New Zealand Alpine Journal 2012

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ALPINE JOURNAL 2012

NEW ZEALAND ALPINE CLUB

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ALPINE JOURNAL 2012

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Left: Jamie Vinton-Boot makes the first winter ascent of ‘Stone Free’ (M5) Telecom Towers, Remarkables.

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NEW ZEALAND ALPINE JOURNAL 2012

CONTENTS President’s Page Stuart Gray 8

NEW ZEALAND ROCK AND ICE Type Two Fun Daniel Joll Some Winter Climbing Highlights Steve Fortune Giving it a Crack Richard Thomson Exits John McCallum Into Darkest Fiordland Danilo Hegg Sabre Rattling Jamie Barclay Lady of the Snows Stanley Mulvaney Sun and Sorcery Geoff Spearpoint Morse Code Rob Frost Ice Gangsters Jamie Vinton-Boot Unearthing a Little Gem in the Kaikouras Kieran Parsons Full Value on the North-East Face of Mount Hooker Jamie Vinton-Boot No Hangups For Me Ross Cullen The Off Season Cliff Ellery

12 18 24 28 30 34 37 40 44 48 52

92 98

Captain Scott’s Forgotten Man Shaun Barnett The First Ascent of Lady of the Snows, 1934 Sarah Lovel and Stanley Mulvaney Momentum for Change Erik Monasterio What a Life! Andy Lindblade Enter the Lizard Martin Wilson

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102 104 109

THE VERTICAL WORLD

120 122 126 132

AREA REPORTS 54 58 62

OVERSEAS CLIMBING Bouvet—the Most Remote Land on Earth Aaron Halstead Afghanistan—Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder Pat Deavoll An Exploratory Trip to the Central Andes Ben Dare The Seven Summits Chris Jensen Burke Snow Falling on Sirdars Brad Jackson The Walker Spur Daniel Joll Splitboard Guiding in Afghanistan Steve Parker

Four Canadian Classics Ryan Lobb Free Spree Karl Schimanski Rondane—Nordes Playground Ross Cullen and Pip Lynch Around Manaslu on One Toilet Roll John Entwisle The Highest Virgin Martin Curtis

66 70 74 76 80 86 89

Aoraki Mount Cook and Westland Jane Morris Queenstown Guillaume Charton Canterbury Tony Burnell North Island John Palmer Darran Mountains Tom Riley

138 140 143 146 148

OBITUARIES James Robert Bruce Menzies 1917–2011 152 Dot Smith 1918–2012 153 Walter Fowlie 1925–2012 155 (John) Russell Gregory 1928–2011 156 Walter Somerville 1939–2012 156 Alexander Bruce Miller 1940–2011 157 John David Atkinson 1940–2011 158 Ruth Hesselyn 1956–2012 159 Mark Roland Ellis 1988–2012 159

c o v e r Tom Riley near the top of Mt Underwood. In the distance are Mt Tutoko and the Ngapunatoru Plateau. Richard Thomson i n s i d e f r o n t c o v e r Haydyn Surgenor and Monika Bischof on the Sierra Range, Mt La Perouse and Aoraki Mt Cook beyond. Shane Orchard h a l f t i t l e Stig Schnell on the East Ridge of Aoraki Mt Cook. Tony Rac t h i s p a g e Stephen Skelton on the first ascent of Feature Face (16, 20), Borland Bluffs, Southland. Troy Mattingley

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

Committee Convenors Shelter Richard Wesley Community Richard Thomson Access Chris Burtenshaw Climbing/Instruction Paul Prince Expedition Fund Paul Knott

Section Chairs Auckland Magnus Hammarsal Central North Island Paul McCullagh Wellington Daniel Pringle Nelson/Marlborough Jerome Waldron Canterbury/Westland Clayton Garbes South Canterbury Neil Harding-Roberts North Otago Hugh Wood Otago James Harrison Southland Bill Gordon Australia Chris Brown

National Office Staff General Manager Sam Newton National Administrator Margaret McMahon Administration Assistant Narina Sutherland Activities and Events Coordinator Pat Deavoll Managing Editor/Designer Kester Brown

New Zealand Alpine Journal Editor Kester Brown Proofing Lizzy Sutcliffe, 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 2012, Volume 64 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

Twin Falls, Arawhata Valley.

PRESIDENT’S PAGE

Watercolour painting by John Rundle

STUART GRAY

I

t’s hard to believe that another year has passed.

NZAC is buzzing, as is the wider New Zealand climbing scene.

A new wave of climbers are out there pushing the envelope. The technical mixed climbing being done at the head of the Fox Glacier, in the Darrans and in the Otago mountains is an example of this new vitality and energy. Just as impressive is the development of new crags in places like Tukino on Ruapehu’s eastern flanks, and the inaugural Remarkables Ice and Mixed Festival. Established events like the edgy NZAC Darrans Winter Meet 8

just keep getting more popular.

The closest most of us get to this leading-edge activity is reading about it from the comfort of the couch. Thank goodness for the club’s superb publications like The Climber and the New Zealand Alpine Journal, and our Facebook pages and websites. We might never drytool a route on the Telecom Tower or freeze our butts on winter ascents of ice encrusted lines in the Balfour, but we love to read and hear about it and to dream our own dreams.

Those dreams might be about a trans-alpine trip

across the Main Divide, a week’s climbing out of Colin Todd or Plateau Huts, making tracks across Ruapehu’s summit plateau, a weekend at Mount Buffalo, climbing on the local crag or just spending time with friends and family in the mountain environment. What matters is that each of us engages and refreshes our dreams in our own way.

We have nearly 3200 members, each with a passion for mountains and climbing. One of my personal highlights this year has been meeting so many members around New Zealand, each with their own story and aspirations. It has really brought home to me two things. Firstly, just how active our membership is. We really do get out there and do it. Each year there are literally hundreds of section and nationally organised NZAC instruction courses, trips and events. Second, just how much of the club’s success is due to those individual members who put up their hands and contribute time, money and expertise—be it maintaining our huts, publishing our stories, instructing, providing accounting or legal advice or a multitude of other contributions. It all adds up to make a club that is truly something special.

The renovated Unwin Lodge is proving to be a warm success. As I write this we have just held a third photography workshop at Unwin this year.

These workshops, plus the painting workshops, the Mountain Music Weekend and events such as the Winter Dinner, are attracting rave reviews. Our first artist in residence, Dean Buchanan, spent a busy month painting and his wonderful, donated work was successfully auctioned to raise funds for Unwin.

Watch out for more Unwin developments in 2013.

Risk management is a fundamental responsibility of the club’s national committee.

There are many potential risks to the club that could result in reputational, legal or financial impacts.

We recently reviewed the various areas where NZAC is potentially exposed. This was a valuable exercise.

We used a matrix that weighed the severity of an event against the likelihood of it happening. This is helping us to understand much better which club activities need strong oversight and clear policy.

It was confirmed that the most potentially damaging event for the club would be a fatality or serious injury on a club instruction course. We had such an event in August 2010, with a fatality on an instruction course at Mount Ruapehu. For the family and friends of Paul McLachlan, this accident has been tragic. For our members involved and for the club

itself there has been a substantial emotional and financial impact. The leadership of the club has spent hundreds of hours working through the impacts.

We have looked deep into ourselves to understand what went wrong. NZAC is committed to voluntary instruction, it is at the very heart of who we are. As a leader in outdoor recreation, the club must ensure its volunteer-run basic instruction courses mirror the best professional practices at that level. Our instruction framework is designed to do just that and is subject to regular review. Instructor training weekends give volunteer instructors the chance to learn from qualified guides and to upgrade their own climbing skills We are also reinforcing the club’s instruction sub-committee with leading practitioners who are club members.

Finally, I want to talk about how we communicate and inform NZAC members like yourself. The club hasn’t always been the best at keeping you up to date with what’s happening, the exciting new projects we have on the go and why your NZAC membership is a great investment. We are working to improve that.

In March we welcomed Sam Newton as our new General Manager. One of Sam’s objectives is to get closer to our members, who are spread around New Zealand and over the ditch in Australia. I hope you are already noticing this with, for example, Sam’s regular email updates, which complement the local section newsletters. These updates really highlight the exciting range of club activities and benefits that are available to you. We are working to add further benefits to that list. Watch this space.

Please do take the time to look at the new climber. co.nz website. It is smart, snappy and sassy. But beware, if you open it at work your productivity will drop and your mind will drift off to some magical alpine place, far, far away. With up-to-date news, stunning photos and self-opinionated posting, the website offers a tantalising experience that nicely complements the printed version of The Climber.

The rapid evolution of social media such as Facebook and Twitter means we are interacting and talking to each other in different ways. This can be challenging to organisations but it is powerful and provides great insights. So to stay in touch I urge you to join the New Zealand Alpine Club group on Facebook (did I really just write that?).

Have a great summer in the hills. Here’s hoping for clear nights and sunny days, crisp snow and warm rock. Safe travels.

9

Rich Turner on an unnamed pitch at the base of the North Ridge of Te Wera, central Darrans.

Lake Turner is below.

Dave Vass

New Zealand Rock and Ice Daniel Joll Steve Fortune Richard Thomson John McCallum Danilo Hegg Jamie Barclay Stanley Mulvaney Geoff Spearpoint Rob Frost Jamie Vinton-Boot Kieran Parsons Ross Cullen Cliff Ellery

Mt Earnslaw at sunrise. Danilo Hegg 11

TYPE TWO FUN A new route on the south face of Sabre Peak

by DANIEL JOLL

T a b o v e Steve approaching the gendarme on the West Ridge of Sabre.

Daniel Joll

f a c i n g p a g e Steve climbing onto some steep snow shortly after rounding an ice bulge at the top of pitch four.

Daniel Joll

he snow is lightly falling as we sit in the wardens quarters of Homer Hut with Al Uren, Al Walker, Jimmy Shelagh and Keara. The fire is cranked up and our bags are packed for a 12.45 am wake up call. We have three bottles of wine open and they are going down nicely as we sit by the warm fire talking and soaking up the Darrans atmosphere.

Jimmy is a university lecturer and is researching motivating factors for climbers and how those climbers socialise within the climbing community.

Our discussion comes around to the bond between climbing partners. Al Uren is telling us how he sat crying in a snow cave while his partner, Clinton, rubbed his back after he broke his pelvis on the north face of Mount Hicks. Earlier in the week, while

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climbing at Long Beach, Al Walker told me of a climb in Scotland where he and his partner encountered no belays or protection for four full pitches, yet still stayed roped together. On reaching the summit he broke down in tears. We talk about the bond formed through intense experiences and how, even after years, you can still feel comfort from being in the presence of long-time climbing partners.

The discussion made me think of my own motivations for mountaineering and the commitment I feel towards my climbing partners. Alpine climbing relies heavily on trust in your partner, their skills, their judgement and their determination. With our forecast being less than ideal, I am not exactly in the mood for alpine climbing. Plenty of snow has fallen

during the previous week and it is still falling outside the hut as we warm ourselves around the fire. High winds have caused snow loading on multiple faces.

The avalanche forecast makes for grim reading.

Climbing conditions however, are a different story.

The recent storms and cold temperatures are icing the south faces of Fiordland very nicely. *** I had been chatting to Steve on the phone earlier in the week. He was keen to climb and after running through the possible list of areas we realised we would be limited to a 12-hour window of fine weather in the Darrans. Steve suggested the south face of Sabre. I agreed, but didn’t feel committed.

It’s easy to say yes on the phone. I felt that I needed to say yes to Steve though, as I had asked him to free up the time for us to climb together. I felt I must then follow through and commit to the break in the weather that had finally arrived. We talked over the options. Cook? Aspiring? Too much high wind, and the weather would be too unstable further north.

Guess it would have to be the Darrans.

I had spent four hours packing and sorting my gear on the Saturday morning while waiting for Steve to arrive, very much on edge the whole time. I’d found it hard to concentrate on deciding what gear to take and what should stay at home. I knew that we would not be backing out of this climb while sitting on the couch or by the fireside in Homer Hut. We would make our decisions when we got to the face.

To do that would require traversing some major avalanche terrain. It would also mean that if we couldn’t summit in our weather window we might be forced to descend in a storm, meaning the avalanche risk would rise even further. We would also be taking no bivvy gear, we’d simply back ourselves to climb a route in one push without stopping.

Another thing that had me worried was that I was not in good mountain shape. I hadn’t done a big route in the mountains for three months and my fitness was lacking. I knew nothing of the approach, the climb or the way out down the Marian Valley.

For all of those reasons, I was nervous. I cranked Johnny Cash on the stereo while packing. As the time passed, I relaxed and my commitment to the climb increased. By the time my packing was finished I was mentally prepared for what I knew was coming. *** The process of mental preparation is interesting.

Sitting by the fire in Homer, I think about what it means and why it’s important to be doing this climb N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 13

Daniel climbing through the lower cliff band on the south face of Sabre.

Steve Fortune

with Steve. The first thing I do is commit to the fact that I am willingly and knowingly placing my life in danger. I could not commit and would not be happy to take big risks with just any climbing partner. Both of us are at the start of what I hope will be a long and successful climbing partnership.

A good partnership doesn’t appear from nothing. I know that for this partnership to grow we must be prepared to make sacrifices for each other’s benefit.

This involves everything from committing time to trips, training, plodding steps and leading when the other has had too much.

To really go for it on a large alpine route we have to trust that when the time comes we will both do what needs to be done and if one of us, for any reason, needs a break, the other will step up and finish the job. I want Steve to know that when I say I’m going to do a trip, I will be there with my bag packed ready to climb, no matter what. I also want him to see that I can do my fair share of the work required to get us up the climb. This thought leads me to consider the mental preparation needed for the physical effort of non-stop alpine climbing. This time I know I am not

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in top shape. I know that Steve is going to have to break trail all the way. I won’t manage with my current level of fitness. I know the snow is going to be deep and I also know that Steve won’t even question the fact that I will be freeriding behind him as we walk and climb to the base of the route.

In any good partnership you must give to receive, so I know that by Steve breaking trail I will owe him a rest when we arrive at the route, and I know that to even the score I will need to lead the crux pitches.

It’s not because he wouldn’t be able to lead them, it’s simply that there’s no one-way traffic in a real partnership. So with that thought I do the final step in my mental preparation: I visualise myself run-out on thin ice and I prepare my mind for the prospect of a full-on lead. *** At 1.20 am the stars are out. It’s a good sign that our clearance is opening up just as planned. We crampon our way up to the Barrier-Crosscut Col. I complain about my sprained ankle and how it’s hurting. I get no reply and realise I should stop complaining. Steve is breaking trail and not even asking if I can help.

The descent into the Marian is easier and safer than I thought it would be. Before long we are on the valley floor. There is no avalanche sign and the micro-pits we have been digging show only moderate instability. So far so good.

As we approach the base of the lower wall and the south face of Sabre, the snow deepens. I push Steve from behind as he wades through bottomless powder. Steve asks me to take a pic of him wading a trench through the powder. I know he relishes this type of work, which is what he refers to as type two fun. Eventually we break through and it’s front points and frozen snow.

We race up the 40–60 degree slopes at the base of the mountain. After several hundred metres of simul-solo climbing we hear a loud whoomph as the face we are climbing settles. A fracture line appears above Steve’s tools. Shit. I expect to be swept off the mountain in a large slab avalanche. We race up and get above the fracture line. Our line of retreat has just been cut off. We can’t retreat over the settled slab for fear it will release. It’s up from now on.

Five minutes later a second whoomph and another

fracture, then a third just as we reach the base of the steep climbing. I quickly build a belay and exclaim how happy I am to finally be anchored to some rock.

Looking up I can see a large hanging icicle guarding the way to what we think is a corner system that follows the summer route The Big Corner.

As I rack up I know it’s time for me to repay Steve for all that trail work. I’m also kind of excited that I will probably get the crux pitch. It’s been a few weeks since I did any adventure climbing and I’m looking forward to pushing myself on lead.

I start slowly up the first pitch of run-out WI4. My head is still not 100 per cent in the game after our near misses on the approach but I warm to the task and as I arrive at the first belay I’m ready for the next pitch, which looks to be the crux.

It’s time to repay Steve. A 30-metre wall of thin, vertical ice and two ice mushrooms block my way.

I start up slowly. I swing a tool, test it, weight the placement, look for the feet, breath, then move up and repeat the process.

The climbing is steep and dangerous. I complete a series of moves that fully commit me to the pitch,

Steve starting out on pitch three, the fattest pitch of the route (WI3).

Daniel Joll

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 15

this page both Steve on pitch three.

Daniel Joll

f a c i n g p a g e The south faces of Marian and Sabre, with Walk The Line marked.

Steve Fortune

downclimbing is no longer an option. There is no chance of gear to lower off if I can’t keep climbing, so I take a deep breath and keep moving upwards. I have to climb this pitch.

I reach an ice mushroom, the crux, and a break in the ice reveals a thin crack. I grab a knifeblade piton and pound it in. Finally I have some gear that will hold a fall. My heart rate reduces and I shake out before attempting the next moves. I reach high and sink my tools into the ice, then do a pull up to get my feet over the mushroom. I repeat the process, climbing over a second small overhang and at last arrive at a good crack and an excellent cam placement. ‘It’s going to go!’ I yell to Steve and run it out up moderate ice to a belay in the big corner system.

I’m excited when Steve nears my belay. It’s strange, but I want to hear him say ‘well done’. I want him to recognise that I have led a hard pitch. I want our ledger to be equal. I want my partner to know I can pull my weight. ‘Bloody good lead mate,’ Steve says.

I smile, I’m stoked to be doing my fair share of the work and taking some risk so we can both succeed.

The strength of our partnership is what helps drive us upwards. I enjoy the pressure of knowing I must give 100 per cent, so that I don’t let Steve down.

I tell Steve I need a break and hand the rack over to him. I see the look in his eyes. He knows he too must now step up. We only have six ice screws and two are in my belay. ‘Save a blue for the belay,’ I yell up as he heads off. Steve doesn’t disappoint and rocks a full 60-metre pitch on just two ice screws. No excuses, no short pitches, just stepping up and doing what needs to be done. We swap leads and I repeat the process—

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another full pitch with two screws for pro.

The climb is now advancing much faster and as we reach the top of the corner system the angle eases back and we climb a final pitch of snow. When we join the West Ridge of Sabre we start to simul-climb. After a short while we reach a gendarme in the ridge. This rock buttress is covered with a deep layer of powder snow. Steve spends some time digging his way up this feature. It’s slow going but the summit is in sight and we have plenty of daylight left. For the final pitch we depart from the ridge and head across the middle of the south face then straight up to the summit.

The wind is now up and the temperature has dropped. Our weather window is closing down and I think back to the stories of forced bivouacs, epic descents and increased avalanche risk. No mucking around, let’s get moving.

We downclimb our way along the East Ridge until the terrain steepens enough to enable some abseils.

Four long raps and some downclimbing brings us into a large gully which runs all the way to the valley floor. We sit on the side of this 30–40 degree gully watching the snow slowly falling. We are on a perfectly loaded slope. I am terrified at the prospect of having to cross over to the other side. We have no choice though as this is our only way out. We talk over the best line and for some reason Steve asks if he can go first. ‘For sure,’ I quickly say. I watch him leave and he suggests we keep a good distance between us. ‘Definitely,’ I offer in reply.

When Steve is a couple of hundred metres in front it’s my turn. I go as fast as I can without stomping too hard. Never stopping, never looking up, I just move; breathing, worrying and hoping like hell that nothing slides. Eventually, after about 30 minutes, we reach the upper Marian Valley and I breathe a sigh of relief. The job is not done but we are getting close.

Just a few more hours of walking and downclimbing and we will be at the roadend in the Hollyford Valley.

The walk and climb out down the Marian is fairly uneventful. As we get further along the riverbed and the risk of being avalanched recedes we start to chat and joke about the day. The tension is leaving our bodies and we grind out the final hours of bushbashing and boulder hopping. At 1.30 am we reach the road—24 hours and ten mintues after departing Homer Hut. I’m a little disappointed we didn’t make it in under 24 hours but then I think, What a dumb thought. We made it and we have no major injuries, who cares how long it took.

Thankfully Steve finally says his legs are tired and

asks if I’m happy to sleep on the side of the road then hitch-hike back to the car in the morning. ‘Yes please,’ I reply, a little too quickly. I’m also spent and don’t want to face the prospect of more walking. We take a seat each on opposite sides of a picnic bench and lie down for some well earned rest. The sleep doesn’t last very long though and at 5.00 am I wake up, cold. ‘Steve, I can’t lie here anymore, I’m heading back to get the car.’

‘What?’ he asks in a sleepy, disbelieving voice.

‘It’s just too cold mate,’ I say, ‘I need to warm up. Won’t be too long.’ Famous last words it turns out. Four hours later I finally get to Homer. There were only six cars on the Milford Road between 5.00 am and 9.00 am on that Monday morning and none of them were in the mood to stop.

Back at the hut, Al Uren offers to go and pick up Steve. While he’s gone I chat with Matt Evrard and Bruce Dowrick. Matt and Al had made the last ascent of the south face of Sabre, via Hongi’s Track, 20 years earlier. As we look over the guide trying to figure out where we went I realise that we didn’t actually climb The Big Corner. Rather, we had done a completely new and independent

route to the left. I guess there is some merit in just going and climbing what looks good after all. Bruce offers us some amazing hospitality. Even though I had never met him before, he brews up fresh coffee then follows through with pancakes and bacon. The friendliness of the gesture is really appreciated by both Steve and myself.

Al Uren had been strangely absent from the hut since he dropped Steve back. I soon realise why when he appears with a full pan of pasta, bacon and sauce. We eat until we can eat no more. It’s great to share the experience with some of the original pioneers of modern day Darrans climbing. It’s also amazing to think that the face was last climbed in winter 20 years ago, and that two of the four guys from that day are sitting next to us, sharing in our excitement.

As we slowly pack up and plan to head for Queenstown I suggest to Al that he’d better drive—it might be safest. He nods in agreement, ‘Where would you multi-sport types be without your support crew eh? He chips in. I laugh and hand him the keys. Before long Al is driving and we are sleeping. Job done, we’re heading home.

Walk The Line (VI, 6, WI5+), south face of Sabre Peak. Steve Fortune, Daniel Joll, October 7, 2012.

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 17

SOME WINTER CLIMBING HIGHLIGHTS

by STEVE FORTUNE

I Craig Jefferies traversing towards Barrier Knob, Darran Mountains.

Steve Fortune

’m a bit soft for winter mountaineering. I don’t like long, scary snow plods. You always wish you were skiing instead. Ice climbs are short, fickle and a long walk away. I don’t like big packs, don’t like helicopters, and don’t like long walk-ins either.

Plus, I’m a weekend warrior, which doesn’t present many options. So what do you do if you don’t like sharing a bivvy bag with a shivering partner, but like sleeping in a nice warm bed instead?

This year has certainly opened my eyes to the potential for fun winter cragging in this country.

Hopefully the Remarkables Ice and Mixed Festival

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introduced a number of people to the idea that you can have a pretty full-on day climbing, and still make it to the pub for dinner afterwards. I was introduced to the leisurely approach that is possible by festival organiser Dan Joll. After flying into Queenstown one morning, I hoped we’d rush directly from the airport up the hill and maybe squeeze a short route in. Instead I found myself sitting in the warm afternoon sun at a burger joint in town at 2.00 pm before Dan suggested we head up for a climb, and we still managed to get down before dark.

The next day was a different story. Last year, Dan and Jamie Vinton-Boot climbed Under Pressure, a fabulous test-piece up a thin seam in the middle of the Red Wall. It is an amazing pitch, but there is still a lot of climbing above it. With Dan and Alex Corpas, I climbed seven hard pitches, this was a fullon day right to the end, with Dan thrutching up the last run-out off-width pitch in dying light. This was a compromised ascent, we top-roped the first (crux) pitch after an earlier ascent. An onsight ascent of this line would be a great achievement for the strong guns of the future.

Geezers Need Excitement Earlier, I had made a trip south for the NZAC Darrans Winter Meet. We decided to do the big drive from Christchurch to Homer Hut after work on the Friday night to give us a chance of getting up something on the Saturday. After two hours in bed we were wading up to Macpherson Cirque. With deep snow down to the road, the routes looked white and promising, but when we saw them up close we realised they had little ice. After a poke around and a failed attempt and downclimb of Blue, it was back to the hut for Plan B. Our plan was something like this: the ice is shit, let’s climb something mixed.

We saw a prominent unclimbed corner/chimney system going up the south face of Talbot on the right side of the cirque. I came back the next day with Reg Measures to give it a go. We had no real idea whether it would go or not. Some moderate climbing up a gully led to a cave at the start of the corner. A hanging icicle spilled over a roof on the left (which would be a wicked new line). The corner was on the right.

We had two choices: either undercling beneath the roof, with feet smearing on a slick looking slab, or downclimb and head up a thin looking smear of ice.

I tried the ice and found it just thick enough to take my bodyweight. It was a pretty atmospheric section of climbing.

That led us to the broken edge of the roof, and the easiest looking way through. Here I found a wall of frozen turf that made for perfect sticks leading though the overhanging barrier. It was just a matter of placing some pro at the start and going for it.

The corner above the second section is a monster!

The corner angles to the right, forming a series of roofs, which forced us into a series of thin traverses.

It was another stellar pitch. It started with technical corner climbing, then a delicate slab, I was using my monopoints on tiny patches of frozen moss, then just when things got hard and steep, a handy chockstone

appeared for a butch pull around the roof. It looked pretty unlikely, but there was just enough for it to go.

Up to this point we had always had one eye on retreat, looking for rap points to descend. But now the momentum had shifted. We had both pulled out a good lead each. We really wanted to get up this thing, and were determined to find a way.

There were two more similar pitches up the corner. I got swallowed by a weird roof/chimney, shimmied out sideways, then headed inside a massive chockstone which made a comfy belay ledge.

Reg got another super-thin traverse. If we hadn’t already climbed to this point, he probably would have backed off, but he managed to find a way through. It was such an amazing feature, with such exciting, absorbing and unusual climbing. After some easier climbing we arrived on the large upper snowfield, which was a big scary unknown hanging above our heads. Luckily it wasn’t too bad. We didn’t have to rap the route. We walked off, back down to Talbots Ladder and Homer Saddle. There was a great moon, but it was a bit of a long slog out to a big meal and comfy beds.

Reg Measures climbing fantastic, previously unclimbed ice on Sign of the Times, Mt Crosscut, Darran Mountains.

Steve Fortune

Ice rediscovered We had a poke around at some other ice lines.

Psychopathy and Stirling Moss are such awesome looking lines, but would have been very bold underN E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 19

Milo Gilmore on pitch three of Seasonal Affected Disorder, on the Telecom Tower, Remarkables, during the route’s first ascent.

Steve Fortune

takings in the thin conditions we had. There would have been no pro or belays to speak of, but upwards progress would have surely been possible. Did the original ascensionists have massive balls? Or better conditions? Luckily Al Uren had arrived, so we asked him. Al confirmed that the routes formed up much fatter in the big winter of 1992. That made us feel better about wimping out of them.

We tried a new mixed line in Macpherson Cirque, but failed to get off the ground. The rock had been worn smooth by waterfalls and avalanches. There were no holds and no gear. It was a no go.

Gomer looked like the only doable line in the lower cirque so we soloed happily up it, until the going

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got sketchy on the last pitch. There was snow over the slabs and running water. It was a pretty horrible place to be really, but we scraped up and into the upper cirque.

Here the scene was transformed, we were surrounded by fat ice lines of gleaming blue ice, not the shite we had found lower down. There were dozens of possible lines, and only one mention in the guidebook of anything having been climbed. It’s an awesome playground of new route possibilities.

It was hard to decide what to climb, but we settled on what looked best, a Point Five-like steep gully on the left wall.

There were three of us and we each got a fantastic

pitch of ice climbing. It was smiles and type one fun all around. We all had such a good time, we decided to come back the next day, and convinced a bunch of others to come too. After decades of neglect, during which time only a single route had been climbed, the upper cirque saw four parties on four different routes in a single day!

Reg and myself went for a line to the left of our first route, which from a distance looked like a laser line of ice, pencil thin and straight. It tuned out to be not quite as good as the first one.

Tim and Jimmy climbed a corker on the right, it looked fatter and easier from a distance, but turned out to be steep, satisfying ice—another gem. Later in the week Reg came back and climbed another line in the upper cirque. He reckoned it was the best of the bunch. Our initial impression that all the ice was shit had been well and truly shattered. Sometimes you just have to go and have a look.

Sign of the Times When you drive up to Homer Hut from the south, Cul de Sac on Mount Crosscut is one of the lines that really stands out. It is obvious from the road.

It’s long, steep, sustained and direct. It would be a classic anywhere in the world, and is far better than many more fancied alpine ice routes. Strangely, its sister route, Sign of the Times, which branches off low down, was not finished after an attempt in 1988 and had not seen an ascent since. This astounded me, and was high on my list of objectives, it was such an obvious and classy line.

Conditions mean everything in the Darrans. My attempt the previous year had resulted in us turning around low down when we found vertical snow plastered to rock. From the road, conditions looked similar this year, and I had mentally written it off.

However, one evening we spied a single headlamp descending the Crosscut bluffs. Speculation mounted. Who was it? Where have they been? Turns out that Guy McKinnon had just soloed Cul de Sac. He reported excellent conditions, so our plans were quickly changed. We would venture up there the next morning.

This series of events illustrated what is so great about having a community of people together at something like the meet, with everyone sharing information, sharing trail-breaking and sharing enthusiasm. The knowledge that Guy had been up (and down) gave us so much more confidence in going for it and going light.

The next morning, we followed Guy’s tracks up

Cul de Sac. We soloed up to the cave. I clipped my abseil anchor from the previous year, took a deep breath and ventured out onto the ice-covered slabs above the cave. It was good, it might go!

The second pitch was the crux, and a real humdinger. A traverse and downclimb of iced up slabs led to an overhanging, thinly iced corner, with the only pro well below. It was the place for a positive attitude. I took a breath and just went for it. I made it, obviously all my pull-up training had paid off!

The next section was water-ice. It bulged out of the side of the mountain. I am used to alpine ice, and being enclosed in a gully. This was one of the most amazing stretches of ice either of us had ever climbed. It was of perfect consistency, offering firstswing sticks every time, with no shattering, and it was steep and featured. It was too good to stop, so we didn’t. We simul-climbed up, with two screws between us. Hundreds of metres were quickly eaten up before we stopped for a rest above the shoulder, wearing the biggest shit-eating grins, knowing how incredibly lucky we were to be there, and how much of a pleasure it was to move like that over such amazing terrain.

We were so stoked to top out in wonderful sunshine, which is such a rarity in a Darrans winter. We soaked in the rays, the super views in every direction, and the amazement that no one had climbed this awesome route in full before us. Then to top it off, after five minutes, our friends Tim and Jimmy joined us, having topped out on their ascent of Cul de Sac. We then followed Guy’s prints down the bluffs, and got down in daylight. We felt a bit guilty.

Winter climbing in the Darrans isn’t meant to be so much fun!

Each climb we did opened our eyes to the potential for dozens more. The view from the top of Crosscut inspired a quick raid into the Marian Valley to try the south face of Barrier with Craig Jefferies. We didn’t make it onto the face, but that trip got me super psyched to return. The potential in that valley is gobsmacking. Later in the season I returned to climb the south face of Sabre, but that was only the start.

Mr Lava Lava I’d never been climbing in the North Island or on a volcano, so when I had the opportunity to go climbing on Ruapehu before an NZAC section talk, I jumped at it. I was well looked after by my host Rob Addis, who kindly pointed me and Matt Thom at an unclimbed section of Cathedral Rocks (Matihao).

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

The author exiting the sideways roof/chimney on pitch three of Geezers Need Excitement, on the south face of Mt Talbot, Darran Mountains, during the route’s first ascent.

Reg Measures

Wow. The area is a mixed climber’s dream. It is a series of basalt columns, split by cracks and covered in soft rime. Dozens of different routes are possible. Most would be well protected, technical crack climbs, interesting all the way.

We chose a line on the left of a central pillar, then straight up an off-width crack in the middle. The route required torquing, laybacking and upsidedown and sideways axe placements. It was makeyou-think climbing, often several attempts were required to work out a solution. It was definitely a cool place to go mixed climbing.

The next day we had a good warning against complacency in the mountains when two of us were caught in, and rode down, a sizable avalanche, only a few hundred metres from Whangaehu Hut.

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

Festival Fever My next stop for the winter was Queenstown, for the Remarkables Ice and Mixed Festival. In summer I had climbed (well, dogged) up a nice thin crack splitting an otherwise featureless headwall I had named Los Indignados.

Dan had spotted a direct start up a pick-width seam he was keen to climb in winter. I was keen to belay him. He didn’t get it clean, and neither did I on second, so it still awaits the strong. The direct finish, when the seam runs out, awaits the bold as well. It even has rap rings at the top, so there are no excuses.

On the headwall above, several options exist. Dan had climbed a crack on the left, described as a steep finger and hand crack, but he thought it might be a bit hard so suggested I take the easy chimney to its

right. Some curses were uttered on finding it loose, steep, run-out, running with spindrift and actually quite hard.

Being close to the car, or the café, doesn’t help much in these circumstances. It’s great to have some handy projects that motivate you to train and get better.

Seasonal Affected Disorder When the festival proper started, we had more than 100 people in a room all excited about going mixed and ice climbing. It was a pretty cool feeling. In that spirit, Milo naively agreed to try a new line with me on the Telecom Tower.

‘How hard is it?’ he asked.

‘Dunno.’

‘Sweet as.’

The classic route The Fastest Indian hadn’t been finished to the top of the tower, but I’d been told the middle pitches are slabs and are unpleasant in winter.

The route to the right, ADD has more crack systems, so we tried that.

The first pitch was thin, iced up, spicy and exciting. The second took lots of digging, the third some creative wide-crack techniques. From here we aimed for the top of the Telecom Tower via the finishing pitch of Indian Summer. This took a full toolbox of tricks: double can openers, knee jams and other creative udging techniques to make progress. It was a great pitch and a great finish right at the tower.

Unfortunately, we were too late back for our ride down, so we were late for dinner, which was a bit of a stain on our ascent.

Social Climbing The next day I thought I’d try to not hide away on my own, but immerse myself in the unique social atmosphere of the festival. It was fun. People were bouldering. People were top-roping things way too hard for them. People were sitting in the sun watching and shouting encouragement, or hanging from ropes photographing. It was just like your average sport climbing crag, but with spikes.

I belayed Jamie on an overhanging grade 22 hand crack called Blow Up, which took several hangs, but allowed me to have a go on top-rope and several others a go with the gear in place.

Is this style ethically pure? No, but it’s these sort of tactics that have led to gains in rock climbing, so it’s fun to occasionally try them in mixed climbing too.

Plus, when else are you going to enjoy that sort of atmosphere in the New Zealand mountains?

Racing The next day also had a rather unique experience—a race along the Grand Traverse of Single and Double Cone. Luckily no one died, so hopefully it will make it as an annual event. The race was a deliberate attempt to foster a little competitive spirit, and also to showcase how it is possible to move pretty fast in the mountains if you want to. It was also just crazy fun, and nice to be all done before morning tea. So dust off your lycra pants and give it a go!

The author on the ice smear below the first roof on Geezers Need Excitement, on the south face of Mt Talbot.

Reg Measures

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

Karetai Peak and the Donne Wall. The waterfall on the left drains the Taoka Icefall. The Big Easy climbs the far right of the wall to the dark v-notch. Richard Thomson

GIVING IT A CRACK A first ascent on the Donne Wall, Darran Mountains

by RICHARD THOMSON

‘J

ust nip over there and I’ll take your photo,’ Dave said, pointing at an axe blade of rock that leaned out at a wild angle over the top of a cliff.

‘Sure,’ I said. As I slid off the boulder I was resting on and starting walking over, Dave admitted he was only joking, but in truth I’d already been imagining myself out there peering down over 1500 metres of empty space. It was all the encouragement I needed.

Just shy of the point of the blade I stopped and

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

steadied my hands on the rock to look around.

Amidst the three-dimensional disarray of Fiordland there were many familiar places. In front was Apirana Peak, from where I’d first looked into the Donne Valley more than 25 years earlier. The distant depths of the valley were blurred by dark beech forest, the edges smudged by sphagnum mires and avalanche tracks. We’d begun climbing from there early the previous day. Turning the other way I could see the

central Darrans peaks of Underwood, Patuki and Karetai. We’d climbed 14 pitches on the wall below, and now we needed to traverse Karetai to reach shelter at Turners Eyrie.

Getting to where I now stood had been a logistical achievement as much as anything. There was a second party heading into the central Darrans, to whom we put up the proposal that, in return for carrying in their climbing gear, they might like to add some of our food to their loads. We’d meet at the eyrie.

This had profound benefits for us, in that we could walk up the Donne with a few days’ food and camping gear, climb to the eyrie and then stay there for a few more days before dropping back down into the Donne. The benefits for Al Thomas, John McCallum, Mark Watson and Tom Riley were less obvious.

Perhaps they were caught off guard by our brazen cheek, but as we parted from Homer they seemed remarkably cheerful about stuffing our provisions into their packs.

One thing neither Dave nor I remembered to bring was a timepiece. To make up for this, we decided that if either of us woke up on our climbing day and it seemed like time to get up, we would. But when I suggested later that night that it might be time to get up, Dave was adamant he’d only been asleep for an hour. The next time I opened my eyes grey outlines of cliffs were emerging out of valley fog.

Walking up into the head of the valley and then climbing over the ice to reach the base of the cliff was easier and faster in the light. A steep band of cliffs guarded the start of the route. We climbed up and leftwards for two pitches on an easy traverse until the options narrowed and Dave cut through a short overhang on what turned out to be good holds.

On the wall above it was still pretty unclear what to do. Directly above was a steep pillar. To the right was less steep to begin with, but what would come next was out of sight. To the left an 80 degree wall looked like it led to reasonable runners and then perhaps up into a corner system, though again you couldn’t see.

Gambling on finding gear in the back of a corner, I set out across the left-hand wall.

Adventure means different things to different people, but I heard an explanation recently that made perfect sense for me. Adventure and choice, so the argument went, are entirely incompatible. Adventure is what happens when you no longer have any choice.

So this is where the adventure began, on beautiful quartz-rich stone, carefully stepping up, left, down, up, back right and then left and up. Well, okay, we

still had a choice: go up or go down; but we’d managed to narrow the options considerably.

There was good gear in the corner, which finished with a sharp move on small holds to reach a small ledge. Choices immediately confronted me, which I avoided by setting up a belay and bringing Dave up. A slightly offset finger crack diagonalled up the wall above, which Dave set about subduing. He then placed a cam below a bulge, went up, came back and

The author on belay above the ‘Fissure Thomson’, pitch 11. Dave Vass

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

The view from the top of the route back down into the head of the Donne River. Dave Vass

found space for another cam, went up again and fell off, ripping out the top cam. Even though the other team had our food, we still had to climb with two packs, we decided to haul them on this pitch.

I watched carefully as Dave made his way over the crux bulge, but still got it all wrong when it came to my turn and had to lunge for the sloping crest above the bulge.

The crack continued, widening to hands, and after six pitches we reached the good ledge that runs across the face at about one-third height. We had lunch, although it was well into the afternoon, and Dave disappeared up into a damp, black, overhanging offwidth chimney. He seemed to be finding the whole experience quite aggravating and I wasn’t looking

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

forward to having to follow him. Secretly I hoped he’d give up and climb the sharply featured corner systems in the sun a little to the right. Eventually he did, although it was scarcely any easier, posing a 3D conundrum moving from a left-facing corner into a right-facing one while at the same time negotiating a small roof.

Pinned on a west-facing wall in the late afternoon, the sun began to feel oppressive. I found a belay in a scrap of shade but then realised the best line actually continued just to the right. The intricacies of rope management at the belay somehow meant I secured that pitch for myself too. The crack system we were following broke up into large blocks, so I skipped out on to a great square arête, which provided easy

and absolutely stellar climbing to the second great ledge system on the wall, just in time to watch the sun go down.

It was a noisy night in my plastic bag, and never quite warm enough to properly relax. Adding to the unease was what looked like a large detached spike of rock protruding from the pillar about 100 metres right above our heads. Dave, however, seemed quite comfortable in his sleeping bag.

The second day dawned clear and calm, once again. We downed the rest of our single bottle of water. The line continued: a consistent system of cracks right to the headwall. Adventure intervened once again after a perfect hand crack through overhangs landed me not quite in an off-width. I couldn’t fit in properly with the pack and there was no hope of finding runners, which left no choice but to continue. Five rope-lengths above our bivvy ledge we pitched once more onto level ground—relatively— with pools of cool snowmelt water above the névé of the Te Puoho Glacier.

It was good to be there, even though it was more or less nowhere and far from anywhere. Karetai Peak rose before us, from this perspective a magnificent dome of golden rock. Friends, food, shelter and a warm sleeping bag waited on the other side. There was still a long way to go, so we were pleased we’d picked the easy line.

this page clockwise from top left The only loose rock in the Darrans, possibly, near the top of The Big Easy. Richard Thomson Setting off on day two. The bivvy ledge can be seen just below. Dave Vass A climbing day. Fog fills the Donne Valley, with Sheerdown Peak in the right distance.

Richard Thomson

The Big Easy (IV, 22), Donne Wall. Richard Thomson and Dave Vass, February 2012.

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

EXITS

by JOHN MCCALLUM

a b o v e The author (front), with Alan Thomas and Tom Riley descending into the Donne Valley, below the Taoka Icefall.

Mark Watson

facing page: b o t t o m Approaching Pakihakea Col, Cleft Creek below.

John McCallum

t o p Happy travellers above Chasm Creek.

John McCallum

T

he best bit, I assured my companions, is the trip going out. It came out like the raving I’m prone to but really it was about psyching up for another complicated and adventurous exit from the world of Lake Turner.

After five days at Turners Eyrie we were thoroughly acclimated to living like sky dwellers, calmly climbing over endless granite blockwork and alarming voids. Down-time included the usual laughter and eccentric chatter, watching clouds form and dissolve on Fiordland’s highest, and refuelling on biltong and noodle soups.

Like my first trip here, DI, and the sequel, DII, I was trying to process the beta and legends I’d heard from Rich and Rich and Dave about our intended exit to the Donne Valley. There were some worrying details like sketchy rap anchors and death flakes but Richard assured us we would feel great when we reached the pastures far below. This was rather

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ambiguous comfort, since Dave abseils for a living and they are deeply wise in the way of the fiords. Did we have the right stuff?

Despite all the wonderful happenings and sights on my previous pilgrimages, the days travelling out in fine company and weather have been the very best of my mountain life. Craig Jefferies understates it well and wisely in the Darrans guidebook. He says that the tourist route in over Tarewai is ‘slightly less epic’. This and other paths blazed here and abouts by Lindsay Stewart, Mike Gill and our friends are wonderful and major, complicated missions, best enjoyed with good beta and responsible company.

On DI an overnight storm cleared to a perfect day for crossing Pakihakea Col then traversing an ohso-scenic fault bench to an alarming descent beside a waterfall into the Tutoko Valley. We moved like a 12-legged beast and made all the right moves, avoiding the bush abseils that figured in worrying camp tales.

Exit day on DII was a repeat. An icy storm cleared to lush, deep south glory.

Caching much gear and food at the eyrie made our ascent of Lindsay’s Ledges only vaguely worrying compared to our anxious overburdened descent two days before.

Glacier travel through the Te Puoho slots on a rope of six was just the start of a long session of giggles, oohs and ahs as we walked over, under and around lovely granite things to Rainbow Lake. The bivvy and sunrise overlooking the Hollyford depths and Olivine heights gave us more why-we-return-to-the-Darrans moments. All the joys of this and the steep scrub and rubble descent to Moraine Creek were quickly forgotten at Gunn’s Camp where we got news that Christchurch was earthquaked and many were dead.

So, just like on DI and DII, I spent a fitful night angsting about the wonderful day about to happen. Dave and Richard were gone at an alpine hour, bound for the east face of Karetai. We coffeed, packed and climbed down granitic goodness in a pink morning onto the Taoka. The day before we had cramponed across here to climb Underwood, so it felt almost friendly, not a place of fear and suffering, as I had imagined after my first fearful peek over the edge two years before. In no time at all we were at the end of a reassuringly solid rib of stone, face to face with the impressive but stable-looking face of the icefall. We rapped to a shelf and downclimbed to our next decision point. After five days of it I guess we couldn’t face any more downclimbing on steepening ground to where Dave had his fun and were tempted to run the gauntlet and rap across the drainage and fall-line below the icefall to tempting slabiness. What we hadn’t factored in was that the brisk south-westerly, which had made the snow so cramponable yesterday, had turned the watercourse into a verglassed luge run. Alan made a dyno to an icy bollard, unclipped and ran for it. I somehow levitated, no-hands, onto a faint lip on a verglassed slab, then tensioned the rest of the party across. Much scuttling down well-scoured and rock-impacted slabs led us to final, slimy bluff complications and terra firma.

Richard was right, it felt very, very good to be there under the astonishing walls of Karetai and Revelation, with the prospect of a soulful valley stroll and no sickening gulfs ahead. We could readjust and just be trampers, congratulating ourselves for getting down not just alive but a whole lot more alive. Passing under the vastness of the south face of Underwood we enjoyed the strange symmetry of Darrans mountains, which are just as incredible from below as on top. The day before, from the summit, we had looked from the clouds down the mess of buttress, snow and slime to these avalanche pastures and out to the golden sunlit arm of Milford Sound.

Readjustment to low-angle terrain was like returning from the sea. After a week of clambering the sharp red blocks on high, it was hard to resist the temptation of smoothed-out ones on the riverbed, so off we hopped into the soft green world below. As the river steepened and the woods thickened, so the choices multiplied.

The map was strangely unhelpful compared to the cave chatter. There were so many choices and unfamiliar new classes of obstacle, thankfully most were rotted soft or padded by thick moss. Deliberate route-finding gave way to determined barging through mostly cuddly forest on the true left. This organic pursuit continued without landmarks or any sense of time until we had to re-engage our tramping brains and avoid bluffs by regaining the river at the junction of the creek draining the catchment below Mihj. Thus re-oriented, we resumed life as bushdozers and aimed ourselves towards the cloud-making mountain we had long admired from Karetai. In time the thickness and angle eased, and we picnicked on the curvaceous river-honed rocks of the Gulliver, preparing ourselves for the return to paths, roads and clean things.

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

INTO DARKEST FIORDLAND The first recorded crossing from the Castle to the Dark Rivers and a new route over Hunter Pass words and photos by DANILO HEGG Lake at the head of the Dark Valley, viewed from the saddle separating the Castle River from the Dark River. The prominent (unnamed) peak at centre image was first climbed by Gilbert van Reenen and Jim Hilton. See the NZAJ, 1974.

D

uring his exploration of the Worsley River in 1903, WG Grave visited the head of the Castle River and noted in his diary: ‘As the valley ended in a precipitous cirque, impassable and unscalable, we returned to the camp we had left pitched on the Worsley’.1 Given Grave’s prowess on Fiordland’s vertical terrain, these words would have deterred many from attempting a route out of the valley. A careful read of Grave’s diaries, however, convinced me that, for once, he had not walked far enough to have a proper look at that ‘unscalable cirque’. His description of the place was unusually scant and lacking detail. Several enquiries with Fiordland experts and much historical research didn’t turn out anything except for a few ‘I’ve thought of trying a route out of there, but … ’

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

responses. Here’s an exciting project, I thought. But for ten years, the remoteness of the Worsley combined with the notorious ruggedness of the country meant that I never dared to step beyond my dreams.

That was until January 2011, when I teamed up with Raphaëlle Brin, George O’Sullivan and James Thornton to traverse the tops above Lake Quill, with the intent of dropping into the head of the Castle.

Once on the Lake Quill tops we opted for a descent into the Light River and Sutherland Sound instead.

The Castle River would have to wait.

One year later, I was as determined as ever to complete my project, only this time I was going to tackle it from down-valley, solo. When I set off from Te Anau Downs in a 2.3-metre inflatable raft, 40 kilometres from the mouth of the Worsley, I didn’t

rate my chances of getting to the start of the trip, let alone of completing it. Lake Te Anau is a beauty, and paddling along its many coves and precipitous shores at a snail’s pace is well worth the effort. A strong headwind and chop on the lake complicated things at the start, but one and a half days later I was at the Worsley River mouth, and wasted no time venturing to a camp at the mouth of the Castle.

The Castle River is a steep-sided canyon that rivals the nearby Clinton River in its spectacular scenery.

Thirteen kilometres from the Worsley to the valley head make for a deceptively long jaunt, despite a DOC trap-line helping with navigation in the lower reaches.

As I slowly wandered up the valley, I couldn’t stop gazing at the precipitous walls fading into the clag above, the only distraction was provided by friendly blue ducks swimming in the river. It was not until late afternoon that I reached a good vantage point in the middle of the valley-head cirque (Pt 821m on the maps), where I pulled out my binoculars to scan the surrounding ramparts for a weakness that would allow me to scale them.

The bluffs directly below Barrier Peak seemed to offer the most logical line on the map, but did not look promising on close inspection (these bluffs were climbed by a Dunedin party only about ten days later, but not without much rope-work). I could see a number of lines that looked better but none that looked good, so I ventured further into the head of the valley and decided I’d sleep over it before committing to any route. The forecast prior to my departure had been for a one-day weather window the next day, and I had no intention of wasting it!

As I pitched my tent fly in a sandfly-infested river flat well above the bushline, I kept looking up to the scrubby bluffs directly below the saddle leading into the Dark River. I convinced myself that the angle was low enough to warrant a try. An early morning start was followed by a much rougher wake-up call as I started toiling up the steepest part of the route. I was able to secure my heavy pack to a dracophyllum while putting crampons on, then got a better footing, but twice I nearly fainted while heaving myself up through the short, thick vegetation. This would have not been a good place to take a fall, it would have ended directly on the valley floor. Once past the steepest section—a 150 metre rib of mixed rock and scrub at CB08 835 219—I could relax and enjoy myself as I worked my way up towards the ridge we had traversed the previous summer. While I looked into the lake at the head of the Dark River in the

bright morning light, I felt more than just excited.

I had just found a route out of the Castle, and had some awe-inspiring country ahead of me!

Barrier Peak looked beautiful. I definitely had the right day for it. The South East Ridge looked quite formidable once I was on it, and made me think twice about what I was doing. But after adjusting my head to the heights, I found the scrambling quite pleasant, if exposed in places. A long hand-traverse on a thin blade of solid granite was followed by a steep crack that swallowed up my whole body, then a narrow ridge with a humongous boulder the size of a blue whale delicately balanced on top. How did it get there? There was only one explanation that I could think of: it had been like Noah’s Ark, sailing across a frozen ocean, until it found its own Mt Ararat; Barrier Peak’s nunatak.

The view from the summit was something to behold, all of Fiordland was bathing in the sun.

When was the last time I had seen so many mountains all at once? But a menacing cloud bank was coming in fast from the west, and I still had some exposed country to cover. I thus wasted no time in returning to my pack.

The descent into the Dark was fine to start with, but it got messy lower down. I was wearing crampons again, kicking my feet hard into the short wet snowgrass and moss, while water was oozing through my fingers as I dug them into the turf. The slope relented eventually, and I found a flat place to camp right at the centre of the impressive cirque— on a small rib just above the bush-line. I knew I was west of the Main Divide now, as rain caught up with me while I pitched my fly. I couldn’t have made bet-

Campsite at the head of the Dark River.

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

Hunter Pass and Barrier Peak.

ter use of the short weather window. I had pushed four long, hard days to get the timing right, now my body told me it was time to slow down a bit.

My campsite was still 300 metres above the valley floor, and if I had thought I was past all the difficulties, well, I was up for a disappointment.

The cirque steepened again and finally precipitated into a 60-metre waterfall that required much back-tracking, sidling through steep scrub and weaving through bluffs, without ever being able to see the route below me. The Dark River was a wild place to be—a valley floor filled with thick forest and littered with rotten logs and boulder fields, all surrounded by gigantic walls on three sides. I was right in the middle of darkest Fiordland, pondering my options on how to get back home. I had been in many wilderness areas before but none ever felt so remote, without a single easy exit route.

I could have climbed back to the tops, but dreaded the descent into the Castle. The familiar crossings to MacKinnon Pass or into the head of the Light were both too difficult for a party of one. I could have attempted Dark-Light Saddle or a sidle around Lake Grave to get into the Light, but really, those are two fearsome routes, both of which would take me from one wild place into another wild place. Starvation Creek and Hunter Pass, or the tributary east of Robb Creek were my two realisitic options back into the Worsley. The latter option might have been safest, but would also require negotiating a steep head cirque. I had long been dreaming of an easier line

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over Hunter Pass, which seemed so obvious on the maps, why had no one found it yet?

If my route didn’t go, I would waste four days; not an appealing prospect when I was travelling light on food already. But I was not going to back off from the challenge, so I made my way towards Hunter Pass.

The sky was clear again. When I found a small elevated spot in the lee of a boulder just above the upper forks in Starvation Creek, I worked hard for two whole hours to claim a campsite from the thick vegetation. I was acting like an animal seeking shelter. Despite the calm weather, I could sense that something just wasn’t right. My effort was vindicated the next day, which I spent in my sleeping bag, the Starvation Creek trickle having turned into an impassable mess of foaming and roaring brown water. I was only ten metres away, but didn’t need to go that far to fetch water. I placed the billy under the edge of the fly, started the stopwatch, and in less than 30 seconds it had filled to the brim, all of its two and a half litres.

Luckily I didn’t have to wait as long as Grave’s party to resume my journey towards Hunter Pass, nor did I need to shoot a weka or a kea. After negotiating some unpleasant scrub, I sidled at length under impressive bluffs. Previous parties had climbed through them somewhere, That looks insane, I thought, Not for me thank you! I eventually reached the crux of my route, a small rock step at CB08 806 178 with a steep tussock fan to the left.

I was able to climb through the gap between the vertical tussock and rock, which was followed by a short, exposed sidle across a gully that took me past any difficulties. Two hundred metres higher up, an excellent ledge eliminated a second potential problem—the northern spur of Pt 1591m. From there it was plain sailing to the lake on Hunter Pass.

I had entirely succeeded in my intent of finding a tramping route over the pass, a route that I would be happy to repeat any time again, with a full pack and without a rope, in either direction. I hope no future parties will ever feel the need to negotiate the precipices below the pass.

Hunter Pass itself is an amazing place, it was the scenic highlight of the trip. It’s a tormented landscape of rocks and tussocks studded with tarns, tapering into a jagged ridge rising towards Barrier Peak, a thin wedge precipitating into the Dark and Prospect either side. Despite snow showers, I could not hold back from exploring every single vantage point above the pass. Then it was down into Prospect Creek, a descent

that I had underestimated, it took lots more concentration than I would have liked. I couldn’t find the rock bivvy at the head of Prospect Creek, so settled for an exposed campsite in the creek bed, which I left early the next morning when the wind started blowing rain into my fly from all directions.

Prospect Creek itself held more than one sting in its tail. I can’t say I had an easy time getting out of it. Lake Sumor required endless wading and bashing through thick scrub—a most unpleasant experience in a wet, cold southerly.

Lake Brownlee looked better, the only Fiordland lake I’ve ever found that has a good deer trail around its shore. Moir’s Guide South states ‘the east shore of the lake provides good going, though wading in the lake edge will save climbing over bluffs’. Here, I’ll admit I misinterpreted the guidebook. Miserably wet and cold, I turned the words around to ‘climbing over bluffs will save wading (or worse, swimming) in the lake edge’. Well, after more than one hour spent clambering over terrifying moss covered bluffs and not being able to find a way down, I conceded defeat, returned to the lake, stripped down and swam around the god-damned rock prow. I had to repeat the stunt to get across the lake outlet and when I got home I just had to read Beyond the Southern Lakes again. How on earth did Grave get past this obstacle?

Casually, of course: ‘Stripping, we waded and swam

across to our camp’.1 That night I crossed the powerful Prospect Creek at the forks with the Worsley, then set up camp on its true left. You cannot imagine my disappointment the next morning when I resumed travel down valley, only to realise that I had camped on an island. The main channel of Prospect Creek was still in front of me, too strong for me to cross. I spent three hours trying to ford the Worsley (too strong also) and building cairns to observe the river levels drop. By noon I knew the rivers weren’t in any hurry to go down, while a thin veil of cloud warned me that the next day it might all get worse again.

I remembered I had a rope and harness in my pack, so I set up an abseil across the current in Prospect Creek. Wow, that worked out well. I was across in no time, and made it back to the hut at the mouth of the Worsley before nightfall.

The next morning I was away at dawn, paddling around Feldspar Point and on to Glade House. Forty trampers got off a big catamaran to start their own adventure on the Milford Track, while I finished mine with a ride home on a big, empty boat. The captain looked at my little raft with disbelief. Did I really paddle up the lake in that nut-shell? Well, yes I did indeed.

1.

Crozier, A. (2001) Beyond the Southern Lakes – The Explorations of W.G. Grave, 2nd Edition. Reed Books, Auckland

The head-cirque of the Castle Valley from Barrier Peak. Danilo’s route out of the Castle climbs out of the dark shadow on the left onto the sunny tussock slopes above. The steep section below is not visible.

On the skyline are the Nicholas Peaks (left) and Castle Mount (right).

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

SABRE RATTLING An ascent of the Fisher-Mcleod route on the south face of Sabre Peak

by JAMIE BARCLAY The south face of Sabre is perhaps the best classical rock climb in this fair land. –Murray Jones

Matt Thom in the upper Marian Valley, the south face of Sabre behind.

Jamie Barclay

M

att called me on the Thursday. It was raining in Christchurch. It was raining everywhere in the South Island.

‘Sabre, south face, you keen?’ His enthusiasm was un-dampened by the weather. There was talk of a clear weather window for the following Monday.

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

I mulled it over. I was keen, but I would be flying out of the country the following Wednesday. I pored over the weather sites, trying to best guess the approaching conditions. It looked like it might dry up on the Monday. Might.

By Saturday night we were driving into Fiordland.

Scattered showers had cleared and the valley walls of the Darrans looked surprisingly dry as we drove to Homer Hut. Bags packed, we bedded down for the night, full of optimism that our gamble might have paid off.

I woke around 4.00 am to the sound of rain, heavy, solid, Fiordland rain, beating onto the roof of the hut. I sighed, rolled over and—optimism extinguished—I went back to sleep.

Sunday morning. The rain had turned to drizzle, but was persistent. We took turns ducking out of the hut to check visibility, getting momentarily excited by a glimpse of Homer Saddle or the outline of Talbot, only to be sobered by its imminent disappearance back into the lingering cloud.

After a couple of hours of this, and unable to consume any more egg and bacon sandwiches, we opted for bloody-minded optimism over all else. The rain had been heavy. We expected that even if it did clear, the route would be sopping wet, but with nothing to lose, shouldered our packs and took a lift to the Marian Valley.

Marching up the bush track, passing day-trippers returning from the lake, I felt fit. Our packs were light, we heeded the guidebook warning that ‘parties will need to move extremely fast and travel light if they do not want a cold night out on the face’.

We moved quickly along the edge of the lake. Our expectations were low but we at least entertained the possibility of a bivvy at the head of the cirque, maybe even a photo of the seeping, un-climbable route.

The drizzle subsided and gave way to enveloping mist, which shrouded the whole Marian basin like a thick blanket of wool. Sound was deadened and the lake was still, grey and flat before us. With nothing to lose we moved alongside the lake, then up the creek-bed to the head of the valley. Boulder hopping, scrambling, and sliding, we laughed as we tried to keep our feet dry—no small achievement during a Fiordland approach. Rising out of the creek, tumbling boulder fields led to the head of the valley, giving us pause for thought as we puzzled to pick a line to the upper Marian.

Unprotectable tussocky rakes, snowgrass ledges and granite slabs wove an improbable route to the

crux of the day: the Lyttle Falls access. This sodden gut of loose turf and dripping cracks is not to be underestimated! I tied on to our rope and managed to ferret an occasional piece of gear in to protect the greasy corner. Gingerly picking my way up, I pulled carefully on rock or tussock—anything that might offer a bit of purchase.

Finally reaching easier ground, I belayed Matt up, and we had our first proper view of Sabre’s south face.

It was big—dominating the head of the valley—and inspired my imagination. The Fisher-Mcleod route is a perfect, direct line up the face. The rock looked wet in places but nowhere near as bad as we had expected.

We were alone. It was ours for the taking.

Quickly moving past Lakes Marianette and Mariana, drinking deep and refilling for the next day, we scanned the face for an access route. Traversing left under the face allowed for a rapid ascent up a rising ramp and we moved un-roped past receding snow patches and over a series of rocky steps. The face steepened and became dripping wet. Matt took the lead this time and made short work of a poorly protected and wet series of cracks and slabs. Two further pitches put us at the base of the south face proper and with the last light fading we hunted out a reasonable bivvy ledge for the night. Brewing up as the sun set, we grinned at each other. This gamble might have paid off! The last wisps of cloud gave way to a clear night sky, with the first stars making their appearance. A cloud inversion crept stealthily up the lower Marian Valley, enveloping everything within.

From our high point, life was good.

By 6.00 am I was awake and keen to move. Having forgone sleeping bags to save weight, I was chilly and needed to get going. With a quick brew and breakfast behind us, Matt tied on for the first pitch of the day.

It was wet, and protection required effort to find. A friend had warned us that it was actually the crux of the route, although only graded 17, it certainly felt harder than that first thing in the morning.

With the torn-out page from the guidebook offering little of use at this stage, I followed my nose up the second pitch. Delicate traversing on hollow sounding flakes gave way to easier ground and a straightforward corner system.

The next few pitches flowed easily, bringing us to a ledge system about half-way up the face. The official crux pitches followed. The first was an overhanging corner, with ‘get jamming’ written all over it. On closer inspection, it was dripping with water and enough

greenery to interest the most jaded of botanists, so I opted for a more delicate but poorly protected traverse in from the left.

Once back in the sanctuary of the corner, brute force, jamming and giggling produced the desired effect, and I pulled over a ledge to belay Matt. What extra moves he had to employ in order to climb the crack with the pack on I can still only imagine. The next pitch was arguably the best of the lot—bone dry, perfect granite, with a steep overhanging finish.

We both whooped and marvelled at the quality of the climbing we had discovered.

Above there the climbing eased, although the route became less obvious. Matt took a good line, which put us on track to reach the final groove system that led to the summit ridge.

Matt Thom surveying the road ahead, on pitch three of the Fisher-McLeod.

Jamie Barclay

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

t o p The author on the summit of Sabre. Matt Thom b o t t o m The author enjoying one of the crux pitches of the Fisher-McLeod. Matt Thom

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

Moving together for the final pitch, we reached the ridgeline and sunshine. My body celebrated with an impromptu nosebleed for some reason, adding bizarre interest to the summit photos.

We moved rapidly down the East Ridge and began our abseil descent. Leftover tat was abundant at each station and we reached the Sabre-Adelaide Col in five abseils. We had double 60-metre ropes, but there were enough potential anchors to achieve descent with a single rope.

A gully of death-scree prompted us to stay on the rope until a hilarious combination of grovelling, front pointing in approach shoes—and at one point the judicious use of a nut key as an improvised ice axe—allowed us to reach the base of the snow and the granite flanks of the upper Adelaide Valley.

‘You know the way down, right?’ I asked Matt, as he had previously climbed Sabre’s North West Ridge some years before.

‘Yeah … sort of …’ he replied.

Five hours later we collapsed onto the flattest boulder we could find amongst the snowgrass. Any interest in finding Phil’s (or anyone else’s) Biv at this stage was long gone. We had been going for 18 hours and after a few wrong turns, a selection of cairns, more abseils and a bizarre ice-caving experience, we had reached the valley floor.

I was due to fly back to Christchurch the following day, so we planned to be up again at 4.00 am.

At 6.00 am we woke up, swore a bit, grabbed our bags and moved off. The rest of the day was what I would class as death-walking. We managed to negotiate Gifford’s Crack, climb Barrier Knob and get down to Gertrude Saddle without our fatigued legs betraying us on what would otherwise be a straightforward day out.

We finally reached the sanctuary of Gertrude Saddle and took in the view, now able to relax, and chatted to folks climbing up to the viewpoint. Happy, but very, very tired, we trotted down to the hut, shared congratulations with the few folk still there, and jumped straight into the car.

Driving back to Queenstown I looked at the views with different eyes. I would not be back for a long time. I was flying back to the UK the next day, but I had a lasting memory to take with me. After a privileged few years of climbing in New Zealand’s mountains, I had been lucky enough to enjoy that mountaineering experience we all aspire to: sharing success and adventure with a good friend, returning safe and full of excitement for the next chance to come back.

A Nation spoke to a Nation.

A Queen sent word to a Throne: ‘Daughter am I in my mother's house, But mistress in my own.

The gates are mine to open, As the gates are mine to close,

Peter O’Neill descending the snow arête on Lady of the Snows.

LADY OF THE SNOWS An ascent of Lady of the Snows from Green Valley by Reece McKenzie, Peter O’Neill and Stanley Mulvany, following the route of the first ascent.

And I set my house in order,’

words and photos by STANLEY MULVANEY

Said our Lady of the Snows.

ady of the Snows is a fitting name for a beautiful peak. Jim Martin and Edgar Williams first climbed it on 19 January 1934. They motored down from Christchurch and sent supplies by steamer up lake Te Anau while they crossed the Dore Pass. With 80-pound swags they crossed Mackinnon Pass and then proceeded to cut a track up the then unknown Green Valley. A camp was established at the head of the valley and on 19 January they broke camp at 5.00 am. The weather, which was clear at first, deteriorated into a snowstorm by the time they reached the snow arête. They described the climb as grueling, with icicles on the summit rocks. The mist was so dense they built cairns at both ends of the ridge to make sure they had reached the summit. A tin was placed in each.

Their camp was regained after a 13-hour climb.

Summer 2011 saw Peter O’Neill, Frank Johnstone and I tramp in from Milford for an attempt. We contacted Ross Kerr of DOC beforehand who alerted the hut wardens of our presence. This is a wise thing to do as there is a booking system on

‘Carry the word to my sisters— To the Queens of the East and the South I have proven faith in the Heritage By more than the word of the mouth.

They that are wise may follow Ere the world's war-trumpet blows, But I—I am first in the battle’, Said our Lady of the Snows’.

–Rudyard Kipling, 1897

L

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 Reece McKenzie enjoying the view of Lady of the Snows from the Green Valley flats. r i g h t View from the summit of Lady of the Snows, looking west.

the world famous Milford Track and no camping is allowed within 500 metres of the track. An exception is made for bona fide climbing parties who use the track for access to the climbing valleys, but no camping near the track is a condition. That first day we reached Dumpling Hut for lunch and then crossed the Arthur River and ascended the slopes between two branches of the Green Valley creek. This proved to be a mistake as we found it impossible to cross to the true right at the mouth of the gorge. It was only possible to cross lower down where it flattens out.

That night we camped on a slip about half-way through the gorge at about 300m on the true right.

The next day we set off, leaving all our camping gear for an attempt on the summit. We reached the saddle at 1330m and as the weather had now deteriorated and it was getting late we retreated to a cold bivvy in the bush down the valley. The rest of the trip was a full-scale retreat in a downpour. Perhaps the most exciting part was crossing Milford Sound in our inflatable kayak just before dark in a deluge.

Peter and I had planned to return this summer but Frank lives in Scotland and was unable to do so. At a Southland Section annual dinner I had the pleasure of sitting next to Sarah Lovel and somehow the conversation got around to Lady of the Snows.

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Sarah causally mentioned that Jim Martin, who made the first ascent with Edgar Williams, was her grandfather. This was amazing to say the least, so I encouraged her to join us. Alas this was not possible but Reece, her partner, said he would like to come.

On 20 January 2012 Belinda, Peter and I set off in two vehicles for Milford Sound. We left Pete’s ute at the Fiordland National Park Lodge at Te Anau Downs and carried on to Milford where we met up with Keri Antoniak at the DOC house there. Early on the Saturday we set off with Keri up the Bowen Valley to a clearing several kilometres up valley where we retrieved our stoat traps and with Keri’s help placed them along the riverbanks. This was part of a conservation project organised on behalf of NZAC. We reflagged the route on the way out and finished early in the afternoon. That evening we returned to Homer Hut where we spent the night. Sarah, Reece and their children joined us at the hut.

Early the next morning Belinda drove us down to Fisherman’s Wharf where we pumped up our Gumotex inflatable kayak while Belinda launched her kayak. It was cold due to a southerly as we crossed over to Sandfly Point.

Soon we were loaded up and after saying goodbye to Belinda we set off with heavy packs for Dumpling Hut. Five hours later we arrived and were greeted by Amanda, the hut warden. She agreed to look after some of our food while we went up Green Valley. We had a pleasant cup of tea with her before we set off.

This time we crossed the creeks low down and found a straightforward route up to a dry creek bed to the start of the sidle at 300m.

All was going smoothly and we arrived, an hour later, at the tributary which led us up to a steep climb out to a narrow ridge on its true left. Here there is a deer trail heading up to the 500m contour, where

there is a plateau and an easy deer trail down to the flats. At a junction of two creeks we set up camp on an open sandy area where we were entertained by a blue duck.

Monday morning dawned clear and cool as we set off for our climb. Wet boots were the order of the day as there are numerous crossings of the creek on the way up. There was a maze of creeks in the bush and we could not find the dry creekbed that apparently leads past the ridge leading to the col between Lady of the Snows and Mount Edgar. The ground was covered in waist-high ferns with obstructions and higher up ribbonwood and it took us three hours to reach the ridge.

Here we took a poor line over on the left through scrub and it proved to be an energy sapping climb. Reece was bounding ahead and clearly enjoying the climb as a small herd of chamois looked down from the bluffs above. Height was steadily gained to the col where for a second time cloud was drifting across the summit.

From the col we ascended a steep rocky ridge to the snowfields above. Near the top, huge rocks blocked us but a sort of subterranean lead took us through. Not far above we struck snow where we strapped on our crampons and climbed up the snow arĂŞte to the rocks. Here we moved left and took the first feasible gully. Pete led off and spent an age trying to get a decent belay anchor. It was cloudy and a bitterly cold wind was blowing across the face. Reece and I then climbed close together up to Pete where I took the rack and headed off to the left to a ledge that I had spied. Beyond this was another ledge up leftwards that I reached and from there it was an easy scramble to the summit.

Thankfully by now it had cleared and we had great views all around. Reece was ecstatic and found the remnants of a tin can in the summit cairn that was likely to be Jim Martin’s. We retrieved it for a photo

and kept a tiny bit for Sarah and returned the rest to its resting place. The time was 4.30 pm and half an hour later we started the descent. All went well.

Lower down I took off down snow slopes to the right of the rocky ridge that saved us many precious minutes. At the base of the ridge we found an easier route through the scrub. Not long after starting down the dry creekbed it got dark and the rest was an unpleasant scramble down wet rock and riverbed back to camp, which we regained at 11.30 pm.

Tuesday dawned the best yet and we had a lazy start drying out gear and eating to replenish the huge amount of energy expenditure from our climbing day.

By lunch time we set off for the lower Green Valley and the following day Reece headed out to Milford.

Ian, the new Dumpling Hut warden had just got an updated weather forecast which predicted five wet days so Pete and I decided to head out via the Clinton and pick up our food caches there. On the Thursday we caught the boat to Te Anau Downs.

l e f t Peter and Reece at a campsite on the Green Valley flats. r i g h t Peter and Reece on snowfields below Lady of the Snows.

Acknowledgements: thanks to Reece McKenzie for joining the team; to Keri Antoniak and Ross Kerr of DOC; Belinda for transport; to Sarah for help with historical notes; to Fred and Chris of Real Journeys and to Toni, receptionist at Fiordland National Park Lodge.

See The First Ascent of Lady of the Snows, 1934, by Sarah Lovel and Stanley Mulvany, The Vertical Word, p120, for an account of the first ascent.

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

SUN AND SORCERY A traverse of the Selborne Range words and photos by GEOFF SPEARPOINT On the Selborne Range, heading for Mt Dispute.

U

ltimately, this is a fishy story. Read on. It didn’t take much encouragement from Rob Frost for me to join his planned traverse of the Selborne Range between the Waiatoto and the Mueller Valleys in South Westland. Rob also had along Claire Gibb, Yvonne Pfluger and Tim Church, and it proved a great team. Years ago I’d looked at the Selborne Range from the Haast Range, so I knew there were some interesting bits. None of us knew anyone who had been along it. Slowly the mystery of that drew us under the range’s spell. If the weather held, we had hopes on Mounts Alba and Castor too.

As there were going to be enough challenges without swimming the sandfly swamps of the lower Waiatoto, we took a jetboat to the start of Selborne Spur, near Long Beach. As we packed on the river-

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bank with the boat gone, I looked at the rest of the crew and realised they were all half my age, and I remember thinking, They’ll be twice as fit too. You’ll be lucky to get out of this alive. It’s amazing how the body rises to the occasion though. Never count an old dog dead ‘til he smells. Oh well.

Rob had done his research. Local Kerry Eggeling had taken two and a half hours to get to the bushline up this spur. We took six, but Kerry didn’t have a ten -day pack. Kerry also warned us about being led into bluffs on the up-valley side. He was right about that.

The ridge though was mostly very good open travel to the bushline, where a bit of care avoided nearly all of the scrub. We camped not far on, with views to Africa, a bit of dry scrub for a fire and a tarn to put it out with.

Not much seems to have been written about the Selborne Range. It doesn’t appear in the NZAJ index.

Charlie Douglas mentions travelling up the Mueller River past it. In 1950 a celebrated NZAC/TTC transalpine climbing trip made first ascents of Mounts Dispute, Trident, and the north summit of Mount Alba, but didn’t go further north along the range.

Hunters have shot on the tops, and Warren Herrick, Lyndsay Fletcher and Steve Bruce crossed the range around Emily Torrent on a traverse of the western Southern Alps in 1980. To find out anything else we’d just have to suck it and see.

The morning of 29 December 2011 dawned overcast, and travel was slow on boulders in long tussock, but in light of later travel it was damn good going.

The mist came in, along with drizzle and, as we gained height, we decided to head for a tarn basin east of Mount Selborne. Later in the week settled weather was predicted, but tonight it was meant to rain. The drizzle brought out a couple of massive black slugs onto the rocks. At a good 100 millimetres long they were big enough to seriously bulk up the stew. No, we didn’t. Tim is vegetarian. We found our tarn basin but it wasn’t as flash as the map suggested.

While I clambered around in a boulder field, Tim and Yvonne headed straight over to the only reasonable campsite. But we all got there in the end.

In the morning the skies were bright and clear.

A tussock gully took us up to a rib and back onto mostly clean bedrock, and then snow as we climbed higher. Above a minor headwall we were on the range crest again, and some scrambled up Mount Selborne for a look. Further on, we sidled one pinnacle, traversed the next and sidled the third to end up camping for the night up on Pt 1819m sometime after 9.00 pm, dry and knackered, scraping little platforms out amongst the rocks.

It is something pretty special to wake up under clear skies on top of a mountain range, deep in South Westland. Across the Waiatoto the whole of the Haast Range curled away towards Aspiring, while far in the distance Mount Cook glowed gold and prows along our own range made it very clear the day would be interesting. We ended up managing four and a half kilometres over ten hours of travel. That was better than yesterday’s two kilometres. Travel on many sections of the range was inordinately slow, on broken and bouldery ground that looked like it should be way faster. Our estimations improved as the reality check of each day’s travel kicked in. We had a long, long way to go.

Going west of Pt 1748m we snuck up to a col under Pt 1864m. Looking face on, the prow up to this next peak looked rugged. Tim and I went for a recce while the others lay under a bluff out of the sun. It was just steep. Further on, we were back in a world of snowslopes under bluffs, and in the evening light we looked for a place to stop. Around the top of Presto Spur, overlooking Greasy Gulch, (don’t you love those names!) we found a cool campsite on a shoulder of gravel where a creek flowed—perfect in fine weather. It was New Year’s Eve and I bludgeoned Rob and Claire into sleeping out under the stars. What a place to see the new year in, sipping our

Mt Pollux from the ridge off Leda Peak. Lake Lucidus is on the left and Lake Castalia on the right.

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

l e f t Traversing the Selborne Range, with Quail Flat below, in the Mueller Valley, and Mt Alba behind. r i g h t Rob Frost and Claire Gibb on the Selborne Range, looking over to Mt Warren on the Browning Range across the Turnbull River.

meagre mugs of Baileys. Far below in shadowland the Mueller River muttered away and the stars strolled their way across the night sky into the first day of the new year. Once we got going again, long sidles on snow took us back up to the range crest.

We thought we had had it bad with broken rock along the range so far, but getting from the saddle at the head of Emily Torrent along to The Wart took on new dimensions. It was heinous. The rock was solid enough, it was just so incredibly carved up. A bit of route-finding up a buttress, then carrying a pack into a rock maze full of dead ends was quite time consuming. We dropped west off The Wart in glissades down to a fantastic campsite near 1596m. Actually there are several great campsites near here, but I won’t go into that. Yvonne knows where they are. Water would be scarce without the snowbanks though.

On 2 January 2012, we headed across snow, rock and scree towards Mount Calliope, bypassing it to the south-west. Further along, we looked for a route up a bluff to the saddle a few hundred metres north of Pt 1683m. Up close, our first choice, via a rock rib, looked a bit ugly. Without packs, we went poking at other lines. I liked my route, but others thought it was crap. We went Tim and Rob’s way, and belayed a couple of pitches up the bluffs.

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Beyond Pt 1683m we were back on the range again and things looked sublime. The range snaked away towards the saddle before Mount Dispute, with easy travelling on the narrow crest above walls and blades that were beautifully lit by the evening light. Nice.

But our hopes of getting up Mount Dispute faded with the day. Instead, we snuck onto a flat spot on a rib and put the tents up. Well, the others did. I just slept out again. There was no wind. A couple of us headed down with containers to where water trickled nearby and filled up while Tim and Yvonne negotiated a new daily cheese ration.

We must have been feeling a bit of pressure, because we got away a bit earlier the next morning.

The accumulated ten-hour days, multi-day packs and keeping focused to push the trip through to the Main Divide were beginning to show. We were all a bit knackered. This was day seven. Mist hung around the peaks, and soon we were in it, trying to route-find through its distortions. The ridge up onto Mount Dispute proved to be a bit gnarly, and we had the rope out a few times getting past several tricky bits.

A short sidle on slopes above the Mueller felt quite exposed and insecure, but after a recce ahead there was always some way.

All the way along the Selborne we had regularly seen rock wrens, making this place a stronghold and

refuge. But the reality of what these guys face up here came home sharply when, high on Mount Dispute, we looked back to see a stoat gamboling on a tiny bank of snow about 40 metres away. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was cute and entertaining with it’s flips and flexibility. But by the time you read this it may’ve eaten some of those very rock wrens we’d seen.

I’d been on Mount Dispute a couple of times, and had assured the others it was all very easy up near the top. Turns out I’ve got a dodgy memory. Arriving on Mount Dispute about 4.00 pm, we headed down the rock and snow patches the map still calls the Dispute Glacier to the tarns and lakes in the head of the Mueller. Under a heavily overcast sky and often buried in the mist, we headed for Lake Axius, sidling to Te Naihi Saddle and heading south from Mount Achilles along the Main Divide to camp at 9.00 pm.

The Main Divide here is a favourite place of mine, with idyllic tarns and campsites overlooking high bluffs into Newland Stream.

I woke to a splash as Yvonne had a quick dip.

That was keen. With a cold westerly blowing mist over the Main Divide we bailed for the Wilkin.

Alba and Castor would have to wait. There is a cute route down off Leda Peak that has a crux under the bluffs a little north of Mount Juno. It takes you

into the north branch of the Wilkin River at Lake Castalia. Moir’s Guide North will tell you about it (shameless advertising I know). We headed for the green pastures of the Wilkin, revelling in a relaxed journey down towards the forks. The second to last night was spent around a fire under beech trees, and we ambled up to Lake Diana for a swim in its dark warm waters. We were all pretty worn out, but what a wonderful trip, full of great company and benevolent weather. We had all been kept on our toes by interesting challenges at times and there had been enough scrambling to need a rope every now and then. It was a cool way to spend an extended week in the mountains.

In the morning, our ninth day out, we headed for Top Forks, and it was all downhill from there. By nightfall we were in Kerin Forks Hut, with unsettled weather outside, and a warden to pay. He looked fishy. Sure enough it was the dodgy old-timer Ivan McLauchlan, ex-OSONZAC chairman, scoping out a retirement home funded by hut fees. Ivan is no slouch with a rod, and early the next morning, with all of us still tucked up asleep in our bunks he marched in with a massive brown trout for our breakfast. Champion! I told you this trip ended up being fishy. We cooked it in the wardens quarters.

No point messing the hut up as well. Thanks Ivan.

l e f t New Year’s morning on the Selborne Range, with the Mueller Valley behind and Mt Alba on the skyline. r i g h t Camp on the Main Divide south of Mt Achilles, with Mt Alba and the Axius Glacier behind.

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

MORSE CODE

a b o v e Scott on blocky ground on the West Ridge of Hawkins. facing page: l e f t The Mahitahi Valley and Bannock Brae Range. Mt Butzback is at centre and Fettes Peak is in the distant right. r i g h t Looking back up the West Ridge of Hawkins after the team collected their bivvy gear, en route to the Morse.

Finding unclimbed routes in the Mahitahi and Morse Valleys words and photos by ROB FROST

A

pparently I have a reputation for what one contributor to The Climber magazine recently referred to as ‘taking climbing gear for a walk.’ It’s true I suppose, when I look back on the last few years of scrub bashing and rainy tent-bound days, that most of the time I was optimistically laden with rope and rack that were never to leave the bottom of my pack. My objectives may have been proud, worthy specimens of virgin mountainsides, but the weather and my calendar have never cared much about those.

Then came March 2011 and three people with three days off. Scott and Sam wanted the North Ridge of Sefton. I told them not to be silly, they’d just be taking their gear for a walk. And besides, it’s already been climbed. Why not try the West Ridge of Hawkins? According to the guidebook it’s unclimbed, and it’s only half a day’s walk up the Mahitahi to the base of the ridge. A wise man once

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

suggested Hawkins to me, pointing out that it’s pretty high for being so far from the Main Divide.

They knew me well enough.

‘Isn’t that where you and Pete spent most of last weekend bashing through scrub, and you never even reached the tussock?’

‘Well, yeah, but we started late, and we only had two days. This time we’ll have a full day out from a camp on the tops, and the ridge shouldn’t be super technical, mostly just exposed scrambling, so we won’t need to bash through the scrub with much gear.’

I knew they were convinced even before they did.

Stories of an uncooperative land-owner at the start of the Mahitahi Valley turned out to be false, but the bottle of whisky I left on his porch a week prior, and the fact that we weren’t hunters, may have helped. Travel up the river was even easier than the guidebook suggested. We were at the Morse conflu-

ence—the base of our ridge—only three hours after leaving the car. Scott subconsciously tried to make it more challenging by constantly misjudging the depth of the river, choosing his own devastatingly deep crossing points. We dubbed him The Estimator.

Climbing up the start of the ridge through beech forest was straightforward, then soon after lunch we hit the South Westland monkey scrub. The frustrating thing about this ridge is that the gradient eases through the scrub zone, thus prolonging the pain.

The Estimator told us we’d be at easy tussock, 800 metres away, in two hours.

The scrub, unsurprisingly, really was the emotional low point of the trip. We even sank to new melodic lows, developing our own version of I don’t want no scrub …

We finally broke free in the mid-evening light, then another hour of uphill slogging got us to our exposed bivvy site on Pt 1528m. The weather was perfect and the views up the ridge and across to Mount Butzback revived our interest in living.

Young Sam couldn’t believe his companions’ habits: ‘You guys brought toothbrushes? But trips in the hills are the only time you don’t need to brush your teeth!’

He must’ve missed his mother.

We woke up the next day, once again feeling excited and optimistic, and initially made good time along the ridge. Then we got to Pt 1759m and soon realised that no amount of sneaky navigation was going to get us up Hawkins on this trip. Our obstacle was a massive gendarme, 20 metres up the front, 50 metres down the back to a deep notch, and it was steep, compact schist on all sides. We knew it, we just hadn’t taken enough gear for a walk. The gendarme would be doable with rock shoes, double ropes and a standard rack, but that will have to wait for other keen mountaineers in the future.

I didn’t want the adventure to be over, and none of us wanted to go anywhere near that scrub again.

We looked south and an option presented itself.

Towering above us were the massive unclimbed N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 45

t o p The unclimbed north faces of Peak 2000m and Mt Paterson. b o t t o m Sam retreating back down the West Ridge of Hawkins.

north faces of the Strachan Range, which rise above the Morse River. Observant readers who’ve driven south past Bruce Bay on a fine day will have seen these huge walls up an unknown valley, but knowing zilch about their access, would have promptly forgotten them.

All I knew about travel in the Morse was based on a hunters’ guide from the 70s, which I figured was so outdated that we should work out our own route. It was time for a recce.

Of course, I had some convincing to do. We couldn’t actually see all the way down into the Morse, but I was sure from the map that a route existed. I left the others to guard my pack against keas and went to check it out. My route turned out to be on a huge convex slope, and after descending 300 metres of tussock I still couldn’t see the slopes that

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

linked where I was standing to the valley floor. But the beautiful grassy flats down there looked so close, I figured the rest of the way down must be straightforward. I gave the others a thumbs up, and three hours later we were back at the furthest extent of my recce, after collecting our gear from the bivvy.

It was a good thing I hadn’t sussed the route out a bit further, or we may not have come back for it.

We soon found ourselves on a steeply inclined sea of greasy, mossy slabs, with a few diagonal, vegetated ripples giving us some faint purchase. It took forever. Scott was not happy, this wasn’t even getting us towards a climb. Sam was somehow nonchalant. We reached a ten-metre wide, grassy shelf and I told the others I’d have another scout ahead. I was anxious, below us looked steeper than ever.

Fortunately, the far end of the shelf sloped into a steep, bouldery and scrubby gully which led clear to the valley floor. Rarely have I been more thankful for a bit of scrub to hold onto. Stepping into the sun on the warm tussock flats below was ecstasy. We even had time for a swim after setting up camp. Odours by this time were getting a bit rich. Not so much our underarms, more so the packet of smoked Mackerel that somebody estimated would make a great feed in the hills. It was even too much for its owner to finish during the walk out.

Setting off the following morning, travelling in the riverbed allowed us to avoid the scrubby banks and flats. Then, just where the river began to get steep, we were able to step into open bush on the true right.

This turned out to be a deer highway for the next two hours, but the final two hours to the Mahitahi confluence comprised pretty ordinary bush-bashing.

Our resulting time of eight hours from the upper flats to the car made us confident that the Morse would allow good one-day access to climbs on the Strachan Range, and may even be preferable to the Mahitahi for getting into the head of the Edison. I should add that Scott and Sam deserve praise for putting up with three days of my unrealistic optimism, without even getting a climb in!

And what of those Strachan Range faces that we passed underneath, were they any good? They were certainly impressive, and as far as I know they’re untouched. However, they looked very compact, with huge overlaps, and the lower half of the faces—I hate to say it—had a fair bit of green. But worry not, there’s a great new route to do on the west ridge of Hawkins. Just be willing to risk taking your climbing gear for a walk.

Elie de Beaumont Oil painting by

JOHN RUNDLE

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

ICE GANGSTERS A first ascent on the south face of Mount Sealy

by JAMIE VINTON-BOOT

Steve Fortune leading the final section of mixed terrain to the Sladden Glacier.

Jamie Vinton-Boot

I

finally escape from the office, only slightly behind schedule. Running down the stairs, all thoughts of work disappear and suddenly climbing is all I can think about. Steve Fortune and I have just over 48 hours to achieve our objective: a first ascent on the south face of Mount Sealy. As I weave through traffic on the bike ride home, mental checklists tick over in my head: boots, crampons, tools, rope and helmet—the most critical items that would be disastrous to forget.

This is the life of a city kid who is psyched on mountain climbing. I keep my head down and focus on clearing my desk during the week, ideally before Friday morning, so that I have no distractions, except for checking the weather twice daily. As the pressure rises, I weasel my way out of all other commitments that might jeopardise the weekend mission.

I have my bags packed, ready to boost as soon as I step in the door. Then finally it’s pedal to the metal,

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

ready to smash and grab whatever objective my partner and I have chosen. There is no secret formula, all that is required is drive and focus.

A few hours later we’re plodding up Birch Hill Stream towards Jamieson Saddle, 1500 metres above us at the head of the valley. Luckily our packs are light, although I’ve made the error of wolfing down a pie and sausage roll and they seem to be weighing me down. Steve leads the way, his pie apparently having had less effect than mine. Just as it gets dark we reach the head of the valley and the final steep slopes to the saddle. In the darkness time slows to a crawl and it seems like hours later that we finally get there, although in reality it’s only been three and half hours since we left the road. This is the adjustment phase, where the mind slows and tunes in to the mountain world. There are now no cars, no phones and no distractions.

On the other side we find a flat campsite, sheltered

by a large rock just above the valley floor. Sleep comes quickly after the slog over the saddle and is helped somewhat by my winter sleeping bag. Steve has gone for a lightweight option and is less cozy, he shivers the night away. Weight is certainly critical for the smash and grabbers, but some luxuries aren’t worth giving up.

It’s still dark as we leave camp the next morning and descend into the depths of the valley floor.

Conditions are firm underfoot and the air is still, which bodes well for the day ahead. We’ve not yet decided on our route. Before leaving, we had studied a photo of the face that Steve had taken a year earlier and noted a possible line on the left-hand side, but there is no telling the way we will go until daylight.

The face will be a mildly committing prospect, as from the base it will be difficult to assess conditions higher up.

Dawn finally reveals what we have come for: the south face of Mount Sealy. Our attention is immediately captured by a line in the middle that looks thin and exciting. A narrow column of ice leads to a bare rock step and above this a series of tentacle-like icefields lead to the final summit headwall. We can see no way through the rock step. I want to try it but my instinct tells me not to. We decide on an easier but aesthetic line on the left-hand side. A short steep section of ice leads to lower-angled snow slopes and then another ice step just before the headwall. We have no idea if the headwall will go, or if we will be able to escape if it doesn’t.

Steve powers up the first steep section, his arms and legs move like clockwork. I start climbing just as he disappears out of sight. All I can hear is the thud of his tools and the tinkle of ice crystals raining down beside me. Now, after more than 12 hours in the mountains, my perception of reality has changed completely. It is the sound and feel of being in the mountains that guides me onwards. The rhythmic thud of tools and the tinkling of ice are reassuring in a world which otherwise feels cold and inhospitable.

My initial movements feel awkward and clumsy, like always. There is no use trying to change or fight this feeling. It is simply a case of concentrating on the present, on the ice in front of me, and letting my body find its rhythm in a realm that is suddenly vertical. Climbing mountains is not just a physical journey, nor just a spiritual one either. It is a blend of both and only when they come together—the yin and yang—does it feel right. Eastern cultures have understood this for generations but to the Western

mind it’s a foreign concept. Perhaps this is why I am drawn to the mountains so often—to reset the balance between my mind and body.

Steve waits for me on a shelf above the first step.

We had expected to be on the lower angled snow slopes from here but there is yet another section of steep ice to negotiate. A short traverse leftwards leads to a rounded and bulging gully, which is nearly vertical but short enough to be fun rather than intimidating. Half-way up I realise that my movements are flowing seamlessly—swing, kick, pull up, repeat. I’m in the zone. Only minutes later we’re through the first part of the climb and the full expanse of the face spreads out above.

It’s hard to appreciate the scale of mountains from photos and pictures. Even on climbs sometimes, the enormity of a face is disguised when you are posi-

The author leading on steep ice at the top of the long snow slope.

Steve Fortune

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

l e f t Kea attack on the way back to Mueller Hut. Steve Fortune

r i g h t Steve powering his way up the long snow slope towards the summit headwall.

Jamie Vinton-Boot

tioned in a tight gully system. For us, time is the only indicator of progress. The face spreads out before us; an endless jumble of snow, rock and ice. Suddenly I feel tiny and insignificant. The snow slope we had spied from the bottom stretches most of the way to the top and above us only the summit headwall remains. As far as we can tell, the prospect of having to climb the headwall is not worth contemplating. It looks like rubble piled upon rubble—as bad as some of the most horrendous rock that I’ve come across in the Southern Alps. Maybe there is a way through, but instinct tells me that we will be avoiding the headwall.

We continue up the face, sometimes encountering soft, knee-deep snow, but the energy and rhythm of the zone powers us upwards. I continuously set myself goals, such as a rock or feature 50 metres above, something to break the slope into manageable chunks. As we get closer to the headwall, climbing it seems less and less plausible. There is definitely a way to our right, Steve has climbed that way before, but there is a lot of terrain between us and the right side of the face. Over to our left is a possibility that looks as though it will top out just below the summit, but there is a way to go before we will know for sure.

At the top of the snow slope I lead through another steep gully of ice, popping out at the base of the final

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

slope just below the rotten headwall. Finally I can see that we will be able to escape left through what looks like mixed—but only moderately difficult—terrain.

All we have to do is traverse left over a series of snow arêtes. I continue leading, ploughing through deep snow at the crest of each arête, trusting that they are stable despite their precarious appearance. The pitch ends on a tiny col near the top of a long buttress marking the left boundary of the face. From our perch we have a clear view of the headwall. It turns out there is a way through, up a narrow chimney system that is partially filled with snow. We briefly discuss giving it a go, but quickly dismiss the idea.

Snow-filled gullies through rotten rock are not fun at the best of times.

The last two pitches involve delicate climbing over snow-covered rock and ice. With each step, huge slabs of snow slide off the mountain, pulverizing into a million pieces as they go. It is not strenuous climbing but I am still glad to pull over the lip onto the Sladden Glacier, and feel the wash of relief from finishing the route without enduring an epic on rotten rock. It is only just after midday and we have managed to ascend all but the final 100 metres of the face.

A few hours later we stroll into Wyn Irwin Hut, the whole trip, road to road, had only taken us 24 hours.

We return to Christchurch that night, well within the 48-hour timeframe that we had started off with.

It baffles me that in just two days Steve and I had managed to climb a route that no one has done before and yet is so accessible. Few people have such opportunities on their back doorstep. We name the route Ice Gangsters, after a passing comment on the drive home. I like to think that Steve and I are gangsters, out there searching, not for trouble, but for new routes, new opportunities that others have passed up or missed. The possibilities are endless.

Ice Gangsters (MC4), south face of Mt Sealy, Jamie Vinton-Boot and Steve Fortune, July 2012.

Submolecular information, from the Mueller Glacier to Sefton Biv, Aoraki Mt Cook for Kevin Walking up, where

Able then

the air falls, down

to levitate, out

from folding in fog

to the edge falling

and still spindrifts

away flimsily

over an edge,

in space, through

takes me past

cornices of air

a sunny tarn

onto the glacier,

and mind,

below Sefton Biv

in a cairn of

in the shriekless

diffident space

everywhere:

I’ve not been, or

in the infinite

inhabited before.

remote lace,

In the blue, a pretty

molecular road, of

egg and ingenuous,

the Mueller Glacier

the biv offers

find my own

a wombly cradle

information.

between hemispheres, of cracked rocks that continue up, allowing me to feed at breast or break bread, in the abstracted peel of orange stone. I, with tenuous means of connexion, between nuerons of routes to the top, just for this moment, in this blanket of time undulating Penrosely in space, pause in my climb.

Through my brain’s umbrella, or vascular skeins see a webbed pore open for me, between mind and grain. –

poem by DARYL MCLAREN photograph by TROY MATTINGLEY N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 51

‘H

ave you seen any goats?’

‘Nah, but I’ve smelt them.’

I joked about the four-legged creatures. The Seal Skin label on my neoprene booties sparked a train of thought. Maybe we didn’t need to carry any food. We could just go Navy Seal style and hunt down a goat with our ice axes. Steve was not impressed. He suggested that goats are much more agile than humans. Point taken.

It was early on a Saturday morning and my feet were freezing despite the booties. We’d struck it lucky though, a cool high had cloaked the South Island for a few days. The cold air mass ensured the Hodder River was in low flow. Travel was fast. Our fingers were crossed that some ice had formed.

That afternoon we were destined for a high camp at the Tappy-Alarm Saddle.

Thankfully there was barely a step that needed to be plugged in the consolidated snow pack. We were still warm from lugging our gear up the 2000m of vertical gain. Lengthy stints without conversation ensued as we made our way up the gently angled Staircase Stream. The sun slid behind a ridge as we arrived at the saddle.

Instant cold set in and our camp became a freezing one. Not to worry though, perched high above the Clarence, our location more than made up for the temperature. There was also the added bonus of the anticipation of the climb ahead.

The plan was to sidle the southern aspect of Pt 2711 and eye up a potential route before descending into the basin below the south face of Tapuae-o-Uenuku.

Unfortunately we never got the view we wanted. Dropping into the basin, we passed some slabby looking ice lines and found ourselves beneath a deep gut.

Steve suggested we have a go at it. I agreed.

Spindrift poured over the imposing walls that flanked our chosen line. The iced-up gut was like a funnel for an onslaught of crystals. The climbing was fantastic. Two pitches—including a touch of chimneying and sections of steep ice—saw us through to the middle snowfield. The speckled, metallic grey and light brown rock was unfamiliar but it took reasonable gear.

We switched to simul-climbing mode at the snowfield. Once Steve reached the upper headwall he made for a super ice runnel that breaks the final obstacle. The runnel was nothing other than superb. First time sticks made the climbing enjoyable while a series of steps kept one engaged.

With the ocean stretching to the horizon, the position of our climb was spectacular. I had not climbed an ice route in view of the Pacific before. What a place to be. This was surely one of those elusive moments of alpinism that can never quite be captured by a lens or expressed with ink.

We exited the runnel and entered the upper snowfield. The line then delivered us directly to the summit trig. We shook hands and agreed that the route was surprisingly good and the view was stunning.

On the Sunday afternoon, with haste, Steve and I made our way back to the road. Again conversation abandoned us as we settled into a rapid pace. We were focused on making it out of the riverbed before dark.

Back at the car and relieving our shoulders of our packs, we couldn’t help but marvel at the fact that a quality route, on a popular and heavily trafficked peak, had not been climbed until now. It just goes to show that one never knows what gems may be hidden out there.

To cap it all off the little tuck shop in Seddon was still open. The drive home wasn’t a hungry one.

Ornery Goat (MC4+), south face of Tapuae-o-Uenuku, Inland Kaikoura Range. Kieran Parsons and Steve Fortune, September 2012.

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

UNEARTHING A LITTLE GEM IN THE KAIKOURAS

by KIERAN PARSONS

Steve Fortune on the first pitch of Ornery Goat (MC4+) on the south face of Tapuae-o-Uenuku. Kieran Parsons N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 53

The author on Otoko Pass, looking at the north-east face of Mt Hooker.

Troy Mattingley

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

FULL VALUE ON THE NORTH-EAST FACE OF MOUNT HOOKER

by JAMIE VINTON-BOOT

D

reams of climbing the north-east face of Mount Hooker had been with me for a long time, even before we decided to make it one of our objectives on a trans-alpine traverse from Erewhon to Paringa. The appeal of the face lay in it being one of the largest and steepest unclimbed rock walls in the Southern Alps, and because it had repelled all other attempts to climb it.

The stories of difficult and prolonged access gave the face an air of mystery that made it even more alluring, despite the fact that little was known about the quality of its rock, if it was climbable, or if it was even worth doing.

The idea behind the trans-alpine traverse was to attempt a number of unclimbed faces in remote areas and to link these together in a month long trip. The team consisted of Paul Hersey, Shelley Hersey, Troy Mattingley and me. Before the trip we often joked that it would be just a tramping trip, but the way I viewed things, whether we succeeded or failed was all down to the climbing.

By the time we reached the upper Otoko Valley, from which the north-east face of Hooker rises, all thoughts of climbing had virtually disappeared. Bad weather dogged us from the start of the trip so that all we had managed was a short climb on the west face of Mount Conrad in the Liebig Range. While resting in the Landsborough before crossing to the Otoko, we realised that the significance of the trip was ultimately in making it that far. We talked of being content with simply making it to the end. But of course such feelings of contentment were short lived. When we crossed the Otoko Pass and saw the face for the first time, I knew immediately there was no way I could ignore it.

It took several moments to appreciate the size and complexity of the face, but the most aesthetic line stood out straight away. The face was split along its length by a hanging glacier about two thirds of the way up. A single prominent arête in the middle connected the upper and lower sections, and led almost directy to the summit. The arête formed a proud line, stretching for nearly the full height of the face, about 900 metres all up.

What the north-east face boasted in size and steepness it lacked completely in the quality of its rock. There was none of the characteristic red colour that usually suggests good alpine rock. Once again it seemed like everything was against us. That afternoon we discovered several holes in the sheath of our rope, the core was clearly visible through one of these. We wondered if this was a sign, warning us not to attempt the climb. Our final decision was that if we dreamed about the rope breaking then we would call it a day and leave the face untouched.

The next morning revealed clear skies and no bad dreams. Only Shelley and I would attempt the face.

Most of it looked as though it would need to be pitched and four people would take too long as the weather was due to come in that evening.

It took several hours to reach the start of the route from our campsite in the upper Otoko. A steep boulder-filled creek gave access to the remnants of the glacier at the base of the face. We expected to find a gaping schrund where the glacier met the rock, one final obstacle to make life difficult, but there was none. Instead we stepped directly onto a ledge and decided to start the route there, rather than the point we’d orginally been aiming for slightly further up.

Starting from the ledge would be a steeper but more direct line to the middle section of the face and the arête we were aiming for.

Despite the poor quality of the rock, I still expected it to be a reasonable climb. The reality, as I quickly discovered, was that the climb was far from moderate. It was definitely not a straightforward alpine slab climb.

I had failed to appreciate a fundamental difference between the rock structure of the face and the alpine rock I was used to. Everything on this face was orientated in vertical bands, instead of horizontal. The rock surface resembled corrugated iron—runnels upon runnels. This meant there were no positive edges for holds and where cracks appeared for gear they were flared and nothing would stay in properly.

It was also less than ideal for friction climbing. This all became apparent as I tried to lead up a corner system on the first pitch. Just before I was seriously

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

The north-east face of Mt Hooker.

Troy Mattingley

committed, half of my gear fell out and I realised it would be stupid and risky to continue.

But we weren’t deterred, it was just a case of having to find lower-angled ground and not being fully reliant on gear. In other words, falling wasn’t an option. So rather than follow the direct line I traversed back right towards the slabs we’d originally

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

been aiming for. Even just traversing was tricky and the gear was marginal. It was as though the face didn’t want to give in to being climbed.

It was a relief to make it to the slabs and be able to see that they provided an easier way up after we had wasted precious time trying the more direct route.

The slabs led into a corner system, this time with enough gear, followed by a rising traverse across broken ledges and back left to the point we had been trying to reach. The rock was continuously loose and fractured but at least climbable. At one point we briefly questioned if we should keep going but were united in our attitudes of not giving up. Because it was Hooker and because it had been such a mission to get there I think we felt compelled to give it our best shot.

Beyond the rising traverse the face steepened up again and the terrain led us to a ramp that disappeared into a sea of blocky, vertical and overhanging rock. There was no telling if the ramp provided a way through the seemingly impenetrable fortress the face turned into, but it was the only option other than going down. By now we’d come to terms with what the face was and had got into the rhythm of climbing it. We simply trusted the ramp would go, despite the difficulties on steeper ground that we’d encountered at the bottom.

To start with, the ramp was straightforward but, higher up, as the face steepened, it narrowed and got more and more precarious. Only the wall flanking the right side provided some security in the form of an occasional piece of gear or a crack to lean into. The left side of the ramp dropped away sharply into a deep gut. Things got worse with each move upwards as trickles of water started running over the rock, filling the crevices and cracks that I was relying on for holds. With the water came vegetation and slimy lichen. Only by virtue of my experience on so many slab climbs was I staying on and holding it together.

By this point Shelley was well out of view. Her belay was tucked off to the side of the ramp and below where the right-hand wall had sprung up.

There was no decipherable response when I tried yelling to find out how much rope was left. Judging by how far I’d climbed, I knew there couldn’t be much. I started climbing slowly, checking every crack and feature to see if a belay was possible but there was never more than a single small wire. When the rope finally ran out all I could do was keep tugging until Shelley got the message to start climbing. It was far

from an ideal place to be simul-climbing but going down again wasn’t an option. I just had to suck it up and keep going.

After another five or so metres of delicate slab climbing I finally managed to place a solid wire and relax for a moment, just enough to consider the situation. There was no way I could continue on the ramp. The combination of water and vegetation would make it way too precarious. Over to the left I realised the gut had narrowed and was petering out, just above me it turned into a small ledge which looked close enough to step onto from the ramp.

This would mean leaving the security of the wall to my right but I reasoned that with the wire I’d placed just below, a fall would be survivable.

The few moves to reach the ledge were the most desparate of the whole climb. It felt as though I was going to slip off at any moment, only friction and body tension held me on. I was rewarded for my efforts with a decent belay at the back of the ledge.

The only thing I hadn’t considered was that it would be much worse for Shelley to second across because once the gear was out, a fall would mean a large pendulum into the wall on the left side of the gut. It took me a few minutes to realise that she could untie from one rope and be tensioned across on the other from the solid wire. After the ledge an easy pitch got us to a large flat shelf and a stream cascading down from the glacier above.

The final two pitches to the hanging glacier were the ugliest of the whole route. A heavily-fractured arête led into the base of a gully filled with rubble from a wall of broken dinner-plated rock above, which we ended up having to climb. We emerged above this choss at the base of the glacier. I felt as though I’d been holding my breath for the whole climb and now, all of sudden, a wave of relief spread through my body. I erupted into screams of joy.

Looking upwards to the final summit pyramid I could see immediately that the rock was as bad, if not worse, than what we’d climbed so far. It was an easy decision to end it there.

Climbing the north-east face of Mount Hooker had been a dream for a long time. Although we didn’t reach the summit, and so didn’t climb the whole face, we had given it our best shot and that was enough.

I’ve pondered our route a lot since we did it, wondering if I would go back and do it again. I vividly remember saying to Shelley at the time that it was the worst climb of my life. Despite that, there is no doubt that it was a full-value experience, chal-

lenging my resolve to continue when the reality was so different from what I’d dreamed of. I probably wouldn’t go back for the simple reason that there is much better alpine rock to be climbed elsewhere.

But, as the old saying goes, you don’t know if you don’t try and with alpine rock that’s always going to be a dilemma.

The author and Shelley Hersey approaching the face.

Troy Mattingley

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

NO HANGUPS FOR ME Two first ascents in the Ahuriri Valley

by ROSS CULLEN No hang-ups for me ‘Cause hang-ups need company –Jacques Brel

N

athan Haines sings it and Jacques Brel could have been writing for me. Hangups?

No, just a bit of a fixation over a climb or two in the Ahuriri region. It was the unclimbed south face of the 2303m peak near the head of the valley that I had been puzzling over for a while. There’s nothing too steep about it, just a long slope angled at 45 degrees running up to a ragged, bluffy section for the final 300 metres. It gets heavily snow-loaded and avalanche-prone in spring. It’s subject to rock fall in summer as frost-heave boulders loosen near the 58 N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E

summit and hurtle down the slope, raising a trail of dust all the way to the creekbed. All that was enough to make one climbing partner instantly rule out the face as a climbing possibility.

Nick Shearer, as you may know, is always keen on an adventure, and readily agreed to another foray up the valley to see what we could climb. The sun burns with a lot of heat in March, but a southerly front can drape even steep, rocky areas with an early coating of snow and ice. Peak 2303 would be too tricky for us weekend warriors, we would first have to walk 13 kilometres up-valley, climb speedily without complication to reach the summit and then return without strife. On to a Plan B. Pakeke Peak is up a creek east

of the upper Ahuriri, beyond Top Hut. Could we get there in a long day from the roadend? Nope, it’s further away than we realised from a too-quick look at the map. So we found ourselves with more unfinished business in the Ahuriri region. *** Easter brings another chance to tango with the challenges in the valley, but I’m solo this time. I’m encountering late summer heat again, and I have not thought hard enough about how I need to position myself to have a chance at those steep slopes on the west side of the valley. The east face of the first peak of interest, Mount Calvin, looks a baffling piece of route-finding through the lower bluffs. I back up against the east side of the valley to cram as much of the 1500 metre high face as I can into a photo.

An earthquake strikes as I compose the photo and I hear rockfall off the face of Wyn Irwin, the peak just north of Mount Calvin. The western side peaks have all put up their defences: Mount Calvin—tricky

route finding; Mount Wyn Irwin—earthquake; Peak 2303—climbing the east face needs an early start to reach the summit and return to a bivvy before darkness, and it’s too far for today.

What is there that I can solo near the head of the valley? Pakeke Peak is just to the east of Mount Huxley at the head of the Ahuriri Valley and a new line on the north-east face must be a possibility. I trudge on in the heat past Top Hut, baking in the blazing sun and stumbling in the dry riverbed. I hide for a while in the shaded bluffy section of a stream that runs down from the basin west of the TempleAhuriri Saddle then plod on along the tussocky flat to reach a bivvy site.

On Easter Saturday I shoulder a light pack and scramble up onto the dividing ridge then down into the headwaters of the South Temple Valley. Pakeke looks moderately challenging and I cross the scree slope to check how it looks from under the northeast face. The rock strata in this part of the country is

The Ahuriri Valley from Mt Calvin. Nick Shearer

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

t o p The east face of Mt Calvin.

Ross Cullen

b o t t o m The north-east face of Pakeke Peak.

Ross Cullen

near vertical and the face is a sea of rock bollards that seem to provide solid handholds and helpful ledges for steps. It’s a careful but straightforward climb to the summit ridge followed by a short walk to the top.

The east face has a line on it, but there is no sign of a summit cairn until I pull a few blocks into place.

Four days later another fine weather forecast tempts me into a third trip to the Ahuriri Valley. I have pored over the photo of Mount Calvin’s east face that I took at Easter, and see there is a direct way through the bluffs. Mount Calvin is the peak I most want to climb on the west side of the valley. Nick is

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

keen too and we do a better job this time on planning. We meet at 3.15 pm in Omarama and are at the roadend by 4.00 pm. Nick has a quick chat with some of the Walking with Dinosaurs film crew while I stuff my gear into my pack. We stride steadily upvalley and reach Hagens Hut before dark. At 6.50 am the next morning we depart from the hut and walk for 15 minutes to reach the fan at the foot of the line we have chosen on the east face of Mount Calvin. We have no rope, so a scramble has to work for us. With occasional use of flax for handholds we pull through the steep pinches in the bluff until we reach easier tussock slopes that lead directly upwards towards the summit. Our line is a very direct avalanche path and we understand now why a couple of hectares of beech trees on the east side of the valley have been blasted uphill. The rock has vertical strata and the sharp-edged, unweathered greywacke is brilliant for foot and handholds.

I have been climbing for more than 30 years, and have only had a couple of tumbles, but the possibility of making a mistake is always present in the mountains. I talk to myself, remind myself of those I love and want to see again, force concentration on the task at hand and foot, and strive to avoid a stumble.

We steadily gain height until we reach a snowfield 400 metres from the top. I strap on the Salewa crampons that my friend Bill had passed on to me to use. Nick straps on his new lightweight aluminium crampons. They bite reassuringly on the late summer ice and we zig-zag upwards towards the small rimed-up summit pyramid. Cool, moist cloud swirls past and a glance to the west of the pyramid reveals a tall, gloomy, vertical face. The short icy pyramid has to be climbed if we are to finish the climb directly to the summit. There is a shoulder-high mantle move to complete. After a test it goes okay for me in crampons. It’s trickier for Nick who has removed his crampons. He struggles for traction without them.

Strength and a bit of nerve overcome many obstacles and in a couple of minutes the problem is dealt to.

The cloud lifts after a few minutes, I look to the north and shout, ‘The summit is only 150 metres away.’ By midday we have climbed a direct line on the face to the summit of Mount Calvin.

The East Ridge provides a fine descent route over solid tors and the occasional short section of downclimbing. The original ascent line is still a good way to go and allows a clear view across to the toughlooking south face of Wyn Irwin. Hmmm, that’s another challenge on the west side of the Ahuriri

Valley that is waiting to be tackled. It takes us three hours to get down to the hut. Nick confesses it is his birthday, it has been a cracker day for two Taureans.

Two climbs have now been completed, but there is still the south face of Peak 2303 waiting, and the south face of Wyn Irwin to dwell over.

Hangups Need Company (MC2), north-east face of Pakeke Peak, Ross Cullen, April 2012. Taurus (MC2), east face of Mt Calvin, Ross Cullen and Nick Shearer, April 2012.

a b o v e The author on the summit of Peak 2124, with the west face of Pakeke Peak in the background.

Nick Shearer

r i g h t The author on Peak 2124, looking back down the Ahuriri Valley. Nick Shearer N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 61

THE OFF SEASON Climbing at Castle Rock, Coromandel words and photos by CLIFF ELLERY

M

id-winter and the shortest days are upon us, rock climbers up and down the country are retreating to the climbing gyms. Snow showers are battering the lower South Island and a freezing cold southerly howls through Wellington.

In the Waikato though, the shelter of the Kaimais and the Central Plateau ensures a cold but dry forecast. The barrage of text messages that precede a day’s climbing are in full swing. A plan is hatched: a first ground-up ascent of all four pitches of Anzac Parade, on the main face of Castle Rock in Coromandel. *** At 5.45 am the alarm goes off, but unlike on a work day, I have already been up for ten minutes, I’m dressed and eating breakfast.

Switching off the alarm I throw a few muesli bars into my bag, grab my climbing gear, chuck my mountain bike in the back of the car and hit the road.

I get coffee at Thames at 7.30 am then continue up State Highway 25 towards Coromandel. As long as you are not in a rush there is no such thing as a bad drive up the Thames Coast Road, it is a truly stunning part of the country.

At 8.30 am I turn onto the 309 road and the western cliffs of Castle Rock come into view. The size and untouched potential of this crag is stunning. To date, climbers have yet to venture to the base of this western wall. Today we will head for the main cliff (the Quiet Earth Wall) on the other side of Castle Rock. Development of the western wall will have to wait for another day or year.

I head up the 309 road, past the chickens and pigs that call this road their home. I arrive at the base of the Castle Rock road. They are logging today so the road is closed to cars. I unload the bike 62 N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E

and put on another layer of clothing to keep out the cold. Rachael turns up five minutes later, she is based in Whitanga so this is her local crag. We sort our gear out, light and fast is the motto of the day. We take one 60-metre rope, one drink bottle and jacket between us and 15 quick-draws. We jump on our bikes and start the three-kilometre ride up the hill to the Castle Rock buttresses.

One kilometre up I stop and strip off a layer of clothing, Rachael’s back tyre is looking sick and after trying in vain to pump it up we give in and decide to change the tube. Rachael proceeds to pull out of her bag a patch-riddled tube. I raise my eyebrows in disbelief but she ensures me it’ll be okay. Five minutes later we are back on the bikes slogging our way up the hill. Arriving at the top carpark we stash the bikes in the bush and head off on foot. For ten minutes we follow an old road that has been long reclaimed by the bush, before taking a rough and steep climber’s trail to the base of the main cliff. *** Three months earlier I’d dropped over the top of this cliff to scope out any potential lines. Dangling at the end of my rope, with a further 60 metres of air below me I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was in the middle of a 120-metre high, 800-metre long, vertical cliff with clean featured rock, and it was totally unclimbed. Is it hidden away and remote? No, not really, from the top you can see the Sky Tower! I’d returned three times in the following months. Starting at the top, I’d bolted a pitch at a time, working my way towards the base of the cliff. By 25 April the line was three pitches long and 100 metres high. Rachael, Richard, Brian and I had climbed all three pitches, celebrating a fantastic ANZAC day with good mates at this most special of crags. In May I had added a fourth and final pitch

l e f t t o r i g h t : Rachael Mayne seconding the third pitch of ANZAC Parade; the author leading on the third pitch of ANZAC Parade, with Rachael Mayne on belay below; Rachael Mayne on the first ascent of Te Runga (23), Castle Rock. Coromandel and Mercury Island are in the background; Rachael Mayne on the mountain bike approach to ANZAC Parade.

and climbed it in fading light. The ground-up ascent of all four pitches was yet to be bagged. *** So here we are, with 125 metres of climbing to go. I lift my foot off the ground, push up then fall back. I laugh it off, joking about beginners. Once up past the first two bolts, I start to climb smoothly. The line offers up a slab to start with. The rock is cold, my hands are warm and the friction is good.

With the first pitch done, Rachael joins me. She hands me the jacket and leads on through. I try to snap off a few shots, only to find that the camera’s batteries are almost flat. Rachael struggles at the beginning then settles into her stride and soon I get the call: ‘Safe.’ Two pitches down. I join Rachael at the hanging belay in the middle of the wall, we swap gear then I head up the crux pitch. The crux section is an overhanging groove. Bridging the groove forces you to keep your arms low and head down, making it impossible to ignore the 70 metres of air below you. An exciting run-out gets you to the top of the groove and a lovely bolt. Moving right past one last steep section before easy ground plants you on a huge ledge 30 metres below the top. Clipping into the belay, I lean back and take in the surrounds, what a view! Castle Rock sits high on a ridge, native bush rolls into pine forests and farmland below then out to the estuary of Matarangi. Mercury Island and Kennedy Bay can be seen in the distance. Even though the sun was losing the battle and couldn’t punch through the grey, it was hard to ignore the fact that this is a beautiful piece of New Zealand.

A good 20 minutes later Rachael comes into sight. I have been warming the camera battery down my shirt so I rattle off a couple

of pictures. She joins me on the ledge, apologising for the delay. She had swung off at the crux and then had difficulty getting back into the overhanging groove. We take a five minute break, chat and eat a muesli bar. Rachael states that she loves this last pitch and she is going to dance up it, so off she goes. It’s no salsa or tango, but more like something you would see in a mosh pit. Soon the music stops and she yells out ‘Safe.’ At the top we coil the ropes and head down the track, getting to the bikes at little after 2.00 pm. Great rock, great location and a great day’s climbing with a good friend are made even sweeter by the fact that it’s a Friday and most of the population are at work. So there you have it, the North Island’s two biggest secrets: winter rock climbing and Castle Rock, Coromandel.

ANZAC Parade (20), 125m, four pitches, Cliff Ellery and partners, 2012.

Rachael writes: A few years ago I abseiled down a cliff to go exploring. At that time I found myself wanting to go quietly away and hide due to my suddenly returned fear of heights. Only the imagined jeering of my climbing partner kept me going. Now, this very same cliff is my favourite part of Castle Rock for the same reason, it’s huge! Bolted climbing there is still a big adventure. Unlike me, Cliff saw this part of Castle Rock and was totally inspired and he obsessively made the drive from Hamilton to establish a few new lines. At Castle Rock there are about eight or so different cliffs ranging from 30 metres to 120 metres high, most of them are still totally untouched. A handful of cliffs have been developed and there is great variety among them.

It’s also great to climb there year round, especially when you are supposed to be at work.

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

Two climbers descending from Pinnacle Ridge, Mt Ruapehu, on a clear winter’s day.

Lans Hansen

Overseas Climbing Aaron Halstead Pat Deavoll Ben Dare Chris Jensen Burke Brad Jackson Daniel Joll Steve Parker Ryan Lobb Karl Schimanski Ross Cullen Pip Lynch John Entwisle Martin Curtis

Sunset from Namche Bazaar, Nepal. Katja Riedel 65

BOUVET – THE MOST REMOTE LAND ON EARTH The first ascent of Olavtoppen, the highest point on Bouvet Island, and the first exploration of the interior of the island words and photos by AARON HALSTEAD

A dramatic sunrise over the cliffs of Bouvet.

T

he adventure began with a dream—to explore the unknown, to place a human footprint where none had gone before and to attempt a journey that would be truly unique in the realms of exploration. The adventure would take us across an epic 11,000 kilometres of ferocious southern ocean to an island so remote it has been overlooked by many an explorer, neglected by civilisation and forgotten by time itself. The Norwegian territory of Bouvetøya (Bouvet Island) grips the edge of the world with its icy teeth, braving the relentless bitter gales from its closest neighbour, Antarctica. The island is officially the greatest distance away from any other land (and human habitation) on Earth.

It was with a great degree of anticipation, excitement and a smattering of trepidation that, at 4.00 am on 20 February, we finally approached Bouvet Island.

After a week of tremendously stormy weather, the likes of which only the Southern Ocean is capable of conjuring, the sea finally abated as if to tempt us into a false sense of security. The sea swell had reduced from over six to seven metres, to a more manageable two metres. I went out on deck and scanned the cliffs of Bouvet, trying to decide where it might be pos-

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

sible to attempt a landing. My binoculars picked out intimidating, large cliffs pouring frozen waterfalls of ice from glaciers far above down monstrous vertical faces into the seething Southern Ocean below. Rock faces rising straight out of the ocean to nearly 500m on Bouvet’s northern aspect were just that much more striking when illuminated by the early morning sun and magnified by binoculars. Looking up, one of the team nervously whispered to me, ‘Are you seriously thinking of taking us up that?’

Massive ice cliffs of roughly 200 metres in height encircle the entire island of Bouvet. It is battered by powerful ocean swells which arrive from every direction, having been unimpeded in their travels over thousands of kilometres of ocean. I could now see why so many previous polar mariners were so respectful of this desolate and unknown island. It is a place where there are no beaches or obvious landing positions, where the weather unleashes its extremes, and is quite deservedly one of the last truly remote and wild places on this earth.

Bouvet Island (54 sq km) is literally as far, terrestrially, from anywhere as one can get. It is officially the most remote piece of land on earth. Approaching

Bouvet, one member in my party commented, ‘Wow, can you really believe we are the most isolated people on earth right now from every other human?’ The nearest land to the island is the Antarctic Continent, 1750 kilometres to the south and the nearest habitable human population is located in South Africa, a further 2600 kilometres to the north-east. The southern tip of South America is around 2500 kilometres to the north-west. Bouvet is truly remarkable, lying within the Antarctic Convergence and being 93 per cent covered with ice, it appears as a miniature Antarctica, as if shrunken for a showroom while retaining every piece of its frozen, extreme environment.

With the very generous financial support of our expedition funder and fellow climber, Bruno Rodi, we sailed from Ushuaia in South America to make our first landing en route to Bouvet at Cape Horn on 9 February 2012. During the voyage we visited many familiar peri-Antarctic Islands, including South Georgia, South Sandwich Islands, Bouvet, Prince Edward Islands and the Crozet group. Finally, we disembarked in South Africa travelling via Cape Agulhas, the southern tip of the African Continent, 33 days after we had began our journey. Perhaps befitting the nature of this expedition, it was a truly international affair, with the 11 team members originating from Canada, Italy, USA, Britain, South Africa, Hungary and New Zealand.

Everyone on the boat had spent a significant time aboard ocean vessels and many of us had been to Antarctica via the Southern Ocean numerous times (this was my twenty-first expedition to the Antarctic and on one of my previous trips I’d completed a full circumnavigation). However, we were unprepared for the incredible battering we would take during this journey. We were afforded a stark reality check when one of the watch officers, who had over 20 years of ocean going experience, much of it in the wild seas around Cape Horn, vomited overboard whilst trying to steer the ship, declaring he had ‘never seen anything like this’. *** After extensive research into what has been achieved on Earth in terms of exploration, there was a glaring omission. No one had yet explored the most remote land on Earth. As a mountain guide and explorer who has spent a vast amount of my career exploring mountain regions around the world, I was even more astounded that no expedition or team had climbed the highest point on the most remote land on earth. *** At 6.00 am I focused my binoculars on a location

near the south-eastern tip of the island that would give us the greatest chance of landing successfully. I mobilised my team quickly. I had previously chosen a small summit team that was strong and could move fast. We were a formidable group of four with individual achievements comprising Antarctic exploration, skiing to the North and South Poles, first ascents in the Himalaya, climbing the Seven Summits, climbing and exploring some of the most remote lands on earth, skiing first descent lines and working in IMAX cinematography. We certainly had the skills and experience to give this a crack.

Robert Headland, the world-renowned authority on polar history, originally proposed the dream of sailing to Bouvet Island in late 2010. Robert and I have undertaken a number of expeditions to Antarctica together over the last seven years. When he suggested to me that Bouvet Island had never been climbed (or explored for that matter), I needed very little convincing, I replied immediately with ‘I’m in!’

I sat in the inflatable, motorised Zodiac as we steadily hummed our way towards Bouvet. I revelled in the calm mood of the same ocean that had tossed our expedition ship around for days previously. Streaks of light tickled the horizon and began to show the ominous silhouette of Bouvet Island before me. Fourteen days prior I had been in Ushuaia hearing the clink of ice axes in an outdoor store as excited customers looked over the shiny tools. I had found what I was looking for: extra ice screws, gas for the stoves and a pink climbing rope. That same rope was slung around my shoulders as I sat in the Zodiac quietly gripping it as my last reminder of civilisation—my link to the past.

Getting ashore proved to be one of the most difficult

Wild seas crashing into the ice at Bouvet Island.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 67

l e f t ( t o p t o b o t t o m ) Descending easy ground in a brief weather clearance after the ascent; a lone albatross soars high at sunset; wild seas crashing into an iceberg.

aspects to the whole expedition. We knew it would be difficult, but nearly drowning one of my team members as the Zodiac rolled sideways and pinned them underneath it in the wild surf was not the best start. Several curious fur seals watched on as if aliens had just landed on their tiny rock. Once everyone had stumbled ashore in a very undignified manner, I assessed the situation. We were here! Until recently, more people had stood on the moon than the shores of Bouvet. It felt like a dream and I don’t think any of us had really comprehended the enormity of our situation at that point.

As the expedition leader, I quickly leapt into action. Getting wet up to my waist was not an ideal start for the impending climb ahead. I quickly changed into a pair of dry socks, attached the pink lifeline to my harness and began rhythmical thwack thwack with my ice tools into the steep wall of ice above me. I led up the first pitch to secure the rope for the others to follow. As I peered down at the tiny seven metre wide landing ‘beach’ I could see my fellow team members arranging equipment and getting ready to climb. We were into it and I felt alive!

The almost-vertical ice climbing off the beach eventually led us to a long crevasse-ridden glacial approach towards the interior of the island. I can still shut my eyes and feel what it was like to be the first person in this incredibly remote place—a duality of intimidation and intoxication, that feeling of adventure that drives us forward to explore.

Organising the expedition involved spending a great deal of time on Google Earth and looking at historic maps and documents to gain as much information as I could about accessing the island. I also talked to experienced polar sea captains and explorers who had sailed past Bouvet. This was not entirely conducive to my confidence as many did not believe we would even be able to make a landing, let alone explore the interior of the island. In preparation for the climb to the summit of Bouvet I put my team through their paces on a practice climb at South Georgia.

This ensured everyone was up to speed on the skills required to undertake a crevasse-ridden ascent. This preparation ended up proving vital for the terrain we were about to encounter on Bouvet.

I knew we had to climb fast as there was always the expectation of the radio crackling into life and advising us of poor weather approaching, meaning we would have to abandon our attempt. Luckily, this scenario never eventuated. We were really battling some wild conditions on the ascent, with snow squalls, very cold temperatures, 80 kmph wind, soft, deep snow, frozen sastrugi ice, and then to lighten our mood a tantalising few brief periods of sunshine. What a wild place.

In the flat light I had to negotiate some spectacular crevasse fields. All of a sudden I felt the ground shake and heard a loud whumph. Earthquake? No, it was a huge snow bridge collapsing leaving a gaping six-metre wide, open crevasse, with myself on one side and my team-mate roped to me on the other! ‘That was close,’ I thought, as it could have easily been one of us falling into the void, and potentially injuring ourselves badly. My heart raced as we teetered precariously towards the side of the collapse before proceeding to a safer area of the glacier.

I made steepening virgin footprints in the snow and after five hours of climbing the seven and a half kilometres from our landing location I had led my team to near the summit pyramid—the final icy barrier to achieving our dream.

Tumbling about in gale-force wind on the summit ridge I was determined we 68 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

r i g h t ( t o p t o b o t t o m ) Finally on the summit of Bouvet, from left: Aaron Halstead, Jason Rodi and Bruno Rodi (Will Allen); an albatross soars over Posession Island; an iceberg grounded off Bouvet.

were close, so led a final push up another steep icy slope to the summit cap. As I finally topped out on the summit I secured the rope for the final time and brought the others to the top. I pulled my handheld GPS from my jacket and a final check confirmed it, we were there. The four of us stood for a moment, awestruck that we had finally reached the summit of Olavtoppen!

There were looks of sheer joy, many hugs, handshakes, photos and time to contemplate our achievement with quiet relief. I took the Norwegian flag from my pack and had a photo taken of it on the summit—a gesture of respect and gratitude to Norway for allowing us the opportunity to explore this land. Robert Headland had arranged for the Norwegian flag carried by the ship to be taken to the interior of the island on our climb. This flag (and an accompanying scientific report of our exploration) has subsequently been passed to the Norwegian Foreign Office, who have delivered it directly to King Harald V of Norway.

We withdrew from the summit in anticipation of the climb being only half completed. We still had the descent to contend with. After a return journey of over ten hours we were near the landing point again. One final, delicate 40-metre abseil off an ice bollard had us all standing back at the oceanside ready for a Zodiac pick up. We had been using a specific Zodiac towing technique to get on and off shore that entailed two Zodiacs tied together with a 30-metre line. This allowed the lead Zodiac beyond the breaking surf to quickly tow out the shore Zodiac once everyone had grabbed hold. This technique worked perfectly, and even though we were drenched from the surf, there was no danger of flipping a Zodiac. We raced beyond the surf breaks to the safety of the open ocean. Once back onboard our yacht we celebrated by toasting the expedition from a 100-yearold bottle of Seppeltsfield Port, which had been cellared in 1911 for Douglas Mawson’s expedition to the Antarctic. It was a fitting tribute to the early explorers that pioneered the way for our modern-day adventuring.

Olavtoppen (or Olav Peak) is a modest 780m high, but even so, it is one of the more memorable and interesting climbs I have undertaken. It was still a long and complicated climbing day from the landing area in very uncertain conditions with significant ocean hazards to deal with. I was acutely aware that our safety margin needed to be substantial as help was literally weeks away. It is for this reason that the island has captured the imagination of polar travellers and climbers for the last 50 years. There have been numerous attempts to go inland and climb (including by the famous explorer Bill Tillman), and there have been at least two climbing expeditions on which no landings were even possible, even though the expeditions sat offshore for over a week at a time waiting for the enormous sea swells this island is famous for to abate. To have been the first to explore inland and also achieve summit success was an incredible privilege. I was ecstatic and humbled.

When I contemplated something exploratory, unique, or a world-first, I was wanting to do something exceptional. I wanted to explore and achieve a first where no one had been before, and further, to make a mark in history on one of the last points on earth that represent the extremes of human exploration. We as humans have adventured to the poles, to the highest point on Earth, and to the deepest point in the oceans, so what more is left to be conquered? This expedition reassured me that there are still untouched places to be explored, environments to test us, and lessons to be learnt. This thought proved a fitting end to our journey of discovery.

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

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 70 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 days 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 camp a

t o p Looking towards Tibet from the summit 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 71

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.

72 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 7.00 am, 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 4.00 pm 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 satellite 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 had, 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 logistic 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, 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 73

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

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 75

Gasherbrun 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 8,068m. Gasherbrum II (G2) 76 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

is the thirteenth highest mountain in the world at 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 peaks to major ones). 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 kept getting larger. The upper moraine required a lot of rock hopping and watching of your 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 (BC) and camp 1 (C1) is used. From BC to C1, 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. C1 sat around one hour beyond the top of the icefall. Banana Ridge on G2, between C1 and C2, was curly to negotiate in soft conditions, and when climbing on an overhanging cornice you crossed your fingers and toes that the conditions were not so soft that you 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, and has a great top-out just before stepping down about 20 metres to C2.

On my G2 summit day, I attempted to climb without the use of supplementary oxygen. If I had not recently come off Lhotse and was not 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

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 77

Chris on the summit of Gasherbrum I. Lakpa Sherpa

pack, and could feel any chance of reaching the summits of G2 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 we had actually had reduced time 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 retained as many brain cells as possible so that we can 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 C1. It was a huge day with all other western climbers, bar one, electing to stop at C3 and C2. 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 C1, rather than descending all the way back to BC. But our weather window did not permit this approach. Instead, we descended back through the icefall to BC to avoid incoming bad weather.

After a few days at BC resting and eating (and even having a shower with a bucket and cup) we 78 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

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 C3 on G1, the weather was not behaving even close to our forecasts and we elected to delay our summit push by a day. We therefore had to experience a small amount of food rationing. Some climbers who left their tents on our first night at C3 lost their tents in high winds. Without the weight of people inside they were like kites flying in the wind, but without strings attached. Pretty soon, Lakpa, two other Sherpas and myself 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 in the days and weeks prior, 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 BC. When he finished the call he informed me that Marty Schmidt had not radioed in from C3 on K2 for 24 hours. My heart sank.

It was another blow that made me question whether 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 without huge effort. 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 BC packing up and waiting for porters and mules, we trekked out to Askole.

We did the trek in three days, which menat 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 persons 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, personally, it was a case of me 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 79

SNOW FALLING ON SIRDARS Selected dispatches from a climb of Spantik (7027m) in the Haromash Valley, Baltistan, Pakistan words and photos by BRAD JACKSON a b o v e Spantik, as seen from Camp 2.

F

alling … a subterranean ice world greeted me. A microsecond of terror was displaced by relief as I found myself standing firm on a snow bridge. There were shouts of ‘Grace, Grace!’ above me as Avi had watched me disappear from sight and was now calling out to the third member of our party. I, unfazed, looked curiously downwards. My trusty Patagonia hat lay three feet below me and I wondered how I would retrieve it safely. It wasn’t until an hour later, once extracted, that I felt shaken and troubled by my first major crevasse fall.

Spantik was not as easy as I had expected.

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3 August Team MAC, as I later dubbed us from our nationalities, first met in the afternoon of a dry and dusty Skardu in the Baltistan region of northern Pakistan.

We were one Mauritian (Avi), two Aussie guys (Noel and myself) and a Canadian (Grace). We made for an eclectic, small group. Our goal was to climb the standard route on Spantik. Dubbed an easy 7000m peak, we had high hopes, especially for Grace and I, as we had just come off seven weeks of expedition life in Pakistan after attempts on Broad Peak and Khosar Gang.

11 August We climbed to Camp 1 for the second time—this time to sleep. Little did we know that we wouldn’t sleep at basecamp again until the expedition was over. The scramble to Camp 1 was a lot more fun the second time around as I knew the terrain and was more confident traversing the ridgelines. The day before, Noel had, not unexpectedly, retired from the expedition. He was having troubles with his knees and the rigors of climbing. He had reached what he believed was the extent of his abilities. I thanked Noel for his honesty and felt relieved. I had been very concerned about the prospect of Noel travelling between the higher camps.

12 August We left Camp 1 loaded with two three-person tents, allocated for Camps 2 and 3, plus food, ropes and fixed gear for the upper mountain. We were heavily laden. It was late in the day and therefore entirely the worst situation in which to be travelling. The first 100 or so metres were innocuous enough and then the games began. Grace was leading as she was the lightest. She began to plunge deep into the snow—a forewarning to Avi and I. Despite Grace sinking into the snow, Avi and I were still plunging further, up to our waists. As the day progressed, not only did we plunge but we would get our feet stuck. With our packs conspiring against us, we would wriggle, shake and gyrate our legs and feet to extract ourselves from the ‘quick-snow’. We groaned with frustration as we would extract one leg, only for the other to be captured on the next step.

It was exhausting and tiring work. At midday, after a particularly exhausting ridge, Grace declared that she’d had enough and I quickly agreed to her suggestion to set up a Camp 1.5. In four or five hours we had only travelled half way to Camp 2 and the last ridge had been particularly brutal. In an effort to ascend, I had resorted to crawling in many parts, relying on my elbows and knees to offer less force on the sludgy snow.

13 August The next day I jokingly suggested that Camp 2 may be just over the next ridge. This was not to be. We got up an hour earlier than the previous day but took time to dismantle the tent. We were not travelling until 6:45 am—still far too late for these conditions.

My heart absolutely sank when on reaching the top of the rock ridge, I saw Grace sinking to her knees.

With that sight I expected another day of exotic leg

manoeuvring. But today it wasn’t walking that would be the biggest threat.

We’d been going for about an hour since Camp 1.5 when … whoomp! … I fell into that crevasse.

Seconds prior, loaded with heavy packs and lulled into a false sense of security by the word of safe passage from basecamp, we had been travelling un-roped, even after Grace had partially fallen into a hole the day before. On seeing a further hole and

t o p Grace climbing above Camp 3. b o t t o m Camp 1. The route to the summit follows the ridgeline.

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

system and got Grace and Avi over the crevasse. With Grace safely across, we pulled our packs across and then I did a very inelegant leopard crawl across the remaining snow bridge.

14 August Grace and I packed light for our foray up to Camp 3.

I even left behind my camera—a rarity for me. I just carried the tent and some daily provisions. We got up at 4.00 am. It was still dark.

Hallelujah. The snow was firm and we were moving fast. We were at the start of the snow slope in two hours and up the fixed lines in a further two. The joy of travelling light on firm snow was exhilarating.

Within five hours, Grace was doing her happy dance as we spied Camp 3. It was closer than we had expected. We cached the tent and marked it with several bamboo wands. Grace, as an added precaution, marked the tent's location with her GPS. The trip down took just two hours. On the top section of the snow slope, Grace and I downclimbed in parallel, sharing a laugh as we attempted to have a conversation while synchronised downclimbing. We were on fire. Having a lot of practice on fixed lines, we zoomed down unhindered by a weighted pack.

Grace has a handy little whistle on her backpack and as the clouds rolled in, she would toot once she was down. In good conditions, I can descend a mountain very quickly (as can Grace) and we both flew down to Camp 2.

t o p Avi and lenticulars above Malubiting. b o t t o m Dawn on the team’s summit attempt.

evidence of a depression in the snow I warned Avi to not put his foot there. My next step resulted in me disappearing from view. Once landed, I found myself in the interesting situation, for a crevasse rescue, of having to take the rope out of my pack, tie in and throw the rope out of the crevasse for Avi and Grace to make an anchor.

Once the anchor was secure, I did indeed drop down to retrieve my beloved hat and managed to crawl/roll out of the crevasse. We rigged up a belay

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17 August We had some wins. We considered the drop down to basecamp and return to Camp 2 as wins, as they were relatively easy days with no unexpected hardships. We didn’t know if our luck would continue as we pushed on to Camp 3, so we erred on the side of caution and once again set of at the reasonably early time of 5.00 am.

We left in the shadows. The weather was changing for the better. Despite our glee at letting Avi know that we had not post-holed once on our previous trip to Camp 3, this time was not the same. With heavier packs, we quickly sunk into the snow and our journey to Camp 3 was not as rapid.

Worrying lenticular clouds shrouded Malubiting opposite us, but the day remained calm and with little wind. I made a mental note that the clouds, normally harbingers of inclement weather, may not necessarily affect conditions on Spantik. They did provide some wonderful photographic backdrops and I snapped away as Avi was silhouetted against the

elegance of the contoured clouds.

At the top of the fixed lines, just prior to Camp 2.5, Grace appeared to post hole. She called out for me to help and despite the urgency in her voice, I continued to amble over towards her with my weighted pack. It continued to appear to me that she was in no trouble.

Grace then told me to take off my pack and come over fast. Now realising something was wrong, I shed my pack and made my way as fast as I could to Grace.

What I couldn’t see was that Grace was in a hole and the only thing preventing her from falling in further was the virtue of her performing a kind of chest dip in the snow to her side. Her pack was also conspiring against her, the sternum strap was pushing up against her throat.

Grace managed to extract herself before I got to her. In silence, she proceeded to Camp 2.5. I helped Avi and we roped up, crossing the area where Grace fell in. The sun and soft snow had opened up areas

that we had crossed over without incident days before. This made the journey much more hazardous. Once at camp 2.5, I promptly walked up to Grace and apologised for not recognising the urgency in her voice. I indeed felt bad, as after two months of climbing together, I should have known better. Grace recognised my contrite tone and offered me half her Red Bull. We were good. As a further act of redemption, I broke trail the rest of the way to Camp 3.

On our previous trip to Camp 3, the hardest section had been from Camp 2.5 to Camp 3. It had taken us, without packs, two hours. I was dreading the journey with heavy packs but fortunately the snow was in better condition and it only took us two and a half hours. There was a momentary sense of foreboding as the tent we had left there was nowhere to be seen.

Snow had completely covered the area. Fortunately a stray bamboo wand and Grace’s GPS waypoint soon had the tent uncovered.

Chogolungma Glacier, in the Haramosh Valley.

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

Nanga Parbat in the distance on summit day.

19 August Early in the evening there had been some wind but by the wee hours of the morning the night was still and surprisingly warm. Avi, Grace and I had sorted gear the night before. We quickly and quietly prepared boiling water via our wonderful MSR Reactor stove.

Coffee was drunk and oatmeal eaten.

Headlamps were the order of the day as we followed our previous day’s footsteps in the absence of moonlight. We were very thankful of our decision to scout out the route the day before. I plodded in darkness, in the zombie state that night climbing involves, and was waiting in earnest for that ethereal glow of first light. I was not disappointed. We witnessed a magical landscape as the pink tones of pre-dawn stealthily crept across the landscape. Alpenglow came next, capping the peaks in warm glow. We saw Nanga Parbat afire in the distance.

At this point we had traversed the plateau and were approaching the summit ridge. The traverse had been pleasant and visually rewarding but as we approached the ridge we all became very cold. We were desperate

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

for the sun to rise. After half an hour on the ridge, we stopped to linger in the sun. Grace’s feet were cold and Avi could not get warm. I was cool but not cold. I highly appreciated the sun’s direct rays. As we had hit the ridge, a steady wind came upon us that had not been present on the plateau below. This wind cooled us down rapidly. Mitts came on and hoods went up as we fought to prevent hypothermia.

We also had a worse problem than the cold—deep, deep snow. On the plateau, the snow had been manageable but on the ridge it was depressingly deep. The snow was constantly up to our hips. Grace and I tried to find solid snow but there was no discernable visual reference between manageable knee-deep snow and almost impossible to climb hip-deep snow. The act of wading through this snow made Grace’s feet dangerously cold. Twice we had to remove her boots and stick her feet in my armpits. For the curious, my lack of fat meant that her feet kept tickling my ribs and made me cough. We were also both pissed off with our La Sportiva Olympus Mons boots. In the absence of any tightening device around the calf area, snow

kept getting wedged down our boots.

I couldn’t believe it when at midday, after nine hours on, we were still fighting deep snow and seemed to be nowhere near the top. I had expected a six-hour trip to the summit, not the deepest, softest snow I had ever encountered. Avi, who was still battling the cold and unable to get warm, decided to turn back. He had reached a new personal altitude record of 6700m and made the very responsible decision to turn back.

Grace, in the meantime, was still a machine, fighting the snow with every inch. She had perfected a manoeuvre I coined the ‘Grace McDonald’. This consisted of lifting her knee up and over the top of the snow, compressing the snow with her knee, lifting up the same leg and then compressing with her foot. It was effective but incredibly energy intensive and I was astounded at her relentless assault. Let the record show: there is no way I would have summitted without Grace’s extraordinary efforts that day.

Finally we were afforded a break as we reached a slope where the snow was only ankle deep. My demoralised state dissipated. By 2.00 pm we were well on our way to the rock band but I wasn’t sure what lay ahead. Grace passed the rock band, hurdled a small ridge and let out a whoop of excitement. I clambered to join her and saw a rock strewn path.

I was slightly befuddled as I couldn’t see an obvious summit but in fairness to Grace, there were no more obvious impediments in sight and we traversed the 20 degree slope in mostly consolidated snow. At the top of the rocks, the summit dome came into sight.

There was ‘no more up’, as they say. On the last rise of the dome, I asked Grace to summit first as she had deserved that privilege.

Our other nemesis—the wind—politely subsided at this point. We loitered on the summit taking photos, sharing congratulatory hugs and I phoned a very groggy friend in Massachusetts. As is custom I guess for all Canadians, Grace whipped out the maple leaf flag for a photo. The time was 3.05 am, it had taken a 12-hour slog just to get to the summit.

If it had taken us 12 hours to get to the summit, how long would it take to get down? I was worried about Grace’s feet in the cooling hours of the late afternoon but I needn’t have worried. We got down to Camp 3 in three hours. The snow that was so difficult to ascend was a breeze to get down. We retraced our footsteps and just slid through some of the deeper stuff. At the bottom of the ridge, Grace waited for me and, as had become customary, we

shared a Red Bull. We then staggered like drunken sailors across the plateau and back down to Camp 3.

We were exhausted but happy. I was so relieved to see Avi poke his head out of camp when we shouted out to him. I had been tracking his footsteps in the snow and was fairly certain he had made it back. It was only when I saw his infectious grin that I was assured he was safe.

t o p Avi descends the fixed lines. b o t t o m The team. Left to right: Brad, Grace, Avi and Noel.

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

O

ften when I climb in the mountains I am searching for something.

Sometimes it's just to escape my daily life and relax in a pristine environment. Often it’s simply about sharing time with a good friend. Once or twice a year though, I am searching for something else. On certain climbs, with the right partner and on the right day, I am searching for the feeling that comes from total commitment—the satisfaction of pushing my mind and body to their limit and laying everything on the line in order to succeed. *** My unsuspecting climbing partner, Merry, arrived in Chamonix at 5.00 am after travelling all night from Germany. We found him sleeping outside our front door around 7.00 am. After a quick ‘hello’ I rushed over my plan to climb the Walker Spur on the Grandes Jorasses.

This was my third trip to Chamonix and the Walker had been a long-standing goal of mine. On previous trips weather conditions and the right partner had never surfaced.

This time I had the partner and the weather but conditions were very poor. Despite this, I had thought, What the hell, we should go for it anyway.

It was summer, but conditions on the route were more like they are in winter. There is usually about 1500 metres of rock climbing but now this terrain included around 700 metres of ice and mixed climbing. Talking to Merry about the climb, I glossed over the finer points concerning conditions and suggested that it might be a good idea if he went straight to bed. I said I’d wake him up around lunch time.

When Merry agreed to try the climb with me, he wasn’t aware that it was seriously out of summer climbing condition and would involve a good amount of ice. The plan was to go very light and carry no bivvy gear. We planned to climb continuously and took a minimal amount of food. Perhaps, being a bit cocky, I wasn't expecting to find the climbing too hard and wanted to ramp up the challenge by doing the route in a single continuous push.

Neither of us knew much about the Grandes Jorasses. Even though it had been a dream climb of mine for some years, I never really did much research on it. All I knew was that it is big, looks very impressive and that you start in France and 86 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

finish in Italy. I also realised that most parties sleep at a hut below the route, bivvy on the route and sleep again at a hut on the Italian side. So the plan to go non-stop in less than ideal conditions was going to mean a wee bit of suffering.

Needless to say, I kept these opinions to myself.

While Merry slept I headed into town to buy our food for the climb: 12 Mars bars and five Power Gels each. We also took some left over pasta from lunch to eat on the approach walk.

I borrowed some proper crampons and one good axe for each of us from a friend. Back at the house I sorted our gear and packed the rack: one set of cams, seven nuts, three ice screws, one half rope, a Jet Boil stove and one belay jacket.

At lunch time I woke Merry up. ‘Do we have to go today?’ he asked.

‘Yep, let's just do it. You never know if the weather will hold,’ I replied.

Merry still didn’t have any boots so after a quick lunch we shouldered our bags and headed into town. Crap, the first two shops were closed for lunch. This was going to really delay us.

Luckily the third shop we tried was open and had the boots he wanted. Now we could head to the train, with Merry sporting his shiny new green boots.‘I don't even like green,’ he complained. ‘I got them because everyone else has red!’ He then let out a few chants of, ‘I like green!’ I guess this was for the power of positive thinking.

We stepped off the train at Montenvers just on 4.00 pm. It’s a six hour approach to the base of the Walker, then a 1500 metre climb to the summit at 4200m. This means that with darkness coming at around 10.00 pm we would have some interesting route-finding when we started to climb.

Luckily we arrived at the wall ahead of schedule and managed the start of the climb just as night fell. We were simul-climbing in the dark and it wasn’t long before I took a wrong turn.

In fact, I took several hundred metres worth of wrong turns. When moving quickly it’s amazing how much ground you can cover in two hours, especially when you’re going the wrong way.

It was around midnight when we realised we must be quite off-route. Steep rock and ice blocked our way. We spent the next eight hours pitching out a long icy traverse, working our way back to the actual route. Our vertical height gain

The north face of the Grandes Jorasses. The Walker Spur is the very prominent left-hand arête. Daniel Joll

THE WALKER SPUR An ascent of this classic route on the Grandes Jorasses, French Alps

by DANIEL JOLL

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

between midnight and 8.00 am was 150 metres. As the sun came up we were still in the bottom third of the route. This was not how I imagined it would be. Merry asked if we should think about going down. I definitely didn’t like the sound of that. I offered a compromise and said, ‘Let’s wait until lunch time.’ I knew full well that we would be too high to back off if the next few hours went well.

Back on route we switched to simul-climbing and, with the exception of a few iced up pitches, the next 800 metres went pretty well. Then it was back to iced rock, with still around 500 metres to go.

Progress slowed and we ended up off-route again. It was around this time, after 29 hours on the go, that I found myself halfway up an 80-metre long chimney.

It's fair to say that often when I wish for total commitment on a route, when I actually find myself in that situation, I wish it would go away. At 4000m, with my one ice axe in hand and seriously run-out on steep choss and thin ice, I would have gladly traded the sensation for safety.

I mistakenly thought the top of the chimney was near the summit so I pushed on up. Common sense told me to just rap off and find an easier line but if truth be told I was kind of enjoying the increase in difficulty.

It was an interesting pitch. It was somewhere around 80–90 metre long. It started off with rock and went into a solid M5 chimney, which was followed by an overhanging rock crux up a wide groove into vertical ice steps. The initial mixed section was sparse on gear and as the pitch steepened the rock deteriorated. I burned up my minimal rack early on trying to find adequate protection.

After 60 metres I realised my gear was not good enough to belay from so had Merry climb up the initial rock section of the pitch and when he reached my first piece of gear I started climbing to what would hopefully be better protection above. Then came the overhanging choss groove. I looked down at my crampons and the thin half-rope dangling between my feet as I kneebarred and armbarred my way up. I couldn’t afford to fall or pull off a rock for fear of slicing my rope. I resorted to some aid moves then went back to free climbing when the protection disappeared. My arms ached and my legs shook as I fought the chimney. My breathing was laboured as I had not fully acclimatised to the altitude.

Finally I made it through the rock and onto the ice steps. I place my two screws. Each went in only a few centimetres. I misjudged the length of the ice Merry was now climbing behind me but I had nothing left on my rack to make a belay so I just kept on climbing.

Climbing the two vertical ice steps with just one axe got my heart rate racing. The rope drag was fierce. I struggled to make sure my feet were solid before each axe placement. I would take a deep breath, stand up, lean in and go for each swing.

Finally I pulled off the ice and climbed past some teetering blocks of choss. I found myself a patch of snow with a solid block at the base, kicked out a seat and braced my legs against it. My single remaining carabiner was clipped to a dodgy wire behind me. I 88 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

breathed a huge sigh of relief.

On the last vertical ice step, hugely run-out and stepping past the loose blocks, I had found the feeling of total commitment I had been looking for. As I wouldn’t have been able to reverse the ice, it was definitely a make-or-break situation. It was one of my best alpine leads. Had I not completed that pitch, we would have had to back off and find another line. This late in the day that could have meant an open bivvy and considering it was now snowing and well below zero that would have been disastrous.

As I sat, breathing deeply in the snow, I felt very happy to be past the crux and in one piece. The chimney had taken us four hours—two to lead and two to follow. When we started the next pitch, heading towards the summit in the dark, we could make out the correct line weaving up easy slabs on the other side of the ridge.

Oh well, at least we knew for next time. We summitted at midnight after 31 hours of climbing. It was snowing and we had low visibility.

The descent started well but then we took a bad turn on the glacier and dropped into the wrong valley. We plodded steps back up soft snow just as the sun raised its torture. However, after a couple of hours detour we were back on the descent trail. By this stage we were quite dehydrated. We pushed on in hope of making breakfast at a refugio in the valley.

I was seeing some funny things, like groups of climbers along the trail that didn’t exist. I was half asleep but wide awake at the same time. I tried to focus on the ridge we were descending. A few times I stumbled and almost dropped off the edge. At that point we gave up downclimbing and started to abseil.

We had both been hallucinating and after a couple of hours were fully tripping out. We felt lucky when the terrain mellowed out.

We started walking, taking it easy and enjoying the trip. I thought I saw the refugio lower down on the ridge. I pushed on, excited for a good feed and a rest. Sadly, it was just another hallucination.

We missed the correct turn off to the refugio. Breakfast became two litres of water at a river as the clouds and flowers changed into strange new objects. We both kicked back in the sun, sharing our cloud-hallucination stories. It's amazing how active the imagination can be after a good, long climb. Our mood was light, we had only an hour of walking to go. As I wandered down the path my trip started to wear off. Eventually the rocks stopped jumping. The re-hydration was kicking in.

It wasn’t long before we were hitching into town. Polite conversation was a battle as we tried to stay awake. Luckily the ride was short and soon we were eating a couple of massive Italian pizzas. Sitting on a restaurant terrace, we enjoyed the shared feeling that comes from pushing yourself on a challenging route.

After 41 hours of non-stop walking and climbing, our bodies were tired and broken. On our next ride, through the Mont Blanc tunnel, the desire to maintain polite conversation was gone. We both fell straight asleep and didn’t wake up until we were back in Chamonix and our friendly driver was asking where we would like to be dropped off.

SPLITBOARD GUIDING IN AFGHANISTAN words and photos by STEVE PARKER Local Hazara man returning from Khushkak village in the Koh-e-Baba mountains.

R

andom contracts and obscure destinations have always appealed to me. That’s possibly a side effect of spending too much time in Golden Bay in my early twenties, of too much time lying in the long grass reading books on positive visualisation, books urging the reader to follow their bliss, to follow a path less travelled. For me this conjured up visions of uncrowded tropical surf, deep powder and quiet times in the high mountain sipping butter tea with Buddhist monks. This vision opened doors to many bizarre cultures and experiences, from patrolling at the clubbies with Swandri-wearing farmers, yearly surf trips to Indo, living in shacks on the West Coast, yoga in India, steep powder lines in

BC, my own beautiful children, epic cold water surf in Dunedin and also to Afghanistan.

I am not entirely sure how I ended up in the central highlands of Afghanistan as a backcountry snowboard guide but after my first snow pit I was sure the Taliban were not going to be my main concern. Very cold temperatures combined with a low snow year had created a very unstable snowpack, composed of an interesting mix of facets, weak crusts, the odd slab and super-light powder. The scene was set for a challenging two months teaching avalanche awareness to four local Afghani ski guides as part of a pretty out-there contract I accepted to help resurrect ecotourism in Afghanistan.

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

Rahim, the author and Sojad taking a break on a ridge under a terrain feature named Open Book.

The New Zealand Army and the Provincial Reconstruction Team’s barracks in Bamyan are situated at the base of the Koh-e-Baba mountains, perhaps the most scenic backdrop for any army base in the world. The Koh-e-Baba rise steeply behind the barracks from 2500m to 5000m. They’re skiers’ mountains, similar in appearance to the Craigieburn Range in New Zealand. These mountains are also home to the local Hazara people, an ethnic minority that were severely persecuted by the Pashtun-led Taliban.

The Hazara are thought to be of Mongolian descent, and definitely radiate calmness from spending millennia living high in the central Asian mountains. The Hazara now are mostly subsistence farmers. From an outsider’s point of view, the life of the locals looks hard but also idyllic. Solar power units hang precariously off ancient mud brick huts. Each hut has its own smallholdings of livestock and staple crops of wheat and potatoes. It seems like some sort of medieval utopia. I felt like a surfer discovering the perfect waves of Nias in the 1970s, but there I was, at the start of 2012, in a splitboarders paradise of super-light powder, unridden peaks and an endless choice of terrain.

The challenge was to enter this paradise with caution, Allah had provided a testing snowpack, a snowpack that would provide great learning.

My first view of the back basins after a freezing night in Bamyan of -30 degrees Celcius, showed a huge natural avalanche cycle had occurred over the last 24 hours. Multiple avalanche paths had failed on a facet layer at ground level with some paths running for over 1000 metres. With no new snow, no signifi-

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

cant wind loading or any other obvious triggers, the only factor I could put it down to was the very cold night time temperatures over the last few days, possibly causing the facet growth to reach a threshold, unable to support the overlying slab.

Penny Goddard has recently been researching an avalanche phenomenon she has termed ‘cool down avalanches’ and has uncovered a surprising number of avalanche events during times of rapid cooling. Although this phenomenon seems sporadic, it is appearing to be more common than one might expect. It is another curve ball in the esoteric science of avalanche forecasting and another factor to keep you on your toes.

During my time in Afghanistan, from late December to mid-February, we had around four or five small storm cycles. Each storm brought around 10–15 centimetres of snow, definitely not enough to flush out the lower facets. It was a season where snow would be the problem but terrain selection would provide the solution. An inclinometer was my most used piece of avalanche teaching equipment. The high alpine powder provided ample face shots, but we were always confined to slopes less than 30 degrees.

As there are no ski lifts my trainee guides and our clients would chose a suitable slope, skin up and typically have two or three 700m descents per day on long, low-angled ridges.

Avalanche gear was limited, we had a collection of old transceivers, shovels and probes that I had borrowed off friends in New Zealand. Despite the lack of avalanche and ski equipment, enthusiasm for skiing in Bamyan is very strong. The local boys and girls have taken to skiing with great eagerness after seeing the first ever skiers in Bamyan two years ago. The children are now making their own skis from bits of wood, flattened iron for a base and rope for bindings. Ski poles usually comprise one long wooden stick. The resulting ski style is a graceful cross between skating and skiing, perfectly suited to high alpine powder.

Once a week the four trainee guides and myself would visit different villages to let the children trial modern ski equipment and have a few lessons. In a lot of development work it appears that promoting a sense of joy is forgotten in the race for economic development. It was very refreshing to be involved in a project where there was a large focus on simply introducing local children to skiing. The benefits of laughter, joy and adventure offer a great healing balm for over 30 years of conflict.

When we were not teaching the local children how

to ski, my guides and I continued on our adventure into the world of avalanche awareness. Avalanche conditions remained sketchy throughout January due to a few more cohesive slab layers being sandwiched between the facets and light powder.

High-pressure systems brought long settled periods giving us ample opportunity to tentatively explore many ancient valleys, perhaps being the first to ski many of the surrounding peaks. As the temperatures plummeted, the facets and depth hoar grew larger and larger, some crystals were up to three centimetres at the bottom of the snowpack.

By mid-February we had borne witness to many avalanche events, most natural and some triggered remotely by us as we ascended low-angle terrain and watched start zones release 500 metres away. It was definitely some of the touchiest avalanche conditions I have travelled through, but still, there was light, dry powder to ski if you chose the right line.

The guides were taught the basics of assessing avalanche hazard with terrain selection emphasised as the key this season. Ali Shah, a 19-year-old local university student and shepherd quickly took on the role as lead

guide. His strong and powerful skiing style—mastered over only two months—was rough and ready but effective. His local knowledge of the high mountains he grew up in will provide an excellent depth for his future career as an aspirant ski guide.

The future of the ski industry in Afghanistan will have a lot to do with how the media portray events in Afghanistan and the strength of the Taliban.

NATO’s combat role will come to an end in Afghanistan in 2014 and at that time New Zealand will withdraw its troops. It is unsure what will happen in Afghanistan post 2014, but hopefully we will still hear the shouts of joy as young Afghani children fly down the slopes of the Koh-e-Baba on homemade wooden skis as Ali Shah leads another group of ski tourers deep into his home mountains to seek out another powder run.

The project I was working on was sponsored

by NZAID and implemented by the Aga Khan Development Network. The funding was put through in more liberal times in New Zealand, during Labour’s last term in parliament by the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Winston Peters. Cheers Winston!

Ao Dara village, splitboard utopia!

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

FOUR CANADIAN CLASSICS Ascents of Mt Victoria, Snowpatch Spire, Mt Sir Donald and an attempt on Mt Robson

by RYAN LOBB

Bugaboo Provincial Park from Applebee campground. Snowpatch Spire is on the left and Bugaboo Spire on the right.

Ryan Lobb

I

t started nigh on a decade ago, somewhere between a spice bazaar and a chai and salep house in the hustle and bustle chaos that is Istanbul.

A Canadian and a Kiwi in their late teens and early twenties respectively were dodging and weaving their way between traffic, broken cobble, hawkers, rolexcum-roast-chestnut stands and the latest blast from the local minarets megaphone. Conversation ambled off in the direction of more solitary places—mountains. Mount Erciyes is the central Turkish volcano responsible for the iconic underground towns and mushroom rocks of the Cappadocia region. ‘Have you been there yet?’ ‘How about Mount Ararat, deep in the volatile south-east of the country, on whose flanks the fabled Noah’s Ark rested?’

As often happens when abroad, the conversation drifted to home—the Canadian Rockies and the Southern Alps. What mountains at home had we heard of, or even better, climbed? ‘Should we one

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day go climbing together?’ That was how my current journey began.

Four and a half years later, armed with a Canadian work visa, I landed in Montreal where I met Geoff Lampard, who was vacating McGill for post-grad medical school life out west in Calgary. For him the sorrow of leaving the vibrant and cosmopolitan Montreal was well-tempered by the excitement of moving back to the Rockies, and the adventures that lay just hours beyond the lecture theatre door.

Through Geoff I was fortunate to find climbing friends with similar abilities and ambitions and over the following year western Canada became my climbing playground. The friendships I formed with Geoff and his close friends Mark Howell—a trim, quietly spoken environmentalist—and Dan Williams—a burly, outspoken philosopher—were friendships I wanted to one day re-visit.

In the northern hemisphere summer of 2012 I

proposed a returned to Calgary to rekindle those friendships and climb some objectives that had been quietly brewing in my mind in the interim. From poring over local guidebooks I’d settled upon four specific Canadian classics that I hadn’t climbed and that would be within my moderate capabilities. These were: the South East Ridge of Mount Victoria, the North West Ridge of Mount Sir Donald, the South East Ridge of Snowpatch Spire and the North Face of Mount Robson. Much to my joy, upon sharing these objectives, I received some rather enthusiastic offers of assistance. We were keen to make a summer of it!

Now all grown up and working, Geoff was able to take a little time away from his residency programme, as was Mark from his land reclamation work up in McMurray’s oil patch. Dan, who had a summer job between university years, (he still hasn't really grown up) decided, wisely, to quit for a wellearned break and it was with him who I attempted

our first big alpine objective—Mount Victoria.

Dan and I took an early afternoon bus ride from the Trans-Canada Highway up to Lake O’Hara. The bus takes a gravel road for 45 minutes up to the picturesque lake on the British Columbia side of the mountain. ‘The bus is running late today,’ the Parks Canada Ranger told us, ‘We are waiting for Fred Beckey to arrive.’ Both Dan and I were excited by this prospect and would have been happy for a long wait to glimpse the famous man, but Parks Canada run a tight ship so after 20 minutes of waiting we left the carpark with no Fred in sight.

The approach to Mount Victoria is a very pleasant one, ambling through thin spruce and fir forest that opens up into delightful alpine meadows with multiple crystal clear tarns framing and reflecting the grand backdrop. There is, however, more to it than that. Like so many Rockies climbs, Mount Victoria has a couple of hours worth of scree bashing to keep O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 93

Abbot Pass book reading with Dan Williams.

Ryan Lobb

you honest before you reach Abbot Pass Hut. We arrived to find the hut abuzz with excitement.

Abbot Pass Hut was named in memory of Philip Abbot, the first mountaineering fatality to occur in North America from a fall on Mount Lefroy in 1896, prompting the Canadian Pacific Railway to start employing Swiss guides to escort adventurers in the area. An unfortunate mountaineer had almost just shared Abbot’s fate on Lefroy and was descending the final slope back to the hut on one leg as we arrived.

Dan kindly piped up that I was a doctor (I’m not) and so using my physio skills we deduced the obvious. The climber couldn’t weight-bear through his ankle or bend his knee. We summoned a chopper.

A little spooked from these events, our ascent of Mount Victoria the next morning started tentatively.

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

However, once the sun was up and with views of Lake O’Hara and British Columbia on one side of the ridge and Lake Louise, the Chateau and Alberta on the other, Dan and I ascended and traversed our way out to the summit with not much else on our minds.

In many ways the climb seemed similar to traversing a snow-clad Barrier Knob to Barrier Peak in Fiordland. There was a definitive ridge with steep run-offs into beautiful valleys either side and the climbing wasn’t technically difficult, although The Sickle, a large sickle shaped snow feature, did provide some interest.

Following a pre-dawn start, we had soaked in the morning colours and were on the summit by around 9.00 am. As the day wore on the wind picked up and the cloud settled on the mountain but by late after-

noon we had descended to the hut and then back down and out to await the bus at Lake O’Hara.

While Mark had been working we had been discussing our options. As I pulled through the arrivals lane at Northern Caribou’s terminal Mark leapt into the car asking, ‘You wanna go to the Bugs?’

I was only too delighted to oblige, so after picking up supplies in Banff we headed for Radium and on to Bugaboo Provincial Park.

We sat at Applebee Campground awaiting a weather clearance. I had made a rather handy purchase of a foam mat and vivid pen which proved a hit amongst our camp companions. We drew pictures of our surrounds while we whiled away the monotony.

The weather on the morning of 2 August was patchy but change appeared imminent owing to a cold northerly. We went for a reconnoiter.

Following some of the early 1900s’ most daring climbs, such as Bugaboo Spire, Mount Robson and Mount Louis, Conrad Kain reported: ‘I feel inclined to prophesy that this pinnacle [Snowpatch Spire] will be the most difficult in the Canadian Alps.’

Not until 1940 was it summitted, via the South East Ridge, or Snowpatch Route. The route is described as a 19-pitch, 5.8 (16/17) classic, with some challenging route-finding. It offers consecutive dihedrals low down, then hand cracks which lead you onto the face below the snowpatch. Slabby climbing higher up finishes with a hand-crack crux near the summit. We departed Applebee with dark cloud still overhead but by first light the cloud was pulling away to the east, so most of the morning found us absorbed and enjoying the fun!

Around midday, just below the crux, I realised, It’s 3 August, it’s my birthday. What a birthday present, the rock was now warm, there was not a breath of wind to cut the cobalt blue skies and to top it off we were sharing the route with not another soul.

Seconding the crux provided a tense moment. I traversed a thin finger crack with steep smears for my feet, the consequence of a fall would be a decent pendulum into a dark, granite corner. Once past this section it was jugs and cracks all the way to the summit! Mark joined me on top and exclaimed, ‘This is some birthday!’ I agreed.

We descended back to Applebee, arriving in time to observe a huge influx of long-weekend climbers.

Over 100 tents dotted the camping area by evening!

We had both been keen to try for the North East Ridge of Bugaboo Spire the following morning but by 2.30 am at least six parties were already making for the route. We reassessed our ambitions and decided

that European-style jostling wasn’t our flavour so we packed out and headed for the relatively uncrowded haven of the Illecillewaet Valley at Rogers Pass, the birth place of Canadian mountaineering.

Rogers Pass is home to the majestic Mount Sir Donald. Were it not for its relatively low elevation

t o p Geoff and Ryan at dawn on Little Robson.

Mark Howell

b o t t o m Tarn on the approach to Mt Victoria.

Ryan Lobb

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 95

t o p Birthday boy atop Snowpatch Spire, Bugaboo Provincial Park. Mark Howell b o t t o m A heel-clicking good time, Mark Howell approaching the summit of Snowpatch Spire. Ryan Lobb

(3284m), Mount Sir Donald would possibly usurp Mount Assiniboine for the title of the Matterhorn of western Canada, as its rock quality is vastly better than Assiniboine’s. Don’s North West Ridge is the line that catches the eye from a distance, cutting the shadowy north face from the bright west face. The climb is a North American classic, it runs at a sustained grade of

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5.4 (8) from bottom to top. It is a long ridge.

We started early in the morning, knowing that with 2000m vertical relief from the car to summit, our day wouldn’t be a short one.

By mid-morning we had gained the ridge, and there were no crowds. We climbed quickly, only pulling the rope out once as the rock was bone dry, solid and we were in the groove. It remained a heady and eerie experience throughout owing to the unrelenting angle and exposure.

Again by mid-afternoon I had a big grin smearing my face, feeling blessed to have topped out in the sunshine on two of my big routes in the course of three days. Sometimes luck is thrown your way!

I was down to my last week and there was one more weather window in which to attempt Robson.

The mountain conditions report wasn't favourable for the North Face, crevasses had cut it off since earlier that month. So Mark, Dan, Geoff and I settled for an attempt on the South Face, or Gentleman's Route, instead.

Mount Robson is a massive mountain. At 3954m it is the highest mountain in the Canadian Rockies.

Its southern aspect boasts 3000m of vertical relief from base to summit. It has its own rainforest due to the mountain creating localised weather patterns, for which the area is notorious. Some years the mountain sees no ascents. It is estimated that only around 10 per cent of attempts on Robson are successful.

We pinched ourselves as we pulled into the park early in the morning to see Robson under a clear blue sky.

It had apparently been great weather for two days and was expected to hold. We lumped our packs towards the south face, planning to stay at Ralph Forster Hut the night a little over half-way up the route.

A thinly cut trail covered in windfall and years worth of overgrowth greeted us, only really hinting at a way up in the heat. After a number of hours thrashing, we broke out onto steep talus slopes with bedrock just beneath the scree making travel tricky.

Who had dubbed this a gentleman’s route?

A couple of hours before dark we reached the rock bands, which required some scrambling to overcome and reach the hut. We all couldn't believe how warm it was, this was a problem.

In the 1960s Geoff's uncle Doug had climbed Robson with the much-illustrated guide Hans Schwartz, the record holder for Robson ascents and namesake of the Swartz Ledges. Doug recalled reaching the Schwartz Ledges with Hans pronouncing, ‘This is where we unrope.’ Clearly Hans viewed these

ledges that run under the summit ice blocks as being under major threat from icefall.

The following morning we grovelled up more rotten rock and soft snow in the dark until we had reached the snow cone of Little Robson and were gazing at the Schwartz Ledges—the one major obstacle between us and the summit. It was so still, quiet and warm. We had reached a point of having to make a decision. Should we run the gauntlet on the ledges for 20 minutes and then onwards to the summit? Or turn back? Our apprehensions didn’t concern the first run, rather, we were worried about repeating the exercise late in the day. Overnight, even above 3000m, it hadn't gotten close to a freeze. The fear of some of the summit block calving off while we were beneath it was a very real one. What to do? I had

travelled a long way to climb this mountain. All other conditions were perfect. The summit block looks like it should be a waltz and probably the only fun part of the route. We shifted feet, repeated scenarios and options, and generally wasted time. The longer we dallied, the more we realised that we weren't feeling it, it was a wretched feeling.

The decision to descend was finally made well after sun up, we agreed that drinking was the only satisfactory alternative. After retracing our steps we pulled into Jasper on nightfall and spent the end of a long 26-hour day gate-crashing a local rodeo afterparty. Geoff (our sober driver) got breath tested by the Mounties before we all collapsed in the bushes for a kip on the side of the icefield parkway, well short of our Calgary destination and my impending flight home.

Dan Williams traversing the summit ridge of Mt Victoria with Mt Lefroy behind.

Ryan Lobb

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

FREE SPREE Free ascents of the Regular North West Face of Half Dome, and Freerider on El Capitan, Yosemite, USA.

by KARL SCHIMANSKI The author up high on the 5.12+ Enduro Corner pitch on Freerider.

Alexandra Schweikart

C

old reality doesn’t hit much harder than when you’re watching another person ragdoll down a cliff, the same cliff face where only moments earlier he was laughing with you at a belay. You watch him plummet and wait for the rope to catch, then there’s a sickening, heart-dropping moment of realisation … the rope isn’t catching.

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

Your ears fill with his last pleading scream of terror, before it’s silenced with one of many horrible impacts on rock. You watch as a husband—his wife and two little girls at home—disappears to his death, hundreds of metres below. *** Five months earlier I’d been in Tasmania going through a long-winded interview process for a job as a student paramedic. My heart was set on it and when I learnt I didn’t get the job I was devastated, for at least a whole day anyway. The next day it meant I was free to go climb El Cap instead! When CJ found out—his thumb still in a cast from an accident and with only one semester left of a seven year saga to complete a three year uni degree—his response came quick. ‘Bugger that, you can’t drop out of society and go climbing, that’s what I do! I’m coming too!’

That meant Anna, a great friend and CJ’s girlfriend (now wife) was in too, and somewhere along the way we realised Dano was going to be arriving in the States at the same time as us so that was it, the iconic US climbing trip was born. There were four of us, a van and a plan for climbing. Until the accident, the road trip had been a barrel of laughs.

Sure it was a freak accident, Dano and I had both simul-climbed through that very section of rock only seconds earlier. But it was the second climbing death I had witnessed within a few months. They were both from a cut rope. That one precious lifeline that we rely on so much, yet take for granted all too much, had simply cut through.

That last one had happened within the first couple weeks of our trip to Yosemite, during my first attempt on the Regular North West Face of Half Dome.

For the rest of my stay in the valley the sound of the Yosemite Search and Rescue chopper would bring back that experience, sending shivers down my spine and prayers emanating from within.

God knows what it was doing to Dano’s head. He wasn’t going to attempt the climb again, at least not this trip, and understandably so. When I went back again later with CJ the shattered rock and dried blood served as a fresh reminder. But for me to continue, I had to get back up there and on that climb again.

CJ had made an unsuccessful free attempt on the Regular North West face with JC a couple of weeks earlier and knew it well. Well, better than I did. Apart from the easier lower third of the climb, this would be my first time on the rest of it. Still, we were confident it would go free in a day.

We hiked up the night before and got cracking

extra early in the morning. Our last stop before hiking up had been to make one last check of the weather forecast. We almost didn’t continue. The ominous forecast, as it had done the day before, still showed torrential rain approaching, followed by snow storms. We both knew the arrival of that snow would signal our last chance to climb Half Dome.

Afterwards, even if the weather did clear, at that height and with the face in the shade for the majority of the day, the snow would remain and seepage would continue for the rest of the season and into the coming winter. There would be no more chances. So we took a tagline in case we needed to bail and went for it. Plan A: move fast and beat the rain!

We made a good start on the climb before reaching the maze of choss that comprises the ‘free’ (read ‘death’) variation, which avoids the bolt ladder. We slowed to a crawl. I led on and was petrified. CJ wasn’t far off when he seconded.

With boulders simply teetering on edge, almost every hold was a time bomb waiting to explode. Bad memories were fresh in my mind but we made it through and climbed on. Arriving at the base of the Zig-Zags we caught up with a slower aid party on a two-day ascent, which was fast about to become a three-day non-ascent epic bail. We informed them of the impending storm and bargained our pass card.

They would wait to let us climb past if we would fix their rope ahead so they could get the hell out of there!

Here the first crux pitch loomed above. My stomach had been severely cramping for a few pitches now and CJ had begun to develop a weird itchy arse (!), but he’d been here and climbed this before and I hadn’t so it was his lead.

CJ climbed upwards. Shit, CJ fell. It was my turn to lead. I was doubled over but the clouds were getting closer. A quick run through of the beta and away I went. Cramping soon became distant as I threw every ounce of concentration into climbing past CJ’s last bit of gear … side pull, step up, I could hear the distant shouts of encouragement from below, undercling and … shit that was it. Wooop! We were once again on our way to the top.

Continuing to fix ropes (for two parties now) we climbed on and reached the second and final crux pitch just before dark. My cramps were gone but CJ’s arse was getting itchier. The weather was coming in, surrounding us, but we still took our time to suss out the tenuous slab. It was the second to last pitch and was all that remained between us freeing Half Dome in a day. No dramas. We both sent it by the

light of our headtorches. We topped out a pitch later and with barely a moment to even think about being stoked we hoofed it back down to the valley before the heavens unleashed!

It rained and snowed for the next few days but it didn’t matter, we were trashed and we’d just freed Half Dome! Also, it turned out CJ had wiped his butt with poison oak! The symptoms had only just begun to show en route and it got much worse than itchy, so what better way to alleviate the pain than with a healthy dose of celebration and blind drunkenness?

Eventually the weather cleared and I found myself staring up at El Cap. The grandeur of that wall has never ceased to amaze me. Six years ago I had climbed El Cap for the first time. Back then it had taken Steve and I five days to ascend The Nose. It had been the best climb of my life.

Now I was going to attempt to free El Cap. A few years ago I wouldn’t have even dreamed of it. Sure after my first trip to the valley I wanted to go back to climb the Rostrum and Astroman, but El Cap?!

Never. That was only for people in magazines, the best of the best climbers, the strongest of our kind.

Then one day I met CJ. Not long after he went to the valley and attempted Freerider, and for some perplexing reason he thought we could do it. Whatever.

I’d just met this crazy guy and I didn’t believe him. I

t o p Half Dome. The north-west face is in shade. b o t t o m The author on the Monster Off-width pitch on Freerider, El Cap. This 5.11+ pitch shuts down many 5.14 sport climbers.

Alexandra Schweikart (both)

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

t o p El Capitan. Freerider is on the face in the sun.

Alexandra Schweikart

b o t t o m CJ and the author celebrating on Freerider.

John Fischer

knew how hard that shit was.

However, over late night drunken conversations, dreaming while on mad climbing adventures together and always with that glimmer in his eye, again and again CJ said it to me: ‘Dude it’s not that hard, fuck I bet we could go and send it right now!’

It took CJ a couple of years of telling me that for me to actually agree and believe that yes, yes maybe I could attempt it. After all, by then he did know me, and I guess he did know Freerider.

The first time I finally got to know Freerider was over five days with a good friend, Alex. When Alex and I got to the crux pitch we aided past as it was in the baking sun. We then lowered back down that evening to have a go. I tried the moves on the Huber Boulder pitch and my spirits were soon destroyed.

The moves felt impossible. It seemed as if that might be the end of my Freerider dream. True, the rock was still warm and slick but even so it was way too hard. These were moves that crushers climbing grade 32+ still had to work the moves on repeatedly.

Grade 28—yeah right, big time sandbag.

However, there are two ways to climb Freerider at its crux. They are side by side and finish at the same

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belay. It’s choose your own adventure: the Huber Boulder pitch or the original Teflon Corner. So with one last hope I swung over and lowered into the Teflon Corner. It seemed a distant chance, the openbook corner was blank and nobody I had talked to ever climbed Freerider this way. I’d talked with super strong climbers who couldn’t even get off the belay and I’m sure the guidebook description uses the words magic and levitation. Even the Huber brothers bolted a variation to avoid the thing!

Yet the Huber Boulder pitch was given 28, and the Teflon Corner was only supposed to be 27. So in the glow of my headlamp and spurred on by that last determined hope, I began to inspect every inch of that smooth wall. Secrets were slowly unveiled.

Here was a tiny groove, and there the opposite wall had a slight bulge, and lower a dimple. With palms out and feet spread wide I pressed, then slowly, with all my concentration, I moved a foot, and then a hand … and they stuck! Then I fell. And I fell again.

But I’d done it. I’d done one move! If I could do one move then why couldn’t I do two? And if I could do two, why couldn’t I do them all? That was all the motivation I needed. The fire was alive once more and soon enough I was back for another attempt, this time with CJ. The trip wasn’t all peaches and cream though. CJ had attempted Freerider multiple times before and had invested a lot of time, effort and (Australian tax payers) money into simply getting to Yosemite twice before. He was a little stressed and tensions had been running high. So high in fact that I almost bailed while driving to the base of El Cap the morning we were to start Freerider. CJ had started to get stressed and angry about something ridiculous and I pulled the car over. I wasn’t going up El Cap in that manner. After the last few weeks and events it simply didn’t mean that much to me anymore. People meant more. I was going to climb it psyched and happy, with a friend who was in the same mind frame, or not at all. It was his choice and it would be disappointing to not climb it but I didn’t care. I cared about the person attached to the other end of that rope and the experience together. To a best friend’s credit, he sorted it out.

We set off psyched and we had the time of our lives up there!

The first day we climbed 600 metres to where we had pre-stashed some gear. We freed every pitch as we went except the Teflon Corner, which we aided through in darkness, before arriving at our camp at

The Block where we spent the next few nights.

The next day we lowered back down, worked the Teflon Corner, then spent the rest of the day chilling out, resting and having a laugh. On the third morning we woke early and rapped back down again. We warmed up and prepared to send.

The following sequence of events was undoubtedly the highlight of the climb and still get me excited writing about them a year later. Right then, from out of the darkness below, emerged two headlamps and up popped our friends Mayan and Niels! Niels had also tried Freerider multiple times and a couple of weeks earlier had attempted it with CJ over two days.

On that attempt he had freed every pitch except that elusive Huber Boulder.

Mayan had recently freed the Salathé Wall (the same line that Freerider follows until the last few pitches, where Freerider branches out left) and this time was back with Niels for an epic one-day ascent!

So far they were smashing it.

As we pulled our rope and got set for the Teflon, Neils hung the draws on the boulder pitch, ten metres away, and Mayan stepped up for the lead.

She’d never sent it first go before but this time was different, right as it looked like she was about to peel off the crux she gave it everything, pulled back in, and sent! Wooop!! Then Neils who had never redpointed the pitch also sent! Hell yeah! Then I stepped up and sent the Teflon! WOOOP! The send train was open and you guessed it—CJ then sent too!

AARRUUUUUGAH!!

The stars had aligned and the energy that morning was ridiculous. There was so much whooping and hollering as all of us sent. Elsewhere on El Cap another friend Hazel, who was entering the crux of Golden Gate, heard us and, so psyched from realising we’d all just sent, proceeded to send also! Five sends back to back, no falls! Unbelievable.

Mayan and Niels soon sped away to send Freerider in a crazy 14 hours. CJ and I battled upwards and also topped out later that evening and fulfilled a shared dream.

The fact is that if it wasn’t for CJ I wouldn’t have even tried to climb Freerider. His belief in our ability grew to infect me and in the end that was the key to our success.

I believe there is a daunting perception and aura built up around freeing the Captain, because the only people we ever see or hear of sending and attempting these climbs are the strongest of our kind.

In writing this I hope to shatter this misconception

for others. For in climbing Freerider, I believe CJ and I became the sixth and seventh Australasians to free El Cap. We aren’t 5.14 crushers! Every one of the others before us was. But hell, I hadn’t even climbed a grade 28, let alone a 32! Yeah, okay, sure, it’s hard, but it’s not that hard. It’s only grade 27 …

Alex on Freerider, with the end in sight.

Johannes Ingrisch

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

RONDANE – NORGES PLAYGROUND

by ROSS CULLEN AND PIP LYNCH

N

orway is endlessly scenic, unhurried and expensive. The country is a vast scenic wonderland of dark green forests, fjords (both salt and freshwater), solid wooden houses well coated with red oxide or caramel-coloured paint, lush fields of oats, barley and occasionally wheat, and plenty of blunt rocky mountains. That’s the summer scenery. In winter it displays white and dull green conifers and lights burning from house windows.

It’s unhurried because Norway, now that it has vast wealth from oil and gas, does not need to hustle to make a NOK. The working week has fewer hours in Norway than in most other places. It’s expensive because Norway imposes high taxes on most consumer items you might want to buy and protects much local production from world competition. Norges jordbaer have terrific flavour and texture, but they sell at Wimbledon tournament prices. Alcohol retail sales occur at state-owned Vinmonopolet and monopolies are not known for margin-cutting prices. Beer at the supermarket costs 50 per cent more than New Zealand prices.

But don’t let high prices and relaxed attitudes to on-time completion deter you from visiting—and climbing in—Norway. Since WC Slingsby first climbed in Norway 140 years ago, visitors have revelled in the climbing and skiing playground the Norges mountains provide. There are 32 Nasjonal Parks in Norway, including seven on Svalbard, providing a range of opportunities to suit most climbing tastes. Rondane, Norges første NasjonalPark provided a couple of fun summer climbing days for us in July.

Cars are expensive in Norway (did I already mention that?) so we took a train north from Oslo for four hours through Hamar and Lillehammer to Otta. The train follows a Clutha-sized river that flows through a steep-sided valley, clothed in conifer and dotted with bluffs, farms and hamlets. From Otta we took a bus for 20 minutes and an 800m height gain for NOK 45 each, rapidly gaining height up the zig-zags, through Mysuseter and on toward 102 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

the park boundary. An overflow of poorly parked cars forced the bus to halt 400 metres before the rudimentary carpark and the low-key NasjonalPark buiding—a tepee. It’s an hour stroll along a road to the tourist centre at Rondvassbu. Rondane has four very popular tourist hytte including Rondvassbu, which provide meals, accommodation and social life for visitors. These facilities are operated by a not for profit, DNT, who play the major role supporting recreation in Norske parks. Look for a red T rather than a DOC equivalent logo in Norges parks.

In July it’s relatively warm, the days are still very long at 62°N and frugal Kiwis can camp almost anywhere in the park. We had chosen to climb Rondslottet (2178m), which is the highest mountain in the park, as one of our first climbs and bivvied 45 minutes uphill from Rondvassbu. We had dispensed with a tent, but took sleeping bags, bivvy sacks and gas for cooking. There is rock everywhere for shelter and cooking sites and we drank the water untreated from a nearby stream.

The region seems very arid and we saw very few birds or animals apart from some sheep as we walked down the road between the park boundary and Rondvasssbu. Plant life is mainly heather, lichen and some small flowering plants including Reinblom or Issoleie, ranunculus glacialis. The sparse vegetation does provide grazing for reindeer at times during the year. Watch that you don’t step into a two metre deep reindeer pit if you walk off a trail. Other mammals in the park include Jer (a 15 kilogram rodent best viewed from a distance), muskox in a border area (Dovre) to the north and lemming. Lemming populations are chaotic and during spikes in numbers some drown as they swim rivers and streams, contaminating the water. We saw only one emaciated lemming carcass while we were in the park, and we were assured that the water in the streams was fine to drink.

The Jotunheimen Mountains, Norway’s highest, were visible

l e f t t o r i g h t : Pip on Storrenden; the ridge to Storrenden; Storsmeden, Pt 1948m behind; Issoleie, Ranunulus glacialis. Ross Cullen (all)

about 30 kilometres to the west. They have some glaciers on them and look very rounded. Those massive icefields of the past have scraped off plenty of rock with just a few high points remaining above 2200m.

We took no ice axes and Ross found the going fine in trekking boots. Rock quality? If you like often casually stacked, but sometimes massively stacked schist, then Rondane in summer is for you. The weather was kind, the height gain for each peak no more than 1000m and we stepped up and down six peaks. Vinjerongen, Rondslottet, Storronden the first day and Storsmeden, Ikkenavn and Ljøsåbelgen the second day. These are all easy scrambles and large numbers of adults, children and dogs ascend Storronden and some other DNT-approved peaks in the park.

Breakfast at Rondvassbu is served beginning at 8.00 am but bivvying has few constraints and we were away at 7.00 am. A trail wound up the valley from our campsite at 1250m to the col, then up schist blocks past occasional red Ts to the summit of Vinjerongen at 2044m, then on down the north side and on up to the summit of Rondslottet (The Castle) the park’s highest peak at 2178m. It was a cool day with light cloud at 2100m and three 2000m peaks— Diggeronden (2016m), Midtronden (2060m) and Hogronden (2118m)—were visible to the north. About five kilometres away we could see a climbing group walking uphill towards the peak from the hytte to the east, Bjørnhollia. A traverse of Rondslottet, hytte to hytte, is a popular trip.

DNT-approved 2000m peaks have orienteering needle punches tied to their well-constructed, tall summit cairns. I clipped the map page on the Rondane brochure I carried in my shirt pocket before we plodded back over Vinjerongen, down the ridge, with a steep face to the east, to the saddle with Storronden. We followed a direct line up the rocky north face towards the summit of Storronden.

Two climbers from Bergen descended towards us and we stopped for a ten-minute chat in a cheerful mix of Engelsk and a litte Norsk.

At the summit of Storronden (2138m), we had another conversa-

tion with Bergen residents (who is looking after the tourists in Bergen this week?) and then it was time for lunch. Three peaks were climbed by midday, Rondane is a friendly place.

From our second campsite at 1450m, an hour west of Rondvassbu, we were drawn to Storsmeden (2016m), the most striking peak we had seen as we approached the park. Storsmeden is shaped like a Cornish pastie with some coarse runnels down the rock on its western flank. The schist blocks provide plenty of options to pick a way up the western side and we followed various bits of trail to reach the summit and the needle punch. The views from Storsmeden are excellent: east to the peaks we had climbed the previous day, north-east to a challenging-looking ridge leading to Veslesmeden (2015m), north-west to Trolltindan (2018m) and west to an unnamed peak and Ljøsabelgen. A rope may be needed for the Veslesmeden-Storsmeden ridge so we left that for another day. Trolltindan is more remote, looks more challenging, and it too is on the list for our next visit to the park.

Ikkenavn, as we called the unnamed 1996m peak, proved a pleasant scramble after Storsmeden but we did not enjoy the descent to the west on large, loose blocks on our way on to the bump Hoggbeitet, en route to Ljøsåbelgen. A sharp ridge ran north-east towards us and provided a direct path to the summit at 1948m.

That’s too low to attract crowds or warrant a DNT needle punch but the peak did have a fine rectangular summit cairn and allowed good views of the five other peaks we had ascended as well as west to the cabins at Mysuseter and even a glimpse of Otta in the valley far below. Bread, brunostene cheese, sardiner, dadler and other morsels made a fine lunch on top.

Rondane, Norges første NasjonalPark was established in 1952 and is easy to access. It provides pleasant scrambling in summer and doubtless, terrific ski touring terrain in winter. There are nine peaks in the park over 2000m (the tick list altitude in Norway) and you can purchase a badge for each of the ones you have ascended at the DNT shops in the park. Check it out if you visit Norway. God Tur! O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 103

AROUND MANASLU ON ONE TOILET ROLL

by JOHN ENTWISLE a b o v e Heading for the Mu Gumba monastery, the morning after the storm. b e l o w Dawa, Neema, Thile, Kate and John.

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I

t was the best of our mornings, but the worst of our afternoons, for as we returned from lunch a dark cloud roiled up the valley, shut out the sun and turned a warm day to a swirling snow storm. I grabbed our still-wet washing and dived into the tent. ‘It’ll blow over soon,’ said Kate as we wriggled inside our sleeping bags to conserve warmth. It was time to read, thump the tent, doze, thump again, play Scrabble and wish we’d brought better sleeping bags. Our guide Thile shook the tent, ‘Dinner, John and Kate.’ We dashed from snow to smoke and what would have been a hint of heat if only they’d close the door. The locals huddled around a stove with their rakshi and dahl bhat while we cowered in a dark corner eating Neema’s version of pizza. Oh for the thin crusty pizzas of Italy washed down with red wine on a warm evening.

Dreams. ‘Let’s give Europe a miss,’ I suggested to Kate, ‘How about Nepal?’ So I emailed Val, who works there as a trekking guide, and asked her to recommend a local agent. Thus we met Ang Dawa, a ponytailed Sherpa with a liking for beer. He eyed us two skinny pensioners over a glass warily, and with good reason, for our

ages exactly matched the average Nepali life expectancy. Then he was off to the Khumbu, delegating his daughter the task of taking us out for a Nepali meal. The next morning Thile, Neema (our cook) and Dawa (porter and general dogsbody) were given the job of somehow getting us through the next 18 days.

There were no chickens or goats on the bus this time. The travel was easy, on Christchurch-style roads, until Dhading Besi, where a local mechanic wielding a giant spanner resecured the exhaust. Soon we knew why as the road gave way to mud and hippo-wallow-sized potholes with always the prospect of a long plummet down ever-steepening hillsides.

At each hamlet more people squashed on, occasionally two or three leapt off only to be replaced by more. The journey was a testament to Tata engineering, the driver and Nepali good humour. And let’s not forget the signalling skills of the man-about-the-bus who, while hanging out over precipitous drops, directed the driver as we manoeuvred past other vehicles or around hairpin bends.

For the following three days we trekked up the Budhi Gandaki Nadi, past rice paddies and banana plants, Hindu shrines, the smell of wood smoke with its flavour in our hourly teas, the sound of axes in the forest and people and mules carrying goods. We mingled with our fellow trekkers on the Manaslu circuit: Aussies with a stray Kiwi, Nepali speaking Brits, some French, two Swiss and an American woman who was possibly older than us and on a long trip over two passes to the Mustang region. Later we heard tales of her walking prowess. Compared to tramping it was all very leisurely, too slow though, as by now we’d sampled the valley and wanted to be on our side-trip up the Tsum Valley, gaining height and moving to Buddhist country. It was time to push Thile and the porters to get up to the higher valley as we needed to start acclimatising.

Into the rhododendron forest we went. Up higher the flowers remained, a few were still bright, some were faded and others formed a red carpet. We glimpsed views before clouds drifted over and it rained. Orchids hung from cliffs as the valley closed in. It was a Kiwi-style day of up, down and river crossings. Here though it was on sturdy suspension bridges built to a Swiss design.

Thile and Dawa pitched our tent (I wasn’t allowed near it) in a field of black mud. Then they took residence in an out-building of a dark and smoky house.

As I ate I regarded its construction, or lack thereof, and hoped there wasn’t an earthquake. Somehow Dawa kept our cooking and eating utensils clean. We never got sick. In the morning we said goodbye to the shaded, squalid lower valley. The Ganesh Himal, white and clear in the morning light, glowed above the forest, in contrast to our feet, which were embedded in mud and mule shit. Our accommodation that night was a sturdy two-storey house, the lower section of which was home to the family’s yak, naks (female yaks) and a US$1000 horse. I thought of the germs of Jared Diamond’s Guns, Germs and Steel. So this was what had honed our immune systems. A dash of hand sanitiser and then we climbed the ladder for dinner in a spacious wood-panelled room, warmed by a non-Ecan-approved wood and dung stove. It did at least have a chimney, but where, at over 3000m, did the wood come from? And for how much longer will it be available, with the arrival of more tourists? In one corner lurked a computer linked to a power supply that flickered on and off in the storm until our hostess gave up on it and switched to solar. That’s not something one can do in many houses in New Zealand.

The next morning we walked through new snow to the Mu Gumba Monastery, which is perched on a steep hillside to maximise shade, wind exposure and, possibly, spirituality. The young monks welcomed me into their snowball fight. The following morning we watched them at prayer, chanting, playing their musical

t o p Monastery above Lho. m i d d l e Pasang’s class at Samagoen. b o t t o m Neema with his kitchen.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 105

t o p Manaslu from the west. b o t t o m Old porter with gas cylinder.

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

instruments and dipping their snotty noses into mugs of Tibetan tea to allay the cold. To us it seemed a harsh, cold life for boys so young. Perhaps it was for our porters too, who ran down without stopping for four hours. We pursued them past yaks dragging wooden ploughs across the fields while families followed, planting potatoes.

When at last the porters stopped, we beheld another contrast: a muddy yard of animals, the worst toilet so far and, walled off, a large satellite dish. Upstairs, a young French man and his entourage dined around a wood stove. While Neema slaved over his ancient Primus, the French man berated us as tourists for destroying the local forests. Did youth make him exempt? Not so to Kate as she, having survived bringing up three sons, pointed out that while he and his companions had eaten food cooked over wood, to the detriment of the Nepali forests, we were only draining the Saudi oilfields by using kerosene.

Back in the lower valleys lethargy returned to the team. Thile, polite as ever, insisted that we must not overtake the porters. We must behave like proper sahibs and memsahibs and arrive looking exhausted for lunch, which by day three was becoming more like brunch. Now, Kate’s idea of tramping is to walk for three hours then have a coffee and some food then repeat the process until either it goes dark or our legs drop off. Clearly we did not fit the Nepali first-world gran and grandpa stereotype. My brief tirade was met with a few sullen glances followed by a faster pace along the paths weaving through the upper gorges of the Budhi Gandaki Nadi to above 3000m and on to Lho with its dancing monks.

The monks circled, twirled, banged and blew their instruments and camped it up to the delight of the crowd. Or was it a congregation? This was an important Buddhist religious festival which, according to Thile, every devout Buddhist needs to witness or his spirit will never find eternal rest. If the dancing was anything to go by, the restless spirits seemed to be having a great time enjoying their freedom.

Drums, cymbals and horns announced dawn as the monks paraded around the village temple. Meanwhile a luminous Manaslu trailed her veil across the sky, high and serene above us. She drew us on up the valley, first to the monastery where we watched children learning English. Try putting these words into a sentence: sanctity, offering and sacrament.

The next afternoon we were back in a classroom watching Pasang take her class through ‘my name is … ’. We joined in. Pasang pointed to a row children at the back. ‘These four are not good enough,’ she said. Nor had we been in the morning on our attempt to get from Samagaon to Manaslu Basecamp. Eight expeditions, including Guy Cotter’s, were huddled there awaiting a lull in the wind. This provided work for the local families to lug food and fuel up to the climbers. We followed the supply chain, first passing an old man (about our age) carrying a large gas cylinder. Hours later we met him still plodding on. I’d have been tempted to light the nozzle to go up, or out, with a bang. Mums, dads, uncles, aunties and kids pulled out for rests or to rearrange loads. On we plugged in deepening snow and thinning air until our acclimatisation and time were spent. Below us a couple threw down their loads in the snow. The man picked both up and climbed on while the woman ran down with fleet footed ease as if she was going to met the kids from school. Perhaps she was. We needed to do the same. We’d arranged to present some photos and teaching aids Val had given us to carry in.

What we’d brought looked so pathetic against the needs of these children.

The aids and pens could only be given out as prizes to a few, Pasang explained.

She explained a lot, such as how the school buildings were funded by a Japanese multi-millionaire (the Japanese climbed Manaslu first), how the Spanish helped

with food, the Nepali government with books and teachers and how each month the parents had to supply a basket of firewood. We could see that the wood was eked out by using solar cookers. A hosepipe brought clean water from high across the valley. ‘Please can I get some photos to show my grandchildren what a Nepali school is like?’ I asked.

‘No problem’ Pasang replied, ‘and do you want to see some children in class?’

With that she clapped her hands and shouted a few firm words into the wind. Her class appeared in seconds and lined up outside the bare stone-walled room. When they came inside they didn’t remove any of their outside clothing. The cold wind edged through every gap in the stones. A few posters brightened the walls. Pasang moved easily to an English lesson. The students also learn Nepali and Tibetan as it seems as easy to trade over the passes as it is along the valleys. We said our thanks and left the children to play as they were the boarders and school was over for the day.

Samdo is as high as Aoraki and stands at the junction of three valleys. Two valleys head north and east to Tibet while our’s curved west, back around Manaslu towards the Annapurnas. Our afternoon task was to gasp as high as possible up Samdo Ri along with the rest of the trekkers, while Thile searched for Tashi, who Val had asked us to greet. ‘He’s gone to Pokhara,’ said Thile on our return. Slightly puzzled we found the photos from Val. Beneath the hugely padded clothes Tashi looked female. ‘Lots of Tashis in this village,’ muttered Thile as off he went again.

Shortly a beaming woman of Tibetan heritage welcomed us: ‘You are friends of Valdidis, you must come to my house,’ translated Thile. So we did. We climbed up a rickety wooden ladder to a dark room with one window. Tashi brought the solar light in, then blew life into the stove to brew tea, Tibetan for her and Thile, black for us. Through Thile, Tashi explained how Val had nursed her through a serious eye injury and then helped her and her children survive as Tashi had been widowed early. Her son was now studying in Pokhara while her daughter and grandchildren lived in the next village. Tashi had to manage the fields and animals and find wood on her own. We gave her Val’s photos, took more for Val and then left with gifts: chang for the porters and potatoes for our meal. ‘Please come and have tea with us in the morning,’ we said as we scurried into the gloom and the evening snow flurries.

Persuading Thile, Dawa and Neema to eat with us was not as easy as you’d think. All trip long we’d tried, but to no avail. I was never sure who was unsuitable to whom. On that morning Tashi couldn’t have tea with us in the lodge dining room. ‘Don’t try to explain Thile,’ I said. ‘The kitchen’s fine for us, and warmer.’

And it was, as were Tashi’s hugs as we made our way out to the cold, grey day and the morning’s ascent to Dharmshala at 4400m—our last stop before the Larkya La. Dharmshala is a desolate gulag of a place enlivened by an amazing variety of food which even the large French contingent appreciated. And so to bed. Thile was keen on a 2.00 am start, but one glance from Kate told him this wasn’t going to work. Getting up at 4.00 am and away in 30 minutes was the best he could get.

After three minutes the cold drained my torch batteries, but it was of no concern as intersecting headlights led on and, as their beams faded, the sky lightened and silvery peaks appeared: Samdo behind us, on our right the Pawar Himal and to our left, Larke. It was brilliant with our feet in crystalline snow while all around peaks glowed in the early rays of the sun. At the top of the Larkya La the prayer flags hung in the still air and, as we sipped hot tea and basked in cool sunlight, the array of peaks lost their warm pinks and reds to turn white, stark and, to us, aloof. We skated down the track in our walking shoes, deviating from it at times

t o p Larkya La in perfect weather. b o t t o m Machhapuchhre from Annapurna basecamp.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 107

to crusty snow. Edging down, we hugged rocks until the snow thinned and we dropped into a valley ringed with spare Aorakis and Matterhorns. We continued on down granite boulders to vegetation, yak pastures and what we thought was going to be a warm afternoon of relaxing at Bimtang.

With my feet in snow, my hands wrapped around a hot cup of tea and in conversation with a man from the Pyrenees, I watched the whole landscape scintillate with the white of yesterday’s snow. As the sun warmed the air the forest started to shed its load, at first as cast-off crystals, then as larger wet masses and finally as a rain of droplets. The down carpet at our feet turned to mud while all the time high above us banners of snow streamed off the peaks. It was a beautiful day to descend through the rhododendron forests below the western aspects of Manaslu and into the warmer, well-forested Dudh Kola Valley.

That night at Tiche we at last all dined together over a celebratory chicken.

Frankly, I doubt if it did celebrate and nor did we as it wasn’t one of Neema’s best cooking efforts. But for all of us, except Thile who had coke, the local beer went down well. The next morning a short stroll brought us to the beginnings of a Chinese-funded road carving its way up the valley. Progress? Goodbye forest?

Who knows?

At Dharapani we met up with a Czech group and their Sherpa guide Sante who’d been with us on the last half of the circuit and who we’d meet again on the way to Manang. They invited us up for tea while Thile cleared our permits at the local police post. Then it was farewell to our team as they were heading down the valley back to their other lives and families. Dawa back to being a farmer in the lower Khumbu, Neema to cooking school and Thile to help his wife run their small hotel in Kathmandu. We ambled on to a suitable tea house to rendezvous with our agent Dawa, who, with his brother and nephew, was guiding three Slovaks on the Annapurna circuit. I think he wanted to check that we were still standing. So we were, as we joined the trekking hordes and watched little people who get too much exercise carry for large people who don’t get enough.

After Manaslu, the Annapurna circuit was too commercial and, without Thile’s language skills, we became isolated from local life, except occasionally when we were the only people in a lodge. We used our acclimatisation to walk for full days so we went quickly over the Thorung La and down to Jomsom. At Jomsom we caught a bus to Tatopani to start the last stage of our journey to the Annapurna Sanctuary. That evening we sat on a roof-top drinking beer and watching the sun set on Dhauligiri. I’ll write no more, except to say that after 13 years we at last caught up with Val in Pokhara. Her warmth, concern for other people and humour were still there. t o p The Ganesh Himal from the upper Tsum Valley. m i d d l e Dancing monks at Lho. b o t t o m Snowballing monks at Ma Gumpa.

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

THE HIGHEST VIRGIN A trip to the world’s highest unclimbed peak—Gangkar Punesum, Bhutan words and photos by MARTIN CURTIS

G

angkar Punesum lies in the north of central Bhutan, close to the Tibetan border and, at an altitude of 7546 metres, is now the world’s highest unclimbed peak. It is likely to remain so for the indefinite future. There have been a handful of expeditions to this isolated massif in the past, but at the request of the locals in the late 1980s, the Bhutanese authorities closed it to all mountaineering, as they have done to all of their mountains that are sacred to the Buddhist population. Having seen what has happened in neighbouring Nepal, Bhutan continues with an admirable policy of tight control on tourist numbers. They are quite rightly worried about the effect of too many visitors on their unique culture. As a result, visitors to the country get a wonderful experience among some of the most charming and friendly people in the world.

I’d organised two previous trekking trips to

Bhutan, taking small groups of Kiwis to successfully complete the Cholmohari Laya trek in 2004 and then the arduous and isolated Snowman trek in 2006. This year, I was keen to go back. Although we had succeeded on the Snowman, we had experienced three days of bad weather on the high, stony plateau that should have been the highlight of the trip. We had also failed to catch a single glimpse of Gangkar Punesum, even though it was not that far to the east of us. In a second hand book shop in Skye I read about a couple of possible treks that might be allowed to the mountain’s south-west and southeast faces. Many months of negotiation with the Bhutanese trekking company I always use resulted in an itinerary being drawn up and approved by the authorities. After a couple of years of attempts to get it off the ground, I finally found a group of four friends who were very keen to see a part of Bhutan

The south-east face of Gangkar Punesum (7546m).

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 109

l e f t Camp 4, at 4165m. r i g h t Basecamp at Bamurpa.

seldom visited by tourists or trekkers. The 2012 Gangkar Punesum South East Face expedition was on.

We met up in Bangkok on 19 April and the following morning took the Druk Air flight to Paro via Dacca. It was lovely to see the thunder dragon on the aircraft tail again and experience the fantastic flight past Kanchenjunga followed by the spectacular drop into the deep Paro Valley, where the hillsides appear incredibly close to the wings of the A319 (because they are!). The Druk Air pilots are excellent and in the past have been trained by pilots from Mount Cook Airlines. The airport building in Paro always draws gasps of admiration and lots of photos from visitors, it’s built in the same unique traditional architectural style as all Bhutanese houses.

Our group visa and trekking route permits were awaiting us at the immigration desk, and in very little time we were outside the terminal being met by our local guide for the next three weeks. We did not get off to a good start with Sonam. For a start he was far too young and inexperienced for our party. Within no time he was talking to me about compromising on the route and changing it, insinuating we were too old to go trekking. I had to clamp straight down on this, pointing out the record of my previous groups and that Kiwis are much fitter than most other visitors. I had never struck a problem like this with any Intrek staff before, and only at the end of the trip discovered that he had been hired in from an outside agency because a sizeable increase in tourist numbers had depleted the availability of their experienced guides.

After an acclimatisation day walking up to the famous Taktshang monastery, which is perched on a vertical mountain side high above the Paro Valley, we began our long and slow journey east. Bhutan is one of the world’s most mountainous countries, and travel is very slow. There is only one road to the east of the country, it is a single lane of tar seal, often potholed and damaged by monsoon rains. To pass anything in either direction involves using the gravel verges. The road crosses several passes of over 3000m and twists in continuous hairpins up and down through Bhutan’s lush virgin 110 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

forests, which still cover 75 per cent of the country. Our minibus rarely got above 30 kph—wonderful! Why hurry? This is Bhutan.

After bypassing Thimpu, we climbed up and over the Dochu La with its 108 stupas, acres of prayer flags and red rhododendrons in full flower. Then it was down to the heat of the Punakha Valley, where the incredible Punakha Dzong (fortress/monastery) still blows me away after three visits. It is one of the world’s most amazing buildings.

We stayed the night at my favourite spot, the trekking company’s beautiful Kichu resort on the banks of the Dang Chhu, not far from Wangdi Phodrang, then carried on the next day over more passes towards the centre of this Himalayan kingdom. On our way we saw troops of white faced langurs, both pigmy-tailed and long-tailed macaque monkeys and whole hillsides of flowering rhododendrons and magnolias.

Once past the Nikki Chhu bridge, where the Snowman trek finishes, I was at last on new ground. We stopped for lunch in Trongsa, a small town which has the most amazing dzong built along a narrow ridge. The buildings follow the contours of the hillside. The fact that these massive constructions were put up in the 1600s is quite incredible.

We then continued over the Yotung La (3425m) through forests of hemlock and pine splashed with the reds, pinks and yellows of rhododendrons and finally down into the Bumthang region of Bhutan. This area is much more farmed and populated than the western provinces. Its principal town is Jakar, which we reached in late afternoon in gloomy wet conditions. As we were driving down its main street, a group of mountain bikers approached us from the opposite direction, led and followed by police jeeps. ‘That’s the King, he loves cycling,’ said our guide, as one of the helmeted and lycra clad bike riders smiled at us as he went past. It was almost dark when we later saw the convoy heading along the far side of the Bumthang Chhu and into the Royal Palace, which stands high above the banks opposite the newly constructed Jakar Kichu resort.

l e f t Looking down from the moraine to Bamurpa Basecamp. r i g h t Punakha Dzong.

We had arrived at the starting point of our expedition to Gangkar Punesum and right on cue it begun to rain hard.

There was quite a bit of rain in the night but as we were packing our gear into the vehicle for the short drive to the start of the trek it cleared up. We had to backtrack to Jakar, and then out past the Royal Palace into the wide and heavily-farmed valley of the Bumthang Chhu, or Chamkar Chhu as it is usually called. At last we reached a group of people with baskets and equipment, our trekking crew for the next 12 days.

Our pony men were not there as they had lost five animals and were out trying to locate them, so we set off up the valley ahead of the party. There is no porter culture in Bhutan, and animals are always used to carry loads.

It was easy walking along a rough vehicle track. The weather slowly deteriorated in the afternoon. When we reached the end of the road it was beginning to rain lightly and still there was no pony team. There were two rather fine houses here, and we were invited inside one of them for tea, with baked rice and baked maize to chew on. It was 4.00 pm before the ponies arrived with all our gear, and we trekked a further one kilometre up the valley in the rain until we reached a wide yak paddock by a chorten: Camp 1.

We had a fair wait while the crew worked out how to put up the tents. They wouldn’t allow us to help. Eventually we were able to scramble in out of the cold rain. It was not a good start, but the three course dinner prepared by Harka, our big-bellied cook, soon had us feeling much better.

The next two days were very pleasant. We made our way up the gorge of the densely-forested Chamkar Chhu. We were usually on the trail by 7.30 am, heading out as the crew were packing up the camp. They would generally overtake us by lunch time and have the camp waiting for us in the late afternoon.

At first we walked through bamboo forests with occasional small clearings where yaks grazed. Slowly the vegetation changed to hemlock, fir and rhododendrons. The latter were just stunning and one

of the great advantages of travelling in the pre-monsoon season.

The colours ranged from deep red, through pinks to yellows and whites. Everywhere the most beautiful birds abounded. We met up with many locals, driving their yak or pony teams to and from the army camp higher up, but absolutely no other trekkers. Indeed, we were apparently the only visitors to ascend this valley in 2012 and there had been only one group the previous year.

At Camp 3 we finally came out of the forest and into the open and scrubby vegetation of the high Himalaya. The army camp was close by and we had to call in to have our permit checked before carrying on across the river on a rickety cantilever bridge to a small chorten and temple at Tsampa. We found our campsite tucked down in the bushes right beside the Chamkar Chhu, a really lovely spot. From here we were looking north-west up the wide river valley, our route to the almost unknown mountain of Gangkar Punesum. Early the next morning on the trail we had a brief glimpse of what must have been it. A long wall of snow and ice appeared out of the cloud ahead, and was just as quickly swallowed up again, to remain stubbornly hidden for the rest of the day.

We walked in sunshine for most of the morning, but by the time we reached our Camp 4, at 4165m, it was sleeting. As usual for me, I had a 4000m headache, so retired to my tent as the weather got progressively worse and snow began to fall. At dinner that night Sonam, our so-called guide who had never been here before, was still trying to sabotage the trip by telling us we shouldn’t go higher.

Although it had snowed on and off in the south wind for most of the night, it was now falling as graupel. Things were pretty bleak at 6.00 am the next morning but we carried on after a pretty awful breakfast. The porridge was watery, the tinned sausages from India were terrible and the scrambled egg tasted off. The best part was toast and (English) Marmite that we’d brought with us. Our cook Harka was not a patch on the brilliant culinary master Narayan I’d had on my previous two trips.

The weather remained clagged in with a cold wind behind us O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 111

The group at Paro airport.

as we followed the rather indistinct trail. The ground was clear of snow but all the azalea bushes were covered with it. Cloud hung low on the peaks around us and it was a pretty dismal scene, looking a bit like a summer’s day in the Scottish Highlands!

After a couple of hours the pony team passed us, but we were totally surprised when at only 10.30 am we came across them already putting up the tents in a wide area of flat yak grazing land, with a few yak herders’ summer shelters scattered about. We had apparently reached Bamurpa, at 4470m, our camp for the night.

We soon settled in to this wind-swept but actually quite pleasant campsite. While we were lunching the sun started to come out in patches and the whole place seemed much more inviting, enticing us to go out for a walk in the afternoon. It was most enjoyable—a gentle ascent over short turf, past big quartz boulders that had come down from the slopes high above us.

An hour’s walk took us to a good lookout point across from the terminal moraine of the glacier that comes from Gangkar Punesum’s south-east face. Above it was just a grey wall of cloud with not a hint of what might lie beyond or above it. The ponyman walking with us pointed out an old basecamp underneath the moraine wall, where we were supposed to be camping for the next three nights. It didn’t look like a very nice place, with no views and tucked under a steep high mountainside that would block out any afternoon sun.

A pleasant stroll in continual sunshine brought us back to camp in time for tea and biscuits. Then quite slowly, strange textures appeared in the cloud wall at the end of the valley. It was ice! Over the next hour the shy virgin of Gangkar Punesum slowly revealed herself, like a slow motion striptease. It was quite magnificent and one of the most spectacular and intimidating mountains I have ever seen. Late afternoon sun was catching a beautiful summit sitting astride long ridges on either side. They were very broken with numerous towers, gendarmes and pinnacles, and were loaded with massive cornices. The south-east face itself looked horrendous, and I could well understand why the expeditions that were allowed 112 O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G

in here in the 1980s failed to climb it. Then towards sunset the temperature dropped dramatically and the mist began to blow up the valley again. As secretly as she had revealed herself a couple of hours earlier, Gangkar Punesum quietly slipped back into her veil of cloud.

That night in camp we discussed the option of moving our current camp up to the basecamp, as was planned. We could tell that the crew and ponymen were reluctant to do so, they were reluctant to even be here at all. So for the sake of a one hour walk each way and its sunless position we agreed to use Bamurpa as our base.

With snow falling steadily we turned into our sleeping bags early, hoping for an improvement the next day. It never came! Bed tea was delayed until 7.00 am as ten centimetres of snow lay on the ground. The cold south wind was still carrying flakes of sleet. We spent a couple of hours on hold, watching the ponies scratching through the snow to get at the turf and enjoying the antics of the long-billed crows around the kitchen tent.

By 10.00 am there were signs of the daily clearance, so we set off back up the valley towards Gangkar Punesum, which was still invisible in a wall of cloud. There were a surprising number of birds up here, with huge flocks of Himalayan mountain finch wheeling around like starlings, suddenly all settling together and feeding. Mixed up with them were quite large numbers of the beautiful grandalas, a lovely Himalayan bird a bit like a rich, dark blue thrush. We took a high route, frequently crossing deep rocky gullies and through areas of stunted azaleas that we were told would make you sick if you breathed in their scent.

We finally reached the edge of the huge terminal moraine and climbed up through massive boulders to a vantage point from where we could see that the moraine-covered glacier stretched back a couple of kilometres to the white ice. A series of small, ice blue lakes lay to our left.

The scale of the scene was quite incredible. We found ourselves a good spot out of the wind, built a cairn to mark our high point at almost 5000m and sat down to wait for the mountain to clear again.

It didn’t! At 3.00 pm we had to retrace our steps back into the valley. However, I was not yet ready to abandon the mountain, having spent many years planning to come and finally see it, so once out of the ankle twisting moraine, I told the others I was going to sit it out a bit longer. Leaving the rest of the group to descend via the low-level valley route, I climbed high up the side of the valley wall and settled down in a comfortable spot in the lee of a large boulder, hoping for a possible late clearance.

I was not disappointed. Very slowly, just like the day before, the veils of cloud drifted away from the massive south-east face of the mountain. I was now very close to it and was awestruck by its sheer size. Firstly the cone of the east peak appeared out of the cloud high up, then to the west another peak we hadn’t seen the day before loomed black out of the grey. The second peak looked to be the higher summit. I was photographing away when I suddenly noticed a steep ridge rising into the clouds from what I had thought was the

high peak. I just couldn’t believe how the mountain seemed to keep going up. Regretfully the cloud never really cleared from this latest apparition and I never managed to see what must be the main summit of this complex massif. But what an incredible mountain it is.

By 5.00 pm I was getting cold, so packed up and headed down the valley floor in time for a masala chai. Then just on dusk the main summit did appear in silhouette very briefly—a sharp-pointed pinnacle high up in the clouds. It was nowhere near as spectacular as the lovely east peak that dominated our view.

I had scheduled three nights up here so that, in case of bad weather on any one day, there was a chance of a good one following. But the plans got changed by Sonam, insisting we go down in the morning as two of the crew supposedly had altitude sickness.

My own diagnosis was carbon monoxide poisoning from sitting over the gas cookers in a closed up tent all day, but for safety’s sake we had to reluctantly agree. However, after what transpired a couple of days later we were to wonder if this was just another sabotage attempt, as the two invalids almost skipped down to Tsampa the following morning.

There had been another light snowfall overnight but in the afternoon we were again in sunshine as we arrived back at the campsite by the Chamkar Chhu. The next day we were supposed to cross a 4700m pass called the Thole Las and descend into the Gorzam Chhu Valley, which runs up to the hot springs at Dur Tsachu. This itinerary had been drawn up by the trekking company to provide a circular route back to Jakar.

Various excuses were used as to why we couldn’t go there. The last was ridiculous in retrospect; that Chinese infiltrators had crossed the nearby border and the pass had been placed out of bounds by the army. This latter turned out to be an outright lie, but at the time we had no choice but to comply. We even suggested a compromise, that we climb up to the Solang Chhu, lake 200m below the pass, for a night’s camp and then return back to Tsampa. We were told that this was not allowed either, which, as we later learned from an army chief, was an absolute cobbler! The truth of the matter was that the ponymen were dictating what we did and where we went, even though they were contracted and being paid to take us up and over the Thole La, aided and abetted by our ‘guide’.

We did stay down at Tsampa for two nights and spent a day walking most of the way to the Solang Chhu anyway. For the first time the sky was a clear blue in the morning, making me even more upset at leaving Bamurpa two days early. The rough track climbed steeply past some impressive rock faces and cliffs, through glades of rhododendrons with huge leaves and then fir and juniper forest until we reached a grassy knoll with extensive views of the surrounding district. The only direction not visible was to the north-east where a hillside blocked any chance of another look at Gangkar Punesum. However we had a great view of a distant and big Himalayan peak on the Tibetan border called Nera Karchung. Everywhere we looked were incredibly steep val-

Tsampa camp after a snowfall.

leys, forest-cloaked mountainsides and distant snowcapped peaks.

Bhutan is so untouched. The route upwards to the Thole La was totally clear of snow—another lame excuse shot down in flames!

For the next two days we had to retrace our steps through the forested gorge of the Chamkar Chhu. It rained a lot and the track was very muddy. However, during the ten days since we had started, the rhododendrons had flowered even more extensively. We met many more families heading up to their summer grazing with their yaks—small children, grannies and dogs, women carrying babies on their backs. Everyone was so very friendly with their greeting of ‘kuzuzangpo la’.

Back at Jakar there was one compensation for arriving back from high altitude two days early. We were able to fit in time to visit one of Bhutan’s wonderful tsechus (festivals) that take place in the monasteries around the country. We travelled down to a small village called Ura and had one of the unique cultural experiences for which Bhutan is known. We witnessed the monks with their amazing dances, masks and costumes dancing to the music of a local band on cymbals, drums and Tibetan horns. Meanwhile, the monk jesters were running around with wooden phalluses trying to shock the visitors and put the dancers off. The beautifully clad women sang and performed their lovely circle dances, while the locals were having a great time.

The rest of the trip was a cultural trip back across Bhutan to the capital town of Thimpu and finally to Paro for our flights home.

We did have a bonus day re-crossing the Dochu La when we struck a fine day on which the entire Bhutan Himalayan range was visible from the pass, right from Cholmohari in the west across to the distant peaks of the far eastern border with Tibet. Looking through binoculars there was one quite obvious mountain whose shape we now knew from our close-up encounter. I was already forming plans to try and arrange another trek in to the southwest face of this amazingly complex massif, to have another look at Gangkar Punesum, worthy holder of the title of the world’s highest virgin.

O V E R S E A S C L I M B I N G 113

Matt Scholes climbing ET Goes Home (M6), the Telecom Tower, Remarkables.

Troy Mattingley

The Vertical World Shaun Barnett Sarah Lovel Stanley Mulvaney Erik Monasterio Andy Lindblade Martin Wilson

Mt La Perouse and the Hooker Valley. Cam Mulvey

115

Petty Officer Edgar ‘Taff’ Evans (1876-1912). Herbert George Ponting

CAPTAIN SCOTT’S FORGOTTEN MAN Righting a wrong on the Polar Range

by SHAUN BARNETT

O

ne hundred years ago, five dispirited men toiled on the high, bleak Antarctic plateau, man-hauling a heavily laden sledge back towards their base on the edge of the Ross Sea. The English explorers had reached the South Pole, but only to find their Norwegian rivals, led by Roald Amundsen, had beaten them to it.

They had reached the desolate white pole, despoiled by fluttering black Norwegian flags, on 16 January 1912. Captain Robert Falcon Scott, leader of the British Navy expedition, expressed his disappointment with these words: ‘Great God! This is an awful place and terrible enough for us to have laboured to it without reward of priority … ’1 A now-famous photograph shows 116 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

the five men at the pole (facing page).

Lawrence ‘Titus’ Oates, taciturn and the sole representative of the Army, stands with his shoulders slumped. Henry Bowers sits stoically, distinguishable by his short, stocky stature and beak-like nose, which had earned him the nickname of Birdie.

Scott looks haggard and grim, the bitterness of defeat rather than the glow of glory written on his face. Edward Wilson, the doctor, artist, and Scott’s closest confidant, looks contemplative. Lastly, Petty Officer Edgar ‘Taff’ Evans stands, tallest of the five expedition members, and once considered the strongest, the one most likely to prove himself a polar hero. Scott spoke of Evans as ‘a giant worker—he is responsible for every sledge, every sledge-fitting, tents,

sleeping-bags, harness, and when one cannot recall a single expression of dissatisfaction with any one of these items, it shows what an invaluable assistant he has been.’2 A Welshman, and the only non-officer of the polar party, Evans had also participated in Scott’s first Antarctic expedition, in Discovery, during 1901–1904. There, in 1903, he, Scott and William Lashly participated in the ‘Furthest West’ sledge journey to the interior of Victoria Land.

Evans, like many of the lower deck, enjoyed the occassional drink, and very nearly missed out on the 1910 South Pole trip due to a humiliating episode following a visit to a Lyttelton pub. On returning to the Terra Nova drunk, Evans missed the gangplank and plummeted into the

harbour. Fortunately his swimming ability proved better than his walking, and he survived, but had to beg an unimpressed Scott to be reinstated during farewell celebrations at the Mitre Pub (incidentally Lyttelton’s only standing pub after the 2010–11 Christchurch earthquakes).3 During the return leg of the five men’s journey to the South Pole in 1912, Evans, being the largest, was weakening faster than his companions. Not long after departing from the pole, Bowers noted: ‘Evans has got his fingers all blistered with frostbites, otherwise we are all well, but thinning, and, in spite of our good rations get daily hungrier.’4 Scott’s decision to take five men to the pole, rather than the planned four, had meant a hasty and inadequate rearrangement of provisions at the last depot before their final push. As a result, the party of five had been eating rations intended for four. In an article in the 2011 NZAJ, polar veteran Colin Monteath stated: ‘Antarctica does not forgive mistakes like that.’5 Polar historian Roland Huntford summed it up thus: ‘Biggest and heaviest of the party, Evans nonetheless had to make do with the same rations as the others. He was, therefore, starving more, deficiencies were accelerated, and his condition grew proportionately worse. Everyone was thinning, but Evans most of all. The injury to his hand, received while shortening the sledges, refused to heal and by the end of January he was unable to help with camp work. Alone in being so incapacitated, he was on that account oppressed by a sense of failure. This probably helped to break him.

Scott had always expected too much of him and had driven him too hard.’6 Evans’ demise was painfully slow. His mental condition, already darkened by the defeat at the pole, worsened too, probably exacerbated by a fall that concussed him, and perhaps also compounded by the early onset of scurvy and possible infection of the cut.7 The sledging conditions deteriorated too, meaning slow progress and long hours hauling in the harness. That meant the

Oates, Bowers, Scott, Wilson and Evans at the South Pole, January 1912.

Henry Robertson Bowers. Image courtesy of Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington

men endured more time on their feet, and more time in the wretched cold. Despite his declining condition, Evans pulled until his last day alive.

In the end, Evans could pull no more. On 17 February 1912, Scott instructed him to unhitch from his harness and walk behind, following the sledge tracks. Soon he lagged far behind, and did not turn up when the others camped for lunch. They returned to find him, in Oates’ words, ‘ … on his hands and knees in the snow in a most pitiable condition. He was unable to walk and the other three went back on ski for the empty sledge … ’8 The party hauled the now comatose Evans back to the tent. He never regained consciousness and died quietly that night.

Seaman Edgar ‘Taff’ Evans had lasted exactly one month and one day after departing from the pole. He was 35.

Author Roland Huntford, who smashed Scott’s hero reputation in 1979 with his book The Last Place on Earth (later released as Scott and Amundsen), blamed the captain for poor planning and bungled thinking, and even went as far as suggesting Scott had little remorse over Evans’ demise: ‘Scott

lacked sympathy for invalids and moreover, he expected his men to be silent in adversity. He did not understand that Evans was mentally as well as physically failing.’9 Scott wrote in his diary: ‘In case of Edgar Evans … the safety of the remainder seemed to demand his abandonment, but Providence mercifully removed him at the critical moment.’10 Revisionists like Susan Solomon and Ranulph Fiennes have since painted a more balanced picture of Scott in their books.

Solomon’s meteorological research revealed that the March of 1912 was indeed bitterly cold, even by Antarctic standards, and that such temperatures resulted in terrible ice surfaces. According to Solomon, pulling a sledge or even skiing in such conditions would have been ‘a monstrous challenge.’ As temperatures dip below minus 29°C the snow surface dries and fails to melt under the weight of a sledge runner; instead of producing a gliding surface, the snow takes on the consistency of sandpaper.11 Scott himself wrote: ‘No one in the world would have expected the temperatures and surfaces which we have encountered at this time of year … It is clear that these circumT H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 117

Mt Oates from Edwards River, Arthur’s Pass National Park. Shaun Barnett

stances come on very suddenly, and our wreck is certainly due to this sudden advent of severe weather, which does not seem to have any satisfactory cause.’12 Whatever deficiencies lay in Scott’s planning, ultimately the lack of food, severe cold and untimely blizzards proved fatal for all of the party. Oates, walking on increasingly useless feet, ravaged by frostbite, hoped to die overnight on 16 March, but awoke for another torturous day. He famously departed the tent, saying, ‘I am just going out and may be some time.’13 Wilson, Bowers and Scott pushed on, but were soon pinned down by a relentless blizzard. All froze to death in their tent, just 11 miles from their next depot. It seems likely Scott was the last to perish, probably on 29 March 1912.

New Zealand has always had a strong connection with the heroes of the Antarctic age of exploration. Most parties bound for the southern polar region stop in New Zealand for rest and provisioning, and Scott even visited Mount Cook before his 1910–1913 expedition.

In November 1911, New Zealand mountaineer Jim Dennistoun sailed south on the Terra Nova, which had wintered over in New Zealand, to help with the mules that 118 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

were used on the relief expedition to find Scott and the polar party. In April 1912 he sailed back to New Zealand carrying the devastating news that Scott had not returned.

Later that year, when Scott’s death was confirmed, New Zealand newspapers ran headlines of the tragedy. The Evening Post printed the words of former American president Theodore Roosevelt, who wrote: ‘The manner in which he and they met their death, as shown in the record he left behind him, is beyond praise.’14 Scott’s heroic failure has always resonated more strongly than Amundsen’s efficient, meticulous victory. This is due, in no small part, to the articulate diary kept by Scott, who seemed able to wield a pencil in frostbitten fingers until almost the very end.

He famously wrote: ‘Had we lived, I should have had a tale to tell of the hardihood, endurance, and courage of my companions which would have have stirred the heart of every Englishman.’15 The English still sometimes say, ‘Great Scott’, and somewhat perversely, Scott’s name has become more strongly associated with the South Pole than Amundsen’s ever has.

New Zealanders deeply felt the loss of Scott’s polar party, leading to the naming of the Polar Range and its peaks. It

is not known exactly when three significant peaks on the Polar Range were named to commemorate Bowers (1891m), Scott (2009m) and Wilson (2035ms), or when a fourth peak on the adjacent Aicken Range, across the Edwards Valley, was named after Oates (2041m).

Members of the Canterbury Mountaineering Club clambered over the virgin range during 1930. E Wilson and Andy Anderson made first ascents of Mounts Bowers and Wilson in December 1930, while J Gill, J Wilson and E Brough climbed Mount Scott that same month.

Edgar Evans did not get any peak named after him. Why that is so remains a mystery.16 Did the views of his own party discriminate against Evans having a peak named after him? Wilson, normally a sympathetic man, and one of the most liked of the whole expedition, expressed this opinion of Evans: ‘… to my surprise he shows signs of losing heart over it – which makes me much disappointed in him.’17 Oates was blunter in his diary: ‘It’s an extraordinary thing about Evans, he’s lost his guts and behaves like an old woman or worse. He’s quite worn out with the work, and how he’s going to do the 400 odd miles we’ve still got to do, I don’t know.’18 But even Oates’ words provide the reason why Evans failed most rapidly. As the biggest man he had probably pulled more than his fair share of the sledge when he remained healthy, but no consideration was given to his extra size or efforts. Expedition member Apsley CherryGarrard summed up the contribution and terrible plight of Evans best when he wrote: ‘I do not believe that this is a life for such men, who are expected to pull their weight and to support and drive a larger machine than their companions, and at the same time to eat no extra food … It is clear that the heaviest man must feel the deficiency sooner and more severely than others who are smaller than he. Evans must have had a terrible time: I think it is clear from his diaries that he suffered very greatly without complaint.’19 American scientist Susan Solomon cal-

culated that Evans weighed about 90 kilograms compared with about 70 kilograms for most of his companions and would have needed an additional 300–500 calories per day as compensation.20 He didn’t get it.

It appears Scott’s own party had little understanding of the extra energy demands on Evans, but that is probably excusable given the harrowing nature of their journey. In the end, each man must have had to cocoon himself towards his own survival.

Veteran Antarctic explorer and scientist Arnold Heine believes that the rations theory of Evans’ fast demise may be a myth, and that scurvy and sheer cold probably played a greater role.

Regardless of the exact cause of Evans’ untimely death, the absence of a Mount Edgar Evans on the Polar Range seems to me to be a slur on a man who suffered greatly, and toiled as hard as any.

With the centenary of their deaths approaching in 2012, I decided to find and climb a suitable peak on the Polar Range to name after Evans. Four unnamed peaks on the Polar Range over 1800m offered possibilities, with the most suitable seeming to be one of 2019m, situated between Mounts Wilson and Bowers.

On 17 February 2012, exactly 100 years to the day after Evans’ death, I climbed this peak with companions Steve Baker and Fraser Crichton. The climb is a strenuous but straightforward scramble up from Edwards Hut. To record the event, we took photographs on the summit showing the three of us displaying a ‘Mt Edgar Evans’ sign. I held two historic photographs, one of Evans and one of the polar party. We toasted the Welshman with a swig of good single malt Scottish whisky, which, being a drinker, I think he would have liked, and left two pictures of him under a cairn on the summit. The peak is clearly visible from Edwards Hut, and although close to nearby Mount Wilson, is suitably distinct from it.

A subsequent application to the New Zealand Geographic Board (not yet made at the time of writing) will hopefully result in the naming of Mt Edgar Evans. The board does not usually grant Christian

Shaun Barnett, Steve Baker and Fraser Crichton on the summit of Pt 2019m, 17 February 2012.

Shaun Barnett

names as well as surnames, but I plan to put forward a strong case for using both. Firstly because a number of other mountains called Mount Evans (but named after other people) already exist in New Zealand (on the West Coast, in Abel Tasman National Park and on Banks Peninsula), and secondly, because there were two Evans’ on Scott’s expedition, our man Edgar Evans and Lieutenant Edward (Teddy) Evans, who commanded Scott’s ship Terra Nova. The name Mount Edgar Evans will avoid confusion.

The centenary of Evans’ death is perfect timing to right a wrong on New Zealand’s Polar Range, and to remember a polar explorer. As his biographer Isobel Williams wrote in her book, Edgar Evans, Scott’s Invaluable Assistant: ‘Scott appreciated his numerous gifts and Edgar reciprocated with a loyalty that endured despite the divisions of class, rank and education. He died as he lived—doing his best.’21 References Swansea’s Antarctic Explorer – Edgar Evans 1876-1912

by G C Gregor, Swansea City Council, Swansea, 1995 Captain Scott’s Invaluable Assistant, Edgar Evans, by Isobel Williams, The History Press, Gloustershire, 2012 Scott and Amundsen, by Roland Huntford, Weidenfeld and Nicolson, London, 1993

Captain Scott, by Ranulph Fiennes, Hodder and Stoughton, London, 2003 The Coldest March, Scott’s Fatal Antarctic Expedition by Susan Solomon, Yale University Press, 2001 The Worst Journey in the World, by Apsley CherryGarrard, Carrol & Graf Publishers, New York, 1989 ‘ … Let the Reckless Come,’ The Centenary of Roald Amundsen’s Party Reaching the Geographic South Pole, by Colin Monteath, New Zealand Alpine Journal 2011 The Peaks and Passes of JRD, by Guy Mannering, JRD Publication, Geraldine, 1999 Arthur’s Pass, A Guide for Mountaineers, by Graeme Kates, New Zealand Alpine Club, Christchurch 2004 (sixth edition) Endnotes 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

21.

Fiennes 2003, p315 Fiennes 2003, p311 Mighty Mitre Miracle, by Charles Cole, in The Press, 22 January 2012 Cherry-Garrard 1989, p573 Colin Monteath, New Zealand Alpine Journal 2011, p111 Huntford 1993, p52 Solomon 2001, pp230-31 Fiennes 2003, page 331 Huntford 1993, p522 Huntford 1993, p524 Solomon 2001, p223 Solomon 2001, p4 Solomon 2001, p242 Evening Post 19 April 1913, p15 Solomon 2001, p327 Kates 2004, p81 Huntford 1993, p522 Huntford 1993, p521 Solomon 2001, p221 Solomon 2001, p221 Williams 2011, p185

T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 119

THE FIRST ASCENT OF LADY OF THE SNOWS, 1934

by SARAH LOVEL and STANLEY MULVANY

T

owards the end of January 1934, two members of the Canterbury Mountaineering Club, James K Martin, of Christchurch, and Edgar Williams of Westport, set out on an expedition to climb Lady of the Snows. The objective lay several miles off the Te AnauMilford Sound track in the wooded fastnesses of Southland.

A delightful journey of two days from Christchurch in a baby car brought the party to Te Anau Downs. On the journey down they tented for the night at Grave’s shack and had a look through his photo albums. The following day the car was left 20 miles further on and the journey continued on foot up the beautiful wooded gorge of the Murcott Burn, the bush-clad slopes 120 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

with towering peaks beyond formed vistas not easily effaced from the memory.

Once across the Eglington River, an ascent was made of Dore Pass, from the summit of which a comprehensive view was secured of the country traversed by the Milford Track up the Clinton River, to which the massive walls of Mackinnon Pass form an effective barrier.

Glade House, the government hostel at the head of lake Te Anau, was reached by nightfall. Here they spent the night in their tent. Stores that had come up by lake steamer were picked up and the journey continued, the weather having broken. Rain was now steadily falling.

After being delayed by two days on account of adverse weather, Mintaro was

reached, where the party camped for a further two days in drenching rain. At last Mackinnon Pass was crossed. Two miles down the Arthur Valley from Quintin Huts the track was left and the river crossed. The pair carried 80-pound swags, having been weighted earlier at Glade House.

It was at this juncture that the real pioneering work commenced, for a track had to be cut through virgin forest of genuine West Coast variety up the practically unexplored Diamond Gully to Green Valley, from whence the mountain could best be attacked. The first half of the river proved quite good going, yet was not to be sneezed at. The second half required much more care to negotiate and would have been impossible if the water had been only a few

inches deeper. The lack of water further up meant they contented themselves on a meal of dried peaches and apricots, buttered granose and condensed milk.

Four days were employed in literally hacking a route through the impenetrable jungle, the luxuriant undergrowth of which was totally unspoilt by the ravages of deer which have committed such depredations elsewhere.

A camp was established at the base of Lady of the Snows, a full day was spent reconnoitring, preparatory to the climb, should conditions prove favourable on the morrow.

Ushered in by threatening skies, the following day dawned fine enough to make the ascent, so after a hasty breakfast of leftover rice and raisins wrapped up to keep hot from the previous night, the camp was left behind at 5.00 am.

No view was obtained until between 9.00 and 10.00 am, when the whole scud rolled off like a blind exposing a sky of the most exquisite blue. Hopes rose high, only to be doomed, as almost immediately dense volumes of cloud rolled up from the west.

As soon as the long snow arête leading to the summit was reached, a snow-storm had commenced.

But as the snow was dry, and having progressed so far, the climbers decided to continue. Clouds began to gather thickly and quickly. The temperature dropped considerably. A gruelling climb, which was without incident, brought the party to the summit by noon. Icicles hung from the summit rocks, but the climbers, being well clad, did not suffer from the cold (as so often was the case in similar circumstances). So dense was the mist that the whole ridge had to be traversed to assure that the actual summit had been attained.

Two small cairns were built, one on each extremity of the ridge. An empty milk tin containing a record of the climb was deposited in one and a handkerchief in the other.

A rapid descent was made in even worse weather and stronger winds than was experienced during the climb, but conditions cleared at an altitude coincident with that where snow was first experienced on the upward journey.

a b o v e Lady of the Snows. f a c i n g p a g e Jim Martin. Edgar Williams (both)

Their camp was reached at 6.00 pm, after a successful outing, the only disappointment being the absence of views from the summit. Through rifts in the mists a waterfall of some thousand-odd feet in altitude was seen away to the north. It had been expected that they would bring back much valuable topographical information but this had to be foregone. They celebrated with a meal of granose, rice, onions and cheese followed by a billy of tea and instant pudding.

As the next day broke fine, the party decided to make its way back to civilisation before floods rendered this impossible.

The stage that occupied four days on the inward journey was accomplished on the return in six hours, this fact bearing testimony to the quality of the track.

Bad weather followed and Mackinnon

Pass was crossed in a severe snow storm.

After occasional hold-ups on account of flooded rivers, a forced march brought a tired but satisfied duo over Dore Pass, but proved too long a one to make the car that night. The party bivouacked in a cave below the pass. The journey to Christchurch occupied easy stages in good weather.

Following is the camp food the party bought in Lumsden: eight boxes of granose (Weetbix), 20 tins of milk, two onions, five lbs butter, ten lbs sugar, seven lbs cheese, 15 lbs rice, one instant pudding, two lbs dried apricots, two packets of peaches and four packets of sultanas.

This account is largely taken from Jim Martin’s diary.

Acknowledgment: Thanks to Sarah Lovel, Jim Martin’s granddaughter, for help in preparing this article and to her aunt Helen Andrews for supplying the photos.

T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 121

MOMENTUM FOR CHANGE words and photos by ERIK MONASTERIO ‘Good advice is something a man gives when he is too old to set a bad example.’

–Francois de La Rochefoacauld

M

ountains inspire mountaineers.

It is always safe, if not boring, to state the absurdly obvious at the outset. This journal will have great stories and images of mountains and mountaineers. These are treasures that climbers bring back from their adventures. Here you can enjoy tales of frostbitten toes, halfstarved bodies, hypothermic mates huddling together and sharing the last morsels of food, shirtless muscle-rippled anatomies against impossibly steep and smooth rock, and oh-so-close, near-miss ascents.

During the year that I began to write this story (2008) I hadn’t climbed a thing, and so had no such tales to tell. In fact, I didn’t climb a mountain between 2006 and 2011.

I stopped mountaineering after the birth of my son, considering that the risks were 122 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

unacceptable. Santiago is now almost five and I have gone back to the mountains, not because climbing is any safer, but because my approach to it and the overall value it offers me has changed. I climb differently, but that is another subject matter, maybe for another article. When I started to write this article I set out to present a photo essay, a mosaic of impressions, recollections and reflections of another side of the climbing experience, an eyewitness account not of personal achievement or failure, but of the reality of those who live in the shadows of the mountains.

In their search for mountains, climbers travel to distant places, isolated regions where few others go. Their influence on isolated communities is profound. They take their ambition, technology and values

with them. They take photographs and often employ locals to carry, cook, clean and, when things go wrong, to rescue them. Climbers are driven to succeed.

Along the way they gamble with their safety and invest time, limited finances and energy in their bid for a distant summit. The sharpness of this focus can blur their broader perspective and in this context climbers often fail to appreciate or comment on the struggles and personal stories of those locals who fight to survive.

The memory of the summit can lead to forgetfulness of those who live directly in the mountain’s shadow!

On my way to basecamps I have stayed in agricultural villages. Whether it is in the valleys of the Andes, the Himalaya or Karakorum, the situation is very similar;

f a c i n g p a g e Indigenous march against the forced eradication of the coca leaf, La Paz, Bolivia, 1996. a b o v e l e f t Sajama volcano (6540m), Bolivia’s highest mountain. a b o v e r i g h t Tibetans praying in Lhasa.

subsistence farmers struggle to overcome poverty, work the land, pasture their stock and weave their cloth.

Think of 9/11. The image of planes flying into the Twin Towers has been chiseled into our minds and lives. We have been told that it is the day the USA and the ‘freedom-loving people’ came under attack by the forces of terror. How many of us know that 9/11 (1973) is also the day that the USA dabbled in terror? On that day the CIA masterminded and sponsored the bombing of the parliament house in Chile and murdered the democratically elected president, Salvador Allende.

USA Secretary of State H Kissinger heralded American support for the military strike by stating: ‘I don’t see why we should have to stand by and let a country go communist due to the irresponsibility of its people’. At stake was the nationalisation of Chilean industry and the government’s commitment to support local agriculture and industry.

The military strikes introduced a freemarket economy (if you enjoy oxymorons there is none better than this one, as there is nothing free in the markets, except window shopping, which is all that is available for the majority of Chileans who live close to the mountains) and the globalisation of trade to Latin America. Thousands were slaughtered but the sacrifice was purported to be worth it as Latin American nations would follow the

free-market model and the poorest would benefit from privatisation and the abolishment of government subsidies.

The only ‘trickle down effect’ has been the dawning realisation that wealth is never coming. The disparity between rich and poor has only widened. Tariffs for exporting to developed countries are four times higher for developing countries. In an absurd paradox, the poorest are penalised, as the EU, Japan and the USA still subsidise their farmers between US$2 and US$7 for each head of cattle per day. According to the World Bank the world’s richest countries still spend about US$1bn a day on subsidies and every day the world’s poorest loose about US$1.3bn thanks to unfair trading rules.

That is 14 times what they receive in aid.

The disadvantage is particularly evident just beneath the summits we strive for.

The locals are locked into poverty. How do you tell your porter or farmer that in the West each head of cattle has a subsidy far higher than their standard daily wage?

Where is the ‘free’ in free trade? Climbers have skills, knowledge and mountaineering rules that maximise their chances of success and minimise the risk of accidents, whereas farmers in developing nations have political and economic rules imposed on them that guarantee failure and disadvantage.

In the mid 1990s, in the city of La Paz, beneath the towering mountain of Illimani, from the penthouse suite of the

five-star Plaza Hotel, bureaucrats from the International Monetary Fund (which is owned by five countries) and the World Bank (which is owned by eight countries) demanded that the Bolivian president privatise essential industries such as water, health and roads. The president was told that public sentiment should be ignored in the pursuit of private sector efficiency.

What eventually followed was the water wars, after the multinational French company Bechtel Water more than doubled the cost of drinking water in the valleys of Cochabamba and La Paz. Local rivers became company property and access to water, even for locals, was forbidden.

Massive uprisings drove Bechtel Water out, in what was called the first war against globalisation. To this day the drive to privatise all essential services remains central to the political and ideological agenda of the World Bank and International Monetary Bank.

Is it conceivable that the developing world’s people (or for that matter anyones’) access to water, education, healthcare and even punishment (imprisonment) should be subject to for-profit enterprises?

Can poverty ever be subject to corporate speculation? Do we really believe that there is a corporate interest in educating or improving the health status of the owners of lands rich in resources such as those in countries like Peru, Bolivia and Tibet?

In 1996, 30,000 farmers walked from all T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 123

corners of Bolivia, some more than 1000 kilometres, to La Paz to protest against the forced eradication of the coca leaf.

The historical significance of coca dates back to Andean prehistoric times, before the conquest of the Incas. The coca leaf was, and still is, extensively used by the Aymaras, Quechuas and other Andean cultures. It is known as the sacred leaf of the Inca and it is used in a range of rituals and religious ceremonies. Locals believe that it protects them against witchcraft, brings good luck and predicts the future.

While cocaine is extracted from the coca leaf (via a complex chemical process), it is not widely known that the coca leaf itself is not a narcotic and that it is not addictive.

Its medicinal properties are well established and ironically it can be used as an effective treatment for cocaine addiction. Its cultural and mystical significance remains central to Andean society.

In their zeal to promote the ‘war on drugs’, Western governments have misleadingly (and without evidence) classified the coca leaf as a Schedule 1 drug, liable to abuse and subject to international control. Yet with a strange 124 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

twist in the rules the Coca Cola Company has utilised the leaves to flavour their famous soft-drink and the shape of the Coca Cola bottle has been modeled on the coca seed.

Ongoing tension around the eradication of the coca plant threatens the stability of the Andean nations and promotes destructive cultural clashes and extreme ideological perspectives. The local response to this enforced eradication has been the extensive use of roadblocks as a form of protest. This is a blunt instrument that is so powerful that it can bring down governments, but is also a double-edged sword that disproportionally hurts the local economies of the most vulnerable.

Of those who are poor and forgotten because they have not a voice but a dialect that few understand, and have nothing saved but the treasure of their memory, I remember an elderly woman walking along the frozen Zanskar River in India. She was blinded by cataracts and found her way along the frozen surface by tapping her stick on the ice. She stayed away from the dull sounding areas as these were at risk of collapsing under her weight, a science so

imperfect that it failed me twice. She followed the frozen river in search of wood for her cooking and heating in the long winter months when the temperature never rises above freezing.

As a mountaineer, I struggle with the paradox of climbing. Despite its obvious value to climbers, at its heart it is an essentially selfish activity. Mountaineering in general adds dimensions and rewards only to climbers’ lives and gives relatively little to others’.

However, in order to fulfill climbing aspirations, mountaineers often ask those closest to them to make considerable sacrifices and endure significant stress and uncertainty.

At its worst or most obsessive, climbing risks being an exploitative activity. However, climbers by virtue of their drive and adventurousness, visit the remotest corners of the world and can be witnesses to the struggles of some of the most vulnerable and forgotten people on the planet. As such, we are in a privileged position to not only observe and question, but also to speak out and inform about these dreadful injustices, and use climbing to raise awareness and create momentum for change.

t h i s p a g e t o p Coca leaves drying in preparation for chewing. m i d d l e Extracting lithium salt from the Uyuni Salt Flats, Bolivia. b o t t o m Elderly woman walking on the frozen Zanskar River, India. r i g h t Expressions. Faces of mountain people. f a c i n g p a g e Aymara locals planting potatoes.

T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 125

WHAT A LIFE! My memory of Athol Whimp, 1961–2012

by ANDY LINDBLADE

Athol relaxing in basecamp between attempts on Gasherbrum IV (7980m) during a 2003 expedition with the author. After retreating from the west face in a storm they attempted the North West Ridge, where they were also beaten back by a storm. Andy Lindblade

A

thol Whimp was the most outstanding New Zealand alpinist of the modern era. From New Zealand to Australia, India, Nepal, Patagonia, Pakistan and beyond, he left his mark. His was a journey defined by boldness, commitment and a deep respect for both the friends whom he shared the mountains and crags with and for those who had gone there before him.

Athol was both a man and a climber who preferred his actions to speak for themselves, always eschewing pretense and loose talk about future plans. Enquiries into his ambitions, whether climbing or otherwise, were often met with a wry smile and an evasive, sometimes self deprecating 126 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

remark. As such, Athol appeared somewhat mysterious, a man driven to experience the extremes of the mountains and their sufferings in quiet, deliberate ways.

Athol felt humble, powerful and at peace in the presence of big mountains and, indeed, in the wild world at large. He naturally carried this self-awareness with him everywhere he went. Athol’s personal climbing style was defined by a high level of technical proficiency applied through a powerful, rugged force, all the time driven by an engine in his heart that burned like a hot coal. This, combined with his extraordinary physical and mental endurance, made him the man and alpinist that he was.

When I met Athol in 1990 he was sitting

around the fire of ‘Ferret’s Bar and Grill’ (Ferret being the Australian climber Ian Anger) at Mount Arapiles with a bunch of other Kiwis (from memory they included Matt Evrard, Simon Middlemass and Dave Fearnley, among others) and some climbers from overseas. Over the following 22 years, Athol became my closest friend and we shared what seems like countless fine adventures in the mountains and in life together.

When Athol’s brother Tristram called me with the news of Athol’s death, I immediately and desperately wanted to cradle Athol in my arms and tell him not to leave us. My brother was gone. As I flew across the Pacific Ocean from America to New Zealand, I sat next to a young family who

were excited to be visiting New Zealand for the first time. They asked me about Mount Cook and the West Coast, and I thought about how happy Athol would have been telling them about it all—the wild rivers, the deep-shadowed valleys and all the beautiful mountains that explode into the sky. *** From a very young age Athol was familiar with the unpredictable throes of nature.

The Whimp family’s bach at Arthur’s Pass provided Athol with a base from which he launched many hunting and tramping adventures as a teenager, always with his rifle over a shoulder. In this way the rhythm of the land found its way deep into his being, and this second-nature familiarity with living close to the edge was something he carried with him everywhere he went. Often, in moments of doubt in the mountains, moments when we needed to make quick decisions, Athol was incredibly decisive, belligerently and optimistically laughing in the face of doubt. In this air of confidence he was a man wholly himself, centred and honest. I loved that about him.

In 1994, we were nearing the top of Cerro Torre. We were perched on an extraordinarily narrow ridge at the base of the headwall, the wind was gaining speed, black clouds were building and the prospects for a diabolical epic were looking good. Instead of starting a descent to get down at least some of the way, we decided to stay where we were in the hope that the brewing storm would clear.

As darkness covered us the wind became so strong we could barely hear each other. We desperately tried to get our stove going, but the wind kept blowing out the primer flame.

‘Fuck it,’ said Athol, and poured almost all of our primer fluid over the stove and lit it. Soon we were sharing hot orange drink, burning our mouths we were so thirsty.

Later in 1994, we travelled to Yosemite.

As we finished the final pitches of a free ascent of the Regular North West Face of Half Dome, the air was still and the space around us immense. ‘This is totally outrageous Andy,’ Athol said as I pulled the final moves up to his belay.

There we were, two friends on top of the world, kings of all we surveyed. As the scope of the north-west face arced away below us we stepped on top and lay down on that bullet-hard granite in the soft evening sunlight. Athol set up the self-timer on his camera and we took some ‘A Team’ photos.

Back in Camp IV the next morning our American friend Greg Crouch had us laughing with his contagious Californian drawl, ‘Dude, the north-west face is awesome … ’ In 2010 we were fortunate enough to meet up with Greg again in Yosemite for a day’s cragging that Athol really enjoyed.

For Athol, our trips to the Himalaya were the hallmark of his climbing experience.

It was in the Himalaya, and also in the Karakorum, that Athol felt truly, intensely alive. Our first journey there started one night in 1995 as we drove back to Melbourne from the Grampians after we had both ticked Contra Arms Pump. As we drove along, Athol started talking about this mountain called Thalay Sagar (6904m) in the Indian Himalaya, and in particular its stupendous and beautiful north face, ‘Andy, it is going to be so incredible up on that summit ice cap,’ he said, ‘I bet it’ll be getting dark, freezing cold, and we’ll be hunched over on our tools, going for it, everything just completely crazy.’

And that’s exactly how it was. I have a photograph of Athol in my hallway at home in Oregon, he is standing there on the summit in the stormy twilight, silhouetted against the billowing Himalayan clouds, full of snow and darkness.

That ascent was two years in the making for us. After failure in 1996 we returned the following year and made the first ascent of the north face. As we sat on a beautiful terrace under some pine trees in Gangotri after leaving basecamp, the sharp sunlight of altitude poured down on us, and there with Athol’s girlfriend at the time Patricia, his brother Tristram, and our friend and cook Bell, we spent a few days relaxing and bouldering, still held in the grip of Thalay Sagar. We felt as though we could climb anything. We were awarded the 1999 Piolet d’Or for this ascent.

Occasionally our momentum was tempered a little by lucky escapes, such as in January 1999 when we were descending beneath Porter’s Col (after an ascent of Mount Cook via the Right Buttress on the Sheila Face, followed by a Grand Traverse to the Low Peak and back to Porter’s Col) when a large collection of rocks let loose from high above and almost immediately— before we really had any time to react—tore past us, then sank into the ice shelf beneath.

I remember both of us shaking on our front points on the hard, blue ice, sweating and swearing as we continued down.

In 2000 we went to Jannu (Kumbhakarna) (7710m), in the north-eastern corner of Nepal, to attempt an ascent of the North Face Direct. This ended in near disaster when our portaledge was destroyed by rock and ice fall one morning. We were left hanging with a shredded fly and the deathly feeling of shock fuelled by adrenaline.

After recuperating in basecamp we decided to give our all to an alpine-style ascent of the north face’s Wall of Shadows, which had been the scene of a valiant attempt by a 1975 New Zealand expedition.

When we finally returned to the large plateau beneath the north face, the snow had softened and the normal one and a half hour walk to our 5500m tent site took us five hours, much of it spent on our hands and knees, cutting a way through soft snow.

Athol stopped for regular fits of vomiting as a huge thunderstorm played out on the horizon and darkness soon covered us.

Back on the glacier two days later, as we changed into our trekking boots for the final walk to basecamp, Athol said, ‘What a hardcore route Andy.’ Looking back now I know that in that moment Athol was content because we’d been right up to the edge.

On a few occasions things had nearly been well out of control but, through a confluence of skill, judgment and luck, we had got through them.

During the blissful days in basecamp after our ascent, as we waited for the yaks to arrive for the seven-day walk out, we slowly cleaned and packed our gear. Athol was proud that Sir Ed Hillary wrote us a T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 127

Athol (right) and his younger brother Tristram at Broad Saddle, near Arthur’s Pass, in 1980. Arthur’s Pass was Athol’s favourite place in the mountains, he always returned there. Whimp family collection

letter of support for this expedition, and I remember him saying with a big grin on his face as we strapped our kit bags to the yaks, the immensity of Jannu behind us in the bleached out sunlight, ‘Well, at least we didn’t let Sir Ed down!’ *** Athol would often equate aspects of our mountain adventures to some of his military experiences, usually during the quieter, more reflective moments of expedition life. I mention a few of these experiences because I know they were a major part of his life, and helped defined the sort of climber he became.

After beginning in the Royal New Zealand Infantry Regiment, he was selected for the New Zealand Special Air Service (SAS) where he became a captain. He then went to Oman where he joined the Oman 128 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

Reconnaissance Force and also the Western Frontier Regiment of the Sultan of Oman’s Land Forces. This period of Athol’s life had a huge impact on him, and I know he brought many lessons from it to the mountains, of being able to make decisions under immense pressure, and of living hard and honestly, close to the land.

Athol used to love telling the story of the shepherd he once came across deep in the Omani desert: ‘It was late and this old man was gathering a bunch of good sized rocks together in a rough rectangle shape next to his goats. I asked him what he was doing and he just said with a soft smile, “So I don’t sleep too well.” He wanted to wake easily in case anyone tried to steal a goat from his herd.’ Athol thought this was genius.

Athol’s friends from his military life have described the sort of feats that Athol him-

self was simply too modest to take any credit for, but also experiences that he probably felt few others would understand.

Clement Wareham, a former SAS colleague of Athol’s, told me about a time with Athol while in the SAS that exemplifies Athol’s confidence, prowess and sense of humor all in one: ‘My lasting memory of Athol is after one exercise (in the Western Australian desert). We had all loaded back onto the C-130s and the scouts on their motorbikes had not yet come in off the perimeter. Aircrafts were taxiing, ramps were still down and next minute this lunatic comes flying up the ramp on his Honda motorbike, just as the ramp was beginning to close, and skidded to an ungainly halt on the aircraft deck in front of us. Off comes the goggles and there is the boy himself, grinning from ear to ear.’

And another from Michael Roberts, an

Athol high on Mt Tasman’s Balfour Face, during an ascent of a new route in the winter of 1993. Andy Lindblade

Australian who served with Athol in the Oman Reconnaissance Force during the 1980s: ‘The V8 Land Rover Patrol Vehicle was screaming its guts out, nearly out of control, flat out over the desert terrain. We were on the wrong side of a disputed international border, my fault as I just wanted to say “been there”, but we were spotted and were now being pursued by some very angry soldiers and we were heavily out-gunned. I looked over at Athol and saw he was laughing! “Fuck! How good is this?” he shouted.’

When Athol returned to New Zealand in the late 1980s, after some years in Oman, he wrote a letter to John Tinsley, a friend from the SAS whom he served and saw intense action with in Oman. In it we can see both the beginnings of Athol's climbing ambitions yet also his more relaxed, inner nature. In part, Athol's letter read: ‘Hi John … I'm doing lots of climbing and have been

up Mount Cook twice. I'm going down there tonight and hope to climb a hard route on Sunday. Hopefully I will be coming up to Whanganui Bay at Lake Taupo for a few weeks rock climbing sometime in the New Year, in which case we can get together and chew the fat.’

At Athol’s funeral at the Whimp family property in Rangiora, there was a memorial written by his good friend from the Oman Reconnaissance Force, Christopher Beese, which also represented the other men Athol served with in Oman. In part it read: ‘To the memory of Athol, our beloved, fallen brother, Desert Lion with paws of silk and a grip of iron; peerless … ’ In reading this I suddenly realised that what bound Athol and these men to each other was the same as what bound me to him—an elastic, fibrous bond of shared experience, something that felt like a clear way of looking at

the world and what we wanted from it. *** Athol was a man—despite his prowess as a climber—who always took time to help nurture the adventurous spirit in others. In 2010, as my mother Sue prepared for a trek in Nepal, Athol organised her a training programme and frequently walked with her up Mount St Leonards, near Melbourne.

My mum’s hiking friend asked her why such an accomplished climber would be bothered walking with a couple of old ladies for the day and she said, ‘He just loves being up here and talking about everything that’s happening in the world!’

Athol’s favorite place in the big mountains was Empress Hut, perched there on that stony outcrop like a sentry of the upper Hooker Valley (he loved all the huts in the mountains and was always dismayed when he found them in anything less than T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 129

l e f t Athol on the summit of Jannu (7710m), 15 May 2000, after an alpine-style ascent of Wall of Shadows on the north face. Andy Lindblade r i g h t The author and Athol on top of Half Dome after making a free ascent of the Regular North West Face (5.12) during a trip to Yosemite, USA, in 1994.

Andy Lindblade collection f a c i n g p a g e Athol nearing the top of the immense right-hand couloir on the west face of Gasherbrum IV, during an attempt with the author in 2003. Andy Lindblade

immaculate condition. Once, in a storm, we spent two days cleaning Pioneer Hut from top to bottom in great detail and flew out with four big bags of trash. In the winter of 1997 we spent two weeks based at Empress Hut, having done a double carry of food and fuel up the glacier (a task we completed with Athol’s brother Tristram, which meant constant piss-taking and joke telling). We witnessed the ebb and flow of wind and snowfall until eventually the sky cleared.

We left Empress one morning and headed up towards the North Ridge of Mount Cook, carrying no bivouac gear and no stove. The climbing was fast and at dusk we were on top, scuttling around in a gentle, frozen breeze as broken pieces of sastrugi tumbled down the top of the Sheila Face. I clearly remember Athol’s tired but bright eyes shining warmly in the minus 15 degrees Celcius air.

In those precious alpine moments, when we have given everything and suddenly find ourselves in the most amazing positions, Athol and I found meaning in life.

This particular evening was one of those times. We sat out the night’s seemingly endless hours not far below the summit.

From this position we looked out towards Mount Tasman and remembered our route up the Balfour Face in winter a few years previously. As we shivered uncontrollably Athol said, ‘Gosh, Gavin would be proud of us!’ Gavin Tweedie, Athol’s cousin, is 130 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

the man that Athol credited his competence and wherewithal as an alpinist to, due to Gavin’s intuitive acumen with all things mountain-related.

The morning after a big adventure on Mount Cook or Mount Hicks, Athol would always love firing up our stove inside Empress. He thoroughly enjoyed looking up at where we had climbed, as well as recollecting past ascents, such as, among others, his solo trips up the Balfour and Hidden Balfour Faces, his solo Nazomi– Hillary Ridge-summit ridge of Mount Cook link-up, his climb of Mount Dixon with Tristram, his ascent of the Sheila Face in winter with Matt Evrard, and the many routes he did with Gavin Tweedie.

As we would clean and dry our kit in the morning sun, hearing the occasional squelch from the radio, Athol would say things like, ‘Imagine spending a whole month up here Andy,’ and, ‘We need a big storm to really test the hut!’

I now have two young children (whom Athol was very fond of, doting on and caring for them at every opportunity), so I naturally often wonder what makes a child grow into the person they eventually turn out to be. The world spins forward and we try to keep up with it. When we now see the journey of Athol’s life (from spending all day up high in a pine tree so his father couldn’t catch him after getting

into trouble, to hunting with his own rifle for days at a time as a teenager, to roving the desert sands of Oman, to standing on his crampon’s front points, cutting a step into the summit of Jannu), we can see a trajectory that was always moving towards bigger and more extraordinary experiences.

Some time has now passed since Athol died and I find myself both more grateful for everything he gave me, yet also more disbelieving that he is indeed gone, a sensation that surprises me, freezing me in place, locking me in a suspended reality. I know I am not alone in this feeling, for everyone, from the far-reaching experiences of Athol’s life, has commented on the deep, erosive loss and sense of disbelief they feel.

Yet it has been and will be that in the sharing of these stories we can ever attempt to find some solace, and, more importantly, some inspiration. For I do know one thing: Athol would be telling us to get on with life.

Athol took responsibility for the freedom life gave him, and this, more than anything, is what he loved about climbing. It offered him a way to stand tall and be himself. As Athol’s close friend from Oman, Mikey Wilson, wrote so eloquently in a poem about Athol that was read at Athol’s funeral, ‘ … all the boundaries your life once held we will now cross to inhabit, there the memories to maintain and share through our proud ownership of you.’

T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 131

a b o v e Dave Vass at the top of the wall in Sinbad Gully. Martin Wilson f a c i n g p a g e Sinbad skink. James Reardon

ENTER THE LIZARD

by MARTIN WILSON

H

ere I am, squatting on a tiny rock ledge, 50 metres down a vertical rock wall. Another 250 metres below are the broken boulders filling the head of Sinbad Gully. It’s midday, the sun is out and the temperature is around 15 degrees—perfect conditions for New Zealand’s alpine skinks. I stare relentlessly into a patch of dense, snow-crushed alpine plants growing out of cracks in the granite.

Any moment now I may see a slight movement, a small nose or tail poking out. My camera is ready. With not a lot of action 132 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

for the past 30 minutes, I have had plenty of time to ponder my existence. I am combining two of my most idiosyncratic interests, lizards and Darrans climbing, and I am even getting paid for it. *** It is possible that many climbers feel a certain affinity with the lizard. Many of us must have marvelled at a gecko climbing vertical glass or a painted ceiling using only its soft, padded feet. Or been inspired by the speed and ability of skinks, who scuttle up overhanging rock with only their sharp

claws. I certainly have. Both of these creatures use their climbing ability to escape predation. What could chase a gecko up a smooth surface, or be faster than a skink? A closer look at a gecko reveals soft, delicately patterned and camoflaged skin, patterns duplicated in the eyes. Skinks (slinks!) have irridescent, coloured scale, every pattern slightly different. Both are insect hunting machines, able to pounce on a fly, suprise a grasshopper or crush a weta. *** My obsession began with my first lizard

encounter. I was with Roger Thomson on a climbing mission at Whanganui Bay. In the early 1990s the access road came down beside a small gorge, which appealed to both of us as a canyon adventure. The only information we could find was that about ten years earlier another climber had tried to decend but failed. The challenge was there!

We scrounged wetsuits and took harnesses and an old 40-metre climbing rope in case we had to abseil. The gorge was straightforward river walking until a fourmetre waterfall. We could hear a bigger waterfall further downstream.

I jumped into the pool and, looking back, realised that there was no way of climbing back up. The walls were high, steep and covered in ferns. Roger had the rope and I told him to stay above the waterfall while I went downstream to check we could get down the next one or somehow escape.

Partially swimming in the cold water and with the gorge getting narrower and darker, I made my way to the next waterfall. A log-jam capped a drop of 25 metres or so and further down it still looked difficult. If we left half the rope on this abseil we would still have 15 metres left. The gorge was beautiful and I decided it was worth the gamble. I would go back to Roger and we would commit ourselves. I turned around and there was Roger behind me! ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘I got bored waiting back there.’

The abseil ended in a pool with no outlet. The bottom was like a giant plughole and the water was sucked out. Swimming was not an option. We scrambled carefully around on slippery rocks, hanging on to the rope for dear life. The gorge now narrowed to just a few metres. There was no escape up the walls and we had to hope the short rope would get us through.

Further down, a single shaft of sunlight pierced the misty darkness and lit up a red boulder in the middle of the river. From just a few metres away, we realised there was a small lizard on top of the boulder.

We stopped and stared in amazement. It was bright green, almost fluorescent, and its tail was curled in a perfect spiral. It had soft feet and splayed out fingers, and on its back were a number of tiny white diamond markings. The sunbeam lit it up so vividly that we were left speechless. The lizard made no attempt to move as we moved closer, and my mind was caught between feelings of astounding beauty and spooky unease.

‘It’s a taniwha,’ Roger whispered.

‘Is that a good sign or a bad sign?’ I

replied, still wondering whether we would get through the gorge.

‘Not sure,’ he said, ‘but if we do get through, we’ll know.’

It was a good sign. The last waterfall was only ten metres and soon we were walking back down the road.

At the climbers’ camp, everyone wanted to know whether we had got though okay.

How many abseils? Could you escape? I gave nothing away, after all, they could see that we were alive. ‘If you go down there,’ I said, ‘take a rope and don’t mess with the taniwha.’ *** My interest in geckos and skinks grew over the next 18 years or so, partly assisted by my herpetologist neighbour, the late Mike Meads, who told me what to look for and how to find it. Many years of semisuccessful lizard hunting went by, assisted greatly by visits to some of New Zealand’s island sanctuaries.

Stephens Island is a particular favourite.

A team of us painted the lighthouse there in 1996 and then applied a top coat in 2005. It is the main home of tuatara and

they cover—yes, cover—the island. There are so many, in fact, that taking photos of them seems silly and a torch is required at night to prevent tripping over them. Before our 2005 trip, Mike advised me to look in the shrubs around the lighthouse for green geckos (still my favourite). Most are ngaio, with leaves that look just like green geckos, and days of searching revealed none. In the end I located one in a tauhinu bush, the first I had seen since my enchanted gorge encounter.

Although tuatara are not strictly lizards, a strange encounter I had one night near the lighthouse is worth mentioning. I spotted the reptile on the ground, motionless as ever. In front was a short, thin stick, and on this was a weta. Weta, too, are all over the island and provide a plentiful food source.

I got out my camera to take a short movie of the hunt, and waited as each creature remained motionless until the camera battery died. In some ways this was a reflection of the whole of New Zealand’s natural history. Everything moves slowly here and has done for 30 million years.

Birds forget to fly, eels are tame, penguins are fearless.

My budding career as a director of weta snuff movies ended with a flashing battery icon, but no sooner had I put the camera away than the tute made a move. It launched and snapped at the stick, crunching it between toothless jaws. Fair enough that the tute got confused, the taste of a weta is probably not too dissimilar to that of a stick. The weta got a wee fright, then walked along the stick, hopped onto the tute’s nose, continued slowly along its back and off the end of its tail. Wow! That would have got a few hits on YouTube. *** Fiordland has huge potential to hold undiscovered lizard species. Over the last ten years or more climbers have been reporting encounters. When Craig Jefferies and Paul Rogers found a cascade gecko on a big wall at the head of Sinbad Gully, T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 133

the Department of Conservation (DOC) took a particular interest. Unable to climb the only route on the wall (Shadowland, an overhanging grade 27), they laid traps around the base. There was no luck getting the gecko, but they did catch a new species of skink, since imaginatively named the Sinbad skink.

Through the Sinbad Sanctuary Project, an ongoing partnership with Southern Discoveries and the Fiordland Conservation Trust (2007), DOC have undertaken restoration in Sinbad Gully since 2009/10. They have provided financial assistance for Hannah Edmonds and her team to monitor new and existing species, and to reduce pests in the Sinbad valley and the surrounding peaks.

In 2008 I reported a lizard sighting to Hannah. Hugh Barnard and I were exploring a new climbing area at an unnamed glacial lake at 1300m between the Llawrenny and Terror Peaks. It is a fly-in area only a short distance from the Milford airport. My sighting occurred while I was crossing a steep, north-facing scree slope and saw something move in the distance.

But it was too far away for a description, and there was no time for a photo.

In 2011 I returned with Dave Vass and this time Hannah asked to come along.

We camped at the lake outlet and she laid traps all over the scree slope. The traps are wire mesh and baited with tinned pear. A cascade gecko was caught and I got a closeup encounter. Hannah took a small DNA sample, ouch! It is a calm and beautiful creature and quite captivating, with skin coloured in deep browns, reds and greys. A master of camouflage, it blends in with the local granite. Although the species was first discovered in the 1970s there have been very few sightings. For Hannah, the find supported her belief that this gecko may be suprisingly widespread in Fiordland.

Next time you are placing a friend behind a flake, look deeper into that crack.

Hannah told me more about the Sinbad skink discovery. About 14 were found in the bottom 20 metres of a north facing 300134 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

metre high wall at the head of Sinbad Gully.

The area is bounded by a waterfall to the east and an east-facing wall to the west. The skink only lives on the wall and not the steep ground at the base. Climatic conditions and safety from predation make the wall a suitable habitat. The population is very localised and estimated numbers are low.

What Hannah wanted to know was whether they lived further up the wall. The only way to determine this would be to abseil down from above. Could we help?

A 300-metre high granite rock face at altitude would be challenging terrain to safely search in, but I couldn’t refuse.

The following year we were there. DOC flew Dave Vass and and I, along with 600 metres of rope, to the top of the wall, near an unamed lake north of the Llawrenny Peaks. We set up camp at the lake and the DOC team (James Reardon, Hannah and Jono) gave Dave and I a lizard-hunt briefing. It was all about being patient. If they were on the wall we would see one if we waited long enough. There would be no need to capture one, a photograph would be fine, but they only come out in favourable conditions. They need the sun to warm up their cold blood but, being alpine animals, it’s thought they have probably adapted so well to cold conditions that they may easily overheat. Dave was quite sceptical about finding one. In 25 years of climbing and exploration in the Darrans he had never seen a lizard. ‘If we see one,’ he said, ‘I’ll interview it.’

Despite the wall being near vertical, we knew there would be ledges. These would assist us with building abseil stations as we descended. Although we had enough rope

to reach the ground, abseiling the whole wall would be time consuming, carried objective risk and would mean we’d have a long walk out. One step at a time, we crept to the sheer edge, looked over, surveyed the top of the wall, and spotted a weakness: a ledge approximately 50 metres below.

While we were setting up, the three DOC workers started searching the scree and boulder field above the walls. Within minutes they had found a brown mahogany skink, apparently common to this area.

How these cold blooded reptiles live all year round in Fiordland at this altitude is beyond me. Once again, New Zealand has created an impossible species.

James showed me the small brown skink and advised us that an adult Sinbad skink is larger and has green patterns. It is harder to distinguish the young and juveniles.

Dave abseiled to the ledge and immediately startled a skink. I followed and confirmed it was a mahogany skink.

The ledge was split on three levels, each two metres long and less than a metre wide, made of sloping, hard granite and with dense vegetation growing from deep cracks.

As Dave explored the ledge I marvelled at the astounding view. We were almost as high as the summit of Mitre Peak which, seen sideways as part of the five-kilometre long Mitre Ridge, is far more impressive than the classic postcard view. The Sinbad valley snaked below us. Behind the ridge, Mount Pembroke was peeping out and surf on the Tasman Sea was visible between the high peaks.

Dave found a cascade gecko hiding in a crack and saw other skinks, possibly greenish but seen too briefly to confirm as Sinbad skinks. While he prepared to descend a further 50 metres I sat still and waited.

Various mahonagy skinks appeared, even climbing on the coils of abseil rope, and then disappeared. I practised photographing them. The trick is to not move quickly or they shrink back into the dense vegetation. It was getting late in the day when we jumared back up through the overhangs.

Hannah, James and Jono had been

watching us from down on the ledge and we compared lizard observations. The ledge we had found was probably as good as any on the wall, if a Sinbad was spotted there they must occupy the whole wall.

At camp Hannah had prepared venison back steaks (home caught and butchered!) and beers were chilling in the glacial lake.

The West Coast put on a good sunset and then temperatures fell and the stars came out.

It took several hours for the sun to thaw out the cold of dawn the next morning.

We returned to the ledge by 10.00 am, just in time to see more skinks emerging from the cracks to soak up the sun. They’re a bit like us really, solar powered. We had taken down a trap but I opted to put the pear bait out on the bare rock, figuring that a clear photo was more likely than a capture. I also had binoculars capable of focusing at two metres.

Dave rigged up a second 100-metre abseil while I settled into some patient lizard observation. Bait laid, binoculars and camera ready, the hours ticked by. Creatures came and went—butterflys, weevils, spiders … and then a large, slightly green skink.

Keeping calm (proof that I am lizard mad) I took photos, trying to get close without startling it. It disappeared into a deep crack but I could see its head and green scales. I placed the pear bait just outside the crack and waited. It popped its head out once but, as I moved the camera, it disappeared again. Then it made a break. Emerging from the crack, it ran past the pear bait and headed through vegetation towards the edge of the ledge. To my horror it launched off the edge of the vegetation and became airborne for a split second before throwing out a claw and, hooking the sprig of a lower plant, it swung back in and disappeared. I hadn’t captured the Indiana Jones stunt, but I had got the crucial photo showing green scales. I radioed down to Dave the good news. Despite being 100 metres below me and way out of sight he was barely halfway down the wall. He had visited several ideal lizard ledges and come across another gecko and various skinks. We continued

a b o v e Dave starting the main abseil. Martin Wilson f a c i n g p a g e Female tree weta.

observing patiently but activity reduced.

Perhaps, as predicted by James, it had become too hot.

There was no need to descend the wall further so we jumared up. Triumphantly, we showed the others our photos. Sinbad skinks had made their way almost to the top of the wall. The known population had suddenly quadrupled.

The DOC staff flew out the following morning, down to the base of the wall.

They are even more lizard mad than me.

Dave and I skirted the lake towards a perfect granite buttress, back to what we like to do best: onsight, new-route rock climbing.

But that’s a whole other story.

DOC are super keen to hear of any lizard sightings.

If you see any lizards during your climbs please take a photo if you can and send it with a description and location to: Hannah Edmonds hedmonds@doc.govt.nz Ph (03) 249-0200 www.fiordlandconservationtrust.org.nz/projects/ project04-sinbad1.htm

T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 135

Tom Hoyle on Turbomingent Torre-mounting Tossers (22), Lobotomy Buttress, Whanganui Bay. John Palmer

136 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

Area Reports Aoraki Mount Cook and Westland Jane Morris Queenstown Guillaume Charton Canterbury Tony Burnell North Island John Palmer Darran Mountains Tom Riley

Shelley Hersey high on the north-west face of Mt Malte Brun. Tony Rac 137

T

AORAKI MOUNT COOK and WESTLAND

by JANE MORRIS

138 A R E A R E P O R T S

he year is 1982 and a second hand copy of the NZAJ sits well-thumbed on the desk.

It's an entertaining collection of tales that typify the highly productive era of the early 80s. The Mt Cook Year, by Bill Feasey and Neal Whiston, provides inspiration.

So where are we 30 years on?

1982: ‘Perhaps the impetus from the hard rock scene is starting to kick the alpine climbing along … ’ Indeed mixed climbing is now a genre in its own right, thanks to the morphing of rock and ice techniques, and recent new routes reflect this transition. However, somewhat slim pickings about the divide this year haven't returned as many new routes as previous seasons. Just one new M-graded route has surfaced in the last year: Lost in Translation, on the south face of Torres Peak (WI5, M5), by Alex Corpas and Daniel Joll.

1982: ‘was a year notable for the number of spirited solos, quality routes and damaged hands.’

Cat Shand and Sarah Wilson were this year’s 'damaged hands' recipients, after enduring a tumultuous evening on the Linda Shelf early season.

‘Quality routes' were added to existing faces in the form of No Country for Old Men on the south face of Nazomi (AMC5)

by Felix Landman and Llewellyn Murdoch; Ice Gangsters on the south face of Mount Sealy (AMC4) by Steve Fortune and Jamie Vinton-Boot; and Degrees of Illness on the south face of Torres Peak (AI4, V) by Brendan Maggs and Kirill Talanine.

In early December Jono Hattrell and Llewellyn Murdoch ventured around to the north side of Mount Hicks and climbed the Central Buttress, then found themselves establishing their own descent route in the dark.

‘Spirited solos' may not have been in the same abundance as in the '81/82 season, when soloing seemed to be the modus operandi (27 December 1981 saw Callum Hudson, Kim Logan and Marty Beare bumping into each other on the summit ridge of Aoraki after each soloing the Sheila Face, the Hooker Face and the East Ridge respectively).

Hop to 2012 and proficient soloist Guy

McKinnon left winter tracks on the rarely visited Maunga Ma, Eagle Peak and Mount Thomson, and possibly made the first winter ascent of the Couloir Route on The Footstool.

Freddie Varengo has taken to not only soloing but then also skiing some extraordinary lines on Aoraki, Mount Tasman and Mount La Perouse. The Caroline Face swung into condition, along with the author, for a solo in the early hours of 1 December.

Nick Cradock’s efforts could also fit into this category with spirited drill-solos (closely followed by Murray Judge at the Bluffs). The dust has settled on a bunch of bolted alpine anchor stations on both sides of the divide.

1982: ‘What's geographically wrong with Australia?’ … it’s above sea level.’

The trans-Tasman swipes have continued, along with contributions to the New Zealand climbing scene from a number of Australians. Given that our wealthy neighbours are propping up many a Kiwi climber’s habit, we'll amiably take their support in both business and recreation.

Finally, age was clearly no excuse when three 50-something fellows decided that 1 December was the time to climb the Caroline Face. Wolfgang Maier, Marty Schmidt and Ewan Patterson soldiered from Caroline Hut to Empress Hut in 26 hours.

Summary of other new routes: West Face, Mount Conrad (AMC4), by Paul Hersey, Shelley Hersey, Jamie VintonBoot and Troy Mattingley.

Red Planet, Kahu, Eurostar (18) and Sun Circle (17) on Mounts Humdinger and Haast, by Stefan Sporli and Jude Spancken.

The Egg Memorial Route (17), Pt MUMC on the Franz Névé, by Stu Holloway and MUMC students. clockwise from top left: Kirill Talanine seconding the second pitch of Degrees of Illness, south face of Torres Peak.

Brendan Maggs

Jude Spancken on Mt Haast. Stefan Sporli Alex Corpas on the first ascent of Lost in Translation, south face of Torres Peak.

Daniel Joll

Sam Bosshard taking on Murchison Hut. Jane Morris

AARREEAA RREEPPOORRTTSS 139

QUEENSTOWN

by GUILLAUME CHARTON

Bram Whillock on the second pitch of The Highlander in the North Wye Valley. Guillaume Charton

K

eeping up with the recording of first ascents and new routes in the Queenstown area is becoming increasingly difficult due to hungry climbers scaling many new lines. The action took place on all kinds of terrain this last year, on rock, ice, mixed and on all sorts of angles, from slabs to inverted slabs.

The Remarkables Range (from Wye Creek to Lake Alta) has been a source of inspiration and once again proved to be far from being exhausted of climbing potential.

Summer 2011/12 saw Keith Brown and 140 A R E A R E P O R T S

Andy Mills focusing their energy on traditional climbs in the South Wye Valley and climbing Sea Beast, Mary Gold and Crack the Sky, all around grade 19/20. Dave Bolger and Glen Aspin added a worthwhile bolted warm-up called Mini (16) above the South Wye Bivvy.

In the North Wye, Guillaume Charton and Thierry Thouvard spent their early winter weekends on the Katabatic Wall and climbed, ground up, a weakness on the main face of this wall. The Highlander is a sevenpitch route that is mostly traditional except

for the first and third pitches. It takes you through slabs, faces and even overhangs and has difficulties up to grade 21.

Down at Wye Creek Michal Karnik hit hard with climbs in the high 20s. On the Project Wall he added Mac Attack (27) and Boss Combo (28). Velvet Revolution (28) saw the light of day at the Eweniverse Wall and at Harold’s Wall, TBC (27) and Stronger than Gravity (28) were drawn up. Michal is definitely pushing the limits in Queenstown.

Guillaume Charton and John Burrow added Monsieur Muscle (22/23) on the Main Wall and on the north side Guillaume bolted Le Fait Accompli (17), El Falcon Pasa (19) and Chili Con Falcon (20) at the Admiral Wall. Right of the Liver Abuse Buttress, Guillaume put up La Belle et la Bête (18), and with Rupert Gardiner, Better Out Than In (21) was climbed. Niall Muller, after long hours cleaning a steep corner-crack at the Project Wall, managed to climb it on gear and named it Avalanche Debris (23).

Guillaume Charton finished his twoyear-long project on the main face of the Ocean Wall and named it Poseidon (23, 180m). Since 2010, Guillaume and Estelle Poiron have spent numerous days on Poseidon. They eventually summitted on Guillaume’s birthday. Daniel Joll and Ben Dare added their touch to the walls above the Ocean Wall. On the Pacific Wall, One Day Ocean Crossing (17, 370m) was scaled and on the Indian Ocean Wall they climbed, with Danny Murphy, Walking the Plank (20, four or five pitches).

At Gorge Road there was some action on the bottom walls. Dave Bolger climbed a crack he later called Solitude (14), and Guillaume Charton bolted Don’t Tell your Mama (18). Still at the base of Gorge Road, Estelle Poiron and Guillaume bolted a 20-metre long route on a black face in the mid–late teens. Estelle sent Three Jolly Elves (23, 28m) on the left side of the Hawk Wall.

Milo Gilmour added Sustained Loss of Traction (21) on the west face of the Remarkables, at the start of the Queen’s Drive. On the south face of Single Cone Ben Dare soloed Blame the Rabbit (18, four pitches) and with Danny Murphy climbed

Big Bouncing Boulders (17, five pitches).

Paul Angus and Daniel Joll climbed Uncle Al’s Retro Rack (17, four pitches). Steve Barrett climbed up Barrett’s Route (18).

Winter 2012 was as busy as summer, if not more so, with locals heading to different locations around the Wakatipu.

Rupert Gardiner, John Burrow and Thierry Thouvard headed to Somnus Couloir and repeated Gordy Watson and Andrew Mills’ ice lines. Daniel Joll and friends also climbed some steep and technical ice in the same couloir. Thierry, John and Danny Murphy headed to South Wye to find some ice and climbed two easy lines: La glace c’est surtout pour le Riccard (WI2, 40m) and John’s Gully (WI3, 25m).

Daniel Joll, organiser of the Remarkables Ice and Mixed Festival—which took place in mid-winter 2012—brought many ice and mixed climbers to the Remarkables. During this busy event a number of new routes were sent and hard lines repeated.

It would be an understatement to say that the west face of the Remarkables was busy this winter. Steve Fortune and Daniel Joll climbed Not So Fortunate (M5, 25m) and Force It (M4, 50m). John Barnes and Di Drayton scaled No Holds Barred, a 160-metre-long line that went at around M5. Daniel repeated summer climbs in winter such as Blow Up (M8, 35m). Sally Ford, Tony Burnell and Michal Karnik teamed up to climb Primal Scream at the start of the Queen’s Drive.

Alex Corpas spent a year in Queenstown and made the most of his time on the Wakatipu schist and ice. On the west face of the Remarkables Alex climbed, with Daniel and Ben Dare, Alejandro el Bicho le Gusta Sexo Duro (M5+, 350m). He also climbed the first pitch of Under Pressure (M8) and later on six pitches were added

by Jamie Vinton-Boot and Daniel Joll. Reg Measures and Neil climbed Ignorance is Bliss (M4+). Ben Dare and Roman Nelson scaled Flying Circus (M5). Jono Clarke also added, with Jamie, Can I Sit On It (M6, 15m). In late winter/early spring Golden Potato was climbed by Jono Clarke and Danny Murphy.

a b o v e Thierry Thouvard on John’s Gully (WI3), South Wye. John Burrow b e l o w The Remarkables. Guillaume Charton

A R EAREA A RE REPORTS P O R T S 141

The Queenstown Climbing Club had numerous social gatherings in Queenstown and events on crags, with Wye X, on 3 March, being its major one. This climbing marathon gathered 40 people at Wye Creek. Climbers socialised and climbed on the different crags on offer in this area. This social competition started at 10.00 am with Estelle giving away forms to teams. People then climbed existing routes and discovered new ones. Sam Wright and Estelle gave away prizes around 5:30 pm and a yummy barbeque got everyone chatting by the Wye Creek mouth on the shore of Lake Wakatipu ‘til late.

The first Queenstown Alpine Photo Comp took place in June and thousands of dollars worth of prizes were awarded to 11 different winners. More than 30 native trees were planted on the slopes of Wye Creek thanks to an environmental initiative from the local climbing club and the Department of Conservation. Project Gold was organised by Owen Hale and Celine Austin-Cheval. A stile was also installed at the bottom of the main track at Wye Creek and numerous hours were spent on maintaining the track by QCC members.

There have been hundreds of new climbs added around the Wakatipu Region since the 2008 edition of the Queenstown Rock, Ice and Mixed guidebook was produced. Guillaume Charton, Mike Dunn, Sally Ford and Aaron Ford have been busy this year on the second edition of this locally made guidebook so that this rock and ice climbers ‘bible’ can be as exhaustive as possible. A mountains section has been added to the book thanks to a huge amount of effort put in by Mike Dunn. All proceeds from sales of the book will go back to the community via the Queenstown Climbing Club and will benefit local projects such as tracks, access, route maintenance, events and other projects. This book should hit the shelves in February 2013. clockwise from top left Alex Corpas on the fourth pitch of Poseidon, Ocean Wall. Guillaume Charton Jono Clarke climbing Haskin’s Drop (WI5), South Wye. Jamie Vinton-Boot DOC and QCC members planting native trees around the Main Wall at Wye Creek. Guillaume Charton Wye X marathon evening barbeque. Guillaume Charton 142 A R E A R E P O R T S

Lindsay Main climbing at Otepatotu, Banks Peninsula. Troy Mattingley

CANTERBURY

by TONY BURNELL

T

his may or may not be a full account of the happenings in and around Canterbury over the last five years.

There hasn’t been an area report since Gabriel Lincourt’s in the 2007 NZAJ. For what seems like a good deal of that time I guess most of us have had other things on

our minds.

After 12,000 earthquakes and aftershocks and almost three years of slothfulness, it’s time to put the head above the parapet and see what’s going on out there. Well, one thing’s for certain, climbing on the Port Hills will never be the same again. Considering the

almost total collapse of Castle Rock and the Upper Mount Pleasant crag, as well as major rockfalls at Britten Crag, Twisted Sister, Middle Sister, Rapaki Rock, the Tors and at numerous Port Hills obscurities, what’s left?

Well luckily for us Lyttelton Rock, the Cave, Gibraltar Rock, the Jane Fonda Workout Wall, Transmitter Crag and Cattlestop Crag came through relatively unscathed.

There were two collapses at Jane Fonda, one on the right side of Dodger and the other around the corner from Debauchery, you could say, in both those instances, that mother nature did us a favour.

Remarkably, the Cave, the crag with more glue than Bunnings, weathered the storm well. Despite being shaken and stirred there is only the odd loose hold. I’m fairly certain there was always the odd loose hold.

So what’s new? Well, Christcurch is still full of climbers and, in the main, despite the council’s attempts, they carried on climbing. The odd new route was put up but, to date, I don’t think any of the new routes are on any of the newly formed faces that have appeared.

Around town, despite the collapses, new routes were established at Jane Fonda, Lyttelton Rock, Cattlestop Crag, Bivvy Rock and Transmitter Crag. Some crag maintenance has taken place at Jane Fonda. Grant Piper, with a little help from Kester Brown, pretty much replaced all the in-situ bolts.

Over at the Cave, the process of replacing the rather colourful collection of quickdraws that have populated the place for some time has begun, with a rather fetching stainless steel ensemble beginning to appear this spring. Bivvy Crag became popular and the number of routes has increased.

Out on Banks Peninsula some of the crags to receive a makeover were the Altar, Devils Gap, Coffin Rock, Screaming Whippets, Otepatotu, Brazenose and the Pigeon Bay area. Some of these areas will become popular, and rightly so, others I’m sure will slip back into obscurity.

If I have missed anything in this report, which is highly likely, I apologise. Please send further information to NZAC and tune in next year.

A R E A R E P O R T S 143

Double (18, 21, 15), Eco Terrorist (18, 19, 18), Tall Order (17, 18, 19, 17) and Dirty Old Slab (17).

Babble Brook Another new venue with routes by Grant Piper, Kevin Barrett, Dave Van der Krabben and Greg Low. The routes are: Dave’s Retreat (18, 17), Crax (18, 18), Lox (22), Aftershox (18, 20), Copyright (17), A Bit on the Toes (18), The Weta the Beta (18) and Dave’s Advance (19).

There is also another climb courtesy of Greg Jack and Jean Tompkins named Lumberjack. It’s a shame that the grade and location are unknown.

Cloudy Peak A flying visit by Greg Jack and Jean Tompkins saw the ascent of an unnamed single pitch 50-metre crack line. The grade and location are unknown.

Banks Peninsula

Kester Brown climbing at Devils Gap, Banks Peninsula. Troy Mattingley

More details on the majority of the following climbs can be found at climbnz.org.nz.

Mount Somers Over the last few years there has been quite a few new routes added to the Mount Somers area. The most recent developments have been on The Pyramid and Babble Brook.

Around on the Pinnacles side of the hill, there have been a few easy new routes added to the Main Buttresses, near the start of Once a Jolly Swagman and also under The Fortress. While the first ascentionists are unknown, the routes are remembered.

The Pyramid A newly developed crag, principally by Grant Piper, Kevin Barrett and Greg Low. The routes are: Greg and Sharon’s Climb (17), The Weta File (21, 17, 19), Stunt 144 A R E A R E P O R T S

Devils Gap In 2006-07 Gary Kearns and Gabriel Lincourt climbed a number of routes.

Unfortunately some of their climbs were repeat ascents of climbs already climbed by Calum Hudson and others. In 2008 about ten routes were added. Devil’s Dihedral (19), Devil’s Advocate (20) and The Devil Made Me Do It (20) were done by by Lindsay Main. Gary Kearns climbed The Darkness and the Light (19). Joe Arts added an unnamed grade 19.

Coffin Rock The scene of sporadic activity going back to the mid-70s. In 2006–07 Gabe Lincourt and Gary Kearns added about ten routes. In 2008 Lindsay Main added The Graveyard (20) and in 2009, with Joe Arts, produced Monster Munch (19), The Jammy Dodger (19), Eco Depot (17), Budget (17), Loppy (18), Zipf’s Law (20) and Full Moon (22).

Lindsay added Cemetery Crack (17), Last Rites (21), Dead On Arrival (22), The Undertaker (16), Tombstone Wall (18), and Mortician (18). Later, Francis Main completed Gabe’s longstanding project, which is as-yet unnamed and grade 23. The crag now sports 45 routes.

The Altar In 2007–08 Dave Shotwell and Simon Courtois developed this small crag in a sheltered gully at Church Bay, just five minutes from the road. This nicely featured trachyte crag has about ten routes. They are mainly sport climbs between 17 and 23. The standout route, Rastafarianism, is a perfect square corner at about grade 23.

Screaming Whippets A basalt crag directly above Little River (to the west). Initial development started in 2006, when about ten routes were climbed.

The remainder were climbed in 2009. The major climbs are: Grey Power (19), Peenuts (19), Petite Features (20), Fuchsia Groove (19), Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle Of Rum (19), Raving Iron (20), Thief Of Time (21), Irn Bru (23), Flax Attack (22) and Southerly Front (18). There is another unnamed route and various people cleaned up a few easier lines on the right-hand side of the cliff.

The main protagonists were Alan Hill, Joe Arts, Pete Whitworth, Pete Gresham and Josh Hudson.

Pigeon Bay area In 2002 Alan Hill, along with Jon Veronese, Richard Kimberley, Hamish Reid, Josh Hudson, Chris Read and Peter Whitworth, began development of various small cliffs at Pigeon Bay, primarily in two areas, one on the cliffs high up the valley on the eastern side of the bay and the other at the top of Starvation Gully Road. It is quite likely that some of these climbs were done previously by Alan Hay, a local farmer who climbed extensively around Christchurch in the 1970s.

Otepatotu After nearly 20 years of neglect, and several thousand quakes and shakes, Otepatotu became very popular, probably because it hasn’t fallen down and it feels like a long way from Christchurch.

Joe Arts and Lindsay Main were the first to venture out there and saw that there was potential under all the gorse. A good number of lines were cleaned, bolted and climbed, some which were previously climbed in the 70s. The first of the new

routes was CERA the Terror (18/19) by Joe Arts, which involved retro-bolting the start of Altar. Over the next couple of years Lindsay and Joe returned with, variously, Hugh Logan, Alan Hill and Tony Burnell.

As for the routes, Joe climbed Dark Matter (17), Hubble (19) and Space Spirals (16), which are alternative finishes to a Y-shaped crack, plus Executioner Junior (18), Falcon Crack (15), Space Inflation (18) and Space Pooh (17). Lindsay established Paradise Roof (18), Sticky Fingers (17), Deforestation (17), Cornucopia (15), Seismic City (18), Chimps in the Mist (17), Shorty’s Terror (17), Sow’s Ear (20), The Black Plague (17), Bloodless Coup (16), Barbed Wire Canoe (15), Que Sera, CERA? (19) and The Tailor of Panama (17). Hugh Logan added two new link-ups, Paradise Refound (15) and No Horror (16), plus Step to the Right (14), Crack in the Wall (17) and The Spine (18). Marty Schmidt climbed a direct finish to A Pleasant Interlude at about grade 21. Tony Burnell was imported to climb Second-hand Rose (23) and finally Alan Hill added Forewarned and Forearmed (20).

Brazenose Again, after an absence of 20 years, man made a visit to Brazenose, a large crag above Akaroa. Three routes were added on the left cliff, the first, by Owen Davies, takes a line up the steep bulge on the right of the buttress towards the gully and is graded 23. Nic Harvey, of Roxx fame, climbed the weakness on the right side of the main face, exiting right along a diagonal break before coming back right up the ramp to the anchors. Tony Burnell climbed the face directly up to and through the hanging crack.

PORT HILLS Britten Crag Despite the perceived low quality of the rock at this crag, the quake damage is limited to quite specific spots, there is little or no damage to the climbs between The Shelf and Cabbage Patch Kids.

As usual Tony Burnell, now residing back in the area, carried on where he left off and added Sport for All (26), Playing with the

Big Boys (26/27), Over the Top (24, an alternative start to Sun Burst Finnish) and Quake Effect (22).

Pete Oxley added a kinking traverse, White Silence (28), which starts up Great White Wombat Hunt before moving into and up to finish as for Silence of the Wombats.

Lyttelton Rock On the other side of the hill, Tony Burnell, Pete Oxley and Grant Piper were busy again. Tony Burnell added Layer Cake (25) and Pete Oxley added Blonde Moment (26), both variations around Gone Bimbo but finishing up the overhanging groove on the left. Just to the right Tony Burnell added a direct line through Mysterious Swine Disease to give Swine Fever (27). Along the crag Tony climbed Mysteries (24). Just around the corner at the Ataturk Wall, Tony added a climb left of Salome Malone and Grant Piper added Dissillusions of Grandeur, a direct line through The Mother of All Session Routes.

Michal Karnik climbed the impressive roof right of Bridging over Lyttelton, it’s grade 27 and is unnamed. Michal also climbed an eliminate line between Creatures of Power and Scud Muscle.

I guess the other thing of note at Lyttelton is the sprouting of new bolts, unfortunately these are not always replacements, but additions. You might say ‘so what’ but one climb in particular, Prophet of Doom, which originally sported three bolts, now has five. This climb was previously a classic that would find you out if you were not prepared. It had three great attributes: it was strenuous, it was technical and it was bolted safely. You also needed commitment and respect now, sadly, you don’t. ‘Nuff said, RIP Prophet of Doom.

Twisted Sister Pete Oxley was at it again creating some super hard technical traverses and some vertical test-pieces, including Snake in the Grass (27, a sit-start to Deja Jeux), Anaconda (28, a long traverse from the right leading in to Deja Jeux), Year Zero (27, this route starts below and right of Soft Centre

Joe Arts climbing at Otepatotu. Troy Mattingley

and finishes as for Getting Nowhere Fast), Getting Nowhere For Longer (27, a pumpy line that links Getting Nowhere Fast with Centrepiece) and finally Cosmogenesis (28) the old Tony Ward Homes/Andy Cockburn project starting off the large block.

Jane Fonda As stated earlier the crag has undergone a makeover with lots of nice new bolts to replace the old ones, this work came courtesy of Grant and Kester. Following nature’s intervention Kester realigned Meat Injection to finish directly up the arête of the main wall. Tony Burnell was busy again adding Fonda Climbing (22, to the left of Whacking Moles) Whacking Wendy (22, a alternative, bolted start to Spanking Wendy, start just left of Whacking Moles) and an alternative start to Feminine Positions which doesn’t change the grade.

A R E A R E P O R T S 145

NORTH ISLAND

by JOHN PALMER

James Field-Mitchell on Crag Vultures (31), White Falls, Mt Ruapehu. Joshua Windsor

N

oting that there is only one area report for the entire North Island, readers will be understandably tremulous, about the merit of reading on and about the state of health of North Island climbing. As to the former, some comfort may be derived from the knowledge that all references to Wellington boulder problems, recounted in sumptuous detail in early drafts of this tract, were omitted immediately prior to the copy date. As to the latter, there is a view that climbing in the North Island, personified, is something approaching David Tua circa 2012, that is, more band rotunda than title contender.

If that view was ever valid, it is no longer.

2012 was the year that North Island climbing got its stomach stapled!

146 A R E A R E P O R T S

The rock climbing scene in the North Island has likely never been more vibrant.

From regeneration of old-school cliffs to discovery and development of new frontiers, it is (in the inimitable words of the great Steve Conn), ‘all happening’.

Starting at the start, the Quarry was reopened and renamed (I forget the exact title but it is something like The BMW Vodafone Auckland Grammar School Memorial Xtreme Rock Challenge Wall™).

Never mind the folks who then wanted to grid bolt it to save us from ourselves, the fact that climbing is possible at all is a triumph for the Auckland Section of NZAC. With the aid of the second annual Whanganui Bay Rock Festival (a highly commendable initiative from Marlon

Hepi, supported by the Whanganui Bay Trustees), activity at the Bay continues to grow. Many old classics have been cleaned and rebolted, including the oddly named but highly recommended Turbomingent Torre-Mounting Tossers (22), on Lobotomy Buttress. Some new routes have been added including Nothing’s Shocking (25/26) (FA John Palmer), on the wall just right of the El Topo/Repulsion/Sex and Violence shield. The static line on Repulsion has been replaced with a shiny new one, resulting in several ascents of Roland’s run-out classics, mostly by folks approaching their 40s.

Across the lake, at Kawakawa Bay (now generally regarded as post-pubescent in the crag life-cycle), development continues apace. The main protagonists remain,

in the main, Dan Head, Rob Addis, Matt Thom and Gerard Tarr. Having raised over $2000 for bolting and related crag development expenses from guidebook sales, 2012 has seen the addition of dozens more climbs at many new sectors. An update to the guidebook, with all the latest new routes included, will be available this summer.

Not to be outdone in the pumice pulling league tables, and in the face of the closure of the excellent Lakeside Wall at Waipapa, Jamie Baron, Bryce Martin and friends have been back-filling new-route potential at the main Waipapa sector. Jamie, in particular, has added a slew of routes in the mid to high 20s including the excellent Immortality (26), a long and varied outing on great rock. One line that resisted Jamie’s advances for many months was snapped up by roving ropegun James Field-Mitchell, which he named Valhalla (28 or 29). Jamie repeated the route shortly thereafter. A note of warning: some of the fixed gear at Waipapa is well short of what most consider best practice for bolting on ignimbrite and rhyolite.

Froggatt Edge continues to surprise.

Despite its obvious limitations, the crag remains very popular and continues to yield hard new routes. The plumb line plucked this year was an old project on the largeish white wall behind the so-called Toilet Boulders. Comprised mostly of rock, this sharp finger-test had repelled all-comers for many years until Auckland ‘yoof’ Josh Evans survived the battle to bring us Shining Bright Despite the Plight (31). The route was repeated quickly by another ‘yoof’ Wiz Fineron. Bright indeed! The seemingly evergreen Regan McCaffery shouted his way up another old project, which he named Pedo and the Pieman (29) for some reason.

To the east, rumours of long, exciting climbing on immaculate volcanic rock in a gorge near Rotorua continue to circulate.

I have seen the photos. It certainly looks good, but that’s all I can say for now.

To the west, after several years of frenetic development, the dust (of which there is

a lot) at Mangaokewa has largely settled.

Some new routes have been added, including Kristen Foley’s (apparently excellent) Paynes-like face route, The Art of War (27).

In 2012, The Climber was brimming with autobiographical tales of manly endeavour and achievement on the slopes of Mount Ruapehu. The prosaically titled White Falls, in the Mangaturuturu catchment, became the new ‘it’ crag for the muscle-bound hardcore (and Regan McCaffery). Offering uniquely steep, athletic climbing on passable rock, White Falls produced a slurry of megagraded burl-fests in 2012. Notables include The Wraith (28) (FA Pnut Steens), a climb formerly known as Gospel Of Lies (29) (FA James Field-Mitchell), Mansard Roof (30) (FA Regan McCaffery) and the eponymously titled Crag Vultures (FA Regan McCaffery), given the lofty rating of 31. The energy expended at White Falls in 2012 was exceeded only by the energy devoted to debating the grades of the routes there. Time will tell whether the big numbers stick.

On the other side of the mountain, a quieter, much smaller-scale revolution was taking place at the Wall Of Sound, in the Whangaehu catchment. An island of bullet-hard andesite in a sea of pyroclastic choss, the Wall Of Sound is now home to a dozen routes in the mid–high 20s, including some excellent 23s and 24s and the unlikely ever to be repeated The Jean-Paul Sartre Experience (28) (FA John Palmer).

At Castle Rock in Coromandel, Cliff Ellery and friends have established some fine multi-pitch routes on excellent, coarse volcanic rock. A standout is Anzac Parade, a four pitch, 125 metre grade 20.

Mount Ruapehu saw a small amount of winter new-route climbing activity. Steve Fortune and Matt Thom climbed a line on the steep, central section of Cathedral Rocks (Matihao). They named it Mr Lava Lava and it’s about M6. Finally, Jono Clarke added Rocket Powered Rollerskates (M7+) to the crag at Mangaturuturu Cirque.

t o p Steve Fortune on the first ascent of Mr Lava Lava (M6), Cathedral Rocks, Mt Ruapehu. Matt Thom b o t t o m Dan Head on The Tombstone, Kawakawa Bay. Gerard Tarr A R E A R E P O R T S 147

DARRAN MOUNTAINS

Mts Madeline and Tutoko. Mark Watson

by TOM RILEY

R

ockfall, road closures, new routes, rain, sun and exultation. Another year has passed in the Darrans, and a good number of people have passed through as well. It’s almost fair to say that it’s been eventful.

Early in the season, Tom Williamson and Ian Brown pulled off a new route on the south-west face of Crosscut’s west peak.

The new climb is called The Wrongest Day and the crux pitch is about grade 20.

Dave Vass and Richard Thomson established The Subalpine Route (III, 20) on the east face of Karetai, and finished the climb in flurries of snow. They’d made their way in to the central Darrans via a 500-metre new route on the Donne Wall at the head of the Donne Valley. The route is named The Big Easy (IV, 22). The Donne Wall holds some excellent climbing, although for Dave and Richard the wall may have been more appropriately named the Wall of Early Evening Light!

148 A R E A R E P O R T S

At about the same time, in a similar location, Mark Watson, John McCallum and Alan Thomas found a new eight-pitch line on the south-east flank of Karetai. The Brown Spider (II, 19) heads up to the right of Statue Bro? to finish at a prominent notch near Karetai Col. Daniel Joll and Steve Fortune made first ascents of two routes from the Ngapunatoru Plateau. The Kaipo Kid (18) is on an outlier peak to the Kaipo Wall. The Fortune/Joll (21/A1) is on the right-hand side of the main Kaipo Wall. At the same time, Ben Dare and Scott Blackford Scheele made an ascent of something close to the Range Rover Route on the main Kaipo Wall.

Nick Cradock, Murray Ball, John Entwisle and Dave Shotwell added a line to the Moir’s Mate massif. Shot in the Dark has six pitches, ranging in difficulty from grade 17 to 24. The grade 24 pitch is especially good by all accounts and a good rack will come in handy. Nick and Dave also

climbed three new pitches just to the left of the previous route, naming that climb First Steps.

A respectable number of new routes were completed over the winter as well.

Activity was concentrated around the NZAC Darrans Winter Meet in July, with bursts of enthusiasm on either side.

The season began in the middle of May, with three new routes established on the bluffs above the Homer Tunnel. Anthony Garvie and Hannah Gibbs climbed Chuckle Vision, while Jimmy Harrison and Alastair Walker contributed Blurred Vision and Failing Vision.

During the meet, in the upper reaches of Macpherson Cirque, Steve Fortune and Reg Measures climbed The Road (III, 4) while Tim Steward and Jimmy Harrison established The Crossing (III, 4), both on the left-hand wall. Reg and Steve also climbed a line on the same wall that Al Uren later remembered he’d done years ago.

The climb was retrospectively named No Country for Old Men, in keeping with the McCarthy theme.

Reg Measures shifted his attention rightwards to the centre of the upper cirque wall, and, with partners V Wills and H James, climbed a three-pitch route which they named Bombay Sapphire (III, 4). Shifting things further right again, Reg teamed back up with Steve for the first ascent of Geezers Need Excitement (IV, 6) on the south face of Talbot.

Guy McKinnon made a dramatic appearance at Homer in the dead of night, having just completed a solo of Cul de Sac. He reported deep snow in Cirque Creek, but good conditions once on the wall.

Reg and Steve repeated Sign of the Times on the Cirque Creek side of Crosscut, extending the route to the summit of the west peak. The original line finished at the snowfields on the south shoulder at twothirds height.

New routing on ice and snow continued into the spring. During September, Guy McKinnon soloed a line on the other side of Cirque Creek. The Troubled Land ascends the west face of the north peak of Mount Christina and bears a technical grade of 4+.

In early October, Daniel Joll and Steve Fortune headed into the Marian Valley to have a look at the south face of Sabre. The pair inadvertently climbed a new line left of The Big Corner, thinking they were on that route. Walk the Line climbs six pitches before joining the West Ridge, with a crux pitch of WI5+.

Pat Deavoll and Barry Blanchard repeated White as a Sheet in thin conditions and deteriorating weather, bringing the total number of ascents of that route close to double digits.

Jono Clarke, Daniel Joll and Allan Uren made the first repeat of Squeeling in similarly thin conditions. A video of the ascent can be found at vimeo.com/52138844.

It was a relatively quiet year at the crags in the Cleddau Valley, but that’s not to say that nothing happened. Bruce Dowrick climbed a long-standing project of Al Ritchie’s, naming it Algorithm (27). Zac Orme repeated Colossus (33), and there are cred-

Reg Measures on pitch three of No Country for Old Men, on the left wall of the upper Macpherson Cirque. Steve Fortune

ible rumours that Nick Sutter made short work of just about everything. However, details are sketchy.

Over at the newly-minted Slip Crag, James Morris climbed Osiris (24) and Cerberus (27). Derek Thatcher, Rachel Musgrave, James and Zac were mildly inconvenienced by a rockfall which blocked the road during their stay at Homer, leading to a helicopter ride and the problem of how to get the car back afterwards.

Not quite in the Darrans, but near enough to count, Danilo Hegg, Nina Dickerhof and

James Thornton climbed a new route on the south face of Terror Peak. The party walked in and out via Sinbad Gully.

Also not in the Darrans, but nearby, Steve Skelton, Shana Payne and Keith Brown put up two new routes on the Borland Bluffs: Feature Face (21) and The Finger (16). It’s been a long time since the Borland area has been visited regularly and it seems likely that there are many good new routes to come.

In policy news, NZAC has released a document setting out practice guidelines for bolting in the Darrans. These are definitely recAARREEAA RREEPPOORRTTSS 149

Dave Vass on the first pitch of The Subalpine Route, on the east face of Karetai, during the route’s first ascent. Richard Thomson

ommendations, rather than rules, but they’re based on sound logic. In essence, the practice guidelines confirm the existing situation; bolts are to be used on the valley crags and the alpine rock routes in the southern Darrans, Sinbad Gully and Terror Peak. Bolts north of the Korako Ledges are unnecessary. Another major point is that climbers should consult 150 A R E A R E P O R T S

with other climbers in order to determine the impact of bolting in a given area.

This represents a significant opportunity for NZAC and the wider community of climbers to demonstrate that climbers are the best people to make decisions around bolting. The guidelines are available in full from alpineclub.org.nz and discussion

is welcome.

Opinions are divided on the weather forecast for the 2012/13 summer season.

At one time it looked like we were set to receive El Niño, but his arrival is in doubt.

Whatever the weather, it’s sure to be a good season for getting out and about, and seeing where you can get to next.

Obituaries James Robert Bruce Menzies 1917–2011 Dot Smith 1918–2012 Walter Fowlie 1925–2012 (John) Russell Gregory 1928–2011 Walter Somerville 1939–2012 Alexander Bruce Miller 1940–2011 John David Atkinson 1940–2011 Ruth Hesselyn 1956–2012 Mark Roland Ellis 1988–2012

Fogbow on the Ngamoko Tops. Sarah Milicich 151

James Robert Bruce Menzies 1917–2011 James Robert Bruce Menzies (Bruce) was born in Mataura on 15 March 1917. He was the only son of John Francis (Frank) Menzies and Janet (nee Leggat).

In Bruce’s very early years, Frank suffered a period of ill health which prompted the family to try the farming life near Eastbourne. Bruce started school at Stokes Valley Primary School, travelling to and from school by horse and cart. While Bruce was still in his early primary school years Frank was appointed Town Clerk of Sumner, near Christchurch, and this was to be the home for the family from then on.

Menzies Street in Sumner is named after Frank who served the town in that position for many years. The family believed that education was the way to success and Bruce was encouraged to concentrate almost exclusively on his studies. He attended Sumner Primary School where he excelled, winning a scholarship to Christ’s College. He turned this down however, preferring to attend Christchurch Boys High School where he was a prefect and dux of the school in his final year. He was awarded a University National Bursary in 1934.

The first third of Bruce’s life was characterised by his outdoor feats. He said his ‘early enjoyment of the hills was nurtured in the hills of Eastbourne and boosted by seeing, over many Christmas holidays, bearded, packcarrying mountaineers disembarking from the Earnslaw after climbing trips at the head of the lake [Wakitipu].’

Bruce joined the Canterbury Mountaineering Club as soon as he left school in 1935. He was always very involved in hut building and maintenance and was one time treasurer and vice president of the club. In 2003 he was voted a life member, sponsored by Jack Ede and Brian Fineran, and the following excerpt is from his letter of thanks to the CMC at the time.

‘Over the sixty-eight years of my membership I have enjoyed and appreciated many aspects of that membership, notably the training courses, the companionship of members on expeditions into the back country (although many of these relationships had their origin in the University Tramping Club), the sheer enjoyment of working parties and my time as a committee member and office bearer.

Since being de-mobbed from the RNZAF I have done little climbing since being away in the back country for weeks at a time did not fit very well with the married state. But that did not signify any diminution of my enthusiasm,

152 O B I T U A R I E S

the continuation of which found expression in my venturing into back country farming and becoming owner of my own mountain.

Although the cumulative effect of a number of prangs has meant that I no longer venture into the back country other than courtesy of my son-in-law’s Land Rover, the attraction which it holds for me continues unabated and my life membership fits well with that situation continuing.

Again my thanks to the Club, its officers and committee and long may it continue to flourish.’

Bruce was also a life member of the New Zealand Alpine Club, he joined in 1942.

He took up skiing at the age of 15, helped pioneer Craigieburn Ski Club and subsequently Temple Basin Ski Club where he skied with Oscar Coberger. He was involved with many working bees putting in the goods lift from the actual Arthur’s Pass up to Temple Basin—the only alternative to lugging gear up the mountain on one’s back. He was a Canterbury Ski Club member until recent years. His love of the mountains led to the purchase of a bach at Arthur’s Pass where the family spent many happy holidays.

Bruce’s tertiary education at Canterbury University College was interrupted by WWII, with some of his studies completed before, some during and some after the war. Never a full time student, he attained his BA (1938), MA (Hons) (1941), LLB (1942) and BCom (1949) and ARANZ (1948). He was joint winner of the Butterworth Prize in Law in 1939 (the other recipient was Jack Rumbold, Rhodes Scholar). While at high school and university he played rugby and tennis and received his boxing ‘blues’.

Bruce was a very well educated man, in the classical sense. His MA was in Latin which he loved and continued to quote throughout his life and he had a love of the classics, principally Greek literature.

Bruce loved science and engineering but in choosing a profession he took the advice of one of his school masters who recommended law, probably because of Bruce’s disciplined and analytical mind. He worked for 14 years as an associate solicitor in the Public Trust Office and in 1959 established his own legal practice as a barrister and solicitor and was one of only a small number of New Zealand lawyers ever to take a case, the Bateman Case, to the Privy Council in London. He sold his practice

in 1979.

Bruce served as a radar mechanic in the RNZAF from 1942 until late 1945, which included spending time in Guadalcanal.

In 1944 Bruce married Gwenda Irene Hall, daughter of Mr and Mrs WA Hall, whom he met while stationed at the RNZAF base at Collingwood. Gwenda, who was from Nelson, was working as a school dental nurse in Upper Takaka. They had three daughters of whom Bruce was very proud. He had a strong sense of family, both nuclear and extended, including contacts he’d made in Scotland through the Menzies clan.

In 1966 he purchased a 6000 acre hill country farm, Mount Virginia, where he had two houses built by CMC friend Stan Muirson, as was the family home in Christchurch. He developed the farm over a period of 25 years, farming operations being in the hands of a manager.

From an early age Bruce was extremely fond of animals. He kept hens all his life, refusing to partake of chicken meat, and always had a cat.

A homeless high country merino sheep, Caesar, was actually the trigger for Bruce to purchase Mt Virginia which in turn led to Ben, a lovely natured black and tan huntaway who was devoted to him, coming into his life.

After retiring from the legal profession in 1979, Bruce worked passionately on his family history, making several three-month expeditions to Scotland where he immersed himself

in research and attended the annual gathering of the clan at Castle Menzies, Aberfeldy, in the Highlands. He returned from one of his trips to Menzies Castle in the early 1970s and began a nationwide fund-raising campaign, contacting every Menzies listed in the New Zealand phone books. He attended clan gatherings in New Zealand as well as in Scotland. He was regarded as the authority on the Shian branch of the Menzies and published The Menzies of Shian and Glenqueich in the magazine of the Menzies Clan Society, Edinburgh 1993. He was a member of the Tay Valley Family History Society and the local Burns Society and was a regular attendee at their annual Burns Suppers.

Bruce’s other interests included: economics,

politics (he was one time chairman and treasurer of the National Party Lyttelton electorate) and the history of the settlement of Otago (he was a life member of the Otago Early Settlers Association). He was a very loyal man, not only to family and friends but he kept up his connections to his old schools, his university, and to the various clubs he had been involved in. He fronted the campaign to save the old Christchurch Boys’ High School facade in the Arts Centre in the 1990s and attended ANZAC Memorial Service at CBHS every year from 1944 until he was hospitalised in 2008.

Bruce was a solitary man. He was an only child, did not mind venturing alone into the hills, and in his professional life preferred solo

practice. But at the same time he was devoted to his family and, especially in later years, loved nothing more than to be in their company.

He was a fiercely independent and doggedly determined person. He was hugely energetic and would throw himself 100 per cent into a project, whether building rock walls and chimneys or tracking down information about a particularly elusive ancestor, nothing would daunt him. At once gracious, courteous and unassuming, he could be brutally honest and refused to kowtow to society’s expected niceties.

Bruce was a man of huge spirit, intelligence and humour. He died peacefully in Christchurch on 8 September 2011.

Dot Smith 1918–2012 Dorothy Smith (nee Green) was born in Dunedin on 27 March 1918, the younger of two sisters. Dot’s love of the hills and snow was kindled at an early age when the occasional winter snowfall in Dunedin produced some wonderful ski runs down its steeper streets. As a bonus, the city at that time had cable cars to take the skiers back to the tops!

The death of her mother in her teenage years left Dot having to make her own way in the world and by the age of 17 she was employed as a book-keeper and had her own flat. In the weekends Dot would sometimes catch a train with her mates to tramp in the Rock and Pillar Range. She also tramped the ‘pigroot’ to Clyde (previously Dunstan). In winter they would skin up the hills and complete a couple of long downhill ski runs before nightfall. Dot was a natural at the increasingly popular sport of skiing and in her early 20s represented Otago. Dot also became interested in mountaineering during her late teens and in 1938 joined the Otago Section of NZAC. The 1938–41 New Zealand Alpine Journals record a number of climbs she did in the Hollyford, Matukituki, and Aoraki Mount Cook areas, including two new routes.

She also did several unrecorded climbs with David Lewis and others prior to this period.

Dot was also a keen cyclist and would sometimes combine her two recreational interests by going on long cycling tours with her climbing gear. These included trips to Fiordland and Nelson Lakes. On one of these trips she helped lay charges in the Homer Tunnel part way through its construction! She also cycled around the Rotorua and Gisborne districts following her move north, which was no mean

feat in the days of metalled roads.

In 1941, shortly after the outbreak of war, Dot moved to Wellington and was one of only a few women who worked for the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research. She did exacting work on metal lathes, drill presses and precision grinding tools making ammunitions for the war effort. While she was in Wellington she met her future husband John Smith, who was home on leave from the war in Europe.

Unfortunately when he returned to the Italian Campaign he was captured and saw out the war in various prisoner of war camps. John and Dot were married when he returned home in 1945.

After learning the basics of farming they won a rehab ballot for 420 hectares (1040 acres) of scrub-covered hills near Onewhero (not far from Tuakau) and set about breaking in the land. These were hard times and Dot and John had to budget to the last penny to make ends meet as they gradually developed their sheep and beef farm and raised their two young boys Rodger and Howard.

As well as helping around the farm and planting a lovely rhododendron garden, Dot threw herself into community activities. She became a member of the local drama club and was heavily involved in designing and building the stage sets, or sewing costumes for most of the club’s early performances. At about this time Dot also learnt the skills of sculpting and screen printing at Auckland Art School and sold several of her prints through a shop in Parnell.

Her imagination and artistic talent flourished and she became a legend within the Onewhero area. Dot was also an ardent reader and started the rural library service in the district, collecting

and delivering books throughout the area once a month for 25 years.

In the late 1960s Dot joined the Rangatira Ski Club, based at Mount Ruapehu and made numerous trips to the mountain with her sons to ski, help on work parties and make a variety of artistic creations to brighten up the lodge.

Dot was highly regarded by all the club members, young and old. The current club captain recently said: ‘When I look back over the past 50 years and contemplate the type of person that has made our club what it is today, Dot’s name comes immediately to mind’.

Unfortunately, tragedy hit the family in 1974 when John died, aged only 57. However, Dot picked herself up by the bootstraps and a few months later joined a Venture Treks trip to the Peruvian Andes. This trek gave Dot a new direction in life and was a catalyst for numerous other journeys. Over the next 24 years she

O B I T U A R I E S 153

crew and it is clear from the book Voyage to the Ice that she was a particularly useful crew member. In addition to various scientific investigations, the expedition made the first recorded sea landings on Sturge and Sabrina in the Balleny Islands, visited Borchgrevink’s hut, which was erected in 1899 at Cape Adair by the first party to winter over in the Antarctic, and called in to the Australian weather base at Macquarie Island en route back to Sydney. In the summer of 1981-82 she returned to Antarctica in the yacht Dick Smith Explorer, and visited Mawson’s Hut in Commonwealth Bay. Dot regularly attended Auckland Section NZAC meetings throughout her many years of active association with the club, up until the time that she was no longer able to drive.

These attendances involved a one and a half hour drive each way from Onewhero. She also attended the annual dinners where she added a lot of fun to the gathering. Dot was great company and remained intelligent, funloving, focussed, forthright and compassionate to the end.

Dot had extensive arthritis for most of her life which caused her a lot of pain. But she didn’t broadcast the problem and it didn’t

stop her activities. She was the original bionic woman, with two knee replacements, two hip replacements, two shoulder reconstructions and various other bits and pieces that were discarded. She was a tough cookie and simply carried on.

Dot passed away on 22 February 2012 in a rest home just one month short of her ninetyfourth birthday. A passage in the service notes celebrating her life included words to the effect that ‘life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather the end of a journey where one skids in sideways, neenish tart in one hand, malt whiskey in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and screaming “WAA HOO what a ride!!”’

This pretty well describes Dot’s life. She was an amazing woman and I was grateful to be included amongst her many friends. NZAC extends its deepest sympathy to her two children Roger and Howard, their wives Colleen and Jill, and her four grandchildren.

–Alex Parton, with help from Rodger and Howard Smith

Mts Lendenfeld and Tasman. Mark Watson

scrimped and saved to cover the cost of the next year’s adventure. These adventures included: a further three trips to South America (including Patagonia); three trips to Nepal (including one to Everest Basecamp); two trips to Tibet; and three trips to China. In addition, Dot crewed on four offshore sailing passages between 1987 and 1992 on the topsail schooner Tradewind. The passages included: from Freemantle to Sydney as part of the 1988 First Fleet bicentennial voyage; to the Auckland and Campbell Islands; to Minerva Reef, Tonga, and Fiji; and from Buenos Aires to New York as part of the fivehundredth Columbus anniversary. In 1980 Dot joined a queue in India hoping to be granted a three minute audience with the Dali Lama, and was in luck. However, the two of them got on so well together that after 35 minutes chatting, the Dali Lama’s minders had to interrupt the discussion and explain to His Holiness that there were still several hundred other people waiting outside to meet him!

In the summer of 1977-78, at the age of 59, Dot joined the crew of the ketch Solo, which sailed from Sydney to Antarctica under the command of an old climbing friend David Lewis. She was the only woman of the eight

154 O B I T U A R I E S

A legendary Taranaki alpinist who influenced an entire generation of mountaineers has died.

Walter Fowlie’s contribution to mountaineering was recognised when he became an Officer of the New Zealand Order of Merit in 2001.

A keen hunter as a young man, Walter’s interest in mountaineering led him to join Hawera's Mount Egmont Alpine Club (Mt EAC) in 1962. Five years later he climbed his first 10,000ft peak, Mount Haidinger in the Southern Alps. He went on to scale 13 of New Zealand's 18 3000m peaks.

In 1968 he proudly joined the New Zealand Alpine Club. He took part in its 1973 expedition to the Peruvian Andes, chaired the Taranaki section for nine years, and was awarded life membership after his retirement in 1997 as national president.

He introduced many young Mt EAC members to the Southern Alps, leading trips to Aspiring, Nelson Lakes and Mount Cook national parks. He climbed Mount Cook five times and in 1976 led a club climb that put a record 13 people together on the summit. Five years later, he led the club's successful fiftieth jubilee expedition to Peru. He later became a life member and patron.

Walter visited Antarctica three times between 1977 and 1986 as a New Zealand Antarctic Research Programme field leader and also climbed and trekked in Nepal and Kashmir.

Active in search and rescue on Mount Egmont Taranaki for many years, he was the Taranaki Alpine Cliff Rescue Team’s foundation leader in 1980.

A skilled photographer and Photographic Society of New Zealand associate, Walter was sought after for slide shows of his adventures and renowned for the humour of his presentations.

He is survived by his wife, Norma, a daughter, two sons and several grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Paul O’Dowd, of New Plymouth, was among the Taranaki youngsters Walter mentored. As a school kid, Paul met the charismatic Walter at the Mount Egmont Apine Club more than 40 years ago. A networker long before networking became corporate speak, Walter had eyes that sparkled and he went out of his way to make people feel valued. He connected easily with people of all ages, from all walks of life and from all cultures.

Walter liked to say, ‘My heart’s an open book,’ and happily invited along anyone who wanted

Image courtesy of Taranaki Daily News

Walter Fowlie 1925–2012

to join in his activities. Walter imparted a confidence that persuaded others they could succeed.

Reflections from people he worked with in Antarctica show he inspired those around him: • ‘Walter spent his free time and some of his nights without sleep to solo several peaks over 10,000ft. Walter had once been drafted for WWII, so I don’t think I’ll ever care much again how old someone is when it comes to expedition mountaineering.’ –Bill Atkinson, 1982.

• ‘I guess it doesn’t seem possible that tough ole’ Walter has passed on. I remember his sixtieth birthday party at the Scott Base bar … ’ –Bob Harler USN retired, former Ops Officer at McMurdo Station and Officer in Charge of Operation Deep Freeze, Christchurch.

• ‘One hundred years ago if Captain Scott had had a Walter Fowlie with him … the outcome for Scott could have been very different. Somehow, I think of Walter as heroic in every sense of the word ... he was almost from another era ... I think of him as someone who I'm sure has had an enormous and highly positive influence on a great many young folk in Taranaki, instilling in them the qualities we want every New Zealander to hold dear.’ – Colin Monteath.

Fowlie Glacier in Antarctica’s Admiralty Mountains in Victoria Land is named after him.

Walter loved to explore and to introduce people to his outdoor world and to photography and botany. Many mountaineers used to observe the Fowlie rule of thumb: a 60th @ 16 or 125th @ 11 for shutter speed and aperture

for photos in the snow.

Mate Ross Beech, now of Blenheim, says his impression in his first encounter with Walter in the early 1960s was of an unpretentious man whose straightforward, simplistic approach to life endeared him to many. He thrived on attention, particularly from the young who admired his zest.

His natural ability to move boldly over rough ground gave fellow climbers the confidence to follow him. He didn’t bother with maps; his route-finding was more instinctive—view the terrain then go—frustrating those who preferred at least some map study.

His photo essays entertained many people.

He had the ability to capture the moment through his Asahi Pentax lens and skilfully put human subjects at ease to depict them at their most natural.

Walter gave a lot to the community, from whom he gained much in return. He was a great club man who loved club spirit. Clubs benefitted from his enthusiasm, and he benefitted from their structure and camaraderie.

Such was Walter’s energy and determination that those who joined him on a trip usually forgot he was much older than they. At 75 he still carried a full pack and his camera.

Walter pushed boundaries in his recreational pursuits, as a dairy farmer he was a good custodian of the land, never spent frivolously, enjoyed a basic standard of living and moved comfortably in all levels of society.

Those who remember him will identify with the Maori proverb: Mehemea ka tuoho ahau me maunga teitei. Should I bow my head, let it be to a lofty mountain.

–Sue O’Dowd O B I T U A R I E S 155

(John) Russell Gregory 1928–2011 Russell had a love for the mountains that began in his school days and lasted for the rest of his life. He was a professional land surveyor, Territorial Force member of the Royal New Zealand Artillery rising to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, and active in political and community service organisations. In amongst his professional career and service he also maintained his interest in mountaineering activities. He was married to Margaret Buchan and had five children, Susan, Judy, Stephen (d.1961), Tony and Nicki.

Russell was born in Dunedin in 1928.

He attended Otago Boys High School and met friends with similar outdoor interests.

Russell and Arnold Hubbard joined the Otago Tramping Club upon leaving OBHS in 1947.

Russell learned his basic tramping skills in the Silver Peaks behind Dunedin. During this period a typical weekend would involve traversing the Silver Peaks, the Gap, Mount Misery, Bros Peak and Middle Mountain to reach Palmerston in time to catch the train back to Dunedin. Scott Gilkinson used to describe them as ‘the fast party’. This was high praise coming from Scott! During one trip to the Silver peaks hut Russell arrived at the hut and then immediately left to take his girlfriend (his future wife) to the Dunedin town hall for a dance. He arrived back at the hut in time to

return with his mates back to Dunedin.

He joined the NZAC Otago Southland Section in 1950, he was convenor of the Basic Instruction Course for three years. Frequently he climbed with Arnold Hubbard and Bill Brookes during the 1950s. A direct ascent of Pluto Col from the Bedford, in the Earnslaw group was recorded in the 1949 NJAZ. Later, in 1954, Russell, along with Arnold Hubbard, did the second ascent (and the first traverse) of Mount Barth in the Ahuriri. He was heavily involved in Search and Rescue from his base at Balclutha, becoming involved in the epic Bevan Col rescue in 1954, as detailed by Paul Powell in Men Aspiring.

During the 1960s Russell was busy with the army, his career, and politics. The 70s (with his son Tony becoming old enough to tramp and climb) saw the beginning of the Christmas escapes from the beach up at Kaiteriteri. Russell never liked sunbathing like his wife did, so he would arrange trips, first to the Whangapeka, Heaphy and various combinations of valleys.

Later, Russell and Tony did ascents of Mounts Travers and Franklin. Many trips were made to the Mount Cook region, including one involving many of his children and their partners.

He also imparted his passion and knowledge of the mountains to anyone who was willing to experience them with him. When he retired in

1989 he built a log cabin at Mount Lyford Alpine Village and lived there until 2008. He always got up each morning and put a light pack on and walked around the block, later he continued the habit when he shifted to Amberley. For the last ten years of his life Russell lived with Parkinson’s disease. The walking and Russell’s resilience helped minimise some of the negative effects from that. He discovered that he had malignant melanoma, he fought this for 18 months before he died at the age of 83.

The strength that he had as he faced the end of his life, with the support of his loving family, was helped by the memories of a life well lived and the experiences of the mountains. Thank you to the NZAC for being part of that.

–Nga Mihi Na Tony Gregory

Walter Somerville 1939–2012 Walter grew up on the family farm at Pine Bush, approximately 40 kilometres east of Invercargill. Studying engineering at secondary school equipped him with skills he put to great use during his life, designing and constructing farm buildings and equipment himself.

As a young man hunting became a passion and every autumn he would organise a trip into Fiordland or South Westland. His favourite spot was the Arawata Valley in South Westland. His passion for hunting led him to enjoy many wild areas in Fiordland, South Westland and parts of the Southern Alps. Whilst hunting tahr and chamois at higher altitudes he was inspired to take up mountaineering. In the early 1970s his first mountain climbing experience was at the Homer Tunnel area near Milford Sound then later at Mount Cook National Park. As he was a full-time farmer at this stage and only able to take short breaks he hired a guide to accompany him on his climbs in the Mount Cook National Park.

Due to a back injury in his 40s he was unable to 156 O B I T U A R I E S

continue to pursue this passion but mountains always held a special place in his heart.

In his farming life he bred a successful Poll Dorset stud and later a Red Deer stud presenting on-farm stud stag and hind sales.

From hunting wild animals, Walter moved on to photographing these animals with both still and movie cameras and he enjoyed several overseas trips photographing animals in parks in Sri Lanka, India and Africa.

Another part of Walter’s life was his involvement in organisations. He served as chairman of the Fiordland Park Board in the late 1980s.

Later, he becoming involved in the Southland Deer Farmers’ Association and then onto the national Deer Farmers’ Council and was a government appointee to the Animal Health Board, representing the Deer Farmers’ Assn.

He later learned to fly, purchased a Tecnam microlight and enjoyed many flights around Southland, Otago, Canterbury and once flew to Fox Glacier.

After Walter was diagnosed with his cancer illness one of the things that he wanted to do was to see the country that he hunted and climbed in as a young man. So in 2010 he organised helicopter trips to these places in South Westland and the Southern Alps. Walter also had the pleasure of making a film of this event which he named Return Journey.

–Nancy and John Somerville

Alexander Bruce Miller 1940–2011 In the two years since Alec’s death it has sunk in how much we have lost by it. Alec was a man of great integrity who took social and environmental responsibilities seriously. During the 50 years he lived in the Aoraki Mount Cook and Westland areas, he acquired a profound knowledge of them and worked untiringly on behalf of their environments. Alec loved the areas deeply. He was an idealist—direct, open, shunning pretence, he did not accept compromise easily, sometimes making things hard for himself and others. He was good company, with a strong sense of humour that enabled him to joke and laugh even on his death bed. He was a generous man, a loyal friend.

Alec grew up in Wellington. A learning disability (dyslexia) made school heavy going for him. By the time he entered the work force he was already an experienced tramper. While working as a trainee commercial artist in an advertising firm, Alec joined the Wellington Tramping and Mountaineering Club, which enabled him to continue acquiring new outdoor skills and expanding his horizons. The idea of Alec in advertising seems inconceivable to those who got to know him in later years. No wonder he soon heard the Southern Alps calling!

In the early 1960s, New Zealand mountain guiding was almost extinct. Harry Ayres resigned as chief ranger of Aoraki Mount Cook National Park (AMCNP) in 1961. The handful of guides still employed by tourist hotels provided glacier excursions for visitors but nothing more adventurous. Although some AMCNP employees did their best to try to carry on the high guiding tradition, there was no one around to pass on knowledge hard won from experience. So young climbing refugees from ‘real life’, such as Alec Miller and Bruce Jenkinson—whose love of the mountains prompted them to look for work with AMCNP—had to learn much the hard way.

This changed Alec in unexpected ways. Some close calls while climbing, a couple of unpleasant guiding experiences and a few too many deaths and disappearances encountered in the course of search and rescue activity combined to convince him that the risks of mountaineering were too great. So he gave climbing away.

Three new passions took its place. One was his romance with Susan Baxter, the local school teacher and evening pianist in the Hermitage lounge. They married in 1963 and stuck together through thick and thin. A second passion— becoming a ski plane pilot—was less of a long

term undertaking. Not until late 1970 was the dream realised, when, based at Fox Glacier, he began flying for Harry Wigley’s Mount Cook Ski Planes. In 1986 he and Susan bought their first Cessna 180 and a decade later they established the Aoraki Aero Company, operating from their own airstrip at Docherty’s Creek, under a Mount Cook Ski Planes franchise. Then in 2002 they became part owners of Mount Cook Ski Planes, and under the name Aoraki/Mt Cook Ski Planes continued to provide the high standards of service and safety that in 2005 earned him a Civil Aviation Authority safety award.

The other passion that grew in Alec during his AMCNP days was conservation. At the end of his life he said that if he was to be remembered for anything, he hoped it would be for his conservation work. It was for this he had been made a Member of the New Zealand Order of Merit in 2007. Alec saw his conservation endeavours as being informed by the experience and knowledge he had from other fields, particularly flying and mountaineering. He did not regard those activities as necessarily being at odds but simply as different ways of interacting with the mountain environment; different modes of being there that complemented each other. When flying alone, especially in the offseason, Alec sometimes liked to land in out of the way, rarely visited places. (The Upper Troyte Basin was one such place). There he would switch off the engine, climb out onto the snow and, gazing out over the forest and ocean below, listen to the overwhelming silence of the mountains. He did his best to give tourists a similar experience, turning off the engine so that they too could feel that silence and form some idea of what being in the mountains meant. As far as Alec was concerned, flying and mountaineering knowledge enriched each other, and both intensified a love and understanding of the environment.

The Millers’ house south of Franz Josef township has fine views of Mount Elie de Beaumont’s enormous bulk and the ever changing sky above it. Elie was one of the first big mountains in the region Alec climbed, at the start of the 1960s. It always retained special meaning for him. His second visit to the summit was many years later and was much briefer. That time he went alone, piloting his ski plane, and left his calling card, as he put it, by ‘parting Elie’s hair’ with its skis. His third visit was very different again. From a ski plane,

as he had requested, Susan, his children and grandchildren, sprinkled his ashes over Elie’s summit ridge. Part of the mountain now, Alec keeps watch over the environment he treasured.

–Aat Vervoorn

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John David Atkinson 1940–2011 The bushwalkers mostly called him Acko. At one time we called him The Bhagwan because of his likeness to an Indian mystic. I think he liked the reverence associated with this nickname. He was also sometimes called Wombat John or, rather perversely, Little John. I don’t know where or when John developed an interest in bushwalking, skiing and mountaineering.

I know that when he was doing his doctoral studies at Caltech that he was already a keen cross country skier. This must have been in the late 1960s. When I first met John in 1975, he was back in Sydney and a well-established ‘character’ in the Kameruka Bushwalking Club. For a short while some years after the Kamerukas disappeared, John also walked with the Coast and Mountain Walkers. But from the late 1970s onwards he did more and more of his walking, mountaineering and skiing with people from Sydney Uni bushwalkers.

A ‘character’ and an ‘individual’ are the simplest ways to describe John. He was a person who had a very individual way of looking at things, and was not scared to be different from others. Indeed you often wondered whether he even noticed that he was doing anything different to the norm. He had such a quiet comfortableness with his own ways of doing things and indifference to some conventions.

All of us who went walking with John will have stories to tell about John—he was such an individual, such a character. But I think everyone will be struck by his voracious appetite for reading. On any trip John would have a good supply of reading matter. On one long trip, when keeping pack weight was important, I remember John pulled out a thick hardback tome on the social customs of the Tickawicky Tribe of an obscure island in the Pacific. The rest of us had thin paperbacks. But he was also known to read Mills & Boon novels and the Women’s Weekly. Any readable matter was fair game—although if it did not meet his standards, it was dispatched quickly with a desultory grunt or two.

John was also an individual when it came to gear—he would make much of his own, including packs, sleeping bags, pile jackets and shorts. His rough cut off leather shorts were well known for what they protected and what they did not protect, or even cover! John was not a modest man. His packs were solid and strong, not stylish or comfortable, but they did the job as far as John was concerned. Some of his sleeping bags were, however, works of art.

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He made two beautiful children’s bags that were passed down through various families in the Sydney uni club.

All of us who went on trips with John will have a plethora of stories about his individuality. There is the story of a severe blizzard with the tent ripping around them, and John being more satisfied to get to chapter eighteen of his book than anything else. There are numerous stories of John’s driving, his old VW and its poor mechanical state. Sometimes it ran on only two cylinders, and had to be pushed or reversed up steepish hills, such as Victoria Pass on the Great Western Highway. The really distressing thing was that his successor vehicle, a Subaru, bought new, quickly descended to a similar state. Then there is the story of John losing his shorts in a river crossing on a long walk in Chile, and our need to hitch-hike back to the nearest town at the end of the walk with John just in thermal underwear. We never did find the translation of ‘I lost my pants in a river crossing’ in our Spanish phrasebook. John was known to bring uni exams along on trips, and to mark them while lying around the campfire.

By the end of the trip, he would have a pile of marked exams, complete with a few cinder burns, the odd footprint and some food stains.

John’s diet was legendary: high in peanut butter, cashews, onions, fats and cholesterols. I remember one long trip where John lost our only billy. With nothing to cook our pasta and rice in, we had to survive on his huge supply of cheese, butter and chocolate When there was sufficient wine or beer to help lubricate his voice, John was an enthusiastic contributor to campfire singing. The Wild West Show and Greensleeves were two of his favourites. He certainly did not have a polished singing voice, but who would care.

John was certainly a tough and strong person physically. I remember seeing John limping badly around uni. I ran into him a few weeks later when he was on crutches and in a cast.

It turned out that he had broken his leg on a walk and had waited several days before going to a doctor. I had seen him walking around with a broken leg. On another long trip in New Zealand, John was particularly slow at one section. When he caught up he had a large bloodsoaked bandage on his leg. He fobbed off any of our suggestions that anything was amiss and dismissed our offers to have a look at what must have been a sizable cut. About a week later, at the end of the trip, he took off the bandage to

reveal a deep, badly infected gash in his shin.

He was put on antibiotics straight away. For the rest of our time in New Zealand, we would hear people around us whisper about ‘the old man with the big hole in his leg’.

John had no time for niceties. Technically, he was not a particularly good skier or climber.

I suspect he was keener on getting out and enjoying the mountains rather than honing his skills. It never stopped him from going to interesting places. At the least, he walked, climbed and skied in the Himalaya, Chile, New Zealand, Africa, Lapland and the USA as well as Australia. I imagine the list is much longer than this. And his lateral thinking would often lead to trips very different from the norm. He was also happy to share his skills and ideas with others. Many from the Sydney uni club learnt basic mountaineering through John. At least two of us are very glad of this strength and basic skill in holding our falls with his classic ‘boot axe belay’.

John had a deep love for the bush, and sharing it with others. I am not surprised to hear that he was a generous donor, in time and money, to a number of conservation causes. I am glad that in the weeks before his death he had a very successful walking trip to the Snowy Mountains. Although he slowed down with age, he remained a strong and enthusiastic walker. His sudden death is a great shock and loss to us all.

–Bob Sault

Ruth Hesselyn 1956–2012 Ruth’s climbing started in the Sumner clock tower at age three and became more serious at 16 when she and her school friend trained in the Port Hills carrying bricks in their packs.

In 1974 Ruth worked as a gardener at The Hermitage and with friend and guide Bruno Sprecher, climbed Aoraki Mount Cook, Mount Tasman, Malte Brun and Silberhorn.

She travelled with Bruno to Yosemite where they climbed Half Dome and Glacier Point. In Switzerland they climbed in the Bernina Range.

Bruno called Ruth ‘my little chamois’ due to her speed and grace of travel. She returned to Mount Cook in November 1976 as Head Gardener, to continue exploring the region.

Ruth joined NZAC later in life (2002), only after much consideration, thinking that she would not be fit or capable enough for this august body. Her reasons for joining were to stretch herself and expand the mountaineering trips organised for the local tramping club. However, after joining she realised that

Mark Roland Ellis 1988–2012 A father’s letter to a son –May 2012 Dear Mark, When I left Albert Town it was a very clear night—the moon is currently strengthening.

It will be full tomorrow night, which means it is four months since your accident. The stars were shining bright on the Irishman Creek’s straights and the road had no traffic.

I stopped and thought about your star, the one one of our customers has had named after you. Somewhere out there it was shining brightly—your star.

When you were young I had a great sense that I might not live long enough to see you, Michael and Ben pass your teenage years. To prepare for this event I bought you all copies of two books which I wanted you to have to keep if something happened to me. One was Men Aspiring by Paul Powell and the other The Little Prince by Antoine de SaintExupéry. They both embodied the very spirit of my life—one was full of manly adventure in a beautiful part of the country, rich in Ellis family mountaineering heritage, the other

she had no reason to be concerned. Ruth’s legendary fitness was highlighted a number of times. Before her fiftieth birthday celebration climb up Mount Aspiring, a guide told his wife that ‘she won’t make it, she’s so tiny’. He retracted his words and Ruth was told afterwards that she could come with them any time. On another occasion, after attending a High Alpine Course (HAC), her team-mate apologised when he admitted he’d initially been a bit upset at having been assigned a 50-plus-year-old female. In preparation for that HAC Ruth did training trips carrying more than 30 kilograms (that’s over 60 per cent of her body weight) to ensure that her fitness was a match for the young things on the course.

Ruth’s tramping and climbing photos captured scenes through the eyes of a professional. She travelled extensively in the USA, UK, Australia, Singapore, Indonesia, Thailand, Nepal, Ladakh, China and Tibet, and biked around the South Island on two separate occasions, once on her dad’s single speed bike!

Ruth slipped and fell to her death on 13 March 2012, whilst travelling along a ridge towards The Twins in the Kahurangi National

was a parable about loss and longing. Now I understand the irony of all this. It was your departure not mine I was foreseeing.

Men Aspiring has the wonderful Mountain Tree poem, the dramatic photo of your great grandfather’s tent pitched on Moncrieff Col with a jagged saw tooth ridge leading to the summit of Aspiring and the wonderful heartfelt commentary of the camaraderie surrounding Chris Johnson’s tragic death at Rough Creek.

The Little Prince was about a happy, golden haired boy seeking answers in a world difficult to interpret, a boy whose destiny was to visit but not stay, a boy no different to you. His story is your story—viewing the world through untainted eyes and looking on with constant wonderment at all the stars on the far horizon. ‘“All men have the stars,” the Little Prince answered, “but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travellers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than little lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems. For my businessman they were wealth. But all these stars are silent. You— you alone—will have the stars as no one else has them—” “What are you trying to say?”

Park. Her tramping companions on the day continue to struggle with what caused this experienced mountaineer and tramper to slip on relatively easy ground.

Trips with Ruth were always enjoyable, and she will be dearly missed by members of both the Nelson Tramping Club and NZAC. We’ll miss her joyfulness, adventurous spirit, infectious laughter, companionship and down-to-earth nature. Ruth died doing what she loved, and now will be part of her beloved mountains forever.

–Mike Drake

“In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night … You—only you—will have the stars that can laugh!”’

These books embody my spirit but equally yours. At present I cannot write any more.

Jane, Michael, Ben and I all miss you more than you would have ever understood. We keep looking at the stars and one day I know we will be able to replace tears for laughter.

Love, Dave Mark was killed in a car accident on the Ball Hut Road on 7 February 2012. He was about to start a climb of Nun’s Veil with his brother Ben. There was a full moon and he was planning to be on the summit to observe it.

Mark had a deep love of the wide open spaces and in his 24 years he packed in many adventures, many waves, many summits, and many backcountry powder ski runs.

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Rare alpine palm tree, found on the summit of Mount Madeline, Darran Mountains.

Dave Poulsen

r e a r c o v e r Bevan Col, with Mt Aspiring in the background. Rob Frost i n s i d e r e a r c o v e r John McCallum and Tom Riley check out Pt 1999m from the Taoka Icefall, en route to Mt Underwood. Darran Mountains. Mark Watson 160

r e a r c o v e r f l a p Brian Alder on Feeling Lucky Punk? (25), Globe Wall, Paynes Ford. John Palmer

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