Sabine and finally a camp in the upper Waiau.

The following day it starts to go wrong. After another icy traverse into the head of the D’Urville, I notice my ski bends at right angles as I lift it. It has broken in the narrowest part and only the plastic base material holds it together. I’m depressed; this wasn’t meant to happen. The skis are 130 centimetres long European randonnee skis which I have found impossible to replace. They work brilliantly in the rough terrain of the Southern Alps where bush-bashing, boulder-hopping and climbing ridges in howling gales are all part of the ski experience.

In a dejected state of mind I strap the broken skis on my back, abandon traversing the basins of the Spenser Mountains and descend to the East Matakitaki Hut. That evening my inventive spirit is renewed and I manage to repair the ski using plastic bracing, nuts, bolts and screws. It should now work for uphill but who knows for downhill!

On the Sealy Range, with Aoraki Mt Cook in the background.

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My route continues through the West Matakitaki over Three Tarns Col and down to Ada Pass. There is a lot of snow about and most of the valley floors are skiable.

I make it to Lewis Pass on the sixth day and since my rendezvous with my wife Christine at the Maruia Hot Pools is not until tomorrow I decide to continue over the Lewis Tops. My repaired ski is working surprisingly well so off I go totally ignorant of ‘the perfect storm’ about to pound the country bringing snow as far north as Auckland.

Things start going from bad to worse while traversing Lucretia when over 20 centimetres of graupel snow fall in an hour and conditions are looking better for avalanches than mere mortals like me. It’s the GPS problem; you can keep going in the worst of conditions and really get yourself into trouble.

By the time I reach Brass Monkey Biv it’s a full arctic blizzard so I descend One Mile Stream since it is the shortest distance to the hot pools. Little do I realize it is full of box canyons and waterfalls. After many hours of bush-bashing, wading chest deep through ice-cold water, behaving like Tarzan and generally getting cold, scared and soaked I finally arrive at Maruia Springs.

Never has a hot soak felt so good!

For the next three days I maintain a high state of training by eating, sleeping, soaking in the pools, having a shiatsu massage and eating some more. I then steal Christine’s skis and head off. The skis are really too small for me and the binding setup is one of my older designs, but they’re my best option. The storm is still blowing and the tops are not viable so I try and ski down the Lewis Valley but often resort to walking down the snowy road, dodging trucks and motorists as they slide around.

The Doubtful Valley lives up to its name, with driving snow, icy river crossings and snow collapsed forest making travel exhausting. I soon climb above the bush line, traverse the Divide and begin skiing into the Hope, but hope is soon shattered as some hard ice build-up combined with a bit of abuse breaks a crucial part of the bindings. This is most frustrating since I fixed the design flaw in my newer setup on the broken skis. The saviour of it all is that I am descending Hot Springs Stream and soon I have the luxury of basking in perfect temperature pools working out a repair.

After crossing the Hope I spend the next two days skiing along wonderful rolling tops through to Harper Saddle. By this stage my borrowed setup is 20 N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E

totally busted so I walk down the Taramakau to find Christine and break the news of her destroyed gear.

The next ten days are spent in Christchurch where my friend Richard Harcourt is converting a stack of scrap steel into a ski press. I cajole him into getting the thing completed and we make our first pair of skis to my ideal specs for fast travel in the Southern Alps. Richard is caressing them like a first born child but I prise them away and head for the mountains.

I walk into Hunts Creek Hut in the dark and continue the next day through to Park Morpeth Hut via Bijleveld Col, Campbell Pass, Harman Pass and Whitehorn Pass for what must be one of Canterbury’s best ski traverses. My plan was to continue through to Frew Saddle but a critical piece of binding falls from my pack forcing me to head to Hokitika over Browning Pass to find a replacement.

After filching a spare part from another set of bindings I head back over Browning Pass with 12 days of food. My plan is to traverse the Divide via Retreat Snowfield, Griffith Glacier and Hokitika Saddle into the Mathias. But a good nor-west beating in my tent while camped below Retreat Snowfield sees me abandon that and escape into the Wilberforce in pouring rain.

I attempt to cross into the Mathias over Unknown Col but the stormy day and unstable conditions make the narrow canyon into a death trap so I try the ridge between Moa and Unknown Streams and am again forced back by blizzard and bad snow conditions.

Finally from Moa Stream I make it over into Boundary Basin and on to West Mathias Biv. The next day I traverse over Observation Col, the Martius Glacier, Whitcombe Pass and over the Butler Range south of Louper Peak to the Ramsay Glacier then down to Lyell Hut. A big day with the most amazing snow I have ever skied; snow that I thought was a meteorological impossibility because it must have floated out of the sky like down falling from a jacket.

Stormy conditions force a rest at Lyell Hut, but then I impress even myself by making it to St Winifred hut in 13 hours still carrying five days worth of food.

My route takes me straight up the Lyell Icefall, down the top of the Francis, through Lambert Col, over the low point between Tyndall and Newton Peak through to Perth Col, over Schrund Peak and into the Havelock. An amazing traverse through one of the quiet souls of New Zealand.

The next day takes me over Terra Nova Pass and I find more great skiing down the Godley. Whizzing

through the humps of moraine I have my arms outstretched like an airplane zooming through the clouds, never has life felt so good and so free. Having lunch at the head of the lake I decide maybe I could make it to Murchison Hut that night so I put the speed on. I make it around the lake in an hour and am at Eade Memorial hut by 3.30 pm where my senses get the better of me and I opt instead for an afternoon relaxing in the sun.

The next morning it takes me several hours to get past the Classen Lake as it is oversized due to glacial recession. It’s like the Godley but the travel is much harder. Once on the glacier it is pleasant going through its steep walls and impressive icefalls until finally I am looking into the head of the Murchison.

I spot two black dots that must be people. The prospect of company is exciting when you have been a backcountry outcast for so long.

After skiing the Murchison I let out a whoop of joy as I reach Tasman Saddle. The biggest and hardest section of trip is almost complete. There is no wind so I pull my sleeping mat from my pack, throw it on the ground and doze away. Somehow the fire has left my body and if it wasn’t for an agreed meeting with Christine at Mount Cook I would crawl into Tasman Saddle Hut to sleep the day away.

I force myself to keep going, to ski on down the Tasman, but my heart is not really in it. The two black dots I spotted earlier turn out to be friends staying at Tasman Saddle Hut. They offer me spaghetti bolognaise for dinner if I decide to stay. It’s so tempting. As we chat, a group from a ski mountaineering instruction course slowly grind up the glacier. With the clunking and clicking of their bindings they sound like a horse trekking tour. If I am doing the Blitzkrieg ski traverse then they must surely be the Polish cavalry!

The Tasman Glacier soon turns into party central with a dozen people chatting and telling the usual mountain bullshit. I show off my setup and am flattered by their curiosity. Soon it is time to get moving since I still have Garbage Gully and the long plod to Blue Lakes to go.

From Mount Cook I head up the Mueller to tackle the two nemeses that have been lurking in the back of my mind since coming through here last year. Firstly the ski descent of the east face of Scissors. Although conditions are stable, the descent still feels bad and I am relieved when I am scooting along the flat ground at the bottom. I camp by a small tarn overlooking the Dobson and am visited by eight hyper-curious kea. I

give them some sacrificial pieces of gear I think are kea proof in the hope that they will not destroy my tent and I might get some sleep. I sleep as well as you can with kea screeching an arm’s length away from your ear and get up in the morning to find half my gear dragged into the tarn.

I escape the kea before they drive me crazy and head into the clutches of the Hourglass Glacier. Last time I went to the north of the icefall and was more excited than I wanted to be on steep ground with just ski poles, so this year I try the south side with two ice axes. It is just as frightening, but more from an ice avalanche perspective than a climbing perspective.

With those challenges behind me it is over the shoulder of Prudence and along the Neumann Range.

T o p The Wilkin Valley and Lake Lucidus, with Mt Aspiring in the background.

B o t t o m Fixing bindings at Hot Spring Creek.

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 21

T o p The north face of Mt Aspiring from above the Volta Icefall.

B o t t o m Campsite in the upper Dobson, near Hourglass Glacier, before the kea invasion.

Camping in the basin south of Reticence the weather goes bad and the wind is so strong that unless I can increase the force of gravity there is no way I can stay on the ground. I escape into the Hopkins and walk in cold rain to Huxley Forks Hut where a warm fire left by departing trampers induces me to stop for the night.

The next day I cruise up to Brodrick Hut in poor weather. In the morning the weather has improved and I do a big day firstly into the East Hunter then along the Hunter Glacier into the West Hunter, up to Studholme Pass, down into McLennan Stream and finally climb onto the Bealey Range along

something I call ‘the traverse of the gods’. I camp below the Marshman. It’s good to have friends in high places! I travel along the Bealey Range until Pansy Stream. Apparently you can descend into the Wills here but I just can’t bring myself to. I’ll leave that to boulderers and sport climbers, a mountaineer has to take bit of pride in where they travel! I continue down the ridge to Talent Creek, something I feel more comfortable with.

From Wills Hut it’s a big climb over the shoulder of Brewster into the hidden gem of the glacier at the head of the Makarora then a great ski down to Brewster Hut for lunch. Wanting to squeeze as much skiing in as possible I ski over Mount Kaye and down the gentle ridge to the Makarora Gorge to meet friends who whisk me back to Hawea for a hot shower and yummy dinner. I resupply then head back to where they picked me up and walk along the road to the Young River.

Once over Gillespie Pass and into the Siberia it is time for more wild adventuring. From a camp in the upper Siberia I head up over Stewart Pass and into the Te Naihi. The scenery is amazing and my grin irrepressible in such wild and remote country. Even Moir’s Guide barely mentions Stewart Saddle, a key ingredient to a good adventure. I continue through the basins below the Axis Glacier and around Mount Achilles to camp below The Sentinel. The next day dawns cold and crampons are better suited to conditions than skis as I traverse Leda Peak and into the head of the Wilkin. After lunch at Top Forks Hut it is up valley into Waterfall Flat. The bivvy rock already has a piece of snow sleeping under it so I continue up the Waterfall Face in rain turning to snow.

I pitch camp just below Pearson Saddle in a wet blizzard and settle in for a damp night. To my surprise the next morning dawns clear, so I have to live up to my commitments and find a way into the Volta then through to Colin Todd Hut. For most of the trip I have been carrying a super-light ice axe which has served as a great tent peg but today, along with my skipole ice axe, it gets pushed to the limit. The climb over Beauty Ridge is easy except for the last few hundred metres which is a real test for the gear and my nervous system. I really don’t want to down climb what I have just ascended but as I ski into the Volta a total whiteout descends. Now I am getting quite unhappy since I know a big storm is on the way and there is no easy escape from the Volta, I don’t have much food, my GPS broke on the last section, my ultra-light tent

is falling to bits and probably will not survive another storm. The cloud lifts and there is only one solution: go fast and get the hell out of here.

I am soon down in the Lower Volta and then have the worst uphill section in the whole of the trip ascending onto the shoulder of Aspiring. The spring snow is beginning to creep and huge crevasses have opened which require all my climbing skills to get through. Once on the shoulder the traverse through the Therma is a breeze and soon I am having afternoon tea at Colin Todd Hut. The place is deserted, the occupants having departed before the storm. I decide it’s best I follow suit so I head over Bevan Col and have a blast skiing the couloir down into the head of the Matukituki, making it down to Aspiring Hut just before the rains sets in.

After a short break in Queenstown waiting for the storm to pass I am back up the Matukituki to Liverpool Hut. The route over Arawhata Col and through to the Snow White Glacier is straightforward but the lower icefall in the Snow White looks impossible so I Tarzan around on snowgrass for a few hours. I eventually find a way through the bluffs below Mount Maori, traverse along the range, sneak around the East of Mount Maruiwi and camp in the head of the Snow White.

I am grateful the next day starts with blue skies since being trapped by a storm in such a remote spot would be more of an adventure than I want. From here I ski over Pivot Peak and along the Snow Ball Glaciers, over the shoulder of Mount Lydia, across the Marion Plateau to the Victoria Glacier. Laziness sees me choose the low route to the basins below O’Leary Pass for an early lunch. Avalanching lateseason snow keeps my senses alert as I traverse along the Barrier Range dropping down the Chancellor Glacier and climb back up the Abruzzi to a camp above Seal Col. Here I plan a treat for myself, to sleep in until the sun reaches the tent, something I haven’t done since I left Nelson Lakes.

Hughey has better plans for my morning. Soon after midnight I am measuring gust strength by the amount of tent squashed onto me. When my feet are painfully pinned and the poles are digging into my hips I know it’s a good gust! By 5.00 am I start packing up, chipping ice rime off my skis so I can descend to Daleys Hut to try and catch up on the sleep that never happened.

The next day the Dart River is a big, grey, raging mess, so I walk all the way down to the road bridge and back up to Routeburn Flats Hut. There are many

good people who offer me a lift along the way but I am too pure/stubbon/stupid to accept.

It is the first day of Great Walks on the Routeburn so I run headlong into bureaucracy. Fortunately DOC employs some great people so the fact I don’t have a booking, nor credit card nor care if the track is closed is solved over a good cup of tea. It is a beautiful spring day and the Routeburn is putting on its best display of alpine beauty with roaring crystal clear waterfalls and picturesque alpine flowers.

From the saddle, I dump my pack and climb Observation Cone. To the north I can see surf rolling into Martins Bay and to the south is the Hollyford Divide which marks the end of my trip.

In a few hours I will have completed the first ski traverse of the Southern Alps, the second winter traverse, the first solo winter traverse and probably one of the most alpine traverses of the Southern Alps undertaken.

At the top of Observation Cone I clip my skis back on and aim for the saddle. The snow is wet and unstable with cracks where it is creeping downhill.

Rocks and shrubs are poking through making my descent all the more exciting. I head down through the bluffs towards Lake Harris. The wind is rushing through my hair and there is a roar behind me from the wet snow avalanche that is jealously chasing my smile. After skiing for months with a heavy pack it is all so effortless.

The young boy who looked at distant snowtopped mountains and dreamt of freedom joins me for those final turns. The boy with the courage to commit to his dreams and the character to do it with style, travelling lightly like a bird gliding in rising morning air and giving the wild places the mana they deserve. We laugh for the pure joy of living and being alive, we yell because we had the audacity to take on such a crazy project and we smile because it is another beginning.

Looking back down the Llyel branch of the Rakaia from near the top of the icefall.

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 23

Murchison Hut, circa 1963. Watercolour painting by John Rundle

Model by Sam Mangai. Photograph by John Palmer

24 N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E

I’M NEW HERE words and photos by RICHARD THOMSON

T

he others had a party to go to in Queenstown, but as for me, I didn’t think I’d finished with the Darrans for the year, yet. So after crossing the stream that drains Rainbow Lake, we said our goodbyes and they bounded into the tall tussocks and dracophyllum, brimming with the happiness and contentment earned from a long week in the mountains and ready to plunge down through the bluffs towards the far-off bush and the Moraine Creek track.

Looking up, a broad spur led to the towering end of the south-east ridge of Tuhawaiki Peak. I followed it and was soon looking down at the lake sparkling below the rim of its basin, modestly sheltering from the huge expanse of the Hollyford Valley and the Otago mountains beyond.

Where the ridge reared up, I dropped down to the south and crossed a scree-filled valley that was bounded by massive slabs of red rock on one side

and the dark and fractured south wall of Tuhawaiki on the other. High on the scree I stopped beneath an especially large boulder and was joined by several rock wrens. Higher still I chased chamois up steep gravel and a brief rocky haul to reach a notch in the ridge.

It wasn’t far to the top of a round knob of red rock, where I was encircled by a spectacular panorama of the Moraine Creek peaks. The tussock slopes and rock terraces around Lake Adelaide, I thought, looked quite kindly compared to the seracs and dark precipices closer by, where the Korako Glacier was crumbling into a noxiously blue-green lake.

Now I could see where I was going—Darran Pass, across the valley, a low point on the ridge which would take me over and then down to the Donne River. For a long time I’d thought about walking from Homer Hut to the central Darrans, and had actually tried to once. Now I was walking back the

Upper Moraine Creek: Barrier Knob far left skyline, Darran Pass centre, Apirana Peak right.

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 25

t o p From the ridge above the Esperance Valley looking back the way Richard came. Darran Pass is in the cloud, just left of centre.

other way. The day before, as a party of six, we’d left Turners Eyrie, jostled for space on Lindsays Ledges and then shared our single rope around the crevasses on the Te Puoho Glacier. In the afternoon the shadows had lengthened in time with our stride and growing distance from the inner peaks. We’d traversed high rock slabs beyond the glacier, past the mighty chasm of Chasm Creek, and stopped in awe where the summit of Mount Madeline and the Hollyford River far below both came into view, separated by a thousand shades of blue.

I was on a circuitous route, avoiding old ground and glacier hazards, but taking in a few features (I was standing on one now) which I’d mentally pieced together during a rainy day in the eyrie. The way was clear down to the old moraine wall above the Korako Lake and I skipped along the narrow crest, pushing a few rocks off down the scree into the water. I saw more rock wrens, but no bivvy rock.

A narrow channel drains the lake and water pours out over the cliffs underneath. I fossicked about in the cleft, admiring the cataract, until it occurred to me what would happen if a large serac should topple off the glacier and land in the lake.

Everything was unfolding smoothly. I found the high route on to the Korako Ledges without any trouble, just where you’d expect it to be, and skipped across the slabs. Little puffy clouds were gently touching the summits and their soft whiteness seemed to blanch and diffuse the afternoon sun. Soon I was beneath the boulder wall that hems in Lake Adelaide, striding on a rare stretch of flat ground.

The footsteps in the sand stopped me. It was a science fiction moment: the realisation that the distant planet I’ve landed on is inhabited. I read a lot of science fiction when I was a teenager, lone wanderers through the vast immensity of the universe, dying spacescapes of techno-dystopia, that sort of thing.

But my interest waned as I spent more time in the hills—inside my own life-support bubble of technology on my own journeys into the sublime.

Apirana and Mihj Peaks were in the cloud. I didn’t look up as I filled my water bottle from a pool at the avalanche-pummeled base of their bleak slabs and then began climbing to the pass. Just below the ridge the route fizzled out into a loose and difficultly angled gully and I had to pause for a moment to gather concentration and climb out onto the steep wall to the right. It was not as easy as I’d expected but it wasn’t difficult to reassure myself that this was nor-

26 N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E

mal for the Darrans. ‘In fact, it seems the better route avoids the low point on the ridge and instead climbs those bleak slabs below Mihj to an angling ledge and then descends the ridge to a low point north of where I was.’ Standing on the ridge, all I had to go on was an unreliable memory that the route traversed north over the sharp crest of a small peak. That was an idea I quickly rejected. Descending right away looked a much better option, and I could see a promontory down below, lit up golden by the late sun, which would be the perfect place to bivvy.

I threw my pack down on a mattress of cushion plants sheltered by ancient boulders, inhaled the air rising from the depths of the Cleddau Valley, and discovered there was no water and no firewood. On down I went, on a diagonal descent across the upper cirque, almost to the flanks of Apirana. I stopped for the night on the very edge of a scarp that drops all the way to the Donne River. The mountains in the south-west turned to black obelisks as the sun set behind them, firing rays of slow-strobing light around the great amphitheatre.

The morning brought thickening cloud about the peaks, but it was still dry and I dropped down a mossy gully on to wide slabs of avalanche-cleaned rock that spread a thousand metres to the valley floor. Giant beech trees overhung the river’s pools and rapids, moss and fern choked each side and the boulders were green and slippery. There had been a mighty flood at some time in the recent past; entire trees had been torn from the riverbank, stripped of their bark and left crushed between giant diorite boulders, their roots clutching the air.

When I judged I’d come far enough I took to the bush, planning to cross to the Gulliver River and the Esperance Valley track. It worked perfectly. I was back on the tourist route and padded along the track leading up to the Grave Talbot Pass. I took my time at the mouth of the Esperance Valley, where three kākā peered at me from a ribbonwood tree. I’m not sure quite how to tally active pest control with an ideal of wandering through the solitary wastes of Fiordland, although it’s the kind of ethical conundrum science fiction could have been invented for and the birds are definitely doing much better these days. Kākāriki and kākā called across the treetops in the valleys, kererū gorged on subalpine berries in the head of Moraine Creek and a rock wren seemed to pop out from behind a boulder at every high-level rest stop.

Where the track runs out into the head of the val-

ley, below the de Lambert Falls, I stopped to piece together something edible from what remained of ten days worth of hill food. Then my troubles began.

I convinced myself the track would begin again in the bush around the falls. It did not. Time was getting on, so I trudged determinedly up the hill towards the low point on the ridge. Careful readers of Moir’s Guide South will be smirking. Try not to laugh when I admit I even drew the line on the photo topo which marks the route in that book.

Once again, rock wrens met me on the ridge and far below I could see traffic crawling up the valley towards the Homer Tunnel. Both were comforting.

I pulled out the map and discovered I was no longer on it. That was disappointing. I looked along the ridge towards the angular pinnacle of black rock and wondered which overhanging side the route would sidle beneath. That was puzzling.

The sun dipped beneath the banks of cloud that hid the western peaks as I reached the pinnacle.

Three things dawned on me more or less at the same time: I was in the wrong place; I had no idea where I should be; and it was going to get dark quite soon.

A narrow ledge on the northern side of the pinnacle soon faded away and I climbed down vertical tussock towards another ledge. A rock groove led back up to the ridge beyond the pinnacle and I began climbing but after 15 metres or so I realised that I needed to get up there faster, so it was back to the steep tussock. On a large ledge below was an enormous iron cable—definitely part of the route, but when I reached the cable I had no idea where to go next. Up seemed obvious, so with hands and feet on compact, grey, square-edged stone, I made my way back on to the ridge again, where I faced another pinnacle. This one could be climbed direct and at the top I could see what must, I thought, be Lyttle’s Gap on the Cleddau side, although there didn’t seem to be any kind of straightforward way down there. I continued along the ridge a short way until there was no choice but to descend. Part way down, smeared across a holdless granite runnel, I looked back and saw the easy descent chute I’d missed.

Then I was running, as much as I could after three long days in the Darrans, through the gap and between the remnant snow patches on the other side, then gently down more slabs around the shoulder of Macpherson. The mist swirled in again as the light faded. I could see a dark smudge of bluffs above and feel the void of cold air below.

I set off down but, as the slope steepened, moss thickened on the slabs. It felt wrong and by the time I’d climbed back up under the bluffs it was completely dark. Drizzle began to turn to rain as the wind stiffened. This was not how I wanted to spend the night. I slowed right down, thinking through every hand and foothold, hoping that by continuing to traverse I’d eventually notice the ridge which descends to Homer Saddle.

Suddenly, the atmosphere changed. The void felt less clammy and I could hear the white noise of falling water from Macpherson Cirque. I knew where I was. My head torch lit up a cairn on the ridge. I began the descent: downclimbing, then scrambling, then sliding; onto a narrow zigzag path which disappeared among the boulders below the saddle and emerged again as a gravelled walkway; down the highway tarmac, each step bizarrely identical to the next. And when I sat down at last, after midnight, in Homer Hut, with a cup of tea, and picked up a newspaper, my voyage ended amid alien scenes of the city of Christchurch, ruined in an earthquake six days before.

The mountains to the south-west turned to black obelisks as the sun set behind them. Peaks above the Cleddau River West Branch.

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 27

WALKING THE DOG A new route on the north face of Mount Talbot.

by DAVE BOLGER Looking down at the first pitch of Walking the Dog. Dave Bolger

I

t was late April and the summer had disappeared into a haze of nappies, computer screens and road trips with the family. I had one last opportunity to sneak down to the Darrans before my dreams of climbing warm rock in the Darrans would have to go on hold until the next summer. After the standard technology war of text banter with my old mate Rupert we decided there was a small window of opportunity to venture high into the Darrans.

The trip started casually with coffees and a slow drive to Homer, there was no need to rush as it was still raining. However, I was optimistic there would be a small clearance the next day. A quick unload at Homer then it was off to the Chasm for some cragging.

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I got the first lead which to be totally honest felt harder than it should have, maybe the last few years of little climbing and parenthood is catching up on me. Once we got into the rhythm and Rupert gratefully led a few harder routes I began to remember what you can hold and stand on in the Darrans. The climbing is certainly not all about pulling on schist rails like it is in my home town of Queenstown. All and all it was a great chilled day. It was just what I needed to remind me what climbing is all about and it certainly got my mental game switched on, which hey, is the wonder drug for climbing in the high mountains of the Darrans. Who needs to be climbing fit and lapping 26s?

It appeared that the theme of the trip would continue. The next morning we had a casual wake up and another coffee before sifting up the Gertrude Valley in search of new lines on the north face of Mount Talbot.

After reaching Gertrude Saddle the sun arrived and the travel up the spur on the weathered diorite slabs became pleasant to say the least. As it was the middle of April, the glacier under the north face of Talbot was very broken, in fact it was almost non-existent. Even in my short lifetime of trips to the Darrans I have seen this glacier almost disappear. On this particular trip we could clearly see virgin rock exposed to the sunlight for the first time. I guess it can be argued that the disappearance of the glacier could be a positive for the rock routes on the north face of Talbot. However, my personal opinion is that I enjoy the diversity of the Darrans experience, which for me includes the intricacy of getting off glaciers and onto another medium such as rock. An additional skill set is required which favours my mountaineering background, and the question of taking crampons and other mountaineering gear gives you something to discuss with your climbing partner on the road trip to Homer.

In the past I had scanned the north face of Talbot and was quite surprised to realise there was a certain amount of potential for new routes on a sunny north face, and in reality the north face is not actually very far from the carpark. Routes on the face can be easily climbed in a day by competent parties. After a closer inspection of the face we both noticed a very obvious and protruding chimney feature which leads to a beautiful looking crack and then into the unknown.

This feature is located on a face to the right of Neil’s Climb, which was established by Calum Hudson and Barry Smith in 1985.

There is no obvious line to connect into the chimney feature. The direct approach looked barely pro-

tectable. A route out right which connected back into a ledge below the chimney looked like an option, but it was difficult to tell from the ground if it would be possible to traverse back left. Rupert stepped up for a cunning lead. Our chosen line proved to be a good one and we gained the ledge below the chimney and crack system above. The first real pitch of climbing provided superb slab climbing with adequate protection and thought provoking moves for the grade.

The next pitch provided quality climbing and was well protected, but it was awkward getting established and exiting the chimney feature. The upper section of this pitch was exceptional; a clean fist crack corner up which we could keep leap frogging our number 3 C4.

The climbing was about grade 18 and some of the best Rupert and myself had experienced in New Zealand.

Rupert even rated the quality on par with Yosemite and I still recall Rupert hooting about the pitch, which to be honest is not a usual occurence for the modest Rupert.

Bring on the next pitch. It was sure to be classic Darrans climbing as there was no obvious feature to follow and the protection looked a little on the sparse side. This sort of climbing—into unknown territory with no obvious path—always enlightens my senses and proves why climbing is so special for me. I generally climb at my best in these situations; with my focus tight in my little world around me, and no negative or indecisive thoughts of some scary crux 25 metres above me. This pitch kept both Rupert and I entertained and quite possibly we both climbed it slightly differently to each other. Surprisingly the gear was adequate and always located close to little cruxy moves.

Then we were sitting on a comfy ledge looking up at a well protected corner with splitter flake cracks to the side which would give additional protection if required.

As predicted, the weather was on the change and cloud was beginning to build up. There was little wind though, so the situation was certainly still very pleasant and not disconcerting. This pitch went without a hitch and was very well protected, although the final moves involved a tricky step to the right protected by a small ball cam, so that we avoided an easier, vegetated corner.

The final pitch involved easy climbing which was well protected and broken up with ledges. Once close to the summit ridgeline the climbing turned to scrambling so the rope came off and we scrambled to the summit of Talbot, enjoying the ambience of the situation and the incoming weather. Even though the weather was on the change we felt relaxed as the descent was on familiar territory. I recall sitting there enjoying a wee bite to eat and

looking around at the surrounding peaks and thinking how lucky I was to enjoy this wonderful situation. We had the privilege to have that special place to ourselves and absorb the strength and mana of peaks like Tutoko, Sabre and Barrier.

We quickly scrambled down the ridge to traverse to the pass, where one short abseil got us onto the glacier.

From there I lowered Rupert down the glacier as he only had rock shoes. I then down-climbed as I had boots, crampons and an axe. That approach worked perfectly and certainly kept our one pack lighter and made it a lot more comfortable for the seconder. Once off the glacier we traversed back over to the start of the route and our gear stash. We had a quick fuel up then continued with the descent to Gertrude Saddle.

It wasn’t long after we left the base of the route that the weather really socked in and the visibility became very limited. Our navigational skills were certainly tested on the descent as we were aware of steeper terrain either side which could lead us into an abyss.

I will say we were pleased to arrive on the ridge just above Gertrude Saddle as a slight lift in the cloud confirmed our location. It was a murky wet descent down the Gertrude Valley with torches just coming out before the hut.

We enjoyed a cold beer and potato chips and some casual chit chat with some tourists in Homer Hut that night. Rupert and I reflected on the climb the next day while the rain fell outside. We concluded adventures like these are so obtainable in New Zealand, they don’t have to be first ascents or particularly hard to be worthwhile adventures, it just takes a couple of friends with an optimistic and relaxed attitude to climbing to find your pathway.

The route is named Walking the Dog which is a reference to my nickname Dog. Rupert thought it was time the dog got out for a walk. The route is five or six pitches long, depending on where you start and finish pitching. Four of the pitches have solid grade 18 climbing, on super solid rock and are well protected.

l e f t The north face of Mt Talbot, with the line of Walking the Dog indicated. Craig Jefferies t o p Rupert topping out on pitch five. Dave Bolger b o t t o m Rupert leading out on some impeccable Darrans granite on pitch three.

Dave Bolger

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 29

T

Clay Roehner climbing the north face of Mt Alarm with the central couloir line visible at bottom left.

TAPUAE-O-UENUKU AND THE INLAND KAIKOURAS words and photos by SHANE ORCHARD 30 N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E

h e peaks of the Inland Kaikoura Range can be seen clearly from Wellington, Taranaki and many parts of Marlborough and Canterbury.

A cluster of peaks centred on Mount Tapuae-oUenuku and Mount Alarm rise high above the foothills, producing New Zealand's highest peaks outside of the Southern Alps. Not surprisingly, this remote alpine area has been held in high esteem by the people who have lived or travelled in the region, both as navigational landmarks and for the cultural associations with the high peaks.

Both the Inland and Seaward Kaikoura Ranges abound with history as do the nearby river valleys.

The Clarence River, which separates the two ranges, has been a major travelling route for Maori for over 750 years. Mount Tapuae-o-Uenuku is the sacred mountain of the Kurahaupo tribes of Marlborough1.

The peak’s name is often associated with the Chief Tapuaenuku although it is also the subject of a traditional story. This relates to the journey of a chief who sought his spiritual wife and child by climbing up to the heavens via the rainbow of their ancestor Uenuku, a tribal war god. Nga Tapu Wae O Uenuku are ‘the sacred steps of Uenuku’ and are associated with Tapuae-o-Uenuku which may also be translated as ‘footprint of the rainbow’.

The appeal of following the rainbow of Uenuku has also been strong amongst European explorers with Tapuae-o-Uenuku being a popular summit amongst mountaineers since early times. The first known European attempt on the peak was in 1849 and fell just 15 minutes short of the summit before resulting in the death of Wiremu Hoeta who slid on icy ground on the descent. Sir Edmund Hillary remembers Tapuae-o-Uenuku as the first ‘decent mountain’ he climbed following his successful summit attempt in 1944. Despite lacking technically difficulty, the mountain retains its respect today due to a combination of remoteness and sheer size, and due to its unique position well to the east of the peaks of the main divide.

Travelling in this area certainly has a unique and mysterious feel to it. Interesting geology and vegetation patterns are home to an eclectic mix of wildlife including a huge population of feral goats.

It’s a goat paradise amongst the bluffy outcrops, spaniard gardens and heavily dissected valley systems typical of the area. It’s also great country for lizards as well as stronghold for New Zealand falcon/karearea.

1. See www.theprow.org.nz/mt-tapuae-o-uenuku/

I remember well a previous trip where the presence of kārearea came to my attention with a sharp blow to the fore-head followed by a period of confusion looking for the culprit. A few moments later I began to register what was happening when assailant number two was spotted at point blank range diving out of the sun. It was a very quick lesson in just how territorial these birds can be! Though we had no such jousts with the locals on this recent trip we did get treated to a great run of weather and the opportunity to explore the area in fantastic winter conditions just perfect for what we had in mind.

So it was that we had spotted a rare and solid five day window of bluebird weather and made a plan to head in there for a ski mountaineering adventure.

Our main plan was to climb and ski four big lines in the area which had not gone unnoticed on a previous trip. Following a hunch from earlier in the season we were hoping that the biggest and baddest of these lines might be in condition due to some big snowfalls from the south-east. Though I had no pictures of the north face of Mount Alarm to show the other lads I had talked it up a fair bit in order to get us out of the car and headed up the Hodder. So I was really hoping it looked as good as I remembered. Of course, no Inland Kaikouras story is complete without at least a brief mention of the Hodder!

I’m sure there are many horrific stories of large packs and of a long day’s grind to negotiate this infamous—but also most popular—access to the area.

In our mental preparations I was aware that Clay might be due to suffer the most due to his insisting on being a skier. This meant two pairs of heavy boots were onboard compared to two pairs of liners and hoping for the best in my case. Added to five days worth of food and considerable other excess baggage associated with our snow sliding plans I’d made sure he wasn’t expecting an easy day. He was also mightily interested in the route description which called for 70 something river crossings with snow melt a potential issue. So from crossing number one and with a hint of ‘I don’t believe this’ going on, it became obvious that we were going to have to count them. So we did.

In our case the river was low and not really too cold so we set about our work with enthusiasm and splashed on up. I knew something might be astray when the crossing count headed into the 60s and yet we seemed to be nowhere near getting out of the riverbed to the comfort of the Hodder huts. After

a bit of head scratching over a possible wrong turn the mystery was fortunately solved when some fellow trampers appeared to confirm that were indeed on the right river and that we could look forward to many more crossings as well. After entertaining them with our ridiculous loads we bade farewell and did eventually find the huts, but not before a quite momentous occasion in the form of the one hundredth crossing! We made a total of 102 crossings in fact, which might be some sort of record and was probably helped no doubt by the lads actively seeking them by the end of it!

Following some exciting evening vistas, the next day was all about an early start with the weather in our favour and a good chance of finding our way to Mount Alarm. Our route took us to the base of the main face in order to scope the descent routes before gaining the standard North East Ridge route which

The north face of Mt Alarm as viewed from Tapuae-o Uenuku.

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A b o v e The summit slopes of Tapuae-o Uenuku on a glorious day with the Kaikoura Coast beyond.

Facing page clockwise from top left: Floating above the lowlands looking north from Tapuae-o Uenuku.

Nick Sutcliffe riding the Mitre couloir.

Clay Roehner scoping the entrance to the north-west face of Pyramid.

provides the safest line to the summit. In the crisp morning light the main face couloirs stood out in sharp relief as did the snowclad headwall which was well filled in right off the summit. About then we knew that this was indeed the day and in few hours we might be looking down at some fairly scary stuff.

It was brilliant climb of the ridge and was a great position to look back on Tapuae-o-Uenuku, which lies along the same ridge at the opposite end. To the east the sea shimmered a bright blue and the white slopes around us looked somewhat detached from reality as though floating in the sky. Soon enough the summit with its steep southern exposure was upon us, offering up stupendous views all round.

As can often be the case, the moment of crampons off and slidey things on induced a few butterflies in such a locale. So with nervous anticipation we fussed about with gearing up procedures until the inevitable came about. At that point there was nothing left to do but ride.

The main line here was a plumb line with a super exposed entry meaning a concerted avalanche avoidance plan. Big sluffs over big bluffs were guaranteed.

The first few critical turns were the key to getting safely established on the face and locked in for a good time. Then as though conspiring to prevent an exit

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a slight sting in the tail does appear in the form of a steep icy runnel through the lower cliff band and provides a last chapter of excitement to end a great line. Safely regrouped on flatter ground we reflected on this crazy country of ours and how we had awoken on the beach at Kaikoura the day before with pies and surf in mind.

The next day the impressive weather continued and gave us the chance to climb Tapuae-o-Uenuku with an early start en route to an investigation of the star studded west face. There are a number of ridiculously skiable couloirs there but only one which caught any sun. So we headed off the summit via the gentle northern snowfields and then regained the west ridge for the first part of our planned eastwest traverse. The couloir of choice turned out to be a fantastic U shaped feature in the centre of the face and spat us out towards a convenient bench where we regrouped for the next stage. This involved traversing further west to the summit of Pyramid where we had seen the substantial north-west face towering high above the Hodder huts.

At that point we weren’t 100 per cent sure which of the routes through the rocky sections on the 1100 metre face might offer the way home, but we were about to find out. Thankfully the face wasn’t as steep

as first impressions suggested and our first choice of line proved to be a perfect winding couloir through a great selection of wind-lips and other features. Ten minutes later we were riding towards a now familiar knoll of friendly tussock at the bottom of the snowline, amazed and bemused at the distance we’d covered. If only it was downhill all day! We reflected on another awesome day on another awesome mountain. The east-west traverse of Tapuae-o-Uenuku via the north-west face of Pyramid is an absolutely classic ski route; three stars or more!

It was sad to know we’d be leaving soon with so much expansive terrain around and nearly all of it rideable. Had we a rifle we could have certainly stayed for days courtesy of the local goats who seemed to think they had a dinner invite. They were seen coming right to the doorstep of the hut no less!

Alas though, they got away leaving us with just one more day of food and a last chance to explore. For this we headed for Mitre which is the other large peak in the area and also host to an extremely large and eye catching couloir which splits the peak. Being on a northern aspect, the couloir offered up great spring corn and though not especially steep it was a perfect end to the trip.

Of course, the trip hadn’t quite ended there since we had the small matter of the Hodder to deal with on the tramp out. It was a long day out but thanks to the rainbow of Uenuku we were returning with spirits high. Our beaten bodies would recover soon enough and quite possibly the memories of this place might blur the details of that long day in. Bathed in the evening sun above a field of golden spaniard, the beauty and the sharpness became one. And then ouch! We were reminded that pinching oneself was not going to be needed here.

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Jamie Vinton-Boot (climbing) and Paul Hersey on the first ascent of the West Rib of Mt Walter, Westland.

Kester Brown

34 N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E

PLANS ARE JUST THAT

by PAUL HERSEY

W

e had the whole year mapped out. The concept for our Backyard and Beyond project was taking shape; others seemed enthused by our intentions and SPARC even agreed to give us money to make a movie. What more could we ask for? Little did we know that ‘action-packed’ was about to take on new meaning.

14 January Wind gusts rattled the gently sagging walls of Tasman Saddle Hut. The nor-wester was in full swing and our opportunity for getting a helicopter ride back down the valley was receeding faster than my brother’s hairline. Poppie chatted to Park HQ on the radio. The pilot had just completed a rather hairy pick up of some clients from Plateau and left the guide to walk down. He reported that the wind was picking up. We prepared for the inevitable trudge down the Tasman Glacier. Minutes passed.

No one wanted to go outside. Then the radio crackled. If we could get down to the névé in 20 minutes, the pilot reckoned he could pick us up there. We started packing frantically.

The trip to the head of the Tasman was essentially a photo shoot. New Zealand Geographic magazine had agreed to the idea of a mountaineering article, if we could get ‘stunning’ photographs. I had some virgin territory in mind on the west side of Mount Walter to explore and Kester agreed to take the photos. The plan was for Jamie and I to climb together, while Kester would capture the images. Ironically Shelley—who initially didn’t think she would get to do much climbing—ended up leading most of the first route, with Kester in tow taking photos of us during the ‘first’ ascent. The second climb, which we named Stuntman and Chronic, was probably the best five pitches of rock I’ve climbed in the region.

22 February It’s not every day your life flashes before your eyes.

Tuesday was Bivouac day, my one day a week away from the computer and pretending I had a real job. It was lunchtime and I walked along Hereford Street, drinking a cup of takeaway coffee, glancing up towards the sky and wondering if I could squeeze a surf or a climb in after work. A few rays of insipid sunlight were trying to ooze through the cloud cover. Without warning the ground lurched vio-

lently. Chunks of masonry sheared off tall buildings overhead, smashing onto the footpath, inches away.

Thrown to the ground, I tried to regain my feet to avoid the falling concrete and exploding windows, only to be knocked over again. Others around me remained foetal and I shouted at them to move.

Shop frontages blew out and then whole buildings started collapsing, like a scene from a bad Spielberg movie which we were stuck in the middle of. But it was the noise, an unfathomable, sonorous roar from deep within the earth that stuck in my mind.

It sounded like the world was tearing itself apart.

20 seconds of terrifying, destructive chaos was time enough to take the lives of scores around me, annihilate half of Christchurch’s central business district and damage nearly every building in a city of 400,000 people. Amidst the immediate aftermath of sirens, alarms and cries for help from people trapped in destroyed buildings, I realised that life would never be the same.

In the days following the quake, the scale and extent of the devastation became all too apparent; whole suburbs, businesses, roads and lives had been destroyed. Our normal everyday lives had been put on hold.

Even simple tasks, the things you take for granted like buying food, going to the toilet, or catching up with friends, became a challenge. It’s funny to think that, before the quake, it was challenge and adventure that we as climbers sought to enrich our lives, to escape the normality of everyday life.

As we focussed on day-to-day living, months passed in a blur. Access to our immediate backyard had been taken away. The Port Hills and the coastline were no go zones, either devastated by rock fall or polluted by sewerage runoff. Slowly, the amenities such as power and water came back online.

But it would be many months before our thoughts returned to adventure in the mountains.

26 June In the half light of pre-dawn, thick scrub repelled my efforts at making progress uphill. Jamie was off to one side, the thin beam of his headtorch twitching randomly as he did battle with the undergrowth. I’d been this way before, I reassured him, a number of times. It was good to see that the access hadn’t got-

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 35

L e f t Paul Hersey seconding a pitch during the first ascent of White Strike, Dasler Pinnacles, Hopkins Valley. Jamie Vinton-Boot R i g h t Shelley Hersey climbing the first pitch of Honey Badger, Hopkins Valley, during the team’s first attempt. Paul Hersey

ten any easier.

We were in search of early season ice and heading for a peak in the South Temple Valley which I hoped might yield something climbable. After a half hour of vigorous fisticuffs with the scrub and then another hour on the long scree slope above, we reached Peak 2200m. The ice was rather thin, but that didn’t deter Jamie. I didn’t know much about M grades before then.

I knew they existed of course, but as to how they related to the moves we encountered on Don’t Drop The Chandelier I had no idea. Jamie seemed in his element and I grovelled about trying not to fall off.

26 July It was good to be back. It was the depths of winter and Graham, Shelley and I were in search of deep veins of ice in the Hopkins Valley. From the valley floor, we spied a stunning-looking line which would be four or five pitches long. We picked our way up through old avalanche debris to its base.

Sometimes things just go wrong. I don't know whether to acknowledge that we were unlucky to get caught by the falling ice or lucky that things didn't turn out a lot worse.

At the top of the second pitch, I had just built my anchor, clipped in, and was belaying Graham up to me. Shell was still clipped to the anchor at the top of the first pitch, about 40 metres below.

The ice came—five to ten seconds of brick-sized blocks slamming into us. Driven against the snow by the blows, I thought it was all over.

I don't remember the end of it, so must have blacked out for a few seconds. Everything ached and there was blood over the snow, but only one thought developed: 'Get the f*** down!'

I yelled down to the others, but could only hear muffled replies.

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Abseiling down, I saw Graham slumped on a low angled snow slope, and Shell staring at me with huge eyes.

Graham mumbled that he wasn't good. He thought that the impact of the ice had broken his shoulder and maybe his leg. I offered to abseil together, but decided to lower him straight away as that would be quicker. Small things, like checking and rechecking knots and threading ropes, took on new significance.

I followed Graham down and checked his injuries while Shell abseiled. After slinging his arm, Graham thought he could walk, which was a relief as my ribs hurt like hell and my left hand wasn't working. I was amazed that the guy could move with a suspected broken lower leg.

The three of us shuffled slowly downhill to the nearest hut. I then walked out to the road, found a family with a 4WD who were holidaying nearby and asked them to drive in to pick up the others. By the time we all reached the roadend, Shell was feeling a bit better and said she could drive. We headed for Timaru, making a quick detour to Burger King. The staff at BK gave us a funny look, not surprising given that three smelly, blood-stained, down jacket wearing individuals were standing at the counter asking directions to the hospital while ordering double whoppers.

Healed enough to climb, I returned to the same ice three weeks later, wanting closure as much as anything. But the rest of the route had fallen away. Instead, we climbed another single-pitch line nearby. Kester led the route and my hands shook as I prepared to follow. Despite my nervousness, I wanted to get back on the ice that had spanked us. Looking at conditions, I figured my chances were over until the next winter.

Two days later, one of the biggest snow storms in our history plastered much of the country. The temperature plummeted.

L e f t Jamie Vinton-Boot on the first ascent of Don’t Drop the Chandelier, Peak 2200m, South Temple Valley. Paul Hersey R i g h t Jamie Vinton-Boot on the West Rib of Mt Walter, Westland. Kester Brown

More than 20 centimetres of snow fell outside our home on the coast. My thoughts returned to the possibility of ice forming in the mountains. I called Jamie and, as long as we could get out of Christchurch, he was keen.

In the early morning light, we could see the route from the valley floor. It was thin but on! Even Jamie wasn’t his super-confident self as we wordlessly roped up at the base. Light bathed the route with warmth, but we figured the ice would cool again soon enough as the sun tracked west. Small fragments bounced down from above and I flinched. We started climbing. Four long pitches later, Honey Badger was completed.

17 September I love it when a plan comes together.

The forecast for the weekend was average. Perhaps the narrow window of fine weather would stay open but in all likelihood typical spring instabilities would shut it down. Jamie and I decided to risk it.

The Hopkins Valley is one of my favourite places in the world.

In the last eight years I've been there 70-80 times, maybe more, but I never tire of its stunning mountains and climbing possibilities.

Over the years I've formed a bond with each peak. It seems each new trip offers up more perspective.

Jamie and I planned to have a look at something I'd had my eye on for a while, but the route in question would be committing and, given the dodgy looking weather, I kept a Plan B up my sleeve.

Low cloud and a gusty westerly greeted us. Soon after we reached Dasler Bivouac it started snowing. There wasn't much to do other than climb into our sleeping bags and wait for tomorrow.

The next morning it seemed the weather couldn't make up its mind. We decided not to follow suit so, at first light, started

clambering through the beech forest, traversing around into the valley between Dasler Pinnacles and Glen Mary. We were going to climb something!

Plan B came into view: a thin white streak running straight up the western flank of Dasler Pinnacles. Never more than two metres wide, and mostly less than a metre, it was as clean a line as I'd seen for some time. It looked to be two, maybe three pitches long. It looked amazing. Jamie and I geared up.

Somehow, two pitches grew into five. The ice kept running. We kept climbing. The ground dropped away, pitch by narrow pitch.

At the crux third pitch, the ice was no more than 20 centimetres wide. I struggled to fit myself within the narrow band of rock, thrutching with one tool above the other with my crampons wedged in tight. Protection was sparse and, not for the first time, I marvelled at Jamie's leading ability. This was a beaut line! White Strike seemed an appropriate name.

Looking back over these words, and remembering the experiences they are trying to recapture, I reckon I’ve been pretty bloody lucky this year. Things haven’t played out quite as I’d planned and I certainly would have chosen a couple of different paths in hindsight. But I guess that’s life, or the invigorating side to it. Now, the main part of our Backyard and Beyond project draws near. The plan is to spend a month in the Southern Alps, travelling, alpine climbing and exploring from the east coast to the west. So many uncertainties lie ahead. Sometimes I worry. Other times I take solace from what has gone before. And the fact is that, somehow, things always just kind of work out.

Backyard and Beyond greatly acknowledge the assistance from SPARC, Bivouac Outdoor, Cactus Climbing Equipment, The Roxx Climbing Centre and the New Zealand Alpine Club.

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 37

COMPLACENCY words and photos by FRASER CRICHTON

Helen Norrie and Paul Bird approaching Alack Attack, Fox Névé, Wetsland.

M

ount Alack is a minor peak on the Fox Névé in Westland. It sits behind Pioneer Hut and is an outlier of the far more imposing Douglas Peak. It’s only once you walk around the corner from Pioneer Hut and you’re directly under the south face of Alack that you see it’s a distinctive, steep little peak. Mostly people use it as a training climb, an easy day out before doing something harder like the south face of Douglas or the north ridge of Tasman. Mountain guide Marty Beare would tell you it’s a perfect training climb.

I climbed it last November with Paul Bird and Helen Norrie and as we flew into Pioneer that’s how we thought of Mount Alack: as a perfect training climb, a good warm up.

This was the first time Paul and I had climbed with Helen. Before the trip Helen had emailed and said,

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‘I’m a bit nervous, climbing with strangers’.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I know how you feel. We’ll do something straightforward, cruisy, nothing too hard.’

Mount Alack, I thought, That’s what we’ll do.

There’s a route on there which is cruisy, short, no dramas, I thought. It’s a straightforward grade two.

‘An easy day out,’ Marty Beare had said when Paul and I had met him the previous year at Pioneer.

Something I’ve noticed about my climbing over the last few years is that I’ve grown complacent, less focused. It’s not like I’ve done it all, it’s just that I’ve grown lazy.

Guidebooks. One of the things I’ve grown complacent about is guidebooks. In the UK, in Scotland (my home), a guidebook will tell you down to the last move how to climb a route. In New Zealand

it’s more like, ‘there’s a ridge leading north for 500 metres: follow it.’ So I don’t pay much attention to guidebooks these days. There’s no detail so what’s the point? Complacency, I blame it on New Zealand.

It’s something that niggles me. But like I say, I’m too complacent to do much about it.

The morning (late morning) that we set out to do Alack I’ll have to admit that I didn’t paid too much attention to the guidebook. I left it behind on the top bunk. I was saving weight on crap I didn’t need.

There were a couple of guys in the hut who’d been up Alack the previous day. They seemed clued up so instead of looking at the book just before leaving the hut I asked them about the route they’d done. Now, maybe my Scottish accent confused them about what beta I was after but the one thing they said was, ‘It’s not the obvious line, look for the face and you’ll see

this line of ice going directly up. It doesn’t look obvious but follow it.’

I had in the previous weeks glanced at the guidebook. ‘South Couloir of Alack,’ it says, ‘Grade two.

Follow the couloir.’ The description before that is of a route called Alack Attack, Alpine Ice IV. We’ll not be doing that, I thought to myself. We’re not fit enough.

It’s too hard. It’s not fair on Helen as she’s not climbed with us before. *** We sent Helen up the first pitch. It was medium angled snow ice, solid in the shade. Her axes swung and bit, not sinking to the hilt, the picks just scratching into the ice underneath. Her crampon points flexed as she hacked her way up from the belay. She put a screw in below a steepening, then looked down at us and then back up. She seemed determined.

Helen Norrie leading a pitch on Alack Attack, a route easily mistaken for Southern Gully.

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The south face of Mt Alack.

‘She can climb then,’ I said to Paul.

‘Lucky one of us can,’ said Paul.

I like climbing with Paul. You can rely on him.

He doesn’t whinge, he just gets on with it. And he’s a Pom. He’d also just bought a new set of leashless Cobras.

The rope stopped feeding out. Helen had run out

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some rope and placed a few screws. She was leaning into the slope and from below you could tell something was up. She placed a second screw and looked down. She looked in pain.

The rope went tight as she put us on belay then Paul and I simul-climbed up. Just a few metres up my calves were burning. ‘Shit, it’s not even steep!’ I exclaimed.

It took a long time to reach Helen’s stance and when we did we understood why she was in pain.

Our calves were pumped solid.

‘Bit icy, eh?’ I said Above us was another pitch of easy angled stuff and then a line, a line like a Scottish line—a narrow steep gully with bulges and corners. It didn’t look obvious, so it must be the line. Grade two though?

We hacked on up to the start of the next pitch.

What followed didn’t look steep but when you were on it and taking the screws out you could feel the blood in your forearms.

The face we were on was in shade. I imagine it’s always in shade. Certainly the next pitch up a narrow gully was well frozen. It was some of the best ice I’ve ever been on; solid, hard, alpine ice. You hacked straight up it and, well, it was just fun, just amazing fun. The line was exposed and steep and wild and fun. There were screws where you wanted them and you looked down through your feet and the base of the climb far below. I belayed just above a sharp shark-fin of rock. I feel like I wooped!, but that’s in retrospect. What I actually did was slump onto the belay panting. My claves were locking up with cramp.

I brought Helen and Paul up. The next pitch was pretty steep, the kind of steep you look at and say, ‘Glad it’s not my pitch.’ Paul had his new axes.

The route continued. Easy pitch me, hard pitch Paul. We were now pretty high on the route and it looked like things got a bit odd above. The gully closed down and the rock started intruding. I knew you topped out on the ridge. I remembered Marty Beare saying something about Alack being a shitshow of loose choss once you got high on it. Loose and scary.

By this time the sun had finally reached the face. It was early evening. Stones started whirling occasionally in the air.

‘We should make a decision,’ I said.

‘What’s that then?’ said Paul.

‘Well how about we abseil into that easy gully at the side of us and try and get out of here.’ I said.

‘Would that be the easy grade two gully we were meant to follow in the first place?’ said Paul.

I set up a v-thread and some tat around some loose rock and got Helen to abseil down first. I went next with a lot of crampon scratching. I took a loose rock to the side of the head which rope stretch and inattention had brought down. The rope jammed but eventually we were down in the gully.

Mount Alack is a short day. An easy morning. Start at 7.00 am, finish at 1.00 pm. We’d started about 9.00 am and now it was 7.00 pm. We had the choice to climb up or climb down. Luckily we went up and that saved us having to downclimb steep sun warmed mush with no chance of screws and a big shrund at the bottom waiting to collect.

By the time we reached the col at the top it was dark. There was a cold wind, darkness and lots of exposure. The stars were out and you could see the Milky Way like a bright band above us. It was stunningly silent.

‘I thought you said we were supposed to abseil off a bollard,’ said Paul.

‘Did you bring spare headtorch batteries?’ I asked.

‘Can I have my bagel now?’ asked Paul.

Helen munched quietly on her One Square Meal in the dark. ‘I reckon if we traverse across and have a look round the corner there’ll be a ridge down,’ she said.

Helen disappeared round the corner and the rope fed out. It kept feeding out. Then it stopped and there was a shout. We scuttled around the corner and down a snow arête to a rock where Helen stood looking collected.

Someone dropped an axe at that point. It was late, about 10.00 pm. We’d been on the go for 13 hours.

‘There’s a shrund down there somewhere, make sure the axe hasn’t fallen down it when you are down,’ I said to Paul.

‘I could give you the headtorch.’

‘Head’s too small. Don’t delay, faster we’re out of here.’

Paul set off down climbing and abseiling.

‘I’ve found your axe,’ he said on the way down which was lucky as climbing down the final shrund was soft and sloppy.

At ten minutes to midnight we got back to the hut and brewed up. We brewed up outside so as not to wake anyone in the hut. There’s a photo Paul took of Helen pointing at her watch, this mock serious look on her face. It says everything about that day.

*** We tried climbing Tasman two days later. We got to the top of Lendenfeld and looked over at Tasman.

It’s a long, long way on hard ice with massive cornices and exposure. I looked over and I knew I’d never climb it. I was too scared. I think I finally realised that whilst looking over at Tasman just as the sun came up. So we turned back. I cried on the way back down Lendenfeld. Not because Tasman’s a peak or a name, it meant much more to me than that. It’s something to do with coming to New Zealand from Scotland in the first place.

We walked back across the glacier, across the flat, dull old Fox. I just didn’t want to go climbing again. I felt flat, wasted and betrayed. ‘F*** this,’ I said. It was something to do with dreams and getting lost along the way. It’s something to do with complacency. It was the last time I went climbing.

We got back to the hut and we were all pretty silent, then Helen, who I don’t know very well said, ‘But climbing has given you so much.’ I knew she was right.

I can’t tell you what that is. I can’t define it or set it into words, but there’s something climbing has given me that no one in this world would understand apart from Helen Norrie and Paul Bird as we sat on at 11.00 pm in the dark on a col with no abseil tat and no obvious way down.

T o p Helen Norrie with sore calves after leading a steep pitch on the south face of Mt Alack.

B o t t o m A somewhat later than expected return to Pioneer Hut.

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 41

ourselves five weeks to accomplish the project and anything else that we decided on while down there.

A lot of research was undertaken to try to find out about the two Fiordland Mount Forbes. We contacted all the local experts and of course DOC in Te Anau.

No one had any information or knowledge about Mount Forbes #2 but we found out that Mount Forbes #3 was going to be a bit of a walk, thanks to DOC’s predator control programme which was underway on Resolution Island.

THE MT FORBES PROJECT words and photos by TERRY CRIPPEN and ANGELA MINTO

F

A b o v e Summit view from Mt Forbes #3, Dusky Sound below.

F a c i n g P a g e High camp beneath summit of Mt Forbes #2.

or us North Islanders who each summer head down south, various reasons are used to decide which peaks to attempt. Sometimes it’s a peak or peaks we have attempted before but have been thwarted on due to dismal weather or other circumstances. Sometimes it’s because we are battling away with the NZAC’s 100 Peaks list. However, in the winter of 2010 two of us were casually looking at a small scale map of the South Island as one does, scheming up ideas. Mount Forbes (2853m) up the Godley Valley was noted and seeing it is Ange's dad’s name, it was decided we had better climb it in the near future. So out came the computer and we entered Mount Forbes into FreshMap for more details. Two other Mount Forbes popped up, so now we had three to climb! Thus the Mount Forbes Project was born, without even giving things a second thought.

The original Mount Forbes, accessed via the Godley Valley, would be straightforward (or so we thought) as one of us had previously climbed it on two previous occasions. Where are the other two Mount Forbes?

The other two are in Fiordland, one above First Arm on Doubtful Sound (Mount Forbes #2, 1311m) and the other on Resolution Island (Mount Forbes #3, 930m).

These would be more of an undertaking to climb due to Fiordland’s weather and access, so we planned for a trip of 20 plus days for these two. In total we gave

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Part 1 For Mount Forbes #1, we first attempted it via McKinnon Stream, a tributary of the Godley Valley.

We assumed that the small icefall in the glacier was going to be easy, which it was when Terry had last climbed it about three years ago. However, on gaining the glacier we noticed there was a huge amount of white ice exposed this time and some crevasses further up which appeared large but not too impassable. Getting higher we soon found the icefall to be completely impassable. Multiple huge crevasses and towering seracs greeted us. It was such a different situation to the previous ascent. Time was spent attempting to find a route but it was impossible. We didn’t even bother to make use of the technical gear we had with us. We had to admit defeat and retreat.

The project wasn’t off to a good start. We decided we would have a better chance by approaching Forbes #1 via Separation Stream and the Ballium Snowfield further up the Godley.

A couple of days later we had set up camp by Separation Stream on a delightful grassy terrace on the true right, about the only one in the upper valley, not far from the snout of the Separation Glacier.

We were successful on this route, which was very straightforward. We headed up on the true left of the glacier and angled up scree, ledges and snow patches onto the Ballium Snowfield, thence to the summit.

One down two to go.

Getting back to the vehicle, parked on the other side of Separation Stream was not without its problems.

Rain and wind had set in overnight and Separation Stream became impassable. We thought we might retreat to Godley Hut, but Fitzgerald Stream was also an un-crossable torrent. There was nothing for it but to set up tent and wait it out. Two days later, with breakfast consisting of one biscuit each with a dollop of butter, jam and marmite, we managed to get across Separation Stream and back to the vehicle.

By this stage we were overdue by two days and a SAR

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 43

operation had been initiated. Fortunately, action had not progressed past the paperwork stage as the Tekapo police rightly assumed we would be sitting out the weather and waiting for the river levels to drop. We did get press coverage in The Timaru and Wairarapa papers, all favourable fortunately!

A b o v e Nearing the summit of Mt Forbes #2, First Arm below.

B e l o w Summit view from Mt Forbes #2.

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Part 2 The Fiordland Forbes. Down to Te Anau we went, where we spent a couple of days organising the usual things needed for Fiordland: mountain radio, float plane and helicopter. We also discussed our project with DOC. They gave us permission to use their facilities on Resolution Island. Thank you DOC. We loaded up with 20 days worth of food and gear and floatplaned into First Arm to be welcomed by a pod of dolphins. Seeing our planned route from the water’s edge as we approached was a bit daunting. It went up a very steep Fiordland spur then a narrow ridge leading to a high basin under Mount Forbes #2. Once the floatplane departed it was a bit of a task finding anywhere flattish and vaguely dry to set up base camp.

The next three days, besides enduring the rain and sandflies, were spent progressively putting up a route though the very steep bush and scrub. We utlised plenty of strips of pack liner to mark the route, and there was ‘some’ use of loppers and a pruning saw.

We returned each evening to base camp. Progress at times became very slow, with sections of scrubby bluffs being encountered. Eventually it was time to head right up and put in a lightweight camp above the scrub. Near the top of the ridge on one side the horizontal scrub became the thickest we had ever encountered, while the other side of the ridge was definitely out of the question for travel. However, once we were through the scrub and had found our way through some bluffs the going was very easy and we soon had the tent up on relatively flat, non rocky, dryish ground. It was impressive country. There were near-vertical valley sides below us and ridges and peaks in all directions. The following day the summit was a very enjoyable scramble on the coarse grained plutonic rock. Two down one to go. The rope or any of the other climbing gear that we had lugged up was completely unnecessary. Perfect weather meant we spent a number of hours on the top enjoying the Fiordland vista before heading down to our high camp. From what we had researched we assumed that no one else had ever bothered to climb this summit from sea level, certainly there was no summit cairn on top. So we had to build one and leave a note

to say we at least had been there.

The descent the following day down to base camp was executed relatively easily, with only one section of pack lowering. Then it was onto the mountain radio. We contacted the helicopter operator, broke camp, then had a late afternoon transfer to Resolution Island.

The fully ladened (one might say overloaded) small Robinson helicopter gained height slowly but at least that gave us a good long look at our route. Someone back at Te Anau had told the pilot, ‘You won’t need the big chopper or the pods, they are carrying all their gear and food on their backs.’ For 20 days? Yeah right!

Descending to Duck Cove, our base for the next week or more, it soon became apparent that Forbes #3 was definitely going to be just a walk. The tops were easy tussock and we knew it had a predator trap track from Duck Cove to the summit. The chopper landed on the beach about ten metres from what was to be our sandfly-free base. The pilot had brought in a lot of fresh fruit and vegetables for us, to compliment our excessive amount of food (three 20 litre drums). At one stage a yacht sheltering from the weather offloaded fresh blue cod and crayfish onto us. We eagerly got rid of some of our chocolate in exchange. Climbing gear was not used, now fishing gear was not used either.

With the network of predator control tracks, Forbes #3 was successfully ascended as part of a long day circuit including other ‘peaks’ Mounts Lyall and Clerke. A number of days were also spent in the centre of the island investigating the sometimes rocky, sometimes swampy, open scrub covered landscape.

May as well make use of all the time we have got, we thought, it’s not too often us North Islanders get into Fiordland like this. We exited Resolution Island to Te Anau by float-plane a few days earlier to enable us to get out before the next period of continued rain and to plan our next climbing activities.

In total we had taken 15 days for Forbes #2 and #3, all but four being wet. Our boots had stayed wet the whole time. We dosed ourselves up with Marmite for weeks in advance and ate it on the trip, this seemed to make the sandflies less inclined to bite. We decided they must be rapid breeders inside the tent since regardless of how many we squashed, their numbers never diminished inside!

So for any of you having difficulty about deciding what to do for your summer down south, dream up some interesting, unusual idea and just go for it!

A b o v e Mt D’Archiac and Separation Glacier from the summit of Mt Forbes #1.

B e l o w Impassable icefall on the first attempt of Mt Forbes #1.

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 45

MOUNT ADAMS words and photos by DI HOOPER

Crevasses on Mt Adams

E

verything always starts with the phone call.

‘It’s a good forecast for three days. We can’t not go.’ Brenda was right, as she always is. The window looked good. We had been waiting for the right time to climb Mount Adams for a while, actually for more than a year in-between other commitments and more than that since the last time when a group of us were foiled on the upper mountain by a boil up in the weather which got worse and worse.

Mount Adams has a special feeling. As a climb it gives that sea-to-summit (well almost) sense of satisfaction.

Also the higher one goes the friendlier it seems. It’s a

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mountain for easy playing, rather than freaking, but it requires a high level of patience (for the gorilla subalpine bush) and strength (to carry all your water).

Those averse to carrying gear for an overnighter climb Mount Adams in one day. On the way up we passed a group from Wanaka coming down. They had dashed up to bag the peak but they said they didn’t see much from the top. The 11.00 a.m boil up of coastal cumulus had ensured that. We would be looking for a high camp to get clearer views in the morning.

The river’s name could be considered a misnomer some of the time. ‘Little Man Creek should be called One Big, Fast Creek,’ said Brenda after our near drowning on the first day. There had been a once in five year amount of precipitation in South Westland over a 24 hour period prior to our trip. We should have known that that much rain (34 centimetres!) would not fully dissipate for at least a couple of days.

I was in the middle of the river trying to negotiate a fast and turbulent crossing when I heard Brenda yell above the din of the water, ‘I can’t move, there’s a huge rock in front of me!’ We tried to move backwards together to maintain our alignment but as I reversed I was swung around and the current began to win. I felt resignation, a sort of powerlessness along with a feeling of doom and uselessness. The water was cascading in torrents not too far downstream from this place of our mishap. Fortunately Brenda and I had linked up carefully before our crossing, so she was right there with me and she had managed to grab … well, something … a flake in the submerged rock! Slowly we swung into shore. On the correct side. Yay! There was more heart-pumping going on when we collapsed on the bank with more adrenaline than either of us had ever experienced, even from past dunkings in other watery places.

Gorillas in the mist was the feel of the place higher up. We reached a semi-flat chamois-eaten place on the shoulder of the ridge where it was ideal to pause. This clear space of tussock now had a different look. An alpine tramper some years ago had inadvertently set fire to the area with a stove and the tussock was sparse.

We plugged on happier to reach higher ground where the terrain laid back on the main ridge.

Our camp site at 1600m could have been higher but hot Raro and a Haast eagle’s view of the coast for miles in each direction made up for the shortfall in elevation gain. This was what we had come for, to feel sublime in the sky and to sleep with the feeling of the air as close as the exposure off the narrow ridge alongside

each side of the tent. There was no wind, just a clearing sky. We knew the summit was not too far away now (another 600 metres above us tucked over the snowy rock face) and … absolute peace and silence.

In the morning in the dark far below us we could see the distant lights of the milking sheds around Whataroa like a carpet of stars.

Our breakfast was quick as there was too much to do. ‘Don’t step back too much!’ Brenda’s words reminded me that we were on the ridge, not in a hollow. We weren’t alone on the mountain. We had been passed the previous day by a different group keen to camp at the 1750m level where they said there was a tarn. We leap-frogged past their campsite early and they called out to us as we picked our way around a couple of gendarmes near their tent. They shone torches which didn’t reach us but the beams felt friendly anyway. On the way back we could see that the tarn was real, but it looked more like a wet swampy patch in the tussock than a deep clear pool.

After a few weeks of drier weather we decided it wouldn’t be one to rely on.

Negotiating the rocky rib of the higher part of the ridge would have been more fun in daylight but we were near the top of the summit ridge by dawn. The view expanded from a one-sided West Coast one, to an everything-else one; from Mounts Cook and Tasman 20 kilometres away to the south, the Wilberg Range to the north and the whole panorama of the Butler Mountains to the east including Hochstetter, whose north face looked endless. We were in awe that Hochstetter could have ever been solo climbed from that direction.

Now we could really play. The snow was a dream, firm to travel on, and the terrain airy but easy. The colours spread by the advanced daybreak were pinks, golds and purples, like a rich brocade. The drop down the Siege Glacier looked fearsome but crevasses on the shoulder of the ridge were easily avoided. We walked like birds ready for take-off over the gentle snow slopes of the upper ice cap, heading aimlessly for the rocky summit pyramid (we couldn’t not go all the way to the last bit of the very top!) The pile of summit rocks was smeared with ice. We took meticulous care with all our hand and footholds and Adams was kind. On top we watched the huge shadow of the mountain shrinking over the coastal plain as the sun climbed behind us. We were both in that shadow somewhere and on the top of the mountain!

Perfection was everywhere. Ice cream peaks, mountains as yet unclimbed, others climbed which could

be seen from a different perspective and those deep dark valleys of the Coast in between. Those valleys are places both Brenda and I need to get out of at times, to come to places like this with shining snow.

On the way down we met another party coming up.

‘Try to summit in a day?’ they asked.

‘Camped,’ Brenda exhorted. ‘Enjoyed it for longer, saw the view.’

‘Aargh,’ one of them said, ‘All that stuff to carry.’

‘Mmmm,’ I said, silently smiling. I offered them some of our left over water. We had briefly felt this mountain, almost breathed it. As we had climbed, the mountain had felt like the back of a living creature, with its dragon bumps on the ridge up to the scaly rock of the last face before the summit ridge. Now, it was time to leave the snow behind. Slate shards scattered and tinkled under our boots with each step. We started down the lower stages: the ridge, the high camp, the sub-alpine scrub, the rainforest slopes and the river.

We felt an overwhelming reluctance to leave.

T o p Mt Adams’ shadow over Okarito.

B o t t o m Alpenglow on Mt Adams.

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 47

MOUNT GUNN AND THE DECADE OF RECESSION

by RUARI MACFARLANE

The lower Hollyford Valley, with Mts Gunn and Lyttle on the left.

Richard Thomson

A

n agreeably pleasant autumn had kept climbing on the cards and on a balmy Friday evening we found ourselves winding up our favourite highway, en route to the Darrans.

It was great to be back at Gunn’s Camp, the Milky Way was blazing through the night and moreporks were calling. As usual the good folks looking after the place were welcoming despite the hour and gave us a decent deal on the mini cabin, it was a relief to flag the tent and simply crash out.

Mum (Paula) had climbed Mount Gunn with Stanley Mulvaney ten years prior. A decade plays havoc with memory, so when dawn broke we were glad to discover the Hollyford River was fordable immediately opposite Gunn’s Camp. The river was icy but low and our spirits were high watching Mounts Lyttle and Gunn glowing orange far above. We immediately ploughed up a steep spur to the true right of a delightful stream which bore through bedrock. Barely discernable (on the old maps anyhow), the route we followed appears to be the only way up. The occasional mossy track marker attests to that. We were only able to trace the old track for a fraction of the way but the general route is obvious on the map, sidling gradually upward to the south. At 470m a flat terrace is crossed and the track markers disappear, never to return. We carried on south-west up a narrow spur above the southern of the terrace’s two creeks before doubling

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back north-west from a point at 740m to the tops.

Curiously, after the first hour or so of walking, at perhaps 400m, the bush thinned momentarily on a spur and we wandered through growth reminiscent of sub-alpine flora, completed by fragrant mountain celery, before the bush again enveloped us.

We were on the tops later than expected. It was definitely time for lunch atop a sunny boulder in the tussock. The flavours of our food were enhanced by our bush grovel and the stupendous view across to the Ailsa Mountains, Routeburn Track, Pyke Forest and the Olivines. Mounts Somnus and Earnslaw dominated the scene and looked forbidding with last weekend’s southerly ice still plastered on thick.

With a ridiculous freezing level of 3200m, we were relatively confident, on this first day of May, that we would encounter good conditions on Mount Gunn, even though it now loomed shady and ominous. As we picked our way closer across benches under the east buttress of Lyttle, apprehension began to creep over me. Mum recalled it was merely a steep walk up the east ridge, with a stroll up a glacier and one easy pitch as the approach. But the glacier which had filled the cirque only a decade before had receded to the very base of Gunn. It left behind polished rolling bedrock, a large lake and a sheer dark face rising from the lake to the summit, interrupted only by a steeply sloping weakness from the glacier to the ridge and

an even steeper pocket glacier which was the only feasible route to the ridge. We set up camp where a stream splashed merrily off the cirque rim and ummed and ahhed about the route.

It was great to be up there, and for once we both felt the summit to be of little consequence. We’d have a nosy in the morning and in the meantime there was still five minutes of sun left for a plunge (no more) into a crystalline tarn. Mum declined, and I couldn’t really chide her through chattering teeth.

Dinner was accompanied by fiery red cirrus silhouetting Earnslaw and the ominous sound of regular rockfall somewhere in Gunn’s shadow.

We were up early the next day. With the lake circumnavigated, we scampered across the bulletproof glacial ice, thankful we’d remembered crampons, unlike Stanley last time! We navigated some fantastic blue ice arches to gain a shattered rock weakness which had looked like it would be the climb’s crux.

Fortunately, it was both more cohesive and less exposed than we thought. We quickly climbed up with trepidation to the remnant of the hanging glacier. The ice was too hard and steep for us to solo, we only had two screws and the exposure would surely be fantastic, perched far above the lake.

Imagine our delight when we found broad ledges right around the base of the ice. For the first time, glacial recession was on our side.

As we sauntered along under the glacier, rockfall twice struck the rock section we’d just climbed.

Clambering around the far end, we did some great soloing, bridging up a steep schrund between rock and ice to gain the mouth of the rotten, final chute to the col. Moving quickly with one eye on loose rubbish above, we realised that a pitch was now called for, but it was too late as Mum had already committed to a loose line on the left, rope in pack. I was lucky to find some welcome holds out right and up.

Five nervous minutes later we were on the ridge.

Mum soon reconsidered her ‘steep walk’ assessment. It was loose as heck on the first section and much longer than we’d anticipated; a constant draining scramble until we topped out at 10.15 am. A true summit, slightly higher than ours, was evident away along another blocky ridge, and although it was tempting, promising a view down into the Marian Valley, Paula was adamant that we were already running late. ‘Righto then Mum.’ It was fair enough, as our optimistic hopes of being back for church that night were already being replaced by increasingly

dim hopes to make the car by nightfall. Anyhow, the view was fantastic; from Mitre Peak and the Llawrennys through to the Takis and right up to the Olivines again. The majority of the peaks I’ve ever climbed were more or less visible from there and it was good to see them from a new angle. Then we went down, with one abseil through the gully and a shortcut through an ice cave a little further down. It was a relief to peel crampons off by the lake and gaze up at the dark wall again.

Despite appearances, doubts and no huge resolve, we’d just advanced one step at a time and almost to our surprise, it’d gone. Mum wasn’t such a fan of the rock but I found it a super enjoyable climb due to the succession of sections. Each contrasted with its neighbours, providing a good variety of climbing for what is realistically a short scramble.

We were fairly slow and knackered on the way down, only hitting the bush at 4.00 pm. Routefinding provided a little more drama than before and nightfall found us sifting along the edge of the terrace, searching for track markers. The route the intermittent trail takes seemed at times rather counter-intuitive so had we not taken such efforts to stick to it we probably would have been bushed overnight. I recall detecting markers by sound as well as by sight (they clinked against trees in the breeze) and by touch (I accidentally rested my hand on one in the dark!) As it was, we made it out just in time for fish and chips in Te Anau. Success!

The south-east face of Mt Gunn, viewed from the spot where Ruari and Paula camped, at 1200m above Gunn’s Camp. The pair’s route follows the big right-trending ramp of snow to a col (out of view), then up the east ridge which is the right-hand skyline.

Stanley Mulvaney

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 49

The northern aspect of Ko-e-Baba-Tangi (6516m), in the Afghan Hindu Kush.

In August 2011 Kiwis Pat Deavoll and Christine Byrch made the first ascent of the north-west ridge, which runs directly up the middle of the face in this shot.

Christine Byrch

Overseas Climbing Pat Deavoll Marty Schmidt Graham Zimmerman Ken Baldwin Tim Church and Yvonne Pfluger Marty Schmidt Graham Zimmerman Steven Fortune Marc Scaife Kaaren Mathias Mayan Smith-Gobat Simon Carr

Full moon on the way to Kala Pathar. Karin Bos 51

AFGHANISTAN … FROM A DIFFERENT ANGLE The first ascent of the North West Ridge of Koh-e-Baba-Tangi

by PAT DEAVOLL

W a b o v e Christine traversing towards the top of the West Ridge on day six.

Pat Deavoll

hen Christine and I first announced we’d be climbing in Afghanistan, friends and family threw up their hands in horror.

‘What, you old biddies?’ they said incredulously.

‘What about the Taliban? The suicide bombings?

The burkhas?’ In actual fact, I’d wanted to visit this much maligned part of the world for as long as I could remember and it didn’t take much to convince my sister Christine to come with me. Let’s go celebrate our glorious 50s, I said to her. We chose

52 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

a mountain, Koh-e-Baba-Tangi (6515m) which had had a solitary ascent via its West Ridge in 1963. For the next 12 months we grappled with embassies for visas, applied for financial grants and appealed for sponsorship. In mid-July we left New Zealand bound for Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan. We were finally on our way.

Arriving in Dushanbe, somewhere (embarrassingly) neither of us had ever heard of, we met up with my Indian friend Satya who wanted to climb in

Afghanistan too. All three of us were surprised to find a lovely uncongested city of elegant buildings, wide boulevards and hundreds of fountains. There was obviously no shortage of water there, which was surprising considering the temperature was in the 40s and the countryside was dry as a chip. The next day we roared out of town in our rented 4WD heading south but aft er half an hour were reduced to a top speed of 20 kmh by the state of the roads. Christchurch streets post-quake had nothing on these. We retained our speed for the next three days as we slowly closed in on the Afghanistan border. The landscape was arid, mountainous and very empty.

On the third day Gordo, our amicable driver, bundled us out of the car at a large gate fronting a bridge across the enormous and very brown Panj River. This was the border, it was midday and very hot. In the middle of the stoney riverbed were two small buildings: the Tajik Immigration and Customs post and the Afghan Immigration and Customs post. We towed our luggage through the dust to first one, then the other. The formalities went smoothly and shortly we were on our way to Ishkashim, a tiny village perched on a terrace above the river.

Wandering into the middle of town, which was nothing more than a ragged collection of dirt roads, we soon had a 4WD organized to take us 120 kilometres up the Wakhan Valley to the village of Kret, from where we would start our walk into the base of Koh-e-Baba-Tangi. We’d also secured the requisite permit to enter the Wakhan District and bought supplies. The locals were a friendly and helpful lot and Satya, who could speak Urdu as well as Hindi, found enough in common with Afghani to be able to hold a rudimentary conversation. There were plenty of women and girls in the colourful Wakhi dress on the street, and there was also the odd burkha. Inside the Police Compound, the men had laid down their AK47s and were playing chess at a large table in the sun. They invited us for lunch.

Bumping along the Wakhan Corridor the next day I was reminded of the overland travel I’d done in the 80s with no internet, no mobile or satellite phone and no contact with the outside world. We were our own then, incommunicado for almost a month; we had cut loose.

The scenery was vast: huge arid mountains with brief glimpses of glaciers and 6000-7000m ice-capped peaks up the side valleys. Remote villages of flat-roofed mud houses were encircled by insignificant areas of irrigated green, and all the while the vast Panj River barricaded us from Tajikistan and the Pamir Mountains on the far side. Our driver was an elderly Afghan who cheerfully dealt with a puncture and at one point backed over a big rock. The vehicle had to be jacked up and off the rock before we could continue … but inshallah! These things happen.

We arrived in Kret late in the afternoon and were an immediate magnet for every occupant of the little village. We met with the village community leaders and our porters were organized after some congenial debate. Leaving the next morning for our base camp, we were an eclectic group: two middle-aged Kiwi women, an Indian ex-submarine commander, eight Afghani porters and a big blonde dog called Zac. We discovered ‘zac’ means ‘dog’ in Afghani. And all the while Koh-eBaba-Tangi reared above us. Our adventure had really begun!

The climb up onto the glacier where we’d establish our base camp was steep and hot. On the first day we climbed 1000m, a terrific and uncomplaining effort by our porters who were all lumping 25 kilogram plus loads. They were a delightful team; funny, kind and generous. They shared their tea, rice and naan with us and made sure that Christine and I didn’t wobble off the faint trail. The first night was spent amongst the rubble at the toe of the glacier at 3800m and the next day we moved on up to the place an Italian team had used as base camp three years ago.

a b o v e Pat climbing the initial face on day one.

Christine Byrch

b e l o w Christine following a pitch on day two.

Pat Deavoll

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 53

This team had tried the West Ridge (the line of the original ascent) but had given up at 6000m. It wasn’t the most salubrious spot for a camp, on the moraine strewn white ice, but it was the best there was. Everywhere else was too steep. There were glorious views of the Pamir Mountains to the north however, and of course, of Koh-e-Baba-Tangi directly above. By now we could see our route of choice, the unclimbed North West Ridge. It looked to be a fine route. After a final cup of tea, much hand shaking and good wishes, the porters loped off back to Kret, with a promise to return in three weeks time. The three of us waved them off, and then we were alone. We set about making our camp as comfortable as possible.

Over the next ten days we did our best to acclimatise to the altitude before making our summit attempt. I’m never the best acclimatiser and neither is Christine.

For Satya though, who has climbed Everest three times (including once without oxygen) the time was nothing more than a rest before the real climbing started.

Unfortunately for Christine and I there was little suitable terrain for acclimatising.

Almost everywhere was steep bar a col at about 5200m where we spent two days and nights reading our books. We also walked to the base of our chosen route to scope the line as best we could. The route would begin with a 500 metre ice face at an angle of 60-80 degrees and then progress into a narrow ice gully. From there we weren’t sure what would happen but hoped a few days of climbing would bring us onto the summit plateau and then the summit. We would either v-thread our way back down the route, or traverse over the mountain and come down the West Ridge. Those were the plans. In the meantime Satya proclaimed himself camp cook and we enjoyed some great Indian cuisine rustled up from our limited selection of potatoes, rice and onions.

By early August, ten days after arriving, there was little more we could do to prepare for the climb. We were as acclimatised as we were going to be and the food and equipment was sorted. Now the real work would would begin. Unfortunately, to our dismay, Satya, who had been suffering an injury (from training the Indian way: running with five kilogram weights around his ankles), decided not to accompany us on the climb. It would be just Christine and I! Could we do it by ourselves? If we were to succeed we had to come up with a plan for dealing with our pack loads in case we couldn’t manage them on the steep terrain. I would do the leading, we decided, while Christine would jumar the rope with the heavier second’s pack. If this proved too strenuous we would haul the heavier pack. On 4 August we waved goodbye to Satya—who promised to raise the alarm (whatever that meant) if we hadn’t returned in ten days time—and headed up the glacier to an Advanced Base Camp under the ice face. That night we camped under a crystal clear sky, with the Pamir Mountains silhouetted against the sunset.

To our surprise, climbing the ice face the next day went really well. The bergschrund proved no problem and after seven pitches we were perched beneath a bulge of about 80 degree ice. It was time to try out our plan we decided, so I passed my pack to Christine who attached it to the end of one of our double ropes. Off I went. It didn’t seem too long before I’d dispatched the pitch and Christine was jumaring towards me. The pack, dangling 60 metres beneath us, followed without protest. Another few pitches of lower angled terrain and we reached a small col that offered a good camp for the night. I set about chopping a platform from the ice while Christine melted water. The sun went down. We were on a high. We were off the ground!

The next morning we were up at 3.00 am in an effort to be away by 5.00. We knew we had the narrow ice gully to climb but weren’t sure where this would 54 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

exit and we wanted to give ourselves plenty of time for hauling the packs. Things went slightly awry when I went the wrong way on the first pitch but we soon had ourselves back on track and Christine led quickly out beneath a large ice cliff and into the base of the gully. The ice was steep and rotten and I nervously ditched my pack for the second time. But after 30 metres the going improved and I started to enjoy myself. Here we were, climbing good steep ice on a mountain in Afghanistan! How lucky were we?

I began to feel confident and happy and knew that, if the weather stayed settled and if we broke the mountain down into sections and dealt with each in turn we would climb Koh-e-Baba-Tangi.

After the first pitch the ice gully widened and relented in angle. The head of the gully was ringed by a cornice that would prove hard to climb through, so I headed out to the right, hoping to broach it where a buttress of rock butted against the ice. That was not such a good move, as once Christine reached me and we began hauling, the pack swung into the rock and lodged there. We yanked and tugged and jiggled and swore to no avail. In the end Christine abseiled back down and freed it. By now the day was done and we chopped out a ledge at the apex of the ridge and settled in for another fine night.

Day three also resulted in an early start and we were hoping for the same fine weather that had been gracing the expedition from the start. Unfortunately daylight revealed dark clouds marring the western sky and although we weren’t overly concerned we did wonder what they would bring. Now that we’d exited the ice gully we were confronted with a large rock buttress. We decided to try to get around it on the left (northern) side. We set off trudging in deep snow. We were soon hot and bothered. Rounding the ridge, we saw another steep ice slope fringed by a nasty looking bergschrund. I tried my hardest to climb across this but couldn’t find any purchase in the rotten snow and kept falling in a frustrated heap on the ground. Then I dragged the rope out to the right for 30 metres, climbed across a bridge and started a rather nasty traverse back across the top of the schrund, all the time worried that Christine would have a hard time jumaring. I was glad to get to the left hand end and start climbing upward, where the ice improved. Above me was a steep curving slope with a horizon line about half a pitch above. I ran out the full rope length and built a belay. As predicted, Christine had an awful time crossing the schrund and

teetering along the traverse. In all the pitch must have taken us a good three hours. In the meantime the sky was darkening.

Sometime mid-afternoon it started to snow and the temperature dropped. At this stage we’d reached the spot on the ridge adjacent to the summit plateau and scuttled around looking for somewhere to camp.

A sloping ledge was the best option and we settled in for a rather uncomfortable night of cooking and melting snow in the tent. At 4.30 am it was still snowing so we gratefully settled back into our sleeping bags but by 8.00 am it had started to clear so we upped and set about trudging through deep snow to the western side of the plateau. Later in the afternoon we stumbled across a perfect campsite at approximately 6000m. The site was flat and sheltered from what was now a persistent wind. We pitched the tent and set about preparing for a 600 metre climb the next day which would take us to the summit. After four days of climbing we were feeling jaded and it was good to assume there would only be one more day of ascent.

The next morning we were away at 4.30 am, climbing mixed ice and snow slopes towards the summit ridge. It was bitterly cold and the wind hadn’t let up hence we were both wearing every stitch of clothing we had with us. By 9.00 we were beneath

a b o v e Christine descending off the summit of Koh-e-Baba-Tangi, with the Qala-e-Hurst Glacier in the background.

Pat Deavoll

facing page top Porters on the walk in to base camp, Koh-e-BabaTangi in the background.

Pat Deavoll

facing page middle a n d b o t t o m Porters on the walk out.

Pat Deavoll

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 55

a b o v e Pat (left) and Christine on the summit.

Pat Deavoll

r i g h t t o p Pat at the last bivvy on day six, coming down the West Ridge.

This camp site was used by the original ascensionists of the mountiain in 1963.

Christine Byrch

right bottom Christine (left) and Pat at the bottom of the West Ridge, day seven.

Pat Deavoll

what we thought was the summit and I led off up a moderate ice pitch only to discover—to Christine’s disappointment—that the ridge went on up … and up. After an hour of traversing under a large cornice, suddenly there was the true summit ahead. And then I was there! Christine followed and we stood on top, looking south into Pakistan (we were standing on the Afghan-Pakistan border), north into Tajikistan and east into China. We took lots of photos. It was a magic moment, only marred by the bitter cold and it wasn’t long before we were heading down and back to our camp. We were very happy.

Back at camp mid-afternoon we collapsed in a pile.

We were very tired. We would start down the west ridge the next day we decided, in the hope of being back at base camp in two days time. It would be a nice touch to do a full traverse of the mountain. At 6.00 the next morning we were standing at the edge of the plateau in the biting cold, wondering which way to go. Below us was a large granite buttress and there seemed nothing for it but to abseil over the edge. We worried about our ropes jamming, but they didn’t, and five abseils later we were at the left hand end of a long snow/ice traverse which we hoped would take us to the top of the west ridge proper.

We reached the ridge mid-way through the afternoon where we found cairns and an old campsite

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from the 1963 original ascentionists, complete with, of all things, firewood. We collected a few sticks as mementos and began a scrambling descent down the 1500 metre rocky spur. By evening—by good fortune as there were few flat areas—we came across another cleared campsite (and more sticks) and decided to stop for the night, our seventh on the mountain.

By now were down to the last of our food. We were tired, a bit hungry and keen to be down. It was a beautiful evening though. The stars flared above us and we didn’t bother pitching the tent, lying instead under the sky.

The next morning we completed the descent and arrived on the glacier, silly with elation. We were so excited, so happy, we’d made it. The endless organization, the bureaucratic hassles and the long journey from New Zealand had all been worthwhile.

Suddenly Christine spied a figure in the distance, wandering here and there on the ice. We clambered onto a big boulder, and balancing precariously in our clumsy boots, waved and shouted, ‘We’re here! We’re here!’ The figure paused, looked about, then located us. Then we saw Satya jump in the air and with both arms raised above his head he waved back.

Many thanks to the organizations that helped make this such a successful trip: Beattie Matheson/Berghaus, Southern Approach/Black Diamond, the Mount Everest Foundation and the New Zealand Alpine Club.

DAD AND SON ROUTE The first ascent of the last remaining unclimbed ridge on Denali from the north-east fork of the Kahiltna Glacier, Alaska

by MARTY SCHMIDT photos by DENALI SCHMIDT

I

t’s hard to describe the ultimate feeling of flying to Alaska, climbing the Upper West Rib of Denali in ten days, then doing a 15 hour climb of the North Summit of Denali, then the Mount Crossen–Sultana Ridge of Mount Foraker in 63 hours round trip from Kahiltna Base Camp (KBC) and then climbing a new route on Denali's last ridge to be done out of the North East Fork of the Kahiltna, which was 29 hours of solid grade 5 material, with my 23 year old son, Denali. For me to write about the experience and for you all to understand what we went through will be harder than actually climbing those climbs!

Most people venture into the Alaskan Range to

do one thing: climb the West Buttress of Denali. It is one of the most classic routes on any mountain and one that I have been guiding now since 1983. I’ve seen the numbers increase each year as the calling to the hills is gaining strength and focus in many more folks. This is a good thing and we all are learning to deal with this increase in numbers. Let us all keep this focus to better our mountains and maintain the spirit's happiness along with ours.

Denali had a strong calling to climb his namesake and he told me over the phone while he was studying at CCA (California College of Arts) in San Francisco that he was climbing Denali this year with or without me (I was in Christchurch at the time). I told him

a b o v e Marty approaching the Dad and Son Route on Denali, which ascends the obvious ridge in centre-frame

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 57

Marty on pitch nine (the ‘Tibia’), hour six.

that I would start working on getting clients for the West Rib right away, bugger if he was going to Alaska without me! Let the journey begin.

I received word from two clients at the last minute that they had to pull out of our expedition. No questions were asked, we would just get on with the mission. I told Denali that we were still going, we would just need to be tight with our budget. Denali is a starving student and I am a mountain/ski guide who loves living out of my van, keeping life really simple. So with this formula for preparing ourselves for a great adventure we flew to Anchorage, Alaska on 15 May, bought food, packed gear, visited old time friends and flew onto the Kahiltna Glacier to

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start our journey together, just son and Dad. I won't go into describing our three climbs which took us to the summits of the south and north peaks of Denali and then Mount Foraker, for those climbs were pretty straightforward. We were in good shape, learning to acclimatise to the height of over 6000m and were motivated each day from the pure energy of this Alaskan mountain range. What I will describe is our fourth adventure, on our new route.

I had looked at this line for many years and thought it would have been finally done when we arrived at the Talkeetna Ranger Station in mid-May. No one in the office knew about this route, so I did not ask any more questions, I just went on quietly processing our permit and looked forward to our flight into KBC. Denali and I planned to photograph and video as much as possible and create a film which would describe what I have been doing for over 35 years with my company MSIG to document our father and son bonding and to show folks how great partnerships can get a lot done in the hills. If interested, check out www.msigk2.com, search for Alaskan Adventures with Marty and Denali Schmidt. It is 18 minutes long and we are hoping that it reaches all of you who seek the mountains for truths of existence.

After our Foraker summit, we came back to KBC to rest for a day and prepare our gear and food for a fast ascent of this new route. We skied to the base the next day, established a safe tent site and went closer to the line that night. In the 24 hour light show which Alaska offers everyone at that time of year, we climbed to the base of the route (the Big Toe) and saw what we needed to do in the morning. Taking off early the next day, our hearts and minds were in complete harmony with each other and with the mountain. We were off on a wonderful adventure.

Denali had a pair of Everest summit boots for his Denali summit, but they were not technical boots at all so he decided to climb this new route with his Salomon Falcon 110 downhill ski boots. What a choice, most likely the only time these boots have ever been worn on such a hard, technical climb in the Alaskan Range before. They are cold, but a solid plate to work from.

We woke early, got on our line and swung tools through the first section of steep snow and ice. We hooked our way through the lower five pitches, which brought us to the first crux: the broken glacier between the Big Toe and the main body of our climb.

We named this section the Fungus, since it was in

between the Big Toes of the route. With a bit of overhanging ice to reach the beginning of the main body, our minds were focused on finding the connections between all the body parts which would make up the route. The climbing up to pitch ten went smoothly. It took roughly six hours of fast climbing. At that point the crux of the climb was upon us: a vertical rock wall with a few cracks running through it. I ended up climbing this pitch up to mid-height wearing the full kit pack, only to relieve myself of it for the most technical move. The crux ended up being a finger crack which traverses up and over across the wall, with 5.10 moves that will never be forgotten. Denali attached our packs and the haul began. That was the only time we took our packs off until we brewed up at hour 24. Our intent was to bivvy if needed. Carrying all our bivvy gear encouraged us to wish for a ledge, but none arrived. For the entire 29 hours we spent on the route, no ledge showed up. So we just kept climbing onward, seeking the path through rotten snow arêtes, vertical chandelier ice pinnacles, thin vertical ice runnels and big rock boulder moves. The whole time we pitched every lead and belayed safely. Denali is my son, my only son and nothing was going to get in the way of our safety. We were a solid team together, working so well and in harmony. We had no epics or issues during our 40 days in Alaska.

After the vertical rock crux came many endless moves which needed attention at all times. Alaska offers the best of climbing and the worst. The worst comes by way of double overhanging cornice ridges.

We would deal with some of those next. Riding pitch 18 was like riding the big Brahma bulls in India, waiting for the end to happen.

‘Get me off this thing,’ was mentioned many times.

We were thankful when the fifteenth pitch, which consisted of vertical, rotten chandelier ice, was over.

The bull ride was a welcome relief, until it just kept on coming and not ending.

The remaining 11 pitches went like clockwork.

Continuous, steep angled, hard ice up the Backbone of our route. The following section was an area which we could not figure out from below. The only way to see it and get the job done was to blast through the Backbone pitches, placing no pro between us, just to gain the altitude and see for ourselves the last remaining rib we would have to climb. This rib was named The Crowning Chakra for many reasons. The first being that as the last part of our climb became clear to us, after we had climbed through a morning,

afternoon, evening, night and morning, all without headlights, we arrived at the first real sit down place on the route. We brewed the most wonderful coffees and teas, we ate our cereal and powdered milk and our bars. We sat there absorbing the sights and relishing in the past 24 hours. We looked up and saw a few more hours of climbing to the highest point of this rib. The climbing did not angle off, the steepness was with us the whole time. Smiling and moving well, we found the least resistance in those last pitches.

After 29 pitches and 29 hours we finally reached the highest point, it was across from the Windy Corner section which lies on the West Buttress route.

We quickly set out for the large crevasses which blocked the way between us and Windy Corner. We were home free heading down the Kahiltna Glacier.

We reached our bivvy site on the north-east fork of the Kahiltna by 12.00 am, packed up quickly and skied back to the airstrip by 4.00 am. We were ready to fly out that morning, being one of the first to register our names with Talkeetna Air Taxis. Well guess what? Our last days on Denali were the longest we spent in one place during our whole expedition.

We were stuck for three days while we waited for our flight back to Talkeetna. The weather was just being Alaskan, which means that when she blows, she is very intense and she loves being this way. We humans are just beginning to understand her ways.

Marty on the crux, pitch ten (the ‘Patella’), hour seven. The line goes up to the horizontal breaks above Marty then right before exiting via a groove to the skyline.

Thanks to my sponsors: Macpac, La Sportiva NA and NZ, Black Diamond NA and NZ, Brandex, Skins, Suunto, Atomic and Diamir, Em’s Bars and Cookies, Annies, Caffe Prima, Oasis Sun,

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 59

ADVENTURE IN THE NORTH WEST FORK OF THE LACUNA GLACIER First ascents on the south face of Voyager Peak, Alaska

by GRAHAM ZIMMERMAN ‘… adventure—in the grand old manner—is obsolete, having been either exalted to a specialists job or degraded to a stunt.’

–Peter Flemming, Brazilian Adventure, 1933.

F

lemming's book is about the exploration of the Amazonian interior in the 1920s. It is a story about getting lost in the wilds of the world, exploring what was then a large blank spot on the map. I first read this quote when I was twenty years old, while pinned down on the weather stricken West Coast of New Zealand. I took the word specialist to refer to climbers and took pride in being one of those who might be able to participate in adventure in the

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grand old manner. I was in the process of cutting my teeth amongst the steep ice and rock of the Southern Alps and chasing dreams that I hoped would one day lead me to the greater ranges. This exploration of the unknown was the drawcard. This was the reason for my dreams and for my planned progression into the big mountains.

Five years later—a relativity short amount of time by many accounts—I had graduated from

F a c i n g P a g e Voyager Peak from the south-east, the route which Graham and Mark climbed is on the south face. Graham Zimmerman R i g h t Graham climbing scary cornices high on the Nebula ArĂŞte. Mark Allen

University, completed seven expeditions and had spent seemingly countless months on the road.

Those experiences had put me in a different realm of thinking about the world and the mountains. I had learned that many of the far away places I had dreamt of were in fact well known and that the discovery of new areas was an opportunity to be relished and sought, but also that those new areas are not always easy to find. So I continued my progression on routes new and old, always with a keen ear to the ground for those lands unknown.

In the winter of 2010 my good friend and climbing partner Mark Allen called me about a photo he had come across of a glacier in Alaska of which we had never heard. We determined that it was possibly accessible with skis from the epicenter of the Kahiltna Basecamp and by all accounts it was unexplored. With a bit of work we lined photos up to maps to show steep terrain and big relief. Our excitement built. We planned for a trip to the Alaska Range in the spring.

In the lower 48 Mark and I trained and watched as winter loosened its grip for the year and we prepared for another trip into the big mountains. Between us, we had done more than a dozen expeditions into the Alaska Range and because of this the process of getting into the mountains felt routine. Before long we were on the glacier with our heavy rations of pork product, quesadillas, and whiskey.

Our goal was to access the north-west fork of the Lacuna Glacier, a small area located between the Yentna Glacier and the massive bulk of Mount Foraker. We knew that some of the peaks had been climbed from the opposite (Yentna) side by our friends from New Hampshire during previous seasons, but we had found no evidence that anyone had climbed anything from the Lacuna (east) side. So we set our sights on crossing under the south face of Foraker and wandering into the unknowns beyond.

It took us four days to reach the north-west fork on our first trip. Two areas on the map that looked to be low angle and no big deal turned out to be heavily crevassed icefalls surrounded by loaded slopes. With patience and persistence we eventually reached our goal, having traveled a total of O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 61

A b o v e Graham moving through exceptional mixed climbing on the crux section of the Nebula Arête.

Mark Allen

27 kilometers from Kahiltna. While our position might not have been remote compared to what the old timers who walked into the range would have experienced, we both felt as though we might as well have been on the moon.

Entering the north-west fork was magnificent as we were greeted by the massive southern and eastern features of the unclimbed Peak 12,213 with its series of aesthetic buttresses pouring down at steep angles toward us. To find an untouched zone—and within it such a peak—was both intimidating and a dream come true.

We immediately set up a camp at the base of Peak 12,213 and the next evening started an attempt on one of the buttresses on the right side of its south face. Excellent mixed climbing led to desperate and terrifying ridge climbing. Moving slower than

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expected, we made it through the worst of the climbing and reached the broader ridge above where we spent a comfortable night on a well protected and almost big enough perch. The next day, on the ridge to the summit, what we had anticipated to be easy climbing was in fact deep, faceted, dangerous snow on steep aspects. With three weeks left in the range we bailed, with the intention of letting the mountain cure, leaving it to make the transition out of the dangerous winter snowpack into the safer and faster spring conditions we needed.

So we returned to Kahiltina; to the pork, the whiskey and the people. To fill our time we climbed the West Ridge of Hunter, a classic in the true sense of the word. While not on route we caught up on podcasts, watched Lord Of The Rings, shot a thug life video, and waited.

Within a week the conditions had improved and it was time to return. This time the ski to the Lacuna took us two days and we felt much more comfortable with our setting. The longer, steeper buttresses in the middle of the face seemed to offer more technical climbing with less scary ridges and we happily opted for this option.

Starting the evening after arriving, we embarked onto some of best mixed climbing I have experienced anywhere: wild exposure and steep aesthetic technical climbing with a few bits and pieces which I wouldn't wish on anyone. The cornices and ridge climbing were also still very much present and accounted for, but we made it back to the summit ridge without too many dramas. Upon reaching the ridge we were forced to look out with disdain on some large black clouds which were close at hand.

The remoteness and the high consequence of heavy snowfall on our descent had us turned around and back on the glacier a few hours later, watching the clouds swirl on the peak above.

The next morning we found ourselves near the end of our trip, two days from base camp, with dwindling food and clearing skies. As we lounged, awake in the sun-warmed tent, resting from the 26 hour push the day before, we independently considered the proposition of heading back up on the mountain. By the time we finally started the conversation it was already clear that we were going to stay in Lacuna a little longer.

Slowly we packed, ate our meagre rations and continued to rest. Essentially we were to use our food

for getting back to Kahiltna for one last attempt on Peak 12,213 and therefore would ski back without food. We both knew we could do it. We both also knew that it would hurt. But subtle glimpses of magic were afoot and we found in the bottom of a bag two packets of instant coffee which, to two fellas from Western Washington, might as well have been gold.

With bags packed and the face out of the heat of the day, we slugged down strong, lukewarm coffee and felt the power surge back into our bodies.

Six hours later we were standing on top of Peak 12,213, having climbed a direct coulior on the south face, an easier but more threatened 4500 foot line which we were able to simul-climb in two super long pitches. The climbing consisted of brilliant steep névé with the odd moderate mixed move, and fantastic fast terrain. On top we were able to look down over the Yentna and into the wide open tundra beyond. The ski back was no longer a concern, it was simply a matter of continuing with our perseverance and good decision making a little while longer. We had achieved our goal of climbing a new mountain and had an adventure 'in the grand old manner', just as I had dreamed of so many years before.

L e f t Kahiltna International Base Camp, Pirates of Rad residing.

Mark Allen

R i g h t Graham high on the West Ridge of Hunter.

Mark Allen

Graham and Mark named Peak 12,213 ‘Voyager Peak’ after the Voyager Satellite which launched in 1977 and which is still exploring deep space.

The pair would like to offer huge thanks to those who helped make this trip happen: The New Zealand Alpine Club, The Mount Everest Foundation and Outdoor Research, with additional support from Julbo USA, Cascade Designs, and Feathered Friends.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 63

Pabuk Kang (6244m), Pabuk Valley, northeastern Nepal. In October 2010, Dave Barton and Tim Macartney Snape made the first ascent of the peak via the snow ridge immediately left of the rocky face.

Ken Baldwin

YANGMA EXPEDITION 2010

by KEN BALDWIN and COLIN CAMERON

T

he 2010 Yangma Expedition successfully climbed the previously unclimbed Pabuk Kang (6244m) in north-western Nepal, near the border with Tibet. Team members John Finnigan, Theo Hooy and Tim Macartney-Snape and myself were on the 1978 ANUMC Dunagiri Expedition, the first Australian Expedition to climb a 7000m peak. It was the first Himalayan trip for the remaining three climbers, Colin Cameron, David Barton and Keith Scott, the first two of whom are also former ANUMC members. Stacy Rodger provided support at base camp.

After flying to Biratnagar, we experienced an horrendous 24 hour bus journey over monsoon-eroded

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tracks to the roadend at Taplejung. From there, the first few days of the trek in followed a variant of the Kangchenchunga Base Camp Trek, through terraced Nepalese foothills and jungle paths under showery end-of-monsoon clouds. We then continued up the less travelled Yangma Khola to Yangma, a small village of about 70 people which, at 4200m, is the highest village in Nepal. We were told that only one mountaineering expedition had previously come through Yangma, in 1982, to climb Omikang Ri (6839m).

After trekking for ten days we neared the Tibetan border. The landscape had changed to alpine meadows and we established a camp at 4670m, one day

to the north-west of Yangma. This was the high camp for the ten trekkers who accompanied us.

Fortuitously the cloud cleared after a week of occasional light rain, and over the next two days many of us climbed a nearby snowless peak to enjoy 360 degree views of the immediately surrounding snowclad 6000 – 6500m peaks, including the first view of our objective. The trekkers then began their return trip.

We climbers travelled one day by yak trails, accompanied by the yaks carrying our gear, to establish a base camp at 5170m to the north-north-east of Yangma. By comparison, Everest base camp is at 5360m. According to the locals, no foreigners had ever travelled up the valley in which our base camp was located.

The next six days were spent acclimatising and establishing a route through very steep grassy slopes, boulder fields, moderate solo-able slabs and sub-glacial snow to an advanced base camp (ABC) at 5540m.

The views from this high altitude balcony were magnificent. From there we roped up to establish a route up the glacier to a rockband at 5800m, which we set up with fixed ropes.

We returned to base camp for a couple of days, sitting out a cold storm which dumped up to 200 millimetres of snow to elevations well below base camp. We then moved back up to ABC, with four of us (Dave, Tim and Keith and I) spending a night at an interim camp at 5800m just below the fixed ropes. The next day we ascended the fixed ropes and plugged a route up a high snow névé to establish our high camp at 5900m, at the foot of a steep snow gully. Together with two high altitude porters who returned to ABC, Colin and Theo joined the group at the high camp that night, in position for the summit push. John had unfortunately succumbed to a chest infection and had an adverse reaction to antibiotics and wasn’t able to go higher than ABC. The summit day was clear and cold. It was –17ºC when we set off at 4.00 am. From our high camp we climbed unroped up a deep snow gully following a trail laid by Keith the day before to just below the long (two kilometres) summit ridge. We gained the ridge by front pointing up steep, firm snow and traversed the ridgetop for about 700 metres unroped, enjoying spectacular views as dawn arrived over Kanchenjunga to the east. It was still bitterly cold when we reached a significant obstacle: a rock peak comprising several hundred metres of broken schist which we were forced to traverse while belaying.

The first pitch was a steep snow traverse, the sec-

ond pitch a mixed rock and snow traverse, the third pitch an abseil down to snow and the fourth and fifth pitches a steep snow/ice climb. The rock pitch was particularly difficult and dangerous as the recent frozen snow was overlaid on shattered rock. As each climber traversed the mixed pitch, less frozen snow remained, which meant that great care had to be taken to protect the following climbers as they drytooled across the now-exposed rock band.

Tim and Dave made it through the traverse reasonably quickly and continued on to the col beyond the rock peak. From there a steep snow ridge of around 600 metres led to the summit, which required several front-pointing pitches. Tim and Dave reached the summit at about 2.00 pm in almost perfect climbing conditions. The rest of the team reached the final col just after midday, leaving not enough time to summit unless we were willing to risk spending the night out without sleeping gear. We enjoyed spectacular views from the summit ridge, extending more than 100 kilometres along the Himalayan chain, including three of the five highest peaks in the world (Everest, Lhotse, and Kangchenchunga).

Dave and Tim rejoined the rest of the team, and we were able to avoid the difficult traverse by climbing the ‘rock’ peak, which from that direction was a steep snow climb. We reached this second summit at around 5.00 pm and descended in the dark, starting with three abseils down the broken rocky part of the peak to rejoin our ascent route along the long snow ridge. We reached our high camp at 10.00 pm after a

Keith Scott preparing to descend the rock peak late in the evening.

Kangchenjunga and Jannu can be seen in the background.

Ken Baldwin

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 65

A b o v e Dave Barton descending from the summit.

Tim Macartney Snape

R i g h t Dave Barton (left) and Tim MacartneySnape on the summit.

Dave Barton

F a c i n g p a g e Dave Barton on the summit ridge. Keith, Ken, Colin and Theo can be made out below, on a snow shelf near the col. The ‘rock peak’ is to the left of the group.

Tim Macartney Snape

very long and tiring 18 hour day.

The next day we returned with heavy loads to base camp, cleaning out our high camp, the fixed ropes and ABC along the way. We rested for a couple of days at base camp, waiting for the yaks and porters to return. John, who had returned to basecamp from ABC, found that his condition was deteriorating quickly and opted to return to Kathmandu by helicopter, accompanied by Tim and Stacy.

Our trek back was also an adventure. We returned to Yangma but then spent several days crossing from the Yangma Khola valley to the Gunsa Khola Valley by traversing two snowbound 4900m passes: Marson La and Nango La, below the Sarphu peaks which rise to over 6200m. We descended through cloud forest to Phale were we joined the Kangchenchunga Base Camp route which we followed back to the mountain airstrip at Suketar, near Taplejung. We had stressed greatly about whether it would be possible to fly out from Suketar, wanting desperately to avoid a repeat of the unpleasant bus trip in. Fortunately the weather

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cleared enough for us to do so.

The trip was quite an eye-opener, especially for the novice Himalayan climbers. Compared to climbing in New Zealand, much of the trip was spent in setup, acclimatisation and route establishment, with relatively little technical climbing. But then what technical climbing there was occurred at 5500 – 6500m.

There is also no opportunity to return to civilization and enjoy rest, warmth, rich air, and lots of food before heading back up again. We spent five weeks trekking and climbing with very few rest days, and were at base camp and above for just over two weeks.

The more experienced Himalayan climbers were impressed by the remoteness of the region we went to and we didn’t see any trekkers aside from those on the Kangchenchunga Base Camp trek from Phale onwards which itself is less travelled than other treks.

We were all impressed by the snow and ice which was remarkably stable at that time of year; we witnessed very few avalanches compared to what you would see in New Zealand and other parts of the Himalaya.

Another surprise for the novices was the trekking, it was much more of a cultural experience than expected. Rather than just enjoying the interesting scenery (mountains, forests, terraced foothills etc) we actually stopped at the villages and interacted with the locals. The higher villagers were Tibetan and we visited several Buddhist gompas. We didn’t meet other climbers and trekkers to swap notes with, instead we talked quite a lot with those in the support crew (sirdars and porters) who spoke English and we learnt a lot about Nepal and the Nepalese.

The Nepalese we met were extremely friendly and, almost without exception, extremely professional in doing their jobs which by our standards were very demanding and lowly paid.

All up it was a highly successful expedition with great trekking and climbing in magnificent surroundings amidst what we all agreed were unsurpassed vistas of the Himalaya. *** Prior to leaving for Nepal, the expedition raised sufficient money to fund an eye camp for the Fred Hollows Foundation. The eye camp was held at a remote village south-east of Kathmandu while the expedition was climbing, treating 463 patients and undertaking 67 cataract operations. We are currently raising money to assist with funding a further eye camp to be conducted in another remote region of Nepal.

For more information on The Fred Hollows Foundation please visit: www.hollows.org.au

RESORTING TO PLAN D A story of perseverance in western China story and photos by YVONNE PFLUGER and TIM CHURCH

Tim on the western glacier of Nideng Gonnga.

‘S

o, did you have a good trip?’ A friend sked me. I found myself pausing before I responded.

‘We had a successful trip, and yes it was good, in a character building sort of way’. This seems to be an appropriate summary of our overseas climbing expedition which happened against all odds and ended up with a successful first ascent despite a whole string of unexpected events.

Our successful expedition to the Daxue Shan

68 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

Range in Western Sichuan in 2010 encouraged us to return to the province to explore more remote areas further west. The goal of our 2011 expedition was to explore valleys and mountain ranges which had not been accessed by Westerners before and to attempt unclimbed peak Xiangqiuqieke (5867m).

From the start of our trip-planning we were aware of political unrest in the province of Kham in eastern Tibet/western Sichuan. This led to the closure of the area to foreigners six weeks before we were due to leave Christchurch. Given our concerns about travel restrictions, we left the final decision to go and organisation to the last possible minute. Thankfully we encountered no problems accessing the area from Chendgu via Kangding.

The journey to Kham was adventurous to say the least and the unbelievable amount of gear we were trying to transport on the public bus certainly attracted attention and provided amusement for the locals. Eventually the number of bags we had meant that we had to settle for a mini-van to travel from Kangding to Litang and beyond. We both acclimatised very quickly in Litang, which, at just over 4000m in elevation, is the second highest city in the world. We were able to continue towards Batang after one day, crossing several passes of over 4600m.

Although we did not encounter any bureaucratic issues in accessing the climbing areas, we did experience the full physical discomfort of several hundred kilometres of ambitious Chinese road works between Kangding and Batang.

We arrived at Baige-xi, located near Batang along the Sichuan-Tibet State Highway according to plan.

Despite earlier reports by a Japanese reconnaissance party, who were unsuccessful in entering the valley and reported encountering 'exclusive local Tibetans’, we received a friendly welcome by the local villagers. Within minutes we managed to organise a 4WD vehicle for the first ten kilometres of our journey.

The Chinese government had recently built a road into the valley, making our approach much easier than anticipated. We were even invited to stay at one of the locals’ house in Menzhen for the night.

The access into the valley west of Xiangqiuqieke (5867m) was quick and easy. The horses we hired were able to access an ideally located base camp site at about 4500m, just above the tree-line of a stunning coniferous forest. From there we started to explore the surrounding valley, mountains and passes on the following days. To our knowledge,

no Westerners had been into this area before and, therefore, no close-up photos of our objective or detailed maps of the area existed. We spent three consecutive days exploring the potential access routes which had looked promising on Google Earth back home. We scrambled up a scree slope to a point (5400m) on the western summit ridge and were rewarded with a great view of the upper west face of Xiangqiuqieke. Above the glacier, in the valley, the lower route consisted of a snow covered rock crack and ledge system. We decided that this route looked challenging, but feasible.

We started enthusiastically load-carrying up to our intended advanced base camp site at about 5000m, just below the glacier. Up until this point things were going unbelievably well and we were days ahead of our schedule for the ascent, but this was just about to change. On our fifth day in the valley we had a surprise visit at base camp from our friendly Tibetan host from Menzhen Village. We initially thought this was a social call but unfortunately he had come to deliver bad news for our expedition. He reported that he had had a visit from two (initially translated to us as 200!) elders of the village the previous evening.

The elders had voiced their concerns about us wanting to climb what they considered to be holy peak.

According to local beliefs this could bring bad fortune for the villagers as it would enrage the gods. Our host was under pressure to halt our climb in order to prevent the entire village turning up at our base camp to enforce the message.

We were faced with a difficult decision, to pursue our objective or abandon our plans in respect for local beliefs and culture. Turning around was the only option we felt comfortable with, so on the following day we left the valley with friendly farewells from the locals, having discussed the issues over dinner the previous night. While happy with our choice regarding the Xiangqiuqieke massif, we were determined to go to another unclimbed and unexplored area in the spirit of our original intent. We analysed the limited research material we had brought with us on other areas in the Shaluli Shan Range, including the maps and photos collated by Tamotsu Nakamura and published in the Japanese Alpine News.

We decided to head to the remote peaks Asa and Hari, which had yet not been attempted. We had seen both summits from a distance during our reconnaissance trips. However, at the second village up the valley towards Haga La we met further resistance from

local Tibetans. This time recent Chinese mineral exploration led to the resistance. As it turned out, even the local government official had little power, or willingness, to influence them otherwise in these sensitive times, and we were told to go elsewhere.

After that disappointment, we travelled back to Batang to attempt an unclimbed peak (of approximately 5400m) in the Yangmolong Massif, south of Yangmolong (6060m). The local Tibetans around Yangmolong have discovered that climbers are a lucrative source of income. They informed us that

T o p Yvonne ascends the west ridge of Xiangqiuqieke whilst exploring potential routes on the mountain. Menzhen Village can be seen in the distance.

B o t t o m Yvonne emerges through the cornice of the Nideng Gonnga summit ridge.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 69

T o p Tim makes slow progress on the western glacier of Nideng Gonnga.

B o t t o m Prayer flags mark every pass on the way to Litang, most of which are over 4000m.

the price of one day's transport of bags by horse was the equivalent of our return flight from New Zealand. We turned down the offer, mindful of the precedent accepting would set for other expeditions.

To make things more complicated at that point we also encountered cash flow issues, since the ATMs in Litang and Batang did not accept our foreign credit cards.

Not to be deterred, we headed for Zhopu Pasture, an area our liaison officer knew well from previous expeditions. Since the first autumn snowfalls had started to settle in, we stayed at the beautiful Zhopu

70 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

Monastery while exploring for a suitable alternative peak. We assessed two unclimbed peaks to the north of Zhopu Lake as unsuitable due to the long approach from base camp and the absence of a attractive ascent line. We eventually turned our attention to an unclimbed peak to the south of Zhopu Pasture.

This peak was recommended by Pat Deavoll, who completed the first ascent of the adjacent peak, Xiashe (5833m), in 2005 with Karen O’Neill. At the time we had to take our liaison officer's word that the peak, very prominent when viewed from Zhopu Monastery, had not been climbed. Our subsequent research has revealed that there had been an unsuccessful solo attempt by a British climber, Tom Prentice, on the north-east ridge in October 2005.

We found a suitable base camp site at 4600m in a stunning valley with alpine pastures south of the peak. The site itself was not very scenic, since it was in a mining exploration area at the head of the valley, but the location provided ideal access to our intended climbing route. We had a good weather window following the earlier snow falls and we decided to have an attempt from base camp the next day, instead of setting up the usual high camp. Since we had not had a chance to fully explore the upper part of the route beforehand, we set out at 3.00 am with much anticipation and were excited to learn that the lower parts of the climb, which we could see from base camp, connected up with the upper western glacier. We crossed from a snow covered scree slope over the rocky north-west ridge via a narrow col about 400 metres above base camp. There we roped up and proceeded up the glacier, negotiating a number of crevasses en route.

The majority of the 1100 metre climb turned out to be straightforward glacier travel with a classic climbing line on the south face near the top. Earlier snowfalls meant that we had to wade through knee deep powder across the glacier and progress was relatively slow. We eventually approached the summit from the southern side as the rock quality along the west ridge was poor and in combination with unconsolidated snow, made for treacherous climbing conditions. The last 200 metres before the summit provided a more technical snow/ice climbing line on the southern face.

Excess snow had already avalanched off the previous day, providing more consolidated climbing. We burrowed through a small cornice and topped out on a beautiful knife-edge ridge. We only needed to follow this for another 50 metres before reaching the sum-

mit, nine hours after setting out.

We stood on the summit for some time and enjoyed the success of having ascended the previously unclimbed Nideng Gongga (5690m). We had amazing views from the summit to the surrounding peaks and the Zhopu Pasture. The down climb via the same route was a lot less arduous, since we could retrace our footsteps. At base camp we were welcomed by our cheering assistants who had seen our successful ascent of the summit through binoculars.

To avoid road construction works on the way to Litang we took an alternative four day route back via Yunnan. This took us past some amazing landscapes, such as the Tiger Leaping Gorge of the Yangtse River and the Chinese cities of Lijiang and Kunming.

Back in Chengdu we decided to undertake some further exploration and independent trekking in the Siguniang Mountains, a range relatively easy to access by public bus. We explored potential future climbs in two of the three main valleys that start from Rilong Village. The range, with its steep granite walls and peaks of over 5000m, would be very suitable for rock climbing expeditions with restricted time. To finish our exploration we trekked up the Changping Valley and crossed over a 4700m pass into the Bipeng Valley, which provided amazing views in combination with stunning autumn colours. We would highly recommend this area to others who are after an adventure in an accessible area of Sichuan and want to avoid the local political issues we encountered further west.

Despite our need to change objectives during our expedition and the numerous logistical issues we encountered as a consequence, we were very pleased with the outcome of our climb. Even though we would have liked to have spent more time climbing than on logistics and exploration, we are very satisfied with the successful ascent of an unclimbed peak, which was only 150m lower than our original objective. We are also thrilled to have viewed the Xiangqiuqieke Massif at such close range, even though climbing the peak was not possible. We have no regrets about respecting the wishes of the local Tibetans. We felt that we made the right decisions as ambassadors of the New Zealand outdoor community, while still managing to fulfill our own personal goals.

T o p Tim celebrates reaching the summit of Nideng Gonnga. Zhopu Pasture is visible in the background.

B o t t o m Nideng Gonnga (5690m), Western Glacier/South Face Route.

We received generous funding and support by SPARC and by the New Zealand Alpine Club. Without this funding we would not have been able to undertake our expedition, particularly following the Canterbury earthquake and the major impact this has had on our lives. We also would like to thank Backcountry Cuisine who provided us with freeze dry meals at cost.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 71

4 x 8000 x 1 An account of summitting four 8000m peaks in one year words and photos by MARTY SCHMIDT

L

ooking back at a climbing career of 35 years, so much of my life has been influenced by the amazing mountains of this earth.

It all began with carrying my Mum's pack over the high passes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California in 1968 when I was only eight years old. In the seventies I moved on to Yosemite Valley, where I climbed hard rock and big walls. The eighties saw me climbing in Alaska and South America. I went to K2 in 1992 with Rob Hall, Gary Ball and Hector Ponce de Leon and then Everest in 1994, where I guided eight clients with Russell Brice's very first HimEx trip. On that trip we were on a new route with the northeast face looming overhead.

Then it was time to be a single dad and raise my son Denali and daughter Sequoia on my own in New Zealand.

In the year 2000 I had a calling to climb the North Ridge of K2 with Hector, Araceli Seggara and another Mexican named Andreas.

By the end of the expedition everyone left the mountain and I extended my permit by giving my passport to the closest Chinese official, which got me an extra month on the mountain.

I climbed solo to 8400m, making it to the mountain’s summit ridge, where I got hit with the worse 100 mph winds on this earth.

I turned around and vowed to return one day.

Next came Kangchenchunga in 2001, I summited on 15 May. Right after that came Cho Oyu, which I guided with a 1:1 guide/ client ratio and no Sherpas or oxygen. On Cho Oyu I completed a one-day speed record of 10 hours 45 minutes, again without oxygen.

I truly feel that when I look back, I could have been summit-

ing the 8000ers in the eighties and nineties on a regular basis, but what called me more was my guiding and rescue work around the world.

I was a pararescueman in the United States Air Force for five years in the early eighties and I was guiding two of my favourite mountains during that time: Denali (which I’ve now summited 28 times since 1983) and Aconcagua (34 summits since 1986).

Things have now come full circle for me during this incredible life on this earth. For the next 20 years I will be on Everest with my wonderful co-guide Tim, who, with Becky Rippel, runs Peak Freaks out of Nelson, Canada. I will be able to express my true energy on this sacred mountain Chomolungma/Sagarmatha and help many wonderful clients with their adventure into the 8000m realm.

Going for four 8000m mountains in one year was on the cards.

It all began in 2002 on Cho Oyu with my wonderful client, Clif Maloney from New York City, USA. He had been a client of mine for over 18 years.

I met Clif on Aconcagua, he with a big commercial team which disappointed him to the point of him telling me that he had quit mountaineering forever and me with my normal 1:1 ratio guide/ client team.

I had tagged the summit four times that season when we met in Mendoza airport. We sat next to each other and I was able to convince him to join me on Mount Shasta in California that very year.

He and I bonded for the next 18 years together, climbing and summiting beautiful mountains around the world. He had a goal to climb an 8000m mountain and we began this with Cho Oyu in

2002. He did well but lacked the upper body strength necessary to make a solid summit push. We ended up alpine climbing to our high point of 7200m. 1000m below the summit we had to turn back. I looked at Clif and told him that we can do this summit if he goes home to train.

We did several more Seven Summits expeditions in the next seven years. With Clif’s training and positive attitude and after having had some real mountaineering adventures with a solid partner, he and I were ready for our summit bid in 2009 on Cho Oyu. He had a solid pace with my short rope to him during our climb on 24 September 2009. We made the summit in under seven hours from our 7400m high camp and never looked back … I will finish this story in a book. *** Next came a wonderful tour on Makalu. Chris Warner is the owner of Earth Treks Guiding and three amazing indoor gyms in Washington DC. He and I have been friends and fellow guides for oh-so-many years. We met on Aconcagua in the late eighties. We have followed each others’ professions since then and when Chris approached me to be his partner on Makalu for a new route on the south face I told him straight away that I was committed.

Being so like-minded with our climbing and guiding, we were meant to come together for this climb; which did not intimidate us at all.

It felt like the next moment when we met in Kathmandu in early May, 2010. Logistics just flowed. We had no issues thanks to our combined years of guiding and climbing in the Himalaya.

We checked out our new route within days of arriving at base camp. After a four-day climb to our high point, large chunks of stones, the size of bowling balls, came down upon us. Most of them were gutter balls but still the stones had thoughts of us during their falls. Chris and I looked at each other and knew what we needed to do.

The next day we were pushing to get higher than the British team who were climbing the south-east face and ridge. Having pushed another 600 metres up and during one of our wonderful tool swinging sessions, Chris started to receive pains in his left leg.

We quickly called a doctor in the USA and confirmed that he could either have a very bad case of thrombosis or walking pnuemonia.

Either way, I was taking him down to the safety of base camp and on to a flight out to Kathmandu ASAP! With Chris safe and sound back in Kathmandu and ready to fly home to his loving family, I was called to solo Makalu alpine style.

I took one day to reach the normal north face base camp. Then one day to Camp 2, where I hooked up with another climber named Brad Johnson. We both climbed solo to the Makalu La (a saddle at 7400m). We wanted to give the summit a go from there.

The next morning dawned beautiful and we set off but the climbing was hard and slow. It was not worth a summit bid into the night time.

After returning back to the La, I told Brad I was heading up to put in a bivvy at 7700m and would head for the summit from there.

He was tired and decided to head down, determined to come back and summit Makalu one day.

I was up at 11.00 pm and left my bivvy tent at 1.00 am. Within 45 minutes of climbing I saw the moon rise through the clouds. Then this moon started to do a jig and ended up being a headlight. It was one of the Ukrainians who had summited Makalu via a new route next to the West Pillar. He was hurting and off track so I brought him back in line. Then he told me there was another Ukrainian up higher, I took off looking for him and found him another 200 metres higher.

The second guy was in a much worse state. He had no gloves, frostbitten hands and was dehydrated. I got his gloves out of his pack, gave him my thermos of hot tea and helped him back down towards the safety of my tent. He then told me that there

View of the Karakoram Mountains from Gondogoro Pass at sunrise.

From left to right: K2, Broad Peak and Gasherbrums IV, III, II and I. O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 73

Left (top to bottom) The beautiful summit of Makalu, fifth highest mountain in the world.

Below the false summit of Makalu, on the way down after summitting.

Tim Burns following a pitch of mixed climbing between Camp 3 and Camp 4 on Gasherbrum II.

was yet another Urkrainian up higher again.

I knew what I needed to do and went to find the third climber. At 8200m I saw a figure sitting on his pack in the death position. I got to him quickly, picked him up, slapped him, injected dex and shortroped him down the mountain to safety. With each step downward he was becoming more alive. We were both thankful.

With all that behind me I still felt good and went for the summit of Makalu solo. The 8000m realm is amazing, when the calling is strong and everything is clicking you know just what to do to make it happen. Upon this day the doors were opening. The summit of Makalu is truly special. There is a high point in the summit ridge, past the false summit, and your heart just leaps out with the joy of seeing it. The terrain sweeps down either side of this high point with huge faces that only Makalu can create. As with all summits, you cannot make another step higher. The spirits grant us this moment of reaching the heavens while on earth. I will forever be humbled and respectful while in the realm. *** Next came Gasherbrum II in the Karakoram Mountains of Pakistan.

June is just the time to start trekking in to base camp. I had one client who was ready to venture into this 8000m realm and it was a pleasure to be with Tim Burns for over two months on GII. Who ever said that GII is as easy to climb as Cho Oyu clearly has not guided either one of these mountains, let alone climbed them themselves. GII has a solid reputation.

The climb consists of a long, tricky approach through a glacier system to Camp 1, then a technical part to get to Camp 2, which will be challenging for most climbers. Keeping it together for the long steep slope to Camp 3 and the final rock, snow and ice mixed terrain to Camp 4 will test most people on this earth.

Tim did so well with the adjustment of altitude and technical terrain. We slept at our Camp 4 at 7400m and left early in the morning. Just before the big turn leading up to the summit, Tim became weaker and slower. We both new that he needed to turn back to our high camp.

Like with Clif, he too needed to head back home to train for this realm of the 8000ers. Getting a stronger upper body and learning through his experiences will help him grow into an understanding of what he needs to do to summit. The job of us guides is to give all that we have and then some for our clients, to help them grow in the way that they need to to reach these summits on this earth.

After getting Tim secured in our tent and his sleeping bag, I felt too good to pass the day inside the tent. With radio in hand to talk with Tim, I took off for the summit of G2. I made it up 74 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

Right (top to bottom) The summit of Gasherbrum I, with the four other climbers who summited that day.

50 metres from the summit of Gasherbrum I, at 6.00 am.

A russian climber soloing the last difficult pitches on Gasherbrum I.

in four hours and returned in one and a half hours. The summit was clear and beautiful, with vistas all the way to the summit of Broad Peak and K2.

The wind was up and made for a tricky descent but I felt solid knowing I would be back with Tim very soon. Getting Tim down to base camp was long and hard. I do not use porters or Sherpas or oxygen and whatever I take up, I bring down. Tim appreciates this way of adventuring and it is always a pleasure to get out in the hills with him. *** With all the learning that we do on 8000m climbs, most people are still working on the basics to feel good for their summit day. I like to mention this to all my clients going for summits around the world.

It doesn’t matter if you are heading for Everest’s summit or Denali’s summit, it is your experience on this earth which counts the most and you want this experience to be a solid one with no epics or issues. That is the path I love to take.

Living daily in the 8000m world, there are times when extra experience is needed. Tim got some superficial frostbite to some toes and it was best to fly him out to Islamabad and get him home to Dallas, Texas to start working on his recovery.

With Tim safe and sound, I had another calling, this time to climb Gasherbrum I. This magical mountain was in our sights daily from base camp and during our approach climbs to Camp 1. In fact, it was staring at us everyday while climbing GII. My goal was to solo the Japanese Couloir and then the north-west face. There ended up being four other climbers from around the world with this same plan. I already knew that these four climbers were at Camp 3 on GI and that I was going to meet them there in the afternoon. Moving quickly, feeling strong, I knew what needed to be done.

With a bit of rest at Camp 2, I made it up to Camp 3 in three hours.

There were words going between the other climbers about leaving at 11.00 pm. I had arrived at Camp 3 at 3.00 pm and rested for two hours before I mentioned that it would be great to leave at 6.00 pm for our summit bid. We could climb into the night and stay warm by moving.

They all said yes to this plan and we set off, climbing into the setting sun on Gasherbrum I. 12 hours later we five topped out, at 6.00 am. The climbing had been challenging and very technical, with loose sugar snow on 55-65 degree slopes. The upper sections had tested us with mixed snow, ice and rock moves. The temperature never warmed up even when the sun rose that morning. We just had to keep moving.

The descent revealed how steep this climb really is. We faced in and kicked our front points in endlessly. Getting back to base camp O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 75

T o p Looking down at the Japanese Couloir on Gasherbrum I. B o t t o m The freezing summit of Gasherbrum I.

through the burnt out glaciers of the late season brought smiles to our faces as well as to our Pakistani friends’.

In three days we trekked out to the Husha side of the Karakoram and then back to Skardu where we had to deal with the huge flooding which came upon us all during that time. It was not easy for the people of northern Pakistan and my heart went out to each of them. *** I did get a chance to climb Lhotse in October of that same year.

A very special client bought me a permit to venture up the Lhotse Headwall all by myself with five days worth of food and gear.

Spending no time in Everest base camp after our eight-day trek in, I took off for the summit of Lhotse. No one else was on the mountain. One team had just come out of the Khumbu Icefall a few days before and finished their expedition.

I travelled up the icefall on my own. I made it to the top of the icefall that night, then over to Camp 2 at 6400m. By the third day I was on the Lhotse Headwall and climbing to a bivvy at 7500m.

The next day turned to bad winds, I made it to just over 7900m before having to turn back to my bivvy. I had been unable to move any higher due to the winds.

I waited a day there and then decided to not risk it and made it all the way back to base camp the following day.

My client, Lee Nobman, who I have known for just under 20 years wanted to make Everest base camp and to be guided up Ama Dablam. When we headed to Ama Dablam’s base camp, Lee told me that he was not in the best of shape for this technical climb and wanted to come back at a later date. So we headed off back to Kathmandu and played 18 holes of golf before Lee’s flight back to the USA. I was standing in the Kathmandu airport after saying goodbye to Lee when it hit me. I had a permit to climb Ama Dablam and all the logistics are set up.

I heard from my agent, Iswari, that the record for Ama Dablam was ten days from Kathmandu airport to the summit and back to Kathmandu airport. I got on the morning flight and trekked to Thangboche, then the following day on to Ama Dablam base camp. I was dealt a bit of a storm the following day but was able to reach Camp 2 on the third night. Then another huge snow duster happened on the fourth day pinning me down. I left my high camp on the fifth day, helping Sherpas from another team fix the last 100 metres to the summit. Then I went straight down to base camp, passing Lydia, Dean and Paul from New Zealand on the way and arriving late that night. I was early up on sixth day and I trekked all the way out to Lukla and caught the morning flight to Kathmandu on the seventh day. Why would I want to do that? Mainly to know how it feels to be able to do it and to experience these mountains in the most pure way.

Thanks to my sponsors: Macpac, La Sportiva NA and NZ, Black Diamond NA and NZ, Brandex, Skins, Suunto, Atomic and Diamir, Em’s Bars and Cookies, Annies, Caffe Prima, Oasis Sun, R&R Sport, Buff NZ, MSR NA and NZ and PMI Ropes NZ.

76 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

The south face of Lhotse (8501m).

FAILURE IN THE KHUMBU words and photos by GRAHAM ZIMMERMAN

P

erspectives on expedition climbing can be flawed. Reading Climbing magazine’s Hot Flashes department, it can be easy to think that more often than not folks on big trips are successful.

But as some of us learn, the big mountains offer a lower percentage of success than we might like to think.

Below is a series of journal entries recorded by me during a two month trip to the Himalaya which resulted in no summits at all, let alone the grand new routes that I had planned for.

But from these seemingly distasteful experiences comes learning and new perspectives. For if technical alpinism were easy, would we find it as attractive?

Maybe to find true love for this wild game we need

to truly fail hard and pull together the gumption to come back and push again another day for those goals and summits of such lofty heights.

30 October, 2010 Alone, walking through the Khumbu twilight; Cho Oyo ahead, Cholatse behind. The sun is long gone from the valley but the fresh snow on the high peaks reflects light down around me.

My day has been spent attempting the south-east face of Phari Lapcha. Hayden came down sick on the last attempt, requiring a run of antibiotics and a drop in elevation. So while he recovers in Namche I am left to climb alone.

The attempt had started in the early morning walkO V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 77

house brings me milk tea and is very happy to see me back safe and sound. I am eternally grateful for her friendship and motherly instincts towards me, the lone climber living in the tent outside.

Tomorrow is another day.

15 November, 2010 I lie on the tea house bed admiring the beautiful and well varnished carpentry that composes so many of these amazing mountain structures. I am back in Lukla, the location of the predominant airstrip in the Khumbu. With bathing and chores completed, I leave to hang about in another tea house.

I ponder the last couple of weeks. In the past I have been on expeditions which have come out unsuccessful but this is different. For days I sat in my tent looking up at beautiful skies but was withheld from soloing by dangerous snow conditions and the lack of a partner.

Hayden is very strong and motivated, but this time the developing world got the best of him. Even after a retreat to Namche he was still not in shape to climb. So after two solo attempts I packed our gear and went trekking. While wandering I saw many beautiful mountains and devised many plans for future attempts. Now, alas, my trip in the Gokyo has come to an end.

But wait! The main event is yet to come! A recovered Hayden and Mr. Cory Richards arrive today and we will head back into the mountains. With all of our combined strength, psyche and knowledge regarding conditions in these mountains I feel excellent about the coming weeks.

For now I am left to hang out and ponder.

Stupa amongst the buildings, Kathmandu.

ing from base camp in Gokyo down to the village of Machermo and up a valley above town. The attempt had been thwarted by a broken glacier covered in the same fresh snow which is now shining light on my evening path. It was terrain that would have been appropriate for a climber with a partner and a rope but not for a soloist.

So I was turned around, well before the technical terrain which would have brought comfort, speed and the joy of physical exertion.

A few hours later in the darkness I reach Gokyo once again. The stars are exploding above. Before heading into the teahouse I sit and look up at them.

I’m happy to be safe and finished walking.

Inside I sit by the fire. The matriarch of the tea

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2 December, 2010 I sit in a rooftop hukka bar in the Thamel district of Kathmandu. Honking horns and pop music blend with a techno remix of the Tibetan Buddhist mantra ‘Omani Ped Me hom’. I savour the flavour of blackberry tobacco and watch yet another chaotic night unfold in a place with a name that is synonymous with the edge of the map.

I have spent two months in the mountains of the Khumbu Himal, attempting to climb some of the most beautiful mountains upon which I have ever laid my eyes. I began the trip riding a string of successful climbs and expeditions. My ego was strong and failure felt remote. However, despite attempting mountain faces which I felt myself and my teammates capable of climbing, they successfully eluded us.

When designing an expedition into the big mountains I make all sorts of contingency plans. Med

kits, antibiotics, whiskey, and ipods cover many potential eventualities. But when the planning is done for the day, while sitting back thinking about the expedition at hand, I visualize climbing high on beautiful technical terrain, of pushing through fear and exhaustion, and of sending.

Nevertheless, sickness, heavy snowfall, high winds, and melting ice conspired to break down our psyches and keep us off the flanks of the mountains.

Despite changes in objectives, group psyche meetings, runs of antibiotics and finally a day of drinking whiskey and smoking cheap Nepali cigarettes, we found ourselves defeated in a realm in which we felt ourselves to be savvy.

Now alone, my partners having left a couple of days ago for the hills, crags, and loved ones of home, I hang in Kathmandu waiting for an Indian visa to be approved. My days and evenings are spent walking the streets plugged into my headphones and sitting in restaurants writing. Heavy beats, loud guitars and poignant lyrics carry me between the cars and motorcycles weaving down the narrow streets and past peddlers selling fake antiques, illicit substances and tiger balm. With nothing to do, I am left to wander and digest the experiences of the past months.

Why do I live a migrant, intentional and extremely frugal lifestyle in order to pursue steep unknown terrain in wild places?

The answer is simple. I climb and attempt new routes on demanding terrain to taste what is not easily attained, to step close to the edge and come back to share. Along with pushing personal limits comes the discovery of personal boundaries; the edge of the envelope.

I love to push my limits and I love to climb. In the Khumbu we made decisions which kept us mentally healthy, alive, and ready to push again another day as stronger more humble and confident alpinists.

In the evening, the streets of Kathmandu, lit by bare lightbulbs in open-air shops, have taken on a more ominous quality. I walk back to my guesthouse.

I have just finalised plans to return to the greater ranges in the spring, this time to Alaska. I consider with a humble attitude the recognition that failure on the mountain is a real possibility, with real learning opportunities. I rejoice in being drawn to the flanks of these mountains that I find so beautiful. With excitement and anticipation I think of climbing high on beautiful technical terrain, of pushing through fear and exhaustion and of sending.

(See Graham’s article Adventure in the North-West Fork of the Lacuna Glacier on page 66 for a report on his Alaskan trip – Ed.)

L e f t Looking out of Graham’s tent in base camp at the south face of Nuptse.

R i g h t Thamel streets by night.

Huge thanks to the American Alpine Club's Lyman Spitzer Cutting Edge Award and Mountain Fellowship Grant, The New Zealand Alpine Club’s Expedition Fund and the Mount Everest Foundation for their support on this trip.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 79

KYAJO RI AND KUSUM KANGURU

by STEVEN FORTUNE

T Mike approaching the col at the base of Kyajo Ri’s south-west ridge, with the Kyajo Glacier in the background.

Steven Fortune

he Khumbu is one of the more popular and iconic mountain areas in the Himalaya. Over 20,000 travellers visit the area every year, mostly trekkers, but also a significant number of mountaineers. Most are drawn to a few well known peaks, such as Everest, Ama Dablam, and easy trekking peaks such as Island Peak, Mera Peak and Lobuche East Peak.

But the area has far more to offer than slow snow slogs with a headache. There is real adventure to be had in tackling steep unclimbed faces on smaller, less well known peaks in alpine style. That is what attract-

80 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

ed us. In the Khumbu, you get the benefits of well developed infrastructure and you can also get the adventure and commitment of stepping out into the unknown in a place few people have been before.

The peaks we attempted are classed as trekking peaks, which simply means a permit is available for a modest fee, an attractive proposition for cash strapped Kiwi mountaineers. Research, in this internet age, involved finding photos of attractive faces (viewable from major trekking trails) and looking up old journals to read about previous attempts.

Our first peak, Kyajo Ri, was only opened to climb-

ers in 2002, when it was climbed by its south-west ridge. This route has had a number of repeats and is gaining attention as an attractive moderate alpine target, comparable to the south-west ridge of Aspiring.

The ridge is now commonly approached via a pleasant uninhabited valley—the Thesebu Kola. It can also be climbed unsupported from Namche Bazar.

We hoped to climb the steep north-east face of Kyajo Ri. This face is viewable from Machermo, on the popular trekking trail to Gokyo, thus it has had some attention over the years, but no successful ascent. We had a base camp under the face at approximately 5000m, a short days walk up the valley from Machermo. On this trip we had support from a local trekking agency, who looked after us (with food, accommodation and porters) up to base camp.

Above base camp we were on our own.

In order to be able to climb fast on the face, where bivvy sites would be scarce, we decided to acclimatise by climbing the line of the first ascent. That would also allow us to scope the route out for a possible descent. From base camp, this plan would mean crossing over a col at the base of the south-east ridge.

A short, steep wall makes access difficult from that side and has blocked some attempts, which is why the southern approach is now preferred. From the col, there is easy ground dropping onto the Kyajo Glacier, then the approach route heads back up to the base of the south-west ridge.

We placed a camp on a shoulder below the southwest col at approximately 5500m. The next day we climbed up to the col and the base of a mixed band at the base of the south-west ridge. Two mixed pitches brought us through the band and onto the moderate ice slope above. We simul-climbed up 50 – 60 degree ice slopes which narrowed to an attractive arête. The ice was blue and hard, which, with the altitude, made for slow exhausting progress. About two pitches from the summit a block of dinner-plate ice from the leader hit Ben on the hand. This made it difficult for him to hold his axe, so with the goals of this excursion met we decided to descend. The descent was straightforward. We abseiled on v-threads and one rock anchor to the base of the mixed band. *** After returning to base camp, we had a couple of days rest to let Ben's hand recover and to observe the face.

An easy ice ramp led up to the left of a hanging glacier on the face, but this was threatened by potential ice fall. We eventually decided to use the ramp to access the hanging glacier after not seeing any sign of ice fall

over a number of days. We set the alarms for an early start so we could get out of this potentially dangerous area before the sun arrived on the face. Unfortunately Ben was suffering from a migraine when we woke, so Mike and I set off alone. A couple of pitches of ice brought us to beside the hangers. We moved as quickly as we could up onto the glacier, where it was time for the the Himalayan power-wade of death!

The weather had closed in by the time we gained the glacier and set off towards our chosen line—a broad gully/chimney line in the centre of the face.

Just as Mike started up the first pitch off the glacier, a heavy wave of spindrift came down on us. It was only snowing lightly, but the large concave face above focused it on us. I shouted to wait it out, but after some time it was clear the barrage would not relent. It was impossible to climb, so he lowered off and we reconsidered. It had snowed lightly every evening for the last two weeks. At that moment, the whole face appeared to be flowing with snow. We considered waiting it out, but we were not high on the face and from the weather patterns experienced so far, exactly the same thing would happen the next day. A brief window of clear weather existed in daylight from about 5.00 – 10.00 am and that was it. We had supplies for a quick raid, not a protracted battle.

If we did have good weather, the sun would cause the existing snow to avalanche. Conditions were not good enough to climb in the style we had chosen, so we decided to descend. This was a gutting decision, as we felt this would be our last chance. We didn't have time to wait around for the slim chance that things would improve. So the next day we packed up base camp and moved on to the next peak.

It was a bit gutting to be leaving in bright sunshine, but the decision was justified as we watched the sunshine cause powerful avalanches to come down the steep face.

We trekked down the way we had come in—back to the small town at the base of the Thando Koshi Khola (valley). Here we would leave the trekking trail and head up valley to a base camp under the southwest face of Kusum Kanguru. *** The first climbers to venture up the Thando Koshi Khola were Stephen Venables, Dick Renshaw and Brian Davison, in 1991. They found an untracked valley and took several days, travelling over rough ground, to reach base camp. Deciding against a direct line on the face, they climbed a pillar on the right hand side up to the south ridge and a proud buttress, O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 81

A b o v e Mike Rowe on the lower north-east face of Kyajo Ri, with Machermo Peak dominating the background. Steve Fortune B e l o w The north-east face of Kyajo Ri. Ben Dare

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which they climbed to the summit. Their route is named the Dream Pillar and has been repeated (not to the summit) with excellent climbing reported.

There have been a couple of other attempts on the face that we know of, including an attempt to the right of the Dream Pillar line.

At Thado Koshi we employed a local guide, who took us up the valley to base camp. This was recommended, as the route is not easy and is overgrown.

The last time a party had been up there was six years before us. We took two days to get to base camp. The first night was spent in an overhanging bivvy cave by a major fork in the valley. Up to there we mostly found decent trails used by a number of saw milling operations up the valley. Large trees are selectively felled, saw pits made and the trees are hand sawed into large planks, dried and carried out as materials for building lodges which are springing up to feed the growing trekking industry. It was interesting to see this work going on. It was like a glimpse into the pioneering days in New Zealand. But it was also sobering to see the effect that the tourist trade (of which we were a part of) has on the environment. On the second day the river soon became too steep and bouldery, and we climbed high up the true right bank, slashing a trail through steep bamboo and rhodedendron forest. In a number of places we placed a handrail as a safety rope for the porters. It was tough going with 50 kilogram loads. A few of the young porters found the trip a great adventure and a welcome change from the normal trekking trails they were used to. This was a really enjoyable section of the trek, quite reminiscent of a wild West Coast approach. Glimpses of the face miles above us in the cloud were very intimidating. We tried not to think about it, instead focussing on just getting to the base.

We set up base camp above the bush line at 4500m on a steep grassy slope. We were still around 1000m below the base of the face, with steep, bluffy, scrubby ground above us. The next day we set off to find a way up to an advanced base camp below the face and to stash a load of gear. It took a couple of goes, but we found a nice way up. We saw the odd cairn from previous parties and found an airy flat spot on a moraine ridge below the face for ABC. We only had a brief glimpse of the face, as afternoon cloud regularly swirled up from below. The weather closed in at mid-morning pretty much every day. What we could see was a little disheartening.

The face was far drier than any photos we had seen, giving us much concern about rockfall. A very thin

line of ice existed in one of the gully lines, which appeared to be the only ice on the face. This ice led up to approximately halfway up the face, with much steep, loose, complex ground above it. It was very intimidating. We spent a rest day at base camp discussing the options. The gully line was attractive, giving the quickest line though the bottom half. The spur we had originally planned to climb looked like it consisted of difficult smooth slabs of rock, which were peppered with snow each afternoon. The gully was potentially very dangerous as it was the fall line for anything from the upper face. It took a while and some close inspection of the line over time to convince myself to go for it. The commitment that would be required gave me a tight knot of tension in my stomach, even though that was what I was seeking here. The process of working through all the issues: the complex descent options, the best climbing route, the tactics, the rockfall, the weather, the motivation; helped to release that anxiety. Eventually I become relaxed about our decision to set off up the face.

Unfortunately, the commitment, which I both seeked and dreaded, was never realised. On our arrival back up at ABC, the afternoon snowfalls proceeded to get heavier and heavier. With no forecast, we waited it out, hoping to give the face a chance to clear its unstable coating. Over the next couple of days it got even worse and we descended back to base camp in a full on dumping storm. We waited this out at base camp where at least we had good food and comfy beds. As we were short of time, as soon as the weather cleared we headed back up with the last of our food. It was obvious that conditions would be appalling, but we weren't prepared to walk away without giving it some fight. When we got to ABC, it was clear that the direct line on the face was out of the question. Large avalanches continually poured down the face. It was mesmerising, but also sickening, to wonder about the consequences of being on the face at that time. We looked for safer options, concentrating on the left side of the face, where a series of lower angled spurs and gullies led up to the base of the west face (also called the north-west ridge). The gullies were swept by afternoon avalanches, but the spurs looked to give safe, if difficult passage. So the next morning we headed up, starting in a gully, but switching to a spur before the sun started to loosen the snow. In those conditions, it was a slow battle, deep snow having to be cleared off rock, but it was great to be climbing after all the waiting, and to be

finally heading up the mountain.

We planned to get up to the ridge that day, but it was soon apparent that was not going to happen, so just after dark we flattened out a perch on a sharp arĂŞte and pitched our wee tent. By the time we gained the ridge late morning the next day, we were in a storm again. It was still a long way to the top and conditions on the face above us had looked unsafe so we decided to call this our high point and began abseiling back to our bivouac site. The next day we abseiled into a gully, then completed a fast mixture of downclimbing snow and abseiling steep steps to escape before the sun made things dangerous.

Nepal makes for a pleasant and fascinating place to travel and the scope for interesting alpine scale objectives is extensive. Unfortunately, the heavy afternoon pre-monsoon snowfalls blunted our ability to climb in a fast lightweight style on our climbs. Whilst there I saw numerous other fantastic looking lines and am very keen to go back. Next time I'd like to try postmonsoon to see if we have better luck!

Ben leading a traversing pitch low on the south-west face of Kusum Kanguru. The West Peak is in the background.

Steven Fortune

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 83

MOUNT LOGAN An ascent of Canada’s highest mountain words and photos by MARC SCAIFE

A b o v e At about 5200m elevation, skinning up the final basin toward Prospectors Col. King Peak and the Trench can be seen in the background. Beyond, what looks like low cloud, is actually the the icefield strectching for 200 kilometres to the south-west.

B e l o w The team: Chris, Marc, Paul, Ask and Kynan (Jeff absent).

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I

have always dreamt of snow and much of my life has been ruled by an unquenchable thirst for it. From the European Alps to the Coast Mountains of British Columbia, from the crest of the Southern Alps to the spine of the Antarctic peninsula, from Denali to the Patagonian Icecap, I have undertaken a lifelong pilgrimage in search of that purest of all landscapes, that monochrome realm of sculpted light and shadow, untouched and wild, except perhaps for a rare snow signature carved by man.

It was on my return from one of those journeys that my latest reverie was born.

Cruising high in a 737, an hour from Anchorage, there lay the St Elias icefields below me, stretching as far as the eye could see. In the middle of what is the world’s largest non-polar glacier system was Mount Logan, with its vast summit plateau basking in the last of the evening sun. There lay that elusive perfect snowscape, that magical untouched realm. I imagined skiing across it, looking out at the endless curvature of the earth below. It was a dream which would sustain me for many months ahead.

Mount Logan is a place of superlatives. At 5952m it is just fractionally lower than Denali, but all comparisons end there. By sheer bulk, Logan is the largest mountain in the world. Like many of the large peaks which rise like islands from the smooth white sea of the St Elias icefields, it is shaped like a broad fortress,

with sheer walls of tumbling ice and double corniced ridges thousands of meters high.

The most common approach is from Kluane in the Yukon, up the Kaskawalsh Glacier. In terms of distance, this is equivalent to stepping onto a glacier in Queenstown and following it all the way to the summit of Mount Cook. Just the summit plateau alone, lying at over 5000m, covers an equivalent area to that of the Franz Josef, Fox and Tasman Névés combined.

Apart from being big and isolated, Logan is also a very cold place. The Canadian Parks Service candidly reminds climbers that temperatures as low as -74ºC have been recorded in May (the prime climbing season). Elevation, isolation and severe cold make any attempt at Mount Logan a serious undertaking. But the rewards from Logan are much more than just a mountain trip; they allow you a glimpse into the world of the arctic, and indeed, into the world of the pioneering early mountaineers; they offer a taste of the vastness and impenetrability of that landscape and the awe, isolation and terror it induced in those who first ventured there. Although most climbers on Logan fly to the base of the mountain, I had always hoped to include at least a partial traverse of the icecap in our trip. Unfortunately, poor weather delayed us for about a week at the start. After just a couple of days sledding on the lower icecap it became clear that our slow progress when single hauling the sleds—due to the weight of all our climbing gear and cold weather clothing for the upper mountain—meant we would not have a good chance at summiting. We were managing just six or seven kilometres per day as we inched up through deep powder onto a seemingly endless icecap.

Furthermore, Jef, who had been on the icecap many years before (and had done a complete seven week east to west traverse back in 1998) was developing a bad injury to his shins on account of poorly fitting ski boots and wanted to get an airlift out.

Thus, when an opportunity for a flight came with a turn in the weather, we seized the chance and after a couple of 40 minute flights we found ourselves at the base of the mountain.

Life up on the on the icecap was simple and glorious. We were the only people on the entire mountain and with the exception of one Australian circumnavigator of Logan, we were the only people on the entire 40,000 square kilometre icecap.

Although Logan is a formidable mountain, there is a technically very straightforward route up it, which can be mainly ascended and descended on skis—the

King Trench Route. The route starts on the upper névé of the icecap at about 2700m and follows a rollercoaster glacier which runs diagonally up the mountain between Logan and its satellite peak (King Peak) until it reaches King Col at about 4500m. We put in a couple of camps as we double-hauled up this route, slowly acclimatising to the thinner air and the increasing cold. The weather was fine, at times misty, but calm, it never inhibited our progress.

At King Col we took a rest day to aid our acclimatisation. From there, the route steepens, passing through seracs on the main flank of the mountain where we abandoned sleds and donned crampons.

Once through the seracs, we put on skis for the climb to Camp 3, perched in a snow basin below the next broken area of seracs. We stashed our loads and skied down to King Col for the night before packing our camp and remaining supplies to move to Camp 3 the next day.

From Camp 3 we needed to negotiate a broken area of the glacier which in some years has been impassable.

As we were the first party to attempt this section that year, we were apprehensive, but hopeful given that we were there early in the season. We headed up in misty conditions and after some meandering through false leads, found a route over narrow and winding snow bridges through to the next basin. We were careful to place critical wands and a GPS log for the way down,

Skinning up to the start of the King Trench with King Col at the end. King peak is on the right and the Logan massif on the left.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 85

as the visibility was poor. From there we ascended another headwall and topped out into a final basin below the summit plateau. This would be Camp 4, at 5100m. The weather up there was poor, it was snowing and we were now at an elevation and position where we were exposed to the full force of the elements. So we marked our cache well, and quickly headed down to the comfort of our camp below.

We reached Camp 4 late in the afternoon of the following day. As the weather cleared we realised we were now in a different realm—we were no longer amongst the glaciers and the mountains, we had left them behind. We were now in a realm apart, belonging more to the sky than the earth. Giant convex slopes dropped off into unseen depths below. Way out in the distance, through a frozen air filled with tiny shimmering crystals, we could see the sinuous summit ridge of Mount St Elias and the surrounding icefield, but we seemed to be disconnected from all that. The elevation and the scale of the landscape were unfamiliar; this was a scene from outer space.

We were mesmerised, and despite the plummeting temperature we lingered outside the tent, drawn to the view like moths to a flame.

The next morning we set off to carry a load up to Prospectors Col, the access point to the summit plateau. As we approached the col the terrain became icier and more windswept. We struggled to make headway on skis. Rather than stop to put on crampons and more clothing to reach the col, we hacked a small platform and dumped our load, anchored by a couple of ice axes, and then scurried back down to camp.

The next morning we decided to make an attempt to reach the col and cross over to where we would make our final camp. It was windy and a whiteout, but with the help of our GPS we located the cache. Given the poor conditions, we reluctantly abandoned our skis and set out with heavy packs to crampon up the final slope to the col. It wasn’t the kind of weather which lends itself to crossing the plateau, but we headed on over nevertheless, keen to drop down out of the howling wind. Kynan led the way down. We were travelling in unknown terrain by instinct and compass. From pictures of that side of the mountain we thought it should have been a straightforward snow slope, but we seemed to be slightly off route as we stumbled down blindly over steep icy drops and holes. Fortunately the wind abated on the lee side of the mountain, the slope eased off and the visibility increased as we dropped down.

As we reached the plateau the weather cleared and 86 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

we could begin to get our bearings. Prospectors Col is about half way along the plateau, so from there it was a 20 kilometre round trip across the remaining part of the plateau, up and over the west peak and finally up moderate slopes and the final ridge of the high peak.

To reduce this distance, our aim was to carry on as far as we could on the plateau before nightfall, but we were now single-carrying and our packs were heavy.

The plateau has only one descent route off it, which is over the col we had come from, so the move to the plateau was a committing one; there is no escape off it in bad weather.

We were tiring and as we floundered breaking trail in the softer snow of the plateau we wondered whether we had made a mistake not to have brought our skis.

But we persevered and as we progressed higher the snow got firmer. We needed to stop before it became impossible to cut a platform for the tent and snow walls. After a couple of hours we had a good camp and were able to look around at where we were.

We were finally up on the plateau, that lofty realm we first glimpsed two years ago from the air. We had made it, and I was elated just to be there. While Kynan and Christine had summit fever, I was over the moon simply to have got to where we were. As far as I was concerned, the summit would be just a bonus.

As we settled down for the night, we had our bags packed for the long summit day ahead. The weather was looking good, and provided the wind did not pickup, it would be on.

Dawn broke clear and calm, we started the stove to prepare hot drinks and to warm our boots, then patiently waited for the temperature to climb. At 9.00 am it was -36ºC. In the calm conditions we thought it should be okay to venture out. Higher up we could see some snow blowing off the ridges, but down where we were the conditions were good.

We were wearing everything we had and as we climbed higher it was on with down gloves, goggles, balaclavas and down hoods. The cramponing was good, the snow was firm and progress was fast. After a few hours we were close to the west summit and debated whether we had the time and energy to make the high peak, which was less than 50 metres higher but several kilometres away. To reach it would involve a traverse around the top of the west peak followed by a descent to a col and then another ascent of 400 metres to the summit. Christine and Kynan were keen to give it a go. Although the wind appeared to be dropping, some clouds were beginning to come

in. We were out on a limb, miles from nowhere. The slightest mishap and we would be finished.

I was reminded of Peter Hillary‘s comment that when you are on the summit of Everest, you might as well be on the moon, the chance of rescue being next to zero. Up there on this most isolated of mountains I was reluctant, but gave in. The others had a point, we had come all this way and couldn’t turn back with only a consolation prize while the going was good. So we carried on.

After a stunning traverse around the west peak, we dropped down toward a broad saddle before the high peak. This was a desolate spot, some weathered rocks poked up through the ice and we sat down for a quick rest and a bite to eat. Below us the plateau dropped off 3500 metres into the void of the icecap below. The wind had dropped and the weather was holding. In fact, the clouds seemed to be thinning and it was a near perfect summit day. We were even able to take off our down jackets and wear our parkas instead. But we could not linger as there was still a long way to go. With each step we were further from the safety of our camp.

We started the climb to the summit on gentle slopes which seemed never-ending. But the slope soon became smoother and steeper and the summit ridge came into sight. We kept going at a steady pace, just occasionally resting to try to catch our breath; we could ill afford to stop, so we carried on.

At last we were on the summit ridge. It was beautiful. The climbing was good. The ridge was becoming more exposed, but the cramponing was perfect. Up ahead there was something protruding from the ridge.

It was an ice axe, left behind by a previous party to mark the summit. We stepped onto the summit, smiles all around. It was a perfect day up there, breathless. We were truly on top of the world. But we could not linger.

It was 5.00 pm. We needed to hurry before the temperature started to plummet. We had a long way to go back to camp. Thank goodness for the long daylight hours.

Two days later we romped in to base camp, unfortunately there were no other people there to witness the spectacle of our arrival, with Kynan airborne by a kite and tethered to Christine and I and the sleds. The others had already flown out so it was just us and the wind.

It was time for us to depart too. Although I would have liked to explore more of the icecap, and to have tried to make our way back to the Kaskawalsh, Kynan needed to get back to his family and work in a few days time. We had a wonderful, hour long flight out over the southern side of the icecap. To those who love

snow covered wilderness, the St Elias truly is one of the great blessings on earth. In our three weeks we saw just a tiny fraction of it. We knew we would need to come back to experience more. We were reminded also of just how comparibly small and fragile our wilderness is in New Zealand and how it is increasingly being eroded by insensitive use that destroys the very qualities of wilderness which attract us in the first place.

T o p Kynan on the summit with Mt St Elias and the Seward Glacier in the background.

B o t t o m Camp 4, at 5100m, in the final basin before crossing onto the summit plateau.

Our team wishes to acknowledge the support gratefully received from Macpac for mountain tents and from Mountain Equipment for super warm down clothing and sleeping bags

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 87

TO TARASALAMU … AND BACK words and photos by KAAREN MATHIAS

T

arasalamu Pass straddles the Pir Panjal and Great Himalayan Ranges. Tarasalamu Pass mustered just three hits on Google when I first started scheming to go there three years ago.

Tarasalamu pass (5360m) is the ancient and now rarely used pack animal route which connected yaks and goats in Zanskar with the rich grazing land of the upper Miyar Valley in Western Lahaul. The Tarasalamu Pass trail starts just around the corner from our home near Udaipur, Himachal Pradesh, North India.

The Miyar-Chenab confluence at the wild west town of Udaipur is only three kilometres from the small clinic where we lived and worked in 2009 and 2010. Jeph and I had scoped out most of the approach to Tarasalamu in September 2009 during a day climbing the nearby Chowkidhar Peak (5400m). The route looked elegant but not too technical. As we were back in Lahaul for the Himalayan summer it would be perfect for a monsoon trek.

We schemed, looked on Google Earth, found a CD of pirated US Army contour maps of the area and organised five days worth of food and gear. A shop in Dehradun sold us a new lightweight 25m rope and we made up tape harnesses. Apparently there was a rocky drop on the other side of the pass. We decided two year old Jalori wouldn’t need leather boots and gaiters. She would be carried most of the way.

Our family of six included: our stoical eleven year old girls, Shar and Shanti; our nine year old Rohan the agile; a mum and dad who do a reasonable job of yak-like load bearing (and we’re nearly as hairy) and little Jalori. The perfect group for an assault on a high Himalayan pass.

We would walk a day up the Miyar and then turn east up Tarasalamu Creek, swing north-east up the glacier and pop through the narrow pass to the Baral Nallah Valley. Then it would be a two or three day saunter downstream to Darcha on the Manali-Leh highway.

We headed off with our good friends the Pesavento family from

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the USA. Their 12 and 16 year old girls are great walkers, nimble and stoic. Mike Pesavento sports essential trekking attributes such as an enjoyment of crackers and whitewater skills. He is also a mean GPS and navigation man. Meanwhile (St) Mary Ellen Pesavento can play maths games with a nine year old for hours while traversing scree slopes and in minutes can turn out hot drinks in rain and gales.

Prem Singh and his son Chering joined us from Shukto Village at the roadend. We were glad they could help us with portering a load each up the hills even though Chering turned out to be a weedy 14 year old instead of the burly 16 year old he was marketed as.

Chering won all the boulder field traversing races and taught us the rubrics of yak dung fire construction. Important skills.

Day one started at 3400m, we crossed the Miyar on a swing bridge and headed through the pea fields to Khanjjar Village. We stopped to talk to Dorje and Dolma, friends of ours at Khanjjar Village. Two years prior we had been caught in a snow storm above their village and were welcomed into their home at night. Now they were busy chopping up chickens and cooking over a vast copper cauldron in preparation for a neighbours wedding.

The upper Miyar Valley is gentle, green and simply delightful, as good as it gets in the Western Himalaya. The valley is filled with many flowers, green grass, clear streams, occasional yaks, white and black flocks of goats, shepherds and sunshine.

Our progress was abrubtly thwarted by Rohan’s boot sole falling off completely. Closer inspection of the Korean made boots I had bought in Thailand revealed fake plastic moulding which simulated stitching on the boot sole. I resolved to spend more money on boots in the future. And to never again trust boots bought in the tropics with a label Lucky M.T. Boots.

We lay about in the sun while Jeph did a heroic four hour repair

P h o t o s ( l e f t t o r i g h t ) Heading up the Miyar Valley on day one; Dorje’s Dad at Khanjjar Village greeting the family from his window; Juliana and Mary Ellen at Arrow Island; Himalayan blue poppy (Meconepsis grandis).

job with an awl, some cord and Shanti’s knitting needle. Chering ran home to Shukto to pick up his tennis shoes as a back-up.

Elisabeth, Shar, Shanti and Rohan frantically raced boats up and down the small creek nearby. Boats of twigs were laced in and out with purple geraniums, yellow buttercups and bright red pontillas; vessels fit for the most regal of fairy folk. Why not stop here for the night, we thought?

The night was clear and still. A surprisingly silver moon slid up behind the peaks; a hanging orb.

Day two included a heave up 900 rough and steep vertical metres towards the pass.

Pant. Puff. Grunts.

Crossing a creek, Elisabeth slipped and slammed her left hand onto a rock. Despite her brave quietness, it was clearly sore and we wrapped it in a cool, wet bandana.

Just as the slope seemed interminable and each horizon turned out to be a false top, we spotted way above us the silhouettes of two ibex, the famed but rare Himalayan goats. An Ibex’s curved horns arch back nearly to their backs and are prized as decorations on temples throughout Himachal Pradesh. They are only found in the highest and most remote areas now. ‘The male ibex has distinctive thick scimitar shaped horns. It prefers steep slopes free of snow and even in winter will often prefer high altitude.’ says Vivek Manon in his book Indian Mammals.

The sight of these strong, agile animals leaping over the rocks enlivened both small and long legs on the steep rocks and tussock.

In a cool breeze we squatted under a large boulder and ate a hurried lunch: plum jam, crackers, cheese and a staccato discussion on the ethics of eating tuna (of course only when trekking) between mouthfuls. The threatening rain and wind swept in before a conclusive group opinion on tuna could prevail.

Suddenly the amble in the sun feel of the trek shifted and the day took a very different shape. We were high in the Himalaya with

mist, rain and gusts of wind swirling around us, struggling to find a good route through the giant boulders. Little Jalori was howling in dismay at the cold, rain and poor visibility. After several of us fell over on the slippery, wet boulders we decided to again camp early at Glacier Snout Camp at 4400m.

Fuelled by Mary Ellen’s magically produced hot cocoa and now dressed warmly, our eyes could notice the sparkling jewels all around us. Demure among the rocks and scree was the exquisite shot silk of Himalayan blue poppies, the cheerful pink and red of knot weeds and ubiquitous yellow buttercups.

Himalayan alpine flowers are so colourful after New Zealand’s yellows and whites (though I wouldn’t ever complain about them!).

Every alpine flower is stoic and imaginative. They glow deep primary colours whether in mist, chaotic rock moraine, quiet sunshine, wind or hail. It is a total boon of trekking in monsoon to be surrounded by flowers so profuse and hardy. They make me smile. They inspire me.

On day three we were hoping to get up to a high camp under the pass. At 5.30 am I poked my head out of the tent to see swirling mist and skiffs of rain. In the meantime Mary Ellen had vomited twice (though it seemed more likely to be a tummy bug than altitude related), most of the Mathias family was coughing with some respiratory virus and we had decided Elisabeth’s sore hand was likely to be a fracture. Then after breakfast Rohan’s other boot sole fell off.

Maybe we would permit ourselves a rest day. We had a grand time with chorten construction, knot tying workshops and bouldering.

Rain set in for two hours at 3.00 pm. We had games of cribbage, gin rummy and scum in the tents.

On day four, I again clambered out of the tent at 5.00 am. I sat among the clouds this time. While listening to some sterling cello concertos on my iPod I watched a tantalizing strip tease of mist swirling, opening and closing, veiling and unveiling peaks. Pass crossing with our party still seemed well outside our comfort levels.

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T o p Miyar Valley high-altitude cricket.

B o t t o m Jalory helping with the fire-making.

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Instead I set off with Jeph and Shanti on a foray up the Tarasalamu Glacier to 4700m while more bouldering and boat racing entertained the others at camp.

We reassessed the weather at noon. The dense cloud base fatly squatted over the hills and peaks.

Road Closed.

Sadly, we decided we needed to turn around. We packed up and ate lunch; crackers again.

Descending back down the giant Tarasalamu boulder fields, we leaped, slid and teetered. Elisabeth rolled a large stone onto her leg but jumped up with a quivery smile. Mike confessed he actually had a cracked rib from his slip on the boulders on the rainy day two afternoon. He walked stoically but gingerly.

The 3.00 pm rain set in late at 3.10 pm. Jeph and Juliana hared off after a disgruntled Prem Singh and Chering and managed to wrestle our food for the next two days off them before they sailed down valley and into the mist. They were in a hurry now to get down valley and back to home comforts.

Stories, songs and banal nursery rhymes sought to distract Jalori from the dripping rain and cold breeze. I wondered briefly exactly what I was thinking of when planning to carry a two year old over Tarasalamu Pass. Not rainy weather I guess.

All four primary school children were remarkably chipper in the cold and wet.

We set a soggy camp back on the valley floor and our souls were truly revived and cheered by hot, salty instant noodles and loud silly singing from the tents.

Day five dawned misty and moist but the bad weather burned off by 10.00 am.

We spread our huge mounds of wet clothes on the boulders. Another long and busy morning of boat racing on the little creek kept the kids as happy as heaven.

Two plastic cups got snared in a rapid and disappeared.

Jeph stayed on drying stuff and kid duties while I went on a run up an alluring curve of lateral moraine under a teetering jagged toothed icefall above our camp.

Up on a pass or back on the valley floor, in rain or under blue skies, I just relish being in a wild alpine environment. I was completely happy with a two hour window of solitude amongst rocks, flowers and glacier views. Work deadlines, housework, shopping lists, emails and my absurd battles with India’s internet providers were all many miles away.

Late in the morning we cruised on down the valley to Arrow Island, our favourite campsite, above Khanjjar Village.

The Miyar Valley annual cricket tournament was in full swing on a meadow opposite us. It was high altitude village cricket as its best. Tussock was pulled out for the roll-out astroturf along with four days worth of camping equipment, cooking vessels and cricket bats. The boundary was marked out with stones and a cardboard box of trophies (Man of the Match, Hat Trick Taker and Miyar Valley Champions). The final was at midday the following day.

Someone recognized us as the doctors from Madgram Clinic and came asking for help with a forehead split by a cricket ball. We handed out some medicine (we’ve learned to come with extra supplies) and shared a hot chai and fried roti.

We were invited to bring a Kiwi team to their tournament next year. Who can we entice this way?

Golden evening. Last of the Maggi noodles. Last of the sundried tomatoes and capsicum. Break out the marshmallows. Campfire. Singing. Spotlight. Moonlight.

Kids tucked into the tent, Jeph and I sat up late by the sputtering fire and talked about boots, weather, the way Indian petrol blocks MSR stoves, mountains, maps, dreams, getting leave, the future, life, now and when we can next come this way to have another go at Tarasalamu Pass.

Gravity, the climb an attempt 1905, space and The General Theory, a first ascent 1915

by A. Einstein. for John Nankervis

poem by

DARYL MCLAREN photograph above by

ERIN STEWART photograph below by

ANDREW FINNIGAN

There hadn’t been a time, when space between his and others’ minds, or its coordinates in equations, didn’t occupy him.

So,- when the sky’s blue dipped in the pavement’s schrund one day, of snow and water – he wrote, at first in simple notes how in each, each made relativities of the meridians, of the pools of each, where there might be variant, or covariant expressions, of spindrift.- Then, of geodesics, in the mind’s eye’s mirror, in the mathematics of the physics in his papers, whose asymptotes nearly touch, such that each propagates the light, and hue around the meaning’s jazz, of improbable space, uncertain time in the spectroscopy of blue.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 91

M

y whole being screamed with pain and sheer exhaustion. My hands were swollen, my fingers bleeding, my nails splitting away from my fingers, my feet throbbed, my legs were black and blue from bruises and my waist was raw from hauling.

My first three days on Free Rider left me totally destroyed and broken, yet feeling more alive that ever before. On that first encounter with The Captain, I fell in love with its uncompromising brutality and have not been able to walk away or ignore the attraction ever since.

Over the last two seasons in Yosemite, the valley has become home for me. I have spent countless days up on the Salathe headwall alone, and I now feel more comfortable on that vast expanse of granite than I thought could be possible.

Most mornings I would rise before 3.00 am to hike the gruelling two hour ascent—a combination of switchbacks, steep slabs and jumaring fixed lines—to the summit of El Capitan. Reaching the top of the Salathe in time to watch the sky brighten, I would drop my 100 metre rope down the face, ready to climb at first light. Then I would work my way back up the 60 metre long headwall pitch, spending hours figuring out sequences, rehearsing moves and building up the fitness required to climb that sustained, overhanging, flared crack. I would climb until the sun became too hot to bear.

At times, frustration and tiredness would take over me and after sliding out of the crack yet again, my motivation would give out and I would slump in my harness, hopelessly attempting to summon the energy to jam my fingers into that unrelenting crack once more. Several times I even fell asleep while hanging in space—a limp ragdoll dangling helplessly 900 metres above the valley floor. However, I slowly became accustomed to the crack, my body morphed under new demands and everything began to flow. Finally, one morning I made it to Long Ledge, at the top of the headwall, without slipping! Overjoyed, I cried out to the silent valley before slumping onto the long narrow ledge in relief. I barely paused to take my shoes off before I let my head fall onto that hard yet strangely comforting piece of rock. I have experienced some the happiest moments of my life whilst on my own right at the top of the Salathe Wall, playing on such a beautiful pitch of climbing with 1000 metres of air separating me from the rest of the world.

I was attracted to the Salathe predominantly by the striking beauty of the brutally exposed headwall, yet 92 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

WHAT LIES BENEATH A free ascent of the Salathe Wall, Yosemite Valley

by MAYAN SMITH-GOBAT

Mayan on the 60 metre grade 5.13b (29) pitch on the Salathe headwall. Ben Ditto

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Mayan leading pitch 23, a thin strenuous hand crack, on the evening of her and Sean’s first day on the successful push.

Sean Villanueva

also because of the history of the line. The Salathe was first climbed exactly 50 years ago and was the second route to breach El Capitan. It was completed three years after The Nose was first climbed, but the style of the first ascents of these two famous routes could not have been more different.

Warren Harding fixed hundreds of metres of ropes and placed dozens of bolts in his epic siege to conquer The Nose. In contrast, Royal Robbins, Tom Frost and Chuck Pratt made the first ascent of the Salathe over nine and a half days, in two ground-up pushes, placing very few bolts and without fixing ropes. The Salathe would soon be known as the best free climb in the world. Another factor which influenced me is that the Salathe follows the same line as Free Rider (which I had climbed most of the previous year), therefore I knew I could climb all but the last 200 metres without too many problems.

Approaching a project of this size alone was daunting at first. I was well aware that a climb of this length and difficulty, on that terrain, was going to be challenging for me. I wanted to be able to spend time on the wall without having to rely on anyone else. It was difficult having only my motivation to keep me trying when everything in my body was screaming at me to stop. I thrived on this new challenge and loved being up there alone, faced only with my own determination and psyche, because it forced me to look inside myself and learn what lies deep within me.

This year everything suddenly seemed to snap into place, I was able to move very fast and efficiently over

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terrain which had previously felt insecure and tenuous. I felt comfortable running out the easier sections and my rope handling technique on the wall became slick and refined. It was this efficiency which allowed me to climb the Salathe because I was no longer wasting extra energy on the easier sections.

A major difficulty for me was finding a solid partner to accompany me up the wall for my final push.

To maximise my chance of success I needed someone of a similar ability to share the work-load with. To climb the headwall, I needed to conserve as much energy as possible on the lower pitches. After having invested so much into this climb, it was extremely frustrating when I couldn’t find anyone who was prepared to help me achieve my goal. Storms in the valley were becoming more frequent. I felt as though time was running out and I struggled with no longer being in control. When a perfect weather spell approached and I still had no one confirmed to climb with, I grew more anxious and irritable each day. So when Sean Villanueva (from Belgium), who had arrived in the valley shortly before, mentioned one day that he might be keen to climb the Salathe, I jumped at the opportunity to climb with him.

Sean is a strong climber, with a huge amount of experience on walls. He knows exactly what is required on a wall. It was a privelege for me to have the chance to climb and learn from him.

We lived on the wall for six days in total, waking early every morning in order to begin climbing well before daybreak and maximise the amount of time before the sun came around the corner of The Nose.

Then we would spend the long afternoons chilling out on various ledges, attempting to hide from the sun behind our sleeping bags and watching the world pass by hundreds of metres below us.

Life on the wall can be brutal and raw, with none of your usual comforts or screens to hide behind, yet the simplicity is wonderful. You feel close to the bustle of the valley and are able to watch the goings on, yet you are totally isolated in your own vertical world. The smallest things became amazing up there: a humming bird hovering within a metre of my face, the swallows and bats chirping at me from deep inside the crack my hands were jammed in or encountering a small frog on a foothold. The fine line between success and failure on the pitches affected our mood. But the only thing that truly held meaning was how much water we had left and what was for dinner.

Food definitely took on new meaning up there, everything tasted amazing and no scrap of food nor

drop of water was ever wasted. Being given an orange and a couple of extra energy bars after five days on the wall was like a gift from heaven! That was definitely the best orange I have ever tasted!

Everything went super smoothly on the first few days of the ascent. Sean and I worked well together, we covered ground fast and efficiently and I was feeling relatively fresh when we made it to the base of the headwall just after daybreak on our third day.

Unfortunately, after failing miserably on my first few attempts at the headwall, I realised that my body was more fatigued than I thought and to make matters worse, the temperature was far too warm. I struggled up the 60 metre pitch, pulling on gear as much as possible. The one foot wide Long Ledge became our home for the next few days. We abseiled down from the ledge every morning to try to climb the headwall. Then when the sun hit the wall we would return to the ledge, to chill, recover as much energy as possible and tend to the ever increasing amount of wounds on our brutalised fingers.

Our second day on the headwall was still far too warm but I gave it everything I had and came quite close. I felt strong and there was a promise of cooler weather the next day so I was not too concerned about spending another day in that beautiful place.

Sure enough, the next morning was perfect. I felt good but I was putting too much pressure on myself.

I was a little shaky and nervous and as a result fell on the very last move of the epic endurance pitch. I was heartbroken. I felt like I had used up every last drop of my strength and doubted my ability to recover sufficiently by the next day. Emotion overflowed and I collapsed with my head in my hands, unable to keep a positive outlook. Had all my effort been for nothing?

I knew deep down that it hadn’t and I soon snapped out of my depression. A few words of reassurance, absorbing the beauty of El Capitan and a cheerful tune from Sean’s ever-present flute helped me find the strength to try once more.

The next morning everything came together and flowed perfectly. It was one of those days when I felt as though it would be impossible for me to ever get pumped. As my hand latched the final hold at the top of the headwall, I instantly knew that it was all over, I had climbed the Salathe! An incredible rush of adrenalin and joy was released from within me. It was overwhelming. It was 2 October, the day before my birthday and exactly one year since my first groundup attempt at the Salathe. On that attempt a freak thunderstorm had forced me to bail from the head-

wall with my tail between my legs. This day everything took on a new light, the familiar view from our home on Long Ledge seemed more radiant.

Slowly my feelings of elation gave way to an incredible lightness, as though a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. It was only then that I fully realised how much energy, time and thought I had poured into achieving this goal over the last year and how firmly the Salathe had taken hold of my entire being. It took over and became an obsession, which turned my life into turmoil. However, it also gave me greater inner strength and more peace than I have known before. Up there I reached that perfect unity between my mind, body and the world, which is something I am constantly striving for.

Unfortunately those feelings of elation do not last for long, the next challenge is always lurking just around the corner. Even before I had reached the summit of El Capitan, my mind began to wander. As I contemplated what my next objective might be, I began to feel lost and aimless, as if a significant part of my life was missing.

I no longer had a goal to strive for and did not know where to direct my energy, focus and motivation. The Captain has become much more than a piece of rock to me. It became an obsession, which constantly pushed me closer to the limits of my being. Yet somehow I feel as though I have only just scratched the surface, both of myself and the Captain. This season I felt that both my mind and body excelled in the face of a challenge and I am already looking forward to returning to find out what lies further beneath the surface.

Mayan enjoying the afternoon sunshine and view of the valley from Long Ledge.

Sean Villanueva

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 95

DESERT PILGRIMAGES words and photos by SIMON CARR Castleton Tower, the Rectory and the Priest, Utah, USA.

W

hen they learn I’m a Kiwi, Americans often comment that they’ve heard New Zealand is really beautiful. After 14 years in the US, my response is a non-committal agreement, but usually I add that there are places in the US which are just as spectacular, particularly the desert south-west, the incredible sandstone country found in Utah and Arizona.

I’ve made a number of climbing trips to the southwest, mostly based around Moab, 240 miles south-east of Salt Lake City. It’s not just for the climbing that people come to Moab. In addition to the spectacular scenery in two national parks (Canyonlands and Arches) there is big water rafting on the Colorado River and spectacular mountain biking, including the world famous Slickrock Trail. The climbing is fantastic, as long as you don’t mind cracks. Near Moab there are several dozen desert towers ranging in height from 50 to 600 feet. Two hours south of Moab is Indian Creek, home to the purest cracks in the world.

Many of the most prominent towers in the region were first climbed with aid in the sixties by Layton Kor, Fred Beckey, Eric Bjornstad and their companions. These routes have now been freed, but the old aid pitches are often hard and on scary rock. Those old guys were good and they didn’t even have cams.

Of course the search for unclimbed towers has continued, but most new tower routes are remote and on

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stuff that isn’t exactly rock.

From Island in the Sky, the large mesa 30 miles north of Moab which is one of the entrances to Canyonlands National Park, you can look down into Monument Basin , which contains a group of the most evocatively named towers in the desert. The rock there is not the familiar and beloved Windgate sandstone of Indian Creek. Rather it is the Cutler Formation, also found in the Fischer Towers of Titan fame. The towers in Monument Basin1 are 200 to 400 feet high. They include Standing Rock, Staggering Rock, the Deathalonian Spire and the one with my favorite name: the Enigmatic Syringe. Relatively few people have reached the top of these formations. In addition to the remoteness, the difficulty and the questionable rock quality, there is a now a legal issue.

Many of these towers require nailing-type aid climbing and this is now banned in some National Parks.

Recent rule changes about no permanent anchors and no pitons have made new-routing a formidable task, particularly getting down. *** May 2011. An old climbing friend from Canada, Mark M, arrives in DC to pick me up in his Beechcraft, a high performance private plane. The 1 Different from the better-known Monument Valley, in Arizona, the location of many classic western movies. Monument Valley is on Navaho land and no climbing is permitted. It’s home to the Totem Pole, as seen in the Clint Eastwood film The Eiger Sanction.

plan is to fly across the US to the south-west, combining biking, canyoning and climbing moderate desert towers. The most exciting part of the trip will turn out to be the flying.

There is a network of municipal airfields across the US which cater to private pilots and corporate flights. Mark had planned a route out west stopping every three to four hours at these airfields to get fuel and take a break. It’s tiring flying a small plane in the summer when turbulence is significant, even with an autopilot.

The next day we’re leaving Evanstown Indiana, hoping to make Las Vegas by evening. We’ve only just lifted off when Mark says we have to go back.

Less than one minute after his ground checks, a threaded rod controlling the pitch of the propeller has come unscrewed. Four hours later, we’re back in the air. Mark knew instantly what the problem was but for insurance reasons the problem had to be fixed (expensively) by the on-call mechanic.

So we’re en route for a field in the Texas Panhandle to refuel, but the head wind out of the west is strong and affecting fuel consumption. So Mark looks at his moving map—satellite fed to Ipad software—and selects another field which has the runway oriented correctly for the wind and resets the autopilot/navigation system. We’re passing slightly north of a little town in Missouri called Joplin.

We’ve barely taxied to a halt outside the terminal when a man runs out and hands Mark a piece of paper and tells him to call the number, which is a flight centre in Kansas City. Mark’s on the phone for an hour.

Apparently we have flown through a 30 mile wide no fly zone which was not displayed correctly by the map software. President Obama was visiting Joplin after the tornado which destroyed the town. We’re also in a Canadian-registered plane. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that we didn’t get a visit from the F16s.

Back in the plane, a little rattled, we head for our next refueling stop in Hutchinson, Texas. Hutchinson is an oil refinery pretending to be a town. Landing conditions are tricky: 30 mph cross winds and down drafts. Mark brings the plane in with one wing down to minimize the chance of getting flipped by the cross wind. This means touching down on one wheel.

Mark said afterwards it was the most difficult landing he’d done in 30 years of flying.

Hutchinson is hotter than hell. 105ºF in the shade.

We can’t stay here. So, gassed up and heavy, we take

off. It’s hot, so the air is thin. Small planes without turbochargers don’t fly well in hot, thin air.

The Beechcraft really doesn’t want to fly. Saying nothing to distract Mark who is focused on keeping us in the air, I watch the altimeter change very slowly as we claw for height. I’ve been in a few landings and take-offs by now and I know this isn’t normal.

We call it quits at Santa Fe that evening.

The next day we fly on to Vegas, an anticlimax after the previous day. Our route takes us past Shiprock, that 1500 foot volcanic plug which is on Navaho land and so off limits to climbers, then on into Arizona past the Grand Canyon. From the air you get a sense of how much of the south-west is red-rock sandstone.

But even in the most remote canyons 4WD tracks are visible from the air. Many of the tracks are from the days of uranium prospecting in the fifties and sixties. Some are from that modern-day plague—the all-terrain vehicle. *** Castle Valley, 20 miles east of Moab, has some of the more accessible and better known desert towers.

Mark banked the plane around Castleton Tower and we flew alongside the Rectory and the Priest. On the front face of the Rectory I could see Fine Jade (four pitches, up to 5.11a) and nominally the hardest route I’ve done in the desert. The grading of the pitches illustrates the peculiarities of desert routes. The crux finger crack on Fine Jade is trivial compared to the 5.10+ handcrack on the first pitch. Both pitches are nothing compared to the 5.10- Honeymoon Chimney, on the nearby Priest.

I climbed those two routes in May 2001, with my British friend John C. We started with an ascent of Castleton Tower via the North Chimney (5.9). The following day we headed to Indian Creek, where on both sides of the valley rise proud buttresses of Windgate sandstone, split every few feet with cracks ranging in size from tips to offwidth. Most routes are only one to two pitches, as the rock deteriorates as you get higher.

I first visited Indian Creek in 1997 with Dave B, a Boston friend. We’d had a couple of days climbing at Red Rocks first and we’d ticked the Kor-Ingalls Route (5.9) on Castleton Tower. That had gone smoothly so we were pretty confident as we headed south from Moab. That was until we got there and saw the scalpel-cut cracks soaring upwards, with no footholds to distract from the elegance of line. Our formerly extensive rack no longer seemed sufficient. So we

T o p Binou’s Crack, Indian Creek.

B o t t o m Chocolate Corner, Indian Creek.

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T o p Looking down on the last pitch on Independence Monument.

B o t t o m Independence Monument.

climbed the shortest, easiest routes we could find and headed back to the Moab climbing store. The next day we were back and with our enhanced arsenal I headed up Supercrack (5.10c), perhaps the most famous route at Indian Creek. Supercrack was first climbed with hexes in 1976. I stormed up the technical laybacking crux to reach the handcrack for which we now had sufficient gear. Except that it wasn’t a hand crack anymore by the time I was 50 feet below the anchors, with one #3 Camalot left, which would fit the crack. I was contemplating what to do when another party passed below. I called down to see if they had any #3 Camalots we could borrow.

‘How many do you want?’ they replied.

‘How many to you have?’ I answered.

‘Six.’ ‘That’ll do fine!’

When John and I arranged our 2001 trip I told him to bring every cam he could get his hands on.

John wasn’t really prepared for Indian Creek. He was raised on gritstone cracks. He didn’t think he’d find 5.10 jamming that hard. It wasn’t so much hard as simply unending. Suffice to say he left a little more appreciative of the delights of Indian Creek.

So we returned to the Castle Valley. Fine Jade on the Rectory, Honeymoon Chimney on the Priest.

The first pitch on the Priest is a lowly 5.10a.

However, it’s a wide crack. It’s almost a chimney and it leans. Falling out seemed very easy and it was wider than any gear we had. John exorcised Indian Creek with his lead of that pitch. It was all I could do to follow. Pitch two climbs an unprotected 5.7 chimney. It’s not too dangerous though. It’s such a tight fit that it’s barely possible to move upwards and falling out would require exhaling. This pitch leaves you in the middle of the Priest and the chimney continues upwards cleaving the tower in two. Pitch three starts with more chimneying, which becomes wider and wider until your feet are on one wall and your hands are on the other, so you are horizontal. Looking down you see the sweep of the rope, which is devoid of comforting runners. A quick swing onto the wall of the main formation is followed by bolt protected face climbing up the arête of the tower at 5.11c, or more accurately, A0. The last pitch, a 5.8 handcrack, was an anticlimax.

Arriving on top of the last pitch, we quickly set up the abseils to get off before the ominous looking black clouds came any closer. I quickly flicked through the summit register, confident that this would be the first Kiwi ascent. But wait, what’s that

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name? Hugh Barnard. It can’t be. It’s not allowed … *** November 2006. Sedona, Arizona. I was between jobs and I had fled three weeks of persistent rain in the UK. I had one more week before I would have to join my new employer.

Sedona is surrounded by fantastic red colored walls and towers, is home (apparently) to a number of energy vortices and is a favored destination for an alternative lifestyle. Shops offering crystal rebirthing sit right next to Starbucks’ and art galleries catering to the vacation homes which surround the town.

There are a number of great tower climbs, but here, even more so than around Moab, it pays to stick to the classics. The sandstone here is soft, really soft.

My mission was The Mace, a five pitch desert classic climbed in 1960.

I was climbing with David E, a lecturer at the University of Tucson whom I’d first met when he was a graduate student in Baltimore. We reached Sedona in the evening, intending to find a motel. Amazingly, nothing was available and there were no campsites either. So it was time for the orange tarpaulin motel, a few miles up the Schnebly Hill Rd. In the morning we had a great view of the Mace across the valley.

Pitch one climbs a sandy groove to meet a four foot thick horizontal band of limestone, a common feature on many Sedona routes. Pulling through the limestone roof at 5.7 deposits you underneath pitch two, an overhanging 5.9 hand crack which turns into a chimney.

I’d recently bought a #5 Camalot and had been carting it around for days. I pushed the Camalot up the chimney in front of me. It was moderate climbing but wasn’t a place to fall, as the last runner was some 50 or 60 feet below. Pitch three started with a bolt protected traverse on crumbling edges to another 5.9 corner/hand crack grovel. We didn’t have much gear of the right size so I had to run it out, which is not really recommended on the soft Sedona rock.

Pitch four is the crux, graded 5.9+, it’s a hand crack which turns into an overhanging offwidth. 5.8, 5.10, whatever the grade, offwidths are hard to climb and scary. So I cut it down to size by aiding the offending overhanging section. I was getting my money’s worth from the #5.

The route on the Mace is not the line of the abseil descent and the weather had been deteriorating, with scattered raindrops and increasing winds. It’s a really bad idea to climb on wet sandstone, it loses much of its holding power. We needed to get to the top of

pitch four as retreating any lower could necessitate leaving cams as abseil anchors.

David had followed staunchly up the lower pitches but he swung out into space while following the leaning crack. He quickly whipped out some prussiks and put them on the rope. I was impressed, this seemed more terrifying than any climbing as we were using double 9mm ropes. Of course I had the ropes through my belay device, so he was prussiking off my waist.

The last pitch features The Step. Pitch four puts you on top of a subsidiary tower, on the edge of a five foot wide chasm between you and the real summit.

You have to fall/lean to reach the other side, and then pull onto the overhanging wall. A couple of moves of 5.8 and you’re on the top.

The abseil route starts from the top of the fourth pitch and descends the gash between the two towers.

Originally, this meant down climbing the last pitch or jumping six feet down and six feet across to land on the subsidiary summit. It was like something you see in the videos of tower jumping in Saxony. Fortunately, common sense, or maybe a series of broken ankles, have led to the installation of a set of anchors on the top and now it’s an awkward but infinitely safer abseil/ swing back to the top of the fourth pitch.

May 2011. I took Mark to Red Rocks, 20 miles from Vegas, for some friendly climbing: moderate routes, face holds, bolted anchors and soft grades.

After several training days, we flew to Moab, flying across Canyonlands and past the premier desert tower, Moses, a 600 foot monolith. We had several more days practice around Moab, crack climbing on the shorter cliffs alongside the Colorado River, interspersed with canyoning in Arches National Park and falling off mountain bikes. Then it was time for the examination: Independence Monument, a 500 foot tower in Colorado National Monument, several hours drive north-east.

The summit of Independence Monument was first reached on 4 July2, 1911 via Otto’s Route. Otto devised a route following corners and wide cracks to a platform some 60 feet below the summit, where he then climbed the spine of the tower up to and past the overhanging caprock. He used slightly unorthodox tactics. Where natural holds were absent, he drilled holes and hammered in sections of pipe to use as holds. The pipes have gone, but the holes remain and considerably lower the difficulty of several sections, particularly the last pitch. Even with the holes as hand and footholds it’s still a strenuous 5.9, protected by angle pitons ham2 Independence Day.

mered into the sandstone.

The climbing on the lower pitches was awkward rather than difficult due to it consisting of chimneys and wide cracks. Mark found this tricky, especially the wide overhanging crack on pitch three. Without the ‘improvements’ this would have been 5.10 or 5.11. It was still a respectable 5.8. The fourth pitch, the Time Tunnel, was a horizontal squeeze chimney that led through to the other side of the Monument.

From there a short face climbing pitch, featuring an amusing piece of protection, an angle piton hammered into a pipe hammered into the rock, led to a large ledge under the summit pitch.

By then it was early afternoon and the wind had come up. The ropes were whipping around and I was a bit concerned about being blown off the protectionless 40 feet to the first piton. It wasn’t too bad in fact as I mantleshelved repeatedly into the large bucket like steps which Otto and generations of other climbers had left. The last 15 feet was overhanging, but with three pitons and Otto’s holes I quickly pulled up over the caprock. In the summit register there hadn’t been an ascent for several days and in making my entry I realized it was nearly 35 years ago that Mark and I had first tied in to a rope together. From the top I could see another half-dozen towers, promising adventures yet to come.

Monument Basin.

Bibliography Beyond the Vertical – Layton Kor, 1983, Alpine House, Boulder, Colorado.

Desert Towers – Steve ‘Crusher’ Bartlett, 2010, Sharp End Publishing, Boulder, Colorado.

Postcards from the Trailer Park: The Secret Lives of Climbers – Cameron Burns, 2004, Lyons Press.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 99

Thomas Van Den Berg on his route The Eye of Sauron (28), Rastus Burn, Queenstown.

John Palmer

The Vertical World Rob Brown Anna Keeling Colin Monteath Mark Sedon Donna Falconer

Unknown climbers on Sunset Rib, Charleston, West Coast. Jason Blair

101

A HISTORY OF DE LA BECHE HUT

by ROB BROWN

T

he decommissioning of the second De la Beche Hut marks something of the end of an era for what is an important hut site in NZAC’s history.

While the location had fallen out of favour with changing glacial conditions, the first De la Beche Hut was the very first mountain hut built by the Club and deserves to be remembered for what it represented.

The first hut came about because of a tragedy on the Tasman Glacier when four young women were caught in a storm with their young guide after having just left 102 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

Malte Brun Hut en route to Ball Hut. The five died on 18 January 1930 and the tragedy was nationwide news at the time.

As New Zealand’s worst alpine disaster to that date, both The Press and the Otago Daily Times ran headlines detailing the event, aftermath and the subsequent investigation.

The deceased were Dorothy Smith (26), Mary Monteath (20), Doris Herbert-Brown (38), Helena Keane (24) and their guide John Edward (Teddy) Blomfield (20).

Despite his young age, Teddy Bloomfield was a trainee guide at the Hermitage and

had a couple of years climbing experience behind him and was considered keen and competent. Despite Teddy’s reputation, the tragedy occurred against a background of concern from senior experienced guides, such as Peter Graham, that the new owners of the Hermitage had been employing young trainee guides and allowing them to run trips by themselves.1 The party had set out from Malte Brun 1 The NZAC was particularly concerned about this practice and in the 1930s with FMC would successfully lobby government to pass the Mountain Guides Act

Hut at 10.30 am on the morning of the eighteenth despite rain and apparent bad weather. Another guide, Charles ‘Charlie’ Hildendorf, stayed behind to tidy the hut and he set out at 12.00 pm in weather that was no worse than it had been that morning.

Not long after leaving the hut Hildendorf reported that the storm picked up, with much thunder and lightning and a nor-west wind so strong that at times he was forced to crawl down the glacier. About six kilometres down glacier from Malte Brun Hut Charlie came across first Blomfield’s pack and then 80 metres further on, the first of the young women’s bodies. They appeared to have been sheltering in a small ice hollow.

A further 40 metres on were the other three clients, all of whom were stiff with death.

Blomfield was not located at that stage and Hildendorf hurried on down to Ball Hut, which he reached at 3.30 pm. There he located one of the senior guides, Mick Bowie, who with six others raced up to the scene of the disaster. Incredibly, they found Blomfield with faint signs of life.

He had obviously been crawling on his hands and knees back towards Malte Brun Hut but was found 150 metres from the group of three clients. Attempts to resuscitate Blomfield failed and when the storm intensified again all they could do was wrap the bodies in blankets and head back down to Ball Hut.2 Over the following few days as many as 30 people helped with the grim task of recovering the bodies. They included Guy Mannering, whose niece Doris Brown had been lost in the tragedy. The official post-mortem on the bodies concluded that they had died of exposure with no obvious signs of external injuries. Some doubted however, that five young, healthy people would have succumbed to exposure in the short time before being found

by Hildendorf. Guy Mannering speculated that at least some of the party could have been hit by lightning.

After the tragedy, the victim’s families asked the NZAC to build a memorial refuge 2 GE Mannering, The Disaster on the Tasman Glacier, NZ Alpine Journal, 1930, p120.

A b o v e The original De La Beche Memorial Refuge, 1940. Fred Gallas R i g h t The memorial plaque at De la Beche Hut for the victims of the 1930 tragedy.

NZAC collection

F a c i n g p a g e The soon to be decomissioned De la Beche Hut, October 2011. Rob Brown

at De la Beche Corner, not far from where the bodies were found. By early 1931 £400 had been raised and the NZAC believed they had secured a deal with the leaseholder of the Tasman Reserve and Aoraki Domain, Rodolph Wigley. Wigley had secured the lease for the then reserves in 1922 along with the Hermitage and all the huts in the reserves. These reserves had been set aside for a national park as far back as 1887 but successive governments had done little towards this in the intervening years.

The Hermitage had been bought by the Tourism and Health Department back in 1887, the same year the reserves were officially gazetted but the venture had virtually never made a profit for the government.

Wigley had pioneered transport to the Hermitage when he drove the first car to

the Hermitage in 19063 and had been itching to get hold of the whole venture ever since. The Conservative Massey government agreed to this in 1922 and this essentially put New Zealand’s premier alpine region in the hands of a private company.

Since the earliest days of mountaineering at Mount Cook, the end of the ridge which runs off Mount De la Beche to where the De la Beche Glacier runs into the Tasman Glacier had been used as a place for camping. In 1889 Guy Mannering and two companions had discovered a large rock suitable for a bivouac. Mannering returned in 1892 with AP Harper and Jack Adamson and the party built up the rock walls and made it largely weatherproof. Before the 3 Gordon Ogilvie, Te Ara biography of Rodolph Lysaght Wigley.

T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 103

NZAC President in 1931, AP Harper (left), with Charlie Douglas in the Cook River Valley (Westland). Alexander Turnbull Library, John Dobrée Pascoe Collection (PAColl-0783) Reference: 1/2-018450; F

first Malte Brun Hut was built in 1898, the rock biv would be the major base for climbing in the upper Tasman Glacier. The rock biv is still there and for many years has sat precariously close to the edge of the moraine wall.

The old rock biv was the scene of one of the great New Zealand mountain survival stories in 1906 when RS Low broke an ankle on a solo crossing of Graham Saddle. With only one day’s worth of food he dragged himself over a period of several days down the De la Beche Glacier to the rock bivvy where he was found by rescuers some ten days after the original accident.4 1931 was a momentous year for the NZAC. Not only did the Club build its first hut with De la Beche, but it also held its first climbing camp with the Otago section organising a highly successful week in the Rees Valley.

This was all part of a major change in direction for the NZAC, later acknowledged by AP Harper in his book Memories of Mountains and Men. Harper had dominated the running of the NZAC from its inception in 1891 and confessed to being 4 NZ Alpine Journal, 1941.

104 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

‘imbued with the ideals of the AC.’ (British Alpine Club).5 Up to that point the Club had been run along pretty much the same lines as the British Alpine Club, with prospective members having to have certain qualifications and then being invited by other members to join.

Society was changing fast at that time.

In the 1920s there was an explosion of tramping clubs formed in New Zealand which were much more open in terms of membership and in addition rival clubs like the Canterbury Mountaineering Club had formed (although they had their own strange male members only formula which was in stark contrast to the tramping clubs being formed in the 1920s).

By the time AP Harper decided to accept the invitation of the Otago Section for the 1931 summer climbing camp, he appeared to accept that the NZAC had to change if it was to fulfill its role of encouraging mountaineering in wider society. Young Otago section members like Scott Gilkison and Vern Leader, who were in their early 5 AP Harper, Memories of Mountains and Men. Simpson & Williams 1946, p181.

twenties, roped up with the 66 year old Harper for a few easy climbs in the Forbes Mountains. The experience seemed to fill the older man with enthusiasm to modernize the NZAC and he set about steering the club on what he called a ‘new route’.

In addition to those changes within the NZAC, AP Harper firmed up on his idea of forming a federation of like minded outdoor clubs to lobby the government over the appropriate use and protection of the reserves which had been set aside for national parks. Later in 1931 the Federated Mountain Clubs (FMC) had its first meeting and over subsequent years would become the driving force behind the unified National Parks Act of 1952.

Up to that point Tongariro, Egmont, Arthur’s Pass and Abel Tasman had all been gazetted with a separate act of Parliament and the unified act opened the way for a flurry of new parks to be gazetted—the core of the system of national parks we know and love today. Two of the first two parks created under this were Fiordland (1952) and Mount Cook (1953).

Shortly after the De la Beche Memorial Refuge was completed, the agreement between the Mount Cook Tourist Company and the NZAC over the ownership of the hut appeared to break down with Wigley seemingly wanting to include it as part of his own mini empire. Arguement over the ownership of the hut was added to a protracted argument over hut fees at the Mount Cook huts.

Trouble had been brewing for sometime over Wigley’s fees to enter the mountains under the Hermitage’s control. As early as 1926 a young Rod Syme had objected to the Hermitage trying to charge him camping fees when he had spent much of January camping at White Horse Hill. With the worst of the depression years still not over, many climbers found the prices unaffordable and it was inevitable this would lead to some conflict with the company. The NZAC meeting minutes record how much of an issue this was at the time, and how much it occupied the Club’s leadership.

The company started to accumulate its own complaints against amateur climb-

ers. Wigley was irritated when climbers entered the reserve without signing in at the Hermitage and some climbers stayed in huts without paying. In addition to the fact that the 1920s and early 1930s was a time when there was a boom in the formation of tramping clubs, workers were at last starting to get a fairer deal and a few club trips were starting to turn up at Mount Cook in search of a cheap holiday in the mountains.

Although he held some practical egalitarian ideals, Wigley was first and foremost a businessman. He could not countenance clubs doing their own thing for free in his patch. Eventually, in 1935, he struck a deal with the NZAC whereby members could receive some discount on the hut fees but even this didn’t entirely solve the problem as the agreed prices reflected a fully stocked hut when most amateur climbers preferred to carry in their own supplies.

In an attempt to finally put the relationship back on a reasonable footing, Wigley, his lawyer and representatives of the Canterbury Mountaineering Club and FMC met in November 1937 to finally hammer out a deal that climbers could live with. They eventually agreed on hut fees of 25/- for Haast Hut, 20/- for Gardiner, Malte Brun and Mueller Huts, and 17/6 /- for Ball Hut, reflecting the cost of stocking each of these huts. Importantly for amateur climbers, a flat rate of 6/- was agreed to if climbers carried their own food. Initially just for two years, the deal was eventually extended right through the years of World War II.6 After building De la Beche Hut the NZAC had a taste for building huts and started to look at other areas. In 1932 the Otago Section of the NZAC built its first alpine hut with Cascade Hut in the West Matukituki as a base for activities in the Mount Aspiring region. This hut is still in its original configuration and as a historical asset for the Club has a great deal of significance. The Club also built a hut near the site of the current Dart Hut, which is long since gone and has been replaced by a publicly managed hut.

The following year saw the NZAC build a third hut. In 1929 Wigley had furthered his 6 New Zealand Alpine Journal, 1936, p164.

The De la Beche Memorial Refuge in 1931, the year it was built. G Arras

grip on the Mount Cook region by securing another lease from the government for 18,000 acres in the Godley Glacier area. As a result of the De la Beche Hut saga, the relationship between Wigley and the NZAC had soured to the degree that in 1933, when the NZAC wanted to build a second hut in the area, they instead had to ask the runholder of Lilybank Station, R Malthus, if they could build on his high country lease, just 200 yards outside the Mount Cook Company’s Godley lease.7 The Second World War put a serious dent on the Hermitage’s viability as it understandably fell on hard times. By 1944, when the lease was up for renewal Rodolph Wigley was almost relieved to hand it back to the government and the way was open to finally gazette the park from the core of the reserves which had been set aside back in 1887. Sometimes doing the right thing can take a while. Despite the formation

of the park in 1953, it took a further five years for the national park board to wrest control of the huts back off the Hermitage (which now was run by the government’s Tourist Hotel Corporation) and set up the true public system of huts which exists in the park today.

In 1961/62 the old Memorial Hut was renovated with the internal wall being removed but eight bunks being retained in one room. In 1979 the NZAC replaced the old hut with a new 12 bunk hut. The cladding on this hut was never quite right and over the years it has been a struggle to keep the mountain weather out of seeping into the internal walls.

This summer the 1979 hut, which is still in reasonably tidy condition will come up against those cursed words of the modern world that it ‘no longer meets the standard’.

Will this be the sad end to the historic location of climbing huts on this site?

7 New Zealand Alpine Journal, 1934, p164.

T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 105

by the mountaineer Freda du Faur.

The path of the New Zealand woman climber has been laid down by the likes of Freda du Faur and we are all aware of the feats of the great New Zealand guides: the Graham Brothers, Harry Ayres, even Nick Cradock. But when did women begin to guide in New Zealand and where did they work?

Early women guides Probably the earliest women to guide at Mount Cook were the sisters Hilda and Molly Haldone in the 1920s. Based from the Hermitage, these early ‘girl guides’ would take clients on glacier excursions.

Betsy Blunden.

WOMEN OF NEW ZEALAND GUIDING

by ANNA KEELING

I

have been attracted to the road less travelled since I was 18 years old, when I became an early New Zealand adventure racer and multisport athlete. The physical strength, fitness, agility and independence I gained from those years stood me in good stead to become a mountain guide.

While at university, I became fascinated by the road less travelled 106 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

Between the wars: Betsy Blunden-Anderson and Junee Ashurst The revitalization of the NZAC in 1921 encouraged the development of independent mountaineers (un-guided climbers). Thus emerged climbers like Junee Gray (who married guide Hap Ashurst) and Betsy Blunden-Anderson.

Betsy Anderson (born 1909) was likely the world’s first paid female alpine guide. She started working in 1928 at the age of 17 after applying for a job at the Hermitage as a guide and piano player. Asked if she had climbed any mountains, she claimed she had, omitting to mention that her ascent of the 900m Mount Oxford was actually climbed on horseback! Given an ice axe to take to Mount Cook, she hid it under her seat on the train to avoid any awkward questions about the unfamiliar tool. Betsy led the first allwoman ascent of a peak in New Zealand when she, Lella Davidson and Rosamund Harper did a new route on Mount Sefton. The party ascended from the Copeland Valley and descended Twain Stream with Betsy cutting an enormous amount of steps.

Betsy learned to ski at Mount Cook and represented New Zealand in alpine ski racing. Marrying a farmer, she moved to the North Island but eventually returned to guide privately out of Queenstown.

Her guiding career was eventually thwarted by a bad back, from too many big loads. She was recognized by the NZMGA in the midnineties and always said that her colleagues were supportive. *** Junee (born in 1914) climbed as an equal partner with Harry Ayres, rising to prominence when she climbed Mount Cook with him in 1938. Harry often said that he had more faith in Junee’s ability than anyone else he climbed with. While Junee’s husband was overseas serving during WWII, she took a job at the Hermitage as a photographer and began guiding.

Her career was short lived. Mick Bowie (chief guide at the Hermitage) returned from the war in 1944 and dismissed Junee, believing that women could not be competent guides. Trish McCormack says in her thesis: ‘[Junee] was stalked by prejudice and dismissed after the war because society would not accept that women could be competent enough to be mountain guides. It was an injustice which she has understandably never forgiven—it was conceded at the time that she was more competent than some of the male guides.’

Undaunted, Junee continued to climb extensively in the Southern Alps, frequently assisting Harry Ayres on guided climbs as a strong

Anne Palmer in her early days as a glacier guide. Mike Brown

fourth member to a three person guided party. By 1953 Junee had completed two climbs each of Mount Tasman and Mount Cook and climbed all the peaks over 10,000 feet in the Cook area.

Another notable female climber who sometimes guided—while completing her MSC in zoology—was Mavis Davidson. She participated in the first all woman ascent of Mount Cook in January 1953 and, according to Anne Hall (another mountaineer of the 1950s) ‘Mavis Davidson (apart from Junee Ashurst) was the best female climber—tough and fit and very good. She had been leading parties (often all men) for years when I first started climbing. She introduced a lot of men to the mountains’.

The IFMGA and Jos Lang Although there were women climbing hard during the fifties and sixties, there were no women and only a few men guiding during this time.

When New Zealand joined the ranks of the IFMGA in 1977 there was one woman in the fraternity. Jos Lang started climbing in 1969 (the year I was born!) and guiding in 1977 at the age of 27. Qualifying as a UIAGM

guide in 1981, she started to heliski guide in Canada, zipping between Boreal and Austral winters until 1988 when she finally decided to base herself in Canada for the work opportunities and ease of foreign travel.

I remember Jos when I was a brat skier at Porter Heights in the late seventies and early eighties when she was a ski patroller with Dave McNulty. I remember how tough she was. She and Dave would trigger massive avalanches, sheltering under corrugated iron bunkers as the snow roared past. I met her again in 1999 when I began my seven years of guiding in the Canadian Rockies. She was still tough. She kindly offered some reminisces of her early days: on occasion she had clients refuse to go with her and ski clients who would be hell bent to challenge her, but she claims those days are long in the past.

She told me that on her final exam she had to re-ascend a peak they’d retreated from in rain, the examiner’s decision was based on the fact that questions could be asked about qualifying a woman guide. Jos, now in her sixties, continues to guide. In an email she told me that ‘guiding as a career has been stimulating, demanding and oh boy what an office, but as I’m now finding, it’s rather demanding on the body!’

Anne Palmer Anne Palmer followed the journey to UIAGM guide status ten years later, qualifying in 1991 (Erica Beuzenberg was an accomplished alpinist and guide who started guiding in 1989 and completed threequarters of her exams but did not finish as she was satisfied working at her current level).

Anne, a fantastic athlete and an excellent rock and alpine climber, told me in no uncertain terms that she does not buy into gender distinctions and comparisons about work and career situations.

She left guiding in the late 90s to pursue other opportunities, motherhood being one of them, but uses her guiding skills for a new business venture on her family’s high country station. When I asked her about guiding as a career, she stated that the big drawback is the lack of renumeration for the effort

Jos Lang. Kem Johnson

and risk involved and the lack of an obvious career path—a series of observations reiterated by several of the women I interviewed.

Brede Arkless Another woman entered New Zealand guiding in the early nineties. Brede Arkless arrived from Wales, bringing six of her eight children with her as a solo mother.

The world’s first IFMGA woman guide (certifying under the British system in 1971), Brede guided for over 35 summers in Europe and would travel between New Zealand and Europe each summer until her death from pancreatic cancer in 2006.

Famous for her warm spirit, strong Catholic faith, positive outlook and incredible endurance (she travelled and climbed extensively after her cancer diagnosis and operations), Brede climbed and guided many high peaks in New Zealand, Europe and the Himalaya. She even guided Mount T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 107

Erica Beuzenberg in Patagonia. Gottleib Braun-Elwert

Blanc while six months pregnant without her client knowing! Brede and I were good friends. She visited several times in Utah and every Sunday she could, she’d borrow my bike and find the nearest Catholic Church amongst the Mormon ones. My favourite Brede story is the one where she broke a guy’s arm while arm wrestling; ‘Oooh it was terribly sad, we were arm wrestling in the back of a van and his arm came away.’

‘What, you dislocated it?’

‘No, his upper arm broke as I forced it down so I quickly pulled it back up and reset it. Then I burst into tears.’

Caroline Ogden and I I met Caroline Ogden in 1987. We were members of the University of Canterbury Canoe Club. She was studying geology and taught me to say ‘Yosemite’ correctly. We followed the same path in different seasons, me the skier, she the climber. We never did

Caroline Ogden on a recent climbing trip to Kalymnos, Greece. November 2011.

108 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

an exam together or even climbed or skied together much, although we are friends.

We started our exams in the same year, 1996, and finished within three months of each other in 2003. By then we were mostly based overseas. Caro was in Europe, while I had married Scott, an American, and was guiding extensively in North America.

The entry of Caro and myself to the IFMGA brought the number of New Zealand qualified IFMGA guides to four. It has stayed at that number since, although there are two or three poised to finish in the next few years.

Of Caro and myself, only I have become a mother and this has been the greatest influence on my career. I kept guiding in the Canadian Rockies throughout my pregnancy but with Scott often travelling as a freelance documentary cameraman, my career priorities changed. I’ve continued to guide but more selectively—backcountry ski guiding and avalanche education are the core of my work. Particularly in Utah, I find backcountry ski guiding and teaching avalanche classes fit in well with childcare arrangements and I rarely have to be away overnight. Plus, they are jobs that I feel are relatively safe.

The tragic attrition that has befallen many of my colleagues in recent years also forced me to take stock and decide to specialize. A point reiterated by many male guide colleagues who are also parents.

Casting my mind over the ten or so women guides that I know in the NZMGA, I find a troop of athletic, tough, headstrong and confident women. I look at my male colleagues and find the same attributes.

Mountain guiding is definitely typically a man’s job but if you can ‘Do the job well and look after clients in a professional manner and safely, then it doesn’t matter what sex the guide is.’ (Charlie Hobbs). *** Why are there so few women guiding in New Zealand? We may well ask the same questions of builders or roofers or miners. Physical jobs attract certain types. Mountain guiding is a job requiring strategising skills, communication and rapport as well as significant ath-

leticism. The following themes are derived from quotes from a range of guides which I interviewed (both male and female): Parenting ‘I do equate the thought of having kids with changing or losing my career whereas a lot of men might not consider that prospect.

(However,) I guess once you have invested so much time, expense and energy into your profession and you come to such a high standard of guiding, it might be difficult to choose a different vocation once family comes into the mix. But I think that in a similar way to mother guides, father guides may sometimes be torn between guiding commitments and family commitments.’

That quote touched me personally because I vested so much of my 20s and especially my 30s into my guiding career. I was often overseas, away from my partner, onsight guiding, trying to prove myself and be a good ambassador for the NZMGA. After becoming a mother, it was hard to lose those hard-earned yards. I dropped back because someone had to stay home and I was obviously not the main breadwinner!

But Caroline Ogden wisely stated, ‘I do not think it is reasonable to judge anyone (male or female) on the decision to continue guiding as a parent. I think it is a very personal decision. Personally (depending on the types of guiding you do of course) I believe it is no more dangerous than getting in your car! I remember being very upset by the vilification that Alison Hargreaves received because she was a mother and a mountaineer, whilst her male compatriots (fathers of course) were considered heroes in the press.’

Money ‘I think guiding is a very demanding career physically, emotionally and mentally and this affects men and women alike. It attracts young, enthusiastic and adventurous people but a big drawback is the lack of renumeration for the effort and risk involved and the lack of an obvious career path.’

‘For me the realities of being a guide in New Zealand and earning a living … it is difficult to justify long absences for little monetary rewards and to balance a family life.’

Brede Arkless and the author in Colorado, 2002. Anna Keeling

Confidence/size/physicality ‘I learn differently to most males that just sort of front up and do the job. I needed more observation time on high guiding trips. This was difficult to organize and was likely to not be full-paid work. I have found that being small and light, I struggled with the concept of short-roping people bigger than me so have tended to shy away from guiding big peaks.’

Caro said a similar thing, ‘I believe that some male/female differences can make things more difficult for women guides. I have noticed that a man will tend to assume he can do it or completely bluff his way into work he is unfamiliar with. I don’t know any women who do this, they are much more likely to do huge amounts of research or training for something they are unfamiliar with.’

Jo Haines says, ‘New Zealand guiding is not very sustainable physically. I can see myself working in the Himalaya for a while yet, it’s physically less demanding.’

Summary The bottom line is that New Zealand is a tough place to work. The weather, conditions, access, being away from home for long stretches, the risk and the pay all make it so. I worked for years in Canada and even joined

the ACMG for three years. Canada has great female guides, easier access and the pay is good but I think that New Zealand is a more supportive place to become a guide.

Gender never seems to have been an issue with my colleagues. It is a difficult job to balance with the demands of a family, yet once one has invested the time, money and energy it is tricky to make a career change.

Being away from home for periods of time does not always blend well with family life. The New Zealand mountains have considerable relief, necessitating a significant amount of short-roping. Skill and judgement are vital for safety, with size and agility being key requisites. Not to mention exceptional fitness and stamina.

So yes, it is a man’s world set to men’s standards but I have always felt happy to be a part of the guiding fraternity in New Zealand and North America. I am confident in my physical abilities, or at least confident enough to know when to say no!

I am grateful for the courage of pioneering women such as Freda du Faur and Junee and Betsy who have paved the road for the likes of me and Lydia, Jo, Paula, Caro, Penny, Jane and Anna Cook. We are still few, but New Zealand girl guides continue to work in the mountains alongside the guys.

T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 109

Ernest Shackleton, Robert Peary and Roald Amundsen in Philadelphia, USA, 1913. Ed Webster collection

‘ … LET THE RECKLESS COME’ The centenary of Roald Amundsen’s party reaching the South Geographic Pole

by COLIN MONTEATH

O

n 14 December 1911 Roald Amundsen, Olav Bjaaland, Helmer Hanssen, Sverre Hassel, Oscar Wisting and their remaining 16 huskies crossed the final stretch of what they called King Haakon VII’s Plateau to reach Polheim, ‘Home of the Pole’, the South Geographic Pole. Amundsen’s team was the first to set foot at this hallowed juncture of longitudes, fully 35 days ahead of a British expedition led by Robert Scott.

The Norwegians sledged southwards from their winter base, Framheim, at near sea level on the Ross Sea barrier. They drove huskies across the Ross Ice Shelf, (making use of depots laid the previous autumn) before gaining height up the Axel Heiberg Glacier which carves through the Queen Maud Range. Once through this crevassed section of the Transantarctic Mountains, Amundsen pushed on southwards across King Haakon VII Plateau to cross a high 110 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

point of 3376m. Though hindered at times by sastrugi, they generally made good time across a firm surface, gradually descending to the South Pole itself at 2835m.

Amundsen’s men spent several days camped at the Pole, resting and skiing out in four directions, taking sun shots to make sure they were at precisely 90º South. The team left a tent behind with a note for Scott to deliver it to the Norwegian King in case they failed to get back. They then set off for home, reaching Framheim with 11 dogs on 25 January 1912, a return journey of 1600 n.m. (nautical miles) in 99 days, one day short of their original estimate. *** The British, meanwhile, had set out from Cape Evans, Ross Island, on 1 November 1911. In various combinations, they employed dogs, tractors, and Manchurian ponies as well as a support party of men to cross the Ross Ice Shelf on a route pioneered by Scott in

1902. Scott’s Pole party then ascended the highly crevassed and wind-polished ice of the Beardmore Glacier (discovered and traversed

by Ernest Shackleton’s British Nimrod expedition in 1908) before finally reaching the South Pole on 17 January 1912.

Utterly dejected at finding Amundsen’s tent and fully aware of what the loss of priority at the Pole meant for themselves and the British Empire, Scott’s party set off homeward facing grim prospects. Injury, gradual starvation and a deep penetrating cold were constant companions. All five perished on the Ross Ice Shelf during February and March 1912. The final trio, including Scott himself, died in their tent 11 n.m. short of a depot. By then, Amundsen was in the warmth of Australia giving lectures.

Over the past 100 years there has been a near constant analysis of what is often called the ‘race to the Pole’, comparing Scott’s seemingly flawed planning with the

Scott’s Eastern Party on Terra Nova meets Amundsen’s Fram at bay of Whales. Painting by Sir Wally Herbert

clinical efficiency displayed by Amundsen.

Whatever one’s views on the merits of relying primarily on ponies instead of huskies to travel across what can be nightmarishly soft snow on the Ross Ice Shelf, it is indisputable that dogs can be fed to dogs to keep going (Amundsen’s plan) while all the food for ponies must be carried on sledges. (In 1910 the efficiency of the tractor engine left much to be desired, although now vehicles powered by internal combustion engines make most polar journeys).

Amundsen’s use of huskies and his method of travel with them proved masterful. As a great many Norwegians spend their entire youth perfecting the most refined aspects of skiing, Amundsen’s carefully selected team was able to glide almost effortlessly beside the dogs. Skiing for hour after hour was a vital skill on a journey as it took the body weight of five men off the sledges. Their skis were 244 centimetres long, the extra length helped spread weight when crossing small crevasses. Scott’s men didn’t ride their sledges either but they coudn’t glide on skis as they had to constantly pull the full weight of the sledges from the front.

A husky’s line of sight is not far above the snow and as such they get easily bored or disoriented, especially if running across

featureless, relatively flat terrain when there is blowing snow at ground level. Olav Bjaaland was a Norwegian ski champion, so by staying out in front of the dogs almost the whole way as a target for them to aim at, he made a crucial difference. In addition to the energy saving nature of skiing, Amundsen’s success hinged on his reliance on wearing loose fitting, windproof fur clothing. Heat generated by the work of skiing is retained inside fur garments and crucially, given the constant brutal cold of the Polar Plateau, excess sweating can be kept to a minimum. Amundsen did make the mistake of depoting his crampons which could have been a costly error given the large areas of hard bare ice in Antarctica.

Conversely, the British were more traditionally clad in woolens and gabardine windproofs. Outfitted this way, Scott’s party was weakened on the return leg by various factors including less and less calorific intake, which was in part a result of inadequate rations. There was also a lack of fuel due to leaking fuel cans, adding enormous stress to the process of melting snow for hydration and cooking what food they had. Amazingly, when death stared them in the face, they failed to lighten the sledges by depoting their rock samples. This all added

up to being beaten by the cold.

It was prophetic that during the previous winter at Cape Evans, Scott’s right hand man, surgeon and artist Edward Wilson, painted a scene depicting the polar party which included five men hauling a sledge, each wearing skis. This painting was done months before Scott made the last-minute decision to increase his party from four to five, in spite of the planned food and fuel being calculated to support four. Somehow, circumstance dictated that, for a party of five, they only took four pairs of skis. Antarctica does not forgive mistakes like that.

Scott’s men achieved much in Antarctica, including superb exploratory forays into the Transantarctic Mountains, groundbreaking scientific observation around Ross Island and, later, producing a treasure trove of quality scientific and geographic literature with comprehensive maps. When it came to the actual Pole journey itself however, some of Scott’s thinking has to be considered muddled. Despite two winters in Antarctica and hard lessons learned on the 1901 Discovery Expedition, Scott remained an ambitious Royal Navy officer without a significant aptitude or affinity for dealing with polar terrain. One of Scott’s men, Apsley Cherry-Garrard, who later T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 111

Stumbling wide at the limits of the compass Fur and canvas in the wilderness of pain You can lose your mind in the panic of snow blindness Icy winds strike you deaf and numb – at the midnight sun.

None but cowards seek badges of courage Only fools seek the trappings of fame There’s no conquest, just an endless striving There’s no glory, just a restless flame.

No man’s land, white desert, ice mountains Beyond the pole, let the reckless come Bathed in light, an infinity of silence Cleanse the soul, leave the senses stunned – at the midnight sun.

From the song Midnight Sun, by Australian band Red Gum. wrote the time-honoured classic The Worst Journey in the World, described the Pole party as ‘They were an Epic’.

Amundsen—his life’s quest Amundsen would later write of his attainment of the South Pole: ‘I cannot say … that I stood at my life’s goal. I believe no human being has stood so diametrically opposed to the goal of his desires as I did … the North Pole had attracted me since the days of my childhood … can anything more perverse be conceived?’

It was indeed a bitter irony for Amundsen to end up in Antarctica for, reluctantly, he had given up his North Pole ambitions after separate claims by American’s Frederick Cook in 1908 and Robert Peary in 1909.

Aboard Fram, borrowed from his fellow Norwegian explorer Fridtjof Nansen, Amundsen secretly turned his pre-planned Arctic Ocean drift expedition southwards, away from the Arctic. It was while Scott was in Melbourne en-route to Lyttelton to join his ship Terra Nova bound for the Ross Sea, that he received the fateful pre-arranged telegram signed by Amundsen, ‘Beg leave to inform you, am proceeding South’.

Fram reached Bay of Whales on the eastern side of the Ross Ice Shelf in the late 112 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

Norwegian Sjur Mordre skiing beside a husky team on a featureless surface. Note the tiny dot of a skier out in front to help guide the dogs. Colin Monteath

summer of 1911 and the Norwegians lost no time in setting up Framheim. Before the onset of winter, Amundsen used dog teams drawn from their 100 huskies to lay four depots each a degree southwards across the Ross Ice Shelf, the final one at 82º South.

From bitter experience Amundsen knew the importance of keeping team members working to a busy schedule during the dark winter months. In ice chambers beneath the snowdrifts around Framheim that reached a steamy 14ºC they steadily modified each piece of clothing and sledging equipment, trimming every excess gram. Expert skier, Bjaaland, was also a skilled carpenter who significantly reduced the weight of each sledge.

(Scott used the same Norwegian sledges but didn’t modify them). Hot-blooded Scandinavians to the core, the winterers at Framheim also touted a much-loved sauna.

Eager to get underway, Amundsen made the mistake of setting out for the Pole too early, leaving Framheim on 8 September.

Early spring is Antarctica’s coldest time of year, so, frostbitten and severely chastened after only eight days on the trail, Amundsen limped back to Framheim to await lengthening daylight and warmer days. It was during this foray that Amundsen fell out

with the highly critical Hjalmar Johansen, a veteran of Nansen’s famous 1893-96 Arctic Drift Expedition in Fram (leaving the ship, Johansen was Nansen’s partner on an attempt to reach the North Pole with dogs and kayaks). Amundsen removed Johansen from his South Pole Party and ordered him to explore King Edward VII Land with Kristian Prestrud.

Amundsen and his four companions, together with 52 huskies and four sledges, finally set out for the Pole on 19 October 1911. It was a bonus that Framheim was 54 n.m. closer to the Pole than Scott’s base on Ross Island. Of greater significance, however, was that the Norwegians found the Ross Ice Shelf easy going as, contrary to their expectations after reading Scott’s 1901 book Discovery and Shackleton’s 1909 Nimrod Expedition reports, they found the surface smooth, ideal for skiing and driving dogs. For Roald Amundsen, as one biographer wrote, this journey was simply ‘ski racing writ large’.

Amundsen the Arctic explorer Roald Engelbregt Gravning Amundsen was born in Borge, Norway in 1872, growing up in the capital Christiana (now Oslo). From an early age Amundsen modelled himself

on Fridtjof Nansen, a founding father of Norwegian polar exploration. Nansen was the first to ski across Greenland in 1888 and from 1893 – 96 he attempted to reach the North Pole from his purpose-built, roundbottomed ship Fram (meaning ‘forward’) which was intentionally frozen into the sea ice to drift across the Arctic Ocean. The art of skiing is deeply embedded in the Norwegian national psyche so, even from a young age, it was natural that Roald perfected his cross-country skiing technique.

He also took pride in toughening himself up during Scandinavian winters, hence his childhood nickname, ‘The Arctic Explorer’.

Amundsen first went to the Arctic in 1894 aboard a sealing ship. However, two years later, when he had become a qualified mate, he made his first expedition to Antarctica aboard Belgica under the Belgian scientist Adrien de Gerlache. The voyage turned to near disaster when the ship inadvertently spent the winter trapped in pack ice south of Peter I Oy (Island) beyond the southern rim of the Antarctic Peninsula (now called the Bellingshausen Sea). Not only was the Belgica Expedition (1897-99) the first to winter south of the Antarctic Circle, Amundsen and the ships’s doctor, the American Frederick Cook, made the first Antarctic sledging journey (on Brabant Island) and the first forays in a sea kayak (which was hand-crafted on board Belgica). Amundsen long credited Cook with staving off insanity and scurvy amongst the crew during what was a dreadful winter.

He also later visited Cook in jail in the USA after he had been convicted of tax fraud. By that time Cook had also been discredited for falsifying his claims on reaching the summit of Denali (Mount McKinley), the highest peak in North America and in 1908, the Geographic North Pole.

The North West Passage—a grand prize For over 300 years, the North West Passage, the fabled sea route linking Europe with Asia via the top of the Americas, had turned back, trapped or destroyed numerous well equipped expeditions by the Royal Navy, including, most notably, in 1845, that of the illustrious Sir John Franklin. Climate change

and the consequent loss of sea ice has now brought both the North West and North East Passages into economic prominence.

From 1903 – 06 Amundsen was expedition leader and master of the 45 tonne woodenhulled 21 metre sloop Gjøa (largely sail powered but with a 13HP engine) which successfully sailed through the entire North West Passage, wintering three times en-route to the Bering Strait. It was here that Amundsen learned from the Inuit how to drive dog teams and the importance of wearing fur clothing to combat extreme temperatures.

Gjøa’s crew of only six included Helmer Hanssen, who became one of Amundsen’s sledging mates to the South Pole.

In 1918, six years after reaching the South Pole, Amundsen was back in the Arctic. Aboard Maud, Amundsen set out to negotiate the North East Passage, a sea route that links the northern coast of Europe with the Bering Strait between Siberia and Alaska and the Pacific Ocean.

Maud had two aircraft aboard, though both crashed during the expedition, no doubt thwarting Amundsen’s rising desire to fly over the North Pole. After two difficult winters, Amundsen reached Nome, Alaska. This was only the fourth transit of the North East Passage since 1879 when the Swede Nils Nordenskjold completed his famous voyage in Vega which went on to circumnavigate Europe and Asia.

Amundsen takes to the air. 1925 – 1928 Though never a pilot himself, Amundsen next turned to the air to explore the central Arctic Ocean. By then, perhaps craving accolades and the perceived wealth that may accompany such a feat, Amundsen wanted to fly over the North Pole, a geographical ‘first’ that beckoned tantalisingly over a blinding wilderness of sea ice. Unlike his mentor Nansen, Amundsen had not found financial success from his writing and lectures and faced being hounded by rising debt. A fortuitous meeting with the wealthy American aviator Lincoln Ellsworth in New York suddenly changed Amundsen’s luck (later, in 1935, Lincoln Ellsworth would make the first flight across Antarctica).

Amundsen’s Norway flag, embroidered with his expedition dates. Tromso, Polar Museum, Norway

In 1925, Amundsen and Ellsworth teamed up to attempt a flight to Alaska via the Pole from the outpost of Ny Alesund at 79º north on Svalbard, the main island on Norway’s archipelago of Spitsbergen. Both sea planes were forced to crash land on the sea ice near 88º north. Amundsen’s book Our Polar Flight documents the drawn-out battle with repairs that followed. Their pilot Hjalmer Riiser-Larsen finally succeeded in getting one aircraft airborne with all six aboard, taking off from a crude runway hewn through rough ice.

The next year Amundsen and Ellsworth were back at Ny-Alesund. This time, the plan was to fly right across the Arctic Ocean in the dirigible hydrogen airship Norge (Norway). Norge was built and piloted by the Italian Umberto Nobile who flew it from Italy over northern Europe to Leningrad, then went on to tether it to a mast at Ny-Alesund, built by the ground crew working alongside Amundsen and Ellsworth. For the North Pole flight Norge had a crew of 12 (plus Nobile’s dog Titina) including, once again, Hjalmer RiiserLarsen, this time as navigator.

On 12 May 1926, after only a 16 hour flight, Norge succeeded in flying over the North Pole, at which time Norwegian, American and Italian flags were dropped to the sea ice below. Amundsen and crew member Oscar Wisting (a member of Amundsen’s South Pole Party) became the first to see both geographic poles. After a 72 hour flight Norge finally landed at Teller, Alaska. Amundsen’s book The First Crossing of the Polar Sea (1927) describes T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 113

piloted Commander Byrd’s aircraft on the alleged first overflight of the South Pole.

Despite a long-lasting and bitter controversy which subsequently erupted between Amundsen and Nobile over the credit for the success of Norge’s trans-Arctic flight, Amundsen joined the search for Nobile in May 1928 after his airship Italia crashed somewhere on Arctic sea ice. Amundsen, together with five French aviators took off from Tromso, in northern Norway, on 18 June 1928. Amundsen’s Latham aircraft never reached Svalbard and all six were presumed lost at sea.

But did Amundsen really die near Bjorn Oya? Watch this space …

Norwegian American and Italian flags drop on the North Pole from Amundsen, Ellsworth and Nobile’s dirigible balloon Norge.

this first flight from Europe to the Americas across the Arctic, a journey that traversed 3000 n.m. of unexplored polar terrain.

It is worth noting that on 9 May, a few days before Norge set off for the North Pole, another ambitious aviator took off from Ny-Alesund, this one being even more eager than Amundsen to claim the Pole as his own. A young American military officer, Richard Byrd and his pilot Floyd Bennett made a flight northward in Josephine Ford, a Fokker tri-motor aircraft. Upon landing again at Ny-Alesund, both Amundsen and Ellsworth simply smiled at each other when Byrd claimed to have flown over the Pole.

Both knew that in the time the Fokker had been airborne it could not possibly have made the return flight. Though Byrd was widely celebrated for his achievement at the time, it is now generally accepted that he falsified his navigational records. The Norwegian pilot Bernt Balchen, who acted as ground crew for Byrd at Ny-Alesund, was, among others, later prominent in discrediting Byrd’s claim. In 1929, Balchen 114 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

Amundsen’s legacy—the modern era I would give anything to have stood with Ernest Shackleton and his sledging companions Frank Wild, Jameson Adams and Eric Marshall in December 1908 when the British explorers reached the head of Beardmore Glacier, gateway to the Polar Plateau—that great white heart of the Earth.

Shackleton’s ponies floundered though they helped the British explorers reach the névé of the Beardmore, the start point for a manhauling journey across the Plateau towards the South Pole, a venture which, in its day, was as bold as the quest for the moon a mere 60 years later.

Shackleton’s men didn’t reach the Pole, turning back at 88º south, roughly 100 n.m. from the Pole, but they could smell it. It was within their grasp, the ground broken, the gate open. For Robert Scott, who faced the enormity and uncertainty of a route beyond the Ross Ice Shelf in 1902, the psychological barrier was down. Given Amundsen’s upbringing plus his four previous winter’s experience in the polar regions, it has been said that the planting of the Norwegian flag at the Pole in 1911 was almost a formality.

Rightly, though, the Norwegian tipped his hat to Shackleton as pioneer, writing, ‘Sir Ernest Shackleton’s name will always be written in the annals of Antarctic exploration in letters of fire’.

In the intervening 100 years Norwegians have continued to demonstrate finesse and

élan in the planning and style of their journeys to both the North and South Poles.

In some cases the South Pole was merely a brief interlude in a much longer traverse.

Most of these traverses have only been possible since 1985 due to the advent of Antarctica’s first private aviation company, Adventure Network International. But the first major traverse of note was achieved entirely with her own resources.

Monica Kristensen’s 90º South Expedition. 1986 In 1986 Norwegian glaciologist Monica Kristensen planned to retrace Amundsen’s journey from Bay of Whales to the South Pole. Kristensen had her own ship, Aurora, which sailed from Lyttelton carrying supplies, a helicopter and huskies. She also deployed a Twin Otter aircraft which flew from Invercargill towards the Ross Sea. At the limit of its fuel, the utterly committed ski-plane landed on a tabular iceberg. There it was refueled from drums lifted by Aurora’s helicopter before being flown on to the Ross Ice Shelf to help lay depots. On an expedition which never planned to face a winter on the continent, Kristensen did succeed in driving her dogs up the Axel Heiberg Glacier onto the Polar Plateau. Slowed by glaciological equipment however, and with a nervous captain who didn’t want his ship trapped in the pack ice, Kristensen ultimately turned back shy of the Pole.

Mordre brothers drive dogs to the pole (1990) and Erling Kagge is first to the pole solo (1992).

By 1990 the Norwegians were back with style when brothers Simen and Sjur Mordre drove huskies to the South Pole from the Weddell Sea coast. They flew the dogs out then skied on to complete a traverse of the continent by descending the Axel Heiberg Glacier and, with the help of kites to pull their sledges, reached New Zealand’s Scott Base on Ross Island. Two years later, Norwegian Erling Kagge made the first solo ski trip to the Pole, flying out. Kagge, having also skied to the North Pole, was guided up Mount Everest

by New Zealander Rob Hall in 1994, becoming the first to reach all ‘Three Poles’.

constituted the edge of the continent— rationale, perhaps, akin to claiming an ascent of Everest without bothering to come down again. In fairness to Fiennes, he (and his late wife Ginny) masterminded the wonderful 1979/82 Transglobe Expedition.

Transglobe traversed the world on its polar axis via the Greenwich Meridian, completing the second crossing of Antarctica, this time on motorized skidoos (with their own aircraft and ship support), a feat which all the polar pundits of the day said couldn’t be done. Remarkably, while raising funds for charity in recent years, Fiennes has been guided up the notorious North Face of the Eiger and, on his second expedition to the Tibet side of Everest in 2009, he reached the summit as a 65 year old.

Monica Kristensen aboard Aurora in Lyttelton, bound for the Ross Sea and Bay of Whales.

Colin Monteath

Liv Arnesen—first woman to the pole solo (1994) In 1994 Norwegian Liv Arnesen became the first woman to ski solo to the Pole, flying out. Arnesen returned in 2000, this time with American Ann Bancroft (who had already skied to the North and South Poles). The duo attempted to cross Antarctica from the Weddell Sea to Ross Island but flew out after descending from the Pole to the Ross Ice Shelf, calling it quits well short of Ross Island.

It is worth noting that, in 1993, Englishmen Ran Fiennes and Mike Stroud made a 93 day manhaul journey from the Weddell Sea coast via the South Pole to the Ross Ice Shelf. From near the base of the Beardmore Glacier, close to the location reached by Arnesen and Bancroft, they were evacuated by aircraft, almost at the limit of their endurance. Strangely, Fiennes claimed the first unsupported crossing of Antarctica. By way of explanation, he felt that as there is technically sea water under the southernmost end of the 600 metrethick Ross Ice Shelf, their pull-out point

The triumph of Borge Ousland (1995 and 1997) In 1995, Norwegian Borge Ousland, a onetime professional deep sea diver, skied solo to the South Pole. On this trip he developed a serious rubbing in his groin so aborted his planned crossing of the continent, flying out. In 1997, Ousland was back and this time there were no mistakes, perfecting his discipline to maintain a strict routine. He completed a brilliant solo 1500 n.m. ski crossing of continent from Berkner Island to Ross Island in only 64 days. Ousland’s many achievements in the Arctic are equally impressive and he holds the distinction of being the first to ski solo and without depots to both Poles.

At the turn of the millennium the Norskies just kept on coming. In 2000, Rolf Bae and Eirik Sonneland made an astounding traverse from the Dronning Maud Land Coast to Ross Island via the Pole (2050 n.m, 105 days). Sadly, in 2008, Bae died on K2.

However, in 2010 Bae’s wife Cecilie Skog and American Ryan Waters skied across Antarctica without the assistance of kites.

Skog has climbed Everest and K2 and had previously reached both poles by ski (in 2005 and 2006) with Bae. Back in 2005, Rune Gjednes completed a remarkable 2600 n.m., 90 day, solo traverse from Queen Maud Land to the Pole then

Borge Ousland. During the 2011 summer Borge Ousland plans to repeat Amundsen’s ski journey to the Pole from Bay of Whales, minus the dogs and with an ascent of Mt Nansen on the way.

Max Wenden

northward to the Italian base at Terra Nova Bay on the Victoria Land Coast.

Ivar Tollefsen’s Norwegian expeditions in 1994 and 1997 also deserve mention, for although they didnt involve going to the Pole, these mountaineering expeditions were brilliant in their planning and execution to what is a very remote part of Antarctica.

Tollefson’s team broke new ground by pulling off multi-day big wall rock climbing routes on Queen Maud Land’s vertical-sided nunataks. They flew paragliders from several of the 36 summits climbed.

Impressive ‘other nations’ traverses, (1989-1998) A few other nation’s non-mechanized traverses also stand out. In 1989 – 90 German Arved Fuchs (no relation to Englishman Sir Vivian Fuchs who led the 1955 – 58 Commonwealth Trans-Antarctic Expedition, the first crossing of the continent) and Italian mountaineering superstar Reinhold Messner completed the third traverse of continent, skiing from the Weddell Sea to Ross Island.

Shackleton’s dream of crossing Antarctica T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 115

with huskies was eventually achieved in 1989 – 90 when American Will Steger and Frenchman Jean-Louis Etienne teamed up to inspire an international trans-Antarctic expedition with members from USA, France, Britain, Japan, Russia and China.

The six-man team and their huskies completed the fourth crossing of the continent, this time by its longest axis, an astounding 3800 n.m. in seven months (utilising depots prelaid by aircraft).

It was, in part, to support this expedition that the massively-strong yacht Antarctica was built by Etienne in France. In 1993 Etienne skippered Antarctica on a voyage into the Ross Sea with an ascent of Mount Erebus as its main objective. Antarctica became the first sail-powered vessel (with auxilliary engines) to reach the inner sanctum of the Ross Sea since James Clark Ross’s vessels Erebus and Terror (which had no engines) in 1842. Antarctica was later renamed SeaMaster and used on a brief voyage to the Antarctic Peninsula by the New Zealand yachtsman the late Sir Peter Blake.

Renamed again as Tara, the vessel completed a Nansen-style drift expedition across the Arctic Ocean in 2006-08, this time skippered

by New Zealander Grant Redvers.

In 1997, the Belgians Alain Hubert and Dixie Dansercoer skied 1900 n.m. from Queen Maud Land via Pole to Ross Island while in 1998, Japan’s Mitsuro Oba skied 2000 n.m. solo from Queen Maud Land via the Pole to near the base of the Antarctic Peninsula. Almost all of these modern expeditions have made extensive use of kites to help pull laden fibreglass ‘pulk’ sledges.

Most other traverses have relied on vehicles or aircraft to return from the South Pole, some inadvertently after mishap.

Aircraft have been essential for expeditions which only planned a one-way trip, urgently needed resupply or became stranded or exhausted and needed to escape from a tight spot, narrowly averting disaster.

Sadly, a tragic Norwegian expedition unfolded in the Ross Sea late in the 2010/11 summer when the yacht Berserk II dropped off its skipper Jarle Andhoy and Samuel 116 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

Fram, Oslo, Norway. Roy Sinclair

Ulvolden near the US McMurdo Station.

The pair set off on quad bikes to drive across the Ross Ice Shelf hoping to repeat something of Amundsen’s route to the South Pole. Meanwhile, to await Andhoy’s return, the yacht with its three-man crew anchored near Cape Royds, Ross Island.

Driven out in a storm, Berserk II apparently foundered, for, despite an extensive search, the empty life raft recovered offered no evidence as to the fate of the yacht. After evacuation by US aircraft to New Zealand, Andhoy apparently made spurious claims of getting ‘close’ to the Pole.

Centerary South Pole Expedition 2011 Supported by the Norwegian Polar Institute in Oslo and transported to their departure point by private aircraft, Vergard Ulvang, Jan-Gunnar Winther, Stein Aasheim and Harald Dag Jolle set out on skis from Bay of Whales on 31 October 2011, 12 days behind Amundsen’s start date. They plan to arrive at Polheim on precisely 14 December this year.

One imagines that these Norwegians are cognizant of the fact that all the impressive ski traverses in recent years have carefully planned their manhauling route to make the maximum use of kites to pull the

sledges. Wind-strength dictates the size of the canopy selected on any given leg with the kites powered by wind that flows due to gravity from the high ice domes in the interior of Antarctica.

Without the benefit of Amundsen’s huskies, this expedition will no doubt grind its way southward across the Ross Ice Shelf, in all likelihood with the wind in their faces. Will these Norskies be able to match the daily distances achieved by Roald Amundsen? For sure, they will miss the smell of linseed oil on the rawhide sledge lashings and the whine of the huskies before they curl up for the night in the drifted snow. That said, it will be exciting to follow the expedition’s blog entries on Facebook as their diary will be combined with excerpts from Amundsen’s book The South Pole. (Facebook: Sorpolen 2011 and www.sorpolen2011.npolar.no) Other groups, plan to retrace Amundsen and Scott’s journeys to the South Pole, no doubt only going one way then flying out. On of these is a British military expedition organized by Henry Worsley.

See www.scottamundsenrace.org. Worsley has planned two groups, one to manhaul from Cape Evans, Ross Island while the other will leave from the Bay of Whales after flying into their start points by private aircraft from Chile (via Antarctic Logistics and Eexpedition’s Union Glacier base camp). See comment below on Worsley’s 2008 trip to South Pole from Cape Royds.

See also article (15-01-2011) in New York Times titled Tourists mimic polar pioneers except with planes and blogs www.nytimes. com/2011/01/16/world/16pole.html.

This comment comes from the Sorpolen 2011 site: Whatever Amundsen might have thought, the southernmost point on the globe has become a popular destination for adventurers great and humble, traversing distances long and short. During this Centenary season, 210 people will reach the South Pole, one way or another. That is about 50-60 more than during a ‘normal’ season. Of those 210 people, 70-75 are Norwegian. These numbers do not include researchers affiliated with

the American base at the South Pole. Nor do they include people who intend to climb Mount Vinson. That mountain is on the Seven Summits list of the highest peaks on each continent; 190 people were flown in to the foot of Mount Vinson last year.

Most of these Antarctic expeditions fly in from Punta Arenas. Antarctic Logistics and Expeditions www.antarctic-logistics.com (ALE) is the only private airline that offers services in this area (and there is no such thing as a cheap ticket.) This year they will fly in 6.5 tonnes of cargo to their own base at the South Pole to be able to handle all their clients. Around 14 December they will have two physicians stationed there full time. ALE handles three types of customers: ‘soft clients’ or ‘fly ups’ who are flown to the Pole, spend a couple hours, and are flown out; ‘last degree’ clients, who traverse the last one or two degrees of latitude to the pole (one degree of latitude corresponds to 110 km or 60 n.m.); and long-distance expedition clients.

ALE has registered nearly 60 Norwegians who will sail or ski to the South Pole from various starting points. The shortest journey will traverse the last degree of latitude; the longest will originate from Hvalbukta (Bay of Whales).

In terms of distance, Aleksander Gamme has the most ambitious plan: a round-trip flight between Hercules Inlet/Union Glacier and the South Pole, covering over 1000n.m..

The spirit of Roald Amundsen lingers over the icy waste, but the man himself is not chuckling behind his beard or anywhere else.

He keeps his silence, and polar expeditions are definitely not what they used to be.

Though details remain sketchy, Norwegians Asle Johansen, Agnar Berg and Gaute Grindhaug also plan to ski from the Bay of Whales to the South Pole during the 2011 summer season. In 1988, 100 years after Nansen crossed Greenland, Alse made a crossing of Greenland wearing period clothing and using old fashioned equipment. His repeat of the Amundsen route to the South Pole will be in a similar fashion— minus the dogs.

The last word goes to Roald Amundsen, ‘I may say that this is the greatest fac-

The Beardmore Glacier cuts through Transantarctic Mountains from the Polar Plateau down to the Ross Ice Shelf. Howard Conway

tor … the way in which the expedition is equipped, the way in which every difficulty is foreseen and precautions taken for meeting or avoiding it. Victory awaits him who has everything in order—luck, people call it. Defeat is certain for him who has neglected to take the necessary precautions in time; this is called bad luck.’

Postscript: Three non-Norwegian expeditions reach the Pole from Ross Island (1985-2008) In recent years, there have only been three successful non-Norwegian, non-mechanized private expedition traverses to the South Pole from New Zealand’s Ross Sea coast.

In 1985, Robert Swan, Roger Mear and Gareth Wood manhauled sledges up the Beardmore from their winter base at Cape Evans. Though called In the Footsteps of Scott the British expedition didn’t lay any depots, planning to fly back from the South Pole in a Cessna aircraft transported to Antarctica on their ship Southern Quest.

Unfortunately, the ship was promptly crushed by pack ice and sank off Beaufort Island. The team members were forced to return from the South Pole by US aircraft.

Swan’s base was occupied for a second winter before being taken over by Greenpeace

during its World Park campaign.

Backed by Antarctica New Zealand, the 1998/99 summer season saw Australians Eric Phillips and Jon Muir and New Zealander Peter Hillary attempt an ‘unsupported’ return journey from Scott Base to the South Pole via the Shackleton Glacier.

Laying depots as they went, the expedition succeeded in reaching the Pole but not without air support to bolster dwindling supplies. After an 83 day southbound leg (Captain Scott’s journey took 78 days), the planned manhaul back to Ross Island was aborted, the trio flying home by US aircraft instead. At considerable effort and cost, some of Icetrek’s depots were recovered the following season.

In 2008, during what was the centenary of Ernest Shackleton’s Nimrod expedition, Britons Will Gow, Henry Adams (a descendant of Nimrod expedition member Jameson Adams) and Henry Worsley (a descendant of New Zealander Frank Worsley, Shackleton’s captain on his 1914 – 17 Endurance Expedition), successfully manhauled from Cape Royds to the South Pole. After an expedition which attracted little fuss or fanfare, at least in New Zealand, they flew out by private aircraft.

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KIDS OF THE KHUMBU A photographic essay

by MARK SEDON

D

uring over a dozen expeditions to the Himalaya as a photographer and mountain guide I have tried to capture long distance, non-imposing close-ups of the extremely cute kids of the region with my telephoto lens.

I see their postures and faces change when a tourist walks up to them with a big camera (or a small point and shoot) and instead of talking to them they are photographed like models on a catwalk. The more commercially knowledgable parents tell them to ask for candy or pens, which they don’t get to use or eat; the items are just sold.

I try to educate my guests on not giving in to begging. If the guests want to give a gift then we visit the schools and do it through the teachers. Some groups decide to sponsor a Sherpa family by paying for a child to attend a boarding school in 118 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

Kathmandu. Without tourists around the kids are just happy playing with their stones or sticks in the dirt roads and walking tracks.

They have very few material possessions; no toys, no flash clothes, no nappies (just pants with an appropriately placed opening, or no pants at all). It reminds me of the important things in life, and that happiness and well being is critical.

The kids often walk for two hours to school, then another two hours home and then do hard chores around the house. They have no TVs, no school busses, no bikes, but they are happy and laugh and play like all kids should. They still have bullies, still cry after falling in the dirt and still get told off for tramping muddy feet into the house.

If your kids are starting to get precious, or materialistic, I recommend taking them on a trek in the Khumbu.

A b o v e A Lukla kid. Big sister has left her behind to check out a colouring in book her friend has across the road.

F a c i n g p a g e The kids in Lukla are pretty tourist wary. It’s the first stop after a flight from Kathmandu. But they still play in the main street, eating corn snacks in the cool morning air, with cows, porters and tourists walking past their front doors.

R i g h t Can you imagine telling your kids to ‘go play in the street’? This guy was throwing a tantrum, so Mum put him outside and he sat down to examine his shoes. There was a 600 kilogram yak coming up the street behind me. The kid just sat there looking at us and the yak as we walked past. Then he popped his Crocs back on and walked back to his mum’s door and waited.

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A b o v e I was walking past this field and way in the distance I could see this basket, with the baby sitting in there. I couldn’t see Mum for a while, then I noticed her working in the field behind.

B e l o w Arriving at a remote village, the kids stop playing in a field to watch us walk past. We yell,‘Namaste’ and they very cutely put their hands together in respect and say back, ‘Namaste.’ A brief moment of non-commercial, mutually curious, polite exchange of one word which stays in your mind for years.

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B e l o w It’s great trekking along the many dirt walking tracks, with a light trekking pack, hiking boots and a warm cup of milk tea on arrival at your tea house. Just before a town I noticed this girl coming up the track towards us with bare feet and a basket laden full of dead wood collected from the forest floor. She had been collecting wood to run the kitchen fire.

KIDS OF THE KHUMBU

R i g h t This cheeky looking fella was playing on the house steps; up, down, leaning out over a big drop. No council approved guard rails here. He was happy as anything.

B e l o w This is one of my favourite shots. These two were watching the bigger kids, in their school uniforms, head off to school. When my group came around the corner, they ducked back inside the door and peeped around the corner. Taken with a 400mm zoom lens.

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SKY GODS

by DONNA FALCONER

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tourist bus sweeps past with a whoosh of air. The occupants are unlikely to have even noticed the karearea (NZ falcon) sentinel, silently perched on a give way sign waiting to greet them as they drive into the village at Aoraki Mount Cook. Head bobbing up and down, she’s more intent anyway on sizing up her next snack, which will probably be a lizard basking in the sun, oblivious to the danger perched ten metres away from it, casing the joint.

The karearea has such a sweet innocent face, almost cherubic and with dark brown soulful eyes of unfathomable depth. A vision of pure grace and elegance. A distinctive dark moustache or malar stripe runs down her cheeks. With her head cocked to the side, she susses me out, observing. She is always observing and completely fearless as I approach to within a metre of her. It’s hard to equate this innocent looking bird with the high spec’ killer beneath those unruffled feathers. But high spec’ she sure is. Although little research has been carried out on our karearea, much knowledge has been established for the Peregrine, the most well known and highly researched of the falcon species. Peregrine’s have eyesight estimated to be six to eight times more powerful than that of a human’s. They fly at speeds of 230 kmh and can stoop or go into a hyperdive at speeds of 370 kmh. As if that isn’t enough, they can pull up to 25 gs coming out of a stoop and can carry prey six times their own body weight. In the specialised weaponry department, all falcons have a notched tomial tooth which has adapted to sever the spinal cord of their prey. Charming!

The karearea of the South Island high country are classified as the eastern falcon, the largest and also the most common of the three New Zealand falcon subtypes. In the Aoraki Mount Cook area 122 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

adults pair up and courtship commences in late winter/early spring. Eggs are laid in a scrape between mid-October and late November. Scrape sites are chosen under nicely undercut prominent rock outcrops which are capable of providing a decent bivvy. As with all bivvies, some are three star whilst others are five star. Presumably scrape selection improves with breeding experience! New scrape sites are selected each season, although they may also be rotated. All will be within a few hundred meters of each other, i.e. on the same face of a ridge line or part of a watershed catchment. Generally scrapes are within 150 metres of water and usually (but not always) on a north or north-west facing slope and below 1200m.

It is normally reported that eggs are laid directly on the ground, however all scrapes I have observed consisted of loose but distinctive grass nests in a rock bivvy.

Maybe at higher altitude where there is no available nesting material, eggs are laid directly on the ground or rock ledges. From the time the scrape site is selected and eggs laid, the area is actively defended against all intruders. The area of nest defence varies depending on the site and personality and/or experience of the birds involved.

A particularly enthusiastic pair may start attacking intruders from 200 – 300 metres distance. When birds are sitting on eggs however, they tend to sit tight and will not give away their location unless you are right at their outcrop.

Both parents share incubation of the eggs (~ 30 days), but once hatched, the female initially cares for the chicks, with the male supplying all the prey (usually small birds). The female continues brooding the chicks until they are independently thermoregulating at 12 days old. By this time their white natal down has been replaced by thick grey down. From this time on the female is helped by the male and both bring

in food and feed the chicks.

Although the chicks are unattended in the scrape, including at night, one parent is always perched nearby on guard against any intrusion into the nesting territory.

The survival rate of chicks is highly variable, with infertile eggs a significant contributor to nest failures, along with the predation of nests in areas where little or no predator control is undertaken. Feral cats and mustelids pose the greatest threat to nesting falcons. Violent spring thunderstorms which rattle around our high country however may be implicated in the occurrence of clutches of infertile eggs or the death of developing embryos. Such storms, if they occur at a critical period right after egg laying, may be responsible for the apparently haphazard occurrence of localised very poor outcomes in some breeding seasons.

Chicks double their weight every three to six days and are fed predominantly on a diet of small birds and young rabbit or hare. Chicks take their first flight at around 36 days, with males fledging up to four days before females. The parents provide food for the fledglings for up to a couple of months after fledging. During this time you may see the parents doing food drops and mid-air food transfers with the fledglings as they teach them how to become proficient independent hunters in often challenging mountain flying conditions.

Fledglings are cheeky inquisitive birds with a very high propensity for fun and getting into trouble. Exactly like bored teenagers, they will be heard long before they are seen as they chase each other around, bicker and squabble. Although they may have decamped from their original scrape bivvy, they will remain in the immediate nest defence area for a month or two.

Young juveniles will often stay together long after they are independently hunting and may be seen in their original natal

area a year after fledging. Juvenile females can successfully breed and raise chicks in their first year so long as they have a more experienced partner. For others however, things often turn to custard and they’ll have a nest failure. Last season a young female removed and presumably ate her sole chick, so predation by the usual suspects can not be assumed when eggs or chicks go missing from a scrape.

Adult karearea are distinguished from juveniles by their yellow soft fleshy parts (around their eyes, above their beak and feet) whereas in juveniles these are white/grey. Overall, juveniles appear darker in colour as they lack the distinctive barring on their breasts and banding on the back of their wings and on their backs.

This more subdued juvenile plumage aids their ability to be camouflaged whilst they are still young inexperienced birds.

Juveniles’ wings are larger than their parents which compensates for their poorer flight muscles and flying abilities (they are on training wings).

Females are significantly larger than males, one third larger, although to the untrained eye this can be difficult to ascertain unless both birds are together. Males have more intensely cinnamon coloured leg feathers than females.

Attacking karearea are brutal and unforgiving in their nest defence as anyone that has ventured into a nesting territory will attest to. Both parents have distinctive flying styles and work the topography to their advantage during an attack. The female is a notorious contour flier who will erupt over a ridge or crest to meet you at eye level, regardless of what height

that is. The male on the other hand is more aerobatic and often comes in from altitude in a stoop. The male is particularly proficient at hovering to check out what is going on, particularly if you are at a scrape site.

When not in attack mode it is a truly awe-inspiring experience to watch an adult pair doing aerobatics and really working the free lift that comes with flying alongside steep faces and ridge crests. The female is often positioned as wingman behind the

male during some of their synchronised manoeuvres. However, if he decides to put his foot down, he leaves her for dead.

For anyone who has witnessed such aerial mastery, there is no question that the karearea spend a lot of time purely flying for fun. It often seems that the more severe the gale, the more airspeed they can get and the more fun they have with their aerobatics. Some pairs also have their domestics during these manoeuvres which makes for even more entertaining spectating.

Given the attributes of our karearea, for those of us that love being in our South Island back country then it’s probably a very good thing the worlds largest eagle, our very own Haast’s eagle is no longer with us. This giant of the raptor world weighed up to 10 – 15 kilograms, had a 2.6 – 3 metre wingspan, 7.5 centimetre talons and ate moas for breakfast. Imagine being attacked by one of them!

In some North American cities the Department of the Environmental Protection have a falcon SAR unit, a volunteer falcon watch and rescue unit that deals with chicks fledging from high rise buildings. At least that is one issue our karearea does not face.

Peregrine’s in the USA were on the verge of extinction in the 1960s as a result of the use of the pesticide DDT in agriculture. Here in New Zealand, current pest control regimes are similarly the greatest threat to our karearea in the high country.

Karearea do eat carrion and therefore are at the top of the food chain and are heavily impacted by many of our current pest control programmes.

Check out www.nzfalcon.net.nz for more information and photography of our local karearea. There is also information on the website about a conservation trust I wish to establish for the eastern falcon to help raise awareness and promote the conservation value of these iconic birds of the high country.

P h o t o Adult male karearea in attack mode.

Donna Falconer

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The Gertrude Valley, Darran Mountains, Fiordland.

Troy Mattingley

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Area Reports Darran Mountains Tom Riley Barron Saddle – Mount Brewster Jamie Vinton-Boot Aoraki Mount Cook and Westland Jane Morris Wanaka Greg Johnston North Island Rob Addis

Sea ice (Kulusuk), Greenland. Kevin Boekholt 125

DARRAN MOUNTAINS

by TOM RILEY

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nother year in the Darrans has passed in something close to the usual way. Some projects have been completed and some new ground explored.

People have found themselves sunburnt, terrified, soaked and overcome with awe, often in the space of a few hours.

In late February, Richard Turner, Dave Vass and James Speirs climbed a new route on the south-east face of Karetai Peak, having negotiated the climb to Turner’s Eyrie up Cleft Creek. The route is called More Drugs, More Threesomes and there are six pitches which average out at about grade 21. The rock is predictably excellent.

The trio descended the west ridge of Karetai and back to the eyrie where they 126 A R E A R E P O R T S

met Richard Thomson, John McCallum and Tom Riley who had arrived via the Korako Ledges and a traverse of Revelation Peak.

After a claggy day spent eating, the combined group walked down the Te Puoho Glacier and out to Rainbow Lake. At this point Richard Thomson said his goodbyes and split off towards Darran Pass, descending into the Donne before climbing back up to the Grave-Talbot Pass and back to Homer. The rest of the group descended to Moraine Creek and out to the Hollyford.

In March, Martin Wilson and Dave Vass went for a jaunt in the area around Lake Terror. They made a good start on another new route on the cliffs rising out of the lake and climbed the west ridge of the

Llawrenny Peaks, before traversing the ridgeline towards Sinbad Gully.

Up on the Mate’s Little Brother, Zac Orme came very close indeed to onsighting Revelations (27), falling on the final moves of the third pitch after an epic struggle on the first two.

Across the way, on the north face of Moir, Daniel Joll, Rupert Gardiner and Erika Tovar took it back to the Old School (20, 5 pitches) with their new climb in-between the Denz-Herron and Denz-Hudson lines.

Matteo Schoz and Carl Schiller climbed two new routes on the east face of the north peak of Sentinel, both on 20 March. The first route starts on the left of the north-east buttress where the slabs become vertical

F a c i n g p a g e Tom Riley below the lake outlet, Te Puoho Glacier. Richard Thomson R i g h t T o p Reese Doyle climbing the first pitch of Myriad, Borland Bluffs, Monowai.

Steve Skelton

R i g h t B o t t o m Brian Alder enjoying Call it Perfect, Shotwell Slabs, Hollyford Valley.

Troy Mattingley

and meet the red rock in an obvious dihedral. Follow this dihedral for a total of five pitches right to the top. The route is name UareU (15) in memory of Alex Chemelli.

The second route is called New Born (13, 3 pitches) and takes a line starting from the point where the small glacier at the bottom of the face ends. Follow a series of good cracks up the yellow buttress.

Dave Bolger and Rupert Gardiner headed up to the north face of Mount Talbot in late April where they discovered some fantastic rock and climbed a new line to the right of Neal’s Climb. They called their route Walking the Dog, it’s grade 18 and five pitches long.

Nick Cradock, Murray Ball and Dave Shotwell continued their work in gifting New Zealand climbers with moderate, well protected multi-pitch rock routes in the Darrans by bolting three 160 – 230m slab routes on the Shotwell Slabs in the upper Hollyford Valley.

Things were relatively quiet down at the Cleddau crags, compared with years past, but that’s not to say that silence reigned.

Jon Sedon topped off an impressive tick-list by repeating Giving Tree Extension (32) at Little Babylon. Roman Hoffman also spent some quality time at Little Babylon, making fast ascents of a number of the harder climbs. Derek Thatcher finished off a grade 32 project at the Chasm, as yet un-named.

Mount Tutoko saw some action in the way of a new route by Ben Dare and Guy McKinnon back in November 2010. Ben and Guy’s grade V/3+ climb starts from the Age Glacier and joins the upper section of the south-west ridge before avoiding the final headwall on the ridge by cutting out onto the west face before heading to the summit.

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T o p Matteo Scoz on top of Sentinel Peak.

Carl Schiller

B o t t o m Bret Shandro on the snowfield on the north side of Mt Talbot, having topped out after the first ascent of Behavioural Therapy.

Steven Fortune

The Darrans Winter Meet, organised by the Southland Section, was the highlight of the winter season. A dozen people made the journey to Homer, managing to fit in a good amount of climbing despite patchy weather and conditions. Gomer (III, 3) recieved multiple ascents by multiple parties. Reg Measures and Anthony Garvie made what is likely to be the second ascent 128 A R E A R E P O R T S

of Mama Says It’s Alright to Dream (III, 4+) on Mount Crosscut. Steve Fortune and Bret Shandro made the second ascent of Celtic Connection in much better conditions than those experienced by the first ascent party. The Psychopath Wall was also (at least partly) in reasonable condtion. Steve and Bret took full advantage, climbing a new route on the right-hand

side of the face called Behavioural Therapy.

Two new routes also appeared over on the bluffs directly above the Homer Tunnel.

Alastair Walker, Ant Morgan and Jimmy Harrison climbed Night Vision, taking an open groove system in the middle of the bluffs. Meanwhile, Reg Measures, Anthony Garvie and Tim Steward found a deep gully line which they named Tunnel Vision. The climbing is apparently not too difficult, but it would pay to keep your alpine head well screwed on.

Not at all in the Darrans, but worth a mention as it is nearby, is the Borland Bluffs area, near Monowai. Steve Skelton and Reese Doyle have established a number of classy lines on quality granite over the last year. Of particular note is the three star Myriad (22, 3 pitches) which turns on a variety of climbing styles in its 45 metre first pitch, from an off-width to a finger crack and then on to an open book slab and a crimpy face finale. Steve and Reese also opened First Blood (20, 3 pitches), First Blood Part Two (21, 2 pitches), The Bishop (19) and KB’s Crack (18).

On a weekend in November, Peter O’Neill, Stanley Mulvaney and Aidan O’Neill, along with Department of Conservation field staff, distributed 20 stoat traps in the upper Hollyford Valley and the Gertrude Valley.

They are planning to put ten more traps into the Bowen Valley when time allows.

There were a number of accidents in the Darrans this season, including two deaths.

If you’re thinking of a trip to the Darrans, do make sure you prepare well. Work on your routefinding, make sure you’re fit and technically competent and gather as much information as you possibly can. Be cautious and don’t be afraid to rope up or turn around if you think you need to. This can be a very serious place and the line between a successful trip and a tragedy is thin.

The north-west face of the Dasler Pinnacles in winter conditions. Jamie Vinton-Boot

BARRON SADDLE – MOUNT BREWSTER

by JAMIE VINTON-BOOT

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he Barron Saddle to Mount Brewster area received a lot more attention in 2011 compared to previous years, mainly due to Paul Hersey returning to his old stomping grounds behind Lake Ohau and dragging his new and naive climbing partner, Jamie Vinton-Boot, along on multiple occasions, some successful and some not.

The year started with the first ascent of the south-west face of Mount Williams, solo, by Jamie in late January. The full height of the face is probably close to 1000 metres from Thomson Stream, but it is split at half height by a shelf and glacier. Jamie’s route ascends the best quality rock on the upper part of the face to reach the south summit about 400 metres above the glacier with a crux grade of 16.

Jamie plans to return to climb the full length of the face.

Things when quiet for a while until June when Paul and Jamie ventured up the South Temple Valley in search of early season ice.

The pair found a thin coating on the south face of Peak 2200m, just along from Steeple Peak. They put up a three pitch mixed route on Peak 2200m called Don’t Drop the Chandelier (WI4 M5), on the lower right tier of the face, next to The Grr Room.

In early July, Jamie and Nick Hanafin ventured into Bush Stream, adding Deformed on Palpation (WI4+), a short but intense two pitch route on the south face of Mount Brown. Later on in July, Ben Warrick and James Farrant braved delicate conditions to establish Cool Running (three pitches, WI5) on the big central

couloir which holds The Portal and Planet Tourism.

At the end of the month a promising new ice climbing area was discovered in the Hopkins Valley close to Monument Hut, but it wasn’t until late August that a route was completed when Jamie and Paul climbed Honey Badger (four pitches, WI3+). This route is bound to be a classic owing to its easy access. In fact, Kester Brown and Steve Fortune have already claimed the second ascent.

Watch this space as the area will certainly receive more attention in coming years.

In mid-September, Jamie and Paul finally managed to catch the north-west face of the Dasler Pinnacles in icy conditions, an area they had visited on several occasions during the year without success. The result was the first ascent of White Strike (fives pitches, WI3, M4), which is on the right hand side of the face.

Lastly, in late October, Luke Barrett climbed a new grade 2+ line on the north face of Mount Edgar Thomson, to the west of both existing routes, with good quality rock on the lower half.

Overall, it’s been a good year for the Barron Saddle to Mount Brewster area and proof that there is still plenty of potential for new climbing to be done there, particularly winter climbing. The discovery of an ice crag in the Hopkins was a significant find and is likely to be a future magnet for the area. The other single most exciting area is around the Dasler Pinnacles, where there are a number of longer mixed lines still to be done.

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Elke Braun-Elwert high on the South/Hillary Ridge of Aoraki, having completed a new route, Pounamu, on the south face. Marty Schmidt

AORAKI MOUNT COOK and WESTLAND

by JANE MORRIS

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he usual turquoise blue Hooker, Tasman and Murchison Rivers ran brown for most of the summer of 2010/11 as the rapid onslaught of glacial down-wasting occurred at jaw dropping rates around the Main Divide.

However, despite the ‘state of the nation’ out there and the ongoing access problems, 2011 has been one of the more productive of recent years for new route development.

There were a number of major new alpine routes added over the year, as well as a bunch of other additions to various peaks.

The south face of Malte Brun sports a new alpine rock route (to the right of The Christmas Turkey) thanks to Mike Rowe and Ben Dare, the climb is 16 pitches with a crux of 17 and AMC grade 4+.

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When enquiring about a name for the route, Mike replied, ‘we toyed with calling it Snuff but to be honest I don’t really think it needs a name, it was what it was’.

I guess we can’t snuff at that then.

Mount Tasman’s Abel Janzoon Face provided the scene for Stu Holloway and Felix Landman’s Path of Manolin (14 pitches, crux 18, AMC grade 5+), a solid new alpine addition to the face.

Most recently Marty Schmidt teamed up with Elke Braun-Elwert to add a new ice route to the right of Sodom and Gomorrah on the South Face of Aoraki. After 13 pitches the pair topped out and ascended the newly named Hillary Ridge. Marty and Elke have called the route Pounamu and graded it AMC5.

In early October, the new generation (in the form of Matt Thom and Jamie-the line of most resistance-Vinton-Boot) left their mark on the south face of Mount Hicks. Jamie thought he may have been ‘a bit presumptuous in claiming a new route on Hicks’. However, the pair tackled steep terrain, marginal conditions and stormy weather to open Generation Y (AI4, M5, AMC grade 6), a staunch new seven pitch left-hand start to the Central Gullies.

It’s fantastic to see the enthusiasm and motivation from people continuing to seek out new and difficult terrain. But equally so is the number of folks out there getting stuck into some good solid alpine adventures in their backyard. Following are a few noteworthy climbs I caught wind of via the

village telegraph: Jono Hattrell and Sam Henehan climbed Nipple Rib on Mount Tasman, reporting that due to the amount of rockfall, their bivvy at the base of the route was something akin to a train station.

The climb itself was repotedly top-notch however; the Caroline Face of Aoraki was ascended by a couple of young Swiss fellows Dominik Schwitter and Jonathan Hensser; Penny Goddard and Rob Dunn climbed White Dream; village locals Marcus Reid and Rich Raynes scampered up the Sheila Face; and Mark Evans and Jane Morris in late September skied Aoraki’s North West Couloir.

Last but not least I acknowledge the remarkable achievement by Guy McKinnon.

In completing his Project 3000 at the end of 2010, Guy became the first person to solo all of Aotearoa’s 3000m+ peaks, a feat that is made all the more impressive given his injury scars during the latter part of his project.

Finally, in what would appear to be an ongoing addition of female names to the country’s highest peak, the South Ridge of Aoraki Mount Cook has been officially renamed the Hillary Ridge.

Although Colin Monteath’s suggestion to rename the ridge Ruth Ridge was overlooked, Hillary has the ability to, quite unobtrusively, hop the fence and hang with its feminine counterparts—in the form of Linda, Caroline and Sheila.

A summary of other new routes from Westland and Aoraki Mount Cook follows: • Conway Peak, west face, Technospectacle (six pitches, IV, AI5, M7, AMC 7. Jono Clarke, Jamie Vinton-Boot).

• Mount Haast, Marcel Face, Supergroove (four pitches III, AI4, M6, AMC 6+, Jono Clarke, Jamie Vinton-Boot).

• Mount Haast, west buttress, Forgotten Corner (ten pitches, crux 16, Grade 3, Daniel Joll, Charles Langelier).

• Mount Walter, West Rib (eight pitches, crux 14, Grade 3, Kester Brown, Shelley and Paul Hersey, Jamie Vinton-Boot).

• Mount Walter, west face, Stuntman and Chronic (five pitches, crux 18, Grade 4, Paul Hersey, Jamie VintonBoot).

A b o v e Jamie Vinton-Boot on the fourth pitch of Generation Y, south face of Mt Hicks. Matt Thom B e l o w Mark Evans accessing the North West Couloir on Aoraki ahead of a 2000m descent.

Jane Morris

A R E A R E P O R T S 131

WANAKA

by GREG JOHNSTON Cloe Lespagnoll on the old Wanaka classic Lollapalooza (26) at Riverside. Zdenek Racuk

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he assortment of good rock uncovered over the last year continues to amaze long term locals. Some of the old timers have said, ‘The best of Wanaka is bolted out, finished, done. Quality new routes are a thing of the past.’

Well here is a revelation: some of best 132 A R E A R E P O R T S

routes in Wanaka are new and more quality new routes are in progress. At this point in the area’s development, Wanaka seems to have reached a critical mass of routes where even locals can keep entertained moving around from place to place throughout the year. The only possible downside of

the area approaching 1000 routes may be that climbing parties are spread out and the social aspect of cragging in groups be diminished somewhat. More good news is that getting around has become more pleasurable thanks to the Department of Conservation. DOC have installed a new track around Diamond Lake and they have upgraded sections of the Rocky Hill track above the lake to the observation deck with fancy new steps and boardwalks which ease access to many popular cliffs.

Let’s begin the crag update with the ongoing development of Cattle Yard, one of Wanaka’s hidden secrets with bush, birdlife and over 15 new routes which have been put up around the south-east facing side of the area. This new development creates an excellent summer alternative to the shady Diamond Lake area. New routes range from easy warm ups to more difficult test pieces. Check out This One (15***), That One (16***) and the bouldery Moa Pit (26***).

Delta View area has gone from strength to strength with several new and exciting routes in the 21 – 22 range, all side by side. The rock here is top quality, steep and worth the walk.

Once there, several great endurance routes are the reward. Climb Did He Trip (21***), Zig (21**) and Zag (22**).

Just around the corner from Delta View is the totally new crag Far Horizons. The cliff is stacked with long and steep testpieces from grade 27 to grade 29 with a lingering project which is pushing 30+. Project Manager (29***) is recommended.

The Rumour Mill area cliffs went viral.

The area has exploded into a destination with over 35 routes and several more projects from a host of co-conspirators. Name your code, there are steep faces, steep pockets and steep cracks. Find This One’s For You Glen (22***) and Crescendo (25**).

Last but not least, Backup Kai is a new crag in development above and beyond the popular Kai Whakapai Crag. Out Back (18**), Solid White Line (22**) and the two pitch 35 metre classic Tiki Tour (19***) are just the beginning.

NORTH ISLAND

Jono Clarke climbing Reach Exceeds Grasp (M7) at Mangaturuturu Cirque, Mt Ruapehu.

Ricky Tipper

by ROB ADDIS

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limbing in the North Island has improved dramatically since 2005.

We are now living in a North Island development renaissance. North Island boulderers and rock climbers are no longer limited to dreaming about ignimbrite pockets as more rhyolite, limestone and basalt crags have been developed. The escalating number of lines and of different rock types is providing a more varied climbing experience. That in turn is forcing climbers to adapt to different climbing styles, therefore increasing their overall skill level. Ice and mixed climbing has benefitted from gear improvements and a late (compared to overseas climbing) change of vision in how lines may be sent. Currently there are only a handful of motivated mixed climbers in the North Island, which is unfor-

tunate given the fact that Mounts Ruapehu and Taranaki have hundreds of quality mixed lines awaiting first ascents.

The current dilemma facing North Island climbing is not the lack of climbs, but the lack of climbers.

The North Island has been plagued by access problems in recent years. This situation has continued but there have been some resolutions. Following a rock fall at the Mount Eden Quarry, the Auckland Grammar School closed the Long Side.

Thanks to unrelenting efforts by Pete Cammell and a small band of volunteers it is likely the Long Side will be reopened. All the walls at Waipapa are open except for the Crack Wall, Lakeside and the Carpark Wall. A solution to the problem of absolv-

ing Might River Power of liability in the case of an accident is still elusive. The Waikato River Trail is now officially open and it gives access across Waipapa Dam and down the river. You can get onto the climbers track to the Main Cliff directly off the trail. The track to the climbs at Mount Maunganui is closed due to recent erosion.

If you want to climb in that area it’s best to go to Moturiki Island. See www.freeclimb. co.nz for details.

Development in 2011 began with a hiss and a roar with the establishment of an entirely new limestone crag near Waitomo. Pakeho Crag was established by Paul Hunt and co.

Due to its dual commercial and recreational use this crag is user friendly and well developed with over 60 sport lines. Most climbs A R EAREA A RE REPORTS P O R T S 133

are in the grade 11 – 17 range. The crag has received glowing reviews, making it a must visit if you’re climbing grades 9 - 20.

Dan Head, after having lived through the Nattie/Von-Haesley Mangaokewa development explosion, cleared his hectic schedule and arrived in the picturesque Kawakawa Bay before Christmas 2010. He proceeded to fully furnish a cave near The Point, where he was joined by a recession hit Rob Addis and long time Kawakawa developer Matt Thom.

By the end of the summer they had almost doubled the number of climbs at Kawakawa Bay. Dan alone put up over 20 new climbs.

Due to the excellent quality of the rhyolite they were able to continue the ground-up trad ethic first established there by Stephen King. The crown jewel of the trios efforts was the ascent of The Odyssey (17, 18, 22), a breathtaking trad line which opened The Odyssey Wall, a 60 metre cliff reminiscent of a crag at Mount Arapiles. Other standout lines from the more than 40 summer first ascents are: Wish You Were Here (17, 18); the delightful Highway Child (21); an intense 55 metre traditional single pitch named Resolution (23); and the outrageous Space Odyssey (17, 25, 22). With potential for more than 300 more lines, Kawakawa, as James Wright put it, will be ‘hit hard!’

The surprise send of the year award goes to Stu Kurth at Froggatt Edge. Richard Bull and Andrew Wilson bolted a steep prow on the Moon Boulder in Animal Biscuit Gully in 1996. That route quickly gained a fierce reputation, repelling all attempts over the ensuing 15 years. Legend has it that Colin Pohl attached a kettle to the second bolt to scupper Richard Bull’s endeavours. Legend also has it that Colin wasn’t happy when a Frenchman got dangerously close to an onsight of the route. Stu, drawing on his methodical approach to climbing projects, topped out after only four days of effort.

Thus presenting us with By the Power of Greyskull (31). The German/Hamiltonian Holger Moeller, on a flying visit to Froggatt from his new home in the Blue Mountains, recently completed a link up of Built to Last (30) into the crux of Hold On To Your Face (26) to give a new 29 dubbed Facial 134 A R E A R E P O R T S

Reconstruction.

The access issues at Waipapa Dam weren’t enough to discourage Jamie Baron from completing ten new, extremely well bolted routes which are proving very popular with Waipapa fans. Jamie’s lines span grades from 18 to 27. Noteworthy are Honey Bee (18), Easy Lay (22), Defiance (23), Natural Progression (25), Desperation (26) and Immortality (27). To find the new lines visit Bryce’s cafe for info. They should also be up on www.freeclimb.co.nz soon.

The prolific Cliff Ellery, joined by Mark Ashurst and Brian Mercer, returned to the cliff top rhyolite at Buck Rock this year. The outcome of their efforts was Bucking Fumblies (20, 16, 50m) on the far right of the main wall. The pair also established two other great looking lines: Instant Gratification (21) and The Earl of Buckingham (19) at the Buck Rock Summit Crag. This small crag is steadily growing in popularity.

Mount Ruapehu received a lot of attention throughout the year. The development occurring at White Falls is exciting. The cliff has been heralded as the North Island’s steepest crag. Presently there are twice as many projects there as established routes.

White Falls is proving an irresistible destination to the aspiring rock stars of the north. Two of Auckland’s big guns Regan ‘quality plonk’ McCaffery and James ‘AM’ Field-Mitchell bolted two futuristic lines.

Comments such as, ‘a V10 dyno to this sick catch’ were flung around the internet.

Jonathan ‘kneebar’ Clearwater is close to completing an old John ‘8 lives left’ Palmer project called Burning Man. Ewan ‘commie’ Sinclair has more grade 30+ projects than he has had girlfriends! Tom ‘Fyfth’ Hoyle, not satisfied with opening the crag warm up Krakatoa (26) has bolted a line for his grandchildren. Kristen ‘Krispymoto’ Foley has shown he still has fire in his belly by bolting two ‘I had better do these before someone steals them’ projects. How to find the crag? Park at the Turoa carpark and listen for the expletives from the Aucklanders!

At Tukino the rather plush Tukino Alpine Sports Lodge, which sleeps more than 50

people, was gifted to the NZAC (in partnership with members of the Tukino Ski Field) for a dollar. A big thank you goes to the people involved in getting this lodge up and running: Toby Johnston, Don French, the enthusiastic Mocca and others. This is a big improvement to the hut situation on Mount Ruapehu. The best cross country skiing on the mountain is nearby and the frozen waterfalls of Margarets Leap are just 20 minutes walk from this ski lodge.

John Palmer, making good use of the new accommodation, started work on the The Wall of Sound. John has been waxing lyrical about single pitch lines in the mid20 grade range on the wall’s compact rock.

After a miserable 2010 winter, ice monkeys had high expectations for 2011. Suffice to say conditions in 2011 were variable but generally better. Jono Clarke returned to the Mangaturuturu Cirque, producing the steep Reach Exceeds Grasp (M7) and the quality mixed line Road Runner (M6\M7), which saw a handfull of repeat ascents. He was joined by Diane Drayton who added Nervous Connections, an M5 near the bivvy cave. Matt Thom went on an early season four day rampage resulting in Lahalf a Minute (AI2 M3) on Girdlestone and Where Are You Toto? (16) which ascends a clean buttress on Ringatoto Peak. Matt then set his sights on an unclimbed, soaring 60 metre central line at Cathedral Rocks. After multiple attempts with different partners, resulting in three falls on good gear, the line remains unclimbed. Towards the end of the season an injury plagued Rob Addis nabbed the photogenic 60 metre Cumulonimbus Corner (AI2, M3) on Girdlestone.

Bouldering has continued to dominate the scene in Northland. Jase Whitaker and H Hadler have been scrubbing and sending at the B&B Boulders, a new field just north of Kamo. The limestone boulders are tucked away in native bush and are reminiscent of Flock Hill rock with loads of features on some problems and blank nothingness on others. So far an impressive 35 problems, ranging between grades V1 and V6, have been climbed and some projects have been cleaned including some

super slopey highball arêtes. Jase is working on a guide for the area at the moment and it should be released on powerband.org.nz soon. Stu Kurth and Camilla Ansin returned to the Wairere Boulders. Stu ticked his project there, scaling a stunning arête which he named Sun’s Out Guns Out (V9). Mr Satan (V7), Tubby (V7), Sunscream (V5) and some easier problems also went down.

Not to be left out, Fionn Claydon and Roman Hoffman made a visit to the area, cleaning and producing a number of lines including Sixteen Moves to Glory (V8).

Stu reckons more than 80 new problems await sends. In other bouldering news Ant Stead and Ketzal Sterling produced the first Waiheke Island Bouldering Guide.

In the wake of The Co-op and Le Bloc has come The Project, Auckland’s latest climbing community run bouldering wall. James FM and Zane Bray have tried a different approach to the previous gyms, organising talks, BBQs, movie nights, comps and a Facebook group which pushes a constant stream of climbing porn to members. These tactics seem to have had the desired effect.

This year was the debut of the Richard Seddon NZAC Auckland Climber of the Year Award. Richard Seddon presented this award to the Club to encourage and inspire climbers in the Auckland region. This year’s winner was Rob Addis.

The inaugural Whanganui Bay Rock Festival was held in late January. Over 40 climbers appreciated the generous hospitality of the Ngati Te Maunga Whanau, who welcomed them to The Bay with a powhiri.

A succulent hangi awaited the climbers on the Saturday night! A bolting course led by James Wright, Matt Thom and Craig Miller ran on the Sunday. The course served a dual purpose. Existing lines were cleaned and rebolted and had their anchors replaced, while those people interested in the above were given the opportunity to learn how to do it.

Thanks goes to Hangdog gym for donating $1000 worth of climbing gear to raise funds for the marae, and to the organisers: Tom Hepi, Tania Hamil, Marlon Hepi, Aunty Matty and James Wright. Watch out for the second festival in 2012!

Matt Thom on the first ascent of The Odyssey, Kawakawa Bay. Dan Head A R E A R E P O R T S 135

James Morris on Hell’s Half Mile (V5), Flock Hill.

Troy Mattingley

Obituaries Austen Deans 1915–2011 James Ferrier McCahon 1921–2010 George Band 1929–2011 Denis McLean 1931–2011 John Campbell Braithwaite 1935–2011 Bob McKegg 1938–2011

Frozen heart rock. James Stulen 137

Austen Deans 1915–2011 The Southern Alps were Austen’s work and recreational environment for a lifetime. He captured the beauty of mountains in his pictures and he was enthralled by trips to the hills throughout his life.

Alister Austen Deans was born on 2 December 1915 at Riccarton House, the Deans family home in Christchurch.

University life at the School of Art gave the opportunity to develop his passion for the mountains, fostered by the Canterbury University Tramping Club. During five years of membership Austen served as both secretary and chairman. His early expeditions were into the Rakaia and ascents include the first ascent of Mount Bond. On another trip up the Godley, McClure Peak was climbed, offering spectacular views of D’Archiac, a mountain which he developed an affection for, but did not climb until the mid 1970s. He bought his first ice axe and crampons from Oscar Coberger in 1938. These still hang beside the door to his house at Peel Forest.

In 1939, Austen, with his brother David and five cousins enrolled for a territorial unit.

When war was declared this unit was disbanded and the participants were recruited to the regular forces. Austen was appointed to the 4th Infantry Brigade, 2nd New Zealand Expeditionary Force and drafted to the intelligence section. This involved reading maps, route finding and scouting. He was promoted to Lance-Corporal and has observed that he never lost the rank, either up or down and at the end of hostilities must have been the most senior Lance-Corporal in all the British forces.

The Battalion was sent to Egypt in 1940. Austen found the training, sand and flies tedious but these were relieved by painting scenes of the desert and the camps. Those pictures were sent home, exhibited in Christchurch and Austen established his painting reputation. In March 1941 the Battalion was sent to Greece.

Austen reveled in the sight of mountains, green fields, cooler temperatures, the people, and the opportunity to paint. After initial advances, the Battalion went into retreat and were evacuated to Crete. While on Crete, Austen was appointed as a war artist and was commissioned to record scenes of Egypt as Peter McIntyre had not participated in that sector. Austen was offered the opportunity to return to Egypt or remain in Crete and paint from memory. He elected to avoid the sand and flies. The next day he was injured by a land mine, and hospitalized. Five days later the Germans captured the hospital

138 O B I T U A R I E S

and so started four and a half years as a Prisoner of War. When he recovered from his injuries he was sent to Stalag XX-A in Poland.

Painting and pencil sketching were major occupations in Austen’s spare time. Pencil portraits provided an income to purchase further painting and sketching supplies, as well as additional food. On one occasion a guard asked for his portrait and this was arranged for the next day. Two prisoners asked that Austen keep the guard occupied for over an hour with his back to the courtyard he was meant to be watching.

The prisoners used the courtyard for their escape and six weeks later a postcard was received advising of their safe arrival in England. Austen took pride in using his artistic skills to help forge travel documents for escapees. He used potatoes and an ink he made from soot and other ingredients to get the right colour for the stamps. Some consignments of his art work were successfully sent to Britain, others got lost on the way. Austen turned down opportunities for escape as he wanted to bring out as much art as possible.

In 1947 he married Liz Hutton and part of the honeymoon was a painting and tramping expedition to the Siberia Valley. After this Austen had a trip to Westland and climbed Park Dome and made first ascents of Artists Dome and Bloomfield.

From 1950 Austen took to the hills on numerous painting expeditions. The subsequent exhibitions established him as Canterbury’s foremost landscape painter. Austen and Liz had purchased a block in Peel Forest and then built the home they called Chawton. Over the next decade a family of seven boys was produced. Family life with seven sons ensured skating and skiing in winter and summer expeditions to local hills.

In January 1954 with Edgar Williams and Raymond Taylor, Austen made the first ascent of the Lion and climbed Macpherson and Talbot, all in Foirdland. Later that year, again with Edgar plus Marty Bassett and Ray Copp, Austen made first ascents of Birthday, Terror and Llawerny peaks. Austen joined the New Zealand Alpine Club in 1964. In later life Austen had regrets that he had not been more active in the Alps during this period, but he was in demand as a landscape painter. His reputation was enhanced by a first placing in the Kelliher Art Competition in 1962 and 1963, and second places in 1969 and 1970.

In 1973 I was invited to climb with Austen and Jock Nansen on Mount Cook. Thus began a friendship to last the remainder of his life. Subsequently we had enjoyable ascents

of Hutton, Murchison, Cloudy Peak and D’Archiac among others. All those involved painting as well as climbing. On Cook Austen took his paints to the top and then found, as we were above everything, he had no horizon to paint to. His painting of Mount Tasman in the evening light, made from the top of the summit rocks, displays his skill in capturing mountain features and late afternoon light on the Alps.

A feature of climbing with Austen was the wisdom and humility in the evening discussions.

He always saw the good in people. In one discussion on trust and mate-ship he observed that one should never lend your ice axe, your tooth brush or your wife. On a recent trip he advised us he had left half his gear at home and asked to borrow my tooth brush. I knew then that our friendship had reached a new level.

In 1982 Austen had a painting trip to Antarctica and he considered that the paintings he produced were among the best works of his later years. The very cold conditions resulted in the water freezing before drying with crystal patterns forming scintillating watermarks, an effect which gave the pictures an unusual depth.

With brother David and Gottlieb Braun-Elwert, Austen, at age 79, completed the Copland Pass crossing. To mark his ninetieth birthday Austen climbed Little Mount Peel with son Peter and grandson Sebastian. Although this was his last ascent, he was still active in the outback. He participated in rafting trips on the Rangitata, Clearance, Buller and Waiatoto.

Liz died suddenly in 2004 and the subsequent years were lonely for Austen but this did not discourage his painting and outback activity. In 2009, aged 92, Austen married Margaret Alpers, a long time family friend. Trips to the back country continued, the last being two months before his death on which he still completed two pictures a day. He donated a picture from his last outback painting trip to help raise finds for the Unwin Hut rebuild.

We have lost a true mountainer and are fortunate to have the legacy of 80 years of paintings of the Southern Alps.

–Limbo Thompson

James Ferrier McCahon 1921–2010 Jim enjoyed a lifelong enthusiasm for the mountains, skiing, climbing, tramping and just being out in the New Zealand he loved. His membership of the New Zealand Alpine Club spanned 66 years, a testament to these enduring interests.

Jim grew up in Dunedin, the youngest of three. Their parents encouraged them to develop their own interests, making rooms available for brother Colin to have an art studio, and Jim to have a laboratory and a workshop shed.

From early on, Jim was attracted to the great outdoors. At high school, he and a group of friends roamed a large area of rough land north of Dunedin, camping, building a hut and shooting rabbits. With combined interests in botany, geology, chemistry and physics they were the geeks of their day. They were also marginal hoodlums, who made explosives and, as Jim put it, ‘loud bangs’ out in the bush.

The summer after finishing high school, Jim and a friend walked overland from Dunedin to Clyde, then over the tops to Queenstown. They travelled light, subsisting on rabbits and wild gooseberries. This was a formative experience which he recounted throughout his life.

In 1940, he started university, studying science and getting into the hills with the uni tramping club. In 1941, he and friends rode bicycles to Queenstown and walked the Routeburn Track. The Homer Tunnel was being dug and the bores from either side had just met. They knew the right people and went through, the centre part being a crawl on hands and knees.

It was war time, but he escaped conscription because he was studying subjects of value to the war effort. In 1941 he was ordered to study radio physics, the forerunner of electronics. After completing his final exams in 1942 he was ordered to Canterbury College, now Canterbury University, to a research laboratory which was developing electronic gadgets for New Zealand’s war effort.

Around this time he tried skiing and was hooked for life, despite learning on heavy wooden skis and having to toil uphill for each run. He skied from then on, including a trip to the Fox Glacier in 1976. His last day on skis was his eightieth birthday.

In 1944, Jim was ordered to Wellington to work on a ‘top secret’ war project—to search New Zealand for uranium. He and some other physicists built New Zealand’s first Geiger counter. The next three years were spent

exploring wild parts of the South and Stewart Islands. They failed to find any significant deposits of uranium, but had a wonderful time exploring rugged and remote country.

On 5 August 1945 he heard on the radio about the Hiroshima bomb. Jim was horrified and developed an enduring repugnance for nuclear weapons. This led him to join the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament and I remember his maps of New Zealand, overlaid with transparencies showing where the wind would spread the nuclear fallout after an explosion.

In February 1947, Ian McKellar initiated a trip to the Olivine Range to look at the geology.

They went in via the Hollyford Valley and Pyke River. They got onto the Olivine Ice Plateau and made two first ascents. Jim spent the rest of 1947 on leave without pay, getting his MSC. The following year, Jim, Colin Todd and two others returned to the Olivines via the Matukituki and the Arawhata. They had a list of peaks to climb, but got onto none. It rained from the north-west almost incessantly for the whole four weeks.

In Wellington he joined the Tararua Tramping Club and was in the party which assisted with the Dobson rescue in 1946. On a trip in 1948 he met Joan Corkill, a veteran tramper and lover of the mountains. They were married in November and shortly after sailed to England. Jim had accepted a two year assignment to a nuclear research establishment at Harwell. When their first baby arrived they purchased a tandem bicycle, complete with side car for the baby, and proceeded to explore the surrounding district. They also managed a cycle tour (without baby) of parts of the Swiss and French Alps.

They returned to New Zealand in 1951, Jim to a job in medical physics with the National Radiation Laboratory in Christchurch. In the 1950s there were proposals for nuclear reactors in New Zealand (for research and electricity generation) and a realisation that New Zealand could be visited by nuclear powered ships. Jim went on a one year course in nuclear reactor safety at Oak Ridge, Tennessee. At the end of the year, Jim and Joan packed their four children and camping gear into their old station wagon and drove across America to Los Angeles to catch the boat home.

Nuclear power faded from the scene, to be replaced by nuclear weapon testing in the South Pacific. This led to trips to the islands to set up

and supervise monitoring stations. Much of the travel was by Sunderland flying boat, which Jim greatly enjoyed. In 1973 the New Zealand government dispatched frigates to protest against French testing at Mururoa, Jim was pleased to be asked to go. It gave him an opportunity to apply his professional skills to his opposition to nuclear weapons.

Jim became a member of the nuclear shipping sub-committee, tasked with reporting on the safety of visits by nuclear powered warships.

He proposed that the report should include the statement, ‘We are considering the safety aspects of nuclear propulsion and this report has nothing to do with the safety aspects of the possible presence of nuclear weapons on the ships’. His suggestion was most unwelcome and he was pretty much sidelined until his retirement in 1980.

Following retirement, Joan and Jim created an extensive garden at Conway Flat in North Canterbury and then a more modest one (only half an acre) near Kaikoura. These homes provided a family focus for their children and grandchildren.

Jim’s last years were marred by ill health and profound deafness, but he never lost his intense curiosity about the world. His study was always piled with partly read New Scientist magazines, with articles marked to be read when he had time. Right until the last few weeks of his life Jim would say, ‘I’d like to live to be 100 to see what will happen.’

We miss him and his generous spirit, his sense of humour and his appalling plays on words.

–Olly McCahon O B I T U A R I E S 139

George Band 1929–2011 George Band died on 26 August, aged 82. He was one of the illustrious overseas climbers who were honorary members of this Club.

He was born in Taiwan where his parents were missionaries. They had the good fortune to leave for England two weeks before Japan entered World War II. His education continued in England and in 1954 he completed a degree in geology at Cambridge.

During his university years George had several successful visits to the Alps and he was elected to be chairman of the university mountaineering club. He was very active with a group of students who made frequent climbs on the crags of Wales and Scotland.

He completed the compulsory military service which operated for a few years after the war. Among his army achievements he gained skills in radios and food catering.

George was invited by Colonel Hunt to join the 1953 Everest Expedition. Aged 23, he was the youngest in the party. When John Hunt learned of his catering skills he put George in charge of food lists and purchasing as well as radios. He was so successful he was given the same jobs for Kangchenjunga two years later. Both teams lived very well.

On the expeditions of the 1950s many camps were placed on the mountains and much of the active time was spent in escorting laden Sherpas doing the stocking of supplies to the camps. Sherpas in those days had no mountaineering skills. It was rare for any to speak English. 80 per cent of the time the climbers were roped to two or three porters on the repeated journeys, especially between the lower camps. It seems that George did more than his share of that work and was given just one chance to go above Camp 4. George felt he learned a lot and he greatly impressed Charles Evans, the deputy leader, who later invited him to join the Kangchenjunga Expedition in 1955.

In 1954 George was with a Cambridge team which drove all the way to Pakistan for an unsuccessful attempt on Rakaposhi. He wrote a book, more about the road than the mountain. After their return George twice failed the UK driving test.

On Kangchenjunga he and I were together doing nearly all the route-finding and placing of fixed ropes and bridges. He was always very competent and an amusing companion.

The others were busy on the weeks of escorting work. Above Camp 3 Evans himself

140 O B I T U A R I E S

replaced George for our upwards push to choose sites for the next two camps.

Evans decided to separate George and I for the summit attempts. George led one with Joe Brown, and Tony Streather was with me, one day later. All four of us reached the turning point of about three metres below the exact summit, this was out of respect for the Sikkim ruler’s views about the final resting place of high lamas being the summit.

Because the first pair were so late they shared our two man tent on the way down, instead of descending to the next camp as intended.

Four of us spent the night in a tent 2m x 1.2m in size and with just two sleeping bags.

We were still friends in the morning. All four of us have been credited with the first ascent.

George began his main career work with Shell, specialising in gas and oil exploration. In that capacity he visited New Zealand twice for work on the Maui field. He came to Christchurch and we kayaked through the Waimakariri Gorge long before it became the course for racing. He was here once more for Ed Hillary’s funeral. George and his wife Susan appreciated Christchurch and walks in the Akaroa hills. With Shell Oil he had many overseas postings and during vacations he managed to climb in Peru and the Caucasus.

Later he became chairman of the Alpine Club and of the British Mountaineering Council. He wrote a highly praised book, Everest – The Official History and then a history of the Alpine Club for its 150th anniversary.

A UK extension of Hillary’s Himalayan Trust was established. Initially George Lowe was chairman, but with failing health he had to retire. George Band stepped into his shoes and he began major fundraising and supporting schools in mountain villages south-west of Kangchenjunga. Long after his retirement from Shell he became the director of a trekking company and with his wife he led several groups to his favoured area of Nepal. I went on one of these, timed for the fortieth anniversary of our Kangchenjunga climb. George led this very mixed group with patience and efficiency, going to the sites of both the mountain’s base camps.

When I read John Hunt’s book The Ascent of Everest I gained the impression that being the youngest in the party he was treated as the boy and not given a major task, considering his abilities. I discussed this with

him and he commented, ‘All the Brits had done compulsory military service during or after the war and our leader was a serving colonel. It would not be done to push one’s leader, unlike the two New Zealanders who were unrestrained about their thoughts on what should be done.’ In Chamonix in 1980 I raised this topic with John Hunt, during many happy lubricated reminiscences. He said others had remarked on the way he had almost downplayed George in the official book. He regretted it and said he should have used him earlier on the Lhotse Face and possibly higher.

George had an admirable ability to grasp a range of subjects and make relevant comments. In Gangtok, Sikkim, in 2005, my daughter Sarah and I were sitting beside him during two days of sometimes ponderous speeches commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of our ascent of Kangchenjunga.

George, in the front row, frequently fell asleep. A formal speaker on the stage addressed a question to him. Sarah nudged him and said he was asked a question. George stood up and without hesitation spoke loudly and clearly for five minutes on the need for Sikkim to open its frontiers to trekkers. This was a different topic and nothing to do with the question, which he hadn’t heard. He received generous applause from the audience.

George had what I regard as the restrained stiff upper lip of an Englishman.

I recall him criticising, in his Oxbridge accent, Cherry-Garrard’s book, The Worst Journey in the World. The author had elaborated their sufferings and near tragedies in some detail. George commented, ‘All true of course, but one doesn’t write about these things.’ He did not wholly support a small

part of my book, written in 2007, where I revealed some minor differences I held about decisions made on the Kangchenjunga Expedition. I had made it known at base camp that I thought that Evans, the leader and best climber, should have put himself in one of the summit pairs.

In the early 1950s most British mountaineers were very competent rock climbers but few were experienced on big ice. This was because Europe was cut off during the war and for the subsequent five years they could obtain just 25 pounds of foreign currency each year. On Kangchenjunga, Evans and Band were far above the other Brits in the technical aspects of the ice climbing.

I have lost a precious friend and the climbing world has lost one of its greatest participants. A great tree has fallen.

–Norman Hardie

The MacKenzie Basin

Winter Tussock

A December evening as the sun slides down Splashing its brush over tussocks, snowy peaks.

Subtle shades paint the days last light.

The tussock protrudes from the snowy mound, akin to the wispy hair on an old man’s head.

Whizzing by the window eyes only soaking it in.

Keeping it kiwi on the stereo.

This home The mountains give a sense of identity woven into their valleys.

Another chapter in paradise Aotearoa.

Turn the pastel page Begin.

–Jane Morris

It bends, it waves, it makes no sound Yep it’s golden; it must be said A hint of green and a bit of brown and orange streaks to my surprise.

Nature’s painting is all around us; if we just but use our eyes Half standing—half bowing like an ovation to the sun every spike is different each and every one Some short, some long, some searching for the ground.

And some lie deep within Its heart and never will be found Some are blunt and some are broken, some sharp and so obtuse. Some iced over and heavy so tell me what’s their use.

Retaining the mountain, keeping it up is this their greatest cause?

And now my thoughts on tussock may subtly add to yours.

–PK

Denis McLean 1931–2011 ‘Highly Respected Diplomat, International Relations Authority and Author Dies’ was the headline in the news media after the death of Denis McLean on 30 March. The accolades for his professional career were rightly very glowing. A few mentioned his interest in walking and referred to his book, The Long Pathway: Te Ara Roa. He wrote this in 1986 after an 800 kilometre family walking expedition along the east coast. He subsequently became chair of the Wellington Regional Trust of Te Araroa Trust for establishment of a walkway to go the length of New Zealand.

What is not commonly known is that Denis was also a member of NZAC for a good number of years, joining in 1966. From the late 1960s he was based in Wellington and went on several trips with Wellington Section members, including to the Kaikouras, Nelson lakes, Arthurs Pass, Egmont and Ruapehu. There is no record of him having done any really hard climbs, but this was more likely to have been because of his work and family commitments.

At the same time as Denis was based in Wellington he became friends with a fellow diplomat Colin McLean who was attached to the UK High Commission. The two of them accompanied other members on several trips. He also went away with another New Zealand diplomat John McArthur.

His interest in the Club did not wane and some years later when he was Secretary of Defence he was able to arrange a seat on an RNZAF fight for club member Dick Price to attend a high altitude medicine conference in Europe.

–Brian McGlinchy O B I T U A R I E S 141

John Campbell Braithwaite 1935–2011 I had known John (Jock) since 1952 when we were students at Otago University. His unexpected and premature death, from chronic leukaemia, on 24 July 2011 was a great shock to all and was recognised by more than 400 people who attended his memorial service in Nelson.

Jock received an early introduction to the hills when at Southland Boy’s High, where his father was a master.

The trips through the school were to the mountains of Fiordland and the Hollyford and Lake Hauroko areas.

Upon graduating from the Otago School of mines with a Bachelor of Engineering in 1957, Jock joined the early minerals pioneer Tas. McKee, of lime and marble. Together they realised the potential of New Zealand minerals, particularly non-metallic minerals such as limestone, dolomite, talc and bentonite, for agriculture and industry.

Jock was involved with a geological survey of the ancient rocks of western Nelson and the Red Hills and with oil exploration off the New Zealand coast.

More recently, Jock became a specialist in alluvial gold recovery and plants here and overseas. He became a member of the Australasian Institute of Mining and Metallurgy in 1965 and was chairman of the New Zealand branch from 1975 to 1977.

Jock was a formidable tramper and load carrier. He was capable of lumping a Cobra drill or

a bag of cement uphill with seeming ease. One would not want to attempt to match his speed going downhill either.

Serious mountaineering came naturally to Jock, although we were late starters in going to the high Alps. Pre-Christmas climbs of Jock’s included: Mount Sefton from the west; an attempt on Zubriggen Ridge; Silberhorn from the Grand Plateau; the Low Peak of Cook from the Hooker Valley; Mount Hicks from Empress Bivvy and a great, longrock climb from Twin Stream in the Ben Ohau Range over Mount Mary and on to the Alpine Guides old teepee.

We realised that better weather and conditions could be had in February and thus were able to complete a Grand Traverse of Cook from Plateau to Empress Hut in 1979. Later that year we took Rosie B and Min W (our wives) over Copland Pass.

As latter day mountaineers, all our high climbs were done in the company of Mount Cook Alpine Guides and were led by Gavin Wills (a fellow geologist and lifetime friend of Jock’s). Included also were: Mike Brown, Nick Banks, Andy Smith, Paul Scaife and Lance Jennings.

Jock was fortunate enough to make many trips to remote places. He visited Everest base camp accompanied by a Sherpa and climbed Gokyo Peak on a John and Di McKinnon expedition.

Rosemary and Jock also climbed Mount

Kilimanjaro on a Shaun Norman trip when Jock was 72.

Our stomping ground—the Nelson/ Marlborough province—was not neglected. We climbed most of the local peaks, especially those in Nelson Lakes National Park.

Jock was a most reliable, meticulous and cheerful companion. He once saved me from a potential ‘peel’ and is probably one of the few to climb Cook in Anson boots!

–Rod White

Bob McKegg 1938–2011 Bob was born in Palmerston North, the fifth in a family of six children. His interest in the mountains was kindled at the early age of 12 when he made an ascent of the North Island’s highest peak (Tahurangi) with the Manawatu Tramping Club. This was followed between 1951-55 by a variety of tramps in the Tararua, Ruahine, Waitakere, and Hunua ranges.

However, his interests at this time were not confined solely to the hills. During his secondary school years as a boarder at Kings College he was well known for his all-round sporting ability (he was in the cricket first eleven, hockey first eleven, and rugby first fifteen) and also for his exceptional singing 142 O B I T U A R I E S

and acting ability in the Gilbert and Sullivan operas which the school produced.

At Otago University he followed in his father’s footsteps and studied dentistry. In 1956 he attended a mountaincraft instruction course and the same year, together with three other climbers, made the first winter ascent of Mount. Earnslaw. The following year he became a member of the NZAC and over the next five years made numerous ascents in the Otago mountains and central Southern Alps. These included (amongst many others) a Grand Traverse of Mount.

Cook and the second ascent of Sefton’s east face via Tuckets Col. and across the upper ice

shelf to the ramp leading to the prominent notch south of the main peak. He was also employed during several Christmas vacations by the Mount. Cook National Park Board as a student guide and was a team leader during a major SAR exercise.

In 1961 Bob graduated BDS and after a short period of general practice in Feilding, headed to London where he spent two years doing general dental work and travelling in Europe. In 1963 he met and married Joanna (Jo) Edgar, a Kiwi nurse who was also on her OE. Jo was the love of his life, and a wonderful soulmate.

In 1964 Bob and Jo returned to New

Zealand where he took up general practice in Wellington and joined the local section of the NZAC, where he soon became an active section committee member and also editor, for two years, of the NZAC Bulletin (the forerunner to The Climber). Bruce Popplewell recalls that ‘Bob was like a breath of fresh air, full of good ideas and a most welcome addition to the Section Committee.

As an example of his enthusiasm, on one occasion he hired (at his own expense) a small aircraft to fly over the coastal ranges of the Wairarapa in search of new rock climbing areas. This was followed by several enjoyable climbing expeditions to check out the various limestone bluffs he had found.’

His involvement in light opera was also rekindled during this time and he took a lead role in many Wellington stage productions.

In 1969 Bob conceived and took the lead in organising an expedition to the Tien Shan mountains in Russia as part of a mountaineering exchange and was within a whisker of gaining approval from Russia when the plans had to be abandoned due to increasing political unrest between Russia and China.

In the year following this, the McKeggs headed to Norfolk Island where Bob helped establish the island’s first permanent oral health service. In addition he developed and managed the Norfolk Island Broadcasting Service (station VL2NI) for three years and started up a small cliff climbing group.

Following his time at Norfolk Island the family moved to Canberra where Bob became the Principal Dental Adviser to the Minister of Health between 1973 and 74 and helped develop the Australian School Dental Service.

In addition he gained a Diploma in Public Health from Sydney University. To satisfy his continuing interest in hills, he joined the Australian Section of the NZAC and took part in several ski touring and hut stocking trips in the Snowy and White River areas.

In 1976 the family relocated to Auckland where Bob specialised in the field of Preventative Periodontics and also became a senior lecturer in the field of Public Health at the Faculty of Medicine at Auckland University. He maintained his interest in the mountains by becoming an active member of the Auckland Section, adopting the role of Chairman between 1977 and 78, and Ruapehu Hut officer between 1980 and 84.

During these years and up until 2000 he made several more trips to the South Island mountains, including visits to the Hopkins, Elcho, Huxley, Dobson, Matukituki, Dart,

Rees, Awatere, Tasman, Mueller, and Jollie Valleys, and Jungle Creek and (together with other climbers) completed a number of climbs including Tapuae-o-uenuku and the first ascent of the North Buttress of Annan.

In 1985 Bob extended his ski mountaineering experience and over the following three years led small groups of friends on trips to the upper Tasman and Fox Glaciers. It was during one of those trips that the concept of Centennial Hut was born and Bob and two other Aucklanders dedicated themselves to making it happen. The success of Centennial Hut is due in no small part to Bob’s input.

The three ski touring trips mentioned previously turned out to be ‘warm-ups’ for a trip that Bob had been planning for several years: to ski the length of Switzerland during the European Spring of April 1990 from Austria in the east to France in the west.

Apart from an early accident to one of the five members of the team, the trip was a great success, thanks largely to Bob’s forward planning and his working knowledge of German and French gained during his earlier OE in Europe. Back in New Zealand he spent several winter weekends doing double and triple ski crossings of Ruapehu from Turoa to Tukino, Tukino to Whakapapa, and Whakapapa back to Turoa.

During the mid 1980s Bob developed a close interest in Maori health and after becoming fluent in Te Reo became a public health consultant to the Ngati Hine Health Trust (subsequently modified and renamed Hauora Whanui). His aim was to improve the health of young Maori in a large area of Northland and also to make the Government’s mainstream health services more relevant to Maori. He also helped develop ‘cultural competency’ courses for all undergraduate medical students, and the creation of the Department of Maori and Pacific Health in the Faculty of Medicine and Health Science at Auckland University.

While many people hang up their boots in later life, this wasn’t Bob’s style and he spent several enjoyable summer holidays introducing firstly his two daughters and later his two boys to New Zealand’s mountains. He also repeated part of his earlier Switzerland traverse by skiing from Kleine Scheidegg to Zermatt with his boys in 1995.

In 2001 Bob was elected President of the NZAC. However, a short time into his two year tenure he was offered a management job (by the UN and AusAid) with the newly evolving public health system in East Timor.

Bob had dedicated much of his life to giving service to the underprivileged and the pull of this project proved exceptionally strong. The fact that he chose to resign the presidency to take up this post typified his fundamental compassion and desire to assist those in need.

Throughout his life Bob was an enthusiast who could think beyond the square and instil enthusiasm in others. He was also incredibly easy to get on with and shared his warmth and irrepressible sense of bonhomie and good humour with everyone he met. In the early years of the new century Bob developed an incurable illness and spent his last years in care where he was much loved by all the staff and retained his dignity to the end.

He died peacefully on 6 May 2011, exactly ten weeks after Jo’s death. We extend our deepest sympathy to his four children Kate, Alexandra, William and Robbie, and his 10 grandchildren.

–Alex Parton, Allan Berry, Brian Dawkins, Bruce Popplewell.

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This is a place where the mountains not only touch the sky, they enter your soul.

A place which makes you, when back at your local crag, take on that thousand mile stare, looking for something extra in that 15 metre band of choss.

My foray in there was brief. I can’t show you what they see.

I can, however, offer you a tantalising look into the heart of this place, where latterday adventurers (see The Darran Mountains guidebook) seek to find a greater understanding of themselves and what this place has to offer.

I’m told I need to start seeing the world differently. This seems like a good place to start.

–Troy Mattingley

t h i s p a g e Craig Jefferies and Jon Sedon on Barrier Knob, looking towards Lake Adelaide and the Central Darrans. Troy Mattingley

i n s i d e r e a r c o v e r Jonathan Clearwater on El Topo (28), Whanganui Bay. Kristen Foley

r e a r c o v e r The Garden of Eden. Oil painting. John Rundle

r e a r c o v e r f l a p Contemplation. Kristen Foley

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