New Zealand Alpine Journal 2013

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ALPINE JOURNAL 2013

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NEW ZEALAND ALPINE JOURNAL 2013

CONTENTS President’s Page John Cocks 8

NEW ZEALAND ROCK AND ICE The West Face of Mount Tutoko Guy McKinnon Sinbad Package Deals Karl Schimanski The Fyfe River Gorge Tom Hoyle West on Sunset Tom Riley Maid Marian Ben Dare The Southland Section Darrans Winter Climbing Meet 2013 Alastair Walker Double Vision and Grovelly Joy Rose Pearson A Few Lines on the Great Peaks Stuart Hollaway Doorstep Adventures Jane Morris Footprints Henriette Beikirch Awe-full Milo Gilmour The Canterbury Haute Route Erik Bradshaw Crouching Tigers and Drunken Monkeys Tess Carney Exploring the Polar Range Shane Orchard

12 16 20 28 32 36 40 42 46 50 58 62 66 69

102 104 108 112 114 118 122

THE VERTICAL WORLD

The Building of Ruapehu Hut: A History Alex Parton Ada Julius (1882–1949) Di Hooper Mount Aspiring North East Ridge Brian Wilkins The First Ascent of the Punakaiki Overhang Paul Caffyn

130 135 140 145

AREA REPORTS New Zealand Mountains Kester Brown 150 South Island Rock Troy Mattingley 154 North Island Rock Kristen Foley and Kester Brown 158

OBITUARIES

OVERSEAS CLIMBING Les Drus Daniel Joll The 2012 New Zealand Yangma Expedition Nick Shearer The 2013 New Zealand White Wave Expedition Rob Frost My Expedition to Gasherbrums I and II in Pakistan Chris Jensen Burke First Ascents in Kyrgyzstan Reg Measures Revealing the Angel Graham Zimmerman

Delving into the Lacuna Graham Zimmerman Shaken, Not Stirred in Alaska John Price A Perfect Storm in the Yukon Paul Knott Sledding in the St Elias Marc Scaife Harnessing the North Wind Marc Scaife Bolivia 2013 Erik Monasterio On Hallowed Ground Ruari Macfarlane

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Wallace George Lowe 1924–2013 162 Una Scott Holloway 1919–2013 164 William Morrie Taylor 1925–2013 164 Gerard (Gerry) Hall-Jones 1929–2013 165 Martin (Marty) Walter Schmidt 1960–2013 166 Jamie Vinton-Boot 1983–2013 167

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c o v e r Karl Schimanski working his way up the eighth (crux) pitch of Weather Spell, Sinbad Gully, Fiordland. Alexandra Schweikart i n s i d e f r o n t c o v e r Jennifer MacLeod on the summit ridge of Crozet Peak, Mt Tasman and Aoraki behind. Danilo Hegg h a l f t i t l e Sunset at Satan Saddle, on the Garden of Allah, Southern Alps. Dave Poulsen t h i s p a g e Geoff Spearpoint on the Waipara Range, looking towards Arawhata Saddle and Mt Liverpool. Mark Watson

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President John Cocks Executive Subcommittee Chair Geoff Gabites Honorary Treasurer Gillian Crombie Honorary Secretary George Edwards Community Business Manager Richard Thomson Accommodation Business Manager Richard Wesley

Section Representatives Auckland Magnus Hammarsal Australia Terry Cole Canterbury/Westland Andrew Scott Central North Island Paul McCullagh Nelson/Marlborough Jerome Waldron North Otago Hugh Wood Otago Danilo Hegg South Canterbury Neil Harding-Roberts Southland Ron McLeod Wellington Daniel Pringle

National OfďŹ ce Staff General Manager Sam Newton National Administrator Margaret McMahon Administration Assistant Narina Sutherland Programme Manager Sefton Priestley Managing Editor/Designer Kester Brown New Zealand Alpine Journal Editor Kester Brown Sub-editor Nic Learmonth Proofing Nic Learmonth, Rachael Williams 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 2013, Volume 65 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

PRESIDENT’S PAGE JOHN COCKS

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his year’s New Zealand Alpine Journal presents a remarkable record of climbing at home and abroad; of notable ascents, mountaineering adventures and historical climbing perspectives. It provides compelling reading. The club is vigorous with activity and membership is strong.

The journal represents a long standing club tradition, starting in 1892, of recording the club’s activities, and accomplishments of New Zealand climbers. In 1992, NZAC started publishing The Climber, a quarterly magazine, which also records climbs and presents other material. NZAC is in the process of reviewing its publications, as advised in the editorial in the spring 2013 edition of The Climber. The quality of the club’s publications is enviable and the review is an opportunity to consider how best we continue to document member activities and communicate to members in the increasingly complex multi-media world. Further opportunity for member feedback as part of the review will be sought through The Climber early next year; your feedback will be appreciated.

NZAC provides opportunities for its members and others interested in climbing and adventure in the mountains through instruction courses, section trips and other activities, involvement with our mountain huts, writing articles for its publications, adding new information to online resources and more. Members excel in all these activities.

These opportunities are created through the talents, commitment and hard work of many club volunteers who serve on committees, are involved with club trips, organise events, participate on hut working parties and more, and through the hard work and dedication of our highly capable staff at the Home of Mountaineering, who provide exemplary service.

The New Zealand Alpine Journal records the deaths of club members, some sadly as a result of climbing accidents.

A matter that has seen increasing attention by the Club Committee and others is that of climbing safety, which includes working with the guiding fraternity in developing and running instruction courses. Climbing involves dealing with hazards in many forms. Gravity is a constant to which we are always exposed and, because climbing involves moving in steep places, climbers must be ever-alert to maintaining balance and avoiding loss of control to this ever-present force. Training, skill and courage enable climbers to achieve remarkable accomplishments, on climbing walls and crags, and in the mountains. The mountains present additional hazards: extreme or otherwise unfavourable weather conditions, rock-fall, avalanches, crevasses and floods.

Circumstances may be such that some of these challenges can be methodically assessed with time to collaborate and consider options. However, a favourable situation can change rapidly to a potentially precarious one due to situations such as: a sudden and violent change in weather, finding oneself on avalanche-prone snow, becoming highly exposed as the sun’s rays destabilise weakly frozen rocks or ice, or a party member becoming injured. Specific skills may be needed, such as knowledge of the risks of hypothermia and snow conditions, how to mitigate disparate climbing party views or abilities, and the skill of good decision-making whether alone or as a group. Sometimes in the face of adversity, assistance can be readily sought with modern devices such as cellphones or PLBs, even in the most remote places. Sometimes it cannot.

NZAC has a significant role in fostering awareness of these challenges and facilitating learning and guidance for our members. Our instruction courses have developed admirably in this regard during the decades that the club has provided these opportunities. Much in our ever-changing world serves to enhance our safety, such as the developments in climbing techniques, improved equipment and weather forecasts, and electronic means of accessing those forecasts. Other needs such as fitness and preparedness in planning for likely conditions and having necessary clothing and equipment remain unchanged. Constantly, as a club, we need to work and evolve in ensuring that we take care of ourselves and, particularly, young and new members, whilst we encourage mountaineering, climbing and allied activities.

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Joshua Windsor

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Steven Fortune on the final pitch of Sgian Dubh (M4), during the route’s first ascent. Telecom Tower, Remarkables.

Fraser Crichton

New Zealand Rock and Ice Guy McKinnon Karl Schimanski Tom Hoyle Tom Riley Ben Dare Alastair Walker Rose Pearson Stuart Hollaway Jane Morris Henriette Beikirch Milo Gilmour Erik Bradshaw Tess Carney Shane Orchard

Julia Valigore on the summit ridge of Nazomi, Mt Cook Range. Steven Fortune 11

THE WEST FACE OF MOUNT TUTOKO The first ascent words and photographs by GUY MCKINNON

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t was around about 2004 that the seed was planted. There I was, hanging out at Porter Lodge, when who should walk in the door but Al Uren. I can’t remember what brought him in, but I do remember I was cooking at the time and rather uncharacteristically offered him some food.

We talked of climbing, as you do. I threw into the conversation the fact that I had just made a solo ascent of the terrifying Hidden Face of Mt Tasman.

Al showed some signs of surprise at this, but played it pretty cool. I was just another young punk hanging his ass out over the void and would probably be dead before long.

The conversation drifted towards big unclimbed routes and Al mentioned the west face of Mt Tutoko—a prospect I was only dimly aware of. Al said, ‘I’ve had you in mind for it, it’s mainly tramping.’ Now it was my turn to play it cool. Was that, in the style of the Blues Brothers, a ‘mission from God’, or an oblique insult tossed down by the great one?

Was the legend putting the punk in his place? Mainly tramping, eh? Well, I burned to propel myself into the ranks of the climbers. Then, who knows? Maybe I too could become a Darrans climber like Al rather than just a plodding Canterbury mountaineer. Ah yes, I was a foolish and vain young man.

Two years later I found myself at the head of the Tutoko Valley. At the time I was obsessed with climbing Mt Grave, a dream that was ultimately fulfilled in 2010 with the first ascent of the north face. On that day in March 2006, however, I captured a photograph of a face and route which would prove far more compelling. With the benefit of some overseas trips under my belt, I even came to believe that this could become a world-class route, in New Zealand, and the definitive statement of my alpine philosophy. But … could I be the one to climb it?

Four more years passed. I learnt a lot of lessons about myself, life and the mountains. And I survived.

By luck or good judgement I was still alive after being swept or tumbled down mountains, rivers and gullies. I also learnt that I’d never be a mountaineer, climber or alpinist. In Pakistan, Bruce Normand told me that as mountaineers we absolutely mustn’t deceive ourselves about our own abilities. That made

an impact. Mountaineer, climber, alpinist—these aren’t self-identifying categories. You belong when and if you are called to the bar by the great ones. It was a hard discipline.

In 2010 I got a shock when the last great problems were promulgated in The Climber magazine. While the write-up for the west face was so daunting it surely put numerous people off even trying it, I couldn’t help but worry that some of the young athletes would muscle in on my route, the last, great, big mountain route in New Zealand. I felt a sense of ownership and it was time to do something about it. I needn’t have worried. Despite good weather and conditions the west face lacked suitors. My first attempt, in 2011, ended with me walking away from the first crux, despite good ice. A mid-life crisis and a move away from climbing meant I simply wasn’t ready. By the time I got back to the car I realised that for want of spirit I had passed up a major opportunity.

But I came out of my funk. Living at Mt Cook had re-energised me and after doing some good routes that season I realised that while daunting to many, the scale and difficulty of the west face were, if anything, ideally suited to my skills. My recce in 2012 ended in the upper valley. Rock showed under the ice. I’d made a deal with myself to only try the face if it was in perfect condition. In 2013 my first walk up the valley was well worth it. Coverage was good. Although it was very warm and water flowed on a face nearby, the west face looked to be worth a scratch. I walked over to the base of the big line of weakness which defined my chosen route and bisects the whole mountain. My first tool stick on the morning of Thursday, 11 June was perfect.

I climbed carefully and deliberately at first, generally following gullies, ramps and occasional ice walls.

The climbing was classic and atmospheric, I gained confidence and started to crank it out. Before long I reached a big terrace, the physical and psychological half-way point. Above there the gullies led into increasingly confined terrain. Two more crux walls were surmounted and I was chuffed to avoid a spindrift spanking, as plenty of white stuff was swishing down. Timing and speed through the steeps was key.

Near the top, foreshortening confused me and

f a c i n g p a g e The west face of Mt Tutoko from Grave Couloir. This photo was taken during Guy’s 2011 attempt.

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Mount Tutoko West Face Guy McKinnon. 1900m. VI, 4+. 11 July, 2013.

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I ended up off route and had to make some committing mixed moves to regain the gully higher up.

The evening sun set in the gully near the top and I climbed through pink light to reach the summit just before dark. The scale of the mountain was once again brought home to me as I looked around, the valley beneath me shrouded by the growing darkness. To the north the massive bulk of Mt Earnslaw roused my climbing instincts for a moment, before I refocused on the descent.

Originally I had planned to descend the south face, having been down that way with Ben Dare in 2010. At the last moment though I decided to try the North West Ridge. I preferred this option as I had bivouac and tramping gear to uplift from the upper Tutoko Valley and the northern descent would save me a demoralising trip back up-valley from Leader Creek. After some difficult down-climbing to reverse the headwall of the North West Ridge, I found a good bivvy site. A long night ensued. Sleepless, I shivered my way through the small hours as my mind raced over what I had just done and still had to do tomorrow. Slowly it dawned on me that this was in fact an old-school, classic, big-mountain route. Neither devious nor technically hard, it was simply an instant classic. Anyone who can do a grade MC5 route at Cook or on the coast could climb the west face of Tutoko. The thought that, after 20 years of scrambling in the Alps, I had created a route that could stand proudly alongside such classics as Cul-de-Sac, the south face of Douglas or Central Gullies on Mt Hicks was more rewarding than the thought that I might have climbed a route of such difficulty that it would never be repeated.

So there it is. The first of the last great problems.

If anything it is an artefact from another time, when big was best and no one had heard of the line of most resistance. It’s a classic route that should become a trade route for those training for the greater ranges.

My experience over three years of attempts leads me to believe that this route forms up more often than not. Will it become a coveted tick like the other classics? I’m not sure. Recent history seems to suggest that, for a face more than a stone’s throw from the carpark, the first ascent is pretty much the kiss of death in terms of interest. Either way, I’m not worried. The maunga will always be there. Tutoko.

Pinning down its landscape to Mother Earth, indifferent to the hands of man and our petty and transient ambitions, offering silence and reward to its occasional suitors.

facing page: t o p Guy on the summit. b o t t o m A straight-on view of the face in summer conditions, March 2006, with Guy’s line indicated. t h i s p a g e The west face from the upper Tutoko Valley. This photo was taken the day before Guy climbed the face.

SINBAD PACKAGE DEALS The first ascent of Weather Spell, Sindad Gully Wall, Fiordland

by KARL SCHIMANSKI

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et in quick while they last, new-route holidays are selling fast!

Prime real estate is now available in one of the most pristine settings in the world—Piopiotahi, Aotearoa New Zealand.

Nestled at the head of Sinbad Gully in Fiordland, a one-of-a-kind, 300-metrehigh wall of well-featured overhanging granite is simply beckoning to be climbed again!

In fact, with serviced accommodation included via your very own two-bedroom luxury rock (open-plan living and bathroom with a view), you'd be a fool not to seize your opportunity this summer.

Did I say serviced accommodation? That’s right, you heard correctly! The concierge, Alfred the Kea, will meet and greet you with complimentary morning wake-up calls and daily entertainment. And the local weka family’s Kleptomaniac Cleaning Services will keep your living area free of clutter!

Oh, and did I forget to mention the private heli-pad on the roof for that quick pizza delivery and ease of access?

But hurry, not only Kiwis, but the British, the Canadians and ze Germans are all aware and have begun to stake their claims. *** An example itinerary for a party of four might look a little something like this: Day 1 Preparation.

Gather your supplies (don't forget your beach towel!) and meet with the rest of your party members in the comfortable Homer Hut. Enjoy a sip of red wine while organising equipment and discussing forthcoming holiday plans.

Day 2 Arrival.

Two options available!

Option 1: Team Air Drop. Fly in with your equipment via a personal helicopter service. Enjoy a most memorable and scenic five-minute flight with outstanding views of Mitre Peak.

While awaiting Team Bravo members (option two), break out the binos and immerse yourself in the viewing pleasures of TV Sinbad. Begin to scope possible new lines.

Option 2: Team Bravo. Enjoy a morning kayak or motorboat cruise across the fjord then a tranquil nine-hour hike through native New Zealand bush to meet team Air Drop at accommodation Flintstone.

As the best-looking line on the wall has been taken by Shadowland and the next obvious and great-looking lines to the near right and far left are half-done projects, respectfully agree to take what you decide is really the best line anyway, which you can’t believe the others didn't touch while wasting their time elsewhere!

Day 3 Sample the granite.

Climb the first half of Shadowland and start investigating the first pitches of your possible new route to the left.

Days 4–11 New route fiesta!

Trundle, crowbar, clean and equip the lower half of your route from the top down. Climb as you go and generally have fun in the sun. Then get psyched to 16 N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E

Alex sending pitch 8, the crux (grade 30).

Christopher Igel

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t o p l e f t Chris seconding the White Spot pitch. Alexandra Schweikart b o t t o m l e f t Team psyche. Woop! r i g h t Chris employing big-wall sleeping bag belay tactis to combat the cold.

Alexandra Schweikart

facing page Alex enjoying the daily dose of overhanging jumaring.

Christopher Igel

struggle— ah, sorry, ‘blaze’ your way up the upper wall, forging ahead in unchartered territory to boldly go where no human has gone before!

Enjoy stellar cracks and dihedrals, mouthfuls of tasty fresh dirt, the joy of aid on micro-cams, tiny wires, skyhooks and knifeblade pitons. Then, after shaking hands with your belayer a few times, relish in the unforgettable experience of placing a bolt or two from the above-mentioned gear on lead.

Fight your demons in the dark and battle upwards to glory!

Rest Days (Interspersed) Appreciate the bountiful supply of fresh water raining from the heavens. Sleep in and play multiple rounds of 500, interspersed with attempts at breaking the Gingernut Game record (current record: 14).

Day 12 Sunday And the Lord looked down and said it was good.

Admire your new nine-pitch creation and prepare to reap your bounty tomorrow, from bottom to top, in all its completeness.

Day 13 Unfortunately this will be your final day in paradise.

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Swing leads up your new route, singing sea shanties and laughing at the keas soaring behind you, wasting their time flying in circles when they could be climbing!

Don't worry when you can't free pitch 8, this will be a great excuse to come back again next week, right?

Day 14 Departure day Take a leisurely start and savour the canyoning adventure down Sinbad Gully. Stroll out through the bush, feasting on the last of your food, before spending a romantic night under the stars on the beach.

Day 15 Consolidation Awake to sunrise. You will have no tent, but despair not, as you will be welcomed by the wonderful little creatures of Milford. A brisk boat ride will whisk you across the fjord and back to un-civilisation, that nasty place of showers, fresh salads, pizza and beer.

Force down a few gulps of that foul amber liquid, laugh and reminisce, convince yourself that you had fun jugging 200 metres of fixed rope every day, and that you’re quite glad you'll be back next week to do it all again in order to free pitch 8!

So don't let another minute slip by! Arrange your

package holiday today. Visit climber.co.nz/84/news/ weather-spell now for more information. *** During March this year, Alexandra Schweikart, Chris Igel, Claudia Kranabitter and I made two trips in to the Sinbad Wall to establish a nine-pitch route named Weather Spell. It wasn't quite like the holiday brochure describes above, but after a few drinks back at the bar, it seemed fairly close. As we only took ten day’ s worth of food on the first excursion, but stretched the trip to 14 days, our team not only left Sinbad a little skinnier, but we ensured we also left behind a top quality route worthy of attention. The team returned a second time to free all the pitches and also equip an easier variation to pitch 8. Claudia and myself flew out early the second time for a prearranged April Fool’s date with Homer Tunnel, while Alex and Chris stayed behind, braving snow and freezing temperatures, to put in a stellar effort and get the job done.

Thanks to Jonathon Clearwater, Derek Thatcher and Paul Rogers for beta, static rope, and the initial psyche to get us all in there.

Sinbad Gully Wall Weather Spell Alex Schweikart, Chris Igel, Karl Schimanski, Claudia Kranabitter. 250m, nine pitches: 20, 24, 21, 22, 23, 27, 25, 30, 24. April 2013.

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THE FYFE RIVER GORGE New Zealand’s best new sport crag

by TOM HOYLE

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he most exciting moment I’ve had in ten years of climbing was first laying eyes on the Intergalactic Wall. I’d always dreamed about finding an amazing crag in New Zealand but when James Morris and I first stood under that wall, which is slightly overhanging for 45 metres and has an abundance of tufas, it seemed to promise even more than I’d dared to dream about. And that was just one of many walls in the gorge. When you go crag hunting you are usually disappointed, even when you find something that turns out to be quite decent, as what you have in your mind is an ideal and real crags are less than ideal. Contrary to this, finding the Intergalactic Wall was like finding the idealised platonic form of a crag. I was ecstatic.

For years I’d heard rumours about the great rock on top of Mt Owen in Kahurangi National Park and when I walked up there on Boxing Day in 2008 I was certainly impressed. I was tempted to return with a whole lot more gear but decided that I’d check out the southern side of the massif first, because it was closer to the car and to Christchurch. Around the world, many of the best crags seem to be found in river gorges. John Palmer remembered seeing some cliffs around the Fyfe River when he was fly fishing in those parts long ago, so that area seemed worth checking out. On the way back from Paynes Ford the following winter, James Morris and I wandered in and although we didn’t get far, the looming walls we glimpsed through rain and mist were enough to ensure we would be back for a better look.

Of course, the reality is that the place is too inaccessible for your ordinary sport climber. That is a big downer for ordinary sport climbers. It takes a lot of commitment to get organised to go in there, carrying all your stuff. You need a healthy sense of adventure and an enjoyment of the challenge—two things that I think are necessary to climbing. But not everybody is a rabid fanatic, which is probably a good thing in the big picture. There’s not an aspect of the place that isn’t epic, from the climbing and the scenery to the ongaonga and the river in flood. The trips I’ve made in there have all been hugely memorable because of the adventure, and the camaraderie that entails, even though I’ve done way more bush-bashing, abseiling and bolting than I have climbing. Any good crag is exciting the first time you go there, but the enormous potential and magic of the Fyfe means that just thinking about getting back in there leaves me as excited as the first time. I think the place is worth the effort and a good group of people have decided the same and put in a lot of work to make it into a useable crag. Time will tell if our efforts are appreciated by the masses or if, like those who went before us suggested, we are just conquistadors of the useless.

The right-hand end of the Intergalactic Wall is considerably steeper than the main part of the wall. This not only offers a handy roof for camping out of the rain, but is also home to an array of steeper and shorter athletic routes. Here, Troy Mattingley tries his hand at The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (23). Regan McCaffery

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a b o v e James Morris stares agog at the outrageous terrain still above him on one of the Intergalactic Wall’s proudest lines, Space Cowboy (30). Tom Hoyle l e f t The Fyfe offers the prospect of some very hard climbing. Zac Orme and James Morris have bolted a line dubbed Lord Humongous in a large roof on the Darkside wall. The route is as steep as it is long, it certainly looks Ondra-esque. James Morris

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a b o v e The Fyfe River cutting its way through the upper part of the gorge. If you treat the approach like a canyoning adventure rather than a traditional crag walk-in, then psychologically you’ll have a much better time. Regan McCaffery r i g h t t o p Francis Main on Mitty-esque, a bouldery grade 26 route on the right-hand side of the Intergalactic Wall. The right side is a stark contrast to the main wall; the routes consist of short, powerful climbing on large and intriguing features. James Morris r i g h t b o t t o m On the northern side of the gorge and across the river from the Intergalactic Wall lurks the line of cliffs known as the Darkside. There is a wealth of steeper, blanker rock on these cliffs, some of which are up to 80 metres tall. Our own little southern hemisphere version of Oliana. Tom Hoyle

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a b o v e Tufa climbing is not for everyone but thankfully the rock quality is impeccable on the walls that are free of flowstone features. Zac Orme’s Lost Highway (30) offers 45 metres of overhanging climbing on edges and is surely a contender for the best climb in the whole country, regardless of grade. Troy Mattingley r i g h t When the river is in low flow the walk-in can be a treat of technical boulder-hopping interspersed with quiet pools, but when it rains the boulders become wet and the river comes up quickly, making the approach a considerable hazard with minimal access for rescue services.

Troy Mattingley, Troy Mattingley, James Morris

f a c i n g p a g e Megalomania (25) is the original line on the Intergalactic Wall and was named in honour of the fanatical approach required for development. This sustained tufa line runs for 45 metres up the centre of the wall and makes for an epic climbing experience. Here, Troy Mattingley tackles the technical switching-tufas section, about 20 metres into the madness. Regan McCaffery

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THAT GOD MADE MOUNTAIN TOPS At midnight, snow is patterned glass.

Diamond bathroom window glass.

Our crampons spike its surface with command.

It stirs ambition as the halo of our torches spot the mountain walls.

A fissure here, a jag’d rock there, a crevasse, a cornice, a frozen cataract.

At dawn the snow reflects the sky and we stand unroped and dumbstruck as sky and snow paint violet, pink, then glorious gold, and herald in a day of peerless blue and snow that’s satin ribbon white, as white as cirrus cloud.

Midday snow’s a bloated fiend, that grabs our feet with both its hands, and drags us deep in wet morass, a mire of melting crystal flake that slows us to a crawl.

A crawl. A crawl. Damn this snow.

Will the summit ever come?

But the summit is a precious cone of snow so sculpted, formed and whipped that we rejoice, that God made mountain tops.

–PAT DEAVOLL Photograph: Mt Tasman from the west. By Rina Thompson N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 27

WEST ON SUNSET words by TOM RILEY photographs by RICHARD THOMSON The kid will live and learn as he watches his bridges burn from the point of no return. –Steely Dan, Babylon Sisters

a b o v e Rainbow Lake facing page: t o p Chasm Creek cirque. m i d d l e Ground up in Fiordland. b o t t o m Waterfalls in Chasm Creek.

I I got off the bus at the top of the hill. It was hot, and the air smelled of eucalyptus. The leaves under my feet split into small pieces, all of their moisture gone.

I walked beside the highway for a while, then turned towards the sea, towards La Jolla far below.

A knot of people were standing around a green car, inspecting it, sizing it up.

I decided I had to investigate.

The green car was parked outside a long, low house. The garage door was wide open, and I could see there were more people inside. It was some kind of estate sale. A woman behind a table in the garage

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was taking money, handing out change from plastic containers.

The house was very airy and open, with oiled wood panelling and bare floors. There were wholesomelooking hangings on the wall, all textured wool. Clear yellow light flooded the rooms and the hallway. In one room, there was an enormous billiard table. The kitchen looked out on a parched garden.

On my way out, I stopped in the garage to rummage through a box of tools. I found a pocket knife made of mottled dark steel and yellow wood, and I gave my money to the woman behind the table. The knife seemed to me to be more than just a knife. The

way it looked told me that someone had looked after this knife for a long time, keeping it oiled and sharp.

I took the knife with me, along with everything else, back across the Pacific to Wellington.

II I left Wellington in a fever dream. I hadn’t managed to sleep very much. The hot wind rattled at my door, and I waited for my alarm to ring.

Richard and I landed in Christchurch and waited.

When the plane arrived, we went to Queenstown.

The first thing we needed to do was to find James’ car. He’d had some kind of adventure, and had had to get the locks changed. We were to make our way to the Subaru dealer to collect the new set of keys. The car was parked around the corner in a street, with a view of the lake. When we opened the doors, the car smelled like James.

It felt vaguely illicit driving away in a car we’d never seen before. But we did. We drove into Queenstown proper to get the boots Richard had ordered. Then we drove to Wanaka to find Dave and John.

We loaded the car at Dave’s house and headed off into the bright afternoon.

When we reached the roadend, the light had almost gone. We packed quickly, and it was at this point that I realised I’d brought the wrong pocket knife. In the confusion of the morning, I’d grabbed the good knife, the one that I’ve treasured. I didn’t have another one, so I didn’t have a choice. I hoped for the best as I put it in the lid of my pack.

We started off up the Moraine Creek track with our headtorches on. The bush was dusty, hot and oppressive. My movements felt brittle and imprecise after the long drive, the long day. The bogs had all dried up and there were no streams to jump.

We climbed up into the bush on the side of a slip, climbing over stacked piles of trees brought low by the storms. I managed to get separated from everyone, and I had to listen carefully for the voices of the others in order to find my way back.

Some time later we arrived at a kind of bivvy rock, and collapsed. I arranged myself on the moss, and worried about the weather.

III The next morning I could tell that it was going to be another sweaty day. I’d hoped for a day with clarity, a gin-and-tonic, crystal-clear, silver-and-cool kind of day. Instead, the dust prevailed.

We made our way up the track towards a slashwound of a gully which ran all the way from a point out of sight, somewhere high above, down to a point N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 29

somewhere in a notional space in front of my toes.

We followed the path of least resistance straight up, over rocks covered in orange lichen, through more treefall, and over greasy slabs to a broad shelf. We climbed a headwall covered in shrubbery, the kind of thing that would usually feel quite secure. Moisture seems to at least give the impression of structural integrity.

But it all felt so marginal. The ferns and herbs seemed like skeletons, sketchy representations of their usual selves.

We rediscovered water when we reached the top of the gully and worked our way around into the basin that holds Rainbow Lake. We went for a swim, and I finally felt connected to the deep, wet world. We basked for a short time, then began the climb to the pass which would take us over into the Te Puoho. Sidling around the lake took us to a small col, with a scree fan to descend below.

Dave hurt his knee in a fairly important sort of way, so we decided to stay in Boulder Basin for the next day or so, just to see how it went.

IV I see Dave take off down a ramp on the edge of the icefall. He runs quickly, crablike, crampons tick-ticking in the blue ice. He comes to a small crevasse about halfway down. He plants his axe on one side, then uses it as a fulcrum to perform a neat pirouette. He lands on the other side, safe, poised. He doesn’t seem to stop, and lets his momentum carry him through and on down. In that series of connected motions, I imagine that I can see everything that led to that point, all of the small errors at the beginning of the learning process, the constant refinements, the experience and pain that taught him which bits to get rid of, which actions to pare away.

V After more than a week of running about on the rock, my feet feel like they could stick to anything. I can’t make a wrong move as we move down a long series of slabs. It’s when we have to perform actions that rely on objects that aren’t made of rock that things get interesting. There’s a brief connecting move which involves a short vertical jump with a really big tussock for a handhold. The mechanics of the thing seem sound, but I have trouble suspending my disbelief for long enough to pull it off.

When we reach the bottom of the slabs, we’re standing in Chasm Creek. When I turn around, the way we’ve come looks infeasible. It’s as if we’re the victims of some kind of scam, intended to make us believe that such things are possible. But the memories of tussock and the friction of skin against stone are too good not to be true.

James leads us on a tour of likely-looking bivvy rocks, the outline of his ponytail standing out starkly against the black, grey and green of the valley. Most of them aren’t really that flash, but there’s a cavern in the very head of the valley which looks very good indeed: a commanding position, an excellent view and even a kind of floor.

VI I run around in the boulders, springing, making things work, propelled by joy.

When I stop, my heart is pounding. The others are in the distance now, and I feel a shock of solitude.

I take a deep breath and begin again. When I catch up, it’s time to start descending towards the Hollyford, picking our way across down the side of a fan to get to the first fragment of bush, far below. Sunshowers sweep across the upper valley, like a lawn sprinkler in macrocosm. They aren’t very big, but they are very frequent. I’m soaked when we reach the bush. The trees are all curled around each 30 N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E

other, like a Turkish knot. We sit in their branches.

The sun comes out for a while, but stronger this time. I see Richard lower his hood and turn his face to the sky. He half-smiles, and his hair steams.

need to fabricate a lever. It would be difficult, here, to

VII I’ve lost my knife. I remember using it to cut up a roll of salami when we were having lunch. But now it’s gone. I look everywhere I can think of, trying to nut out all of the possible trajectories of a falling knife.

My knife is down there, somewhere, but I’d need to deconstruct a good part of the moraine wall to find it. I imagine picking up each rock, placing it aside, making neat piles. I would do this until the rocks were too big for me to lift by myself and then I would

pocket knife.

find anything longer than my ice axe. At least there would be lots of fulcrums. I would work diligently, carefully undoing the work of millennia to find my I don’t do this, of course. I think about my knife

a b o v e The Te Puoho Glacier. The Petit Dur is in shade top left and the Cirque of the Climbables is top centre. facing page:

and the things that it represents for me, the things

t o p The Mighty Dur.

that I’ve gained and lost. I think of the sun, and the

b o t t o m Terminal lake, Te Puoho Glacier.

eucalyptus leaves.

Boulder Basin is a great place to leave behind special objects from your past. As well as, perhaps, the past itself.

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 31

MAID MARIAN The first full ascent of the south face of Marian Peak

by BEN DARE 32 N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E

For me, the value of a climb is the sum of three inseparable elements, all equally important: aesthetics, history, and ethics. Together they form the whole basis of my concept of alpinism. Some people see no more in climbing mountains than an escape from the harsh realities of modern times. This is not only uninformed but unfair. I don’t deny that there can be an element of escapism in mountaineering, but this should never overshadow its real essence, which is not escape but victory over your own human frailty.

–Walter Bonatti

N

ot every successful trip begins well. It’s 4.30am on a clear March morning and Daniel Joll and I are somewhere high on the Barrier Face, en-route to the Barrier Crosscut Col. I say ‘somewhere’ because we are lost.

I cast an anxious glance at Dan; my concerns are mirrored in his worried look. Even though we have both been over this route before, it is becoming apparent that we started well right of where we needed to be. The broad ledge system that we had expected to follow is nowhere in sight. Instead we find ourselves on rapidly steepening ground, with no obvious path ahead. We are soon forced to bring out the rope and after three unexpected pitches of scrappy, moss-covered, damp slab climbing, our initial confidence has turned into frustration. As dawn breaks over the peaks of the Central Darrans, promising another clear, settled day, we can think only of the ticking clock and the big day that lies ahead.

Finally Dan and I emerge onto the col, stepping suddenly into the sunlight, and there it is, our objective, looming before us. It towers 800 metres above the valley floor, rising in a single sweep of unrelenting and immaculate granite. The first glance takes your breath away, the second sends a shiver down your spine, while the third is enough to leave you either spellbound or running for home. It is terrifying and yet strangely majestic. Dan and I had been drawn to it, like moths to a flame … to the south face of Marian Peak. *** My apprehension grew as we descended from the col into the upper Marian Valley. It brought to mind memories of my first climbing trips and the nervousness I used to feel. I almost wished we would get bluffed out. Was it too late in the day? I caught myself searching for an excuse to turn around—I hadn’t felt like that in years!

Slowly, however, my nerves began to settle. Self-

doubt gave way to the sudden realisation that I was starting to enjoy myself. I was beginning to relish the prospect of the challenge ahead and the fact that we had no idea if we would succeed. It looked like it might go, if everything fell into place and if luck joined our side! This uncertainty is what draws me back to the mountains time and time again. If success were assured, where would the challenge lie?

But it goes deeper than that. Along with the excitement, there are feelings of serenity and peace. The granite walls around us were dark and foreboding

a b o v e Looking down the lower wall from the belay at the top of pitch four.

Ben Dare

facing page: The author following some nice run-out face climbing on pitch 13, just before one of the crux, grade 21 sections.

Daniel Joll

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 33

Daniel Joll leading pitch 13. Ben Dare

in some places, elsewhere, they were sun-baked and warm to the touch. There were cascading waterfalls and sparkling lakes that reflected the sun’s rays like a mirror. We heard the occasional screech of an inquisitive kea. I was out with a good mate, someone I knew I could share the experience with. These are the key ingredients for a truly memorable trip.

Before I knew it, Dan and I were standing under the wall. It was now or never. We looked up apprehensively, not knowing whether we would be able

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

to force our way through the overhang that juts out horizontally some six rope-lengths from the ground.

But as a rather well-known Kiwi mountaineer once penned, ‘nothing venture, nothing win’. Before I could even start to think of a good excuse for why we should not be there, Dan had racked up and set off into the unknown.

From the very first pitch everything just seemed to click. The rock was sound, the gear solid and our upward progress swift. Rope length by rope length we made our way up the lower face, the metres melting away. Soon we were five pitches off the deck, bridging up what could only be described as a delightful chimney. After smearing our way up through the confines of a large, detached flake, Dan and I emerged from behind the flake and into the back of a deep cleft.

Above us was our final barrier before the upper face: a near-horizontal roof with a menacing-looking crack and chimney system. Dan took the sharp end.

At first he tried to climb his way up into the tight chimney, but he was blocked by a stubborn chockstone that he was unable to squeeze around. Forced to retreat, Dan then swung out into the crack, aiding out across the roof, with over 200 metres of fresh air under him. I tightened my grip on the rope, thankful that I was the one at the belay. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Dan pulled through the final moves and out onto the crest of the terrace above.

Gazing back down through the chimney, we tentatively dislodged the offending chockstone and watched it fall. It dropped straight down, not touching anything, and crashed into the base of the wall where we had begun our climb—steep!

Crossing the terrace we set off roped together, simul-climbing the initial section of the upper face until once again the terrain steepened and we had to go back to pitched climbing. We set out across the centre of the face, angling slightly right, towards a prominent buttress that we hoped would lead us directly to the summit. The climbing on the upper face was nothing short of exceptional. It comprised 14 pitches of heavily-featured granite. Every turn threw a new surprise in our path. One moment we’d be smearing up a blank slab, the next we were mantling over a bulge or pulling into an overhanging finger crack—this route had everything!

Although we were making steady progress, it was not enough for us to win the race against the setting sun. Glancing back down into the lower Marian Valley we took a moment to pause at a belay and take in our surroundings. Watching as the swirling,

wrath-like clouds advanced steadily up the valley floor, enveloping all before them. Eventually they too were lost from sight, swallowed by the dwindling twilight— nightfall was upon us. We pulled on our headtorches as the last remnants of alpenglow faded from distant summits and, plunged once again into a world of darkness, set off. Always upwards.

Finally there was a flicker of light ahead. As I pulled over the crest of one last bulge I saw Dan before me and beyond him, nothing. I looked at my watch; it read 9.41pm. After 20 pitches and 18.75 hours—with just less than 12 hours on the face—we had reached the summit! There was a brief, almost overwhelming feeling of elation and relief, and we embraced in celebration. But this quickly faded as we turned our thoughts to the long descent still to come. There was just time to wash down a gel with the last of our water before we began the traverse towards Barrier Peak and the descent back down into the Gertrude Valley.

The crest of ridge seemed to extend forever, an unrelenting series of broken gendarmes and chevals.

It stretched ahead with no sign of reprieve. The flicker of our headtorches pierced the gloom and cast eerie shadows into the inky blackness of the void on either side. Dan and I stumbled on, tired and dehydrated. We longingly stared into the myriad of tempting bivouac sites that litter the broken summit of Barrier Peak—appealing even without a sleeping bag or belay jacket. We wanted to sleep but at the same time we fed off each other’s energy to keep going and finish the climb in a single push. A packet of Chomps we found gave us a new surge of energy.

We pushed on for another stretch, continuing to make our way down. Down towards the promise of a warm bed each … *** That’s how Dan and I came to be somewhere below Black Lake at 4.30am on a foggy March morning.

‘Somewhere’ because we are lost—again! Not every successful trip begins well. (And if I ever get my hands on the person who built cairns haphazardly, all over the slope down to the Gertrude Valley, things will not end well for them either!)

For the past two hours we have been wandering almost aimlessly, zigzagging our way back and forth, up and down, following a series of false leads. As the mist clears, offering a brief glimpse ahead, I spy yet another cairn and set off once again. I hope beyond hope that this one will mark the track down into the valley. But Lady Luck seems to have grown tired of

laughing at our aimless meandering, for there before me stands a second cairn, then a third and a fourth.

Finally Dan and I break down through the cloud layer and back to the valley floor. We trudge wearily along the track back to the hut, retracing our steps from the previous day. Dan talks enthusiastically about the benefits of climbing ‘light and fast,’ and how hours, if not days, can be cut from a route by not taking bivvy gear and by tackling a climb in a single push. I have to agree, although in my current jaded state, the specific merits of such an approach aren’t quite so apparent. Especially when I pause to snap one last photo and the full irony of the situation sinks in: I am carrying the camera as well as the full rack, our water bottles, some warm clothing and the rope, all jammed into the larger of our two packs!

Marian Peak, south face Maid Marian Ben Dare and Daniel Joll. 800m, 20 pitches. 22, A0. 9 March, 2013.

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 Fresh snow on mounts Crosscut and Christina. m i d d l e Rose Pearson preparing to abseil, while Ant Garvey begins his climb, on one of the lower-tier Cirque Creek ice routes. r i g h t Rose Pearson leading one of the lowertier Cirque Creek ice routes.

All photos: Jaz Morris.

THE SOUTHLAND SECTION DARRANS WINTER CLIMBING MEET 2013 The original, and still the best

by ALASTAIR WALKER

T

his year we have been spoilt for choice for winter climbing events. It’s satisfying to see just how far this esoteric branch of the sport has come over the past few years. Prior to the Darrans Winter Climbing Meet starting up in 2008, there was hardly a soul active in the mountains in winter other than at places like Wye Creek and the Remarkables.

Not that there’s anything wrong with Wye Creek, you understand. Certainly, other than section snowcraft courses, there weren’t any events aimed at encouraging folk to head out into the bigger mountains in winter.

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

In the beginning …

I had been convinced for some time that the best winter climbing in the country is in the Darrans. But given the reputation of the place, I had struggled to find anyone to climb there with. For a number of years, winter at Homer would see the same three or four characters sitting around the fire, hoping the conditions would improve. I recall sitting there one night and trying to work out how many folk did actually get out exploring in the winter months; we struggled to come up with 18. Not a very encouraging state of affairs. This would have been around

2006 or 2007, about the time folk were starting to talk about alpinism in New Zealand being dead. Judging by the talk on internet forums, it seemed that some folk were keen to get out there but that they didn’t know how to find others to do it with or where to go.

So the idea of the winter meet was born, to provide a venue for winter climbers to get together.

At first we worried that few people would be interested. Holding the meet in the Darrans was a selfish move on my part; it is well out of the way and has a fearsome reputation, but I love the place.

Glenn Pennycook was very supportive of what we were trying to do and did a great job of getting the word out through his Mountainz website. As the meet drew closer, interest grew, and it was looking like we would have a full hut. I was getting quite excited. Then, two days before we were due to head over, the Darrans had a huge snowfall that blocked the road for five days and blanketed the mountains in a metre of new snow. Just reaching Homer was going to be problematic.

Eight hardy souls made it to Homer for that first meet. Activity was a bit limited, and we had to leave after three days due to another impending storm. A good PR job and an informal arrangement with the weather gods have meant that the meet has been very well attended since then. We’ve never looked back. I get a huge amount of satisfaction from seeing folk coming back year after year, obviously drawn by the social aspect as well as by the climbing. This past year we saw a whole new group of younger climbers come over, and they fit right in, making the most of what was going—which was a reminder of why the winter meet was started and why it will continue.

Six years on, a lot of the myths around Darrans winter climbing have been dispelled. Sure, it’s still a big, gnarly place, but regular attendees on the meet are coming to terms with this, as evidenced by the number of new routes and good repeats being done.

You can now see beady eyes furtively seeking out new lines. But there’s also so much to do that folk seem quite happy to share.

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

l e f t Rose Pearson heading up the Milford Road. Jaz Morris. m i d d l e Rose leading on the first ascent of Double Vision (M2+).

Jaz Morris.

r i g h t Snorre Sulheim on a lower-tier route in Cirque Creek.

Snorre Sulheim collection.

The Darrans Winter Climbing Meet is the club’s original winter climbing meet—is it still the best?

Aye, well, this year we had 28 folk through the hut, so we’ll keep it going for a wee while yet.

The 2013 Darrans Winter Climbing Meet Winter continued to toy with us this year, promising good conditions, but not quite delivering. Over in the Darrans, material on the ground was a bit thin earlier this winter. A moderate snowfall and low temperatures in the week prior to the meet hinted that things might be looking up, however. Friday 12 July came around, and folk started to roll up. It was cold, there was snow on the ground, there was even talk of ice in the upper McPherson Cirque.

Saturday morning was bright and shiny, and there were many competent parties heading out. It seemed at odds with the normally oppressive atmosphere of the Darrans in winter. Guy McKinnon dropped by the hut on his way home from Tutuko to psyche us up. Snow conditions were pretty stable. Taking advantage of this, three parties headed off into the upper McPherson Cirque. It’s a bit of a plod up into this area, but they found decent ice on the central cliff. There were two new icy routes made on the left-hand end, The Elusive Leprechaun (Ben Dare, Steve Skelton and Danny Murphy) and Schoolboy Error (Paul Clarke and Huw James). Snorre Sulheim, Martine Frekhaug and Synne Bertelsen made the second ascent of Bombay Sapphire.

An oversized party of five took the short-walk

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

option and headed for the Tunnel Bluffs to claim the first ascent of Double Vision (Frazer Attrill, Anna Seybold, Rose Pearson, Jaz Morris and Al Walker).

Double Vision is a moderate mixed climb on the right-hand side of the cliff, up through the large snow amphitheatre and then up mixed ground to the ridge.

The size of the party meant progress was slow. The group arrived at Homer Saddle just in time to get their headtorches out and smugly watch the antics of the upper cirque parties descending Talbot’s Ladder in deteriorating weather. Some parties got back much later than others, and some gear was left on the ladder.

But having left more than my fair share of gear on the ladder over the years, I’m not one to criticise.

In addition to this activity, there was a pair on one of the not-so-secret unclimbed lines that is usually avoided like the plague; that weekend the line was in good condition, with no powder cascading down it (for once). Allan Uren and Heather Rhodes got higher than has been managed previously, so perhaps one day it will actually be climbed.

Sunday saw snow for most of the day, with a few folk heading out to check out the Gertrude Ice Park and the short icefalls at the back of Cirque Creek.

Cars had to be dug out, but the weekenders managed to get away home.

Monday brought improved weather and lower temperatures again, but the snow of the previous day had changed conditions underfoot dramatically. All the big plans for McPherson Cirque and the Tunnel

Bluffs were rapidly shut down by deep snow. Jaz Morris and Rose Pearson managed to swim to the right end of the Tunnel Bluffs and took care of a short but fun mixed climb—The Grovelly Chimney of Joy. A couple of parties tried Double Vision, but were put off by snow conditions. The Norwegians were up at the back of Cirque Creek on the icefalls.

Everyone was back before dark, and the Glenfiddich was opened to ease damaged egos.

As an aside, those Cirque Creek icefalls are very obvious features, and they form up more some years than others. For the past few years they have been forming up far better than the big icy routes above them. In the scale of things, these icefalls are very small compared to the other lines in the vicinity, and rate only a brief mention in the guidebook. But this is an oversight that we may need to rectify, because folk go up there to climb and have fun and, as there are no named lines in the guidebook they think they are on a new line. I have heard of folk climbing on these Cirque Creek icefalls before the meet began, and I know these icefalls have all been climbed by numerous parties since then. Sometimes the Cirque Creek icefalls are formed up well and are easy, sometimes they’re harder: it just depends on the ice. We’ll get a decent photo diagram of the area made up, and put it into the new-route book at Homer, and onto climbnz.org.nz to prevent any further confusion.

Back to the meet: The forecast for Tuesday was not promising, so a large contingent left early for the back

of Cirque Creek again, and most of the climbers in that contingent had a whale of a time on the icefalls.

One climber had obviously been spending far too much time in the wrong company, however, and came back muttering about there not being enough frozen turf! The weather did hold out all day, not breaking until that night. Huw James and Paul Clarke went back off up into the upper McPherson Cirque, then back down Talbot’s Ladder to recover some of the gear left behind during the Saturday night fiasco.

On Wednesday the weather forecast was bad and showed no signs of improving. There was heavy rain and temperatures at Homer were almost in the double digits, so most people bailed for Queenstown.

Jaz Morris and Rose Pearson went off down the lower Hollyford looking for deer, while I stayed put in front of the fire. We finally decided to pull the pin on Friday morning, just as the rain cleared.

So, although this was the poorest weather we’ve had on a meet since the first one, it was still a very productive and enjoyable time. Four new routes were established and, more importantly, more folk were introduced to the area, new friends were made, and lots of knowledge was passed around. Though the real Darrans-in-winter regulars do mutter a wee bit (feeling slightly aggrieved at seeing other people at Homer in the winter), those of us who have been to a Darrans Winter Climbing Meet know that for that short time every July when the place is fairly humming with activity, there is something special going on.

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 39

FROM DOUBLE VISION TO GROVELLY JOY New lines at the Darrans Winter Meet 2013 words by ROSE PEARSON photographs by JAZ MORRIS l e f t The author climbing one of the lowertier ice routes in Cirque Creek. r i g h t The author beginning a pitch on the same route.

I

had just been accepted for the New Zealand Alpine Team. It was when I was going through the application that I realised I do not want to be just a climber or a tramper. No, I want to be a mountaineer! Well, here was my first chance. Even better, I’d be getting a lift to the Darrans Winter Climbing Meet with the two other new NZAT members selected from Dunedin, Jaz Morris and Frazer Attrill.

4.00pm. Jaz arrived. I was still in the shower. The car appeared to be crammed already, with Anna and Frazer and all their gear. Much of it sprawled out onto the road. After a frenzy of action and some impressive Tetris skills, we all fit into the car. How many PhD students were required? Two and a half.

We stopped at Alexandra for food and a $20 watch from the Warehouse—I’d forgotten mine. As we drove, I listened to the others talking about mixed and ice climbing. They have more experience than me, and I was keen to soak up all the information I could.

Double Vision (M2+) Jaz would be climbing with Al the next day, and he invited the rest of us along. Al had a line in mind by the Homer Tunnel Bluffs, above and right of the tunnel. As we wound our way up the Milford Road, our eyes were drawn to the looming bulk of Mt Christina

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

and the conversation died.

The next morning I took in the views. I hadn’t been here since I was a child. I was soon packed though, and I went with the others to descend on Al in the warden’s quarters. After a few moments’ indulgence, Al sent us on his way so he and Heather could apply their military training to deciphering the incoming weather forecast. We had arranged to meet Al up there.

Jaz led the charge diagonally up to the obvious spur on the true left side of the bluffs. There had been two options, one on either side of the spur. After a little poke, the true left was deemed ‘better’. Al soon joined us. He mentioned that both lines were unclimbed. The cogs turned: so we’ll be the first ascent team!

We split our ungainly party of five into two, and in the process discovered a fifth half rope. Anna and Frazer, also both novices at mixed climbing, selected the left-hand line. After some initial discussion of soloing it, the rope came out. Meanwhile, Jaz was off.

A tri-cam, some wires and a turf-gasm or two, and he was out of sight, setting up an anchor. During this time, team Anna–Frazer had climbed up, gotten stuck and were in the process of retreating. They decided to follow Jaz’s line once Al and I were out of the way. So much for the soloing!

An hour later, we were all with Jaz at the base of a low-angled snow amphitheatre that led to the remaining 100 metres of technical climbing. We were limited to one line; I tied in to the sharp end. The others waited patiently in the shade as I inched my way up the next 55 metres. Eventually a few enquiries start coming my way: ‘How’s it going Rose?’

‘Ah, fine. I’m, um, just trying to find a good spot for an anchor,’ I said. Finally, it was set. I brought up Al and then he and Jaz leapfrogged ahead, alleviating the bottleneck. The novices brought up the rear in a tangle of ropes. We topped out and enjoyed some quick views as a few flakes of snow began to fall.

It was dark when the last of us reached Homer Saddle. We gazed up at the surprising collection of headlamps descending Talbot’s Ladder. Flushed and happy, we all trotted back to Homer Hut, ready for dinner.

A Grovelly Chimney of Joy (M3) Two days later the weather had cleared, as had many of the bunks in Homer. Back to the city they went.

Al had his sights on a thin line immediately right of Coumshingaun. A few years ago he was forced off at half-height by poor snow conditions, and it was time for another go. Again, Jaz and I were sent off ahead while Al took care of ‘men’s work’.

Jaz and I trundled off towards the base of Coumshingaun as the snow slowly crept up our legs towards waist-height. We had climbed up a 20-metre pile of powdery, windblown snow covering the base

of the climb before we decided the conditions weren’t quite right—the wind from the day before would have left the climb buried under loose powdery snow.

We looked for an option B. Al joined us now. He suggested the unclimbed chimney just left of Homer Saddle, near a prominent shark’s fin. It would be one full pitch, possibly two. Sadly, Al decided to return to Homer because his hernia was playing up. We bade him farewell and he returned to the warden’s quarters’ fire and kettle.

Jaz and I swam our way up, taking turns at being the trailbreaker, switching every 20 metres or so. At the base of the climb, Jaz found an ideal belay cave that had bomber gear and was completely sheltered from any falling rocks—and the sun, for that matter.

Jaz generously offered me the lead.

After searching in vain for some gear, I got acquainted with the chimney. After one very poor tri-cam placement, a threaded frozen turf chockstone and 20 metres of climbing, I finally got a wire in some good rock at the back of the chimney. Then I headed right, into a gully. Finally, the sun. I paused to savour it for a moment. (Sorry Jaz.) The gully was nice. There was gear, and endless névé and turf. I grinned my way to the top and finally released Jaz from his miserable little cave. He got over his screaming barfies somewhere near the top.

Jaz and I took in the view and contemplated looking for a bail rope that was left on Talbot’s Ladder.

But the brisk wind chased us back to Al and a cup of tea in the warden’s quarters.

l e f t Rose and Al Walker on the Homer Saddle– Moir’s Mate ridgeline, having just topped out on the first ascent of Double Vision (M2+). m i d d l e Meet participants outside Homer Hut. r i g h t Rose deep inside The Grovelly Chimney of Joy (M3).

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

S

A FEW LINES ON THE GREAT PEAKS The first ascents of Resolution and Endeavour on Aoraki Mt Cook, and Path of Manolin and The Dream of the Dutch Sailors on Mt Tasman

by STUART HOLLAWAY

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amuel Butler, a Mackenzie grazier, reportedly said that the first ‘to climb Mt Cook would be crowned with undying laurels.’ Apparently, he actually thought that the mountain would never be climbed. He was wrong on both counts. The only laurels crowning Fyfe as he lay in the grass by the original Hermitage after that great climb were the clouds drifting quietly overhead, but he wrote that, when our trials are all forgotten, ‘there is but one Aoraki.’

It turns out that there is, of course, no prize or purse. Perhaps why is actually the easiest question of all—it’s the climbing, stupid.

Despite the boisterous disorder of my desk, during moments of repose I see the great peaks across Pukaki. The remembered vision of the long wall of ice, the vast bulk beyond the whitecaps on the lake, lifts my pulse like the moment of freefall in a dream.

There is the history of New Zealand climbing. And that history lives in the ordinary, exceptional climbs of individuals following vanished footprints up the Linda Glacier or over the north shoulder, their hearts also lifted by the intangible but unfading laurels that are the only reward for our empty trials. Perhaps the future could be here too.

The glacial slopes and rock ridges, the ice arêtes of the golden age, and then the mixed face routes each in turn provided the same opportunities. Perhaps modern challenges are here, in plain view, waiting to be seen.

Everybody comes to the great peaks—it’s the climbing stupid. In position, quality and scale, climbing on big mountains offers an experience that can’t be matched on cragging routes.

I would like to think of myself as a climber, but the tendonitis that keeps me awake at night comes from annotating students’ essays. In an average year I have five bleary eyed, coffee and chocolate fuelled, 20+ hour binges running into the dawn. Only one of them involves climbing, the others are feedback on students’ trial exams.

But the holidays are never far away. Whether I am guiding or climbing recreationally, we will be drawn back to those great peaks that float in Lake Matheson.

I stopped wondering why years ago—it’s the climbing, stupid.

One day I looked out the window of Plateau Hut and saw a plumb line of ice running through the steepest cliff bands to intersect the south ridge on Dixon. From the back of a cave half way up it we had a framed view of Aoraki. The sun highlighted the sharp pink arêtes rising out of the Bowie Couloir—

their quality was obvious. We chimneyed ice smears to climb around the roof of our cave and then up steep mixed ground to easier travel on the ridge. It was a real hoot.

Two days later we followed the dawn into the upper Balfour and headed up the best looking line on the face. Narrow ice leads headed up through a steep mixed chimney between the original and the Whimp/Lindblade lines. By the time we made it back to Plateau Hut, having chopped a rope rappelling the Silberhorn rock step, it was not so much a hoot so much as like hard work, but the climbing had been terrific. Our line is not described in the guide, but given the history of the face, who knows what that means? It was an exceptional day on the mountain.

I went onto the rock rising out of the Bowie Couloir at the next opportunity. With no need to acclimatise, climbing in New Zealand fits into school holidays, while the helicopter access and short approaches from huts guarantee an excellent climbing to suffering ratio.

On this occassion I was even more excited than usual, since here the mountain also promised a bigger, more demanding route.

Imagined promises were physically fulfilled up the huge corner line. Resolution was necessary. The climbing was entertaining and committing. The position was breathtaking.

You could certainly fall. It might feel a long way from home. We were thirsty, and thrilled when we got back to the hut after 36 hours. Lachie ate so much fried cheese and salami I thought he might die in the process. He remembered the sitting bivvy in the Linda schrund. I remembered the crux moves way, way up the wall but not far from a nut.

I returned again on a windy day with a guest who wanted to experience technical climbing and big alpine routes. We went climbing on the steep central arête. For a long time we weaved up pink slabs around overhangs but the route kept steepening, committing us to heading directly up the improbably looming arête on pitch nine. Heel hooking around the roof on pitch ten we were both glad not to have the weight of ice tools, boots and crampons in our packs. Perhaps the last pitch, which looked so hard and climbed so smoothly—connecting a series of clean cracks— was the best of all.

After the original Du Faur North West Couloir Grand Traverse, Endeavour is the second best of the ten routes I have climbed on Aoraki. Richard enjoyed it so much that the next week we went into the

a b o v e The author starting up a long corner/chimney pitch on Resolution. Lachie Currie b e l o w Richard Bassett-Smith following a pitch on the first ascent of Endeavour.

Stuart Hollaway

f a c i n g p a g e Felix Landman starting up the West Ridge of Mt Tasman, having just completed the first ascent of Path of Manolin. Stuart Hollaway

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Balfour to improve his ice climbing. *** We had flown to the Fox Névé at 8.00am and started climbing. It was my third Mt Tasman sunset in just a couple of summers. Sunset from the summit of Mt Tasman is much better as an experience than as an idea. Cloud burns off the coast, the huge wall of ice to the east—Rarakiroa, the long unbroken line—rests in chill darkness and in every direction you face the certainty that there is much work and careful climbing between you and home. But this remote anxiety and that rare, wonderful view are both parts of the one, worthless prize.

Mt Tasman’s Abel Janszoon area offers the same remote, unknown, close to a helicopter, but far from home, adventure. Felix and I climbed a long, steep pillar onto the west ridge.

Path of Manolin offered some great athletic rock, but it also required some cunning care at the ridge crest and determined concentration along the ice— the combination of experiences you associate with a traditional, hard day in the mountains.

From this route I saw the big mixed buttress leading directly to the peaklet of the west ridge. After we made a Grand Traverse of Aoraki, Dale wanted another big mountain outing. Steep snowfields linking mixed runnels through rock steps, The Dream of the Dutch Sailors is super fun because it is really big without being a flog, and interesting without being hard, and committing without being overly serious.

And that sunset was pure joy because we had our tent set up in the schrund just below for a warm night and a dawn descent. Then it was Christmas—the greatest Christmas of all as we lay by the Clutha River and watched the clouds drift quietly overhead. No laurels, but the warmth and lightness came, not from champagne but from the memory of movement—the pressure of a crimp, the thunk of a pick, and the high, wild view.

What’s so good about our great peaks? It’s the climbing …

f a c i n g p a g e : t o p Dale Thistlethwaite on the summit ridge of Mt Tasman, having completed the first ascent of The Dream of the Dutch Sailors. Stuart Hollaway l e f t Stuart Hollaway leading a pitch on the first ascent of Path of Manolin. Felix Landman r i g h t Dale on the Abel Janszoon Glacier, sorting gear below The Dream of the Dutch Sailors. Stuart Hollaway

Bowie Buttress, Aoraki Mount Cook Endeavour (left) Richard Bassett-Smith, Stuart Hollaway. 460m, 18, MC6-. January, 2013.

Resolution (right) Lachie Currie, Stuart Hollaway. 11p, 480m, 20, MC6. January, 2010.

Mount Tasman, Abel Janszoon Face The Dream of the Dutch Sailors (left) Stuart Hollaway, Dale Thistlethwaite. MC4+. 23/24 December, 2012.

Path of Manolin (right) Felix Landman, Stuart Hollaway. 14p, 17/18, MC5+. January, 2011.

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DOORSTEP ADVENTURES An ascent of the Sheila, for Sheila, by a sheila.

by JANE MORRIS

C

runch, crunch, crunch, click. Off went the headtorch—Mother Nature was providing a giant light in the sky: a three-quarter moon.

The gravel of the Hooker Valley track squelched under my boots. It was 2.30am.

I’d woken much earlier than the alarm and decided I might as well get on with it.

Living with the Main Divide on the doorstep has fantastic benefits. Rolling out of bed, grabbing the pack and walking out the door is gratifyingly simple.

It’s a privilege to live in Mount Cook Village. Making the most of adventures in my backyard is part of embracing that existence.

A week earlier I had headed out with the same intention and struggled to the white ice of the Hooker Glacier before conceding to that feeling I’d had from the start—it was not the day to be doing this. My body and mind were battling it out with each other. My head was elsewhere and no amount of convincing could drag it into the present. The weather was perfect and I had no excuse, I simply was not feeling the love. Let it go Jane, turn around and leave it be, I thought.

Seven days later I was reminded that listening to those voices in your head pays dividends, and that you should not just push through them. When the silent symmetry between the mental and physical realm exists, climbing is effortless. There’s an unspoken alignment. This was the right place to be, this time.

The Sheila Face of Aoraki Mt Cook sits tucked away on the north-west side of the mountain. It has been relatively overlooked in favour of eastern aspect routes. I’ve harboured a connection with the name since I first came across it, some 20 years ago. ‘Sheila’ is my mum’s name and this trip was for her (and my dad) for being such remarkable parents and supporting us kids wherever our passions lay. I generally don’t tell my parents the specifics of what I get up to in the mountains until afterwards. Not that they seem to worry, but I don’t want them to any more than necessary. It seems to be a happy understanding and I think they appreciate being spared the details.

On up the Hooker and Pudding Rock was passable, with a bit of creativity. I had a second breakfast at Gardiner Hut, then a third breakfast at Empress Hut at around 9.00am. Because I had set off earlier than originally planned, I now had a few hours to lounge The Sheila Face of Aoraki Mt Cook, from Mt Hicks.

Steven Fortune

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The author on Mt Hicks, with the Sheila Face behind. Guy McKinnon

around in the luxury of New Zealand’s highest building. I wanted to wait until the rock warmed up a little and any verglas that may be lurking had been given a chance to melt. The upper part of the face is notorious for riming, and even on the first day of February had rime on it.

Also, in the bigger picture, I wanted to be weaving through the Linda Glacier in the evening, not at 2.00pm in the afternoon. Being on the summit at around 4.00pm would then see me on the Linda at a time when things should have begun to refreeze. My plan was to duck across to Plateau Hut for the night and walk out the next day.

But back to the Hooker side. Being late summer, there were still obstacles to overcome before I could get onto the route. A very large crevasse ran right across the slope at the bottom of Green’s Couloir. It looked awkward and the schrund at the base of the face might prove impassable.

At 12.30pm I sat down on a ledge at the base of the Central Buttress of the Sheila and pulled on rock shoes. My mind and body were in tune. Around 800 metres of climbing lay ahead, and it looked interesting enough to be engaging but not frightening—the perfect balance. Things were coming together.

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Mt Dampier is the third-highest mountain in New Zealand and offers an immediate backdrop.

Glancing across at it provided a great yardstick for relative height. It felt like a couple of hours before I was somewhere level with its 3440m summit.

The red sandstone mid-height on the face was a welcome relief after some intermittently solid rock lower down.

Three quarters of the way up I stumbled across an old rope, wrapped around the rocks. Not carrying one myself, I wondered if this was a sign I should take heed of—and assist in removing the random things we climbers sometimes leave lying around—by taking it with me. I cut away what I could (about 20 metres) and stuffed it in my pack, wondering what story it could tell.

Eventually the rock gave way to weather-beaten sastrugied snow just below the summit ridge.

An appealing part of this route is that it spits you out right next to the high peak of Aoraki. There’s no calf-burning crabbing required. It was just before 4.00pm and strangely windy. Despite being fine and clear there was a solid upper-level sou’wester that battered by.

I’d grabbed a handful of cherries from a bucket by the back door when I left home that morning, so I had a commemorative ‘cherry on top’. But summits aren’t generally places I opt to relax on, and with the wind hammering away, it was back to business, continuing on with the descent. The Linda Glacier route hung in remarkably well this season. It remained in condition for an impressively long time compared to recent years. The large amount of precipitation during spring and at the start of January had enabled access and conditions to be the best they’d been for a number of years.

In the vicinity of the summit rocks I bumped into fellow guide Dave and his client. We paused for some human interaction and general chit-chat about conditions, an enjoyable diversion, before we both returned to our agendas. I took the pair up on their generous offer of stopping by their bivvy site at Bowie Corner on the way past to have a brew.

At 6.00pm I was happy to refuel and let the glacier cool down further. I began recalculating my times and figured it would take another two hours from the intersection of the Linda and the Grand Plateau to get across to Plateau Hut, with the newly arrived Dixon ‘moraine’ to be negotiated. The alternative was to head straight to Cinerama Col. From there it’s about four hours to the road. My primary con-

cern was getting through the Boys Glacier by dark.

Working backwards, the times fitted. Just.

I forked right, out across the Grand Plateau, feeling calm and relaxed.

As I rolled up onto Cinerama Col, I discovered a tent perched on the saddle. As I walked past, I offered a ‘Hi there, nice spot to park.’ Out popped Marty Schmidt, grinning. He and his client had just climbed the East Ridge and they were the best part of in bed asleep, but were happy to chat and exchange stories.

They offered me some water. It was 9.00pm and the sun had set. Although it sounded like conditions ahead were surprisingly favourable, I had about half an hour of light left and I was keen to keep moving.

But I relaxed for a moment, enjoying Marty’s company and his characteristic repartee.

When I eventually stepped off the snow, it was so dark it was full black-out. Even the headtorch could not penetrate the featureless rock-scape ahead.

Finding some running water, I paused and sat down.

The moon, on its outward phase, would not reach me for at least another hour. I could see its light hitting the top of the Caroline Face like a blind slowly being pulled down, but the moonlight was moving across the landscape too slowly for my body’s thermostat.

I’d cooled down too much to wait for it, so I reluctantly carried on.

Although I have travelled through this section often, I was startled at how featureless it now appeared. It was like walking around in a disintegrating, hazy, black barrel. I needed to find the bench, walk right, pick up the goat track and scuttle down the moraine. I reminded myself to take it easy.

I linked the points and eventually crossed the Ball Glacier moraine, feeling relieved to able to navigate more freely. Still waiting for moonlight, I recognised the pink willowherb flowers through the dusty, dark haze. They were clustered around the entrance to Garbage Gully. I smiled at their ‘welcome back to plant world’ gesture. I gradually ground down the final ascent up the wall of gravel onto the Ball terrace, pushing open the door of Ball Hut just before 1.00am.

There, I attempted to rouse a friend from DOC on the radio, to see about a vehicle. (An understanding friend, given the anti-social hour and my impending request.) The occupants of the hut were somewhat startled to receive a night-time visitor. Unable to get a response on the radio, I apologised to the hut’s residents for the disruption and kept walking.

I had made a loose arrangement to get a car to Blue

Lakes, but that had been for later today. It might be there already, I thought to myself as I trudged along the Ball Road.

I wandered into the Tasman Valley Road carpark.

Illegal overnighting campervans greeted me, but there was no beat-up old Subaru to be seen. Humph.

I sat down on the grass and pulled out my last bit of food. My watch read 2.30am. I laughed: Really? Had it only been 24 hours since I started up the Hooker?

It seemed far longer. I hadn’t planned the trip to be one long, continuous day out. Sure I’d had my ‘times’ but I had no intention of completing the thing in 24 hours. It astonishes me what the body will put up with if the mind will let it.

I had felt curiously relaxed and balanced through it all: the time alone, comfortable breaks, interesting climbing, social catch-ups, perfect conditions and silent symmetry.

Crunch crunch crunch, click. I switched off the headtorch and walked the final eight kilometres of gravel road back home under the familiar, now marginally smaller moon.

Doorstep adventures: make the most of them wherever you live.

Looking down on the Grand Plateau and the ‘Dixon dragon tongue’ of moraine, from high on Aoraki. Jane Morris

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FOOTPRINTS A solo alpine traverse of the South Island mountain ranges. words and photographs by HENRIETTE BEIKIRCH l e f t Williamson Flat from the Waipara Range, Mt Aspiring National Park. r i g h t t o p Lake Williamson and Mt Gyrae, Mt Aspiring National Park. right bottom Rome Ridge, Mt Rolleston, Arthur’s Pass National Park.

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s a parks ranger, I have met a few trampers traversing the length of the South Island.

Some walked the whole island in three or four months; others did sections during their annual holidays. Some followed the official Te Araroa trail; others, their own more adventurous routes. Their journeys inspired me to attempt a solo high-alpine southern traverse, as I love backcountry adventures. The decision to attempt the traverse also reflected my feeling of being at home in New Zealand after importing myself from Germany 18 years ago.

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Walking the length of the South Island, I would become part of it, and the land would leave its trace in my heart—much like I still carry the Black Forest inside of me; the gentler ranges where I grew up so many years ago.

I chose a challenging high-alpine route along many permanently glaciated areas, and planned to use valley travel close to the Main Divide to make progress between high plateaus and sections of mountain ranges. I also wanted to attempt some climbs along the way. Therefore, I took a full summer off so that I would have enough rest days to be able to enjoy the trip, plus flexibility to work around the weather.

Alpine crossings and numerous unbridged rivers meant that I would have to wait out severe storms and high rainfall.

I started my trip in early October 2012 and called

a halt in mid-April 2013, when the first snows started to settle on the Fiordland tops. During these six and a half months, I traversed from Farewell Spit to Milford Sound. Fiordland will take another two and a half months and is planned for early 2014, with long summer days and (hopefully) stable weather.

The weather during my trip turned out a mix of extremes. October had three weeks of continuous gales, with only three half-days of sunshine. My toenails rotted in my constantly-wet boots, and I got cracks on my heels that even heel balm wouldn’t mend—Superglue has its uses! November had three short weather windows. December and January brought lots of cold fronts bracketing short weather windows, and two major rain events that lasted four to five days each. February and March were warm, dry and fantastic. The cold returned again in April,

with unsettled autumn weather.

My route was split into sections, with resupply detours to buy fresh food and to catch up with friends in town. Most sections lasted one to two weeks, with one food drop for the longer one-month trip in the Olivine Range.

Equipment I carried alpine gear (crampons and two light axes for climbing), full camping gear, a camera and spare batteries, beacon, GPS and maps. From the Rakaia southwards, I also carried a mountain radio. Baseweight without food was around ten kilograms.

This was the lightest I felt I could be safe with, and also still be warm enough to sleep at night. At its heaviest, with nearly three weeks of food, my pack weighed around 30 kilograms, which is around half my body weight and less than ideal on untracked

l e f t t o p Mt Ella, Nelson Lakes National Park. l e f t b o t t o m The Wilberforce Valley from Browning Pass, Canterbury. r i g h t Pearson Saddle, Wilkin River South Branch, Mt Aspiring National Park.

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l e f t The Red Hills Range from the Peridot Stream basins, Mt Aspiring National Park. r i g h t Trinity Glacier and Mt Trinity from Trinity Col, Mt Aspiring National Park.

alpine ground. I mailed a large ‘support’ box ahead, containing spare clothes, refills for sunscreen and disinfectant, plasters, spare sunglasses, a spare walking pole, maps and guidebook copies, camera chargers, an external hard drive to download photos, and my second tent. I used two different tents: a lighter but less sturdy valley shelter, and a four-season alpine tent for sections with extended periods above the bushline. Having the box made it easy to pick what was needed for the next section.

From the Wangapeka roadend, I headed up to Granity Pass and traversed Mt Owen. The peak was still under snow and as it has many karst rock crevasses, I treated it as my first glacier crossing. Pole probing rules! The karst formations were funky—I would like to see the place without snow sometime.

Descending via Sunrise Spur to the Owen Valley, I camped on farmland, then crossed over Maggies Creek to Lake Rotoroa and visited workmates Greg and Petrina in St Arnaud.

Early challenges I started at the base of Farewell Spit and followed the coast, over farmland, south via Knuckle Hill into the Aorere Valley. From Boulder Lake, I traversed the Douglas Range via Lake Adelaide, the steep Dragons Teeth high route, Lonely Lake and Kakapo Peak, past Fenella Hut and the Cobb Reservoir out to Takaka for resupply. The Douglas Range felt wonderfully primeval, like there might be dinosaurs still in residence!

From the Cobb, I had hoped to traverse the Arthur Range, but spring storms meant I couldn’t even see Mt Arthur, let alone climb it—strong winds kept blowing me over on the ridge. So I chose an easier route through the valleys of Leslie–Karamea– Wangapeka. Storms up high meant flooding below, and the Karamea was pumping, necessitating buttdeep wading. The Wangapeka had a fresh slip which had formed a brand new lake. I pack-floated the first part, then bush-bashed along steep hillsides to cross a dam of freshly oozing mud and rock.

Spells of sunshine After resupply in Nelson, I walked along Lake Rotoroa and met local kayaking legend Richard at Sabine Hut. Then I headed up the D’Urville Valley and into four whole days of sunshine—delicious! After climbing Mt Ella, I crossed David Saddle into the Matakitaki.

The weather turned fickle again, so from Bobs Hut I crossed Three Tarns Pass into the St James and climbed Fairie Queene via Camera Gully, summiting in a whiteout during a snow squall. As passage over the alpine tops further west was not viable in the storm, I followed the St James south, making good progress. Groups of wild horses on the valley flats gave the station a wild west feel. From the lower Boyle Valley, I traversed the Poplars Range to end up at the hotpools at Sylvia Flats on the Lewis Pass Road.

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Slow progress After resupply in Christchurch, I continued over the Hope-Kiwi Saddle, past the Hurunui hot pools, over Harper Pass and down the Taramakau. This section should have been easy, but the tracks were covered

in the worst windfalls I’ve ever seen—the valley flats provided alternatives! Further down the Taramakau, I turned off up the Otehake River to visit its hotpools with gorgeous forest campsites. The trail further up the Otehake Valley was a marked route but the going was very rough and slow, coming in at just over one km/h—slow progress for on a marked trail. (My usual speed on good trails was around five km/h.)

After crossing into the Edwards Valley, I came out at Klondyke Corner and went to visit fellow German Tanja at Arthur’s Pass. As a day trip from Arthur’s Pass Village, I climbed Mt Rolleston via Rome Ridge and got totally spanked by a snow storm which came in half a day earlier than was forecast. Although I boneheaded my way up to the high peak and back down the Otira Slide, I saw little of the scenery, so I will have to climb Rolleston another time for the views!

Mungo Mungo Mungo!

After re-supply in Christchurch, I headed south from Klondyke Corner and into the Southern Alps proper, following the Three Passes route as far as Browning Pass. Then I kept high along the Main Divide via Hall Col, Farquharson Saddle, Mt Griffiths, Clarke Saddle and Mt Ambrose to Hokitika Saddle, and descended into the Mungo Valley. My favourite hut book entry read: ‘Mungo Mungo Mungo!’ Sadly, the Mungo hot springs were covered by an unusable gravel riverbank.

Via Frew Saddle, I crossed into the Whitcombe Valley, where long-time possum trapper Dave shared some local knowledge. Further up-valley, I met

three tramping mates from Christchurch at Neave Hut. I had planned to cross Full Moon Saddle via Whitcombe Pass and the Sale Glacier, but the weather turned bad again; so after waiting at the Whitcombe Pass rock bivvy (not spacious) for two days, I bailed down to Reischek Hut in the Rakaia Valley. I got a forecast from the hut’s fixed-installation mountain radio: one day of good weather to follow the Ramsay Glacier to Full Moon Saddle and cross the Bracken Snowfield into the Smyth Valley! The good weather lasted a half-day, and with the afternoon cloud, I didn’t actually see the Bracken Snowfield. But as a reward, I spent eight hours in the Smyth hot pools on my rest day.

l e f t Mt Elie de Beaumont from the Whymper Glacier, West Coast. r i g h t The Ramsay Glacier terminal lake and Mt Whitcombe, Canterbury.

The gardens At the Wanganui carpark, I learned from a DOC sign that Lambert Bridge was unusable from flood damage over ten years ago. I had been relying on this bridge to gain access up Lambert Spur and onto the gardens of Allah and Eden. With spring snowmelt plus rain forecast for the next five days, I had no chance of wading the Lambert River. So instead, I invented plan B: I hitched all the way back to Christchurch and visited my friends Rebecca and Craig, then returned up the Rakaia Valley once the rain stopped. It took a day to walk back to Reischek Hut. From the Lyell Glacier, I crossed over McCoy Col. With another cold front forecast, I dropped down to the Upper Rangitata Valley’s McCoy Hut, which was soon busy with a sociable hunting party of dads and sons.

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Tasman Glacier, clouds came in from the west. Ball Shelter and surrounds turned into quite a social hub—funnily enough, I knew half the trampers! For Ball Pass, I buddied up with Gerwyn from Wales. The weather held until we reached Mt Cook Village, when the New Years’ rain storms hit. So I caught up with friends in Kinloch and Wanaka, eating lots of good food—time well spent while the storms raged.

Douglas Rock Hut and the Sierra Range, West Coast.

After camping up the Frances Valley, I accessed the gardens via Perth Col. The gardens were in great condition, with many crevasses still filled in—payback for the spring storms and my damaged toenails! Surprisingly, Jo and Alan from Wanaka were ski-touring on the Garden of Eden; we shared lunch on Baker Peak. I camped at Adams Col, which was breathtakingly beautiful at sunset, although it had a reputation for tent-shredding winds. The next morning dawned crystal-clear, so I climbed Newton Peak and Mt Tyndall, returning to Adams Col via the Garden of Allah. I’d planned to spend a week on the gardens, but with gale force winds now forecast on the mountain radio, I bailed that afternoon. I crossed the Garden of Eden in a whiteout and descended into Adverse Creek, nearly getting smoked by rockfall while descending the headwall. Following the Perth River at 500m/hr the next day was a lesson in humility. The hot pools at Scone Hut were not operational, but I found some smaller, lukewarm seeps. From there, a track led out the Whataroa Valley to the roadend.

Christmas and New Year’s I resupplied in Hokitika and headed back up the Whataroa Valley to Whymper Hut, where I waited out more rain. During two sunny days over Christmas, I crossed Whataroa, Classen and Tasman saddles in what was the most high-alpine and glaciated section of my traverse. I spent two nights at Tasman Saddle Hut and climbed Mt Aylmer and Hochstetter Dome. Walking down the length of the

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Knee rehab In early January, I crossed Copland Pass to the hot pools at Welcome Flats, then headed to Fox Glacier to wait out more rain with skiing buddy Deano.

Between cold fronts, I followed the Karangarua Valley to its headwaters and traversed Mt Howitt and the Gladiator. I spent a night at Harpers Rock Biv, bagging one of the most remote bivvy rocks. Then I crossed into Landsborough Valley via Douglas Pass.

The Landsborough seemed to run forever and had some interesting river bluffs to contend with. From the lower Landsborough, I crossed Studholme Pass into the West Hunter Valley and, further south, Scrubby Flat Creek into the Makarora Valley. Along the Haast Pass Highway, I followed valley flats and the Blue Pools Link Track to the start of the Young Valley. This whole section from Fox Glacier took me two weeks, including four cold fronts! The weather finally settled as I reached the Makarora Valley.

As I had injured my knee during a fall in the Landsborough, I stayed longer in town (Wanaka) on my next two breaks, to catch up with friends and to rest my knee until I could at least sit down without wincing. It seemed to work—my knee came right with a month’s worth of hiking and climbing.

From Makarora, I did the Young–Wilkin (the lighter pack helped my knee) and climbed Mt Awful as a side trip from Gillespie Pass. The schrund between the snowfields was only just passable.

Party central at Colin Todd After resupplying again in Wanaka, I headed up the Wilkin Valley to the Waterfall Face and Pearson Saddle. Descending via Bettne Stream into the remote Waiatoto Valley, I bush-bashed at 300m/hr for several hours. Eventually, I reached the lake at the head of the valley and camped in the shadow of Mt Aspiring.

The next day, I accessed the Haast Range from Bonar Flats in what was the worst uphill bush-bash of the trip, climbing on near-vertical ferns and dense rotten windfalls. Above the bushline, I followed the range south up Rock Wren Gully, past Cornerpost and over Moonraker, to camp at the remote Cloudmaker Lake.

From here, the western slopes of the Haast Range

led across the difficult Cargo Creek onto the glaciers of Suet, Dipso and Iso, and finally to Colin Todd Hut. Wanaka guide Tony and Australians Archie and Glenn were already in residence. Six Canadian climbers turned up the next day—party central at Colin Todd! We all climbed Mt Aspiring on the same day and headed out the next, ahead of another cold front.

Team Canada and I departed via French Ridge, the guided group by helicopter.

Libations in the scrub After a few days’ rest and organising a food drop at Big Bay (thanks Sue!), I headed back up the West Matukituki Valley. Crossing Arawhata Saddle was tricky, with patchy snow exposing steep rock steps, and the weight of nearly three weeks of food in my pack. The bivvy rock in the upper Arawhata was spacious, but the scrub was vile. The unyielding, dense tangle of plants even unscrewed the lid of my water bottle. The river got my sunnies, and scrub in Sealy Stream later claimed an ice axe spike protector—the worst rate of gear attrition on my whole trip!

From the upper Arawhata, I did a side trip up the Waipara Range to camp at a tarn below Turks Head.

I had hoped to climb Mt Ionia, but the usual glacier access route was a collapsed mess. Instead, I climbed Mt Athene, with awesome views of Mt Aspiring.

Returning to the Arawhata Valley, I camped at the prairie-like Williamson Flats at the junction of the Arawhata and Joe rivers.

Crossing Camp Oven Dome, I had great views of the Olivine Range. The steep descent to Andy Flat was difficult. I lost more time scrub bashing the next day, so cancelled the planned side trip up to the Olivine Plateau. Below Andy Flat, the bush had bluffy sidles and tricky windfalls, leading down to a waistdeep crossing of the Williamson River. From here, easy open bush (a pleasant surprise) led up towards Trinity Col on the Olivine Range. But while traversing a bluff just above the bushline, I strained a calf muscle. After an hour of crawling out of the bluffs and limping across alpine boulder fields, I found a gorgeous alpine meadow below Trinity Col where I set up camp to let my leg heal. The views were stunning, and a little rock wren kept peeking into the tent to check up on me. Two days later, with my leg taped, I was able to continue over Trinity Pass, Sealy Stream and Simonin Pass onto the Red Hills. These had minerals galore, but hardly any plants or animals. From Red Mountain, the views were stunning—the glaciers of the Olivines to the south-east, lush forested valleys to the north-west, and the crescent of Big Bay’s sandy

beach in the distance. I cried a little at the beauty of the scene.

Wild foods at Big Bay From Red Hills, the densely forested spur between Crome and Durwards creeks led me down to Pyke Crossing and onto the track to Big Bay. I was down to my last muesli bar by then, so very much looked forward to my food drop. It was meant to be stashed at the back of a private hut. Instead of going to the DOC hut and working north from there as per instructions, I checked cottages as I went. But the ‘cottage with clothes line’ description matched nearly all the cottages! Eventually, with much relief, I found my box.

Resting by the ocean and going for barefoot beach walks was a luxury after months in hiking boots. I also swam with Hector’s dolphins in calm morning surf. Then I headed north along the coast to visit the Beansprouts at Gorge River. Unfortunately, they weren’t in. I returned to Big Bay and was treated to dinner by three hard-case hunters from Christchurch.

Two possum trappers from Wanaka took charge of my food box and spare gear, so I cruised down the Pyke Valley on a marked but overgrown trail. It felt like luxury after weeks of deer trails and scrubbashing. At Lake Alabaster, local eel fisherman Bruce shared fresh trout with me—yet another local legend.

Walking out at Gunn’s Camp, I travelled to Wellington to submit my application for New Zealand citizenship. (This has since been approved.)

It was as exciting as the traverse.

The Murchison Glacier from Mt Aylmer, Aoraki Mt Cook National Park.

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 55

t o p l e f t The upper Hunter River West Branch valley. r i g h t The author on the summit of Mt Aspiring. b o t t o m l e f t Lake Alabaster and Mt Madeline, Fiordland National Park.

Returning to the Hollyford Valley, climbing buddy Glen and I headed up Moraine Creek and over Giffords Crack to Gertrude Saddle and Homer Hut. I had done this crossing before via Barrier Knob, but this time, we followed the rock traverse below the peak. Old-timer Glen knew some sneaky route variations. Then we rock climbed at the Cleddau Valley crags. Several days of cold wet southerlies followed, so I caught up with friends at Mavora Lakes for Easter.

Looking ahead After Easter, the first snows were dusting the alpine tops of Fiordland. I didn’t want to attempt the Homer to Mackinnon section under fresh snow.

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So instead I did a recce up the Arthur Valley to Mackinnon Pass to check out descent routes.

Feeling better about the route, but still waiting for the snow to thaw, I ran a backup traverse line from Gunn’s Camp south via Key Summit, the Livingstone Mountains, Cascade Basin, the Eglington Valley and Dore Pass over to the Clinton Valley and back onto the Milford Track. The nights were now so cold that I had to carry my bulkier winter sleeping gear, and the days were noticeably shorter. I shared quarters with Milford hut wardens Shelley, Peter and Tussock, and took their advice on local weather. As this was predicted to remain cold and unsettled, I postponed the Fiordland section until next summer. I now plan to finish the remaining one-week Homer to Mackinnon route plus two one-month sections between Mackinnon Pass and Puysegur Point during February and March 2014.

Fingers crossed for another long fine spell.

My southern traverse has been a phenomenal trip so far—very tough, but wonderful in its diversity of landscapes, stunning alpine scenery, remote hot springs, and meeting great people. I left only footprints. The lands I have seen will remain with me in years to come, very likely tempting me back for return visits in the future. What a fantastic place to call home!

The Whataroa Valley Mt Whitcombe, east face

Oil paintings by

JOHN RUNDLE N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 57

AWE-FULL Two first ascents on the east face of Mt Awful

by MILO GILMOUR

The east face of Mt Awful.

Gavin Lang

M

t Awful is a misnomer, unless you consider the original (now obsolete) meaning, which is ‘fills with awe’. In that case the term might be a bit over the top, but at least it’s positive.

The mountain is pretty cool, really. A nice 25-kilometre walk along a good track beside the Young River brings you to a good bivvy spot just 30 minutes from the base of the east wall. The area is semi-glaciated, so it feels alpine; this wall is not just a big crag. The peak features good steep alpine rock, which is surprisingly solid and protectable on the whole.

Our idea was to try to climb A Stitch in Time, Anna Gillooly and Hip’s (Dave Hiddleston) route in the middle of the wall, but the description in the guidebook is so vague and the face so inscrutable that we couldn’t find the climb. So we decided to try our luck on the right-hand side of the face, with a likelylooking feature we called the Sickle.

This was the second time I had walked in to have a go at the face. The first time had been a week earlier.

I’d gone in with a friend of a friend, and I’d made the bad call to not take alpine boots as I was sure all the

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

snow would be gone by mid-December (it’s never all gone, always take an axe and crampons.)

This second trip was with Gavin Lang, and we optimistically bivvied in the grassy flats just past the turn off to Gillespie Pass, which was comfortable but at least two hours from the start of the climbing. It was the summer solstice, and we thought that the long daylight hours would give us plenty of time to climb a line that we figured was about six rope lengths. It was also bloody hot, even in the early morning, so after sweating uphill to the base of the wall, I started the climb under-dressed. After only two 50-metre pitches, the face came into the shade and we both became too cold to continue. So we rapped off and walked out empty handed.

Round three—notice the change to fighting talk— was with Ed Liddle. Again we bivvied too low, and took ages to get to the wall as some of the useful approach snow was gone. After repeating the first two pitches and backing off loose flakes on the start of the third, we tried a line to the right that dead-ended in a sea of exfoliating schist. Again, we rapped off.

Round four was much the same but it was way too

cold. I tried to lead in a down jacket and balaclava, whilst Ed belayed in a down jacket and two balaclavas! In January!

Feeling broken by the 50-kilometre round trip with big, heavy packs, we had a few weeks off. I bought some super-light quickdraws.

After some tactical discussions, round five was launched from a high bivvy. We started with renewed attempts at the loose flakes of the obvious pitch three, but common sense and cowardice pushed me out right on a diagonal zig pitch, followed by a zag pitch, which was loose and vegetated. A small tension traverse got me to some obvious, beckoning underclings, which are now the start of pitch four.

I rapped down and cleaned off the loose flakes and dug out the cracks. Then we rapped off again. But this time we had new and inviting ground to come back to.

Summer ran out, and work and the weather stopped co-operating. Winter gave me time to plan a siege.

I managed to get a stash-barrel to the lower bivvy site. Then spent a weekend ferrying stuff up to the higher bivvy (round six). Everything was in place, but we had to wait another month until round seven.

Teamed up with Llewellyn Murdoch, we launched up the now familiar first two pitches. Llew onsighted the grade 20 third pitch, which is one of the best and most consistent pitches on the route. Pitches four and five went okay. On pitch six I got lost in another sea of exfoliating, loose schist. Daylight was running out and there appeared to be a lot of rock still above us, so we stopped and rapped off.

We jumared back up the next morning and finished surprisingly early—after only two and a half pitches. The first was an offwidth-to-chimney sized crack that led to an easy but protectionless traverse.

The second was a corner crack, some flakes, a slab

and a scary loose bulge. These pitches and pitch six, were cleaned up and straightened out on a subsequent trip. There is a final half-pitch of roughly ten metres at about grade 17 that gets you to the ridge.

From there you could either walk off or scramble up to the headwall for probably another two pitches, although we haven’t done that yet. We called the climb Wicked, as a play on ‘awful/awe filled’, another word of which the modern slang meaning is quite opposed the original meaning.

A month later, Llew was busy with work, so I teamed up with Nick Flyvbjerg and Rich Tribe. We managed to fly in on a special one-off permit, thanks

l e f t Milo starting the walk out from the base of the east face. Twenty-four kilometres to go. r i g h t Milo seconding the sixth pitch of Wicked.

Both photos: Nick Flyvbjerg

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 59

to some helpful people at DOC. This time we had our eyes on a big corner system that is blatantly obvious, halfway up the right-hand side of the face. As we were a team of three, we had enough manpower to fix ropes and jug extra gear up to try other lines once we were on the ridge.

The corner system seeps after rain, so the start had to be off to the left of the plumb line, to get away from the wet rock (this would be a good line to try in winter). The big corner was reached after two 50-metre pitches of about grade 17 or 18. We climbed flakes and edges which led to various diminishing ledges.

The corner itself comprises two pitches of crack climbing, with bridging options for the feet. The crack starts as fingers and slowly widens to wide fists, then turns into a layback as the crack is turned under a bulge and needs at least one number five Camalot to protect the crux moves at the top of pitch four.

We scrambled off right to gain the ridge at this point, as we wanted to check out the other goodlooking cracks and corners from the top down. The climb could continue up and left on the main face for several more pitches.

We named this climb Summer of Yes, after a comment from Rich that he was having a particularly good summer after a decision to say yes to any climbing opportunity that came along.

We spent a day trying to connect a start to the beautiful hanging corners from the previous day, without much success. Rich had to walk out to finish renovating his lounge; he’d said yes to this climbing opportunity in the midst of replacing gib board and sanding plaster.

Nick and I went back up Wicked for the second ascent, and the next day went back up it again to improve the quality of the top three pitches by cleaning, re-directing, straightening and protecting some of the bits we wouldn’t have led otherwise. The section of death-on-a-stick flakes has now been swapped for a nice crack. The chimney and traverse have been swapped for a slab (the off-width is still compulsory).

And the last pitch has gone from a loose meandering rope-drag scare-fest to a crack and face climb finale to whoop about—it’s also probably the crux (grade 21).

There are several more things on my ‘to do’ list for next summer.

l e f t Milo Leading the first pitch of Wicked, during the first attempt at the line. The underclings of pitch four are visible just below the skyline. Gavin Lang 60 N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E

a b o v e Milo the demented alpine Rambo. Nick Flyvbjerg r i g h t Nick Flyvbjerg leading the third pitch on Summer of Yes. Milo Gilmour b e l o w r i g h t View of Aoraki Mt Cook from the bivvy.

Nick Flyvbjerg

Notes Route topos are on climbnz.org.nz under Mt Awful, east face.

It’s best to walk to Young Hut in the evening (five hours), then go to the bivvy the next morning (four hours). Either make a super early alpine start and climb that day or just get yourself in place if things are still drying off after the last storm. Both the walk-in and the bivvy site are well supplied with fresh, clean drinking water, so don't carry any, but do take containers.

Take an axe and crampons, and down jacket, hat and gloves, regardless of the time of year or temperature in the valley. It gets cold quickly once the face goes into the shade and the regular daytime breeze picks up.

You can leave your boots and crampons at the bottom of your chosen route. All anchors are set up for rappelling.

The pitches are long, commonly 50 metres (max 58 metres), so take two 60-metre ropes, about 14 quickdraws, a double rack of Camalots to size four and a five, and a single set of wires.

Flying in appears to be possible on a hunting permit. (Can you hunt tahr or deer with an ice axe?) When we flew in we landed on the ridge between the north and south branches of the Young Valley and scrambled down the biggest obvious gully.

Enjoy—it's awful!

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 61

THE CANTERBURY HAUTE ROUTE A ski traverse from the Otira Valley to Bealey Spur via Waimakariri Falls Hut and Barker Hut words and photos by ERIK BRADSHAW a b o v e Erik on the Philistine–Rolleston ridge, following his own ski tracks for a self portrait.

The lower slopes of the easier route off Philistine can be seen in the background on the left.

T

he sky is picture-perfect blue, the mountains freshly painted with snow, but Graeme Kates is making discouraging comments about the avalanche risk. He kindly drops me off at Arthur’s Pass and I am left wondering whether he is thinking our next meeting will be at a SAR rescue, with him arriving in a helicopter and me buried under tonnes of snow.

It’s always a difficult time walking into big steep mountains, the voice inside saying, Make each decision with care and caution and you will return. While the opposing voice says, A lot of people die in the mountains, what makes you think you are so special?

I shoulder my pack and head up the Otira Valley towards the Philistine Bluffs with my usual commit-

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ment to returning safely.

From the top of Mt Philistine my planned route starts to unfold in front of me. I’m looking for another classic ski traverse like the Symphony on Skis at Mount Cook, or the Haute Route in France.

My research suggests that Arthur’s Pass might have an uncovered gem tucked away in the headwaters of the Waimakariri, with potentially three day’s of ski travel, no need for a helicopter and less than an hour of carrying skis at either end.

The traverse of the ridge towards Rolleston is half climbing and half skiing—it’s fun and exciting but probably too much for most ski mountaineers.

Looking behind me I realise the preferred route would be to ski off the north-west slopes of Philistine

into the basin at the head of the Rolleston River.

The sun is setting as I climb the final slopes to the upper Waimakariri Col. The perfect weather has made me dawdle but my laziness has been rewarded with an orange sunset and the sun reflecting off the Tasman as though it was a sheet of gold.

That night I read through the winter entries in the Waimakariri Falls Hut book for the last ten years and discover that only one party of skiers/snowboarders had visited by walking all the way up the Waimakariri Valley. The potential for a weekend ski trip over Philistine with a night at the super-cute CMC hut, then returning back either the way you came or over Rolleston, strikes me as a classic for ski mountaineers looking to stretch their skills. It amazes me there aren’t regular entries recording such a trip.

My quiet musings are interrupted by a group of six CMC members arriving, with a plan to climb Carrington the next morning. They are good company but there are seven of us in a six-person hut. I am surprised at who doubles up on a bunk—not the two smallest people, nor the couple in a relationship but the two tallest guys. Chivalry knows no bounds with these CMC members!

The traverse below Mt Carrington is probably the most risky section of my planned ‘Haute Route’ as it involves crossing reasonably steep slopes above some very big cliffs. A small avalanche or slip wouldn’t leave you with much time for recovery.

From here I begin dropping down to Campbell Pass, where it suddenly dawns on me just what a terrible snow year it has been. Normally this pass would be covered in snow but this year I have to walk down and back up several hundred metres. The missed turns leave me feeling a bit cheated!

The snow feels safe and the climbing efficient as I cross over Mt Campbell and descend towards Harman Pass. Crusty, windblown snow interspersed with patches of ice and carrying a multiday pack make me dig deep into my bag of tricks to leave a reasonable set of tracks.

Sitting beside the tarn at Harman Pass, I take in the clear rippling water, the craggy mountains, the deep bush-coated West Coast valleys, the golden tussock on the slopes below me and the distant call of a kea—I can’t think of a more wonderful place to be.

I continue past Whitehorn Pass into a small hidden cirque. It feels a little like a lost world but I don’t hang around. The warm sun is loosening chunks of ice the size of soccer balls from the ridge above. They rocket down near me like small bombs, and in a contest, I

think they would win!

Climbing to the ridge south of Mt Isobel is straightforward and I am excited to see Mt Davie not far off. It’s a mountain I have wanted to climb and ski ever since I was a small boy, camping at Klondyke Corner. Thinking back, I realise that mounts Harper and Davie were the first mountains to capture my sense of adventure, long before I recognised New Zealand’s more iconic mountains like Aspiring or Cook. I climbed Harper several times when I was still a teenager but for some reason Davie has remained aloof.

The traverse along the ridge is a great example of the need for efficient travel. In some parts I climb with crampons, a ski pole ice axe and a super-light

t o p On the summit of Mt Philistine, looking towards Mt Rolleston. a b o v e Relaxing at the tarns at Harman Pass.

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 63

t o p l e f t Climbing towards the summit of Mt Davie. Rolleston and Carrington Junction are in the background. t o p r i g h t Mt Davie and the Cahill Glacier from Mt Harper. b o t t o m l e f t The Shaler Range and the Marmaduke Dixon Glacier.

Barker Hut is slightly left of bottom-centre.

axe. Facing inward, I carefully think through my movements and am very aware that under the soft snow is a layer of bullet-proof ice. In other places the snow is deep and I put my skis on and travel quickly.

The Exoskeleton ski bindings I’m using work brilliantly, making all the long hours of inventing and bashing around in the garage worthwhile.

The top of Mt Davie offers me a difficult choice: either a traverse across a steep slope below a big cornice or an airy down-climb over ice-plastered rock. I choose the latter—I would much rather take a skillbased risk than random probability.

I wasn’t expecting amazing powder snow but once

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off the wind-blasted summit I’m merrily making turns and leaving my wiggly signature through footdeep snow. It is so amazing that I ski too far. Having to climb back up with a multi-day pack that I could have dropped half-way down is not very smart.

After a short climb over a ridge into the Cahill Glacier I have another great powder run. This place is just amazing, the steep ridges shelter the basins from wind and shade the snow, making for an excellent skiers playground. Twilight is arriving as I make the final climb of the day to the Marmaduke Glacier. The snow is coloured violet and the first stars are beginning to twinkle as I make the last turns to Barker Hut. Again I search through the hut book and can only find one group of people visiting with skis, about five years ago. Having had a day skiing great powder, this leaves me amazed—where are all the people?

The basins around Barker Hut offer amazing ski potential, I could easily hang out here for many days, exploring all the possibilities.

The next morning I soak in the golden colours of the sunrise as I crampon up Mt Harper. Looking back at my tracks over Mt Davie I realise there is a lower route that drops off the shoulder of Mt Isobel and sidles the basins on the east side of the Shaler Range. This would make the traverse more suited to skiing, with the ability to drop packs and ski the basins above when the snow looks good.

I’m expecting spring or wind-crust snow as I drop off Harper towards Gerald Falls but again there is powder. It’s incredible, the storm was three days ago, it’s been warm and sunny and there is still all this great snow about. I’m just one lucky boy!

With crampons scratching rock and an ice axe hooked over a ledge as I climb down bluffs into the head of Greenlaw Creek, I’m thinking I should be in the Remarkables Ice and Mixed Festival. Looking back I realise I have taken a difficult route. There are places where you could descend with skis on.

Mt Philistine

Waimakariri Falls Hut

Ironically the next point in my traverse is Fools Col. What the mountains giveth the mountains taketh away. After another great powder run down from Fools Col I re-discover scree bashing. On a normal snow year the sidle around to Sphinx Saddle would be a fast traverse but not in this year of snow starvation.

From Sphinx Saddle the name Easy Stream should have given me a clue of where to go but instead I try to traverse the ridge to the east, only to realise it’s a dead end. Like the Sphinx, Easy Stream is a mythical creature and treats me to powder sitting directly on rocks. Skiing this is a good way to destroy your skis and it takes a lot of effort not to destroy myself.

I survive but almost lose faith in myself, looking at the long climb out of Easy Stream. I’ve already completed more than 2000m of climbing today. I start questioning whether I have what it takes to finish the tour today. The masochistic side of my personality kicks in and I reach the basins of Jordan Stream as the shadows are getting long. I’m greeted by the sunset at Jordan Saddle and darkness at Hut Spur. There is bound to be more good powder in the basins below the ridge but skiing avalanche terrain in the dark is a little too wild for me.

So is this the Canterbury Haute Route I have been looking for? It is certainly an amazing traverse and with an extra hut or two would be a classic. The first day is perfect, the second day a bit long but the lower route might solve that problem. The final day is way too big, a hut is needed at the head of the Anti Crow River. There used to be one there a long time ago. This would make for an adventurous fourday traverse, which could easily be escaped from if the weather or conditions turn bad. There are also weekend possibilities such as a Carrington Hut to Barker Hut traverse along the Shaler Range, then over Harper to the Anti Crow and walking back to Klondyke Corner on the second day.

It’s 10.00pm when I reach the road at Bealey Spur.

Harman Pass

Arthur’s Pass

Barker Hut

Bealey Spur

It’s been a big day with 15 hours of solid travel and over 3000m of climbing. Most reasonable and sane people would call this the end and crawl into their sleeping bag for a good sleep. But that’s not me, my car is at Arthur’s Pass.

The Milky Way decorates the night sky as I run along the deserted road with my headlamp off. In the road cutting I can see glow worms twinkling, like stars that have made Earth their home. What an amazing adventure in an amazing country, I feel so gifted to call this home. Suddenly there is a shooting star—it takes so long to fall I wonder whether it will hit the mountains silhouetted on the horizon. Life feels so good I struggle to find something to wish for.

t o p l e f t Erik’s gear: carbon fibre Exoskeleton bindings, lace up boots, skis made by Richard Harcourt from Splitn2, a Camp Corsa ice axe, a Komperdell ski pole, a Black Diamond Whippet and Five Finger shoes to run back to Arthur’s Pass in. a b o v e The Canterbury Haute Route.

Map courtesy of Geographx

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 65

CROUCHING TIGERS AND DRUNKEN MONKEYS

a b o v e Shane Orchard approaching the Mt Williams Glacier. facing page: t o p Looking west from Mt Williams. m i d d l e A blue duck in Moa Stream. b o t t o m Moss detail.

Tess Carney (all)

A snowboard descent of Mt Williams, Rolleston Range, Canterbury.

by TESS CARNEY

T

he day was cool with high cloud, and the wind whipped around us as we drove past the historic Glenthorne Station. I opened and closed the series of farm gates as Shane navigated his dusty Toyota Surf up the spiky-matagouri-strewn bed of the Wilberforce River. Tributaries had created a series of rock ribbons for us to negotiate.

We parked the car near Fanghill Hut and sorted our gear. A group of white-faced Herefords observed us placidly. After doing some last-minute superglue topsheet repairs and screwing down our ragged franken snowboard bindings, we were ready to face the strong westerly wind that had picked up and was now rip-

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

ping down the riverbed. Plumes of dust marked our four-kilometre passage across the Wilberforce to Moa Stream. The Wilberforce was chilly, but we had to cross it only once. As we gained elevation we saw the peaks of the Rolleston Range and their lush-looking couloirs with interesting bush-bash entrances.

Moa Stream is a rejuvenated braided river. New growth of assorted mosses, vegetable sheep (a species of raoulia) and woody tree daisies cover the old river rock.

The mosses were one of the first species to re-colonise the area. They were a starting point—holding water and soil so other plants could get established.

Shane and I arrived at Moa Stream Hut with plenty

of daylight left to chop some wood. A deluxe dinner of pasta, capsicum and mushrooms was prepared, followed by a litre of mulled wine. We were in bed by 7.30pm.

The next morning Shane and I made our game plan for Mt Williams. The peak lies only four kilometres up the river valley, but it took us four hours to get to the base. As we were boulder-hopping our way up the stream, we came across a pair of whio (blue ducks) surfing in a class-five duck rapid.

When we stopped for a snack at the bottom of our climb we still could not see Mt Williams because the two summits of the peak are aligned away from the valley. We gained the col south of the mountain after about 900 metres of boot-packing. The snow was of a chalky, chunky consistency. It had snowed recently, but it seemed as though it had warmed up a lot on this eastern face. At the col Shane and I finally got a view of the double peaks of Mt Williams and the old meandering pocket-glacier.

The easiest access point to Mt Williams is southfacing. Because of this, together with the cold temperatures, all of the surrounding rocks were coated in feathery rime ice. We had been anticipating close-topowder conditions. As we walked up the 45-degree glacial ramp, I was surprised to find that the glacier was really thick and filled in with snow. Only the top edges of the seracs were showing. The side we walked up had some runnelling and some ice patches so we made the call to ride the true right-hand side of the glacier, below the peaks.

We strapped in and had some straightforward snowboarding. It was firm but edge-able. I took the middle steep section and Shane found some powder along near the rock sides. Then we climbed over some bluffs and back up to the col by 4.30pm.

By the time we had descended 1000 metres from the col, it was getting dark. So instead of running down the rocky stream, we submitted to night tramping. Night tramping is actually quite fun because the definition of a headlight makes the details of your scramble appear sharper. The tree daisies hanging over the rocks seemed more pricklier, and tricky rock traverses seemed more static and easier. And let’s not forget our old friend the snowboard, which increased our respective heights by about 50 centimetres—this is quite a lot when you are small and built for quick ninja movements. My favourite manoeuvre is ‘the drunken monkey,’ which includes some squeaking and hooting. Shane’s would have to be ‘the crouching tiger,’ complete with roaring.

Amazingly, I got down the stream without falling

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 67

t o p l e f t Housekeeping at Moa Stream Hut. Tess Carney b o t t o m l e f t The author modelling the latest in Wilberforce Fashion. Shane Orchard a b o v e Camp cook, Moa Stream Hut. Shane Orchard

into its icy waters. Then we went chug-chug-chugging along, until we thought surely this is too far. But it wasn’t until we got to a group of trees that I did not remember from the morning that I knew for sure that we had gone too far. But by that point, Shane was 200 metres ahead of me. It would have been good to have radios or to know Morse code! But eventually Shane stopped. We had a convo and decided that we had definitely passed the orange triangles that mark the trail to the hut. So we turned around and walked back up the river, about one and a half kilometres. By that point I was considering sleeping in the riverbed, curled up in some beech branches and my downie. Then I saw that Shane’s light was off. I reached him and said, ‘Please tell me this is the track.’ It was, thank goodness! (Note to DOC rangers: a bit of reflective tape would make it easier for night trampers—we had to get as close as a metre from the triangle track markers before we could see them!)

When we got to Moa Stream Hut, I had to have a quick lie down in my bunk before I could manage to help Shane cook our midnight dinner.

Moa Stream Hut is one of those beige tin huts with a wood stove. Shane and I cooked our quesadillas and noodles on it, along with a constant supply of hot water for drinks. The next morning we ate three breakfasts and made botanical notations of the amazing flora around the hut.

As always, the walk out back to the car was an easy stroll compared to the tramp in.

Mt Williams is a really cool snowboard descent.

Thanks Jean Tompkins for the idea!

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

EXPLORING THE POLAR RANGE

by SHANE ORCHARD

R

obert Falcon Scott and companions are remembered for their epic polar expedition that eventually led to their deaths on the return from the south pole. Right now the bodies of Scott and his party remain entombed in the ice of the Ross Ice Shelf, and the day will come when they will again meet the sea and complete this final journey.

Although the expedition failed and generated considerable controversy, the story engaged the world and was hugely significant in the polar explorations of the time. In Britain it was seen as a source of national spirit and pride that the expedition had endured so much only to be beaten to the pole by Norwegian Roald Amundsen, and ultimately end in tragedy. The expedition also had a strong New

Zealand connection, with many of the preparations being made from a base in Christchurch. Plus, there are several references and memorials to the expedition to be found in Kiwi culture. Amongst these is a corner of the Arthur’s Pass mountains that celebrates these polar explorers. This is the Polar Range, situated between the Edwards and Hawdon valleys. Here, the explorers and their dreams live on in the name of the peaks.

Interestingly, Scott’s final polar team comprised Wilson, Evans, Bowers and Oates. Only four of these five names can be found in the vicinity of the Polar Range. However, the naming of peaks appears to be experiencing renewed interest in these parts with a recent proposal to add Mt ‘Edgar Evans’ to the range in the form of Peak 2019, which lies near Mt Wilson

Descending the east face of Mt Scott. Nick Clark

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 69

Approaching the summit of Mt Wilson.

Shane Orchard

(see ‘Captain Scott’s Forgotten Man’ by Shaun Barnett, NZAJ 2012).

It was one of those parts of the hills we had always wanted to visit, and in the spirit of exploration, Nick Clark and I organised a three-day ski-mountaineering trip into Sudden Valley to visit Scott and Wilson.

Sudden Valley provides surprisingly good access from the Hawdon. It begins with an impressive canyon leading to a waterfall, which can be bypassed via

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

a short section of track. The remainder of the route does require plenty of crossings of the Sudden Valley stream, and the valley has a secluded feel about it.

The stream is typical whio habitat, running cold and clear, and winding through a narrow rock-strewn valley from the avalanche swept screes and fellfields of the Polar Range.

After five kilometres or so one comes to the Sudden Valley biv, an excellent two-bed shelter tucked into the forest edge on a small flat. Judging from the hut book, the area is well frequented in summer, with travel along the tops between Sudden Valley and Amber Col or Discovery Stream being popular options to link side-valleys of the Hawdon. Come winter the number of parties dwindles to a handful each year.

The valley typically becomes snowclad, and whilst not far off the beaten track, is perhaps not quite steep enough to entice winter climbers. However, there are many peaks to explore including a cluster at the head of the valley set in an inspiring amphitheatre of high ridgelines. Scott is central amongst these with Wilson to the south and peak 1937m to the north at the head of Sudden Valley.

We set out to explore some of this area and started early on day one, aiming to get into the alpine as soon as possible. After a great walk in we lightened the packs at the biv and continued on towards Mt Wilson, hoping to make a descent of the southern aspects into the east branch of the Edwards River valley and climb out again before the end of the day.

This was duly accomplished, although not quite as quickly as anticipated, and the afternoon sunlight was soft and golden by the time we got to the south face. We made our descent from Wilson into deep powder snow and stopped on a bench to take in the east Edwards. It was tempting to carry on down the valley but our route was back up to the summit of Wilson via the south-east ridge. From there our return route would be down the east face via a striking snow ramp. By now, sunset was upon us, and in contrast to the shady valleys near at hand there were stunning views out to the shimmering plains of Kaā Pakihi Whakatekateka o Waitaha. And after a final acquaintance with Wilson we embarked on a descent of the ramp which took us back into the depths of Sudden Valley and were soon heading for camp, happy with the discoveries of the day.

Day two was reserved for Scott, which is an impressive pyramid when seen from the east.

However, the western slopes are gentle, making for an easy climb. The main task for the day was to

explore potential routes on the steep ground of the east face. After a few hours on the move we were on the summit surveying the options for descent. The view was amazing and featured an intricate array of small gullies and spines. It was decided that two visits to the summit might be in order, provided the first descent went well! Nowhere could one see to the bottom, but with the entrance to the longest couloir confirmed we proceeded in that direction in mountaineering style.

Nick offered to detour to a bench visible at midheight, which required a quick unstrap and crampons. From there the lower half of the face would be visible to see if it was passable. Nick confirmed the route would go via a 50-degree spine into a small chute to avoid a mid-face rock step. Happy with this news we continued down the route and were soon back down at the valley floor contemplating a repeat of the 600-metre climb to the summit. It had to be done and at least the trail was in. Sometime later the summit was again reached, with the sun now low and the eyes once again wide. This time the objective was the rather icy entrance to the southern aspect of the face, which lead into a sickle-shaped chute. It was somewhat eerie departing the summit once again with the outcome no more certain than on the first visit. But with the promise of cold winter down there somewhere, there was now a degree of familiarity with Scott that told us all was in order.

All went well and soon enough we were returning down-valley with headtorch assistance, following in the footsteps of the previous day. As a consequence, we saw little of the biv by daylight but did take note of the lively debate on various aspects of hut design in the hutbook, which created some excellent evening reading. Upon casting an eye on the situation it appeared there were two camps roughly equating to those with suggested improvements, and those of the opinion that we should be thankful for what is there. Regardless, there are some gems for DOC in that korero!

With some reluctance, day three was soon beckoning and it seemed sad to be leaving the valley so soon.

There remained a full day to be had though, and the task was to explore the northern half of the valley head via the col to the north of Scott and thence to Peak 1937m. The quickest way from the col was to ride down the western aspect some way to avoid gendarmes on the ridge and then climb back to Peak 1937m to the east. The south face there presents a rampart of steep snow routes dropping back into

Sudden Valley. We decided on not getting too frightened on our last day but still found dropping off the summit ridge onto the exposed south-east arĂŞte exciting enough before getting established on the true south face which led to an excellent dog-leg couloir. Being a shady slope, winter conditions were once again with us, making for a great end to our alpine explorations. We headed off down-valley for the final time, happy in our new-found knowledge and the experience of visiting a new part of the world.

The Polar Range comes much recommended, and perhaps spending time amongst the namesakes of the explorers added something to our experience.

Although we hope never to suffer the fate of Scott and his party, their efforts remind us of those who strive to explore and understand the wilder parts of the world. As Oates said in his final moments, ‘I am just going outside ... and may be some time.’

t o p Nick Clark on the south face of Peak 1937.

Shane Orchard

a b o v e Shane Orchard getting started on the east face of Mt Scott.

Nick Clark

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 71

IRISH ROADMEN, AND OTAKI MAIN STREET UNDER REPAIR An elegiac, for Richard Hancock (first ascent of east face of Malte Brun, January 1978) and John Nankervis (who fell on Mt Awful, 2013).

So, the smaller paddy

The barrow

was standing in

reached the bottom.–

the hole, and his

heavily in the hole

cement above him, in

as Hades, when

the barrow straked

it froze, on

by snow, seemed

his boot underneath,

contrarily punished

he gazed at me

in hell, as I watched

patiently, through

the while, a smoke

his glasses and

in the side of his

the snowfall the while

chalk blue mouth.

the same, his boot

His tall mate standing

in its place and

above him looking

under the wheel,

down lit his, and

and finished

each set aside

lighting his smoke.

his shovel for the moment, so

–DARYL MCLAREN

cupped in hands from the falling snow, each would light.– Thus the barrow began, down the slope Paddy gazed up from opaquely, at me in his heavy glasses, both of us fissured in the falling snow.

Photograph: Bryce Martin and Jana Wold on top of Meteor Buttress, Sheridan Hills. By Marten Blumen.

CLIMBER IN A STORM The mountain casts a shadow like a net, its reach as vast as an ocean.

It hauls in the sombre glaciers, subtle pathways, lapping ridges, valleys of complacency.

He climbs the mountain into a sky as clear as a pearl, as blue as the tide, but if he were to look he’d see the shadow snare the storm that broils beyond the horizon.

It lashes the line, reels in its catch of stratocumulus and polar blast.

Drags it over the pied du mont and cuts it loose amidst the towers of crusted rock and verglace.

Hurl your malice, keen your fury, strafe his body, ransack his sight, kidnap his warmth, steal his bearing, arc the rope until it thrums electric in his frozen hands.

and he knows nothing but to find safe harbour and to anchor.

–PAT DEAVOLL photograph by Troy Mattingley

Mt Ruapehu, hebe and tussock at sunrise from Rangipo Desert Te Onetapu.

Mark Watson

Overseas Climbing Daniel Joll Nick Shearer Rob Frost Chris Jensen Burke Reg Measures Graham Zimmerman John Price Paul Knott Marc Scaife Erik Monasterio Ruari Macfarlane

K2 from Base Camp. Peter Laurenson 75

LES DRUS An onsight ascent of the North Couloir Direct on the Dru. words and photographs by DANIEL JOLL

S

ometimes it’s good to dream.

For many years I dreamed of climbing Les Drus in Chamonix. At first the dream was to climb the Bonatti Pillar. By the time I made my first visit to Chamonix, however, the pillar had fallen down. I stared down at the fragments of my dream, lying scattered at the base of the Dru’s north face, crushed into millions of small stones. But the dream wouldn’t die. The Dru was still standing, and it had plenty of other routes to offer. Each time I visited Chamonix, I would take a walk up-valley and stare at the Dru and its steep north and west faces, which lead to its double-pointed summit. For several years, the Dru remained an often-thought-of but never attempted challenge—I never had the right partner at the right time.

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

European winter, January 2013 Another goal, a dream, a desire was to onsight M8 on a high mountain route. I never really told anyone this dream, I kept it to myself. It just seemed too unlikely. I remember the first time I said it out loud: a local climber had asked about my plans for the winter. Hearing myself say the words reinforced the pressure I had put on myself. By November 2012, when I packed my bags and headed to Europe, my onsights of this grade were limited to roadside crags—and only with the right warm-up and some shiny bolts to spur me on. I had never onsighted M8 mid-climb on a big alpine wall. For this to happen, many things would have to go right. Onsighting is a funny business. There is little room for error when you’re pushing your limits. One wrong move, a

slipped crampon, breaking rock, losing your nerve or misjudging a resting stance: any mistake can cause you to blow the onsight. Even the notion of onsighting on an alpine route, climbing free, not pulling on gear, pushing to the point of falling and failure on a mid-winter ascent, when you have sharp attachments on your hands and feet, seems a little absurd.

In theory, the risk of falling while alpine climbing should outweigh the rewards of a free onsight. But it doesn’t. Pushing yourself, physically and mentally, while high on a big alpine face and battling the cold and fatigue, is exhilarating.

The summit was not my only goal. The real test of skill and will is displayed in the style with which you approach the mountain. How I get to the top is as important as reaching the summit, in my opinion.

Should I fix ropes? Should I aid moves that I could possibly free? Do I bivvy mid-route? Do I want have someone else lead all the crux pitches? No. Style matters.

Les Drus North Couloir Direct, AI6, M8, 800m I stumbled upon this route while googling the Dru. The line represented a true alpine challenge. As a direct line on the Dru, this was a line I had dreamed of climbing for many years. As a north-facing line— cold, long and devoid of sun in the limited hours of daylight of deep winter—it would require fast, efficient climbing.

Then there was that mental block: the 45-metre M8 crux pitch. Vertical corner-climbing into a gentle overhang, followed by a thin, steep ice top-out. In the months leading up to my trip to Chamonix I studied photos of the route and visualised myself onsighting that crux. I used the line to motivate me to train.

Fitness, power, mental strength: I would need all of these to get the route’s four crux pitches nailed without a fall. Although I had led pitches of this grade on traditional protection several times, I had always got the clean ascent on the second or third try. I had a good shot at an onsight at this grade if it was on bolts, and I could flash it if I had some preplaced gear.

But linking the moves, nailing the gear and holding it together long enough to avoid falling, well, that alluded me on routes M8 or harder.

I also knew this line had been freed only a handful of times. It had grown in reputation in recent years as a quality modern testpiece. High-quality photos from the route taken by well-known Chamonix photographer Jon Griffith cemented its status as a must-do line in the minds of many alpinists. However, you

could still count the number of successful winter onsight ascents on one hand. Unless you are climbing solo you can only be as good as your climbing partner. The right partner instils trust, motivation and desire. I knew I would need the right partner for this line.

The crux of the route comprises four pitches, around 300 metres up the north face. I knew that in order to have my shot at the onsight I had to get to these pitches feeling physically and mentally fresh. To do this I would need the help of a good partner. I needed to find someone with the desire to spend hours on a cold north-facing wall mid-winter.

Finding a partner with the right skills, someone I feel comfortable on the mountain with, threatened to be a challenge. Luckily, I met young Finnish mountain climber Fredrik Aspo. I say ‘lucky’ because Fredrik was a friend of a friend, and usually ‘the two guys who can’t find anyone else to climb with’ do not make the best partnership. But it’s fair to say that two guys who want to climb big routes when the temperature is –20°C probably know what they are doing. Fear of losing fingers and toes keeps the pretenders away. In the four days prior to our climb on the Dru Fredrik and I racked up some climbs, including a single-push trip up and down the north face of the Grand Jorasses. Fredrik was young and tough, and seemed used to the cold. He was also fast and efficient, which was perfect for my plan on the Dru. A good plan helps put your mind at ease. Mine was simple: simul-climb all of the route, fast, and then pitch out the 200-metre crux. Fredrik would be on the lead for all of the simul-climbing so I could arrive at the crux fresh and give it 100 per cent, knowing that after this one hard block of pitches, my work on the mountain was essentially over.

Our ascent began in the early hours of a cold winter’s morning. At 8.00am we arrived at the base of the crux section. Almost perfect timing. Daylight had recently arrived, and I was fresh and feeling rested. I looked up, feeling relaxed and confident. The final pitch of the North Couloir Direct is the hardest pitch of the crux section, making it the crux of the route, but I had to put that from my mind. To claim the full onsight ascent I had to overcome three other hard pitches before I could begin to worry about what might happen on that final one. I must attack the route pitch by pitch. If all went well, each successful lead would build additional motivation to succeed on the next pitch as well. The crux, a 200-metre high

facing page The west and south-west faces of the Dru. The north face is in profile on the left.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 77

Jonathan Griffith bailing off Sans Norm on the Dru, during an attempt with the author, prior to Daniel’s successful ascent of the North Couloir Direct.

corner, almost looked like it could be done in a single pitch. This shouldn’t take long, I thought to myself, and smiled. I was, however, in for a big shock. The next four pitches took us a full seven hours. For well over four of these, I was on lead—pumped, excited, scared and determined.

The crux Thin, vertical ice led into the North Couloir Direct.

Clearly, the line had not seen an ascent this season.

I spent precious energy cleaning endless powder mushrooms out of cracks and bulges as I searched for gear and tried to calm my nerves.

The climbing was steep and run-out. By the end of the first pitch of my block, I was beginning to appreciate the size of the corner I was now faced with. From the base it had seemed to be a short, straightforward crux. I was now a full 60 metres up the line and that was barely a dent in the total length of this section.

Pitch two went pretty fast. Moderate ice and mixed led to the base of the real climbing: two full pitches of hard ice and mixed. The real shock was pitch three.

I hadn’t realised that the crux was guarded by a full 60-metre pitch of M7+ climbing. With offwidth corner climbing and then a steep face, the pitch was relentless. I spent a full two hours on lead, with shaking legs and burning forearms. I had to get it, though.

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

One slip here and I would fail in my goal to onsight the line, even if I climbed the crux pitch clean.

Thinking of the final pitch, I knew I would need the mental motivation that comes from completing all the previous parts of the climb successfully. I fought right to the end, feeling my confidence lift and waver simultaneously. If the pitch I had just climbed was not the crux, what the hell would the next pitch be like? I was exhausted after my two-hour endurance pitch. The mental preparation ramped up. I sucked down a shot of GU as I waited for Fredrik to arrive with the pack and our water. This is it, I thought. Talk is cheap. As Fredrik set up his belay, I thought about something I’d heard from long-time Kiwi climber Nick Cradock. It was in some comments Nick had posted on climber.co.nz in response to a letter in The Climber (issue 81): From my perspective there is lots of talk [and] not much walk from the present-day protagonists.

Maybe it is time to stop playing in the sandpit, throw away the trainer wheels [and] put your money where your mouth is… i.e. in our BIG mountains, where the ice/mixed isn’t fickle [and] you can't use fruit boots.

It is one thing to ponce around in the warm July sun with crampons [and] ice axes, close to the latte machine [and] completely another to onsight a new-standard-setting winter mixed route.

Nick was right. The real prize lay ahead of me. I had climbed myself into a position where it was no longer possible to simply ask Fredrik to lower me down and then retreat to the nearest café for a nice hot coffee.

It was time to put up or shut up. You only get one shot at the onsight on any route. And that’s especially important when you’re on a classic.

The North Couloir Direct is a modern winter testpeice. My desire to get this onsight was huge—it had become a personal thing, something I had to prove to myself. It would also be a statement, my way of telling those guys who like to take the piss out of the new generation of climbers to take their latte-induced big talk and shove it. Us ‘softies’ can bring those same skills we bring to the crag to a major alpine route as well. Light, fast and free is the style I aspire to. Often it does not happen on big mountain routes, for a range of reasons. Bad conditions, weather, fear— they all provide excellent excuses for failure.

The next 45 metres of the route would be make or break. Almost anyone can aid their way up the corner—that’s been done plenty of times. I knew I could climb most of it and pull through at the crux, but was

I motivated enough to risk the fall? The trick would be to run it out just enough to save energy for the hard sections, using just enough protection to inspire the confidence to commit to the climbing above.

I eased into the climbing. Corners are my favourite and the style on this pitch suited me. Moderately overhanging, it was a straightforward endurance test.

Surprisingly, there were sections of loose rock and hollow choss.

Suddenly my feet blew off the wall. My crampons had broken the small edges I had been standing on.

I hung off my tools, fighting to regain the wall. Deep breaths, I thought. I shook out the pump in my forearms, milking every stance for all the rest I could get.

Thirty metres into the pitch I realised I was approaching the final crux moves. The overhang steepened. I could see the final vertical ice top-out. This is it, I thought. I plugged in my final gear and committed to the moves. I had nothing left in my tank. My arms were completely maxed out. I was pulling into moves and sequences I had no hope of reversing. I knew that if I hesitated, my arms would fail and I would fall. Desperate to reach my goal, I pushed through.

I felt my strength departing. I climbed upwards, desperately, until finally whack, whack, my axes were secure in thin alpine ice. Careful now, shake it out, I told myself. Whack, whack: I moved slowly higher onto the steep ice wall.

Then I was over the crux overhang. Adrenaline pulsed through my body. I screamed out to Fredrik, ‘Fuck yeah! Fuck yeah!’ I was very excited. Fredrik would now lead us to the top and I could sit back and relax, our partnership working to get us both up the mountain. My work was done.

Fredrik followed up the pitch with the pack without resting or falling—a perfect clean team ascent.

We were both buzzing with the thrill of nailing the crux on such a classic line. We had not yet reached the summit, but we congratulated each other, safe in the knowledge that the final 300 metres of climbing would be just a formality. Sure enough, we raced up the rest of the route. On the final 50 metres I realised just how tired I was; I could not have continued simul-climbing safely in my current state. It was over though, the climb was finished. A dream fulfilled.

As we rappelled through the night I could not stop smiling. It would not be long now before I would be skiing back to Chamonix to enjoy a nice hot latte.

Fredrik Aspo seconding the third pitch (60m, M7+) of the North Couloir Direct, about 500 metres up the route.

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

Geoffroy Lamarche and Marty Hunter on Syaokang. Kangchenjunga and Jannu are in the background.

THE 2012 NEW ZEALAND YANGMA EXPEDITION words and photos by NICK SHEARER

W

hile the rest of the world prepared for yet another round of entertainment on Mt Everest, we planned a trip into eastern Nepal for an altogether different climbing experience: the 2012 New Zealand Yangma Expedition.

We wanted a remote area, a virgin peak, something with few other climbers in the vicinity. The alternative name for the expedition—‘Youth in Asia’—highlighted expedition leader Nank’s unique sense of humour and penchants for homonyms.

(Hom•o•nym: n. One of two or more words that have the same sound and often the same spelling, but differ in meaning.)

Several years ago, the Nepalese government expanded the list of open peaks, and relaxed the rules, so that expeditions attempting peaks under 6500m were no longer required to have a liaison officer. This greatly reduces the cost to expeditions. Our 80 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

team members were John Nankervis (Nank), John Cocks, Nick Shearer, Paul Maxim, Martin Hunter and Geoffroy Lamarche.

Nank researched the list, paying particular attention to eastern Nepal (Yanak Himal), looking for unclimbed peaks of less than 6500m that didn’t look too steep. Our objective needed to be achievable, but this proved hard to determine because there was little information about these peaks or photos of them. An investigation of the area near Yangma, at the headwaters of the Tamur River, showed some promising results. We decided to apply for permission to climb Chaw Peak (6404m), just east of Yangma Pass, and Syao Kang (6041m), immediately north of the small settlement of Syao, and east of Yangma Village.

The highest peak in the area is Ohmi Kangri (6839m). The high peak was climbed by a Swiss–

Nepalese expedition in 1985, although the lower east and central peaks were climbed in 1982 by a Japanese–Nepalese group. A small Australian expedition led by Tim Macartney-Snape had visited the area in 2010 and made the first ascent of a peak called Pabuk Kang (6244m). There is no evidence of any other climbing expeditions to the watershed.

The only way to learn about access to the peaks we were interested in was by looking at Google Earth.

This is a fantastic resource, and we did end up successfully using it to find a route up on to the summit slopes of Syaokang on the eastern side. But while on Google Earth the western slopes looked easy, in reality they were completely cut off by ice-cliffs and hanging glaciers.

Ably assisted in Kathmandu by Dawa Lama, the managing director of our logistics company Dream Himalaya Adventures, we purchased essential supplies from supermarkets, and packed them into barrels and bags for the porters. A bus was hired for the tortuous ride to the road-end at Taplejung. The trip took 25 hours altogether, the last part on a narrow winding mountain road. Many of our staff were chosen because they were originally from the area, and this helped in organising the 37 porters for the trek in to Base Camp.

After four day’s trekking, we had a rest day in the border town of Olangchung Gola to help with acclimatisation. The Tibetan influence in this village is very strong as yak trains make their way over the border several times each summer on trading missions. There is a thriving handmade carpet industry, and a monastery where the expedition was blessed by the local lama.

Our porters turned back at this point, due to a lack of suitable camping spots and a complete absence of alternative accommodation. We procured 17 yaks from Yangma to carry the loads the porters had been carrying. The trek from Olangchung Gola to Yangma took another three days, initially through a forested gorge, with washouts on the track. A new cantilevered stone and log bridge replaced a swing bridge destroyed in the monsoon. The gorge opened out on to large river flats near to Yangma, and it was here we had our first views of Syaokang.

Standing at an elevation of 4200m, Yangma is reported to be the highest permanently inhabited village in eastern Nepal. It is above the treeline, and the local women trek a fair distance to get their firewood.

Yaks supply fuel—in the form of dried dung. They are also the town’s main source of income, providing

meat, fibre, milk and cheese. The animals themselves are traded in Tibet for salt, rice and cheap Chinese electronics. There is much intermarrying between the Nepalese in Yangma and the Tibetans just across the border. From Yangma we had a day of reconnaissance in the valley to the east, looking for a suitable site for our base camp. We settled on a sheltered flat yak pasture just up from the summer settlement of Syao (4400m).

Mountaineering in Nepal has its advantages. One is that the staff have an ability to make base camps a

t o p Looking towards Tibet from the summit of Syaokang. a b o v e Base Camp at Syao (4400m).

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 81

t o p John Cocks, Paul Maxim, Geoffroy Lamarche and Marty Hunter on Syaokang. a b o v e The lama from Yangma Village carrying out a Puja at Syao Base Camp.

home away from home. We had a decent-sized mess tent with a dining table, six chairs, a tablecloth and a vase of flowers. (The flowers were plastic, but it’s the thought that counts!) The floor was carpeted, and there were electric lights with 240-volt solar power supply. Panjo the cook made us hearty meals, and at the end of the evening the cook boys gave us hotwater bottles for our sleeping bags. My one, a wobbly red one, was named Nigella and became the source of some amusement and envy.

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

Our sirdar, Kusang Tenzing Sherpa, had climbed Everest seven times, but we were not planning on using his climbing experience on this trip. However, we did get him, and his kitchen boys, to help us carry loads up to our first two camps. From Base Camp we followed yak trails up the true right of the main valley for a few kilometres, and then we took a side valley leading north. Our first camp was on a meadow half way up the valley, at 4900m.

At the head of the valley we climbed an old terminal moraine wall, reaching a small lake and a good site for the second (and top) camp at 5300m. The eastern flanks of Syaokang were guarded by buttresses and icefalls. We spent our first day above the camp finding a way through.

Up until now we had had almost perfect weather, but our second evening at the top camp was most unpleasant. Although wind and blizzard battered the three tents during the night, we woke early to a fine day and only a few centimetres of new snow. Getting away at 7.00am, we followed our route up the boulder fields to the icefall and roped up for the glacier.

Nank was feeling ill with altitude sickness, and he turned back early on.

The glacier was straightforward, and we plugged steps in deepening snow towards the obvious summit. Marty was feeling weak and unwell, with stomach issues, but doggedly kept following the trail. Near the summit ridge, the slope steepened and became very exposed. We pitched the last rope-length, and had turns standing on the tiny summit. It was 4.00pm and the altimeter read 6045m. There was a northern summit that was noticeably lower than our one, and a southern summit that might have been a touch higher. It was a long way away from our summit, and separated by a deep gap in the ridge.

We had climbed the central summit of Syaokang!

There were great views of Jannu and Kanchenjunga to the east, but to the west clouds blocked the view towards Everest. To the north, between clouds, we had glimpses of Chaw Peak and Tibet.

A couple of days later, in Base Camp, we planned the next foray up to Yangma Pass for an attempt on Chaw. Nank was still feeling unwell, and he decided to stay behind to recuperate. With help from our Sherpa staff, we eventually established a food dump and second camp on the Phuchang Glacier.

From here we could study the route up Chaw Peak with binoculars. What looked to be an easy ridge on the map and on Google Earth now appeared to be a series of broad snow ledges separated by ice-cliffs.

The ice-cliffs could generally be turned by climbing out on the southern face. The second tier of cliffs had suffered a serac collapse, and the resulting rubble had triggered a series of slab avalanches further down. I could count at least seven crown walls, and I was not comfortable with the snow stability.

We ferried some loads and established a high camp at 5700m, just below the icefall leading to Yangma Pass. From here a route through the crevasses ended in a steep wall. Geoffroy showed off the skills he had learnt as a guide and led this spectacular pitch of ice of dubious quality, opening the route to the pass (5900m).

At this stage, sadly, the decision was made to turn back. The snow and avalanche conditions were suspect, time and food were in short supply, and we were down to one stove because the others had clogged in the cold conditions.

Meanwhile, at Base Camp, Nank had been having a long-distance consultation with Dr Richard Price on the sat phone. The phone was a pre-pay and eventually ran out of credit. We had just enough left to send a text to Dawa with a plea to top it up. A garbled reply followed, and after a day’s confusion it was up and running again. Being able to communicate with loved ones—and the doctor—added a new dimension to ‘remote’ mountaineering. With Dawa and my wife Dara next to each other in the phone contacts list, I had to be very careful who I sent texts to.

In the end, Nank’s condition made it too dangerous for him to walk out, so we arranged for a helicopter to pick him up just below Yangma. While he was being treated in a hospital in Kathmandu, the rest of us walked out over the Marson La (4900m) and Nango La (5000m) to meet with the Kanchenjunga trail at Ghunza. From there we had a pleasant day trip to Kambachen and Jannu Base Camp. The school at Folay, just below Ghunza, had been destroyed in a major earthquake in 2011.

We were able to check out the rebuilt school house on behalf of Rob Rowlands and Cherie BremerKamp, who helped organise the project. Back in Kathmandu, we learned that few other expeditions to eastern Nepal had had the success we had experienced, due to the cold and poor snow conditions.

We were lucky, but—to paraphrase Sam Goldwyn— the better we plan, the luckier we get.

Nank received excellent care and made a good recovery. Before flying homewards, we had a few days in Kathmandu to shop, get haircuts, and have lei-

surely lunches in the café at the Pilgrims Bookstore.

Sadly, the bookstore later burned down (in May 2013). We are very thankful for the logistical support from Dawa’s efficient, friendly team at Dream Himalaya Adventures. Our gratitude also goes to the NZAC Expedition Fund and Promax (Paul’s building company) for financial support. And, finally, we thank the Yangma Supporters Group and our families and friends, who contributed to our successful and amicable expedition.

t o p Geoffroy Lamarche reaching the summit of Syaokang. a b o v e John Cocks and Paul Maxim approaching the summit ridge of Syaokang.

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

THE 2013 NEW ZEALAND WHITE WAVE EXPEDITION by ROB FROST a b o v e White Wave from the 5-7 Arête. Rob Frost

[The desire to conquer mountains] doubtless owes its force partly to the attraction of the unknown and partly to the natural beauty and sublime grandeur of mountainous districts; but I like to think that it goes deeper; that the wish to explore springs from a delight in the purely aesthetic nature of the quest.

–Eric Shipton, in Nanda Devi

T

his is an account of the first expedition to attempt Anidesha Chuli (White Wave), a 6900m peak in the wild, alluring Kangchenjunga region of Nepal. It’s a mountain that is, in my eyes, as beautiful as they come. When I saw it, I knew I’d dream about it for the rest of my life regardless of whether or not we would successfully climb it. Unfortunately, we weren’t successful, but 84 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

this expedition taught us much. Each of us grew and developed as mountaineers, and the secret of how to climb White Wave has effectively been unlocked.

I can thank the members of the 1975 New Zealand expedition to the north face of Jannu for indirectly inspiring this expedition. That team had a view of White Wave from almost all locations on their route, and the mountain is described as ‘awesome’ and

‘beautiful’ in the resulting book about that attempt, Wall of Shadows by Graeme Dingle. Ding’s book also contains some stunning photos of White Wave, and from the moment I saw them, I knew this expedition had to happen.

I visited Nepal and the Kangchenjunga region for the first time with my partner Claire in September 2011, not long after I learned of White Wave’s existence. We hired a guide and three local porters for what was supposed to be a 31-day journey. We were to visit the south and north sides of Kangchenjunga, the Tibetan border, and the base of White Wave itself. Instead we got a much shorter trek with rain, leeches, and finally a magnitude 6.9 earthquake when we were at 4100m, one day below White Wave.

We retreated through fresh rockfall zones and were highly disappointed not to have seen much of what we’d been looking forward to. However, I stumbled across a crucial book during a night in the village of Ghunsa. The book was about the second ascent of Kambachen (7802m) by a Yugoslavian expedition in 1974, from the nearby Ramtang Valley.

Whilst acclimatising, they climbed Ramtang Chang (Wedge Peak, 6802m) and obtained a terrific view of White Wave from the north. Their eventual route on Kambachen ascended via a 6350m col between White Wave and Kambachen. This, it appeared, was the closest anyone had been to the summit of White Wave, and the east ridge from the col to the summit looked feasible. This had to be the way to climb the mountain.

Fast-forward to 2013. I’d managed to recruit Ben Dare, Andrei van Dusschoten and Scott Blackford Scheele. The four of us had secured generous funding from NZAC, the Mt Everest Foundation and Sport New Zealand. Ben and Andrei had climbed in the Nepali Himalaya before, but it was to be the first mountaineering outside of New Zealand for me and Scott.

The approach trek to White Wave is quite long— about ten days allowing for acclimatisation—so with the aim of summiting in early to mid-May, we departed Christchurch in early April 2013. We spent three days in Kathmandu, then 30 uncomfortable hours on a bus to Taplejung, where the trek begins. We passed through the balmy altitude of 1000m on day one, and by the end of day five had reached Ghunsa (3400m) where temperatures were decidedly chilly.

Ghunsa is the highest permanently inhabited village in the valley, and has a micro-hydro scheme, satellite phone and TV, plus plenty of delicious potatoes.

Our ideal base camp location was three days above Ghunsa, at about 5000m in the Ramtang Valley. The Jannu and Ramtang valleys lie parallel to each other and flow into the main Kangchenjunga Valley one and two days up-valley from Ghunsa respectively.

Our agent had assumed that travel in the Ramtang would be similar to the pleasant grassy terraces of the Jannu Valley, so at Ghunsa we exchanged porters for yaks. It turned out that the only way up the Ramtang Valley is over several kilometres of moraine.

The yaks couldn’t travel over this, forcing us to set up ‘Intermediate Base Camp’ at 4600m until local porters became available again, one week later! In the meantime, the four of us began carrying loads up the Ramtang Valley.

We had a pretty good idea from the 1974 Polish and Yugoslav expeditions to Kambachen that the eas-

Climbing up the 5-7 Aréte.

Wedge Peak is behind.

Rob Frost

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

t o p Intermediate Base Camp. Rob Frost a b o v e Ben and Scott (just up and left of centreframe) climbing above Canp 2. Rob Frost

iest route to the Ramtang névé followed moraine and scree slopes on the true right of the Ramtang icefall.

The route towards the 6350m col—the base of White Wave’s east ridge—then passes for two kilometres underneath huge icecliffs hanging from the slopes of Kambachen. As soon as we saw those icecliffs, we vowed to find a route up the true left of the icefall to avoid having to pass underneath them!

Below the icefall, we also obtained our first views of White Wave. It really was the most beautiful peak in the area, and it appeared that the north ridge may also offer a route to the summit, which would be convenient if we could get up the true left of the icefall.

By the end of April, we were resting in a new base camp (4800m) in the Ramtang Valley, with a gear cache at 5100m and Camp 1 established at 5500m on the true left of the icefall. Andrei and Scott had discovered a route from Camp 1 to the true-left edge of the névé via a prominent snow arête at 5700m,

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

which we dubbed the 5-7 Arête. From there Andrei obtained the first unobscured photos of the entire upper mountain.

Andrei’s photos weren’t very encouraging. Access to the base of the north ridge involved either climbing 300-metres of steep rock or spending an extended time beneath icecliffs on the north-east face, so we focused our ambitions back to the east ridge. The 5-7 Arête was a long way from the 6350m col, and the route between them appeared—with a quick glance only—to be quite broken with crevasses. We decided to attempt a route closer to us—up the left side of the north-east face, following a series of interconnecting snow shelves to join the east ridge at about 6500m.

The snow shelves appeared to be separated by some steeper sections of ice, but these looked short and at most 60 degrees.

We established Camp 2 at 6000m on the Ramtang névé, right below our intended route to the east ridge.

The four of us spent two nights there, to acclimatise and to give a recent snowfall time to consolidate. We had enough food for Scott and Ben to make a summit attempt, plus a little extra for my planned attempt with Andrei a few days later. On reflection, that rest day at Camp 2 is when things really seemed like they could work out, more than any other time on the trip. We were enjoying spending time together as a team and going through the motions of simply being at 6000m on a Himalayan expedition. Our situation would be quite different 24 hours later.

On 4 May, Andrei and I climbed for two hours above Camp 2 on a bitterly cold morning, kicking steps for Ben and Scott and depositing a cache of gear for them near the base of the steeper climbing above.

We passed them on their way up just before dawn.

We all wished each other well for the next few days, then they began their climb towards the east ridge, whilst we descended towards Base Camp.

At 2.00pm we caught up on the radios. Ben and Scott thought they were about one to two pitches below the crest of the east ridge, and had found the climbing to be steeper than expected. The 40-50 degree snow shelves had been exhausting and the 60-70 degree ice steps were bullet-hard. Moderate snow was falling and visibility was limited to about 100-metres. Also, the snow shelves were not stable, with audible whoomping on several occasions, but they accepted this due to having good anchors in the ice sections. Ben was not feeling well, with a persistent dry cough that had affected him for the previous two weeks. It sounded likely that they would have

Camp 3 set up during the late afternoon, and would have a full day’s rest before attempting to summit. *** The subsequent happenings went something like this: 4 May 3.00pm: Scott begins leading a pitch on 70 degree ice at about 6450m. Ben is belaying from an anchor of two half-driven snow stakes.

3.15pm: Andrei and I arrive at Base Camp (4800m) for two days of rest and enjoy a fresh coffee and Nakcheese omelette, courtesy of our cook Ang Nima.

3.30pm: After climbing 20-metres of steep ice, Scott wallows up a 50 degree shelf of soft snow, out of view from Ben. Small spindrift avalanches wash over Ben every few minutes. A larger avalanche makes Ben brace himself firmly on the anchor, with the ropes locked off. When the snow clears, the ropes are heading down, not up, from his belay device. Looking down, Ben can see Scott hanging upside-down, not moving, about 40-metres below the anchor. Ben immediately makes preparations to descend to Scott, fearing the worst. After three to four minutes, Scott begins to move, and tries to right himself. When Ben reaches him, he sees that Scott’s helmet is almost in three pieces and one crampon is missing. Scott is delirious and confused. Apart from his head injury, Scott is relatively unscathed. Ben begins lowering Scott down the mountain.

8.00pm: Andrei and I chow down on some goat curry and soon retire for an early night.

11.00pm: Ben and Scott settle in for the night at a camp Ben has set up below an icecliff at about 6350m.

Ben ties Scott in to stop him wandering off during the night.

5 May 7.30am: Ben continues to lower Scott, reaching terrain easy enough for walking around midday after five or six ropelengths.

12.45pm: Andrei departs Base Camp for the 2.00pm radio sched at 5100m (there was no radio coverage with the upper mountain from Base Camp). He takes the satellite phone with him in case a weather forecast text message arrives en-route.

1.30pm: Ben struggles to make decent progress downhill through soft snow with Scott and two packs, especially when Scott decides he wants to climb the mountain again and it takes Ben several minutes to rein him in!

2.00pm: Andrei and Ben both attempt to initiate radio contact for the next hour. Andrei can hear Ben,

but Ben cannot hear Andrei due to a faulty radio (which was in Scott’s lid pocket when he fell).

2.30pm: Ben and Scott finally reach Camp 2, 23 hours after Scott’s fall. As radio communications have still been unsuccessful, Ben activates the PLB at 2:40pm.

3.15pm: Andrei, still attempting to contact Ben from 5100m, receives a text message from New Zealand on the sat phone: Please call me as soon as you can. Mum and Dad have got news that the emergency beacon has gone off. Obviously everyone is very worried. Talk soon, Jo. Andrei calls Jo (my sister) to advise that he does not know any details of the situation higher on the mountain, but has heard Ben on the radio ‘calling from Camp 2.’ He then makes fast progress back to Base Camp to advise me of the situation.

5.45pm: Andrei and I depart Base Camp to climb to Camp 2 in order to ascertain the situation. We do not know if Ben and Scott are together or even who

Scott leading the last pitch, just before the avalanche.

Ben Dare

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

Scott after the first day of lowering. Ben Dare

activated the beacon, only that Ben is at Camp 2.

8.00pm: Ben tries to get to sleep (Scott has no problem with this task), wondering how he’ll get Scott down to Base Camp if nobody contacts him tomorrow.

10.30pm: Leaving Camp 1, Andrei and I check in with my parents in New Zealand and are informed that still only one ‘burst’ has been received from the PLB. Perhaps it was only an accidental activation?

We will not be impressed if that is the case!

6 May 1.00am: Andrei and I have gained the upper Ramtang névé and are finding our way from marker pole to marker pole in decreasing visibility. By the time the last pole, still one kilometre from Camp 2, is reached, we are too cold to even stop for a snack (our warmest clothes are already at Camp 2). The old tracks have been filled in with wind-blown snow but a faint trace of the route remains.

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

3.00am: Ben is woken by voices outside the tent.

Andrei and I have arrived at Camp 2 and quickly learn what has happened. I’m able to provide accident and location details via the satellite phone to my parents, who begin coordinating an evacuation for Scott. Neither our agent nor his company office can be reached, but the New Zealand Honorary Consul in Kathmandu comes to the rescue and contacts a helicopter company for us. *** Scott and Ben were collected from Camp 2 at about 9.30am on 6 May, in a helicopter piloted by Simone Moro. The journey to Vayodha hospital in Kathmandu took around three hours. There, Scott was subjected to a CAT scan and other tests. These tests indicated moderate swelling/bruising to his brain. His behaviour was described as demonstrating ‘altered sensorium and delirium’. The tests and behavioural observations indicated Scott had suffered severe concussion, and possibly high-altitude cerebral edema (HACE), although the latter seems interesting due our conservative acclimatisation and Scott’s good condition prior to the accident. He was closely monitored for six days, and his condition improved sufficiently for him to be discharged on 14 May. Ben and Scott returned to New Zealand on 17 May, and by the end of June Scott had completely recovered and resumed working as a guide at Fox Glacier.

Back at Camp 2 on 6 May, Andrei and I were exhausted. We hardly moved that afternoon, and spent the following day carting the remaining equipment from Camp 2 back down to Base Camp.

After a couple of days rest there, and hearing that Scott was doing well in hospital, we became enthused about another attempt via the 6350m col—a longer but less technical route. However, we’d used up all the credit on the sat phone, so nobody knew of our intentions. *** 9 May, 1:40pm: Andrei and I are packed for our attempt, but I’ve been feeling uneasy all day, apprehensive, on edge. Blustery weather doesn’t help, it flaps our tents and dries my eyes out. I’m mainly agitated because we’ve tried about a dozen messages from the InReach to try to get credit added to the sat phone and to send people updates. We haven’t received any responses, so it’s not working.

We’ve been sent messages from Mum, Dad, Jo and others asking if we want to talk: So gutted about the situation you’re in, etc. Nobody knows we’re about to have another crack, not even Claire. I can’t bear

to embark from here without her knowing. I didn’t want to leave Base Camp until the phone was topped up, but Andrei persuaded me we should go to Camp 1 for now. Dawa’s on a mission to Ghunsa to request a top-up. Hopefully it comes through tonight or we’ll stay put at Camp 1. *** We hiked up to Camp 1 in anticipation of being able to contact people that night. We spent two nights there, but in the end, the sat phone top-up never arrived. Without anyone aware of our intentions, and with no way of contacting anyone if we had an accident of our own, we aborted our attempt. We climbed for a couple of hours to a superb viewpoint at the base of the 5-7 Arête, and set up a bamboo pole with a New Zealand flag, Nepali flag, and prayer flags.

My dissatisfaction at having been turned back by such a stupid mistake is hard to articulate. All of us had put in so much effort to get to where we were, and Andrei and I wasted it. We didn’t even get one day of climbing on the entire trip. Of course there were many, many positives that came out of the expedition (not the least of which involved the snow stake anchor holding and saving the lives of both Scott and Ben), but we can’t get around the fact that Andrei and I weren’t able to give it a proper shot. That will always be disappointing, but also a very good lesson for future trips.

We got a chance to visit the Jannu Valley during our trek out. It’s a visually stunning place, and far more comfortable than the Ramtang Valley, but White Wave looks pretty difficult from the Jannu side!

A more detailed discussion on the outcomes and lessons learned on the expedition is contained in our expedition report, available from the NZAC National Office or from climber.co.nz. In summary, we found the pre-monsoon conditions suitable for our attempt, and we recommend the Ramtang Valley as the best side of the mountain to launch an attempt from. The best route would take the true left of the icefall onto the 5-7 Arête, cross the névé to the 6350m col, then finally take the east ridge to the summit.

Another team of New Zealand mountaineers, after hearing our stories and seeing our photos, consider Anidesha Chuli to be a worthwhile objective, and have planned an attempt via the Ramtang Valley for April/May 2014. We look forward to following their progress.

There are more than 20 other unclimbed peaks in the Kangchenjunga region on the Nepalese gov-

ernment’s list of unclimbed peaks. The unclimbed multi-summit massif of Phole-Sobithongje (6670m), immediately adjacent to Jannu, most impressed our team. The reasonably steep Ramtang Glacier aspect of Ramtang (6700m) also appears to be unclimbed.

The team would like to offer their sincere thanks to the following organisations and individuals for their financial, logistical, and moral support: the New Zealand Alpine Club, the Mount Everest Foundation, Sport New Zealand, Fox Glacier Guiding, iClimb, Norman Hardie, Graham and Glenis Frost, Joanna Mason, Tony Clarke, Dick Price, Lisa Choegyal, and most of all our partners, Claire, Caroline, June, and Jude.

t o p Phole and Sobithongje. m i d d l e Wedge Peak and Ramtang. b o t t o m The Jannu Valley. Rob Frost (all)

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 89

Gasherbrum II, taken from Gasherbrum I. K2 is behind.

Chris Jensen Burke

MY EXPEDITION TO GASHERBRUMS I AND II IN PAKISTAN

by CHRIS JENSEN BURKE

I

knew in the planning phases that this expedition could potentially be like no other I had ever done. It would be my first time travelling to Pakistan, and my first time attempting to climb two 8000m peaks in quick succession. Friends who had been to Pakistan told me to expect wild and rugged terrain, and mountains like I had never seen before.

They were right on both counts.

Gasherbrum I (G1) is the eleventh highest mountain in the world, at 8068m. Gasherbrum II (G2) is the thirteenth highest mountain in the world, at 90 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

8035m. There is talk of adding new minor peaks to the current official list of fourteen 8000m mountains (I believe that all of the potential additions are subsidary to major peaks). So by the time this article goes to print, goodness knows where G1 and G2 will stand in the list of the world’s highest mountains.

The Gasherbrums are located in the GilgitBaltistan region of northern Pakistan, near the India and China borders.

I undertook this expedition with my usual climbing partner and friend, Lakpa Sherpa, from Himalayan

Ascent in Nepal. Lakpa is partnering me on my goal to climb some 8000m peaks before my feet wear out. Our small team combined with other teams for logistics, to make the expedition more cost effective and to share logistics getting to, on and from the mountains.

Our route to the mountains took us from Islamabad to Skardu (via Chilas) by bus, as bad weather caused our flight and many others to be cancelled. After several days, we did a wild and woolly jeep ride to the village of Askole. From there, we spent seven to eight days trekking into the mountains, up the Baltoro and Concordia glaciers. The Baltoro Glacier itself is around 62 kilometres long.

Apparently we trekked over 150 kilometres each way over sand, gravel, rocks and terminal moraine. As we got higher, the rocks got larger. The upper moraine required a lot of rock hopping and we had to watch our feet to avoid nasty ankle injuries. When you want to look at the scenery on this trek it is best to stop to take photos. Try to do both at your peril!

Once I was looking at the scenery, I found I didn’t want to miss anything so I took a lot of photos and kept my feet still. As I walked up the Baltoro Glacier I had the Trango Tower group on my left and Masherbrum on my right, with many other peaks and glaciers in view. As we reached the end of the Baltoro Glacier, Broad Peak and K2 came into view.

To see these two mountains for the first time, and without any cloud cover, was really special.

Probably even more spectacular was that when we approached our G1 and G2 base camp, G1 came into view with a lenticular ‘bridal cap’ over the upper reaches of the mountain. It weaved and wiggled with the strong winds. It was mesmerising.

We made up time during the trek that we had lost due to a delayed start to our expedition. This meant long trekking days but it was worthwhile as we got a lot of time to acclimatise higher up on the mountains.

We, like many other climbers, attempted G2 first.

There were more climbers on G2 at the time so that meant more ‘manpower’ for ropes to be fixed to the mountain. However, with soft conditions pretty much all the way to the summit, nothing ever really felt ‘fixed’.

For both G1 and G2, the same base camp and Camp 1 is used. From Base Camp to Camp 1, it was necessary for us to navigate a soft and spongy icefall with huge crevasses. Sherpas on various expeditions described the upper icefall as ‘like walking on mushrooms’.

It comprised soft canopies with stems underneath, and little certainty about where those stems actually were. Nobody underestimated the icefall. Camp 1 sat around one hour beyond the top of the icefall. Banana Ridge on G2, between Camp 1 and Camp 2, was curly to negotiate in soft conditions. When climbing on an overhanging cornice I crossed my fingers and toes that the conditions were not so soft that I might fall through. Fortunately our assessment of conditions was on the money every time. The ridge is nice and steep, at around 50 degrees in sections, with a great top-out just before stepping down about 20 metres to Camp 2.

On my G2 summit day, I attempted to climb without the use of supplementary oxygen. If I had not recently come off Lhotse and been planning to try for a G1 summit, I might have held out and not started on supplementary oxygen, which I did after about four hours, but I was cold and couldn’t get warm. I was starting to drop behind the climbing pack, and could feel any chance of reaching the summits of G2

l e f t Chris and Lakpa Sherpa on the summit of Gasherbrum II. r i g h t Chris on the Banana Ridge, Gasherbrum II. Lakpa Sherpa

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 91

Chris on the summit of Gasherbrum I. Lakpa Sherpa

and G1 slipping away. Ideally, I should have had an extra week on the mountains in order to acclimatise more for climbing without supplementary oxygen.

But our time had been reduced due to our initial delays, so I made the call to go onto supplementary oxygen. Lakpa moved onto supplementary oxygen not long after me. We soon caught up with the climbing pack again and continued to the summit in good health on 21 July.

As we approached the summit and saw the condition of the four climbers who were climbing without supplementary oxygen, I knew we had made the right decision. Not long after, Lakpa and I came to the aid of one of the climbers as he attempted to descend in a state of complete exhaustion. Lakpa was also keen that we both retain as many brain cells as possible so that we could climb safely for as long as possible. I agreed. Mountaineers climbing at high altitude have enough oxygen deprivation as it is without depleting it further voluntarily. The experience, and my own physiology have made me think that any further climb of an 8000m peak by me without supplementary oxygen is unlikely.

After our G2 summit, Lakpa and I continued down to Camp 1. It was a huge day, with all other Western climbers, bar one electing to stop at Camp 3 and Camp 2. We wanted to get down lower for the additional oxygen benefits. We were feeling strong and felt we could descend safely.

Initially, we thought we would try to go up to the summit of G1 from Camp 1, rather than descending back to Base Camp. But our weather window did not

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

permit this approach. Instead, we descended back through the icefall to Base Camp to avoid incoming bad weather.

After a few days at Base Camp resting and eating (and even having a shower with a bucket and a cup) we headed back up through the much-melted icefall.

In a matter of days we found ourselves in a completely altered environment.

I was not entirely convinced I could reach the summit of G1 so soon after our G2 summit. I felt exhausted. The mountain was not fixed and I was somewhat shaken by the deaths of three lovely Spanish climbers near the summit of G1 only a few days before. Their bodies had not, at that stage, been located on the mountain. By the time we were at Camp 3 on G1, the weather was not behaving even close to our forecasts, so we elected to delay our summit push by a day. This meant a small amount of food rationing. Some climbers who had left their tents on our first night at Camp 3 lost them in high winds. Without the weight of people inside they were like kites flying in the wind. Pretty soon, Lakpa, two other Sherpas and I were sharing a two to three person tent with six people. We all got very little sleep.

Although Lakpa and I had come to the mountains prepared to climb alpine style if required, there were others who wanted to share our rope. Given that by this stage four people had died climbing alpine style on the mountain, I was less keen to share a rope with climbers I had not climbed with before.

The next night, as we readied ourselves to leave our tent for the summit, Lakpa got on the radio to message our movements down to Base Camp. When he finished the call, he informed me that Marty Schmidt had not radioed in from Camp 3 on K2 for 24 hours. My heart sank. It was another blow; it left me wondering if I had the mental and physical strength to go to the G1 summit. I tried to place the information in a locked section of my mind for the time being. I held out hope.

As we left our tent in the early hours of the morning, Lakpa and I moved at a slow and steady pace.

After eight or so hours, we reached the summit of G1. It was 29 July. We had a picture perfect clear day.

The two of us could not fit on the summit for a photo at the same time—time and energy did not permit.

Individual summit photos would have to suffice.

I can’t believe how fortunate we were to have such good weather on our summit days for both G2 and G1. Pakistan is known for its changeable weather yet it surprised everybody on our trip.

After a few days back at Base Camp packing up

and waiting for porters and mules, we trekked out to Askole. We did the trek in three days, which meant we had 12-hour days on the glacier. However, as we were descending, we were aware that we might get to sleep in a bed, could fill our stomachs with more food and maybe even have a shower at some point, so we just kept on moving.

The expedition adventure was not over once we got to Askole. Heavy rains had caused landslides and destroyed sections of road so we had to change vehicles four times and ferry our gear across the landslides ourselves or with the assistance of porters.

After a day in a jeep from Askole to Skardu, it finally felt like the expedition had come to an end.

We were treated so wonderfully by the people we met, and they looked after us so well. So, with sadness, I mention the terrible tragedy that occurred at Nanga Parbat Base Camp on or about 23 June, in which ten climbers and one expedition crew member were

killed, in terrible circumstances, by people claiming to be from a faction of the Taliban. We had had to make the very tough decision as to whether we would continue to the mountains or not. We also had to wait to see if our climbing permits would still issue. Ours did, and the decision to continue became ours. After much consideration, we decided to continue. Many continued, many did not. For me, it was a case of not wanting such despicable evil to prevail. But, we were well aware that many innocent people who went to Pakistan in peace and to experience the wonder of the mountains would not be returning home to their loved ones. Those who lost their lives, their families and friends remain in our thoughts.

My experience in Pakistan was so very powerful.

At the time of writing, I am still processing the expedition. I guess that is part of the joy of mountaineering—the journey continues even when one comes off a mountain.

Gasherbrum I, from Gasherbrum II. Chris Jensen Burke

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 93

The team’s high camp, in front of the huge and complex Dawn Wall (1000–1500m high).

The wall stretches three kilometres from the Djanghorn (5274m), which is in the cloud on the left, north to Pik After You (5318m), on the right, the highest peak in the Djangart region.

Hugh Thomas

FIRST ASCENTS IN KYRGYZSTAN

by REG MEASURES

W

e piled out of the huge military helicopter and it flew off, leaving us in the blazing sun next to 500kg of food and kit.

‘This doesn’t look right, I think we’re in the wrong valley!’

It was not the smoothest start to an expedition, but after checking the GPS and our 1980s Soviet maps, it turned out we were in the right mountain range, and only four hours’ walk from where our planned camp was. In fact the location turned out to be just as good if not better than where we were originally intending to camp.

I was one of a team of six who’d flown in to the Djangart Mountains, in the central Kokshal Too, Kyrgyzstan. We’d planned to spend 24 days in the mountains and were hoping to make several first ascents in the glacial valleys above our camp. The highest peak in the area is 5318m, and had been

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climbed by an American team about three weeks before we arrived. This was a disappointment until we realised it allowed us to look around and focus on aesthetic lines from the start of the trip, rather than being fixated on a single peak.

Splitting into two teams of three, we started exploring the glaciers above our base camp. Base camp was at 3200m. To start with acclimatisation above this height felt slow. On our initial forays we were struggling to sleep, suffering from headaches and generally lacking energy. We knew it would only take a few days to get over this but with the amount of awesome looking potential around us we wanted to make the most of every day.

After a day of forced rest due to bad weather we still weren’t fully acclimatised but thought we’d be fine up to about 5000m as long as the climbing wasn’t too difficult. With this in mind Max, Timmy

and I set our sights on peak 5051m. There is an aesthetic line up the north-west face that tops out high on the west ridge. Going light from a high camp at around 4000m we started soloing up the 700 metres of 45–70° névé to the ridge. We were managing to move reasonably quickly but with the altitude it felt punishing. The ridge never seemed to get any closer and we were taking fewer and fewer steps between pauses to slump over our axes. Once on the ridge the angle eased off a bit and—taking care to avoid the cornices—we made our way to the top, stoked to have our first route in the bag and to have made the first ascent of a 5000m peak.

We still had a couple of day’s worth of food at our high camp so we moved further up the glacier. From there we recced the approach to an awesome looking gully on another unclimbed peak. This peak was slightly higher, at 5162m, but we were starting to feel acclimatised now. The ice was continuous, although it looked a bit thin in the middle and it was hard to tell how steep it was.

An early start the next morning got us to the base of the route for first light. Getting over the bergschr-

und was awkward but after that the first couple of pitches weren’t too hard. Over the next pitches it got a bit steeper and protection became harder to find. The ice had formed over a layer of snow and didn’t really take screws but the rock was quite friable and covered by verglass. I led some steepish ice and then Max went through a bit of mixed to get around a thin unprotectable section. Above the mixed ground we were relieved to see the angle ease off. Overall the climbing was awesome and by the time we reached the ridge we had done about 500 metres vertical over nine pitches and some simulclimbing. On the summit it was decision time, none of us really wanted to have to rappel the route but no other descent was obvious from the summit. We thought that carrying on along the ridge would allow an easy descent. Unfortunately we couldn’t see the full descent clearly from the summit or anywhere on the route or approach and we knew that there was a serac band barring it at one point. Given the likely difficulty in finding suitable anchors for rappelling and the appeal of making a traverse of the mountain, we decided to carry on along the heavily corniced O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 95

a b o v e Max Folkett topping out onto easier ground at the top of Open Misère, Pik Vinton-Boot (5162m). Reg Measures r i g h t The Kyrgyzstan Army MI8 helicopter departs, leaving the team in not quite the planned location. Reg Measures

ridge, figuring that we would probably be able to force a way. After traversing about 700 metres of ridge, we reached snow slopes which we descended to a hanging glacier. From there we managed to traverse across and around the serac barrier and back to the base of the route.

With two routes in the bag we were feeling good and were finally happy with our acclimatisation. On the other side of the valley from where we had been climbing there was an amazing-looking face (the ‘Dawn Wall’), capped by a superb ridge. We decided

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that for our next route we should try the ridge traverse from the glacier on its far side. This included a very steep section up the south ridge of Pt 5274m, the highest unclimbed peak in the area. From there it looked like a long (2.5 kilometres)—but hopefully not too technical—traverse to the col before Pt 5318m. This col was the only easy escape option off the ridge before the unclimbed south ridge of that peak.

After descending to base camp we picked up a weather forecast on the sat-phone: two more days of good weather, then it was going to turn bad for the next week or so. Scrapping our plans for a rest day we re-packed and walked in to set up a high camp ready for the traverse. At 4.30am the next day the first glimmers of dawn started to appear. We were feeling a bit weary but the route looked great and we could just make out that the snow gully up to the start of the ridge wasn’t going to be too technical.

A loud boom echoed around the glacier and we tensed up, straining our eyes to see what had caused it. There was a brief pause and I assumed it must have been some rockfall on the other (east facing) side of the mountain. Then suddenly we spotted sparks as the first rocks hit the bottom of the face in front of us and spun across the glacier. The rockfall was on our side of the mountain, directly above us. We immediately ran to the right, trying to get out of the line of fire. Then the rope caught. We were roped up for glacier travel and the rope between me and Max was hooked round a rock embedded in the glacier, pinning us in place. Timmy was pretty much clear but Max was still quite exposed and I was somewhere in the middle. With rocks flying past it was too late to unhook the rope and all we could do was dodge.

A football-sized rock hit Max and I saw him get knocked to the ground. Unable to dodge, he curled into a ball. I watched as some other bigger rocks just missed him. Then it was all over. I’d managed to dodge everything but I was worried about Max. I was

relieved to see him get up as I unhooked the rope.

Regrouping in a safe spot, we assessed the damage. The rock had hit Max’s hip. It wasn’t broken but it was bruising and hurting pretty badly. The rock had smashed an ice screw off his harness and bent its hanger in the process. Another smaller rock had also cut up his hand. Other damage included our brand-new rope which had been cut 90 per cent of the way through. Retreating back to Base Camp, we left a load of food and gear at the site of our high camp to lighten Max’s load and to prepare for another attempt.

The weather was really variable for the next ten days or so and, while we managed to explore some of the other glaciers, the visibility and snow conditions weren’t good enough to climb anything safely.

On the plus side this allowed Max time to recover, but we were very aware that we were running out of time on the trip. Eventually, with two days left before the helicopter was due to pick us up, we got a good weather forecast. We made a call on the sat phone to try and get the pick-up moved back a day, to allow more climbing, and went back up to our gear stash.

Starting from our high camp at 1.00am we climbed back up to where we had been hit by rockfall the last time. I was in front and went flat-out, kicking steps as fast as I possibly could to get through the rockfall danger and onto the ridge. We’d figured it would take up to about eight hours to climb the steep granite ridge up to the summit of Pt 5274m. Above the col we found the climbing steep and loose. Max led the crux in rock shoes, with a mixture of free and aid he climbed an overhanging corner at about grade 20. After seven very time-consuming awkward pitches and several sections of tricky simul-climbing we reached soft snow slopes leading to the summit. We summited at 5.30pm after twelve and a half hours on the ridge and started the traverse. By the time dark fell we were over the next major peak but had to back-track a section to avoid some rock steps. Stopping to melt water and eat we contemplated bivvying to avoid having to routefind in the dark but it was very cold so we pushed on. We reached the col before the last peak at 1.30am and took the escape option back down to our high camp. At out tent we checked the sat-phone only to find we still had no confirmation that the helicopter pick-up date had been moved so it was potentially arriving at 8.00am!

With this in mind we reluctantly collapsed the tent and walked the four hours back to basecamp, ending a 31-hour day. The helicopter didn’t arrive until the following day.

This expedition was supported by the Mount Everest Foundation, the Alpine Club and the Austrian Alpine Club.

First ascents completed: Frima Face (AD+ 45–70° 900m/MC3+) on Pik Macmillan (5051m).

Open Misère (500m, MC5) on Pik Vinton-Boot (5162m).

The South Ridge of the Djanghorn (5274m).

Traverse of Pt 5207m.

Timmy Elson and Max Folkett descending the west ridge of Peak Macmillan (5051m). Reg Measures

Second ascents completed: Pik Buddyness (5172m).

Pik Betelgeuse (ED VI/MC6) (5100m).

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 97

REVEALING THE ANGEL The first ascent of the East Buttress of the Angel, Revelation Mountains, Alaska Range.

by GRAHAM ZIMMERMAN a b o v e Graham seconding on the ridgeline above the East Buttress.

Scott Bennett

S

outh-west of Denali, deep in the Alaska Range, rises a valley of giant granite walls. They are known as the Revelation Mountains and have a reputation for beautiful, difficult climbing and terrible weather. In June of 2013 Scott Bennett and I visited these mountains in search of new rock routes on beautiful peaks.

We arrived in Talkeetna just as a legendary high pressure spell was coming to a sharp close. The

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clouds closed in and we spent five days waiting in town until we were able to fly into the range. Luckily for us, many successful teams were flying out after sending the West Buttress of Denali and we had a constant stream of friends both old and new arriving in town. It also gave us plenty of time to dial in our logistics.

Due to it being the later part of the season we were not able to land a fixed wing aeroplane on the

Revelations Glacier, forcing us to hire the Talkeetna Air Taxi's R44 helicopter to insert us into the range.

Unfortunately the payload of the R44 is far lower than their aeroplanes so instead of the usual heavy load of food and kit we had to pare down to the absolute bare minimum. Our gear was the lightest we could imagine affording, our food was only what was most dense in calories.

Getting to the Revelations involves bumping over the crest of the Alaska Range. When we approached, it was clear on the east side of the mountains, but as we neared our intended pass, storm clouds loomed and it began to rain. While our pilot Will was quiet and focussed, we sat with our eyes wide as rain started to pelt the front of the cockpit. The tiny machine rocked as the wind picked up over the pass. Ominous dark faces and sprawling dry glacier surrounded us.

Long minutes later we were safely over the pass and we dropped into the Revelations proper, huge walls sprung up around us and we revelled at the hidden gems that were now surrounding us. The glacier below was bare ice with huge boulders cast about.

We landed on the flattest spot we could find and unloaded our kit.

When Will flew away we were left with the silence of the walls surrounding us and the clouds blowing about the tops. It would be easy to say that Scott and I are old hands at being in big mountains, but just like the joy found in the first listening of a wonderful new song, we were enchanted and extremely psyched about being in the Revelations.

Within a few days we were comfortable with the daily cycle of rain and clouds in the afternoon and with confidence that we were not under threat from a large weather system we launched on the East Buttress of the Angel. It is a big route and a gem of the range.

To begin with, the climbing was easy and we moved quickly up granite slabs and corners. As we gained elevation the wall got steadily steeper and we quickly found ourselves climbing vertical corners and faces, which were generally split by gorgeous cracks.

Where there were no cracks, we found holds and unlocked thought provoking sequences. The climbing was fun and we moved well up the terrain. As the afternoon wore on we reached the top of the wall and found ourselves on the ridgeline.

As soon as we started to consider looking for a place to bivvy, an excellent spot appeared and we were quickly able to clear a great little perch overlooking a precipice. As the afternoon clouds started

to build we set up our tent and crawled in for some food and a sleep.

The night passed with rain but we slept with confidence in the forecast.

Morning dawned in fog, we repacked and headed upwards. As we started, it cleared, revealing a beautiful day of blue skies, low winds and amazing views.

The crest of the ridge offered beautiful, easy mixed climbing. A tower near its end daunted us all morning but turned out to have a beautiful, low-angled wide crack splitting its side, which offered enjoyable climbing high on the mountain. A final short ice step led to the summit snowfield and an easy walk to the top.

l e f t Flying out of the Revelations.

Scott Bennett

b e l o w View of the Angel from the helicopter.

Graham Zimmerman

The Angel (2822m) East Buttress Scott Bennett, Graham Zimmerman. 1100m, 5.10. 13/14 July 2013.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 99

Graham climbing gorgeous granite on the East Buttress of the Angel.

Scott Bennett

We looked out upon miles of beautiful mountains with untold amounts of unclimbed lines. The wind was mild and the sun was warm. Thus far it had been a nearly perfect climb.

Our plan had been to descend the south ridge, but one glance down its barren steep crest made us look the other way. To the north we knew of one hanging serac surrounded by steep walls. We pinned off in that direction.

Eight hours later we were on the ground with significantly less gear, soaked clothing and nearly a dozen core shots. While we had managed to stay

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out from under the hanger, we had managed to have quite an adventure getting down. What we had seen as a clean face from the ground had turned out to be a big horror show of crappy ice, loose rock and running water.

There was one last icefall to reach the central glacier and Base Camp, and although we really wanted this to be trivial, it was not. We endured multiple punches into crevasses and raps off seracs. When we finally reached our tent at 2.00am, we were exhausted and soaked.

As we curled up, the weather rolled in just as hard

as we slept.

We had planned to climb more in the range. We were surrounded by beautiful, enticing objectives, but the weather gods had other plans and we experienced some of the stormy conditions for which the Revelations are known. For a week we sat in the tent, it was a blur of podcasts, naps and nibbling on our ever dwindling rations.

When the weather finally cleared for a few hours, enough to get out, we jumped at the chance. Our flights back to the lower 48 were imminent and the forecast promised more heavy storms for the next ten

days. The helicopter came in and we got out.

Looking back on our trip it was certainly a success, but the amount of objectives in the range have left me with a sense of wanting more. This season I plan to return to the range and see if I can gather a few more experiences from the Revelations. I couldn't be more excited about it.

t o p Scott and Graham on the summit. a b o v e Scott at the pair’s bivvy on the East Buttress.

Graham Zimmerman

Huge thanks to the New Zealand Alpine Club, The Mugs Stump Award, Outdoor Research, Rab, Boreal, Julbo, Petzl, Camp, Second Ascent and Nude Food for their support on this trip.

Also huge thanks to Talkeetna Air Taxis for providing us with a solution for getting into the range so late in the season.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 101

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DELVING INTO THE LACUNA The first ascent of the north-east buttress of Mt Laurens, Alaska Range

by GRAHAM ZIMMERMAN

I

n the spring of 2011 Mark Allen and I saw the Mastodon for the first time.

Sitting atop Voyager Peak, in the north-west fork of the Lacuna Glacier, after completing the first ascent of the peak, we took in the mountains around us. Many of the peaks and faces were familiar, but to the south, a striking steep face confronted us. We had never seen or heard of it; we were enchanted. We took a photo and started rappelling.

Two years later Paul Roderick from Talkeetna Air Taxis dropped us off on a new landing strip in the Rampart Mountains, between the lower Kahiltna and Lacuna glaciers. We had found that the peak was named Laurens and that it had seen one solo ascent by a European alpinist, back in the 1980s, via its snowy south face.

Over the two years since seeing the face we had nicknamed it the Mastodon—with its striking buttresses and serac tongues we saw it as resembling the prehistoric beast.

After two days of skiing up-glacier we pulled around a corner and found ourselves confronted with the 1400-metre face. It was steep and complex. We were terrified and determined. The weather was beautiful and, after one rest day, we set off on the steepest central line.

Starting in the evening, we moved up as the sun moved down.

An initial mixed pitch took us onto a long couloir. We unroped and rode this upward to where the buttress-proper began. Steep mixed ground carried us through to sunrise. As the sun hit the face we found ourselves making wild aid and mixed moves through an overhanging corner. Stunning granite mixed climbing carried us through another steep pitch at which point we were comforted by what was obviously going to be two or three pitches of hard aid.

This, in combination with hanging mushrooms baking in the sun above, prompted us to bail. We had time and good weather—we were not worried.

Two days later the weather was still clear and we tried again.

This time we took a line of white 100 metres to the right. Dreams of water-ice fell apart as we fought frothy, unbounded, thin ice.

Twelve metres above our smallest cam, I called it. It was not worth the fall potential. Under different conditions it would have been WI4+, but that day it was too dangerous. We once again bailed under clear skies.

On the ground, mixed emotions filled our hearts. We were achieving our goals of being safe alpinists, making rational decisions, but we were failing. We decided to check into another area and let the Mastodon rest for a few days.

This misadventure led quite quickly to four days stuck in a tiny tent, high on a remote glacier in a classic heavy Alaskan snowstorm.

We festered, the iPods died, we went crazy one small step at a time.

When we finally emerged, the Mastodon loomed over us all the way back to camp, taunting us with its beautiful lines.

As the face shed its fresh snow the pressure skyrocketed and we repacked our bags. Another line to the right had presented itself, steep clean and clear of objective hazard. We launched.

Unprotected steep mixed climbing off the deck led to a crux.

Above, the face kicked back into a series of beautiful alpine ice pitches. As the sun rose Mark led a rising mixed traverse to the top of a spur. A few pitches further and the heat of the day was upon us so we dug into a snow mushroom and settled in for the day.

A few hours later, rested and refuelled we started off again. Steep ice in the dusk led to even steeper seracs in the dark. As the sun started to peek over the horizon we moved onto the upper snow slopes of the mountain. We fought up deep snow all morning, heading for the summit ridge.

On the ridge we hit a flat spot and stopped. The cornices ahead were huge and menacing and we needed a break. Sleep came easily despite a rising wind coming from the south.

The next morning it was obviously time to move, clouds were pouring over other parts of the range. We fought our way around and through cornices, finally making it to the last barriers before the summit. But alas, in the dark we could not see the way. Vertical and overhanging mushrooms protruded at strange angles everywhere. This, compounded with high winds bringing us close to hypothermia, prompted a quick stop to wait for the sun to show us the way. It was one of the coldest nights either of us have experienced. After three hours of no sleep and desperate shivering, we emerged to find the weather still holding and we plowed up the now clear route to the summit.

As we stood on top, we looked out over a range of possibilities.

Picking out new objectives and ideas for next season. The rising sun and building clouds made for a beautiful and ominous scene. The clouds washed over us and we started rappelling back to camp, back to the landing strip and back to the lowlands of our homes.

We’d like to extend a huge thanks to pur sponsors: Outdoor Research, Julbo, Boreal and Petzl.

Graham Zimmerman leading a steep mixed pitch on the north-east buttress of Mt Laurens. Mark Allen

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 103

SHAKEN, NOT STIRRED IN ALASKA An ascent of the classic Shaken Not Stirred on the Moose’s Tooth, Ruth Gorge, Alaska

by JOHN PRICE a b o v e The Alaska Range. John Price facing page: t o p The author leading a pitch low on Shaken Not Stirred. Brendan Maggs b o t t o m Beautiful climbing on Shaken Not Stirred. Brendan Maggs

‘A

laska’: it's such a powerful word. It has this intimidating mystique about it. Then you couple the words, ‘Alaska’ and ‘climbing,’ and my stomach churns. All I can think about is reading about Mark Twight’s epics in Extreme Alpinism. This being our first trip to Alaska, Brendan and I were keen on some moderate classics. The infamous Moose’s Tooth offers fantastic climbing opportunities, with a short approach and moderate levels of commitment.

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I moved to Canada in January 2012 with the intention of becoming a strong ice and mixed climber. It is one of the best places in the world to hone such skills and with the legendary community in the Bow Valley, you are never short of strong, psyched partners. I've been based in Banff the entire time, working as little as possible and often managing to climb three to four days a week. My time spent climbing here has been absolutely invaluable to where my climbing is today. I have been lucky enough to climb

with some incredibly talented people, which has enabled me to achieve things I had not dreamed of doing in such a short time. When Brendan shot me an email asking if I was keen on a expedition to the Ruth Gorge, I was excited at the prospect of putting my hard work and new-found skills to the test. We did some research in the Alaska Climbing SuperTopo guidebook and decided on Shaken Not Stirred (V, AI5).

On 3 May Brendan and I jumped out of the shuttle that had taken us from Anchorage to Talkeetna. We headed for the Talkteena Air Taxi office, dodging giant puddles on the way, a result of a heavy snow season and a spring that was reluctant to arrive. When we opened the doors, we encountered Steve House and Vince Anderson chatting away. Yes, we were definitely in Alaska.

The flight in left us feeling intimidated yet overwhelmed with excitement. The scale of the Alaska Range was awe-inspiring. Peering out the plane window, I felt humbled by what lay beneath me. Before long I started to recognise mountains I had been studying online—the Ruth Gorge opened up to me and the landscape felt strangely familiar. On landing, we jumped out of the plane and started unloading our kit, making a chain with everyone passing bags down the line and into separate piles on the glacier. We landed on the Root Canal glacier, directly underneath the south face of the Moose’s Tooth. Looking up, I scanned the south face of the Tooth; I could see our two lines. My excitement was growing—as was the intimidation.

It was light enough outside to read a book until midnight, so sleeping was a challenge. Although the temperature outside was well below freezing, I was warm enough, just anxious and excited—it was the night before one of the most exciting and challenging alpine climbs of my life! I think I managed two hours of broken sleep that night, at best. The alarm went off at 3.30am, giving us an hour to crawl out of our ‘warm’ tent, eat breakfast and gear up for a 4.30am departure. It was cold, I mean, really cold! I have had many early morning winter starts while ice climbing in Canada, so I'm no stranger to cold mornings, but this was hard.

I had to take off my gloves to do finer tasks like lighting the stove and lacing up my boots. As soon as I took off my gloves my hands would sting violently, screaming for me to put them back on.

We arrived at the base at 5.00am and adjusted the rope, switching from glacier travel mode to pitched climbing. We decided to block lead, a technique we thought wise because it would help keep us both warmer. My toes would go from a state of numbness to a state of intense pain as the screaming barfies took hold.

The first pitch involved a small, mellow but awkward move to a low-angled but thin sheet of snice. The only protection before this move was a single piton; the protection it offered was laughable, but I placed it anyway. I decided to bash a snow stake into the firm snow before the step because if I blew this move I would slide 50 metres down into the bergschrund—not ideal! I took out my snowstake and bashed, once, twice: Ping! The hammer broke off my axe and flew down the slope—a great start to the day! I moved a little higher, cleared some snow and found a bomber cam placement, which gave me the confidence to make the awkward move.

Brendan and I slowly warmed up as the day went on, but not much. We simulclimbed all the steep snow pitches and pitched most of the ice. The ice was incredibly fun and varied, from shoulder-width narrow ice ribbons to short, but steep and in some places overhanging ice bulges. We were able to move fast while simul-climbing, placing ice screws, rock pro and clipping old fixed rap anchors as we went. We had every flavour of ice: dinner plates, sticky styrofoam and unconsolidated snice.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 105

a b o v e Brendan Maggs climbing into the sun on another beautiful pitch on Shaken Not Stirred. John Price b e l o w The author leads off on the first pitch of Shaken Not Stirred. Brendan Maggs

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Both Brendan and I were convinced we had climbed the crux, but when I turned a corner on one of the snow pitches and looked up, I realised we had not. Compared to some of the frozen waterfalls I had climbed in Canada, it was nothing, but there were a few things at play here. I was running on little more than two hours sleep and my head was pounding from exerting myself with a bad concussion. Added to that, I was wearing a pack, I was dehydrated (we had been on the move for around 12 hours), and this was the first real exercise I had done in six weeks, due to some injuries I sustained before the trip. While I was excited at the prospect of more steep ice, I was also totally demoralised and struggling to balance my mixed emotions.

Wanting it to be over and longing for easier-angled snow slopes above, I launched into the ice and worked my way up to the top of the flow. There was a small hole in the ice curtain and this feature provided nice stemming. With just one metre of steep ice to go, I swung my right tool, adjusted my feet and pulled my body up, and ‘Argh!’ My bicep tendon spasmed and my hand let go of my ice tool. I gripped hard with my left tool, tensed my core and managed not to swing off balance. What had happened? Telling myself it was nothing, I grabbed my tool and tried to weight my right arm again. Same thing: the tendon felt like a steel cable that was about to snap. Seriously? One metre of this final ice bulge left and I couldn’t even finish it? I tried a few more times, adjusting my position but nothing was working. I could not weight my right arm. I tried aiding on ice screws, but the quality of the ice was inconsistent and seemed like it would take a long time, especially when I only had one working arm. I placed an ice screw, clipped in and started to kick a hole through the six-inch-thick ice curtain. After 20 minutes I managed to create a hole big enough to crawl into. Now I was squashed in under the giant frozen chockstone, a creepy yet strangely beautiful position. Clearly, the chockstone was not going anywhere, but all I could think about was the rock moving and me getting squashed in a tomb of ice and granite. I placed two screws and brought Brendan up to finish the final metre of the crux. It was far from stylish but avoided a bad fall. For a few short moments I was upset at what happened and my ego was damaged, but I quickly reminded myself of where I was and pushed away any negative thoughts. I remember Brendan saying, ‘You made a good decision. Remember, it’s when you stop making decisions that shit goes bad.’ Those words will echo with me for a while.

After the crux we had about six pitches of steep snow to simul-climb, a tenmetre traverse and then a few more rope lengths of steep snow to Englishman's Col, which was to be our high point. It was cold, and the higher we climbed, the more we were exposed to the strong winds. The hairs inside my nose had frozen.

They felt like coarse wire. We topped out after 13 hours of continuous climbing, a pretty mellow day in the world of alpine climbing. On reaching the ridge there was about 15 metres of visibility and the wind was gusting around 50 km/h. With the wind chill, I estimated the temperature to be at least -20°C. I was wearing five layers, two of which were a lightweight synthetic puffy and a big down jacket, and I was still shivering violently. I had decided to climb with just 1.5 litres of water and had not drunk enough before leaving Base Camp or on the approach.

Dehydration was a big factor in how cold I was. Brendan and I looked at one another, and we instantly knew what the other wanted to do. We turned our backs on the west summit and started our descent. It took us three hours and 18 or more rappels to reach the glacier.

When we reached the glacier we found that conditions had improved and the bad weather seemed to be localised around the summit of the Moose’s Tooth. I

was a little disappointed we had not pushed for the west summit, but with such poor conditions up high and thinking back to how cold I had been, I was at peace with our decision pretty quickly. We kicked off the crampons, strapped on the snowshoes and headed back to camp.

On the way back to camp Brendan mentioned his toes were quite painful. When we reached our tent and took off our boots, Brendan discovered that both his big toes were red and swollen and his toenails had turned black. Front pointing for a thousand metres for 13 hours in -20ºC is not the best for the feet. A Denali park ranger and a doctor were climbing together on the Root Canal, and Brendan spoke to them about his toes. He had badly frostnipped toes—the first stage of frostbite. The doctor said: ‘As a doctor I should tell you to fly back to Australia, sit on the warm beach and drink beer, but as a climber I know you're not going to do that.

Take care of them, keep them warm and be careful with the rest of your climbs. Don't push it.’ We had been wearing single boots, despite double boots being more common. Singles are usually fine for the lower elevation climbs within the Ruth Gorge but it was unseasonally cold this year. With Brendan's toes feeling worse for wear, we decided to rest a few days before attempting our next objective, Ham and Eggs.

We enjoyed the down-time and made the most of the social atmosphere. Our kitchen became a social hub for surrounding camps. Consuming whisky and salami, we all shared our stories. Guides, literary agents, artists, engineers, sponsored athletes and modern climbing legends were amongst the motley crew that we passed time with. Having success on our Alaska objectives offered me an insight into my potential as a climber and further strengthened the love I have for spending time in high mountains and remote places with good friends.

The view from the camp kitchen in the Ruth Gorge.

Denali is in the background. John Price

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 107

A PERFECT STORM IN THE YUKON Climb and rescue on Mt Eaton on the Alaska–Yukon border

by PAUL KNOTT a b o v e Looking towards Mt Eaton from high on the North Ridge of Mt Augusta (1993). The foresummit Paul and Derek camped on is just visible above the cloud to the left (just behind the foreground ridge). The massif behind is Mt Cook (4194m).

O

n 7 May this year Paul Swanstrom flew us in his ski-plane to the lower Seward Glacier (at 1129m) for what was my eighth visit to the Saint Elias Mountains in south-east Alaska, USA. After we landed, I did not feel the usual sense of calm; I felt uneasy and conflicted. The sky was still milky following our stormy week in Haines, with higher summits shrouded. Our objective, Mt Augusta (4289m), looked hazy in a way that made it look high, distant and exposed. There was a tight weather window if we were to summit before a forecast low-pressure system. And from

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the plane, I had seen that the south-west ridge of Mt Eaton, our most direct means of access, looked awkwardly rocky.

This was not the first time I had tried the East Ridge of Mt Augusta. It had been the original plan for my first trip to the range in 1993. That year, we tried approaching it via a spur from the north, but were turned back by a sustained corniced ridge. We summited instead by the previously climbed North Ridge. In the 20 years that followed, no-one seemed to see any opportunity in the published photo of the unclimbed East Ridge beyond our high point. In

the meantime, I came up with the idea of accessing this ridge via the minor but unclimbed summit of Mt Eaton, which became the plan for this trip. My climbing partner this time was London-based Derek Buckle, whom I had known for some years but not previously climbed with.

I recalled that the East Ridge of Mt Eaton looked snowy and straightforward and, given the circumstances, a good plan B. To make the most of the weather window, we stashed the base camp supplies and walked for several hours towards the ridge. We continued the next morning and started ascending a shallow snowy spur just short of the main col leading to the north side. After a short rise, we stashed the snowshoes and continued up steeper slopes. By then Derek was struggling, and we had to make an unscheduled camp on an awkward ledge instead of continuing to the main ridge.

It was now very clear that we would not reach Mt Augusta. The pragmatic alternative was to lighten the packs and make a lighter ascent as far as Mt Eaton which, although no stunning summit, was a named and unclimbed point. We stashed the surplus food and fuel and continued the next morning to an exposed camp on a foresummit (at 2652m). The terrain ahead for our summit day was three kilometres of mostly straightforward-looking ridge traverse.

The following morning, 10 May, dawned clear with a chilly breeze. We left the tent and continued over undulating corniced ridge, huge mushroomdomes and several false summits. Icy slopes up a final dome took us to the summit of Mt Eaton, five-plus hours from the camp. The GPS read 3336m, which corresponds well with the 3320m final contour on the Canadian Survey map. Ahead, the ground to Mt Augusta looked straightforward, much like what we had covered, with probably one more day of ridge traverse before the main ascent to the summit. We also had clear views of the major peaks of the surrounding range including Mt Saint Elias itself, Mt Logan, and Mt Vancouver.

But as we started our descent, cloud descended with us. Doggedly we reversed the climb in flattening light, finding our footsteps increasingly covered.

It took us almost as long to descend as it had to climb. As we approached the camp, I could see that Derek was dead beat. He was struggling to stay on his feet, having given all for the ascent. Although I didn’t like camping so high in the rising wind, the best solution in the circumstances seemed to be to build a sheltering snow wall. I consoled myself with

the days-old forecast—backed up by the apparently steady barometer—that there should be one more day before the storm really hit.

During the night, wind-blown snow half-buried the tent. Despite limited visibility, Derek and I packed to descend. We felt our way almost blindly down from the foresummit, desperately looking for cues in the whiteout. The terrain was crevassed and corniced, and we could see too little to navigate or stay safe. We climbed back up to the top and set up the tent. The clearing we had been hoping for never materialised. We learned through the sat phone that the storm system would be with us for around four days. We had one day’s spare food and fuel.

That day and the next, the pattern was familiar: at times swirling snow, and at other times partly clear, with the cloud mostly below us. Unfortunately, it was never clear enough for us to move. Meanwhile, the pressure was inexorably falling. On day three the snow became heavier and the wind stronger, pushing uncomfortably against the tent. In the middle of that night, I realised that the snow was closing over the door of the tent. Tempting though it was to stay in the warmth of my bag, I unzipped the top

Approaching the East Ridge of Mt Eaton. Behind is the main icefield of the Seward Glacier. On the left skyline are mounts Queen Mary and King George. On the right is Mt Vancouver.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 109

a b o v e Paul and Derek on arrival at the lower Seward Glacier, courtesy of Paul Swanstrom and his Bush Hawk. Mt Augusta is the fairly pointed summit behind Derek.

The summit of Mt Eaton is a little right of the tail of the plane. b e l o w Looking down the East Ridge of Mt Eaton on summit day. The foresummit Paul and Derek camped on is at the left-hand end. On the horizon towards the right is Mt Vancouver.

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of the door and poked my head out. I was hit with drowning facefulls of blizzard. I saw with horror the extent to which we were already buried. I had to retreat to get my breath back before facing the blizzard again and clearing the door. This bought us a few hours, but was ultimately futile, even with the shovel. The only solution was to dig everything out and re-pitch the tent on top of the snowpack.

At one point, hoping to avoid being buried in the tent again, we tried transferring to a snow cave. But the speed we were getting buried in the snow cave was even more alarming, so we returned to the tent.

Next morning, all signs of the cave were gone. Our tent was a lightweight single-skin assault tent, but with sturdy three-layer fabric and internal poles it was one of the strongest of its type, and it was crucial to our survival.

The Saint Elias Range is notorious for this kind of storm. A team had faced the same trouble just prior to my 1993 trip—marooned by deep snow high on Mt Saint Elias, that team had called for supplies to be air-dropped in. But the storms I myself had experienced had let up after just a few days. In intense, blowing snow, using a stove is a problem.

It was tempting to try lighting the stove inside our sealed tent, but in such a tiny enclosure using a stove is a recipe for carbon monoxide suffocation, as some recent cases have shown. Our fuel supply was insufficient anyway, so we mostly relied on melting water in our sleeping bags.

On 15 May, Derek and I packed and attempted to descend, hoping to make the most of the forecast clearing. Even packing was a struggle—everything was frozen up, including the tent, which was caked with ice several times its own weight. As Derek and I set off, the signs we had seen earlier of the promised clearing receded and we found ourselves in a whiteout like the one four days before. But this time we had to push our way down the steep slope in thighdeep wind-blown powder. Again we reached a point where each step could take us into a crevasse or over a cornice. The exertion was also draining us disproportionately, and we both felt alarmingly weakened and susceptible to cold. The avalanche risk also felt elevated well beyond sensible limits. Things felt out of control. The prudent option, we concluded, was to raise an emergency with Kluane National Park. If the clearance came, our position on the ridge top was the right place for a helicopter landing, with a nearby snow dome a potential helipad.

We struggled back up, re-pitched the tent and

made the phone call. An impressive effort was launched on our behalf, but to no avail: the hopedfor break in the weather never came. The following afternoon I listened intently as Craig McKinnon in the Kluane National Park office outlined the grim forecast for another storm cycle. Derek and I mentally prepared ourselves for a hungrier and more wearying round of blizzards and burials. The next weather window was estimated to be another five days away, which would severely challenge our ability to stay energised, hydrated and warm.

In the resurgent storm, the snow continued to bank up, burying us in our tent. During the whole period, we had six metres of snow, easily. The foresummit we camped on changed shape completely, becoming sharp and corniced. This heavy deposition pattern is presumably the reason for all the mushroom-domes on the ridge. Inside the tent, surprisingly, I didn’t feel uncomfortable, despite temperatures as low as -11°C. But I think things were more of a struggle for Derek. His older, non-proofed sleeping bag was turning into a wet rag, and Derek lost feeling in his feet. Digging and re-pitching the tent now fell almost entirely to me. These periods outside were a strain—I had no energy or strength.

After our eighth stormy night, the morning of 19 May dawned clear and calm, although with cloud still present over the bigger peaks. After confirming the rescue was on, we packed what we could—leaving the tent—and I stamped out a helipad on the nearby dome. At around 6.45am we heard the thrum of the chopper. We watched as it flew some passes before putting the skids onto the dome next to us. Scott Stewart from Kluane National Park ushered us on board and suddenly our fortunes were transformed.

I recognised a Kiwi accent—the pilot Dion Parker had recently moved to the area. But the adventure was not quite over. The conversation at the front moved away from us and back to the task at hand: rapidly building cloud was closing off the options to get around the high peaks. That, together with limited fuel, was creating an edgy situation. In all, it was an hour’s flight across the range to Haines Junction. Derek and I convened at the village bakery, somewhat dazed by our abrupt shift to civilisation.

At the next table were some climbers, waiting to fly in. Having heard rumours of our predicament, they greeted us with ‘Are you the “back from the dead” climbers?’

Over the next few days, Derek and I resolved the

logistics of being reunited with our gear and returning to Haines. Paul and Amy Swanstrom helped us hugely by flying in and digging out the base camp stash from under a metre of snow, and even taking us down to Juneau. When Paul asked me if the epic would put me off climbing here, without any hesitation I said no. An epic like this gets a lot of attention, but for me the natural response is to set aside the vagaries of the vexed trip and prepare for better ones to come.

The tent after the first stormy night. Things got more serious in the eight more nights to come.

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a b o v e Climbing over the Poodle, en-route to Mt Queen Mary. facing page, top to bottom: Kite train on the upper Hubbard Glacier.

Camp in the upper Kaskawulsh Basin.

Ascent towards high-camp on Mt Queen Mary.

Upper Kaskawulsh Basin.

SLEDDING IN THE SAINT ELIAS words by MARC SCAIFE photographs by MARC SCAIFE and CHRISTINE BYRCH In the end, to ski is to travel fast and free over untouched, snow-covered country. To be bound to one slope, even to one mountain by a lift may be convenient, but it robs us of the greatest pleasure skiing can give: that is to travel through wide, wintry country, to follow the lure of the peaks which tempt on the horizon and to be alone for a few days or even a few hours in clean, mysterious surroundings.

– Johann Wolfgang ‘Hans’ Gmoser

I

was fortunate to grow up in the mountains. In the summer we climbed, in the winter we skied. My younger brother and I were barely in our teens when we figured out how to combine the two: we mounted our bindings onto aluminium plates, and attached these to our skis with a standard brass door hinge. At the top of the mountain, we fished a couple of wing nuts from our back pockets and screwed the heel of the plate to the ski. Our first skins were heirlooms, genuine seal skin, attached with canvas straps.

Although crude in the extreme, our hinges worked.

They opened the door to an entirely new world.

Powder skiing was still a novel and extreme concept in those days, and our improvised setup allowed us to take it to a new level: now we were able to answer the call of the distant peaks on the horizon, and we could explore all that untouched powder-country we encountered on the way. A door had opened to a pure, pristine dream landscape where mana falls from heaven—a mysterious fluffy powder that transforms the world into a fantasy of rimed-up peaks, sculpted ridgelines, sparkling basins, feather-filled valleys and pock-marked powder gullies. Little did

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we know that these first forays beyond road-ends and lift-lines were the beginning of an adventure that would take us around the globe. An adventure that would last a lifetime, continuing despite ageing joints, weakening bones and aching backs.

True, over the years some things have faded.

Although the Southern Alps are still by and large the same, the ‘mystery’ that Gmoser refers to—that magic and fragile spell that envelops them—has been weakened if not broken. With the arrival of aircraft access and that other oxymoron, ‘adventure tourism,’ many of New Zealand’s most iconic alpine environments have been reduced to just another stop on the mass-market tourism merry-go-round. Or, in the case of heli-skiing, to just another playground accessed as easily and casually as the back bowls of a ski resort. To find winter wilderness, to re-capture that spell of adventure and the pristine, we now have to work harder and go further afield.

Of all the wild places that ski touring has taken me, none except the Antarctic has inspired a sense of awe and grandeur like the Saint Elias. A vestige of the ice age, the Saint Elias range is a 40,000km2 frozen

mountain landscape on the Alaska–Yukon border. It is crowned by giant glaciated peaks that soar thousands of metres above a sea of interlinked glaciers and icecaps that extend in all directions as far as the eye can see. In 2011, a group of six of us spent three weeks here, climbing and skiing the highest peak, Mt Logan (5996m). In all our time on the mountain, we did not see another person. For most of that time we were the only people in a mountain range the size of the entire Southern Alps. Magnificent as this experience was, by the end of our trip we could not help but feel that we had barely scratched at the surface of this vast frozen alpine world. So in 2013 we returned.

Our team of four comprised two Kiwis—Christine Byrch and Marc Scaife—and Aussie strongmen Nic Bendeli and David Smith, a legendary solo arctic explorer. Rather than spend another three weeks on a single mountain, we approached our objective, Mt Steele (5000m), on skis as part of a 200-kilometre sledding circuit. This allowed us to explore more country, ski off some smaller peaks and acclimatise to the cold and altitude en route to our objective.

Unfortunately, when we finally reached Mt Steele, a severe storm pinned us at 3600m for five days, depleting our summit-bid rations. A massive accumulation of fresh snow put the steep summit slopes out of condition, and we decided to abandon our climb. We did, however, go on to complete our circuit, and succeeded in climbing Mt Queen Mary (3930m) in glorious weather. More importantly, we had finally gained a feel for the area. Hauling 50kg sleds through deep snow is no doddle; we discovered, however, that it is a perfect way to get a true feeling for the immense scale of the landscape. We hauled sleds for day after day, feeling like tiny ants, alone in that large-scale wilderness. We would haul until we thought we could haul no more, and then haul some more. We would set up camp where we dropped, and drink and eat and sleep, all the while surrounded by this overpoweringly immense landscape. In the end, our immersion in this landscape was so complete that it felt like we had become a part of it. Only by gradually progressing through it—sledding, skiing, kiting—and by weathering its storms and learning its moods, were we finally able to comprehend the scale and the majesty of the Saint Elias range.

No more can be said of the Saint Elias Mountains.

Words and pictures cannot do this range justice: it needs to be experienced.

We gratefully acknowledge the assistance of: Macpac, Mountain Equipment and Ozone snow kites.

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HARNESSING THE NORTH WIND A snow kite traverse of the Coast Mountains, Alaska words by MARC SCAIFE photographs by MARC SCAIFE and CHRISTINE BYRCH

Silk-smooth corn on the Taku Glacier. The Taku Towers are on the left.

F

ew towns can be more strategically placed for accessing mountain wilderness than Juneau and Atlin in north-west North America. The Mendenhall glacier terminates in a spectacular icefall right on the outskirts of the seaside town of Juneau, capital of Alaska. On the other side of the Coast Mountain Range, in British Columbia, Canada, lies Atlin, a small settlement on the shores of an alpine lake where the Llewellyn Glacier ends its 50km run from the USA–Canada border. Between these two towns lies the Juneau Icefield, an area of approximately 140 kilometres by 70 kilometres of interlinked glaciers, spectacular granite spires and glaciated peaks.

The Juneau Icefield is ideally suited to ski touring and snow kiting. It is easy to access (by Alaskan standards) and receives copious amounts of snow (ten metres annually), yet the elevation is low and the temperature is benign. Compared to the neighbouring Saint Elias Mountains, where giant 5000m expedition-style peaks soar up in complex and almost continuous icefalls, the terrain on the Juneau Icefield

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is skier-friendly, with a large number of mediumsized peaks within striking distance of each other.

For snow-kiters, the winds are steady and the icecap is broad, smooth and virtually crevasse-free. Several successful kite-assisted crossings have been made in recent years.

Parties making the crossing generally take about a week, with another few days to get on and off the icefield at either end. The best time for a ski traverse is in April and May, when there are spells of fine weather, while there is still ski or snow-mobile access across the frozen lake at the Atlin end.

Christine Byrch and I started our traverse at the end of May, when the ice on Atlin Lake is no longer safe for travel. We thus began at the Juneau side, in the hope that by the time we reached Atlin, the lake would be ice-free and we could arrange a boat pick-up.

We arrived in Juneau in the rain, with the locals apologising for what they told us was the wettest and coldest spring in years. The locals greeted a weather forecast predicting a prolonged spell of fine weather

with scepticism, and advised us to make the most of it by catching a ten-minute chopper ride to the edge of the icecap, rather than waste precious fine weather ferrying loads up through the forest.

I generally try to avoid flying in to the mountains, especially when you are dropped into new country and you have no first-hand knowledge of the terrain ahead, nor of the escape route from whence you came. Being dropped onto an unknown glacier in remote backcountry certainly brings on a shock of vulnerability: the slim margins for self-reliance in a party of two, the limited shelter offered by the icecap topography, the notoriously stormy Alaskan weather and our complete dependence on our equipment for protection against it, the distance of the journey ahead and the unknown terrain and conditions we would face along the way‌ I prefer to walk in to new country, slowly easing into the new environment, assessing the terrain as you go, and learning the path of retreat in case I need to know it later.

Fortunately, it became apparent soon after we landed that the terrain is benign, and the weather, though looking stormy ahead, appeared to be holding. We regained our confidence in our ability to read the conditions, to judge the topography and make the right route-finding decisions. While it is good to have a strategy for a long traverse into the unknown, ultimately, all you can do is take it step by step, day by day, and revise your programme accordingly. To think too far ahead can be overwhelming and debilitating.

Not to be daunted by the distance ahead, on our first day Christine and I decided to make the most of

the beautiful powder snow that had blanketed everything and skin up Nugget Peak. We revelled in the freedom of abandoning our heavy sleds and indulged in our first powder run. Soon enough we would be settling into a routine of sled-hauling, setting up camp, building snow walls, and the tedious melting of snow for hot drinks and hearty mountain dinners.

As we progressed north-east into the Alaskan Interior, the terrain became wider and grander. Apart from the occasional small icefall, the travel on the icecap was easy by New Zealand standards: gentle, smooth and crevasse-free. In these conditions pulling a sled is a pleasure, an almost hypnotic activity: the body settles into a rhythm and the mind wanders, you’re free to become absorbed in the scenery going by or drift off into abstract thought. We travel parallel to the Taku Range for hours, passing its southern side, under the beautiful ice-capped Emperor and Princess peaks, and the savage granite Taku Towers.

Compared to the rigours of climbing and winter

t o p Sheltering from the north wind. Looking up the Matthes Glacier towards Canada. b o t t o m On the crest of the Juneau Icecap, approaching the USA– Canada border.

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t o p Snowcamp on the Taku Glacier. b o t t o m Skinning under the Taku Towers.

camping in the Saint Elias and Alaska ranges, we delighted in the mild conditions that allowed us to take rest-stops for snacks during the day, and to dry out our sleeping bags and clothing in the long evenings. Most nights we cooked outside the tent, and sometimes we lounged around enjoying après-ski in the endless twilight. Despite a stubborn headwind, we made good progress on our sledding traverse northwards; we averaged about 20 kilometres per day and soon we were close to the USA–Canada border.

We camped up near the ominously-named Blizzard, Typhoon and Hurricane peaks in dead calm conditions, but the following morning, as we climbed ever so gradually up the giant dome of the icecap into Canada, the north wind picked up again. The scale of the terrain up there is big, with continuous icecaps in all directions, as far as the eye can see. Beautiful snow-capped peaks poke up out of the icecap at intervals. We were tempted to go and ski off some of them but, conscious of our isolated position and

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the need to move forward while the conditions were good, we carried on toward Atlin.

Gradually, as we lost altitude, the terrain closed in and we moved from open icecap to a wide glaciated valley. All too soon our world of white on white was transformed into one of glacier and rock mountainsides of the drier Interior. Before long we could even see green forest on the distant horizon.

When we were about a day’s travel from the glacier terminus at Atlin Lake, we learned on our sat phone that the lake was still partly frozen over, with no signs that it would become navigable in the next few days. We considered the options: bush-whacking for a week along 60 kilometres of lake was not one of them. We could ring to arrange a chopper pick-up, but that would have been expensive. We still had plenty of food and fuel, and the weather was still fine. Considering everything, we realised we were not ready to swap the beautiful snow landscape for the dry BC interior and the comfortable trappings of civilisation. The answer was simple: turn around, do a 180! Afterall, the north wind was blowing, and we were carrying a secret weapon: an Ozone snowkite!

On this trip into unknown terrain, I had been prepared to pack the kite in the bottom of my sled, knowing that it might never be used. At just 2.5 kilograms, it was worth the gamble. I have to admit, though, that I had been a little disappointed at only being able to use it once so far. So when we decided to turn around—changing what had been a frustrating headwind into a tailwind—with the opportunity to kite the 100 kilometres of icecap back to Juneau (via a variation to our approach route), I seized it

gladly: Alaska’s famous kite traverse was on!

In just two days we kited all the way back to the edge of the Juneau icecap. The kiting was a blast of freedom after days of sled-hauling. We looped the kite downwind in the big cobalt-blue sky and skimmed effortlessly up the giant snow dome towards the smooth icecap horizon. The following day we traversed to the north side of the Taku Range, whipping through shimmering corn-snow basins as we made our way towards the granite towers. These are kiting memories that will remain with us for a lifetime.

At the Taku Towers we surprised some Juneau climbers who had choppered in for a few days of climbing and skiing. Tempting as it was to stop and join them for a few days—and share their beer—we chose instead to carry on with our traverse while the weather held. From the edge of the icefield we aimed to drop down an icefall to the Mendenhall Glacier, which we would eventually follow all the way down to Juneau. The route ahead was still unknown, with some of the most crevassed terrain of the entire traverse still ahead of us, so it made sense to carry on.

As is often the case, our concerns about the icefall proved unwarranted. Though it was steep, Christine

and I dropped down through it safely that evening.

The following day, still in good weather, we headed down the Mendenhall Glacier. Its upper reaches were a wide, smooth snow highway, flanked by soaring granite towers. It was heavily crevassed lower down, but with a little backtracking we figured out the puzzle of its icefalls and its tricky exit to the trailhead at 400m elevation. The exit off the glacier through a broken section of white ice turned out to be a challenging but fitting finale to our traverse. After ferrying a load through the white ice to the trailhead, we camped one last night on the glacier with the Mendenhall Towers above, and a distant view of the sea below. As we climbed down off the glacier the following morning, we joked about doing another 180.

We joked about the legend of two skiers who—like Sisyphus, condemned forever to haul a huge boulder up a mountain—were unable or unwilling to end their traverse, travelling endlessly to and fro across the Juneau Icefield. With a slight tinge of regret, we realised it was finally time to step out of our world of snow and ice onto terra firma, so we hauled ourselves and all our gear down the forest track, hitched a ride to a campsite by the sea, and went for a swim.

Kiting down towards the Mendenhall Towers, enroute to Juneau.

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BOLIVIA 2013

by ERIK MONASTERIO We have maintained a silence closely resembling stupidity.

–From the Revolutionary Proclamation of the Junta Tuitiva, La Paz, 16 July, 1809

a b o v e Gigante Grande. Erik Monasterio b e l o w The author on Pico Italia. Gregg Beisly

T

he traditional Aymara people of Bolivia give their mountains descriptive names: Illimani means ‘water bearer,’ Huayna Potojsi is ‘thunderous youth’ and Mururata is ‘the beheaded peak’. So our expectations were fairly high as we set off to Bolivia to climb Gigante Grande—‘the great giant’— which lies in a mountain range called the Quimza Cruz (‘the three crosses’).

History At the turn of the twentieth century, local hitherto-out-of-luck businessman Simón Patiño stumbled upon the richest tin deposits in the world. He had paid a pittance for a barren piece of land in the Bolivian Altiplano (‘highland plateau,’ at 4600m), in exchange for a commercial debt. Patiño discovered rich veins of tin on the land after he accidentally detonated a stick of dynamite there. He set up a mine, La Salvadora (‘the Savior’), and tin literally haemorrhaged out of the earth. This led to the Tin Era. By 1910 Bolivia was the second-largest producer of this metal in the world. With the increased market demands that followed industrialisation in the USA and Europe and the two World Wars, the price of tin skyrocketed. During the Tin Era, Bolivians Simón Patiño, Carlos Aramayo and

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Mauricio Hochschild—the Tin Barons—became three of the richest men on the planet. They registered their mining companies abroad, paid off successive governments for special privileges and lived a life of outrageous extravagance, while 50,000 miners worked for them for a pittance, with many dying in their early 30s from chronic lung disease and malnutrition. Patiño owned the largest tin mine in the world, Siglo XX (‘twentieth century’), which consumed more electricity than the rest of the country.

By December 1942 the Siglo XX miners went on strike, demanding fairer wages and improved living conditions. The Bolivian Army was sent in, at Patiño’s request, and 400 miners were slaughtered and buried in the mine. A similar massacre occurred in 1967 when the dictator René Barrientos sent the Bolivian Army in a second time, after learning that the miners had promised to donate two days’ wages to the Che Guevara revolution.

The 1952 Bolivian revolution, which led to voting rights for the indigenous people and the agrarian reform (land redistribution), also saw the nationalisation of the tin mines as the progressive Bolivian government aimed to take control of the country’s resources. The indemnity demanded by the tin barons ensured that they continued to live in fabulous wealth. Wall Street, unhappy that a third world country had ‘set a bad example’ by nationalising and industrialising its prime resources, dumped large stocks of tin deposits on the world market. This led to a collapse in the price of tin and the tin industry in Bolivia, perpetuating the misery of the Bolivian miners and their families. Meanwhile, from his home in the Waldorf Hotel in New York, Patiño ordered the building of a copy of an eighteenth-century French castle in the Bolivian jungle, where Patiño planned to see out his final days. Patiño died before this was completed, however, and his body was transported back to Bolivia in a coffin built of precious wood and adorned with ivory and silver handles. Because Patiño had donated a large sum of money to President Herzog, it is unsurprising that he was declared a national hero and that his death was declared a national day of mourning, with flags at half mast. The murdered miners have remained largely unknown in their unmarked graves. However, the amnesia and indifference of history is by no means confined to the tin miners. The historian Eduardo Galeano estimates that eight million indigenous people perished working the silver mines of Potosí during three centuries of Spanish colonialism.1

a b o v e Gregg Beisly on Gigante Grande. Erik Monasterio b e l o w Traditional Bolivian costume (the Moreno), which reflects how the locals saw the Spaniard colonialists around the mines. Erik Monasterio

The climbs The Quimza Cruz mountain range was very difficult to reach until recently, when high mineral prices and mining activity—driven by China’s insatiable appetite for growth—ensured much improved road access. Barely four hours from La Paz, Gregg Beisly (NZ), Chris Clarke (USA) and I reached the Laram Khota Lake and mining camp, at the foot of Gigante Grande. From here a mining road zigzags right up to the start of the imposing 650-metre west face, at 5100m.

Since our climb I have done some research on the mountain: USA climbers Dakin Cook and Kevin Starr climbed the west face in 1993. They failed to complete the face in a day and were forced to bivouac near the summit, finishing the route the following day, in a storm. The direct descent looked so difficult that instead they crossed the mountain range and emerged at a nearby mine the next day. Dakin’s friend Stan Sheppard, believing the pair was trapped on the mountain in the storm, drove from La Paz to organise a rescue; he died after his car veered off the road in the snow.

In June 2001 well-known USA climber Andy Selters and his Canadian climbing O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 119

a b o v e The author near the summit of Gigante Grande. Gregg Beisly

partner Bruce Hendricks opted to climb a new route to the left of Cook’s line. Failing to finish the route by mid-afternoon, they sheltered behind overhanging rocks to avoid rockfall, eventually continuing after sunset and reaching the ridge by midnight. Due to the complex nature of the terrain and the loose rock Selters and Hendricks opted not to climb on to the summit. They had an epic descent along the northwest ridge, weaving around cliffs and loose rock, and finally made it back down the following morning. Selters and Hendricks named their route Via Loco (‘the crazy way’); they considered it the most technical route in Bolivia at the time. The only two other known attempts on the mountain, by Bolivian mountain guides this year, were unsuccessful.

At 7.00am on 1 August, Gregg Beisly, Chris Clarke and I walked past the road-head towards the west

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face. A local miner implored us not to venture onto the face, warning that rockfall was common by midafternoon—her husband had fallen to his death mining on a nearby peak. We felt confident that we would be off the face by early afternoon and traversed across straightforward moraine that led directly onto our route. We climbed into the right couloir and roped up as the mixed terrain became steeper and more technical. The climbing was engaging on many levels; there were short vertical segments of thin ice, interspersed with mixed terrain and long sections of moderately steep ice or névé. By mid-afternoon we had climbed eight pitches but were only two-thirds of the way up when the sun hit the face, sending down intermittent showers of rocks. We sheltered and belayed from behind overhanging rocks, but we all took minor hits; there was no question of retreat and the safest option

lay ahead, with the rockfall becoming less frequent and less severe as we closed in on the summit.

By 4.00pm, after 12 pitches, we stood on top. Our relief at escaping the face was short-lived, however.

The descent route along the steep north-west ridge looked ominous and was threatened by loose rock that spilt directly back into the west face. Worried about the onset of altitude sickness, Chris took off. Gregg and I descended more slowly, our pace determined by my own lack of acclimatisation and exhaustion. (I climbed the mountain just five days after leaving sea level). Nightfall caught us, still high up on the labyrinthine cliffs, making navigation a real challenge. Gregg was more alert and he has an unusually fine-tuned sense of direction. He patiently encouraged me along and found a way through the cliffs and onto the final moraine wall. That last moraine wall got steeper as it spilt onto the glacier, and we eventually had to abseil to get to the glacier.

After another three hours of walking we rejoined Chris, at midnight. Chris had had a significant incident on his descent: despite pushing on ahead, he was caught in the moraine walls after dark too. Chris slipped and flipped over several times on the steepest section, eventually coming to a stop near the bottom of the wall. He was lucky to have survived without serious injury. We have christened to route Via del Minero (‘the miner’s way’).

At 4.00am on 10 August, Gregg and I set off to climb another new route on Pico Italia, where we made the first ascent of the east face last year (see The Climber, issue 81). We were keen to find an easier line directly to the summit (5740m) and started climbing about 800 metres north of our starting point from last year, after wading through waist-deep snow for two hours to reach it. The route proved to be harder and longer than our previous one; although the hardest pitch was only about grade 18, the line was generally steeper and more complicated, and we didn’t fix the start of the route. The climbing was superb and absorbing with very good protection, but challenged by difficulties with route-finding and navigation around a series of false summits and overhanging sections, which were unmanageable with heavy alpine packs. We completed the route in 12 sustained pitches and 17 hours. Thankfully, we were able to find a straightforward descent route. We christened the route Arthritis because I suffered a significant flare-up of this condition during the ascent.

The routes on Gigante Grande and Pico Italia were sustained and serious, of Mount Cook alpine

grade 5+.

On 5 August we made the first completed traverse of the three Milluni peaks in the Huayna Potosí area (5400m) in seven hours, and on 15 August we climbed the Parinacota volcano (6340m) on the Bolivian–Chilean border.

References 1.

Galeano, Eduardo. Open Veins of Latin America: Five Centuries of the Pillage of a Continent. NYU Press, 1997.

Gigante Grande, west face Via del Minero Gregg Beisly, Chris Clarke, Erik Monasterio, 12p, MC5+. 1 August 2013.

Pico Italiano, east face Arthritis Gregg Beisly, Erik Monasterio, 12p, MC5+. 10 August 2013.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 121

ON HALLOWED GROUND Snowboarding on the north face of Mount Temple, Canadian Rockies words and photographs by RUARI MACFARLANE

H

e’d never heard a howl like that before.

He was certain of one thing: the world was ending. A second later he saw his legs propelling him in a sprint towards the closest rocks.

Detached thoughts. Funny. He’d never expected to run on snow closer to plumb than flat. At the midheight traverse into this route a throat-tightening fear had set in. He’d never before hyperventilated just contemplating a slope. He’d have been disgusted were it not for the horizon line below his boots, the unrelenting hard snow sweeping up endlessly steeper and harder, or the tottering black headwall grinning mirthlessly down on its realm, sizing up the intruder.

He’d sensed the softness of his pale flesh, the fragile will of his blood to keep flowing. He’d sensed the hardness, the lifelessness of this place. He’d taken a 122 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

long breath, stepped forward and up. And now the sky was falling. The howl grew demonically, driving out all else, filling all space. It just kept swelling.

Running. Running. Finally, the first concussions of impacting rocks. *** Mt Temple stands alone from the impressive sprawl of peaks around Lake Louise in the Canadian Rockies. Many nearby mountains vie for attention; Lady Victoria with her sweeping snowy veil, Lefroy with his bawdy precipice. Mount Temple, however, has a mysterious magnetism. This is proven by Parks Canada’s accident register, which Temple apparently leads. The South West Ridge scramble route draws all comers like lemmings—teenagers in jandles, ski area staff on midnight acid … yet the towering north

face, dominating Lake Louise Village, sits aloof and unsullied. Mountaineers will always find something real in this gargantuan 1300-metre+ face of snow leads, blocky quartzite and stern seracs. Far, far above floats a distant blue summit ice cap. That ice cap has resonated within me since I first saw it, hovering between this realm and that. Those tangled snow leads were always destined to draw me like a magnet.

Or a lemming.

I’d barely stepped into the shadow of Temple for the first time when it issued a stern warning, one that would stay with me. On a cold April morning in 2012, shortly after entering Temple’s uberclassic ski line, the striking Aemmer Couloir (600 vertical metres, on the far eastern fringe of this one and a half-mile-wide face), we were almost rinsed

back out by a billowing, loose snow avalanche.

Despite the aspect, the sun had managed to tickle a hidden, hanging snow-slope, which had sluffed into the couloir. This was no mountain to be trifled with. We beat a quick retreat and headed for the centre of the face, far from any menacing rays. I was fairly new to the area, so I’d put ear to ground and heard whisper of the Cobra and Dolphin couloirs. We were not left wondering. The Dolphin was immediately self-evident! However, what truly struck me was the plethora of tangled couloirs recessed into quartzite slots, some criss-crossing, some topping out under the distant, oppressive headwalls on steep, hanging faces. Why did one not hear of all this unbounded potential, merely three hours from the car? The seracs peering over the

The north face of Mt Temple.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 123

t o p The top of the line skier’s left of the Dolphin. The lake in the corner shows where flat is. b o t t o m Aemmer’s Couloir and the top section of the Dolphin.

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headwall provided a clue, but they mainly threatened the Dolphin.

Here eternal shade was a certainty and frigid air seeped down. My American friend opted to regain some composure by relaxing in the sun, away out on the forest fringes. I headed up one of the more inviting lines away from the seracs. The deep noncohesive powder was stable but slow, and the couloir just kept going. Three hours in, I was approaching my agreed turn-around time and was yet to even reach the line’s crux. A narrow couloir beckoned on the right, a tributary of the main line, and I accepted.

Here I had the least amount of objective hazard and the most stunning riding, especially in 40-centimetres of blower! We were soon headed to the car, then far from Canada, far too soon.

The Canadian Rockies have a lot to offer but I must admit that my mind dwelled unhealthily, unjustifiably, on my last view of Temple. It sat high and lonely, stark above the pines on that crisp evening.

There was really no question of return. I spent the next frigid Canadian winter patrolling at Lake Louise.

Temple stood across the valley, untouchable, a dwelling of cavernous shade, emanating cold, inspiring fear. We watched the snow cover wax and wane, watched downdrafts, spindrift and ice avalanches pulverise the forest below, watched the clouds ebb and flow. Many months later life began to stir again, as did we. Exactly a year from our Aemmer escape I did get to ride it, this time with Aussie and Québécois workmates. It rode even better than it looked; length and consistency made it feel surprisingly steep for the angle. My idea to ride it switch only lasted three turns before I opted for euphoria over terror. Rum, as the weather closed in at the bottom, was delicious, as was our route back to Lake Louise via Little Temple, a perfect pyramidal outlier stacked with powder, or at least, deep soft facets.

Every skier who aims for Aemmer must pass before the rest of the north face lines en-route. Once again, they had called me. A ridiculous-looking line next to the Dolphin looked possible with the addition of another year’s experience. I’d also noticed the Sphinx, the breathtaking web of snow once skied by Trevor Peterson. Wouldn’t it be good to ride everything up there? whispered a voice. Perhaps even in one spring? Madness, I thought, and for the next month I did exactly what I should have been doing: cragging, camping and swimming. There was only the odd ski-mountaineering day-trip to keep things spicy, and these were always powder lines in

fresh locations. Somewhere, though, the small voice nagged quietly and persistently. On 1 May, I went back for a day that concreted the notion into a goal that would destroy my idyllic spring, and created a template for my next few trips. They went something like this: I join Italian and Canadian friends for the beautiful Paradise Valley approach. Their company is a welcome distraction from the resident big brown bears. We part ways at Lake Annette: they head merrily to Aemmer Couloir, while I approach the face with misgivings. I stash lunch and transition under the stoutest available buttress, then swing on up into a couloir, trying to move fast through exposed sections. I feel the air gather below my heels on the final hanging snow-slopes, glance nervously at the headwall and its frozen guardians. I cut a platform, strap in and take a final breath. Lake Annette is far below me now. Business time.

The powder is typically settled, to catch each turn, although one time it’s more akin to Chamonix, with icy hop turns and heavy breathing. The ice axe comes into regular play. At the bottom I feel elated and drained, but after lunch it’s up the couloir next door for a repeat act. As the sun slips behind the hills I stumble home, too exhausted for bear paranoia.

Some poignant memories have stayed with me.

There were swathes of egg-sized ice chunks almost all the way out to Lake Annette, 700 metres from the wall. Climbing alongside the Dolphin, which is the only heavily threatened line, it was helpful to picture the next free-falling serac also detonating on a ledge and disintegrating into space. The Dolphin is the standard start of the uber-classic Greenwood-Locke Route, but much safer is the couloir that joins it from the right at two-thirds height.

The next line right of the Dolphin was exceptional, widening to a terrifically exposed final snow-slope at its head, the steepest snow on the north face. Multiple chokes, powder, sluff and a mandatory exit air completed the package, along with an interesting journey up another tributary couloir. Committing to climb (and subsequently reverse) a very awkward rock step, it was disheartening to discover only 40 more metres of snow beyond!

On the next trip, low cloud warmed the face in the afternoon, and I spent a good while holed up on a quartzite ledge while sluffs plunged down the runnel nearby.

That very night we bivvied within sight of the face.

We were afforded a beautiful late evening clearance

t o p One of the hidden tributary couloirs tucked into the strata. b o t t o m The Sphinx slithering up the north face in late-season.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 125

Dropping in on Little Temple. Balm for the stresses of the north face.

and a privileged view. I reflected. My questionable project was weighing heavily on my mind. No one moment had been incredibly stressful. But the sheer volume of time scurrying under the oppressiveness of this hulking black and green rock was a burden. It hadn’t been strictly intentional, but other than in the Aemmer, I’d been solo, so was happy that the cheerful Italian Ben would be joining me in the morning.

After we’d done the Sphinx, I would never, ever have to come back.

We woke to the hush of thickly falling snow. It was a wet walk out.

Relaxing back in Canmore was superb, as was forgetting all about the face. Resolution? Nah. The next night whilst heading out the door to see friends off from Banff, I glanced at the forecast and groaned. Tomorrow would be the day that everything could fall into place. Nothing could be less appealing, but as we drove home late that evening, I knew it: if I didn’t go now, I never would. A few hours later I drove to Louise under the northern lights. By now it was only truly dark for a few hours and Temple glowed ethereal in the pre-dawn, more beautiful than ever. I enjoyed the old game of trying to pick conditions from miles away, thinking over recent weather and limited information. Early

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birds sang as I skirted dirt patches and isothermal rot. I am not an early bird. Lake Annette had been shedding her winter mantel and glinted in the sunrise. The Sphinx looked okay, it had cycled during the last snowfall and left just enough behind for me, perhaps?

The rockfall audible, and visible, whilst ascending the sinuous access couloirs intoned that this whole Sphinx face was a different beast. The headwall has been climbed but even super-guide Barry Blanchard now steers clear of it after ‘bashing his head against the Sphinx’ during too many attempts. Committing to the line proper had me really tense. Eventually I was just 50 metres from the top. The snow was very steep. It got icier with each step, and also grew thinner on the blue glacial ice that had lain bare until a month ago. Delicately now—then suddenly, horrendously, the ‘howl’. If I needed to be told any louder than the snow could talk to me, the plummeting rocks did the trick; spinning and smashing past, down the guts of the route. This was as far as I was going. Hacking a feasible perch was a tenuous affair in 20 centimetres of crust and facets on ice. I don’t remember if I used a screw but I know I felt precarious. Eventually, I grated out to the trenches the rocks had run down the top pitch, and surrendered to the fall line (for two milliseconds at a time). The snow grew more enjoyable where sluffs had left chalky ribs, and the angle graciously eased for the traverse left, sluff pouring off bluffs below. The snowboarding just kept coming, endless anxious turns. Rock band, snow, rocks, snow … eventually, after a climbing traverse to avoid the exit cliff, I was out. An hour’s sprint up my access couloir’s bootpack, dodging now frequent but predictable rockfall for a wild, carefree descent, ticked my last box. I could go home.

Late the next morning I woke to a bright room.

Finally I felt the glow of satisfaction, but more powerful was the wash of relief. It had become clearly impractical to ride every piece of snow on the face, too many had slyly revealed themselves. But I’d enjoyed (sometimes) the seven obvious ski lines, two appealing tributary couloirs, and Little Temple. The needless, self-imposed pressure was off, but I also stood upon and rode off the summit via the southwest face a few weeks later like any good lemming.

It was a beautiful and fulfilling morning. Was I free of my enslavement to one mountain? Well, there’s simply more there. Maybe, just perhaps, I may not have found my revelation quite yet.

CLIMBER IN A STORM The mountain casts a shadow like a net, its reach as vast as an ocean.

It hauls in the sombre glaciers, subtle pathways, lapping ridges, valleys of complacency.

He climbs the mountain into a sky as clear as a pearl, as blue as the tide, but if he were to look he’d see the shadow snare the storm that broils beyond the horizon.

It lashes the line, reels in its catch of stratocumulus and polar blast.

Drags it over the pied du mont and cuts it loose amidst the towers of crusted rock and verglace.

Hurl your malice, keen your fury, strafe his body, ransack his sight, kidnap his warmth, steal his bearing, arc the rope until it thrums electric in his frozen hands.

and he knows nothing but to find safe harbour and to anchor.

–PAT DEAVOLL photograph by Troy Mattingley

James Wright nearing the summit of Dilemma Peak, with Unicorn behind, Banks Range, Aoraki Mt Cook National Park.

Don French

The Vertical World Alex Parton Di Hooper Brian Wilkins Paul Caffyn

Mitre Peak’s shadow over Milford Sound. Mark Watson

129

Ruapehu hut nearing completion.

THE BUILDING OF RUAPEHU HUT: A HISTORY words and photos by ALEX PARTON

W

hen I was elected chairman of the Auckland section of the New Zealand Alpine Club in 1969, I inherited the responsibility of building a new replacement hut on Mt Ruapehu. Though many years have passed since then, I thought it may be of interest to record some of the background to the hut’s construction. The original hut, which had been built in 1948, was very small (ten bunks), and was approaching its use-by date. Furthermore, because it was located alongside the main access track that ran from the road-head to Crater Lake, strangers frequently went beyond the front emergency shelter and into the hut, which was usually left unlocked during weekends. To avoid this happening in the future, the new hut was to be located on a knoll well away from the main access track, and the old hut was to be transferred to the Park Board for storage purposes and a more substantial emergency shelter.

Club member Lindsay Wood, an architect, designed the new hut to accommodate 23 people comfortably and 33 ‘intimately,’ 130 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

on ten double bunks spread over three levels, plus three lower-level wall seats.

(Twenty years later, Lindsay would also design Centennial Hut.) Engineers John Smith, Brian Duncan, and John Gregory also assisted with various aspects of the design, including the hut’s novel inverted truss, while my job was to obtain the various approvals from the club’s Headquarters Committee, the Tongariro National Park Board and Taumaranui County Council, organise the raising of funds, and co-ordinate the construction.

While Club Headquarters in Christchurch was considering the project, the ground levels were surveyed, a series of snow stakes monitored to provide data on winter snow depths, and discussions were held with the Tongariro National Park Board about possible hut locations.

The hut was finally constructed in the summer of 1970–1971, at a total cost close to $7000 (with $3000 coming from Club Headquarters, approximately $3000 from the Auckland Section and Auckland University Tramping Club, and the bal-

ance of $1000 from the Wellington section and miscellaneous other donations). We were lucky to obtain the club’s contribution because its books were in the red at the time, following the extensions to Unwin Hut. Most of the timber for the hut was supplied at a substantially discounted rate by Mick Dillon, an old childhood friend of Allan Berry who owned a sawmill. Mick also allowed us to use his Otahuhu yard to pre-paint the weatherboards before they were transported, by rail and truck, to Ruapehu.

The first major challenge on the mountain was transporting the building materials from the road-head to the building site. Fortunately Ken Smith, member of the Auckland Section, was in the RNZAF at the time, and he helped negotiate an arrangement whereby a small group of Auckland Section members would provide a week of survival training to a group of Air Force personnel who were heading down to Antarctica, in exchange for an Iroquois helicopter lifting 11 tonnes of

building materials up to the hut site from the road-head. The idea was for the training group to be airlifted up to the plateau (south of Te Heu Heu), where they would practise erecting some Antarctic tents borrowed from the Antarctic Division of the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research, before moving on to other parts of the programme. The Iroquois would return later in the week and spend most of the day airlifting the hut materials before finally collecting the training group and heading back to Hobsonville.

But things didn’t work out as planned.

After we had erected the tents and dug snow caves in the southern slopes of the ridge on Te Heu Heu, it snowed for a week. I headed back to Auckland before the bad weather arrived but Jim Tobin and Phil Baker told me later that conditions were pretty miserable and that the Air Force guys got their money’s worth of survival training! Later in the week the group bundled all their gear (apart from the Antarctic tents) into a banana boat and were guided down the mountain by Jim and Phil during a brief lull in the storm. The Antarctic tents that were left behind had collapsed and were buried under a heap of new snow, with only the tops of their poles showing. This meant that the Air Force had to make a return trip to salvage them. On this occasion the sole objectives of the trip were to retrieve the buried tents and lift our building blocks, steel, cement, and roofing materials up to the hut site. The Air Force chose a day of perfect weather for the job and it is understood that the pilot flew a record nine hours almost non-stop during the exercise.

This left the piles, floor joists, floorboards, framing, weatherboards, joinery, lining timber, pre-assembled cabinets and diesel stove to be transported to the site.

The Alpine Sports Club lent us its flying fox and we strung this between the lower end of the Waterfall Poma lift and a landing area near the hut site on Delta Ridge. A large work party of about 60 people carried the materials from the road-head to the foot of

t o p The framework and structural ‘underskin’ of the hut nearly finished. a b o v e The top of the flying fox. The Pinnacles are in the background.

the first chairlift, across Hut Flat (between the top of the first chairlift and the foot of the second lift) with help from a Ruapehu Alpine Lifts tractor and trailer, and finally from the top of the second chairlift to the foot of the flying fox. This group also loaded and unloaded the materials on and off the chairlift carrier platforms.

Then the slow job of transporting the materials up the final rise by flying fox began. The flying fox could only carry a maximum load of around 80 kilograms and the operators, led by Tony Lilleby, worked long hours over many weekends, in all sorts of weather, to transport the materials up to the hut site. Because we had no on-site T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 131

t h i s p a g e NZAC Auckland Section’s training camp for RNZAF on the plateau, Mt Ruapehu.

power, the small 2.5 horsepower Briggs and Stratton motor that powered the flying fox was later used to run the concrete mixer and then a bench saw. Back then, petrol generators were building aids of the future.

Although some thought was given to providing the hut with power from the outset, the likely cost of running cables to the site—estimated at around $5000 at that time—was prohibitive. Furthermore, doing so would have run the risk of having the hut classified as a ski lodge rather than a ‘remote hut,’ which would mean higher building standards and costs. So, at first, the heating and cooking in the hut was powered by a diesel AGA stove that my wife Diane and I donated. Unfortunately 132 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

the AGA was difficult for many people to operate, so it was replaced in later years: first by a coal-burning Shacklock stove and then by a wood-burning stove for heating and an LPG stove for cooking.

One of the first things we did on the site was dig a hole for the below-floorlevel watertank, but we struck solid rock in several places. The following weekend John Smith and Tony Bowden took down some gelignite and the troublesome rock was soon removed. They didn’t have a permit for the blasting but felt sure that no one would be any the wiser because the site was a long way from the road-head and well away from other huts. However, they had forgotten that an early eruption

warning device was buried on Delta Corner, only 100 metres or so away. When the workers called into Park Headquarters on their way home, they noticed several huge spikes on the seismograph which coincided precisely with the timing of the gelignite detonations!

The job of building the hut went relatively smoothly, with a team of qualified carpenters, plumbers, engineers and experienced amateurs in the club giving many days of their time to assist and supervise at critical stages. These people included carpenters Phil Baker, Keith Montgomerie, and Pete Hanson; plumber Wally McDonald; and semi-experienced amateurs, which included, amongst others,

The original NZAC hut. Built in 1948, the hut was demolished by the Tongariro National Park Board following completion of the new Ruapehu Hut.

Jim Tobin, Pete Clement, John Smith and myself. The weekend work parties averaged around eight to ten people, depending on the needs of the programme.

Part-way through the construction project, Mt Ruapehu erupted and deposited a layer of ash on the internal ceiling timber that had been stacked outside. Unfortunately we couldn’t get the ash marks off, so we used this timber in places where the stains were less noticeable.

Fortunately, the down-pipes from the guttering hadn’t been connected at that stage, otherwise we would have had a major job on our hands emptying the ash contaminants from the plastic-lined tank.

I used to advertise the work parties as

‘work hard, play hard weekends,’ with the Saturday night parties being predominantly alcohol-free so we would be able to work the next day. This approach seemed to work well and the participants had a lot of fun. I remember the weekend that Brian Duncan met his future wife Claire Butler for the first time. It had snowed quite heavily all day on the Saturday until just before midnight, when the skies cleared, the moon came out and the wind dropped. At that point Brian decided he was going for a ski on an ancient pair of clapped out ‘boards’ that had been lying around the old hut since time began.

Claire decided she would join him and, not to be outdone, she jumped on the

back of the skis. The tandem skiing was not particularly pretty to watch—Brain and Claire careened down the slope like a couple of maniacs, falling into the soft fresh snow every few metres, while the rest of us cheered them on. Even at that early stage it appeared they had a promising future together.

To help organise the weekend work parties, I sent out a questionnaire in which I asked people to let me know their availability, their work skills, and whether they had transport available. Ian Parton, my father, who was a urologist, returned his questionnaire saying that his particular skill was a ‘specialist plumber’. He also noted that his reason for volunteering was that he was T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 133

t o p The hut’s first winter, 1972. a b o v e The interior of the hut, several year’s after opening.

‘unable to work in the garden due to the lack of a wheelbarrow.’ (He had taken his wheelbarrow down to Ruapehu the previous weekend to help transport the concrete mixer from the top of the second chairlift to the hut site!)

Another response for the work parties came from Louise Hillary, on behalf of her son Peter, who was about 14-years-old at the time. On the way up to the hut site, 134 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

at around midnight on a Friday evening, I remember hearing someone hard on my heels, pushing the pace. I was as fit as a buck rabbit at that stage so I increased my pace a bit to maintain the lead—but the person behind me did too. I remember glancing behind to see who it was and sure enough it was Peter. ‘To hell with this,’ I thought, ‘I’m not going to have a young whippersnapper pass me.’ So I increased

my pace a bit more, and so did he. The two of us were very nearly running by the time we reached the hut site, where we collapsed with laughter on arrival and called it a dead heat.

One of the final jobs in the hut was to fix Dan Bryant’s ice axe and its accompanying plaque to the south-eastern wall. I don’t recall who donated the ice axe but I know that the Auckland section was very fortunate to have been gifted such an historically relevant item. Dan Bryant was a member of the 1935 British Everest Expedition that was led by Eric Shipton. Bryant made such a good impression on Shipton, in terms of his climbing ability, temperament and companionship, that Shipton would later accept two Kiwi climbers, sight unseen, onto his 1951 Mt Everest reconnaissance expedition through Nepal. The two climbers that joined him were from a team of four New Zealand climbers already in the Himalaya; they were Earle Riddiford and Ed Hillary—and the rest is history. If it hadn’t been for Dan Bryant, it is most unlikely that Ed would have been included in the eventually successful 1953 Everest Expedition or had such an amazing life.

The new hut was officially opened by the club’s president Colin Gray on 20 August 1971. Dave Massam had taken over as chairman of the Auckland section by this time, so he looked after the formalities of the event. Ed Hillary was present, as was the hut’s architect, Lindsay Wood, who had travelled up from Christchurch for the opening. Diane, who was 38 weeks pregnant, was also there. Diane was as much involved as I was and, having put up with me being down at Mt Ruapehu for 26 weekends in one 12-month period, and having fielded hundreds of phone calls throughout the project, there was no way she was going to miss out on the hut opening. Unbeknown to Diane and me, Max Pearl and my father (both doctors) had both packed sterilised forceps and string, in case there was a mountain delivery!

Heartfelt thanks to all the people who helped with this project: the Ruapehu Hut stands on your generosity.

ADA JULIUS (1882–1949)

by DI HOOPER

A

da Catherine Julius (1882–1949) was a talented horsewoman and a lover of the outdoors. As the daughter of Bishop Julius, Ada was as comfortable in a ball gown, attending a function at Peel Forest station, as she was in climbing puttees. During her visits to the Aoraki Mt Cook area, Ada would live in her canvas pup tent, which she would pitch when she visited the original Ball Hut. Ada’s achievements in one season of high-climbing in the Mt Cook area took place during the summer of 1910, the same summer that

talented Australian climber Freda du Faur became the first woman to stand on the top of Aoraki Mt Cook. Ada missed claiming the same summit by a matter of weeks.

Was Ada Julius the ‘other woman’ that the Mt Cook Hermitage guide Jack Clarke had been secretly schooling up to be the first woman to climb Aoraki Mt Cook?

In the New Zealand climbing scene of that period, there was strong interest in getting New Zealanders to the summit of Aoraki Mt Cook first. Finally, in 1894, Cook's summit was indeed claimed by New

Zealanders Jack Clarke, George Graham and Tom Fyfe. There was pride and relief within the country’s climbing fraternity that the peak had not been ‘bagged’ by any of the European climbers who were making no secret of their ‘first ascent’ designs on the peak. A decade later, there was a similar race on, this time to get a New Zealand woman to the top of Mt Cook, in the face of the obvious and emerging competition from overseas climbers such as Annie Lindon and Freda du Faur.

At the time, around 1909 and 1910, T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 135

The McCoy (Shanks) Glacier, below the icefall. Barbara Dennistoun, Ada and Lawrence Earle.

Republished with permission from The Peaks and Passes of JRD, Dennistoun/Mannering.

Freda du Faur had Cook’s summit firmly in her sights. She had first visited the Mt Cook area in 1906, after sailing from Sydney to go to the New Zealand International Exhibition of Arts and Industries Exhibition in Christchurch. Fixated on the ‘gleaming white snows,’ Freda returned to the area two summers later and engaged chief guide and ‘star’ of the Hermitage1 Peter Graham (no relation to George Graham) to take her onto some of the closer mountain ridges to test her skills. Peter saw Freda’s potential as a climber on this first visit. It is likely that Peter also realised how advantageous it might be to be the guide of the first woman to climb Mt Cook. Peter Graham was no bragger, however; he was a patient, quiet, unassuming man of considerable stature. As a strong, highly personable and skilled guide and companion, Peter was a popular choice for anyone wanting to hire a Hermitage climbing guide. Peter was Freda's favourite guide. She called him ‘Graham,’ to keep the relationship as formal as possible, at least to onlookers.

During Freda's third season of climbing in the Cook area, she and Peter would 136 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

attempt Mt Cook in the last week of her second season there. The weather turned against them. It was too late in the summer, the ice was heavily crevassed on the Hooker side, and the western buttress, the preferred route, was cut off. Disappointed, Freda returned to her family home in Ku-RingGai Chase, in northern Sydney, but she was sure that if it was too late in the season for her, it was also too late in the season for any other woman to climb Cook. She would spend the winter months climbing and clambering around the sandstone cliffs of the Chase, and return to the Hermitage early in the next season, as soon as was practicable, so she and Peter Graham could try again.

Jack Clarke was a previous chief Mt Cook guide, and he had been a member of the party that had made the first male ascent of Mt Cook. But, it appears, Freda did not much like Jack. Before her attempt on Mt Cook, Jack had argued that Freda and Peter climbing as a twosome was not safe and that it broke all the rules of mountaineering. Others in the Hermitage had gotten involved, pleading with Freda to protect

‘her honour’ by taking along a second guide. As a result of these intense—and to Freda, overly burdensome—concerns, Freda was never entirely comfortable with Jack Clarke.

Equally, Jack may not have enjoyed Freda’s forthrightness. But there were many other parties of climbers at Mt Cook during the climbing season. One of these groups included the irrepressible James R Dennistoun, a local station-holder’s son, who was more commonly known as Jim or, simply, JRD. Jim visited the area frequently before and after expeditions to explore the Rangitata catchment of the Southern Alps—many parts of this area were unmapped and unknown.

Like Peter Graham, Jim Dennistoun had no pre-conceived ideas about what women should or should not do or achieve. Jim’s sister Barbara Dennistoun accompanied him on most of his expeditions to Mt Cook. Mary Murray-Aynsley, a friend who had completed a number of forays into the ice and snow of the area, also joined the young climbing group. However, it was Ada Julius—a frequent visitor to JRD’s family home, the Peel Forest high-country sheep station—who quickly leapt to the forefront of this group of friends through her courage, skill and quiet daring in the mountains.

Initially, during her frequent visits to Peel Forest, Ada enjoyed the tennis, croquet and polo parties. But Ada quickly became a boundary-pusher and explorer with JRD. Together they climbed Little and Big Mt Peels, behind the farm, on two separate expeditions, and they frequently ventured out over the lesser hills on horseback. Ada’s mountain forays from Peel Forest occurred during the same summer that Freda du Faur was making her first attempt on Mt Cook, late in the 1909 season. Not long after Freda had returned home to Sydney after this first, unsuccessful season, she received a letter from Peter Graham. Peter wrote that a ‘well known New Zealand mountain guide’ (Jack Clarke?) had a New Zealand woman in his sights to be the first

woman up Mt Cook. Peter reported that this guide had said that ‘he would get the lady in question to the top if he had to carry her there.’2 Comments about ‘carrying’ a woman up a mountain were typical of this era, which routinely minimised the achievements of its female climbers. Some people assumed that this other woman was young Nettie MacDonald, whose parents managed the Hermitage; Jack Clarke was known to have been interested in her. But Jack had also spent time exploring the headwaters of the Rangitata with Ada and JRD, so the ‘lady in question’ could just as well have been Ada Julius. Jack knew Ada through Jim Dennistoun, who had chosen Jack as his own mountain guide because of Jack’s skill on ice and in snow. Jack knew how capable Ada Julius was; he had seen firsthand Ada’s strength, her determination and her skills on ice.

The exploration of the Rangitata headwaters took place shortly after Freda du Faur’s first attempt on Mt Cook, and it was a significant expedition. JRD was the impetus for the expedition, and he included both Ada and Jack in the party. By that stage JRD had been wanting to resolve the continuing and outstanding mysteries that still existed regarding the topography of these headwaters for some time. As yet no one knew about ‘the Gardens,’ the vast ice plateau at the head of the Frances that link the Rangitata catchment and the Perth branch of the Whataroa River. An Auckland party had explored as far as Colin Campbell Glacier but had not climbed to the ice fields, which were yet to be visited

by European explorers. It was believed that there were high cols between the Rakaia and the Rangitata rivers, but this had not yet been fully investigated. JRD hoped to explore the country around McClure Peak and Mt D’Archiac (in the Havelock branch of the Rangitata, on the other side of the catchment) and, if possible, climb both of these significant mountains.

Ada was not the only woman to be included; Jim’s sister Barbara also joined

Ball Hut. Jim Murphy, James Dennistoun, Ada Julius and Jack Clarke. Barbara Dennistoun.

Republished with permission from The Peaks and Passes of JRD, Dennistoun/Mannering.

the party. Other members of the party were Jack Turton and Lawrence Earle, a strong and talented climber who had recently completed a number of fine climbs in the Cook area. Johnnie Evans, a hired hand from another farm, would look after the horses and return down the river for additional stores and mail as needed. The final party of seven began packing their way up the vast Rangitata River from Peel Forest on their horses, on 21 February, heading into the unknown distance where the furthest mountains fell into troughs that swallowed the rivers, and yet also towered above them with the glitter of distant snowfields, glaciers and higher ice-falls.

It would take them three days of riding to reach the Clyde headwaters of the Rangitata, where they made camp near the McCoy confluence and established a base for further exploration into the glaciated headwaters. The party’s first night was spent at a rundown thatched house called Stronechrubie, on the furthest boundaries of Mesopotamia Station. Much of the gear for the six-week period of exploration would be packed up the river for

many of the kilometres on an old wool wagon. JRD wrote in his journal ‘arrived at Stronechrubie at 10.30—found the Jacks and gear safely here—it is a base we can always fall back on—we seem to have a deuced lot of gear...’3 Each member of the party had their own horse. Ada rode ‘Mont Blanc,’ a solid, grey horse that had formerly been one of a carriage pair. Ada was an accomplished and experienced rider; when she visited Peel Forest, she would ride from the Orari Railway Station and Geraldine. The name of her horse was fitting for a young woman who would soon be scaling some of the highest peaks in the Mt Cook region, her achievements following closely behind those of Freda du Faur.

Ada was at least as keen as JRD to solve the riddles of the upper reaches of the Rangitata. Adventurous and unconventional, Ada loved the hilly environs of Peel Forest station, with its grander peaks behind, and its opportunities for exploration. One night, while at a ball at Peel Forest, Ada disappeared. When she reappeared, at daylight the next day, her ball T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 137

Ada Julius at Ball Hut. Republished with permission from The Peaks and Passes of JRD, Dennistoun/Mannering.

gown was in tatters; she had scaled Mt Peel in the interim. Now Ada and the rest of the party were headed into the biggest mountains on the Divide and into the furthest reaches of the Rangitata. Stronechrubie was only their first stop. A derelict musterers house called Macraes gave them a cursory shelter on their second night. JRD wrote, ‘Earle and I had a tent pitched, Barbara and Ada another. The men slept in the hut.

Glorious night. Very comfy and snug.’4 The river valley became rougher and there were many deep, swift crossings of the Clyde as the party progressed up this branch of the Rangitata. JRD quickly noted Ada’s skill and courage during the many risky river crossings, which the group made on their horses. Finally they came to a confluence of two rivers, now known as the Frances River and McCoy Creek. The Frances was not named when the group camped there, and they just called it ‘the south-west branch’. They described it as a narrow valley that could soon be a trap in bad weather. As for the camp, JRD and his friends were delighted to set up their tents and kitchen tarpaulin here, where there was a small but reasonable amount of feed for the horses and a small lake or tarn higher up, in the scrub behind their 138 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

campsite, in which they could bathe. The McCoy Hut now stands on this historically significant terrace.

Soon after the group arrived, there was a ferocious storm and a two-day flood.

This confirmed JRD’s observations that the Frances River was a volatile river that regularly and drastically altered its own course. The noise and roar of the water, and the knocking of giant boulders in the riverbed shocked JRD. Their camp remained intact because it was on an embankment, but the cooking tent had to be moved, and the scrub bedding became waterlogged.

When the weather cleared a few days after the storm, Ada joined JRD, Earle and Barbara on an exploration of the McCoy (Shanks) Glacier, which the party followed for some way.

The following summer, the Hermitage was the place to be. Freda du Faur was in residence, reportedly ready to try for Mt Cook again as soon as possible with Peter and his brother Alec Graham. At Peel Forest, JRD packed six weeks’ supplies for his own party, which would include Jack Clarke (employed as a guide again), JRD’s brother George, who would arrive later, and Ada and Barbara.

If Jack Clarke had designs for Ada, a New

Zealand woman, to be the first woman to climb Mt Cook, the party was too late. On the same morning that Jack and JRD were climbing towards Mt Sealy, negotiating the Metelille Glacier—the first morning of six weeks of planned climbing in the region—Freda and the Graham brothers were already closing in on the summit of Cook. As Clarke and JRD began their descent from Sealy, Freda and the Grahams were descending from the summit of Cook, where they had spent two hours enjoying their achievement and taking in the spectacular views in all directions. Ada had not yet arrived at the Hermitage but was due in a matter of days. She arrived by car two days after Freda returned to the Hermitage after her by now well-heralded Aoraki Mt Cook ‘conquest’. So she missed all the interest and fuss that had ensued at the Hermitage in the meantime. Clarke may have been disappointed; his disappointment would have been all the more bitter had he realised then just what Ada was capable of. This would be very clearly demonstrated during Ada’s next few weeks of climbing in the area.

While Freda du Faur continued to look to other peaks in the Cook area, Ada Julius put up some warm-up climbs closer to the Hermitage. She and JRD climbed onto the Mueller Range, in cold, drizzly weather, and then climbed Sebastopol, also in the rain. A trip up to Hooker Hut, with JRD (from where JRD and Jack Clarke were to attempt Mt Cook a few days later), was thwarted by bad weather. They turned to the high peaks on the east side of the Tasman Glacier instead.

Within the week, Ada had climbed the Nun’s Veil, Elie de Beaumont, and Malte Brun. She followed this with an ascent of Aylmer, which had not been climbed before, and then swiftly dealt to the Minarets and De la Bèche.

Both Jack and JRD were impressed with Ada. After Malte and the Nun’s Veil, JRD wrote in his journal, ‘she has done one of the best snow peaks and quite the biggest rock peak and never made a falter or a slip or mistake. She doesn’t even send

stones down, and can keep at it all day and be fresh in the morning.’ On their return from Malte Brun, safe and ecstatic at the hut, Jack said ‘we all have a nerve, Miss J for coming, you for suggesting it, and I for allowing it!’5 At the time, Elie de Beaumont had had just one previous ascent.

The social milieu at the Hermitage was becoming divided by the rivalry between the two parties. This became more obvious when an unforeseen accommodation double-up occurred at the Malte Brun Hut several days later. JRD’s party consisted of Jack Clarke (guide), Ada, George Dennistoun and Barbara (whose achievements, in accompanying Ada and JRD on some of the climbs were also impressive).

The other party was the Du Faur and Peter Graham group, which included Alec Graham, Hugh Chambers and variously Miss Mary Murray-Aynsley and George Bannister. The Graham–Du Faur party had left for Malte Brun Hut to travel over Graham’s Saddle to spend Christmas in Franz Josef on the understanding that if the weather was bad they would go down to Ball Hut. When JRD’s party left some time later for Malte Brun Hut, from where they would put up their climb on Aylmer, they expected it to be unoccupied. They were surprised, to say the least, to discover it was occupied by the Graham–Du Faur party, who had been waylaid by bad weather! JRD wrote ‘we were pleased, you can imagine! And they were beastly about it. Jack Clarke had quite a bad time – things were somewhat strained between Jack and Peter for a bit.’6 The weather continued to close in, with thunder, hail showers, wind and sleet. The corrugated iron walls of the hut didn’t keep out the bitter cold and the time was spent mostly wrapped up in blankets and in bunks. Later in the evening, however, after both groups had cooked a meal, the atmosphere became highly jovial. An evening of great camaraderie unfolded, no doubt facilitated by the storm, still raging outside.

A sense of co-operation, survival, fun and friendship banished all more competitive concerns. The weather remained the same

on Christmas Day, with the addition of 30 centimetres of snow around the hut, but by the afternoon the two groups could venture outside. They took a group photo and enjoyed some rock climbing at the back of the hut. It wasn’t until Boxing Day afternoon that the Graham–Du Faur party could finally head for Graham Saddle.

Ada’s weeks were coming to an end and she was due back home for a wedding. It was time for Jack Clarke, JRD and Ada to attempt Mt Cook. JRD was hungry for it for himself, and for Ada to achieve it too. Both he and Clarke had quickly recognised that all of them, including Ada, were fit, capable and ready for this prestigious climb.

It was again the bad weather that gave the endeavour a slow start. Nights at Ball Hut waiting for the weather to clear were finally aborted and a return was made to the Hermitage. Finally a settled, cold night and rising barometer saw guides Jack and Jim Murphy, together with Ada and JRD, retrace the long walk to Ball Hut. They were hoping for good conditions higher up, with the settled weather. The next day the four climbed to Haast Bivouac. This was initially a ledge in the rock ridge, but had been variously enlarged by other parties. Despite Jim Murphy working on it further, it was only ever big enough for the small Whymper tent and a space for two others to sleep closely together. The party left their gear and climbed further up to Glacier Dome to punch steps in the soft snow that would aid them later, when the snow froze overnight.

They left the bivouac in the very early hours, and made such good progress in the dark that they had to wait in the seracs of the Linda Glacier, becoming disoriented by the lack of light in the jumble of ice.

At daybreak, Jim Murphy ventured out in front and later found that traversing the steep headwall of the Linda was a feasible route. However, Jack Clarke knew the route from Greens Saddle and preferring this, turned away from the arête, and lead the group ever upwards to this high col, 400m below the summit of Cook. But their hopes for the summit were dashed when, just below the col, they heard a terrible wind

on the Hooker side. Ice and stones were being whipped over the col by this wind.

Finding a small icy ledge for shelter, the group reluctantly conceded defeat to the wind. Their eyrie was a fantastic vantage point, with views stretching from the Two Thumbs in the north to Mt Aspiring in the south. The four had achieved a first ascent of the Linda to Greens Saddle. For Ada, in her first climbing season and still a novice, this was a superb achievement.

Ada achieved so much in such a short time in the Cook region—was this due to an unusual level of fearlessness? JRD notes that Ada was very calm, very level-headed and somewhat self-effacing. She was highly regarded by others at the Hermitage, being pleasant and cheerful in any social setting.

She considered herself to be ‘the lesser climber’ when comparing herself to Freda du Faur, but on Cook Ada had put up faster times in her climbing, and achieved a greater number of more significant climbs than Freda managed in her first and second seasons at the Hermitage (short though they were).

Freda du Faur and Peter Graham had the luck of the weather. In contrast, Ada’s and JRD’s timing left them with Greens Saddle as a consolation prize, but they were well satisfied in the knowledge that, had they had a fairer forecast, they could well have reached the summit. If Ada Julius was indeed the New Zealand woman Jack Clarke wished to put on top of Cook, it was only her later arrival at the Hermitage for the season’s climbing that robbed her of this achievement.

References 1.

S Irwin, Between Heaven and Earth, White Crane Press, 2000, p80.

2.

S Irwin, Between Heaven and Earth, White Crane Press, 2000, p125.

3.

James Robert Dennistoun’s notes, from The Peaks and Passes of JRD, JRD Publications, 1999, Geraldine, NZ, p100.

4.

James Robert Dennistoun’s notes, The Peaks and Passes of JRD, JRD Publications, 1999, Geraldine, NZ, p102.

5.

James Robert Dennistoun’s notes, The Peaks and Passes of JRD, JRD Publications, 1999 Geraldine, NZ, p169.

6.

James Robert Dennistoun’s notes, The Peaks and Passes of JRD, JRD Publications, 1999 Geraldine, NZ, p171.

T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 139

MOUNT ASPIRING NORTH EAST RIDGE The first ascent and its aftermath

By BRIAN WILKINS

Aerial photograph of Mt Aspiring from the east, with the North East Ridge in profile. Colin Monteath/Hedgehog House This article is an edited extract from Brian Wilkins’ book Among Secret Beauties, A Memoir of Mountaineering in New Zealand and the Himalayas.

(Otago University Press, 2013).

O

n 2 January 1955, Otago climbers Ian Bagley, Lindsay Bruce, Reg Scott and I made the first ascent of the North East Ridge of Mt Aspiring.

Equipped only for a one-day climb, we were hit by a severe storm shortly after reaching the top of the ridge. We survived by scraping out a tiny cave in the snow on the top edge of the Coxcomb Ridge.

Two days later, in better weather, higher on the Coxcomb, and close to passing over the summit for a return down the North West Ridge, we were joined by four other climbers: Dick Tornquist, JD Rockell, Ivan Pickens and Jack Rattenbury. This second party had climbed the North East 140 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

Ridge that day, 4 January, thus making the second ascent.

This story begins with our party on the Therma Glacier. We had walked up the Matukituki Valley, camped on French Ridge, and reached the Bonar Glacier via the Quarterdeck. Digging a snow cave near Shipowner Ridge, and then another high on the Therma, we advanced during poor weather and were well placed.

Our route would take us to the summit of Aspiring from the top of the North East Ridge, along the upper part of the Coxcomb Ridge, if we succeeded. We planned to return down the North West Ridge and circle back to our present snow cave at nearly 2438m, about 610m below the summit, and about two-and-a-half kilometres from it. A rock tower ahead, across the glacier,

directed us to begin above it.

To begin with, the strata lay almost horizontally, but was broken and unstable.

The ridge was narrow and soon we were below another rock tower. The gully on the right didn’t look good, and on the left near-vertical smooth slabs pointed to the Volta Glacier, far below. We took the middle line and squeezed up through a crack in the tower to come out on top of an untidy jumbled block structure. A number of small overhangs kept us interested. In many places the ridge required us to move out a little on to the faces on either side. We were never constricted to one set of moves, even within the constraints of a ridge that was narrow and exposed all the way.

If any of it was unpleasant, it was the particularly rotten face above the Volta, where

we found ourselves holding together a mass of loose boulders. We joined our two ropes together and climbed as a four. This was a technique for crevassed country. The extra safety, on an unknown ridge, allowed us to keep moving steadily without any problems. We were in good belay stances most of the time. Near the top of the rock section we negotiated another tower by hanging onto a line of quartz outcrops and getting a little friction with our boots on the smooth Therma face. When the leather sling attaching Bruce’s ice axe to his arm broke, the axe slithered four and a half metres before unexpectedly coming to rest on the rock face. Had it gone, we would have had to retreat, unable to tackle the snow above us.

Then came the exhilarating but exhausting cheval ridge—it was not horizontal, like the horse-riding shuffles near the summit of Malte Brun, but steep. Finally, across an awkward stretch of loose little boulders, we were at the foot of a snow slope, about 200 metres from the summit ridge. There was almost a foot of soft snow, which got thinner higher up, with ice underneath. We had put on crampons at the top of the rock, but snow in that condition, accumulating unpredictably among the crampon points, forced us to cut steps as well. By the middle of the afternoon of 2 January 1955 we were at the top of the North East Ridge.

2 January We were not much lower than the summit of Aspiring, but almost half a kilometre from it horizontally. We knew this summit ridge, the upper part of the Coxcomb, was not easy. Although there were at least ten attempts on the Coxcomb before it was climbed, its entire length had been climbed only twice before. Behind us, the sky out to the west was far from reassuring. Down on the West Coast what might have been to the farmers merely a signal to bring out their oilskins, began to take on aspects of the apocalypse up here at this T-junction of roads to easy oblivion. If it got worse, we considered it was probably safer to continue along the previously trodden upper Coxcomb rather than face the uncertainties of a first descent of the tricky climb that

we had just completed. Mountains can spit you off; but this mountain, not today. We weren’t going anywhere; we were burrowing into it like parasites; it might digest us though.

When the blast hit I was still picking my way up, finding the holds in the rock chimney, well short of the top of the 30-metre-high tower, the largest on the Coxcomb. We were now on two separate ropes. I came back down and we all stayed there, on the spine of the Coxcomb. We were carrying just a little food and water in our day packs. Not having planned for a night out, our insulation, sleeping bags and shovel were all back in our snow cave.

Our ice axes would have to do instead of a shovel. For the next three hours we scraped and chipped into the snow and ice, beginning a few metres down the northern slope so that we didn’t break right through the sharp ridge and find ourselves looking down to the Bonar on the other side.

One at a time, we crouched in the narrow tunnel and worked to enlarge a shallow chamber until it was just big enough for us all to crawl into. Those of us still waiting outside, high on the ridge, concentrated on not being blown off. When the chamber was big enough to fit all of us, we huddled inside in a tight circle, sitting on our packs and hunching forward to keep our backs off the ice, with our feet resting on the coiled ropes. The damp nor’wester and the warmth of our bodies in the confined space brought water dripping down from the roof of the cave. Dampness and cold make for a miserable pair.

3 January The blast had become bitterly cold, driving into the entrance tunnel, sucking away our heat. Fortunately—and when four lives are at stake ‘fortunately’ is too tame a word to describe this bit of luck—we were carrying a sheet of plastic in which I had wrapped my crampons. Using our crampons and ice axes and four pitons, we pinned the plastic to the ice inside the entrance. Keeping this flimsy door in place occupied one person for much of the time. We sang a few songs, stretched our limbs occasionally in the

confined space, massaged our feet, rationed what little food and drink we had, dozed a little, and waited. We didn’t talk much.

How long would it last? A day? A week?

Two weeks? Silent prayers. The storm lasted all day. We learned later that it was described as ‘memorable’ over parts of Otago. Lightning flashed through the ice crystals in the thin roof above us, and the thunder put on quite a show, making it memorable for us too, near the top of Aspiring. The climax was three electric shocks we all felt pass through our bodies.

Shocked into action, one might say, we scrambled to remove all the metal objects from inside the entrance and push them outside the short tunnel. The plastic came down for several hours while we chose to shiver in the increasingly intense cold rather than be electrocuted. Our tiny rabbit hole under all that wildness across the Southern Alps—imagine the scale of it.

4 January Our third day. A clear morning and a cool wind. We had holed out in snow caves before, but this was a new level of austerity.

Performance outside would be the crucial test. There had been little new snow. We might have made a quick start at 6.00am but rime coated the handholds on the rock tower. This icing was another discouragement against going back down the way we had come. Two hours later most of the rime was still there but the sun was warming the rock. After 41 hours of utter misery, we didn’t know what state we would be in to tackle the rest of it. Without much sleep, food, or water, we knew the danger of our condition.

At 8.00am, our third day on the climb, we were back on the tower. The chimney gave us a short break from exposure before it opened on to a rock slab. The slab sloped away on the south face of the mountain, and was coated with hard ice. We didn’t try the north face; with the huge icicles hanging from it, it looked even worse. The only way forward was across this face of solid ice. We cut steps—and good ones too— and drove three pitons into cracks in the rock as anchor points.

T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 141

For eight days we had been on our own.

But now, when we looked down from near the top of the tower, we saw four climbers below us on the snow section of the North East Ridge. We guessed they were part of the large group at the NZAC Auckland Section camp at Aspiring Hut, as some of them had mentioned an attempt on the ridge. No one had ever gained serious height on the North East Ridge; now it had two parties within three days. They would find our hole at the top of the ridge, at the point where it joined the Coxcomb, and would be disappointed.

Months later we read their descriptions of finding ‘a hole in the snow,’ ‘a shallow cave scraped out’.1 Knowing about the storm, they had evidence that suggested we had survived two nights up there under tough conditions.

The party that made the first ascent of the Coxcomb Ridge, two years earlier, found this upper part, the main tower and beyond, the hardest. We climbed over some of the smaller, more jagged towers, but others demanded that steps be cut around their shady, icy, south faces. Near the end of the rocks we had to abandon the cautionary approach and take to the air. A slab on the top of the rock ridge sloped away to where we could look down on a narrow snow ridge, three metres below, and across a gap. It was just possible to walk down the slab without slipping, to reduce the drop a little. With Bagley belaying me from the slab I sprang off, but I went a little too far.

I missed the top of the snow ridge and was sliding off the mountain in the direction of the Therma. But Bagley proved what a reliable climber he was. It was a nice repayment for the time I held him four years earlier, when he slipped during our west–east traverse of Mt Earnslaw (also a new climb).

Ahead of us now, only about 100 metres away, was the summit. Quiet relief. No more nasty shocks. Or so we thought.

When the four climbers reached the top of the rocks behind us, Bagley and I were about halfway between the rocks and the summit, some distance ahead of Bruce and Scott. The four newcomers remained on the rocks. We learned later that they had 142 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

paused to eat a snack and put on crampons.

An ice bulge on the ridge ahead of Bagley and me meant more step-cutting. Whoever they were, the newcomers had been using our steps for hours, the hard-won products of hours of hacking into the ice across one passage after another. All things considered, including what had happened to us over the last few days, it was an easy decision to make. It was time for them to cut a few steps of their own.

Our two parties were about to make contact: eight of us, in four pairs, strung out along the ridge, the Auckland four at the rear. Rockell and Tornquist, the first pair of the Auckland group, got to Bagley and me after we had waited for about half an hour for them to come past us. It was the strangest of meetings, an encounter like no other in my experience, and unique not only because it took place almost at the top of Mt Aspiring. Looking back, I can see the signs. It was a meeting at close quarters—as the Aucklanders moved carefully around us on the not-dangerously-narrow ice ridge, we might have been ballroom dancing partners in elegant finger-tip contact. But it was not a meeting of minds.

I recall saying something like, ‘You’ll be able to move quicker than us.’ It wasn’t the place for an extended discussion, but I think we expected more from them than we got. Maybe an enquiry or two: Did you have supplies or bivouac gear with you for your stay in that hole you made? Do you think you will get back to your base tonight? Would you like us to stay close in front of you while our other two stay at the rear? Nevertheless, I expected that we would have a good exchange on the easier ground of the North West Ridge, just across the summit. My friends and I were certainly weak, and hungry too. Our total food for the three days to that time, shared among the four of us, under tough conditions, was six medium bars of chocolate, one packet of barley sugars, four handfuls of mixed nuts and raisins, and a few acid drops. We were carrying one flask of water to share, and we had been sucking melting snow. I now know they were carrying food.

In a cold southerly wind, with clouds pushing down on us and allowing only glimpses downwards into the dark gaps in the cloud, we were seeing less and less of the other mountains. Not pleasant, but for a fit party nothing unusual or particularly threatening. Nor was the wind strong enough to unbalance us on the summit ridge. Perhaps we should have asked them for food. Had we known what was about to happen, we might have asked the Aucklanders to stay just ahead of us. They had taken a long time on their day climb, in spite of enjoying the benefits we provided for them, the luxury of ice cleared from rock in many places, and our freshly cut steps. I know now that they had earlier discussed abandoning the climb. Bagley and I were enjoying having steps made for us for the first time that day. We moved at a better pace over the final stretch to reach the summit at 6.45pm, 15 minutes after Tornquist and Rockell. There, the two Aucklanders took off at speed and were gone.

Of the conditions at the summit, which were windy, but by no means frightening to me, Tornquist wrote, ‘It was quite impossible to linger there for we were greeted by a fierce and bitter wind howling over the peak.’ He went on to say: ‘Rockell and I pushed on over the iceencrusted snow down to the easier slopes of the North West Ridge to wait for the others. Almost an hour later, four specks were seen to pass over the summit and begin to descend. Behind them appeared Rattenbury and Pickens, who had been unable to pass the Otago party when we did. To keep warm, Rockell and I continued on down but were soon enveloped in clouds sweeping in from the west. Lower down a momentary parting of the mist luckily revealed a route down on to the Bonar Glacier.’

If Tornquist is claiming that they reached the top almost an hour before Bagley and me, he is incorrect. Earlier, for an hour or so, when we saw the Auckland party coming up behind us, we had begun to believe that we would all get safely down off the mountain together. Now I was more puz-

Aerial photograph of Mt Aspiring from the north, with the North East Ridge prominent on the left. Geoff Spearpoint/Hedgehog House

zled by their actions than frightened or disappointed. Tornquist, writing about their climb, said he ‘recut and enlarged’ our steps on the big tower, and he points out that he couldn’t use our pitons because his party had no carabiners to make the connections.

I have been told by one of the party that they made extensive use of our work.

The second pair of Aucklanders, Pickens and Rattenbury, had been talking to Bruce and Scott, inviting them to their snow cave for the night. Pickens and Rattenbury had noted that we were not in good shape, but they were unable to offer us food because Tornquist and Rockell had gone off with all of it. When we all resumed the climb from our different positions near the top of the Coxcomb, Pickens and Rattenbury’s rope blew onto some icicles below the ridge and

snagged. By the time they got away, Pickens and Rattenbury were some distance behind Bruce and Scott, who had moved on. They were last to arrive at the summit, getting there at 7.00pm. I believe that, being relatively fresh, they could then have passed our back pair, and I am grateful to them for respecting our state by staying behind us.

Below the summit snow, the North West Ridge and its crest offer a nice passage in daylight. But among the darkening clouds our choices were shrinking. On a good day we would have had three ways back to our home cave. None of our party had climbed Aspiring before, our torches were flat and we had no hope of making any of those routes in darkness.

At 9.00pm, with snow beginning to fall, we were trapped again. The wind was cold

but no worse than near the summit, and the snow whirled about us without much venom. Pickens and Rattenbury carried on down the ridge, attempting to follow tracks left by Tornquist and Rockell on patches of snow, but lost their tracks in the rock and called it a day at about the same time as we did. Just below us, they built a little windbreak from slabs of schist. Tornquist and Rockell were at that time making their way down the ridge, back through the mist and snow for another hour and a half after we had all stopped, to reach their base snow cave at 10.30pm. Bagley and I sat with our backs against a low rock wall, while Bruce and Scott found what they described as a coffin-like structure a short distance away.

Snow filtered down on our misery. We dozed a little; it was something we were T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 143

Looking down the Coxcomb Ridge of Mt Aspiring.

becoming good at, feeling discomfort less and less, getting closer to the time when we would go quietly, painlessly.

5 January The sun rose, but we couldn’t see it. It was our fourth day trapped high on this mountain. The light coating of snow fell from our clothes as we slowly rose to our feet. None of us knew enough about a route directly down to the Therma Glacier. We were looking for the way down to the Bonar, but it was 2.30pm before we could see far enough through the thick mist.

We learned later that Pickens and Rattenbury were also unable to find a way down to the Bonar, but they followed right down the North West Ridge and reached their snow cave at 1.30pm. Tornquist and Rockell had been out looking for them and saw them shortly before they reached the cave.

The Ramp is a fairly steeply sloping snow shelf, it is probably the most common route down off the mountain. In the clearing weather it looked inviting. It doesn’t look fearsome, but we knew people had died there, slipping and going over rock bluffs that are not obvious from above. However much I had deteriorated, my red lights were flashing: We’ve come this far. Don’t ruin it 144 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

now. We roped up, with me in the lead, and I cut steps down to the Bonar Glacier.

It took five hours.

While we were working our way down this slope, we looked out and saw four figures on the Bonar, heading homeward towards French Ridge. Tornquist wrote: ‘On our way across the Bonar we were somewhat taken aback to see the Otago party only then getting off the North West Ridge. Knowing that they must inevitably find the steps which led either to our cave or to the occupied one on the Bonar, and that we could not give them any real assistance, we plodded wearily on across the glacier.’

We knew nothing of an ‘occupied cave,’ nor did we come across any other climbers in the area. But we did feel that we were being left behind for the second time. We were getting desperate. At 7.30pm, at the bottom of the Ramp, the wind dropped and the clouds lifted, but our home snow cave was still hours away, to the north. We couldn’t get across the crevassed Therma Glacier before dark and settled for an old abandoned cave that we came across below the North West Ridge. Luxury was defined as pools of melt water disappearing from the rocks under our wallowing faces. Stone slabs on the floor became beds.

6 January We crawled out before dawn and moved across the Shipowner Ridge to an ice cave, which must have been vacated by the Aucklanders the previous day. We continued another three kilometres to a second cave, then climbed up the Therma Glacier, to arrive back at our home cave at 9.00am, four days and one and a half hours after leaving it for our planned one-day climb.

A day of bedrest would have been in order, but Bagley was due back at work in two days and I agreed to accompany him out, after a two-hour nap. At least we had a full stomach for the zombie-like 11-kilometre trudge across the Therma and the Bonar, groping our way around the crevasses of the Quarterdeck in the moonlight.

When we fell into the French Ridge Hut, at 11.30pm, we found Jerry Aspinall there.

Aspinall was the runholder of Mt Aspiring Station, and he was about to make his first and only ascent of Aspiring the following day, with Jack Ede leading.

For the next few weeks our painful frostbitten feet would remind Bagley and me where we had been.

Four days after we left them, Bruce and Scott set off but they didn’t make it. In great pain they had to pitch their tent on the Quarterdeck for the night.

They reached French Ridge Hut with difficulty. From there, Scott carried on but Bruce could go no further. The adventure ended with Bruce being carried down the valley on one of Jerry Aspinall’s horses: just one of the many kind acts Jerry did for climbers.

Three weeks in Dunedin Hospital brought Bruce and Scott to full recovery.

One climb, a few days, friends helping each other to survive, all of us near our limits. Going back to that tale set among high pinnacles and low burrows has been an adventure in itself. I think of all the others who will be drawn to that incomparable mountain: Aspiring.

References 1.

R Tornquist, ‘The North East Ridge of Mount Aspiring,’ NZAJ, 1955.

a b o v e The author aiding on pegs during the first ascent of the overhang, 6 February 1971. Bill Atkinson

THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE PUNAKAIKI OVERHANG

by PAUL CAFFYN

A

fter graduating from the University of Queensland in 1969, with majors in botany and geology, and minors in rock climbing, caving and folk music, I was exceedingly fortunate to gain my first job on the West Coast of the South Island.

While based at Barrytown for the following year, my weekends were spent caving at

Bullock Creek and climbing and skiing at Arthur’s Pass.

Rock climbing took a back seat in 1970, with all the superb new cave exploration that was on offer at the Fox River and Bullock Creek, but I would often stop and peer up from the coastal highway at the huge, seven-metre overhang at Punakaiki,

which seemed to almost tower over the road. What intrigued me was an incipient crack that split the overhang. Commencing at knife-blade-size, the crack widens slowly until the lip, where a body-sized flaring crack opens, requiring a four-inch bong or tube chock to allow passage.

T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 145

t h i s p a g e : The author on the first ascent of the overhang. Bill Atkinson (left and top right), Paul Caffyn collection (bottom right)

The first ascent Even though I had some aid climbing experience, and had completed plenty of big multipitch ascents in the Glassshouses, Warumbungles and Tasmania, it took three attempts to complete an ascent of the overhang. The first attempt faded out on a narrow ledge at the start of the crack. I placed five bolts from etriers on the upper, blank section of the wall, and another by the ledge where I could abseil off. The prospect of aiding so far out along the crack was too much to contemplate.

A second attempt was more successful. Using knifeblades, leepers and angles, I was able to peg out to where the crack broadened to almost body-width. But hanging off a four-inch bong, and standing in the top rungs of the tape etriers, I couldn’t find any jams or holds to pull up any higher with.

For the third attempt, on 6 February 1971, I made the now familiar aid moves out to the four-inch bong placement, where the crack flares. Sitting in my etriers, I used the star drill (tap, turn, tap, turn) to drill a hole inside the flared bit and hammered in a bolt. Then, moving up and standing in the top rungs, I was able to place an angle-piton from which I was able to squeeze vertically up to daylight. Negotiating a jungle of kiekie and supplejack back to the highway was almost as difficult as the climbing.

During the first ascent, Bill Atkinson took several superb black and white photos, one of which is now on permanent display at the Punakaiki Tavern, over the road from the overhang.

146 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

t o p Robbie McBirney ready to aid out along the crack for the second ascent, 1974. Paul Caffyn b o t t o m Robbie McBirney again, nearing the flaring, end-section of crack. Paul Caffyn

The second ascent On 5 October 1974, Robbie McBirney led a successful ascent of the crack to the lip. But standing in etriers at the bolt at the base of the flared section, he found his shoulders and chest would not fit. Perhaps he’d spent too much time mastering Supergroove at the Mt Eden Quarry. Not one to back off easily, Robbie grabbed hold of some stout kiekie vines dangling over the lip and pulled himself over. It was a most impressive Tarzan-like move when viewed from ground level. Greg Pickford and I followed. Both Greg and I were of slim build, and were able to squeeze through the flared bit without having to resort to kiekie-aiding.

T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 147

Waimakariri Falls Hut, Arthur’s Pass National Park.

Mark Watson

148 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

Area Reports New Zealand Mountains Kester Brown South Island Rock Troy Mattingley North Island Rock Kristen Foley and Kester Brown

The crater lake and summit plateau of Mt Ruapehu from Tahurangi.

Mark Watson

149

NEW ZEALAND MOUNTAINS This report covers developments in the New Zealand mountains from November 2012 to November 2013

by KESTER BROWN 150 A R E A R E P O R T S

Fiordland The big news for the summer of 2012/13 is that a second route was added to the steep, imposing wall at the head of Sinbad Gully.

Weather Spell (9p, 250m, 30) was established over two trips and 27 days by Chris Igel, Claudia Kranabitter, Karl Schimanski and Alex Schweikart.

For a week in February, a group of five climbers took advantage of dry and stable conditions to base themselves at a camp near the terminal lake of the Te Puoho Glacier and climb six new routes on the surrounding granite features. John McCallum, Tom Riley and Dave Vass climbed the Walk-Off Spur (I, 16) above Boulder Basin.

John then teamed up with James Spiers and Richard Thomson to climb the left edge of The Rothorn (I, 19), a pinnacle that marks the end of Tuhawaiki’s northwest buttress.

James, Richard and Dave then climbed the left arête of The Mighty Dur (II, 19), a feature alleged to be New Zealand’s answer to the Dru. John and Tom climbed The Armenian Direct, a line on the front of The Petit Dur. The team then headed to an area higher on the glacier, above Crampon Pass and below the East Ridge of Revelation. The Cirque of the Climbables was the scene of the first ascent of The Hooter (I, 13)

by John, Tom and Dave. A more difficult direct start was added by James and Richard at grade 22.

James, Richard and Dave finished the new-routing spree off with the Russian Gas Pedal (II, 21) start to Ro-Sham-Bo, on the west face of Taiaroa.

In early March, Ben Dare and Daniel Joll made the first complete ascent of the south face of Marian Peak. Their route, Maid Marian (800m, 21, A2), includes six pitches on the lower cirque wall before taking a line somewhere near the Herron-HyslopWhiston to the summit. Ben and Daniel climbed the route in a 28-hour round-trip from Homer Hut. In the Moir region, Murray Ball, Nick Cradock and Dave Shotwell added yet another quality multi-pitch rock route

to the west face of Moir’s Mate. Finders Keepers (10p, 270m, 22) is between the Bowen-Allan Corner and Lucky Strike.

In November 2013 Stanley Mulvaney and friends climbed the South Ridge of Mills Peak.

The big news for the winter was Guy McKinnon’s first ascent of the west face of Mt Tutoko. On 11 July, Guy soloed the central weakness on the 1900-metre high face in ‘utterly superb’ condition, earning himself the Black Diamond 2013 Alpinist of the Year award for his effort.

The annual Southland Section Darrans Winter Meet produced four new routes in the upper-Hollyford area. In the upper McPherson Cirque, Ben Dare, Danny Murphy and Stephen Skelton climbed The Elusive Leprechaun, and Paul Clarke and Huw James climbed Schoolboy Error.

On the Tunnel Bluffs, Frazer Attrill, Jaz Morris, Rose Pearson, Anna Seybold and Alastair Walker added Double Vision, and Jaz and Rose added The Grovelly Chimney of Joy. Earlier in the winter, Ruari Macfarlane and Jaz Morris climbed Home Turf (II, 4), right of Midnight Cowboy on the McPherson Cirque Left-Hand Buttresses.

Southern Lakes Milo Gilmour and Llewellyn Murdoch established WICKED (9p, 21), on the east face of Mt Awful, in the Young Valley. Milo was so impressed by the face, he returned with Nick Flyvbjerg and Richard Tribe to add Summer of Yes (5p, 22), to the right of WICKED. The Remarkables was again a centre of attention for alpine rock development in the region. Please see the South Island rock report for info.

Winter in the Remarkables was as busy as ever. In late-June, Ben Dare soloed two new winter routes on the Wall of Evening Light: Charmer (3p, M3, WI2+) and Afterglow (3p, M4+, WI4).

Ben teamed up with Stephen Skelton and Danny Murphy in July to climb another new winter route—Gatecrasher (M4, WI3) is to the right of Enema at Border Crag.

The second annual Remarkables Ice and

a b o v e John McCallum climbing above Rainbow Lake, Darran Mountains. Richard Thomson f a c i n g p a g e Daniel Joll climbing along the west ridge of Mt Pibrac after topping out on The Shaft. Mt Sefton and the Footstool behind. Steven Fortune

Mixed Festival took place in mid-August.

Many new routes came out of the festival as teams tackled projects that had come into condition. Seven new routes were climbed on the west face of the Telecom Tower. Steve Fortune, Peter Harris and Ari Kingan climbed Sgian Dubh (90m, M4). Daniel Joll and Allan Uren climbed

Half Century Celebration (60m, M6), to the left of Friday’s Fool. Martine Frekhaug, Gon Nido and Snorre Sulheim climbed Yeah, Yeah, Nah, Yeah (60–70m, M5).

Ari and Peter climbed Ari-an Supremacy (50m, M4), to the right of Force It. Frazer Attrill and Jono Clarke added a direct finish to that route, which they named AARREEAA RREEPPOORRTTSS 151

and Vaughan Snowdon climbed $60 Sex (350m, M5), left of Alejandro el Bicho le Gusta Sexu Duro.

Alex Belton and Jaz Morris climbed a new line on the south face of Glengyle Peak in the west Matukituki Valley. The climb is graded MC4- and tops out on the west ridge. The pair didn’t go to the summit.

Steven Fortune following a pitch during the first ascent of the south face of the Dasler Pinnacles. Ben Dare

Ari-an Retreat (60m, M4). Owen Davis and Danny Murphy climbed The Aussie Potato Farmer (40m, M5), to the left of Saturday Morning Special. Ben Dare, Federico Callegari and Danny Murphy added Tri Nations (150m, M5), just to the right of Recessionary Downgrade.

Over on the east side of the range, Frazer Attrill, Jaz Morris and Danny Murphy completed On General’s Orders (70m, M3+) at Lake Alta.

Adverse conditions for the Osprey Packs Double to Single Cone Traverse Race left organisers wondering if any of the teams would be able to finish, but Danny Murphy and Mike Buchanan prevailed with a good time of 4 hours and 15 minutes.

The south face of Single Cone sprang into perfect spring conditions in October for a couple of days. A group of locals took advantage and added three new routes: Ben Dare, Daniel Joll and Jaz Morris climbed The Piking Potato Princess (170m, M6, WI3), a direct start to $100 Whore. Steve Fortune, Pete Harris and Ari Kingan climbed 4VLOLZ (400m, M4), right of Stairway to Methven, and Stephen Skelton 152 A R E A R E P O R T S

Aoraki Mt Cook area Guy McKinnon made the first ascent of Triple Direct (2150m, MC5), on the east face of Mt Sefton in February. As the name suggests, Guy’s line tackles the face in a direct manner, and includes the previously unclimbed right-hand buttress on the middle tier of the face (incorrectly marked in the Aoraki Mount Cook guidebook as For Whom the Bell Tolls).

In December 2012, Stuart Hollaway and Dale Thistlethwaite climbed The Dream of the Dutch Sailors (MC4+), on the Abel Janszoon Face of Mt Tasman. Stuart then teamed up with Richard Bassett-Smith and climbed Endeavour (460m, 18, MC6-), on the Bowie Buttress of Aoraki.

Also in December 2012, James Bultitude and Mike Mageropoulos added Blitzing Everywhere (MC4) to the north side of Mt Halcombe, between the Fox and Franz névés.

Early in the 2012/13 summer, Guy McKinnon climbed a line linking the prominent rock spurs on the north-west face of Mt Blackburn (MC3-). Jane Morris also climbed the peak, this time via the 900 metre central rib on the south face (MC3-).

In September, Steven Fortune and Daniel Joll climbed The Shaft (560m, WI4, MC5) on the west face of Mt Pibrac, in the Mt Cook Range.

Also on Mt Pibrac, on 3 November Jaz Morris climbed JM Goes Tramping (350m, WI2, MC4) on the south face. On the same day, Jaz climbed Névé Névé Land (250m, WI2, MC4) on Mt Turner’s south face.

Other areas Ross Cullen and Nick Shearer went up the Ahuriri Valley in February and found a new route on Peak 2303m. Their climb is called Jersey Bull and is on the south face.

On 1 September, Ben Dare and Steven Fortune made the first ascent of the south face of the Dasler Pinnacles via the large corner system on the left-hand side of the face. Resistentialism is 400-metres long and graded MC5.

Phil Davies and Paul Hersey added another route to Glen Lyon, in the Hopkins Valley, which they named The Blind Assassin (5p, 15).

Steven Fortune and Julia Valigore found a new rock route on a buttress on the left-hand side of the south face of Kehu Peak in Nelson Lakes National Park in November 2013.

Winter at Mt Ruapehu saw Mike Buchanan climb Coyote the Crazy Clown (M7), a new mixed route in the Mangaturuturu Cirque. Also in the cirque, Jono Clarke added Mrs Brown (M7) and Zapata (M9).

The Cathedral Rocks, on the summit area of Mt Ruapehu, formed up for a brief time in spring, allowing Graham Johnson and Anesh Narsai to climb Like Your Mum (60m, M5), about 30 metres left of Goblin’s Thrash.

Ski-mountaineering A good record of ski-mountaineering developments in New Zealand has been sorely lacking in our mountain history thus far. This is our first attempt to put down as many significant ski-mountaineering descents as we can from the past year. Given the lack of recorded information, it’s unsurprising that the more digging we did, the more we uncovered. Some very impressive, and largely unheralded, ski and snowboard descents have occurred in New Zealand over the past few years. But in the interests of brevity, we’ve put a date range on this report, so have covered from November 2012 to November 2013. A comprehensive history of New Zealand ski-mountaineering would be a great project for someone (please get in touch if you’re interested!). If we’ve missed your new or notable descent, apologies, and please send us details so we can include it in next year’s report.

Note: ‘descent’ here refers to skiing, snowboarding or similar.

The ski mountaineering scene has had an active year. Several new and notable descents have occurred in the Aoraki area. In November 2012, Steve Eastwood (skier) and Shane Orchard (snowboarder) descended the east ridge to south-east face on Mt Dixon. This was the first recorded descent since Hugh Grierson’s telemark descent in 1998. The pair then teamed up with David Hood (snowboarder) for a descent of the east face of Malaspina the following day. This was the first descent of the peak.

In December 2012 Duncan Rait speedflew (foot-launched) from the summit area of Aoraki, landing near Plateau Hut. Five days later Mal Haskins speedrode (ski-launched) a 10-metre speedwing from 3701m, just under the schrund near the summit. Mal landed at the foot of Zurbriggen Ridge after a proximity flight of 2m18s. In January 2013, Ben Letham and George Millet speedflew 14-metre wings from the false summit.

On 13 November 2013 Ben and George speedflew from the summit of Mt Tasman.

On 30 August, Steve Eastwood and Tai Naka skied the Balfour side of Silberhorn.

This was the first descent of the peak.

During the spring of 2013 Aoraki was in excellent condition. In late October the east face was skied by Nick Begg, Andreas Fransson, Magnus Kastengren and Tyrone Low. A few days later Ruari Macfarlane boarded the same line, this was the second snowboard descent of the peak. Andreas and Magnus also skied the Bowie Couloir on Aoraki.

There has also been plenty of activity in other areas. In November 2013 Shane Orchard and Tess Carney climbed and boarded the east face of D’Archiac via the Motorway Couloir route.

Ruari Macfarlane and Shane Orchard climbed a new line on the south-west face of Mt Fraser from the Huxley River North Branch and boarded the face as well. Shane also boarded Mt Strauchon a few days later.

On a separate trip Shane returned to the Huxley South Branch to climb and board the south-east face of Soloist Peak and the west face of Temple Peak.

Steve Eastwood nearing the summit of Silberhorn, shortly before making the possible first ski descent of the peak. Mt Tasman is behind. Tai Naka

Further south, Mark Sedon has been on a mission to ski the 18 highest mountains in the Queenstown Lakes District. As part of that project, with Kane Henderson and Elliot James, Mark skied the Centaur Peaks, and then adding Steve Moffatt to the team, all four skied Headlong Peak. Both descents were made in November 2012. Mark also skied Mt Maori in November with Dean Staples and Elliot James.

On 30 October 2012 (two days outside this report’s date range, but we decided to sneak this one in) Erik Bradshaw climbed and skied the North West Ridge of Mt Aspiring in 14 hours return from Raspberry Flat!

Erik also completed a solo ski traverse in Arthur’s Pass, from the Otira Valley to Bealey Spur over three days in September 2013, he skied almost the entire way. During the same patch of great weather the Splitfest Split Boarding Festival enjoyed great conditions for the third year running at Temple Basin.

Elsewhere in the Canterbury mountains Tess Carney and Shane Orchard ventured to Mt Williams on the Rolleston Range and made a snowboard descent of the south face. Tess and Shane also visited the Avoca

Valley to climb and board the east face of Mt Greenlaw and west faces of Mt Gizeh and Peak 2104. On a separate trip they boarded the east face of Mt Damfool from the AntiCrow. Sam Grummit (skier), Shane Orchard and Nick Sutcliffe (snowboarders) descended the south couloir of Falling Mountain, and Nick and Shane also boarded Mt Bowers.

In September 2013 Nick Clark and Shane Orchard made snowboard descents of the south and east faces of Mts Wilson and Scott, and the south face of Peak 1937m from Sudden Valley in the Polar Range.

In October 2013 the same pair completed a traverse of the Seaward Kaikoura Range from Te Ao Whekere to Manakau, boarding the south or east faces of the major peaks as they went. In November 2013 Shane and Nick visited the Marks Flat area and boarded Mts Hooker, Jack, and Gow. and Shane also boarded Mt McCullaugh.

In November 2013, Ruari Macfarlane and Shane Orchard made a snowboard descent of Mt Pembroke via the Lippe Couloir and East Ridge after sea kayaking across from Milford. Ruari also made a descent of the south face of Triangle in October.

A R E A R E P O R T S 153

SOUTH ISLAND ROCK This report covers rock climbing developments in the South Island from November 2012 to November 2013

by TROY MATTINGLEY

W

elcome to the 2013 rock report for Te Waipounamu. I will not attempt to unearth every climb that has been completed over the past year. Instead I wish to enlighten you about the gems that were carved out either by mythology or by hammer and drill in each province, this will hopefully inspire you to go and seek these treasures out. Up-to-date route information is available on climbnz. org.nz, thanks all all those people out there doing their part. If I have not mentioned your three-star new route, can you please share it on Facebook for all to see.

Southland There is plenty of potential for some sic bloc action on the south coast if you find yourself in Invercargill for any length of time.

Borland Valley With sporty roadside crags and multi-pitch adventures two hours from the road, this obscure little place is still waiting for the attention it truly deserves. One project 154 A R E A R E P O R T S

was finally ticked; Schizoid (26), by Troy Mattingley, is a three-dimensional crack climb, and if your are in the area this one is worth hunting out.

Cleddau Crags The usual carry-on was happening in the valley. Derek Thatcher weaved his way up Little Babylon via some new holds to climb Tigerblood (33)! Owen Davies added Ulysses (24), near the waterfall.

Babylonia—the crag formerly known as Slip Crag—received some attention from Thomas Adamson, David Hood and Troy Mattingley. They found Divinorum (23), ProHomie (23), Your Anus (21) and Tinitus (25).

At the Chasm some retro-fitting by Paul Rogers on his climbs is helping to keep this place a destination for climbers from all over.

Wanaka It’s hard to know what really goes on in and around the schist country, but I have

heard there have been some new crags being chiselled out of the strata. DOC recently purchased a bunch of land which has opened up the area to the west of Hospital Flat. The Far Horizons crag is one such place. No more details are available but an updated guidebook is in the pipeline, so watch this space!

Queenstown With the recent release of the Queenstown Rock, Ice and Mountains guidebook, a whole heap of activity was prompted, which has ensured peoples’ projects have now been etched into history. A lot of effort was focused on alpine rock up on the cones.

Mike Dunn and Martin Hawes climbed The Michael Baker Memorial Route (10) on the east face of Double Cone. Martin, this time with Derek Chinn, also added One More Route Before She Gets Home (14) and My Kingdom for a Horse (13), on the same face. John Burrow, Guillaume Charton and Estelle Poiron ascended the 100-metre Alta

Vista (17). Guillaume then teamed up with Trent Potts and headed over to the Wall of Evening Light to climb B12 (19) and a curving crack, which they named Once a Steep (23). Steve Carr and Simon Kennedy had already been and gone, leaving Dying Light (19) in their wake.

Daniel Joll and Reg Measures scuttled up Scenic Flight (24), Flight Attendant (16) and Jet Lag (17), to the right of the Lake Alta Slabs. Thomas Van Den Berg and Michal Karnik climbed the old Ian Binne project nearby to give us Terminator (27).

The South Wye is proving to keep offering quaility climbing for those keen enough to walk past the lower cliffs at Wye Creek.

Karl Schimanski added Right Ventricle (24).

He was then joined by Keith Brown and Claudia Kranabitter to carve out Coronary Corner (18) and Left Ventricle (27). To see whether they made it into the guidebook be sure to purchase your copy.

Dunedin Mapoutahi was the place to be in Dunedin this last season thanks to the rejuvenation of a number of climbs and some new climbs as well that were added to this sea cliff thanks to the ongoing enthusasium for the area from Steve Carr and Calum Hudson. New routes include: Golden Shower (17), Hell Hath No Fury, and Winona's Big Brown Beaver (19).

Bullock Creek Love it or hate it, Bullock Creek fills a gap on the West Coast either for a destination or when the waves are way too big a Charleston. It offers adventurous sport climbing in a lush location.

James Lochhead and Troy Mattingley dusted a few things off at the Hanging Gargens, producing Seemingly Psychedelic (24), Knee Deep (20) and revitalising Robin Hood’s Dogs in Space (18), a route that was orginally climbed in the 80s.

Lindsay Main is continuing to show his affection for the area by opening up a new wall to the left of the Arboretum, called The Arena. Three climbs have been established on this epic looking wall.

Francis Main has also been bitten by the bug, adding Unfinished Business (25) to the

a b o v e Zac Orme climbing at Bullock Creek. Troy Mattingley f a c i n g p a g e Troy Mattingley on a sic south coast bloc, Southland. Troy Mattingley

right side of the Arboretum.

Charleston I have sworn an oath not to mention the location just yet, but I am allowed to say that further south down the coastline from Charleston lie a number of excellent crags.

They are worth the journey if you are hungry for adventure. Among other things Zac Orme and Thomas Adamson stumbled

upon the mysterious Selkie (22), a threestar, naturally protected arching roof crack best done in two pitches IYF (if you find-it).

At Prow Cove Tony Burnell added Over the Schrund (21).

13 Mile Owen Davies has been busy bouldering at this spot just north of Greymouth. Between surfs, he has climbed Big Wednesday (V6) A R E A R E P O R T S 155

and Tidal Rave (V7). There are also some good low-grade circuits and high-balls here that are worth the ten-minute trot from the road.

a b o v e Martin Hawes on the first ascent of My Kingdom for a Horse (13), east face of Double Cone, Remarkables.

Derek Chinn

r i g h t Troy Mattingley on Schizoid (26), Borland Valley, Southland.

Kester Brown

facing page Jane Morris climbing The Orange Men (21), Orange Wall, Sebastopol Bluffs, Mt Cook. Kester Brown

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Port Hills Remediation continues up on the Post Earthquake Hills (sic) with a number of cliffs opening up thanks to NZAC members. The crags are also being filled in with routes. Transmitter Crag has 12 new routes thanks to Tony Burnell, Owen Davies, and James Lochhead. Clayton Garbes and his gang have done some excellent work at Transmitter, cleaning up some climbs and establishing a great area for budding lead climbers to do their thing. Holla! Tony Burnell added five new climbs at Lyttelton Rock, three at Britten Crag and two at the Jane Fonda Workout Wall.

Now I'm not sure if this is classed as rock or mountain but there has been some dry-tooling action happening at a chossy cave across from Albert Terrace Crag. Steve Fortune hooked his way up St Peter’s Cross (M8) which spurred Jamie Vinton-Boot to add a direct start at M10.

Banks Peninsula The peninsula has been a valuable asset to Cantabrians over the last few years, letting them escape the flattened city and climb on some solid ground(!?). Let’s hope it continues to get traffic to help fight back the endless battle with overgrowth. Leading the charge this season with new-route development was the ever present Lindsay Main. At Otepatotu he climbed a fist crack with Allan Hill called The Beast (22). Hugh Logan ascended The Spine (18), Troy Mattingley climbed Kava, Mr Lava? (23) and Marty Schmidt left us Sequoia’s Arête (22).

At Devils Gap Lindsay was at it again with Satan’s Little Helper (19), Shelter from the Storm (18) and the 40-metre Book Ends (18).

Over the hill is the Pareki Valley Crag, which has some multi-pitch adventures for those that way inclined, Lindsay enlisted the help of Felix Collins to add the three- pitch Crown of Thorns (21).

Two climbs have been added to the cave sector of the Altar at Church Bay.

James Gunn sent Kneel to the Pope (31), an old Troy Mattingley project. And Derek Thatcher added The Supreme Pontiff (30).

Mt Cook Lots of effort and some serious stainless steel has gone into rebolting opening up some quality new lines over the past wee while at the Sebastopol Bluffs. The Seige of Sebastopol (17) is by Murray Judge, as is an extension to Nicked (18). Jane Morris danced her way up Olympic Feet (23). And there are many more fine new climbs on offer.

Castle Hill I find it hard to keep up with activity going on out there every year—things keep get-

ting bigger, broader and bolder! Check out castlehillbasin.net.nz for info.

The Fyfe River Gorge This is the place that is on the tip of everyone’s tongues at the moment and for good reason. This is a tight river gorge that is dripping with steep marbley cliffs and is a sport climber’s haven.

James Morris has done a stirling job by producing a detailed guide for the area and liasing with NZAC in creating a partnership with DOC to help manage this resource to ensure it remains open as a recreational area. Nelsonites Jochen Lenfert, Al Mark and Michael Cartwright

have been a driving force coming up with some fantastic lines on the Intergalactic Wall as well as creating some multi-pitch goodness only 30 minutes from the car at the Knot Factory.

Log on to alpineclub.org.nz to download a copy of James’ guide.

Takaka When the river was too full to go into the Fyfe, Al Mark was busy cleaning up some old climbs and establishing Build a Bridge (24) near Mea Culpa. Michael Cartwright has also been busy developing a nice little crag down by the water somewhere in Nelson.

A R E A R E P O R T S 157

I

t was a year of two halves in the North Island in 2013—the old guys bolting routes and the young guys crushing them. It seems the changing of the guard has occurred with Wiz Fineron’s first ascent of the North Island’s most difficult route, Immortal Technique (32).

A climber’s day always starts with the crux: getting out of bed. –Bob Keegan One of the key drivers of development in 2013 has been the ‘old’ guys wanting to immortalise themselves in the forthcoming Rock Deluxe North guidebook.

NORTH ISLAND ROCK This report covers rock climbing developments in the North Island from November 2012 to November 2013

by KRISTEN FOLEY and KESTER BROWN

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Whanganui Bay One method of getting loved ones to look more fondly on your climbing is to tell them that since you’ve started climbing you hardly do drugs anymore. –Steve Conn If you haven’t been to Whanganui Bay in recent times, now’s the time to go. A massive amount of work—by Wellington climbers John Palmer, Tom Hoyle and Kristen Foley—has gone into developing new routes, re-bolting and retro bolting old routes (always with the first ascentionist’s permission of course). The sector that has received most of the new routes is Mangakara (the Gorge). This sector is spectacular and is accessed by abseiling in. Some of the more notable first ascents include John’s Re-Ignition (23), Propaganda (26) and The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret (29), and Tom Hoyle’s classic additions The Man on the Clapham Ominibus (25), and The Re-Up (21).

The Plateau has also received a spruce up with the re-bolting of Sex and Violence (27), There Goes the Neighbourhood (18), The Last Words of Hassan Sabbah (23), Graemeless (25) and Radio Gutsaland (24).

A few additions have been added, including Revolver (23) by Kristen, and Nameless (26) and Rough Trade (23) by John.

White Falls There were no holds, so I had to use skill.

–Wiz Fineron White Falls received a lot of attention this year. The young guns Adam Steens, Wiz Fineron, Jamie Baron, Josiah JacobsenGrocott and Craig Houston converged

en-mass. The most notable send was Wiz Fineron’s first ascent of Immortal Technique (32).

John Palmer kindly gave James FieldMitchell the first shot at a Crag Vultures variant, which resulted in James sending Them Crooked Vultures (29).

Not at all at White Falls, but on the other side of the same mountain at the Wall of Sound, John Palmer completed How Soon is Now (24).

Kawakawa Bay Sport climbing is neither. –Dan Head Dan Head and friends have established approximately 40 new pitches at Kawakawa Bay this year. The new routes are mostly in the grade 12–23 range. A standout is the five pitch Land of the Long White Sun (20), which is a trad route that was established ground-up. The Little Big Wall was explored and the 50-metre Welcome to Kawakawa (20) was opened on the righthand side.

A free downloadable update to the Kawakawa Bay guidebook is available from alpineclub.org.nz.

Kinloch How do you distinguish between being off-route and putting up a first ascent?

–Dan Pringle Vincent Zintzen, Shane Harrison, Marcus Manning and others from the NZAC Wellington Section added four routes to the left-hand end of the main cliff at Kinloch: Les Femmes et les Grimpeurs d’Abord (19), Wait Until Tomorrow (17), The Elephant Goes Toot (17) and Billy Bob (18).

Bayleys Road I climb as hard as anyone on earth, I just do it on easier routes. –Bryce Martin Bryce Martin has added ten new, generously bolted, grade 14–17 routes at the Bayleys Road area, thanks in part to generous donations from AUT and AURAC. The best of these is Flower Girl (14), which is 15-metres long with seven bolts.

Waipapa The best training was to go to the pub, drink five quarts of champagne, and talk about climbing. –Regan McCaffery.

a b o v e Cliff Ellery climbing pitch three of Quiet Earth (19), Castle Rock , Coromandel. Jess Dobson f a c i n g p a g e John Palmer climbing the freshly cleaned and re-bolted Sex and Violence (27), Whanganui Bay. James Morris

James Field-Mitchell has been busy at Waipapa, with first ascents of Hard Trad Specialist (28), Rainman (29) The Nothing (30) and Fire in the Sky (30). The latter is reportedly very good.

Bryce Martin added a new trad route, Thirsty Boots (14) and a new sport route,

Breaking Point (22).

Froggatt Edge If you want to climb it badly enough, you will.

So … why bother? –Jono Clarke Jana Wold put up a new trad route in November, The Good, the Bad and the Calcite (24) is climbed via strenuous A R E A R E P O R T S 159

John Palmer attempting the Pillory project in Nobby’s Cave, aka The Cave of Unspeakable Choss, Pukerua Bay, Wellington. Tom Hoyle

and sustained laybacking and protected with offsets.

Buck Rock Climbing may be hard, but it’s easier than growing up. –Esther Packard-Hill Another good multi-pitch venue, Buck Rock has seen some development in the last couple of years. Cliff Ellery and Brian Mercer have added to their collection of existing routes with The Power of Persuasion (23), Bucking Fumblies (20) and Windswept (22). Rich Morgan also paid a visit and left the locals with Under Pressure (25). Cliff also teamed up with Bryce and Wendy Martin, and Jamie to establish Age Concern, a grade 16 with a grade 18 extension.

Castle Rock Because it’s there. –Cliff Ellery Cliff Ellery and Jess Dobson have continued development at Castle Rock in 160 A R E A R E P O R T S

the Coromandel. Some great multi-pitch climbing exists here. Standout recent routes are the 125-metre, three star grade 22 route Quiet Earth, and the 120-metre, four-pitch The Naughty Climb.

Palmer added three new route in Nobby’s Cave (aka The Cave of Unspeakable Choss): Defrag (27), Suspending Disbelief (28) and Nobby’s Rave (24). At Ship Rock John added Trainspotter (24).

AGS Rockwall If you don’t let go, you can’t fall off. –James Field-Mitchell James Field-Mitchell has climbed a continuation of the boulder problem U C Lightning I See Crack. U C Boulder I C Climb (29) goes to the top of the crag on natural pro.

Further new routes have been completed at Pakeho, Sheridan Hills, Mangorewa, Mangawhitikau, Mangaokewa and Schnackenburg. And new boulder problems have been added all over the place, including at Abbey Cave in Northland and Turakirae Head in Wellington.

Finally, we have one more quote to leave you with: We do not live to eat and make money, we eat and make money to be able to enjoy life.

–Kristen Foley

Wellington What an odd sport we inhabit, where bits of obscure rock in remote locations are recognisable. –John Palmer The Wellington locals have continued to prove their ability in fashioning climbing routes on rock no-one had previously considered fit for purpose. At Pukerua Bay, John

Please note: the famous climbing quotes in this report have been totally incorrectly attributed to deserving North Island climbers.

Obituaries Wallace George Lowe 1924–2013 Una Scott Holloway 1919–2013 William Morrie Taylor 1925–2013 Gerard (Gerry) Hall-Jones 1929–2013 Martin (Marty) Walter Schmidt 1960–2013 Jamie Vinton-Boot 1983–2013

Mt Franklin from the Sabine River East Branch, Nelson Lakes National Park. Jordan Morrison A R E A R E P O R T S 161

In the annals of human endeavour, there can have been few encounters more cheerfully down-to-earth than the moment that the New Zealander George Lowe, who has died aged 89, greeted his friend Edmund Hillary returning from the summit of Everest. ‘Well, George,’ Hillary said. ‘We knocked the bastard off.’

‘Thought you must have,’ Lowe replied and then offered Hillary, who disliked tea, a cup of soup from a flask. It was 29 May 1953.

The day before, Lowe had led an advance guard, cutting steps relentlessly with his ice axe above the South Col, preparing the route for Hillary and Tenzing Norgay. At 8340m, Lowe's team picked up a cache of gear left behind

by John Hunt and the Sherpa Da Namgyal.

Lowe phlegmatically added another oxygen bottle, weighing 20 pounds, to his load and kept swinging his axe, thereby helping Hillary and Tenzing establish their top camp at just under 29,000ft—the springboard for success.

Hardly surprising, then, that Hunt, the leader of the expedition, was fulsome in his praise of Lowe's contribution. Hunt had been reluctant to bring Lowe along at first, but Hillary insisted, and his role proved crucial. Not only did Lowe support the summit pair, he fought hard to push the route up the Lhotse Face towards the hostile South Col as others dropped out with health problems.

George Lowe's support proved crucial in enabling Hillary and Tenzing to establish camp, ready for the assault. That Hunt should, partly for diplomacy's sake, have chosen to match Hillary with Tenzing rather than his old climbing partner never rankled with Lowe.

‘I'm absolutely delighted I didn't have the life that Ed's had,’ he said later. ‘Ed was the right one. I would have been a bugger.’ Cussed and straight-talking possibly, but Lowe was also an immensely likable man, good-humoured and the best of company—and a tireless worker for the benefit of others. Jan Morris, the Times reporter and last survivor of the group on Everest, called him ‘a gentleman in the old sense—very kind, very forceful, thoughtful and also a true adventurer, an unusual combination’.

Lowe, the seventh of eight children, was born in Hastings to Archibald and Christina, who had emigrated from Scotland. His father was a fruit grower and, like Hillary's family, kept bees. As a child Lowe broke his arm. It was badly set, later had to be re-broken and was severely weakened. This could have hampered

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his prowess as an ice climber, but Lowe was a determined and curious man, whose practical common sense found ways around most problems.

As a schoolboy in Hastings, Lowe developed an interest in photography, and would play truant to visit the studio of the aviator Piet van Asch. Asch was taking landscape pictures for the New Zealand military to produce maps, and took Lowe up in his Monospar ST-25. Lowe's photographic ability stood him in good stead on Everest, where he took outstanding images high on the mountain. His skill would later earn him an invitation from Vivian ‘Bunny’ Fuchs to be official photographer on the transAntarctic expedition of 1957–58, which made the first overland crossing via the South Pole.

After teacher training college in Wellington, Lowe was in sole charge of a rural primary school, for children aged between four and 14.

In the summers he trained as a mountain guide, and it was in the Southern Alps of the South Island that he first met Hillary. On the Tasman Glacier one day, he broached the subject with Hillary of going to the Himalayas. Grand plans of reaching Everest proved overambitious, but their expedition managed instead a perfectly respectable first ascent of Mukut Parbat (7242m), in India's Garhwal region. At the end of the expedition, the team were surprised, on reaching their hotel in Ranikhet, to be handed a letter from the English mountain explorer Eric Shipton asking for two of them to join his Everest reconnaissance that was about to leave Kathmandu, on the basis that they had sufficient funds and could manage a visa. Lowe, having spent all his savings, could only fume on the roadside as he watched Hillary leave on a bus without him.

Their friendship easily survived such vicissitudes, and Lowe was Hillary's best man at his first wedding, joining the happy couple on their honeymoon. ‘He and Hillary climbed together through life, really,’ was how Morris put it.

The following year, in 1952, Shipton took them both to the world's sixth-highest peak, Cho Oyu, to test equipment and train for their attempt on Everest.

After Everest and before Antarctica, there was an expedition to Makalu in Nepal, where Hillary fell ill, and then in 1959 Lowe was appointed geography teacher at Repton school in Derbyshire. During his four years there he joined a medical research expedition in the Everest region, hunted the yeti, and joined

Alan Knowles

Wallace George Lowe 1924–2013

several of Hunt's expeditions for the National Association of Youth Clubs and the Duke of Edinburgh's award, to Greenland and Ethiopia.

In 1963, he took on his most challenging and rewarding post, at the Grange school in Santiago, Chile. Two years later he was appointed rector. He had married Hunt's daughter Susan in 1962, and their three sons, Gavin, Bruce and Matthew, were born in Chile. But when Salvador Allende was driven from power and murdered in 1973, Lowe and his family reluctantly returned home. Lowe took up the offer of a job with Her Majesty's Inspectors of Schools, where he remained for the rest of his career.

His first marriage was dissolved. With his second wife, Mary, and living back in Derbyshire, Lowe launched the UK branch of Hillary's Himalayan Trust, tirelessly raising money for schools, hospitals and environmental projects for the Sherpa homeland of Khumbu.

–Ed Douglas (Re-published with permission by The Guardian)

Goodbye, George NZAC Life Member Ed Cotter writes about George Lowe—the man he climbed with back in the late 1940s, but to whom he grew much closer a long time after their shared times in the mountains.

I grew up with the mountains, through the influence of my father. I was gaining a lot of experience in the Southern Alps when I was still a teenager, in the late 1940s, when two older climbers from the North Island started coming south to test their skills. They were Ed Hillary and George Lowe.

My first climb with George was a memorable Godley–Whataroa crossing in December and January 1947–1948, led by Stan Conway.

(Another member of the party was John Sampson, who passed away this November, aged 93.) Wet through, frozen and halfstarved, we made it out to the Whataroa Hotel on 15 January, after waiting two nights for the river to be safe enough to cross. That morning George told us we had a prune each to eat on the way out—we should have the prune flesh for breakfast, suck the kernel for lunch, then break open the kernel and eat the seed for afternoon tea. When we finally got to Whataroa we absolutely overdid the sweets: George and I both rushed out of the shop to throw up. I said to George: ‘What a way to end your birthday!’ and he replied, ‘How did you know it was my birthday?’ and I said ‘No, it’s mine!’ and he said ‘It’s mine too!’

In December 1949, (George of course was a schoolteacher in Hastings, and could only come south in the holidays) my classmate at CBHS, Brian Brake, was organising a National Film Unit film of a climbing expedition to Mt Aspiring. George and I were part of the team which made the ascent via the South West Ridge rising from the Bonar Glacier.

In 1950, I got to know George much better when we joined Ed Hillary, Bill Beaven and Earle Riddiford in climbing Elie de Beaumont via the Maximilian Ridge, part of our training for the First New Zealand Himalayan Expedition organised by Riddiford for the 1951 season.

That was probably the trip when Ed and George first bonded as a climbing pair, always keen to take the lead.

During our time in the Garhwal Himalaya, George and Ed consolidated as a team. They were not as successful as they would have wished. They were twice defeated by Mukut

Parbat, the target summit climbed by Riddiford, Sherpa Pasang Dawa Lama and me. But as a result of the team’s overall success, NZAC approached Eric Shipton asking him to include two New Zealanders in his reconnoitre of Everest, and the rest is history. Initially, George was not on that expedition, a source of huge disappointment to him, but he survived all that to play a key role in the ultimate ascent in 1953, and to win acclaim not only as a mountaineer but as a professional filmmaker and author.

For decades we were in intermittent contact, often when he and his wife Mary came to New Zealand to spend some time at their house in Diamond Harbour. In 2004, when I was invited to crew on a boat in the Adriatic hired by Mike and Jean Nelson, George and Mary offered to take me from the UK to Split in their campervan. (The Nelsons were New Zealanders based in Santiago, Chile, where George had been headmaster of the Grange school.) So, in 2005, the Lowes picked me up at Heathrow, drove through the Channel Tunnel, toured about and got me to Split with three days to spare. We camped on the outskirts of Dubrovnik, and then we all met up with the Nelsons. In 2006, I spent three weeks camping in France with George and Mary, and in 2007 they took me to Scotland, starting from the home of Mike Westmacott (Everest 1953) in the Lake District. Then in 2008 they showed me Southern Ireland. In 2009 I visited them again and tagged along with Mary to Estonia, in 2010 Mary generously took me by Eurostar to the Cevennes to visit Mike and Linda Gill (NZHT). In 2011 we shared another flying trip to Hungary.

Mary believes my visits to see George were very important to him, especially when he was in the nursing home in his final years. She

t o p Ed Cotter and George and Mary Lowe eyeing up the Eiger, 2005. a b o v e George and Ed in the French Ridge bivouac on the Mt Aspiring trip, 1949.

says that apart from her, I was the last person George recognised. I will always remember the way his hand closed over mine on my last visit, and be grateful I was able to be there with him—someone who had shared the days when we were young and full of glorious ambition, as well as our great love for the mountains of New Zealand.

–Ed Cotter

O B I T U A R I E S 163

Una Scott Holloway 1919–2013 Una Scott Holloway (née Stevenson), wife of Jack Holloway, (renowned early Otago mountaineer and explorer of the Olivine Country), passed away this year at the age of 94.

Growing up in Dunedin, Una often spent her Sundays roaming the Rock and Pillar Range with her family, hurriedly changing out of her oh-so-risqué shorts before taking tea with strict grandparents. Later she met her husband-to-be on botanizing trips around the Dunedin hills with Jack’s father, Rev J E Holloway, who was then the Head of Department of Botany at Otago University.

Una would tag along with her elder sisters Greta Stevenson (who was later to become an expert on ferns and lichens) and Nancy Stevenson (who was to become a stalwart of the Tararua Tramping Club).

Thus began Una’s long-time twin loves of ‘getting out into the hills’ and of botanizing.

Hers was not the climbing career of daring face ascents or international expeditions, but

in-between raising seven children at Rangiora in North Canterbury, and with Jack totally immersed in forestry research, she managed to join club trips to reach the tops, and regularly take us children and friends on tramps, instilling in us the time honoured wisdoms of survival in the mountains.

Along with the practical lessons of clothing ourselves appropriately, of fire-lighting, scroggin rationing and hut cleaning, we were patiently tutored in the Latin required for plant identification and regularly tested for our ability to recall genus and species. What a rich learning she offered!

Una was still going on club trips well into her 70s, and even into her 90s. She would relish the opportunity to be taken as high as possible by either 4WD or helicopter, relishing nights in smoky old historic huts and reminiscing.

Her prize mature native garden, just out of Takaka, where she lived her final years, was

track-marked with old orange discs made of painted tin-lids (as they were), and there she would spend her final days, gazing up through Totara to her beloved Piki Karuna Range in Abel Tasman National Park.

–Mary Holloway September 2013

William Morrie Taylor 1925–2013 Bill Taylor was the embodiment of the stern, principled, old-fashioned authoritarian. He was a man of his word, the type of person who expected people to behave in a proper manner and to adhere to and achieve his own high standards in every way. This description might appear to cast him in an unfavourable light, as being a martinet and not much fun as a companion. But that would be an unfair judgement, as he undoubtedly possessed a wry and self-deprecating sense of humour, and was in fact good company and a strong, reliable companion; valuable traits in a mountaineer.

Bill was born in Wellington. The family moved to Timaru, where he attended Timaru Boys’ High. Later, he attended Canterbury University, studying chemistry. He followed his father's career in the production of coal gas and worked in that industry in Timaru, Waimate, and later managed the operation for 24 years in lnvercargill.

His interest in the mountains was sparked when living in Timaru, and augmented when he married Margaret, a school teacher, with whom he had two children, John and Ann. Margaret was an avid mountaineer and the family interest in the outdoors was continued.

Tragically, Margaret died in a motorcycle

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accident in 1972. Bill later married Janet, also a teacher, who also was an outdoors enthusiast.

By modern standards Bill‘s climbing career was not prolific, but was probably normal for that era, and his interest continued over 70 years. Climbs recorded in the NZAJ were: Sealy, High Thumb, Hutton, Blackburn, Haidinger, Aiguilles Rouge, Hamilton, Malte Brun, Cook (High and Low Peaks), Aspiring, Apirana (solo), Elie de Beaumont, Earnslaw, Madeline, Talbot, Aurum, Walter Peak and Tapuae-o-Uenuku.

The club benefitted from Bill's enthusiasm on section activities, on committees and at work parties at Unwin, and in particular his powerful section chairmanship during part of the construction of Homer Hut in the 1960s. A phone call from Bill left one in no doubt that one would be failing in one‘s duty by failing to attend one of the (many) work parties!

Bill was an accomplished handy-man and saw to the maintenance of St Aiden‘s Church in Invercargill and, upon retirement, St Peter‘s Church in Queenstown. It is said that those churches and his own homes never required the services of plumbers, electricians, painters or other trades-people, as Bill took care of all maintenance work. He and Margaret con-

structed their own house at Kelvin Heights.

Bill transformed a steep, difficult section from a wilderness into a delightful garden of flowering trees and, in particular, rhododendron.

As well as the activities listed above, there were many mountain-based family tramping and ski trips, and Bill’s other interests were squash, (he was a life member of the Invercargill Squash Club), swimming (daily in Lake Hayes) and yachting. The last 15 years or so were frustrating for Bill as his health failed.

He didn't handle imperfection well.

Our sympathies are extended to Bill's family and friends. He was a beacon in a world where old fashioned virtues appear to be of diminishing relevance.

–Ralph Miller

Gerard (Gerry) Hall-Jones 1929–2013 Larger than life and never one to miss a wry witicism, Gerry and his genial smile are missed by his friends and family. A grandson of the explorer Surveyor John Turnbull Thomson, it is not surprising that Gerry had an adventurous streak. As a student at Canterbury College (now University of Canterbury) studying law in the late 1940s he discovered mountaineering and he left an indelible impression on other, earthbound students by traversing the old university buildings and—although never reliably confirmed—as an active member of the Idol Climbers Club, members of which scaled public monuments and statues.

After returning from Europe in 1952, where he had made some notable ascents including the Hörnli Ridge of the Matterhorn, and Mont Blanc, Gerry practised law in the family firm of Hall-Jones and Sons in his hometown, Invercargill, and focused on climbing in the Darran Mountains. It says a lot about his sense of fun that after one first ascent of a Darrans virgin with his friend Murray Imlay he somehow managed to persuade the NZ Geographic Board to gazette it as Mihj Peak after their initials.

Inspired by the view from the Homer Hut toilet, Gerry advanced New Zealand mountain climbing from ridge climbs to face climbs with the first ascent of the Barrier Face of Barrier Peak in 1956. For the occasion he eschewed mountain boots for ‘gym shoes’ and carried pitons. This climb broke an important psychological barrier for New Zeland climbers and helped usher in the age of technical climbing.

Gerry always considered his finest climb to be the first ascent of the South East Ridge of Mt Tutoko in 1956. It is indeed a classic route, as anyone who has climbed it will testify.

Gerry was sufficiently proud of this climb that a photograph he took of it from Leader Creek graced the cover of his 1986 edition of Moir’s Guide Southern Section, notwithstanding a serious blemish.

As a mountain climber rather than a tramper, to some it seemed unlikely that Gerry edited Moir’s Guide, a guidebook for trampers rather than mountaineers. As it turned out, the wilderness of Fiordland, which Gerry got to know well through his long-time membership of the Fiordland National Park Board, was the least of his problems when he prepared his first edition. Dealing carefully and sometimes forthrightly with Dr George Moir and the NZAC Publiciations Committee of the time, his 1959 guidebook came close to becoming Hall-Jones’

Guidebook. In the end Gerry held the copyright of the guidebook and, while entitled to the book’s royalties, he never claimed them and they accrued in the club’s publication fund until it was exhausted in the early 1990s to help fund the Centenial Hut construction. Gerry published two further editions, with the last edition reprinted in 1986. As late as 1993 Gerry was still receiving letters addressed to the long deceased George Moir with route descriptions for his guidebook, which always left Gerry bemused.

Gerry’s passion for Fiordland was expressed also in fishing and writing. He wrote Fiordland, South Island in 1967, edited Handbook to the Fiordland National Park in 1965 and 1973, and wrote and self-published Mountaineering from the Milford Road in 2008, a compedium of climbs in the Darrans. He was keen to urge others on and always included a photo of Castle Mount in Moir’s Guide in the vain hope of spurring someone younger and fitter to climb the south face. He wrote a number of articles for the NZAJ, including a definitive survey of the routes on Mt Christina, on which he had made the first traverse in 1955 with Bill Gordon and Ralph Miller.

Gerry’s contribution to the Southland Section has been described as a very supportive second on the rope as he ably assisted Lindsay

Stewart and Lloyd Warburton as vice-chairman through much of the 1950s, especially in the construction of the Moraine Creek Hut. His presence at section meetings was always enjoyed and on occasions he could be persuaded to give authorative illustrated talks that held the interest of everyone in the audience. Gerry was made a life member of NZAC in 2003.

Our condolences go to Gerry’s widow Joan, his sons Peter, David and Stephen and their families, and his brother John.

–Robin McNeill

Mounts Moffat and Livingstone, Cassino and Alamein Peaks and the Grey Glacier from Godley Hut, Aoraki Mt Cook National Park. Watercolour painting by Pat Prendergast. Pat kindly donated this painting to NZAC, proceeds of the sale will go to the Club Development Fund.

O B I T U A R I E S 165

The thing about Marty was that he was 100 per cent passionate about guiding. He often said it was his calling. Each client he engaged with became like a personal quest for him; an opportunity to be able to share his passion for the spiritual nature of the mountains and to help his client grow in their own way, and in their own time. If they had their heart set on a summit, then that was great, and if at all humanly possible, he would get them there. He pretty much always did. But if their personal best meant they made it half-way up the mountain, then that was absolutely fine by Marty too, as long as his client had attained that personal growth they were seeking. As far as Marty was concerned, either way, it was a job well done, for the client had achieved their goal.

Charlie says that Marty was never afraid to ‘get his hands dirty,’ meaning that it didn’t matter if it was raining or there were clear skies ahead when he set out, Marty would be in, boots and all, and with bucket-loads of enthusiasm.

Nor did it matter if he was guiding over Ball Pass or scaling Everest; it was all the same to Marty, because he was heading into the hills, to a place he loved, and from which he would return, enriched and replenished, and so would his clients.

Marty never hesitated to help others in need.

That was a common thread that was always present in his relatively short, but spectacular, life.

In his younger days Marty’s skills and expertise included being a member of the elite PJs (Pararescue Jumpers) attached to the US Air Force Special Operations Command. The PJs are tasked with recovery and medical treatment of personnel in humanitarian and combat environments. Marty was a rescue specialist of land, sea and mountains, so helping people out in desperate circumstances had been part of who he was for a long time.

In 2010, Marty attempted a new route on Makalu, but later, on the same expedition, after safely getting his ill client back down the mountain, he was involved in a multiple-rescue of three Ukranian climbers, one of whom was above 8200m. He individually guided each one safely back down to his camp, before completing his climb, solo.

In 2013, on his last expedition, he had summited Broad Peak and then diverted back on his way to K2 Base Camp to assist in the rescue of a group of Iranians caught in an avalanche high up on the mountain. Helping people, without thought to his own energy levels, or how that 166 O B I T U A R I E S

may impact on his next challenge, (which in this case happened to be K2), regardless of how important it was to him, was a very natural instinct to him.

Marty was a triathlete, marathon runner, and had studied zen practises for about 30-odd years. He was a good friend to talk to, because he wasn’t afraid to acknowledge the spiritual nature of the mountains, and people, and how that related to life.

Marty was most at home with small numbers of clients, preferably one. He liked to develop a relationship with each client, he wanted to really get to know them, and to help them grow through the challenging experience of climbing in ways that were beyond their imagination.

He wanted to extend them, for them to test themselves, and for them to draw on their inner strength, yet not in a way that would shatter them either. It had to be positively life-changing for the client.

Marty’s climbing was holistic. He preferred no medication at high altitude, no oxygen, and no Sherpas above base camp, although he was flexible, as required. He was very in tune with each client fortunate enough to have him as their guide.

Just a few of Marty’s great achievements between 1983 and 2013 include summiting Denali 29 times, Cho Oyu six times and Aconcagua 34 times via five different routes, including the South Face. He also summited Makalu, Kangchenjunga (via the southwest face), Gasherbrum I and II, Mt Foraker, Cotopaxi, Kilimanjaro, Mt Kenya, Elbrus, Mt Blanc, the Matterhorn and the Eiger.

Marty attempted a new route on the northeast face of Mt Everest in 1994 and climbed to 8100m with clients but turned back due to major rock-fall danger. One week later he went back up via the North Ridge. On that trip he gave away his summit bid to assist in a rescue high on the mountain.

In 2004 Marty made a guided ascent of Cho Oyu without supplementary oxygen, and then, two days later, achieved a 13-hour solo ascent, carrying skis. He skied down from the summit, which is fairly impressive, as skiing wasn’t his forté.

In 2008 he attempted the South East Ridge of Everest with no Sherpas, and without supplementary oxygen. In 2009 Marty was back on Cho Oyu and made a guided ascent of the mountain, again without oxygen.

In 2010 Marty made a solo climb of Makalu

Mary Hobbs

Martin (Marty) Walter Schmidt 1960–2013

without supplementary oxygen. He was the first Kiwi to achieve this.

Marty summited Mt Everest twice. He attempted K2 three times. The third attempt was his last climb.

In New Zealand he summited Aoraki Mt Cook 26 times, Mt Aspiring 16 times, and Mt Tasman seven times.

There is no doubt that Marty has a long list of outstanding achievements as a mountaineer and mountain guide, but what is probably not so well-known is that, in addition to those he physically rescued, just how many other people he helped along the way.

Many of us are lucky to remember him as a good friend. Marty lit up a room when he entered. He was effervescent, charming, lovable, enthusiastic, and our irrepressible Marty.

In 2013 Marty and his beloved son Denali made an attempt on K2. Their goal was to be the first father and son team to reach the summit. Marty called both Charlie and I from K2 Base Camp, just a few days before he went up to Camp 3. There he was on the phone, large as life, full of enthusiasm for the mountain, the climb, his son’s achievements, New Zealand, Aoraki, us, and well, in typical Marty fashion, everything, really.

We sent him love from our mountain here in New Zealand. We could hear him smiling. He loved that connection with Aoraki and Aotearoa—his New Zealand.

He seemed indestructible.

But after reaching Camp 3, an avalanche hit their camp, and, tragically, neither Marty or his son were heard from again.

We miss you walking through our door Marty. We miss you immensely.

Yet, somehow, that avalanche on K2 has not dimmed your life or you, for your presence remains with us always, and for that we are hugely grateful.

–Arohanui, Mary and Charlie Hobbs Aoraki Mount Cook

I’ve been wanting to write something memorable about Jamie, but my thoughts and emotions towards him are still far from stable enough to commit to words. It’s only today that I’m baking my first loaf of bread since he died.

In the meantime, I’d like to record here the gist of what I said at Jamie’s service: I was lucky enough to share time with Jamie, and to be influenced by his energy, attitude and friendship. Jamie had a profound impact on my life, not just with climbing but in many different aspects. And I’d only known him for four years. It amazes me how strong a connection I developed with him, and how much love I felt for him, in that short time.

I’ve never met another person who had the same focus towards getting as much out of every minute of life as Jamie had.

I first met Jamie at a talk I was giving at a NZAC section meeting in Christchurch. I have a strong recollection of his Superman arms and his intense questions. Afterwards he came up to me—shy, slightly awkward with that big smile—and introduced himself. I recognised his name, and knew he climbed about 500 grades higher than I did. So I was surprised when he asked to go climbing in the mountains with me.

The start of our climbing together involved a lot of surfing. Jamie was not quite as talented on a surfboard as he was climbing, and the irony that someone who did impossible feats on overhanging rock or ice could also flounder like a guppy in the shorebreak at Southshore was not lost on me.

Eventually we got our groove on in the mountains. This young punk who breezed up hills without sweating and who would reply to enquiries about whether we were on a track with, ‘I am the track!’ partnered with an old has-been who was always pointing out scenic locations to stop and rest. We got some pretty cool climbs done, nothing hard like what Jamie climbed with Jono Clarke or Daniel Joll or Steve Fortune, but more aesthetic lines in forgotten corners of our mountains, the kind of stuff that I get passionate about. And Jamie seemed to share that passion for exploration.

Tent-time gives you plenty of time to reflect and talk on various ideas, things like the direction of New Zealand alpinism, and how risk is perceived in wider society. For Jamie and me,

Mark Watson

Jamie Vinton-Boot 1983–2013

this talk eventually developed into the idea for the Backyard and Beyond project, which we later developed with Troy Mattingley and Shelley Hersey—the idea being to seek and share adventures in our own backyard. We were surprised at how well received the concept was, along with the documentary that we produced, and I think it was then that Jamie realised he could make a positive and lasting influence on other climbers.

There were times that we cursed the filmmaking aspect during our month-long journey across the Southern Alps. But now, I am so thankful that we have a strong visual reminder of such a great trip together.

My last alpine trip with Jamie was last winter in the North Temple Valley. It was very cold, and I managed to spill my entire water bottle over Jamie’s sleeping bag. In typical Jamie fashion, he laughed it off. I recall Jamie being so excited about his upcoming fatherhood. He had that glint in his eyes that I had seen so many times before, the same glint he would get climbing or surfing or making kickass pizza and bread for his family and friends.

Recently I lost another friend Marty Schmidt to the mountains. Jamie and I caught up for lunch just the other week when I was in Christchurch, and we talked about how Marty’s death made us feel. Shelley and I had been planning a trip to Nepal to climb, but wondered whether our hearts were still in it.

I remember Jamie saying that we ‘just had to go,’ that we ‘would regret it if we didn’t’.

‘Just be careful, Paul,’ he added, ‘you’re good at that.’

Jamie always liked to challenge me and my ideas or way of thinking. I can see him prodding me now to come up with something positive. ‘Come on Paul, what’s your intuition on this. Give us some insight.’

I don’t really have any insight, but maybe an observation: when we lose someone close like this, we realise what it was about them that we treasured so much. Yet in society we don’t tend to do it so much, or express it, when they’re alive. I never told Jamie how much I appreciated his company and friendship, how much I cared for his views and attitude to life.

I mean, we had some pretty snuggly bivvies together, but that’s not quite the same. But maybe it is. As Jamie so often illustrated to me, actions are always stronger than words.

Thanks Jamie. I’ll miss you mate. It’s been a hell of a climb.

–Paul Hersey With regret the New Zealand Alpine Club also acknowledges the passing of the following members: Geoffrey Dunckley (1923–2013) Ronald Lester Mundell (1923–2013) Baden Francis Blyth (1924–2013) Karen Heiskel (1945–2012) Peter Manning (1960–2013) Duncan Robert Rait (1976–2013) Hiroki Ogawa (1982–2013) Nicole Sutton (1984–2013) Denali Schmidt (1988–2013) Unfortunately no obituaries were sourced in time for these members.

O B I T U A R I E S 167

On 21 January 2013 a rock avalanche measuring several million cubic metres swept from the ridgeline between mounts Dixon and Haast, down onto and across the Grand Plateau, stopping just a couple of hundred metres from Plateau Hut, where a dozen or so climbers were in residence.

Mark Watson was at a high bivvy on the Bowie Ridge on the afternoon the avalanche occurred.

The next morning he took this shot of Jamie Vinton-Boot and Matt Quirke nearing the summit of Aoraki, with the massive ‘devil tongue’ of debris visible below.

Mark Watson

r e a r c o v e r Aoraki Mt Cook and the Hooker Valley from the Sealy Range. Mark Watson

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i n s i d e r e a r c o v e r Mt Ruapehu, from Ringatoto Peak.

Peter Laurenson

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