new zealand alpine journal 2013

N E W Z E A L A N D ALPINE JOURNAL 2013

NEW ZEALAND ALPINE CLUB

N E W Z E A L A N D ALPINE JOURNAL 2013

ALBANY QUEEN STREET NEWMARKET SYLVIA PARK TAURANGAHAMILTON PALMERSTON NORTH WELLINGTON CHRISTCHURCH DUNEDIN

Photo: Matt Quirke and Jamie Vinton-Boot traverse the Linda Shelf en route to Aoraki's summit. Taken the day after the Mount Haast rock avalanche in January 2013.

Photographer: Mark Watson/Highluxphoto Proud to support The New Zealand Alpine Club

Phot

o Pe

tzl ©

LA

FOU

CHE

DURABILITY, PERFORMANCE, HANDLING

03 434 9535 [email protected] www.spelean.co.nz www.petzl.co.nz

AlpineJournalNZ-FP.indd 1 28/11/13 2:34 PM

www.petzl.co.nz

ALBANY QUEEN STREET NEWMARKET SYLVIA PARK TAURANGAHAMILTON PALMERSTON NORTH WELLINGTON CHRISTCHURCH DUNEDIN

Photo: Matt Quirke and Jamie Vinton-Boot traverse the Linda Shelf en route to Aoraki's summit. Taken the day after the Mount Haast rock avalanche in January 2013.

Photographer: Mark Watson/Highluxphoto Proud to support The New Zealand Alpine Club

www.bivouac.co.nz

macpac.co.nz

Macpac have been pack specialists

since 1973In 2014 we are working

with the NZ Alpine Team to continue to develop the best technical alpine gear

and support the future of NZ alpine climbing.

www.macpac.co.nz

www.earthseasky.co.nz

President’s Page John Cocks 8

NEW ZEALAND ROCK AND ICEThe West Face of Mount Tutoko Guy McKinnon 12

Sinbad Package Deals Karl Schimanski 16

The Fyfe River Gorge Tom Hoyle 20

West on Sunset Tom Riley 28

Maid Marian Ben Dare 32

The Southland Section Darrans Winter Climbing Meet 2013 Alastair Walker 36

Double Vision and Grovelly Joy Rose Pearson 40

A Few Lines on the Great Peaks Stuart Hollaway 42

Doorstep Adventures Jane Morris 46

Footprints Henriette Beikirch 50

Awe-full Milo Gilmour 58

The Canterbury Haute Route Erik Bradshaw 62

Crouching Tigers and Drunken Monkeys Tess Carney 66

Exploring the Polar Range Shane Orchard 69

OVERSEAS CLIMBINGLes Drus Daniel Joll 76

The 2012 New Zealand Yangma Expedition Nick Shearer 80

The 2013 New Zealand White Wave Expedition Rob Frost 84

My Expedition to Gasherbrums I and II in Pakistan Chris Jensen Burke 90

First Ascents in Kyrgyzstan Reg Measures 94

Revealing the Angel Graham Zimmerman 98

Delving into the Lacuna Graham Zimmerman 102

Shaken, Not Stirred in Alaska John Price 104

A Perfect Storm in the Yukon Paul Knott 108

Sledding in the St Elias Marc Scaife 112

Harnessing the North Wind Marc Scaife 114

Bolivia 2013 Erik Monasterio 118

On Hallowed Ground Ruari Macfarlane 122

THE VERTICAL WORLDThe Building of Ruapehu Hut: A History Alex Parton 130

Ada Julius (1882–1949) Di Hooper 135

Mount Aspiring North East Ridge Brian Wilkins 140

The First Ascent of the Punakaiki Overhang Paul Caffyn 145

AREA REPORTSNew Zealand Mountains Kester Brown 150

South Island Rock Troy Mattingley 154

North Island Rock Kristen Foley and Kester Brown 158

OBITUARIESWallace George Lowe 1924–2013 162

Una Scott Holloway 1919–2013 164

William Morrie Taylor 1925–2013 164

Gerard (Gerry) Hall-Jones 1929–2013 165

Martin (Marty) Walter Schmidt 1960–2013 166

Jamie Vinton-Boot 1983–2013 167

c o v e r Karl Schimanski working his way up the eighth (crux) pitch of Weather Spell, Sinbad Gully, Fiordland. Alexandra Schweikart

i n s i d e f r o n t c o v e r Jennifer MacLeod on the summit ridge of Crozet Peak, Mt Tasman and Aoraki behind. Danilo Hegg

h a l f t i t l e Sunset at Satan Saddle, on the Garden of Allah, Southern Alps. Dave Poulsen

t h i s p a g e Geoff Spearpoint on the Waipara Range, looking towards Arawhata Saddle and Mt Liverpool. Mark Watson

NEW ZEALAND ALPINE JOURNAL 2013CONTENTS

President John Cocks

Executive Subcommittee Chair Geoff Gabites

Honorary Treasurer Gillian Crombie

Honorary Secretary George Edwards

Community Business Manager Richard Thomson

Accommodation Business Manager Richard Wesley

Section Representatives

Auckland Magnus Hammarsal

Australia Terry Cole

Canterbury/Westland Andrew Scott

Central North Island Paul McCullagh

Nelson/Marlborough Jerome Waldron

North Otago Hugh Wood

Otago Danilo Hegg

South Canterbury Neil Harding-Roberts

Southland Ron McLeod

Wellington Daniel Pringle

National Office Staff

General Manager Sam Newton

National Administrator Margaret McMahon

Administration Assistant Narina Sutherland

Programme Manager Sefton Priestley

Managing Editor/Designer Kester Brown

New Zealand Alpine Journal

Editor Kester Brown

Sub-editor Nic Learmonth

Proofing Nic Learmonth, Rachael Williams

New Zealand Alpine Club

PO Box 786, Christchurch, New Zealand

Phone 64 3 377 7595 | Fax 64 3 377 7594

[email protected] | alpineclub.org.nz

NEW ZEALAND ALPINE JOURNAL 2013, Volume 65

Published by the New Zealand Alpine Club

Designed and typeset in Minion and Univers by Kester Brown

Printed by Spectrum Print, Christchurch.

ISSN 0110 1080

N E W Z E A L A N D

A L P I N E C L U BF O U N D E D 1 8 9 1

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

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

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

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

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

A matter that has seen increasing attention by the Club Committee and others is that of climbing safety, which includes working with the guiding fraternity in developing and running instruction courses. Climbing involves dealing with hazards in many forms. Gravity is a constant to which we are always exposed and, because climbing involves moving in steep places, climbers must be ever-alert to maintaining balance and avoiding loss of control to this ever-present force. Training, skill and courage enable climbers to achieve remarkable accomplishments, on climbing walls and crags, and in the mountains. The mountains present additional hazards: extreme or otherwise unfavourable weather conditions, rock-fall, avalanches, crevasses and floods. Circumstances may be such that some of these challenges can be methodically assessed with time to collabo-rate and consider options. However, a favourable situation can change rapidly to a potentially precarious one due to situations such as: a sudden and violent change in weather, finding oneself on avalanche-prone snow, becoming highly exposed as the sun’s rays destabilise weakly frozen rocks or ice, or a party member becoming injured. Specific skills may be needed, such as knowledge of the risks of hypothermia and snow conditions, how to mitigate disparate climbing party views or abilities, and the skill of good decision-making whether alone or as a group. Sometimes in the face of adversity, assistance can be readily sought with modern devices such as cellphones or PLBs, even in the most remote places. Sometimes it cannot.

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

8

PRESIDENT’S PAGEJOHN COCKS

9

Joshua Windsor

Steven Fortune on the final

pitch of Sgian Dubh (M4),

during the route’s first

ascent. Telecom Tower,

Remarkables.

Fraser Crichton

11

New Zealand Rock and Ice Guy McKinnon

Karl Schimanski

Tom Hoyle

Tom Riley

Ben Dare

Alastair Walker

Rose Pearson

Stuart Hollaway

Jane Morris

Henriette Beikirch

Milo Gilmour

Erik Bradshaw

Tess Carney

Shane Orchard

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

N E W Z E A L A N D R O C K A N D I C E 13

It was around about 2004 that the seed was planted. There I was, hanging out at Porter Lodge, when who should walk in the door but

Al Uren. I can’t remember what brought him in, but I do remember I was cooking at the time and rather uncharacteristically offered him some food. We talked of climbing, as you do. I threw into the conversation the fact that I had just made a solo ascent of the terrifying Hidden Face of Mt Tasman. Al showed some signs of surprise at this, but played it pretty cool. I was just another young punk hanging his ass out over the void and would probably be dead before long.

The conversation drifted towards big unclimbed routes and Al mentioned the west face of Mt Tutoko—a prospect I was only dimly aware of. Al said, ‘I’ve had you in mind for it, it’s mainly tramp-ing.’ Now it was my turn to play it cool. Was that, in the style of the Blues Brothers, a ‘mission from God’, or an oblique insult tossed down by the great one? Was the legend putting the punk in his place? Mainly tramping, eh? Well, I burned to propel myself into the ranks of the climbers. Then, who knows? Maybe I too could become a Darrans climber like Al rather than just a plodding Canterbury mountaineer. Ah yes, I was a foolish and vain young man.

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

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

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

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

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

I climbed carefully and deliberately at first, gener-ally following gullies, ramps and occasional ice walls. The climbing was classic and atmospheric, I gained confidence and started to crank it out. Before long I reached a big terrace, the physical and psychologi-cal half-way point. Above there the gullies led into increasingly confined terrain. Two more crux walls were surmounted and I was chuffed to avoid a spin-drift spanking, as plenty of white stuff was swishing down. Timing and speed through the steeps was key.

Near the top, foreshortening confused me and

f a c i n g p a g e The west

face of Mt Tutoko from

Grave Couloir. This photo

was taken during Guy’s

2011 attempt.

THE WEST FACE OF MOUNT TUTOKOThe first ascent

words and photographs by GUY MCKINNON

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

I ended up off route and had to make some com-mitting mixed moves to regain the gully higher up. The evening sun set in the gully near the top and I climbed through pink light to reach the summit just before dark. The scale of the mountain was once again brought home to me as I looked around, the valley beneath me shrouded by the growing dark-ness. To the north the massive bulk of Mt Earnslaw roused my climbing instincts for a moment, before I refocused on the descent.

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

So there it is. The first of the last great problems. If anything it is an artefact from another time, when big was best and no one had heard of the line of most resistance. It’s a classic route that should become a trade route for those training for the greater ranges. My experience over three years of attempts leads me to believe that this route forms up more often than not. Will it become a coveted tick like the other classics? I’m not sure. Recent history seems to sug-gest that, for a face more than a stone’s throw from the carpark, the first ascent is pretty much the kiss of death in terms of interest. Either way, I’m not worried. The maunga will always be there. Tutoko. Pinning down its landscape to Mother Earth, indif-ferent to the hands of man and our petty and tran-sient ambitions, offering silence and reward to its occasional suitors.

Mount Tutoko

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

f a c i n g p a g e :

t o p Guy on the summit.

b o t t o m A straight-on

view of the face in summer

conditions, March 2006,

with Guy’s line indicated.

t h i s p a g e The west

face from the upper

Tutoko Valley. This photo

was taken the day before

Guy climbed the face.


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

Prime real estate is now available in one of the most pristine settings

in the world—Piopiotahi, Aotearoa New Zealand.

Nestled at the head of Sinbad Gully in Fiordland, a one-of-a-kind, 300-metre-

high wall of well-featured overhanging granite is simply beckoning to be

climbed again!

In fact, with serviced accommodation included via your very own two-bed-

room luxury rock (open-plan living and bathroom with a view), you'd be a fool

not to seize your opportunity this summer.

Did I say serviced accommodation? That’s right, you heard correctly! The

concierge, Alfred the Kea, will meet and greet you with complimentary morning

wake-up calls and daily entertainment. And the local weka family’s Kleptomaniac

Cleaning Services will keep your living area free of clutter!

Oh, and did I forget to mention the private heli-pad on the roof for that quick

pizza delivery and ease of access?

But hurry, not only Kiwis, but the British, the Canadians and ze Germans are

all aware and have begun to stake their claims.

* * *

An example itinerary for a party of four might look a little something like this:

Day 1 Preparation.Gather your supplies (don't forget your beach towel!) and meet with the rest of

your party members in the comfortable Homer Hut. Enjoy a sip of red wine while

organising equipment and discussing forthcoming holiday plans.

Day 2 Arrival.Two options available!

Option 1: Team Air Drop. Fly in with your equipment via a personal helicopter

service. Enjoy a most memorable and scenic five-minute flight with outstanding

views of Mitre Peak.

While awaiting Team Bravo members (option two), break out the binos and

immerse yourself in the viewing pleasures of TV Sinbad. Begin to scope possible

new lines.

Option 2: Team Bravo. Enjoy a morning kayak or motorboat cruise across the

fjord then a tranquil nine-hour hike through native New Zealand bush to meet

team Air Drop at accommodation Flintstone.

As the best-looking line on the wall has been taken by Shadowland and the

next obvious and great-looking lines to the near right and far left are half-done

projects, respectfully agree to take what you decide is really the best line anyway,

which you can’t believe the others didn't touch while wasting their time elsewhere!

Day 3 Sample the granite. Climb the first half of Shadowland and start investigating the first pitches of your

possible new route to the left.

Days 4–11 New route fiesta!Trundle, crowbar, clean and equip the lower half of your route from the top

down. Climb as you go and generally have fun in the sun. Then get psyched to

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

by KARL SCHIMANSKI

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

Christopher Igel



t o p l e f t Chris

seconding the White Spot

pitch. Alexandra Schweikart

b o t t o m l e f t Team

psyche. Woop!

r i g h t Chris employing

big-wall sleeping bag belay

tactis to combat the cold.

Alexandra Schweikart

f a c i n g p a g e

Alex enjoying the daily

dose of overhanging

jumaring.

Christopher Igel

struggle— ah, sorry, ‘blaze’ your way up the upper

wall, forging ahead in unchartered territory to boldly

go where no human has gone before!

Enjoy stellar cracks and dihedrals, mouthfuls of

tasty fresh dirt, the joy of aid on micro-cams, tiny

wires, skyhooks and knifeblade pitons. Then, after

shaking hands with your belayer a few times, relish

in the unforgettable experience of placing a bolt

or two from the above-mentioned gear on lead.

Fight your demons in the dark and battle upwards

to glory!

Rest Days (Interspersed)

Appreciate the bountiful supply of fresh water rain-

ing from the heavens. Sleep in and play multiple

rounds of 500, interspersed with attempts at breaking

the Gingernut Game record (current record: 14).

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

Admire your new nine-pitch creation and prepare to

reap your bounty tomorrow, from bottom to top, in

all its completeness.

Day 13 Unfortunately this will be your final day

in paradise.

Swing leads up your new route, singing sea shanties

and laughing at the keas soaring behind you, wasting

their time flying in circles when they could be climbing!

Don't worry when you can't free pitch 8, this will

be a great excuse to come back again next week, right?

Day 14 Departure dayTake a leisurely start and savour the canyoning

adventure down Sinbad Gully. Stroll out through the

bush, feasting on the last of your food, before spend-

ing a romantic night under the stars on the beach.

Day 15 ConsolidationAwake to sunrise. You will have no tent, but

despair not, as you will be welcomed by the won-

derful little creatures of Milford. A brisk boat

ride will whisk you across the fjord and back to

un-civilisation, that nasty place of showers, fresh

salads, pizza and beer.

Force down a few gulps of that foul amber liquid,

laugh and reminisce, convince yourself that you had

fun jugging 200 metres of fixed rope every day, and

that you’re quite glad you'll be back next week to do

it all again in order to free pitch 8!

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


package holiday today. Visit climber.co.nz/84/news/

weather-spell now for more information.

* * *

During March this year, Alexandra Schweikart, Chris

Igel, Claudia Kranabitter and I made two trips in

to the Sinbad Wall to establish a nine-pitch route

named Weather Spell. It wasn't quite like the holiday

brochure describes above, but after a few drinks back

at the bar, it seemed fairly close. As we only took

ten day’ s worth of food on the first excursion, but

stretched the trip to 14 days, our team not only left

Sinbad a little skinnier, but we ensured we also left

behind a top quality route worthy of attention. The

team returned a second time to free all the pitches

and also equip an easier variation to pitch 8. Claudia

and myself flew out early the second time for a pre-

arranged April Fool’s date with Homer Tunnel, while

Alex and Chris stayed behind, braving snow and

freezing temperatures, to put in a stellar effort and

get the job done.

Thanks to Jonathon Clearwater, Derek Thatcher

and Paul Rogers for beta, static rope, and the initial

psyche to get us all in there.

Sinbad Gully Wall

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


The most exciting moment I’ve had in ten years of climbing was first laying eyes on the Intergalactic Wall. I’d always dreamed about finding an amaz-ing crag in New Zealand but when James Morris and I first stood under

that wall, which is slightly overhanging for 45 metres and has an abundance of tufas, it seemed to promise even more than I’d dared to dream about. And that was just one of many walls in the gorge. When you go crag hunting you are usually disappointed, even when you find something that turns out to be quite decent, as what you have in your mind is an ideal and real crags are less than ideal. Contrary to this, finding the Intergalactic Wall was like finding the idealised platonic form of a crag. I was ecstatic.

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

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

The right-hand end of the Intergalactic Wall is considerably steeper than the main part

of the wall. This not only offers a handy roof for camping out of the rain, but is also

home to an array of steeper and shorter athletic routes. Here, Troy Mattingley tries his

hand at The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (23). Regan McCaffery

THE FYFE RIVER GORGENew Zealand’s best new sport crag

by TOM HOYLE

a b o v e James Morris stares agog at the

outrageous terrain still above him on one of

the Intergalactic Wall’s proudest lines, Space

Cowboy (30). Tom Hoyle

l e f t The Fyfe offers the prospect of some

very hard climbing. Zac Orme and James

Morris have bolted a line dubbed Lord

Humongous in a large roof on the Darkside

wall. The route is as steep as it is long, it cer-

tainly looks Ondra-esque. James Morris



a b o v e The Fyfe River cutting its way through the upper part of the

gorge. If you treat the approach like a canyoning adventure rather than a

traditional crag walk-in, then psychologically you’ll have a much better

time. Regan McCaffery

r i g h t t o p Francis Main on Mitty-esque, a bouldery grade 26 route

on the right-hand side of the Intergalactic Wall. The right side is a stark

contrast to the main wall; the routes consist of short, powerful climbing

on large and intriguing features. James Morris

r i g h t b o t t o m On the northern side of the gorge and across the

river from the Intergalactic Wall lurks the line of cliffs known as the

Darkside. There is a wealth of steeper, blanker rock on these cliffs, some

of which are up to 80 metres tall. Our own little southern hemisphere

version of Oliana. Tom Hoyle


a b o v e Tufa climbing is not for everyone but thankfully the rock quality is impeccable on the walls that

are free of flowstone features. Zac Orme’s Lost Highway (30) offers 45 metres of overhanging climbing on

edges and is surely a contender for the best climb in the whole country, regardless of grade. Troy Mattingley

r i g h t When the river is in low flow the walk-in can be a treat of technical boulder-hopping inter-

spersed with quiet pools, but when it rains the boulders become wet and the river comes up quickly, mak-

ing the approach a considerable hazard with minimal access for rescue services.

Troy Mattingley, Troy Mattingley, James Morris

f a c i n g p a g e Megalomania (25) is the original line on the Intergalactic Wall and was named in hon-

our of the fanatical approach required for development. This sustained tufa line runs for 45 metres up

the centre of the wall and makes for an epic climbing experience. Here, Troy Mattingley tackles the tech-

nical switching-tufas section, about 20 metres into the madness. Regan McCaffery


THAT GOD MADE MOUNTAIN TOPS

At midnight, snow is patterned glass.

Diamond bathroom window glass.

Our crampons spike its surface with command.

It stirs ambition as the halo of our torches

spot the mountain walls.

A fissure here, a jag’d rock there,

a crevasse, a cornice, a frozen cataract.

At dawn the snow reflects the sky

and we stand unroped and dumbstruck

as sky and snow paint violet, pink,

then glorious gold, and herald in

a day of peerless blue

and snow that’s satin ribbon white,

as white as cirrus cloud.

Midday snow’s a bloated fiend,

that grabs our feet with both its hands,

and drags us deep in wet morass,

a mire of melting crystal flake

that slows us to a crawl.

A crawl. A crawl. Damn this snow.

Will the summit ever come?

But the summit is a precious cone

of snow so sculpted,

formed and whipped

that we rejoice,

that God made mountain tops.

–PAT DEAVOLL

Photograph: Mt Tasman from the west. By Rina Thompson


a b o v e Rainbow Lake


t o p Chasm Creek cirque.

m i d d l e Ground up in

Fiordland.

b o t t o m Waterfalls in

Chasm Creek.

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

I walked beside the highway for a while, then turned towards the sea, towards La Jolla far below. A knot of people were standing around a green car, inspecting it, sizing it up.

I decided I had to investigate.The green car was parked outside a long, low

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

was taking money, handing out change from plastic containers.

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

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

WEST ON SUNSETwords by TOM RILEY photographs by RICHARD THOMSON

The kid will live and learn

as he watches his bridges burn

from the point of no return.

–Steely Dan, Babylon Sisters


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

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

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

Richard and I landed in Christchurch and waited. When the plane arrived, we went to Queenstown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We made our way up the track towards a slash-wound of a gully which ran all the way from a point out of sight, somewhere high above, down to a point


somewhere in a notional space in front of my toes.

We followed the path of least resistance straight up, over rocks covered in

orange lichen, through more treefall, and over greasy slabs to a broad shelf. We

climbed a headwall covered in shrubbery, the kind of thing that would usually feel

quite secure. Moisture seems to at least give the impression of structural integrity.

But it all felt so marginal. The ferns and herbs seemed like skeletons, sketchy rep-

resentations of their usual selves.

We rediscovered water when we reached the top of the gully and worked our

way around into the basin that holds Rainbow Lake. We went for a swim, and I

finally felt connected to the deep, wet world. We basked for a short time, then

began the climb to the pass which would take us over into the Te Puoho. Sidling

around the lake took us to a small col, with a scree fan to descend below.

Dave hurt his knee in a fairly important sort of way, so we decided to stay in

Boulder Basin for the next day or so, just to see how it went.

IV

I see Dave take off down a ramp on the edge of the icefall. He runs quickly, crab-

like, crampons tick-ticking in the blue ice. He comes to a small crevasse about

halfway down. He plants his axe on one side, then uses it as a fulcrum to perform

a neat pirouette. He lands on the other side, safe, poised. He doesn’t seem to stop,

and lets his momentum carry him through and on down. In that series of con-

nected motions, I imagine that I can see everything that led to that point, all of

the small errors at the beginning of the learning process, the constant refinements,

the experience and pain that taught him which bits to get rid of, which actions

to pare away.

V

After more than a week of running about on the rock, my feet feel like they could

stick to anything. I can’t make a wrong move as we move down a long series of

slabs. It’s when we have to perform actions that rely on objects that aren’t made

of rock that things get interesting. There’s a brief connecting move which involves

a short vertical jump with a really big tussock for a handhold. The mechanics of

the thing seem sound, but I have trouble suspending my disbelief for long enough

to pull it off.

When we reach the bottom of the slabs, we’re standing in Chasm Creek. When

I turn around, the way we’ve come looks infeasible. It’s as if we’re the victims of

some kind of scam, intended to make us believe that such things are possible. But

the memories of tussock and the friction of skin against stone are too good not

to be true.

James leads us on a tour of likely-looking bivvy rocks, the outline of his ponytail

standing out starkly against the black, grey and green of the valley. Most of them

aren’t really that flash, but there’s a cavern in the very head of the valley which looks

very good indeed: a commanding position, an excellent view and even a kind of floor.

VI

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

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

a shock of solitude.

I take a deep breath and begin again. When I catch up, it’s time to start descend-

ing towards the Hollyford, picking our way across down the side of a fan to get to

the first fragment of bush, far below. Sunshowers sweep across the upper valley,

like a lawn sprinkler in macrocosm. They aren’t very big, but they are very fre-

quent. I’m soaked when we reach the bush. The trees are all curled around each


a b o v e The Te Puoho

Glacier. The Petit Dur is

in shade top left and the

Cirque of the Climbables is

top centre.


t o p The Mighty Dur.

b o t t o m Terminal lake,

Te Puoho Glacier.

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

The sun comes out for a while, but stronger this

time. I see Richard lower his hood and turn his face

to the sky. He half-smiles, and his hair steams.

VII

I’ve lost my knife. I remember using it to cut up a roll

of salami when we were having lunch. But now it’s

gone. I look everywhere I can think of, trying to nut

out all of the possible trajectories of a falling knife.

My knife is down there, somewhere, but I’d need to

deconstruct a good part of the moraine wall to find

it. I imagine picking up each rock, placing it aside,

making neat piles. I would do this until the rocks

were too big for me to lift by myself and then I would

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

find anything longer than my ice axe. At least there

would be lots of fulcrums. I would work diligently,

carefully undoing the work of millennia to find my

pocket knife.

I don’t do this, of course. I think about my knife

and the things that it represents for me, the things

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

eucalyptus leaves.

Boulder Basin is a great place to leave behind spe-

cial objects from your past. As well as, perhaps, the

past itself.


MAID MARIANThe first full ascent of the south face of Marian Peak

by BEN DARE

a b o v e Looking down the

lower wall from the belay

at the top of pitch four.

Ben Dare


The author following some

nice run-out face climbing

on pitch 13, just before

one of the crux, grade 21

sections.

Daniel Joll

For me, the value of a climb is the sum of three

inseparable elements, all equally important: aesthet-

ics, history, and ethics. Together they form the whole

basis of my concept of alpinism. Some people see no

more in climbing mountains than an escape from

the harsh realities of modern times. This is not only

uninformed but unfair. I don’t deny that there can be

an element of escapism in mountaineering, but this

should never overshadow its real essence, which is

not escape but victory over your own human frailty.

–Walter Bonatti

Not every successful trip begins well. It’s 4.30am on a clear March morning and Daniel Joll and I are somewhere high on the

Barrier Face, en-route to the Barrier Crosscut Col. I

say ‘somewhere’ because we are lost.

I cast an anxious glance at Dan; my concerns

are mirrored in his worried look. Even though we

have both been over this route before, it is becom-

ing apparent that we started well right of where we

needed to be. The broad ledge system that we had

expected to follow is nowhere in sight. Instead we

find ourselves on rapidly steepening ground, with

no obvious path ahead. We are soon forced to bring

out the rope and after three unexpected pitches of

scrappy, moss-covered, damp slab climbing, our ini-

tial confidence has turned into frustration. As dawn

breaks over the peaks of the Central Darrans, prom-

ising another clear, settled day, we can think only of

the ticking clock and the big day that lies ahead.

Finally Dan and I emerge onto the col, stepping

suddenly into the sunlight, and there it is, our objec-

tive, looming before us. It towers 800 metres above

the valley floor, rising in a single sweep of unrelenting

and immaculate granite. The first glance takes your

breath away, the second sends a shiver down your

spine, while the third is enough to leave you either

spellbound or running for home. It is terrifying and

yet strangely majestic. Dan and I had been drawn

to it, like moths to a flame … to the south face of

Marian Peak.

* * *

My apprehension grew as we descended from the

col into the upper Marian Valley. It brought to mind

memories of my first climbing trips and the nervous-

ness I used to feel. I almost wished we would get

bluffed out. Was it too late in the day? I caught myself

searching for an excuse to turn around—I hadn’t felt

like that in years!

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

doubt gave way to the sudden realisation that I was

starting to enjoy myself. I was beginning to relish

the prospect of the challenge ahead and the fact that

we had no idea if we would succeed. It looked like

it might go, if everything fell into place and if luck

joined our side! This uncertainty is what draws me

back to the mountains time and time again. If success

were assured, where would the challenge lie?

But it goes deeper than that. Along with the excite-

ment, there are feelings of serenity and peace. The

granite walls around us were dark and foreboding


Daniel Joll leading pitch

13. Ben Dare


in some places, elsewhere, they were sun-baked and

warm to the touch. There were cascading waterfalls

and sparkling lakes that reflected the sun’s rays like

a mirror. We heard the occasional screech of an

inquisitive kea. I was out with a good mate, someone

I knew I could share the experience with. These are

the key ingredients for a truly memorable trip.

Before I knew it, Dan and I were standing under

the wall. It was now or never. We looked up appre-

hensively, not knowing whether we would be able

to force our way through the overhang that juts out

horizontally some six rope-lengths from the ground.

But as a rather well-known Kiwi mountaineer once

penned, ‘nothing venture, nothing win’. Before I

could even start to think of a good excuse for why we

should not be there, Dan had racked up and set off

into the unknown.

From the very first pitch everything just seemed

to click. The rock was sound, the gear solid and our

upward progress swift. Rope length by rope length we

made our way up the lower face, the metres melting

away. Soon we were five pitches off the deck, bridging

up what could only be described as a delightful chim-

ney. After smearing our way up through the confines

of a large, detached flake, Dan and I emerged from

behind the flake and into the back of a deep cleft.

Above us was our final barrier before the upper face:

a near-horizontal roof with a menacing-looking

crack and chimney system. Dan took the sharp end.

At first he tried to climb his way up into the tight

chimney, but he was blocked by a stubborn chock-

stone that he was unable to squeeze around. Forced

to retreat, Dan then swung out into the crack, aiding

out across the roof, with over 200 metres of fresh air

under him. I tightened my grip on the rope, thankful

that I was the one at the belay. I breathed a quiet sigh

of relief when Dan pulled through the final moves

and out onto the crest of the terrace above.

Gazing back down through the chimney, we ten-

tatively dislodged the offending chockstone and

watched it fall. It dropped straight down, not touch-

ing anything, and crashed into the base of the wall

where we had begun our climb—steep!

Crossing the terrace we set off roped together,

simul-climbing the initial section of the upper face

until once again the terrain steepened and we had

to go back to pitched climbing. We set out across

the centre of the face, angling slightly right, towards

a prominent buttress that we hoped would lead us

directly to the summit. The climbing on the upper

face was nothing short of exceptional. It comprised

14 pitches of heavily-featured granite. Every turn

threw a new surprise in our path. One moment

we’d be smearing up a blank slab, the next we were

mantling over a bulge or pulling into an overhanging

finger crack—this route had everything!

Although we were making steady progress, it was

not enough for us to win the race against the set-

ting sun. Glancing back down into the lower Marian

Valley we took a moment to pause at a belay and

take in our surroundings. Watching as the swirling,

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

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

The crest of ridge seemed to extend forever, an unrelenting series of broken gendarmes and chevals. It stretched ahead with no sign of reprieve. The flicker of our headtorches pierced the gloom and cast eerie shadows into the inky blackness of the void on either side. Dan and I stumbled on, tired and dehydrated. We longingly stared into the myriad of tempting bivouac sites that litter the broken summit of Barrier Peak—appealing even without a sleeping bag or belay jacket. We wanted to sleep but at the same time we fed off each other’s energy to keep going and finish the climb in a single push. A packet of Chomps we found gave us a new surge of energy. We pushed on for another stretch, continuing to make our way down. Down towards the promise of a warm bed each …

* * *That’s how Dan and I came to be somewhere below Black Lake at 4.30am on a foggy March morning. ‘Somewhere’ because we are lost—again! Not every successful trip begins well. (And if I ever get my hands on the person who built cairns haphazardly, all over the slope down to the Gertrude Valley, things will not end well for them either!)

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

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


Marian Peak, south face

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


l e f t Fresh snow on

mounts Crosscut and

Christina.

m i d d l e Rose Pearson

preparing to abseil,

while Ant Garvey begins

his climb, on one of the

lower-tier Cirque Creek ice

routes.

r i g h t Rose Pearson

leading one of the lower-

tier Cirque Creek ice

routes.

All photos: Jaz Morris.

This year we have been spoilt for choice for winter climbing events. It’s satisfying to see just how far this esoteric branch of the sport

has come over the past few years. Prior to the Darrans Winter Climbing Meet starting up in 2008, there was hardly a soul active in the mountains in winter other than at places like Wye Creek and the Remarkables. Not that there’s anything wrong with Wye Creek, you understand. Certainly, other than section snowcraft courses, there weren’t any events aimed at encourag-ing folk to head out into the bigger mountains in winter.

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

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

by ALASTAIR WALKER


2006 or 2007, about the time folk were starting to talk about alpinism in New Zealand being dead. Judging by the talk on internet forums, it seemed that some folk were keen to get out there but that they didn’t know how to find others to do it with or where to go. So the idea of the winter meet was born, to provide a venue for winter climbers to get together.

At first we worried that few people would be interested. Holding the meet in the Darrans was a selfish move on my part; it is well out of the way and has a fearsome reputation, but I love the place. Glenn Pennycook was very supportive of what we were trying to do and did a great job of getting the word out through his Mountainz website. As the meet drew closer, interest grew, and it was looking like we would have a full hut. I was getting quite excited. Then, two days before we were due to head over, the Darrans had a huge snowfall that blocked the road for five days and blanketed the mountains in a metre of new snow. Just reaching Homer was going to be problematic.

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

Six years on, a lot of the myths around Darrans winter climbing have been dispelled. Sure, it’s still a big, gnarly place, but regular attendees on the meet are coming to terms with this, as evidenced by the number of new routes and good repeats being done. You can now see beady eyes furtively seeking out new lines. But there’s also so much to do that folk seem quite happy to share.


l e f t Rose Pearson

heading up the Milford

Road. Jaz Morris.

m i d d l e Rose leading on

the first ascent of Double

Vision (M2+).

Jaz Morris.

r i g h t Snorre Sulheim

on a lower-tier route in

Cirque Creek.

Snorre Sulheim collection.

The Darrans Winter Climbing Meet is the club’s original winter climbing meet—is it still the best? Aye, well, this year we had 28 folk through the hut, so we’ll keep it going for a wee while yet.

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

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

An oversized party of five took the short-walk

option and headed for the Tunnel Bluffs to claim the first ascent of Double Vision (Frazer Attrill, Anna Seybold, Rose Pearson, Jaz Morris and Al Walker). Double Vision is a moderate mixed climb on the right-hand side of the cliff, up through the large snow amphitheatre and then up mixed ground to the ridge. The size of the party meant progress was slow. The group arrived at Homer Saddle just in time to get their headtorches out and smugly watch the antics of the upper cirque parties descending Talbot’s Ladder in deteriorating weather. Some parties got back much later than others, and some gear was left on the ladder. But having left more than my fair share of gear on the ladder over the years, I’m not one to criticise.

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

Sunday saw snow for most of the day, with a few folk heading out to check out the Gertrude Ice Park and the short icefalls at the back of Cirque Creek. Cars had to be dug out, but the weekenders managed to get away home.

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


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

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

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

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

On Wednesday the weather forecast was bad and showed no signs of improving. There was heavy rain and temperatures at Homer were almost in the double digits, so most people bailed for Queenstown. Jaz Morris and Rose Pearson went off down the lower Hollyford looking for deer, while I stayed put in front of the fire. We finally decided to pull the pin on Friday morning, just as the rain cleared.

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


l e f t The author

climbing one of the lower-

tier ice routes in Cirque

Creek.

r i g h t The author begin-

ning a pitch on the same

route.

I had just been accepted for the New Zealand Alpine Team. It was when I was going through the application that I realised I do not want to be

just a climber or a tramper. No, I want to be a moun-

taineer! Well, here was my first chance. Even better,

I’d be getting a lift to the Darrans Winter Climbing

Meet with the two other new NZAT members select-

ed from Dunedin, Jaz Morris and Frazer Attrill.

4.00pm. Jaz arrived. I was still in the shower. The

car appeared to be crammed already, with Anna and

Frazer and all their gear. Much of it sprawled out

onto the road. After a frenzy of action and some

impressive Tetris skills, we all fit into the car. How

many PhD students were required? Two and a half.

We stopped at Alexandra for food and a $20 watch

from the Warehouse—I’d forgotten mine. As we drove,

I listened to the others talking about mixed and ice

climbing. They have more experience than me, and I

was keen to soak up all the information I could.

Double Vision (M2+)Jaz would be climbing with Al the next day, and he

invited the rest of us along. Al had a line in mind by

the Homer Tunnel Bluffs, above and right of the tun-

nel. As we wound our way up the Milford Road, our

eyes were drawn to the looming bulk of Mt Christina

and the conversation died.

The next morning I took in the views. I hadn’t been

here since I was a child. I was soon packed though,

and I went with the others to descend on Al in the

warden’s quarters. After a few moments’ indulgence, Al

sent us on his way so he and Heather could apply their

military training to deciphering the incoming weather

forecast. We had arranged to meet Al up there.

Jaz led the charge diagonally up to the obvious spur

on the true left side of the bluffs. There had been two

options, one on either side of the spur. After a little

poke, the true left was deemed ‘better’. Al soon joined

us. He mentioned that both lines were unclimbed. The

cogs turned: so we’ll be the first ascent team!

We split our ungainly party of five into two, and

in the process discovered a fifth half rope. Anna and

Frazer, also both novices at mixed climbing, selected

the left-hand line. After some initial discussion of

soloing it, the rope came out. Meanwhile, Jaz was off.

A tri-cam, some wires and a turf-gasm or two, and

he was out of sight, setting up an anchor. During

this time, team Anna–Frazer had climbed up, got-

ten stuck and were in the process of retreating. They

decided to follow Jaz’s line once Al and I were out of

the way. So much for the soloing!

FROM DOUBLE VISION TO GROVELLY JOYNew lines at the Darrans Winter Meet 2013

words by ROSE PEARSON photographs by JAZ MORRIS


l e f t Rose and Al Walker

on the Homer Saddle–

Moir’s Mate ridgeline,

having just topped out on

the first ascent of Double

Vision (M2+).

m i d d l e Meet partici-

pants outside Homer Hut.

r i g h t Rose deep inside

The Grovelly Chimney of

Joy (M3).

An hour later, we were all with Jaz at the base

of a low-angled snow amphitheatre that led to the

remaining 100 metres of technical climbing. We were

limited to one line; I tied in to the sharp end. The

others waited patiently in the shade as I inched my

way up the next 55 metres. Eventually a few enquiries

start coming my way:

‘How’s it going Rose?’

‘Ah, fine. I’m, um, just trying to find a good spot

for an anchor,’ I said. Finally, it was set. I brought up

Al and then he and Jaz leapfrogged ahead, alleviating

the bottleneck. The novices brought up the rear in

a tangle of ropes. We topped out and enjoyed some

quick views as a few flakes of snow began to fall.

It was dark when the last of us reached Homer

Saddle. We gazed up at the surprising collection

of headlamps descending Talbot’s Ladder. Flushed

and happy, we all trotted back to Homer Hut, ready

for dinner.

A Grovelly Chimney of Joy (M3)Two days later the weather had cleared, as had many

of the bunks in Homer. Back to the city they went.

Al had his sights on a thin line immediately right of

Coumshingaun. A few years ago he was forced off at

half-height by poor snow conditions, and it was time

for another go. Again, Jaz and I were sent off ahead

while Al took care of ‘men’s work’.

Jaz and I trundled off towards the base of

Coumshingaun as the snow slowly crept up our legs

towards waist-height. We had climbed up a 20-metre

pile of powdery, windblown snow covering the base

of the climb before we decided the conditions weren’t

quite right—the wind from the day before would have

left the climb buried under loose powdery snow.

We looked for an option B. Al joined us now. He

suggested the unclimbed chimney just left of Homer

Saddle, near a prominent shark’s fin. It would be one

full pitch, possibly two. Sadly, Al decided to return to

Homer because his hernia was playing up. We bade

him farewell and he returned to the warden’s quar-

ters’ fire and kettle.

Jaz and I swam our way up, taking turns at being

the trailbreaker, switching every 20 metres or so. At

the base of the climb, Jaz found an ideal belay cave

that had bomber gear and was completely sheltered

from any falling rocks—and the sun, for that matter.

Jaz generously offered me the lead.

After searching in vain for some gear, I got

acquainted with the chimney. After one very poor

tri-cam placement, a threaded frozen turf chockstone

and 20 metres of climbing, I finally got a wire in some

good rock at the back of the chimney. Then I headed

right, into a gully. Finally, the sun. I paused to savour

it for a moment. (Sorry Jaz.)

The gully was nice. There was gear, and endless

névé and turf. I grinned my way to the top and finally

released Jaz from his miserable little cave. He got over

his screaming barfies somewhere near the top.

Jaz and I took in the view and contemplated look-

ing for a bail rope that was left on Talbot’s Ladder.

But the brisk wind chased us back to Al and a cup of

tea in the warden’s quarters.


Samuel Butler, a Mackenzie grazier, reportedly said that the first ‘to climb Mt Cook would be crowned with undying laurels.’ Apparently, he

actually thought that the mountain would never be

climbed. He was wrong on both counts. The only lau-

rels crowning Fyfe as he lay in the grass by the origi-

nal Hermitage after that great climb were the clouds

drifting quietly overhead, but he wrote that, when

our trials are all forgotten, ‘there is but one Aoraki.’

It turns out that there is, of course, no prize or

purse. Perhaps why is actually the easiest question of

all—it’s the climbing, stupid.

Despite the boisterous disorder of my desk, dur-

ing moments of repose I see the great peaks across

Pukaki. The remembered vision of the long wall of

ice, the vast bulk beyond the whitecaps on the lake,

lifts my pulse like the moment of freefall in a dream.

There is the history of New Zealand climbing. And

that history lives in the ordinary, exceptional climbs

of individuals following vanished footprints up the

Linda Glacier or over the north shoulder, their hearts

also lifted by the intangible but unfading laurels that

are the only reward for our empty trials. Perhaps the

future could be here too.

The glacial slopes and rock ridges, the ice arêtes of

the golden age, and then the mixed face routes each

in turn provided the same opportunities. Perhaps

modern challenges are here, in plain view, waiting

to be seen.

Everybody comes to the great peaks—it’s the

climbing stupid. In position, quality and scale, climb-

ing on big mountains offers an experience that can’t

be matched on cragging routes.

I would like to think of myself as a climber, but

the tendonitis that keeps me awake at night comes

from annotating students’ essays. In an average year

I have five bleary eyed, coffee and chocolate fuelled,

20+ hour binges running into the dawn. Only one of

them involves climbing, the others are feedback on

students’ trial exams.

But the holidays are never far away. Whether I am

guiding or climbing recreationally, we will be drawn

back to those great peaks that float in Lake Matheson.

I stopped wondering why years ago—it’s the climb-

ing, stupid.

One day I looked out the window of Plateau Hut

and saw a plumb line of ice running through the

steepest cliff bands to intersect the south ridge on

Dixon. From the back of a cave half way up it we had

a framed view of Aoraki. The sun highlighted the

sharp pink arêtes rising out of the Bowie Couloir—

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

by STUART HOLLAWAY


their quality was obvious. We chimneyed ice smears

to climb around the roof of our cave and then up

steep mixed ground to easier travel on the ridge. It

was a real hoot.

Two days later we followed the dawn into the

upper Balfour and headed up the best looking line

on the face. Narrow ice leads headed up through a

steep mixed chimney between the original and the

Whimp/Lindblade lines. By the time we made it back

to Plateau Hut, having chopped a rope rappelling the

Silberhorn rock step, it was not so much a hoot so

much as like hard work, but the climbing had been

terrific. Our line is not described in the guide, but

given the history of the face, who knows what that

means? It was an exceptional day on the mountain.

I went onto the rock rising out of the Bowie

Couloir at the next opportunity. With no need

to acclimatise, climbing in New Zealand fits into

school holidays, while the helicopter access and short

approaches from huts guarantee an excellent climb-

ing to suffering ratio.

On this occassion I was even more excited than

usual, since here the mountain also promised a big-

ger, more demanding route.

Imagined promises were physically fulfilled up

the huge corner line. Resolution was necessary. The

climbing was entertaining and committing. The posi-

tion was breathtaking.

You could certainly fall. It might feel a long way

from home. We were thirsty, and thrilled when we

got back to the hut after 36 hours. Lachie ate so much

fried cheese and salami I thought he might die in

the process. He remembered the sitting bivvy in the

Linda schrund. I remembered the crux moves way,

way up the wall but not far from a nut.

I returned again on a windy day with a guest who

wanted to experience technical climbing and big

alpine routes. We went climbing on the steep cen-

tral arête. For a long time we weaved up pink slabs

around overhangs but the route kept steepening,

committing us to heading directly up the improbably

looming arête on pitch nine. Heel hooking around

the roof on pitch ten we were both glad not to have

the weight of ice tools, boots and crampons in our

packs. Perhaps the last pitch, which looked so hard

and climbed so smoothly—connecting a series of

clean cracks— was the best of all.

After the original Du Faur North West Couloir

Grand Traverse, Endeavour is the second best of the

ten routes I have climbed on Aoraki. Richard enjoyed

it so much that the next week we went into the

a b o v e The author starting up a long corner/chimney pitch on Resolution. Lachie Currie

b e l o w Richard Bassett-Smith following a pitch on the first ascent of Endeavour.

Stuart Hollaway

f a c i n g p a g e Felix Landman starting up the West Ridge of Mt Tasman, having just

completed the first ascent of Path of Manolin. Stuart Hollaway


Balfour to improve his ice climbing. * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

f a c i n g p a g e : t o p Dale Thistlethwaite on the sum-

mit ridge of Mt Tasman, having completed the first ascent

of The Dream of the Dutch Sailors. Stuart Hollaway

l e f t Stuart Hollaway leading a pitch on the first ascent

of Path of Manolin. Felix Landman

r i g h t Dale on the Abel Janszoon Glacier, sorting gear

below The Dream of the Dutch Sailors. Stuart Hollaway

Mount Tasman, Abel Janszoon Face

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

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

Bowie Buttress, Aoraki Mount Cook

Endeavour (left) Richard Bassett-Smith, Stuart Hollaway. 460m, 18, MC6-. January, 2013.

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


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

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

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

Living with the Main Divide on the doorstep has fantastic benefits. Rolling out of bed, grabbing the pack and walking out the door is gratifyingly simple. It’s a privilege to live in Mount Cook Village. Making the most of adventures in my backyard is part of embracing that existence.

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

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

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

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

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

by JANE MORRIS

The Sheila Face of Aoraki Mt Cook, from Mt Hicks.

Steven Fortune


The author on Mt Hicks,

with the Sheila Face

behind. Guy McKinnon

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

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

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

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

Mt Dampier is the third-highest mountain in New Zealand and offers an immediate backdrop. Glancing across at it provided a great yardstick for relative height. It felt like a couple of hours before I was somewhere level with its 3440m summit. The red sandstone mid-height on the face was a welcome relief after some intermittently solid rock lower down.

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

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

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

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

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

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


Looking down on the

Grand Plateau and the

‘Dixon dragon tongue’ of

moraine, from high on

Aoraki. Jane Morris

cern was getting through the Boys Glacier by dark. Working backwards, the times fitted. Just.

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

As I rolled up onto Cinerama Col, I discovered a tent perched on the saddle. As I walked past, I offered a ‘Hi there, nice spot to park.’ Out popped Marty Schmidt, grinning. He and his client had just climbed the East Ridge and they were the best part of in bed asleep, but were happy to chat and exchange stories. They offered me some water. It was 9.00pm and the sun had set. Although it sounded like conditions ahead were surprisingly favourable, I had about half an hour of light left and I was keen to keep moving. But I relaxed for a moment, enjoying Marty’s com-pany and his characteristic repartee.

When I eventually stepped off the snow, it was so dark it was full black-out. Even the headtorch could not penetrate the featureless rock-scape ahead. Finding some running water, I paused and sat down. The moon, on its outward phase, would not reach me for at least another hour. I could see its light hitting the top of the Caroline Face like a blind slowly being pulled down, but the moonlight was moving across the landscape too slowly for my body’s thermostat. I’d cooled down too much to wait for it, so I reluc-tantly carried on.

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

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

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

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

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

I wandered into the Tasman Valley Road carpark. Illegal overnighting campervans greeted me, but there was no beat-up old Subaru to be seen. Humph. I sat down on the grass and pulled out my last bit of food. My watch read 2.30am. I laughed: Really? Had it only been 24 hours since I started up the Hooker? It seemed far longer. I hadn’t planned the trip to be one long, continuous day out. Sure I’d had my ‘times’ but I had no intention of completing the thing in 24 hours. It astonishes me what the body will put up with if the mind will let it.

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

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

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


As a parks ranger, I have met a few trampers traversing the length of the South Island. Some walked the whole island in three or

four months; others did sections during their annual

holidays. Some followed the official Te Araroa trail;

others, their own more adventurous routes. Their

journeys inspired me to attempt a solo high-alpine

southern traverse, as I love backcountry adven-

tures. The decision to attempt the traverse also

reflected my feeling of being at home in New Zealand

after importing myself from Germany 18 years ago.

Walking the length of the South Island, I would

become part of it, and the land would leave its trace

in my heart—much like I still carry the Black Forest

inside of me; the gentler ranges where I grew up so

many years ago.

I chose a challenging high-alpine route along many

permanently glaciated areas, and planned to use val-

ley travel close to the Main Divide to make progress

between high plateaus and sections of mountain

ranges. I also wanted to attempt some climbs along

the way. Therefore, I took a full summer off so that

I would have enough rest days to be able to enjoy

the trip, plus flexibility to work around the weather.

Alpine crossings and numerous unbridged rivers

meant that I would have to wait out severe storms

and high rainfall.

I started my trip in early October 2012 and called

l e f t Williamson Flat

from the Waipara Range,

Mt Aspiring National Park.

r i g h t t o p Lake

Williamson and Mt Gyrae,

Mt Aspiring National Park.

r i g h t b o t t o m

Rome Ridge, Mt

Rolleston, Arthur’s Pass

National Park.

FOOTPRINTSA solo alpine traverse of the South Island mountain ranges.

words and photographs by HENRIETTE BEIKIRCH


l e f t t o p Mt Ella,

Nelson Lakes National

Park.

l e f t b o t t o m The

Wilberforce Valley

from Browning Pass,

Canterbury.

r i g h t Pearson Saddle,

Wilkin River South

Branch, Mt Aspiring

National Park.

a halt in mid-April 2013, when the first snows started

to settle on the Fiordland tops. During these six

and a half months, I traversed from Farewell Spit to

Milford Sound. Fiordland will take another two and a

half months and is planned for early 2014, with long

summer days and (hopefully) stable weather.

The weather during my trip turned out a mix of

extremes. October had three weeks of continuous

gales, with only three half-days of sunshine. My

toenails rotted in my constantly-wet boots, and I

got cracks on my heels that even heel balm wouldn’t

mend—Superglue has its uses! November had three

short weather windows. December and January

brought lots of cold fronts bracketing short weather

windows, and two major rain events that lasted four

to five days each. February and March were warm,

dry and fantastic. The cold returned again in April,

with unsettled autumn weather.

My route was split into sections, with resupply

detours to buy fresh food and to catch up with

friends in town. Most sections lasted one to two

weeks, with one food drop for the longer one-month

trip in the Olivine Range.

EquipmentI carried alpine gear (crampons and two light axes

for climbing), full camping gear, a camera and spare

batteries, beacon, GPS and maps. From the Rakaia

southwards, I also carried a mountain radio. Base-

weight without food was around ten kilograms.

This was the lightest I felt I could be safe with, and

also still be warm enough to sleep at night. At its

heaviest, with nearly three weeks of food, my pack

weighed around 30 kilograms, which is around half

my body weight and less than ideal on untracked


l e f t The Red Hills

Range from the Peridot

Stream basins, Mt

Aspiring National Park.

r i g h t Trinity Glacier

and Mt Trinity from

Trinity Col, Mt Aspiring

National Park.

alpine ground. I mailed a large ‘support’ box ahead,

containing spare clothes, refills for sunscreen and dis-

infectant, plasters, spare sunglasses, a spare walking

pole, maps and guidebook copies, camera chargers,

an external hard drive to download photos, and my

second tent. I used two different tents: a lighter but

less sturdy valley shelter, and a four-season alpine

tent for sections with extended periods above the

bushline. Having the box made it easy to pick what

was needed for the next section.

Early challengesI started at the base of Farewell Spit and followed

the coast, over farmland, south via Knuckle Hill into

the Aorere Valley. From Boulder Lake, I traversed

the Douglas Range via Lake Adelaide, the steep

Dragons Teeth high route, Lonely Lake and Kakapo

Peak, past Fenella Hut and the Cobb Reservoir out

to Takaka for resupply. The Douglas Range felt

wonderfully primeval, like there might be dinosaurs

still in residence!

From the Cobb, I had hoped to traverse the Arthur

Range, but spring storms meant I couldn’t even

see Mt Arthur, let alone climb it—strong winds

kept blowing me over on the ridge. So I chose an

easier route through the valleys of Leslie–Karamea–

Wangapeka. Storms up high meant flooding below,

and the Karamea was pumping, necessitating butt-

deep wading. The Wangapeka had a fresh slip which

had formed a brand new lake. I pack-floated the first

part, then bush-bashed along steep hillsides to cross

a dam of freshly oozing mud and rock.

From the Wangapeka roadend, I headed up to

Granity Pass and traversed Mt Owen. The peak was

still under snow and as it has many karst rock cre-

vasses, I treated it as my first glacier crossing. Pole

probing rules! The karst formations were funky—I

would like to see the place without snow sometime.

Descending via Sunrise Spur to the Owen Valley,

I camped on farmland, then crossed over Maggies

Creek to Lake Rotoroa and visited workmates Greg

and Petrina in St Arnaud.

Spells of sunshineAfter resupply in Nelson, I walked along Lake Rotoroa

and met local kayaking legend Richard at Sabine Hut.

Then I headed up the D’Urville Valley and into four

whole days of sunshine—delicious! After climbing

Mt Ella, I crossed David Saddle into the Matakitaki.

The weather turned fickle again, so from Bobs Hut

I crossed Three Tarns Pass into the St James and

climbed Fairie Queene via Camera Gully, summiting

in a whiteout during a snow squall. As passage over

the alpine tops further west was not viable in the

storm, I followed the St James south, making good

progress. Groups of wild horses on the valley flats

gave the station a wild west feel. From the lower Boyle

Valley, I traversed the Poplars Range to end up at the

hotpools at Sylvia Flats on the Lewis Pass Road.

Slow progressAfter resupply in Christchurch, I continued over the

Hope-Kiwi Saddle, past the Hurunui hot pools, over

Harper Pass and down the Taramakau. This section

should have been easy, but the tracks were covered


l e f t Mt Elie de

Beaumont from the

Whymper Glacier, West

Coast.

r i g h t The Ramsay

Glacier terminal lake

and Mt Whitcombe,

Canterbury.

in the worst windfalls I’ve ever seen—the valley flats

provided alternatives! Further down the Taramakau,

I turned off up the Otehake River to visit its hotpools

with gorgeous forest campsites. The trail further up

the Otehake Valley was a marked route but the going

was very rough and slow, coming in at just over one

km/h—slow progress for on a marked trail. (My

usual speed on good trails was around five km/h.)

After crossing into the Edwards Valley, I came out at

Klondyke Corner and went to visit fellow German

Tanja at Arthur’s Pass. As a day trip from Arthur’s Pass

Village, I climbed Mt Rolleston via Rome Ridge and

got totally spanked by a snow storm which came in

half a day earlier than was forecast. Although I bone-

headed my way up to the high peak and back down the

Otira Slide, I saw little of the scenery, so I will have to

climb Rolleston another time for the views!

Mungo Mungo Mungo!After re-supply in Christchurch, I headed south from

Klondyke Corner and into the Southern Alps proper,

following the Three Passes route as far as Browning

Pass. Then I kept high along the Main Divide via

Hall Col, Farquharson Saddle, Mt Griffiths, Clarke

Saddle and Mt Ambrose to Hokitika Saddle, and

descended into the Mungo Valley. My favourite hut

book entry read: ‘Mungo Mungo Mungo!’ Sadly, the

Mungo hot springs were covered by an unusable

gravel riverbank.

Via Frew Saddle, I crossed into the Whitcombe

Valley, where long-time possum trapper Dave shared

some local knowledge. Further up-valley, I met

three tramping mates from Christchurch at Neave

Hut. I had planned to cross Full Moon Saddle via

Whitcombe Pass and the Sale Glacier, but the weather

turned bad again; so after waiting at the Whitcombe

Pass rock bivvy (not spacious) for two days, I bailed

down to Reischek Hut in the Rakaia Valley. I got a

forecast from the hut’s fixed-installation mountain

radio: one day of good weather to follow the Ramsay

Glacier to Full Moon Saddle and cross the Bracken

Snowfield into the Smyth Valley! The good weather

lasted a half-day, and with the afternoon cloud, I

didn’t actually see the Bracken Snowfield. But as a

reward, I spent eight hours in the Smyth hot pools

on my rest day.

The gardensAt the Wanganui carpark, I learned from a DOC

sign that Lambert Bridge was unusable from flood

damage over ten years ago. I had been relying on

this bridge to gain access up Lambert Spur and

onto the gardens of Allah and Eden. With spring

snowmelt plus rain forecast for the next five days,

I had no chance of wading the Lambert River. So

instead, I invented plan B: I hitched all the way back

to Christchurch and visited my friends Rebecca and

Craig, then returned up the Rakaia Valley once the

rain stopped. It took a day to walk back to Reischek

Hut. From the Lyell Glacier, I crossed over McCoy

Col. With another cold front forecast, I dropped

down to the Upper Rangitata Valley’s McCoy Hut,

which was soon busy with a sociable hunting party

of dads and sons.


Douglas Rock Hut and the

Sierra Range, West Coast.

After camping up the Frances Valley, I accessed

the gardens via Perth Col. The gardens were in great

condition, with many crevasses still filled in—pay-

back for the spring storms and my damaged toe-

nails! Surprisingly, Jo and Alan from Wanaka were

ski-touring on the Garden of Eden; we shared lunch

on Baker Peak. I camped at Adams Col, which was

breathtakingly beautiful at sunset, although it had

a reputation for tent-shredding winds. The next

morning dawned crystal-clear, so I climbed Newton

Peak and Mt Tyndall, returning to Adams Col via the

Garden of Allah. I’d planned to spend a week on the

gardens, but with gale force winds now forecast on

the mountain radio, I bailed that afternoon. I crossed

the Garden of Eden in a whiteout and descended

into Adverse Creek, nearly getting smoked by rockfall

while descending the headwall. Following the Perth

River at 500m/hr the next day was a lesson in humil-

ity. The hot pools at Scone Hut were not operational,

but I found some smaller, lukewarm seeps. From

there, a track led out the Whataroa Valley to the

roadend.

Christmas and New Year’s

I resupplied in Hokitika and headed back up the

Whataroa Valley to Whymper Hut, where I wait-

ed out more rain. During two sunny days over

Christmas, I crossed Whataroa, Classen and Tasman

saddles in what was the most high-alpine and glaci-

ated section of my traverse. I spent two nights at

Tasman Saddle Hut and climbed Mt Aylmer and

Hochstetter Dome. Walking down the length of the

Tasman Glacier, clouds came in from the west. Ball

Shelter and surrounds turned into quite a social

hub—funnily enough, I knew half the trampers! For

Ball Pass, I buddied up with Gerwyn from Wales. The

weather held until we reached Mt Cook Village, when

the New Years’ rain storms hit. So I caught up with

friends in Kinloch and Wanaka, eating lots of good

food—time well spent while the storms raged.

Knee rehabIn early January, I crossed Copland Pass to the hot

pools at Welcome Flats, then headed to Fox Glacier

to wait out more rain with skiing buddy Deano.

Between cold fronts, I followed the Karangarua

Valley to its headwaters and traversed Mt Howitt and

the Gladiator. I spent a night at Harpers Rock Biv,

bagging one of the most remote bivvy rocks. Then I

crossed into Landsborough Valley via Douglas Pass.

The Landsborough seemed to run forever and had

some interesting river bluffs to contend with. From

the lower Landsborough, I crossed Studholme Pass

into the West Hunter Valley and, further south,

Scrubby Flat Creek into the Makarora Valley. Along

the Haast Pass Highway, I followed valley flats and

the Blue Pools Link Track to the start of the Young

Valley. This whole section from Fox Glacier took me

two weeks, including four cold fronts! The weather

finally settled as I reached the Makarora Valley.

As I had injured my knee during a fall in the

Landsborough, I stayed longer in town (Wanaka) on

my next two breaks, to catch up with friends and to

rest my knee until I could at least sit down without

wincing. It seemed to work—my knee came right

with a month’s worth of hiking and climbing.

From Makarora, I did the Young–Wilkin (the light-

er pack helped my knee) and climbed Mt Awful as a

side trip from Gillespie Pass. The schrund between

the snowfields was only just passable.

Party central at Colin ToddAfter resupplying again in Wanaka, I headed up

the Wilkin Valley to the Waterfall Face and Pearson

Saddle. Descending via Bettne Stream into the remote

Waiatoto Valley, I bush-bashed at 300m/hr for several

hours. Eventually, I reached the lake at the head of

the valley and camped in the shadow of Mt Aspiring.

The next day, I accessed the Haast Range from Bonar

Flats in what was the worst uphill bush-bash of the

trip, climbing on near-vertical ferns and dense rotten

windfalls. Above the bushline, I followed the range

south up Rock Wren Gully, past Cornerpost and over

Moonraker, to camp at the remote Cloudmaker Lake.

From here, the western slopes of the Haast Range


The Murchison Glacier

from Mt Aylmer, Aoraki

Mt Cook National Park.

led across the difficult Cargo Creek onto the glaciers

of Suet, Dipso and Iso, and finally to Colin Todd

Hut. Wanaka guide Tony and Australians Archie and

Glenn were already in residence. Six Canadian climb-

ers turned up the next day—party central at Colin

Todd! We all climbed Mt Aspiring on the same day

and headed out the next, ahead of another cold front.

Team Canada and I departed via French Ridge, the

guided group by helicopter.

Libations in the scrubAfter a few days’ rest and organising a food drop at

Big Bay (thanks Sue!), I headed back up the West

Matukituki Valley. Crossing Arawhata Saddle was

tricky, with patchy snow exposing steep rock steps,

and the weight of nearly three weeks of food in my

pack. The bivvy rock in the upper Arawhata was spa-

cious, but the scrub was vile. The unyielding, dense

tangle of plants even unscrewed the lid of my water

bottle. The river got my sunnies, and scrub in Sealy

Stream later claimed an ice axe spike protector—the

worst rate of gear attrition on my whole trip!

From the upper Arawhata, I did a side trip up the

Waipara Range to camp at a tarn below Turks Head.

I had hoped to climb Mt Ionia, but the usual glacier

access route was a collapsed mess. Instead, I climbed

Mt Athene, with awesome views of Mt Aspiring.

Returning to the Arawhata Valley, I camped at the

prairie-like Williamson Flats at the junction of the

Arawhata and Joe rivers.

Crossing Camp Oven Dome, I had great views of

the Olivine Range. The steep descent to Andy Flat

was difficult. I lost more time scrub bashing the

next day, so cancelled the planned side trip up to the

Olivine Plateau. Below Andy Flat, the bush had bluffy

sidles and tricky windfalls, leading down to a waist-

deep crossing of the Williamson River. From here,

easy open bush (a pleasant surprise) led up towards

Trinity Col on the Olivine Range. But while travers-

ing a bluff just above the bushline, I strained a calf

muscle. After an hour of crawling out of the bluffs

and limping across alpine boulder fields, I found a

gorgeous alpine meadow below Trinity Col where I

set up camp to let my leg heal. The views were stun-

ning, and a little rock wren kept peeking into the tent

to check up on me. Two days later, with my leg taped,

I was able to continue over Trinity Pass, Sealy Stream

and Simonin Pass onto the Red Hills. These had min-

erals galore, but hardly any plants or animals. From

Red Mountain, the views were stunning—the glaciers

of the Olivines to the south-east, lush forested valleys

to the north-west, and the crescent of Big Bay’s sandy

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

the scene.

Wild foods at Big Bay

From Red Hills, the densely forested spur between

Crome and Durwards creeks led me down to Pyke

Crossing and onto the track to Big Bay. I was down

to my last muesli bar by then, so very much looked

forward to my food drop. It was meant to be stashed

at the back of a private hut. Instead of going to

the DOC hut and working north from there as per

instructions, I checked cottages as I went. But the

‘cottage with clothes line’ description matched nearly

all the cottages! Eventually, with much relief, I found

my box.

Resting by the ocean and going for barefoot beach

walks was a luxury after months in hiking boots. I

also swam with Hector’s dolphins in calm morning

surf. Then I headed north along the coast to visit

the Beansprouts at Gorge River. Unfortunately, they

weren’t in. I returned to Big Bay and was treated to

dinner by three hard-case hunters from Christchurch.

Two possum trappers from Wanaka took charge

of my food box and spare gear, so I cruised down

the Pyke Valley on a marked but overgrown trail. It

felt like luxury after weeks of deer trails and scrub-

bashing. At Lake Alabaster, local eel fisherman Bruce

shared fresh trout with me—yet another local legend.

Walking out at Gunn’s Camp, I travelled to

Wellington to submit my application for New

Zealand citizenship. (This has since been approved.)

It was as exciting as the traverse.


t o p l e f t The upper

Hunter River West Branch

valley.

r i g h t The author on the

summit of Mt Aspiring.

b o t t o m l e f t Lake

Alabaster and Mt

Madeline, Fiordland

National Park.

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

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

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

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


The Whataroa Valley

Mt Whitcombe, east face

Oil paintings by

JOHN RUNDLE


The east face of Mt Awful.

Gavin Lang Mt Awful is a misnomer, unless you con-sider the original (now obsolete) mean-ing, which is ‘fills with awe’. In that case

the term might be a bit over the top, but at least it’s positive.

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

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

This was the second time I had walked in to have a go at the face. The first time had been a week earlier. I’d gone in with a friend of a friend, and I’d made the bad call to not take alpine boots as I was sure all the

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

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

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

Round four was much the same but it was way too

AWE-FULLTwo first ascents on the east face of Mt Awful

by MILO GILMOUR


l e f t Milo starting the

walk out from the base of

the east face. Twenty-four

kilometres to go.

r i g h t Milo seconding

the sixth pitch of Wicked.

Both photos: Nick Flyvbjerg

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

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

After some tactical discussions, round five was launched from a high bivvy. We started with re-newed attempts at the loose flakes of the obvi-ous pitch three, but common sense and cowardice pushed me out right on a diagonal zig pitch, followed by a zag pitch, which was loose and vegetated. A small tension traverse got me to some obvious, beckoning underclings, which are now the start of pitch four. I rapped down and cleaned off the loose flakes and dug out the cracks. Then we rapped off again. But this time we had new and inviting ground to come back to.

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

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

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

We jumared back up the next morning and fin-ished surprisingly early—after only two and a half pitches. The first was an offwidth-to-chimney sized crack that led to an easy but protectionless traverse. The second was a corner crack, some flakes, a slab

and a scary loose bulge. These pitches and pitch six, were cleaned up and straightened out on a subse-quent trip. There is a final half-pitch of roughly ten metres at about grade 17 that gets you to the ridge. From there you could either walk off or scramble up to the headwall for probably another two pitches, although we haven’t done that yet. We called the climb Wicked, as a play on ‘awful/awe filled’, another word of which the modern slang meaning is quite opposed the original meaning.

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


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

The corner system seeps after rain, so the start had to be off to the left of the plumb line, to get away from the wet rock (this would be a good line to try in win-ter). The big corner was reached after two 50-metre pitches of about grade 17 or 18. We climbed flakes and edges which led to various diminishing ledges. The corner itself comprises two pitches of crack climbing, with bridging options for the feet. The crack starts as fingers and slowly widens to wide fists, then turns into a layback as the crack is turned under a bulge and needs at least one number five Camalot to protect the crux moves at the top of pitch four.

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

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

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

Nick and I went back up Wicked for the second ascent, and the next day went back up it again to improve the quality of the top three pitches by clean-ing, re-directing, straightening and protecting some of the bits we wouldn’t have led otherwise. The section of death-on-a-stick flakes has now been swapped for a nice crack. The chimney and traverse have been swapped for a slab (the off-width is still compulsory). And the last pitch has gone from a loose meandering rope-drag scare-fest to a crack and face climb finale to whoop about—it’s also probably the crux (grade 21).

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

l e f t Milo Leading the first pitch of Wicked, during the

first attempt at the line. The underclings of pitch four are

visible just below the skyline. Gavin Lang


Notes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy—it's awful!

a b o v e Milo the demented alpine Rambo. Nick Flyvbjerg

r i g h t Nick Flyvbjerg leading the third pitch on

Summer of Yes. Milo Gilmour

b e l o w r i g h t View of Aoraki Mt Cook from the bivvy.

Nick Flyvbjerg


a b o v e Erik on the

Philistine–Rolleston ridge,

following his own ski

tracks for a self portrait.

The lower slopes of the eas-

ier route off Philistine can

be seen in the background

on the left.

The sky is picture-perfect blue, the mountains freshly painted with snow, but Graeme Kates is making discouraging comments about the

avalanche risk. He kindly drops me off at Arthur’s

Pass and I am left wondering whether he is thinking

our next meeting will be at a SAR rescue, with him

arriving in a helicopter and me buried under tonnes

of snow.

It’s always a difficult time walking into big steep

mountains, the voice inside saying, Make each deci-

sion with care and caution and you will return. While

the opposing voice says, A lot of people die in the

mountains, what makes you think you are so special?

I shoulder my pack and head up the Otira Valley

towards the Philistine Bluffs with my usual commit-

ment to returning safely.

From the top of Mt Philistine my planned route

starts to unfold in front of me. I’m looking for

another classic ski traverse like the Symphony on

Skis at Mount Cook, or the Haute Route in France.

My research suggests that Arthur’s Pass might have

an uncovered gem tucked away in the headwaters of

the Waimakariri, with potentially three day’s of ski

travel, no need for a helicopter and less than an hour

of carrying skis at either end.

The traverse of the ridge towards Rolleston is

half climbing and half skiing—it’s fun and exciting

but probably too much for most ski mountaineers.

Looking behind me I realise the preferred route

would be to ski off the north-west slopes of Philistine

THE CANTERBURY HAUTE ROUTEA ski traverse from the Otira Valley to Bealey Spur via Waimakariri Falls Hut and Barker Hut

words and photos by ERIK BRADSHAW


t o p On the summit of Mt

Philistine, looking towards

Mt Rolleston.

a b o v e Relaxing at the

tarns at Harman Pass.

into the basin at the head of the Rolleston River.

The sun is setting as I climb the final slopes to

the upper Waimakariri Col. The perfect weather has

made me dawdle but my laziness has been rewarded

with an orange sunset and the sun reflecting off the

Tasman as though it was a sheet of gold.

That night I read through the winter entries in the

Waimakariri Falls Hut book for the last ten years and

discover that only one party of skiers/snowboarders

had visited by walking all the way up the Waimakariri

Valley. The potential for a weekend ski trip over

Philistine with a night at the super-cute CMC hut,

then returning back either the way you came or over

Rolleston, strikes me as a classic for ski mountaineers

looking to stretch their skills. It amazes me there

aren’t regular entries recording such a trip.

My quiet musings are interrupted by a group of

six CMC members arriving, with a plan to climb

Carrington the next morning. They are good com-

pany but there are seven of us in a six-person hut. I

am surprised at who doubles up on a bunk—not the

two smallest people, nor the couple in a relationship

but the two tallest guys. Chivalry knows no bounds

with these CMC members!

The traverse below Mt Carrington is probably the

most risky section of my planned ‘Haute Route’ as it

involves crossing reasonably steep slopes above some

very big cliffs. A small avalanche or slip wouldn’t

leave you with much time for recovery.

From here I begin dropping down to Campbell

Pass, where it suddenly dawns on me just what a ter-

rible snow year it has been. Normally this pass would

be covered in snow but this year I have to walk down

and back up several hundred metres. The missed

turns leave me feeling a bit cheated!

The snow feels safe and the climbing efficient

as I cross over Mt Campbell and descend towards

Harman Pass. Crusty, windblown snow interspersed

with patches of ice and carrying a multiday pack

make me dig deep into my bag of tricks to leave a

reasonable set of tracks.

Sitting beside the tarn at Harman Pass, I take in

the clear rippling water, the craggy mountains, the

deep bush-coated West Coast valleys, the golden tus-

sock on the slopes below me and the distant call of a

kea—I can’t think of a more wonderful place to be.

I continue past Whitehorn Pass into a small hidden

cirque. It feels a little like a lost world but I don’t hang

around. The warm sun is loosening chunks of ice the

size of soccer balls from the ridge above. They rocket

down near me like small bombs, and in a contest, I

think they would win!

Climbing to the ridge south of Mt Isobel is

straightforward and I am excited to see Mt Davie not

far off. It’s a mountain I have wanted to climb and

ski ever since I was a small boy, camping at Klondyke

Corner. Thinking back, I realise that mounts Harper

and Davie were the first mountains to capture my

sense of adventure, long before I recognised New

Zealand’s more iconic mountains like Aspiring or

Cook. I climbed Harper several times when I was

still a teenager but for some reason Davie has

remained aloof.

The traverse along the ridge is a great example of

the need for efficient travel. In some parts I climb

with crampons, a ski pole ice axe and a super-light


t o p l e f t Climbing

towards the summit of

Mt Davie. Rolleston and

Carrington Junction are in

the background.

t o p r i g h t Mt Davie

and the Cahill Glacier

from Mt Harper.

b o t t o m l e f t The

Shaler Range and the

Marmaduke Dixon Glacier.

Barker Hut is slightly left of

bottom-centre.

axe. Facing inward, I carefully think through my

movements and am very aware that under the soft

snow is a layer of bullet-proof ice. In other places the

snow is deep and I put my skis on and travel quickly.

The Exoskeleton ski bindings I’m using work bril-

liantly, making all the long hours of inventing and

bashing around in the garage worthwhile.

The top of Mt Davie offers me a difficult choice:

either a traverse across a steep slope below a big cor-

nice or an airy down-climb over ice-plastered rock. I

choose the latter—I would much rather take a skill-

based risk than random probability.

I wasn’t expecting amazing powder snow but once

off the wind-blasted summit I’m merrily making

turns and leaving my wiggly signature through foot-

deep snow. It is so amazing that I ski too far. Having

to climb back up with a multi-day pack that I could

have dropped half-way down is not very smart.

After a short climb over a ridge into the Cahill

Glacier I have another great powder run. This place is

just amazing, the steep ridges shelter the basins from

wind and shade the snow, making for an excellent

skiers playground. Twilight is arriving as I make the

final climb of the day to the Marmaduke Glacier. The

snow is coloured violet and the first stars are begin-

ning to twinkle as I make the last turns to Barker Hut.

Again I search through the hut book and can only

find one group of people visiting with skis, about

five years ago. Having had a day skiing great powder,

this leaves me amazed—where are all the people?

The basins around Barker Hut offer amazing ski

potential, I could easily hang out here for many days,

exploring all the possibilities.

The next morning I soak in the golden colours

of the sunrise as I crampon up Mt Harper. Looking

back at my tracks over Mt Davie I realise there is a

lower route that drops off the shoulder of Mt Isobel

and sidles the basins on the east side of the Shaler

Range. This would make the traverse more suited

to skiing, with the ability to drop packs and ski the

basins above when the snow looks good.

I’m expecting spring or wind-crust snow as I drop

off Harper towards Gerald Falls but again there is

powder. It’s incredible, the storm was three days ago,

it’s been warm and sunny and there is still all this

great snow about. I’m just one lucky boy!

With crampons scratching rock and an ice axe

hooked over a ledge as I climb down bluffs into the

head of Greenlaw Creek, I’m thinking I should be

in the Remarkables Ice and Mixed Festival. Looking

back I realise I have taken a difficult route. There

are places where you could descend with skis on.


t o p l e f t Erik’s gear:

carbon fibre Exoskeleton

bindings, lace up boots, skis

made by Richard Harcourt

from Splitn2, a Camp

Corsa ice axe, a Komperdell

ski pole, a Black Diamond

Whippet and Five Finger

shoes to run back to

Arthur’s Pass in.

a b o v e The Canterbury

Haute Route.

Map courtesy of Geographx

Ironically the next point in my traverse is Fools Col.

What the mountains giveth the mountains taketh

away. After another great powder run down from

Fools Col I re-discover scree bashing. On a normal

snow year the sidle around to Sphinx Saddle would be

a fast traverse but not in this year of snow starvation.

From Sphinx Saddle the name Easy Stream should

have given me a clue of where to go but instead I try

to traverse the ridge to the east, only to realise it’s a

dead end. Like the Sphinx, Easy Stream is a mythical

creature and treats me to powder sitting directly on

rocks. Skiing this is a good way to destroy your skis

and it takes a lot of effort not to destroy myself.

I survive but almost lose faith in myself, looking at

the long climb out of Easy Stream. I’ve already com-

pleted more than 2000m of climbing today. I start

questioning whether I have what it takes to finish the

tour today. The masochistic side of my personality

kicks in and I reach the basins of Jordan Stream as

the shadows are getting long. I’m greeted by the sun-

set at Jordan Saddle and darkness at Hut Spur. There

is bound to be more good powder in the basins below

the ridge but skiing avalanche terrain in the dark is a

little too wild for me.

So is this the Canterbury Haute Route I have been

looking for? It is certainly an amazing traverse and

with an extra hut or two would be a classic. The

first day is perfect, the second day a bit long but the

lower route might solve that problem. The final day

is way too big, a hut is needed at the head of the

Anti Crow River. There used to be one there a long

time ago. This would make for an adventurous four-

day traverse, which could easily be escaped from if

the weather or conditions turn bad. There are also

weekend possibilities such as a Carrington Hut to

Barker Hut traverse along the Shaler Range, then

over Harper to the Anti Crow and walking back to

Klondyke Corner on the second day.

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

It’s been a big day with 15 hours of solid travel and

over 3000m of climbing. Most reasonable and sane

people would call this the end and crawl into their

sleeping bag for a good sleep. But that’s not me, my

car is at Arthur’s Pass.

The Milky Way decorates the night sky as I run

along the deserted road with my headlamp off. In

the road cutting I can see glow worms twinkling,

like stars that have made Earth their home. What an

amazing adventure in an amazing country, I feel so

gifted to call this home. Suddenly there is a shooting

star—it takes so long to fall I wonder whether it will

hit the mountains silhouetted on the horizon. Life

feels so good I struggle to find something to wish for.

Arthur’s Pass

Mt Philistine

Waimakariri Falls Hut

Barker Hut

Harman Pass

Bealey Spur


a b o v e Shane Orchard

approaching the Mt

Williams Glacier.


t o p Looking west from

Mt Williams.

m i d d l e A blue duck in

Moa Stream.

b o t t o m Moss detail.

Tess Carney (all) The day was cool with high cloud, and the wind whipped around us as we drove past the historic Glenthorne Station. I opened and

closed the series of farm gates as Shane navigated his dusty Toyota Surf up the spiky-matagouri-strewn bed of the Wilberforce River. Tributaries had created a series of rock ribbons for us to negotiate.

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

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

Moa Stream is a rejuvenated braided river. New growth of assorted mosses, vegetable sheep (a species of raoulia) and woody tree daisies cover the old river rock. The mosses were one of the first species to re-colonise the area. They were a starting point—holding water and soil so other plants could get established.

Shane and I arrived at Moa Stream Hut with plenty

CROUCHING TIGERS AND DRUNKEN MONKEYS

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

by TESS CARNEY


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

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

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

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

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

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

Amazingly, I got down the stream without falling


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

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

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

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

Mt Williams is a really cool snowboard descent. Thanks Jean Tompkins for the idea!

t o p l e f t Housekeeping at Moa Stream Hut. Tess Carney

b o t t o m l e f t The author modelling the latest in

Wilberforce Fashion. Shane Orchard

a b o v e Camp cook, Moa Stream Hut. Shane Orchard


Descending the east face of

Mt Scott. Nick ClarkRobert Falcon Scott and companions are remembered for their epic polar expedition that eventually led to their deaths on the

return from the south pole. Right now the bodies of Scott and his party remain entombed in the ice of the Ross Ice Shelf, and the day will come when they will again meet the sea and complete this final journey.

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

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

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

EXPLORING THE POLAR RANGEby SHANE ORCHARD


Approaching the summit

of Mt Wilson.

Shane Orchard

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

It was one of those parts of the hills we had always wanted to visit, and in the spirit of exploration, Nick Clark and I organised a three-day ski-mountaineer-ing trip into Sudden Valley to visit Scott and Wilson. Sudden Valley provides surprisingly good access from the Hawdon. It begins with an impressive can-yon leading to a waterfall, which can be bypassed via

a short section of track. The remainder of the route does require plenty of crossings of the Sudden Valley stream, and the valley has a secluded feel about it. The stream is typical whio habitat, running cold and clear, and winding through a narrow rock-strewn valley from the avalanche swept screes and fellfields of the Polar Range.

After five kilometres or so one comes to the Sudden Valley biv, an excellent two-bed shelter tucked into the forest edge on a small flat. Judging from the hut book, the area is well frequented in summer, with travel along the tops between Sudden Valley and Amber Col or Discovery Stream being popular options to link side-valleys of the Hawdon. Come winter the number of parties dwindles to a handful each year. The valley typically becomes snowclad, and whilst not far off the beaten track, is perhaps not quite steep enough to entice winter climbers. However, there are many peaks to explore including a cluster at the head of the valley set in an inspiring amphitheatre of high ridgelines. Scott is central amongst these with Wilson to the south and peak 1937m to the north at the head of Sudden Valley.

We set out to explore some of this area and started early on day one, aiming to get into the alpine as soon as possible. After a great walk in we lightened the packs at the biv and continued on towards Mt Wilson, hoping to make a descent of the southern aspects into the east branch of the Edwards River valley and climb out again before the end of the day. This was duly accomplished, although not quite as quickly as anticipated, and the afternoon sunlight was soft and golden by the time we got to the south face. We made our descent from Wilson into deep powder snow and stopped on a bench to take in the east Edwards. It was tempting to carry on down the valley but our route was back up to the summit of Wilson via the south-east ridge. From there our return route would be down the east face via a strik-ing snow ramp. By now, sunset was upon us, and in contrast to the shady valleys near at hand there were stunning views out to the shimmering plains of Kaā Pakihi Whakatekateka o Waitaha. And after a final acquaintance with Wilson we embarked on a descent of the ramp which took us back into the depths of Sudden Valley and were soon heading for camp, happy with the discoveries of the day.

Day two was reserved for Scott, which is an impressive pyramid when seen from the east. However, the western slopes are gentle, making for an easy climb. The main task for the day was to


t o p Nick Clark on the

south face of Peak 1937.

Shane Orchard

a b o v e Shane Orchard

getting started on the east

face of Mt Scott.

Nick Clark

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

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

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

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

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

The Polar Range comes much recommended, and perhaps spending time amongst the namesakes of the explorers added something to our experience. Although we hope never to suffer the fate of Scott and his party, their efforts remind us of those who strive to explore and understand the wilder parts of the world. As Oates said in his final moments, ‘I am just going outside ... and may be some time.’

IRISH ROADMEN, AND OTAKI MAIN STREET UNDER REPAIR

An elegiac, for

Richard Hancock

(first ascent of east face of

Malte Brun, January 1978)

and John Nankervis

(who fell on Mt Awful, 2013).

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

So, the smaller paddy

was standing in

the hole, and his

cement above him, in

the barrow straked

by snow, seemed

contrarily punished

in hell, as I watched

the while, a smoke

in the side of his

chalk blue mouth.

His tall mate standing

above him looking

down lit his, and

each set aside

his shovel

for the moment, so

cupped in hands

from the falling snow,

each would light.–

Thus the barrow

began, down the slope

Paddy gazed up from

opaquely, at me

in his heavy glasses,

both of us fissured

in the falling snow.

The barrow

reached the bottom.–

heavily in the hole

as Hades, when

it froze, on

his boot underneath,

he gazed at me

patiently, through

his glasses and

the snowfall the while

the same, his boot

in its place and

under the wheel,

and finished

lighting his smoke.

–DARYL MCLAREN

C L I M B E R I N A S T O R M

The mountain casts a shadow like a net,

its reach as vast as an ocean.

It hauls in the sombre glaciers,

subtle pathways, lapping ridges,

valleys of complacency.

He climbs the mountain into a sky

as clear as a pearl, as blue as the tide,

but if he were to look he’d see the shadow

snare the storm that broils

beyond the horizon.

It lashes the line, reels in its catch

of stratocumulus and polar blast.

Drags it over the pied du mont

and cuts it loose amidst the towers

of crusted rock and verglace.

Hurl your malice, keen your fury,

strafe his body, ransack his sight,

kidnap his warmth, steal his bearing,

arc the rope until it thrums electric

in his frozen hands.

and he knows nothing but to find

safe harbour

and to anchor.

–PAT DEAVOLL

photograph by Troy Mattingley

Mt Ruapehu, hebe and

tussock at sunrise from

Rangipo Desert Te

Onetapu.

Mark Watson

75

Overseas Climbing Daniel Joll

Nick Shearer

Rob Frost

Chris Jensen Burke

Reg Measures

Graham Zimmerman

John Price

Paul Knott

Marc Scaife

Erik Monasterio

Ruari Macfarlane

K2 from Base Camp. Peter Laurenson

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

Sometimes it’s good to dream.

For many years I dreamed of climbing Les

Drus in Chamonix. At first the dream was to

climb the Bonatti Pillar. By the time I made my first

visit to Chamonix, however, the pillar had fallen

down. I stared down at the fragments of my dream,

lying scattered at the base of the Dru’s north face,

crushed into millions of small stones. But the dream

wouldn’t die. The Dru was still standing, and it had

plenty of other routes to offer. Each time I visited

Chamonix, I would take a walk up-valley and stare

at the Dru and its steep north and west faces, which

lead to its double-pointed summit. For several years,

the Dru remained an often-thought-of but never

attempted challenge—I never had the right partner

at the right time.

European winter, January 2013Another goal, a dream, a desire was to onsight M8

on a high mountain route. I never really told any-

one this dream, I kept it to myself. It just seemed

too unlikely. I remember the first time I said it out

loud: a local climber had asked about my plans for

the winter. Hearing myself say the words reinforced

the pressure I had put on myself. By November

2012, when I packed my bags and headed to Europe,

my onsights of this grade were limited to roadside

crags—and only with the right warm-up and some

shiny bolts to spur me on. I had never onsighted M8

mid-climb on a big alpine wall. For this to happen,

many things would have to go right. Onsighting is a

funny business. There is little room for error when

you’re pushing your limits. One wrong move, a

LES DRUSAn onsight ascent of the North Couloir Direct on the Dru.

words and photographs by DANIEL JOLL

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

f a c i n g p a g e

The west and south-west

faces of the Dru. The north

face is in profile on the left.

slipped crampon, breaking rock, losing your nerve

or misjudging a resting stance: any mistake can cause

you to blow the onsight. Even the notion of onsight-

ing on an alpine route, climbing free, not pulling on

gear, pushing to the point of falling and failure on

a mid-winter ascent, when you have sharp attach-

ments on your hands and feet, seems a little absurd.

In theory, the risk of falling while alpine climbing

should outweigh the rewards of a free onsight. But

it doesn’t. Pushing yourself, physically and mentally,

while high on a big alpine face and battling the cold

and fatigue, is exhilarating.

The summit was not my only goal. The real test

of skill and will is displayed in the style with which

you approach the mountain. How I get to the top is

as important as reaching the summit, in my opinion.

Should I fix ropes? Should I aid moves that I could

possibly free? Do I bivvy mid-route? Do I want

have someone else lead all the crux pitches? No.

Style matters.

Les Drus North Couloir Direct, AI6, M8, 800m

I stumbled upon this route while googling the Dru.

The line represented a true alpine challenge. As a

direct line on the Dru, this was a line I had dreamed

of climbing for many years. As a north-facing line—

cold, long and devoid of sun in the limited hours

of daylight of deep winter—it would require fast,

efficient climbing.

Then there was that mental block: the 45-metre

M8 crux pitch. Vertical corner-climbing into a gentle

overhang, followed by a thin, steep ice top-out. In the

months leading up to my trip to Chamonix I studied

photos of the route and visualised myself onsighting

that crux. I used the line to motivate me to train.

Fitness, power, mental strength: I would need all

of these to get the route’s four crux pitches nailed

without a fall. Although I had led pitches of this grade

on traditional protection several times, I had always

got the clean ascent on the second or third try. I had

a good shot at an onsight at this grade if it was on

bolts, and I could flash it if I had some preplaced gear.

But linking the moves, nailing the gear and holding

it together long enough to avoid falling, well, that

alluded me on routes M8 or harder.

I also knew this line had been freed only a handful

of times. It had grown in reputation in recent years as

a quality modern testpiece. High-quality photos from

the route taken by well-known Chamonix photogra-

pher Jon Griffith cemented its status as a must-do

line in the minds of many alpinists. However, you

could still count the number of successful winter

onsight ascents on one hand. Unless you are climb-

ing solo you can only be as good as your climbing

partner. The right partner instils trust, motivation

and desire. I knew I would need the right partner for

this line.

The crux of the route comprises four pitches,

around 300 metres up the north face. I knew that

in order to have my shot at the onsight I had to

get to these pitches feeling physically and mentally

fresh. To do this I would need the help of a good

partner. I needed to find someone with the desire to

spend hours on a cold north-facing wall mid-winter.

Finding a partner with the right skills, someone I feel

comfortable on the mountain with, threatened to be

a challenge. Luckily, I met young Finnish mountain

climber Fredrik Aspo. I say ‘lucky’ because Fredrik

was a friend of a friend, and usually ‘the two guys

who can’t find anyone else to climb with’ do not

make the best partnership. But it’s fair to say that

two guys who want to climb big routes when the

temperature is –20°C probably know what they are

doing. Fear of losing fingers and toes keeps the pre-

tenders away. In the four days prior to our climb on

the Dru Fredrik and I racked up some climbs, includ-

ing a single-push trip up and down the north face of

the Grand Jorasses. Fredrik was young and tough,

and seemed used to the cold. He was also fast and

efficient, which was perfect for my plan on the Dru.

A good plan helps put your mind at ease. Mine was

simple: simul-climb all of the route, fast, and then

pitch out the 200-metre crux. Fredrik would be on

the lead for all of the simul-climbing so I could arrive

at the crux fresh and give it 100 per cent, knowing

that after this one hard block of pitches, my work on

the mountain was essentially over.

Our ascent began in the early hours of a cold win-

ter’s morning. At 8.00am we arrived at the base of

the crux section. Almost perfect timing. Daylight had

recently arrived, and I was fresh and feeling rested. I

looked up, feeling relaxed and confident. The final

pitch of the North Couloir Direct is the hardest pitch

of the crux section, making it the crux of the route,

but I had to put that from my mind. To claim the full

onsight ascent I had to overcome three other hard

pitches before I could begin to worry about what

might happen on that final one. I must attack the

route pitch by pitch. If all went well, each successful

lead would build additional motivation to succeed

on the next pitch as well. The crux, a 200-metre high


corner, almost looked like it could be done in a single

pitch. This shouldn’t take long, I thought to myself,

and smiled. I was, however, in for a big shock. The

next four pitches took us a full seven hours. For well

over four of these, I was on lead—pumped, excited,

scared and determined.

The cruxThin, vertical ice led into the North Couloir Direct.

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

I spent precious energy cleaning endless powder

mushrooms out of cracks and bulges as I searched for

gear and tried to calm my nerves.

The climbing was steep and run-out. By the end

of the first pitch of my block, I was beginning to

appreciate the size of the corner I was now faced

with. From the base it had seemed to be a short,

straightforward crux. I was now a full 60 metres up

the line and that was barely a dent in the total length

of this section.

Pitch two went pretty fast. Moderate ice and mixed

led to the base of the real climbing: two full pitches of

hard ice and mixed. The real shock was pitch three.

I hadn’t realised that the crux was guarded by a full

60-metre pitch of M7+ climbing. With offwidth

corner climbing and then a steep face, the pitch was

relentless. I spent a full two hours on lead, with shak-

ing legs and burning forearms. I had to get it, though.

One slip here and I would fail in my goal to onsight

the line, even if I climbed the crux pitch clean.

Thinking of the final pitch, I knew I would need

the mental motivation that comes from complet-

ing all the previous parts of the climb successfully. I

fought right to the end, feeling my confidence lift and

waver simultaneously. If the pitch I had just climbed

was not the crux, what the hell would the next pitch

be like? I was exhausted after my two-hour endur-

ance pitch. The mental preparation ramped up. I

sucked down a shot of GU as I waited for Fredrik

to arrive with the pack and our water. This is it, I

thought. Talk is cheap. As Fredrik set up his belay, I

thought about something I’d heard from long-time

Kiwi climber Nick Cradock. It was in some com-

ments Nick had posted on climber.co.nz in response

to a letter in The Climber (issue 81):

From my perspective there is lots of talk [and]

not much walk from the present-day protagonists.

Maybe it is time to stop playing in the sandpit,

throw away the trainer wheels [and] put your

money where your mouth is… i.e. in our BIG

mountains, where the ice/mixed isn’t fickle [and]

you can't use fruit boots.

It is one thing to ponce around in the warm July

sun with crampons [and] ice axes, close to the latte

machine [and] completely another to onsight a

new-standard-setting winter mixed route.

Nick was right. The real prize lay ahead of me. I had

climbed myself into a position where it was no longer

possible to simply ask Fredrik to lower me down and

then retreat to the nearest café for a nice hot coffee.

It was time to put up or shut up. You only get one

shot at the onsight on any route. And that’s especially

important when you’re on a classic.

The North Couloir Direct is a modern winter test-

peice. My desire to get this onsight was huge—it had

become a personal thing, something I had to prove to

myself. It would also be a statement, my way of tell-

ing those guys who like to take the piss out of the new

generation of climbers to take their latte-induced big

talk and shove it. Us ‘softies’ can bring those same

skills we bring to the crag to a major alpine route as

well. Light, fast and free is the style I aspire to. Often

it does not happen on big mountain routes, for a

range of reasons. Bad conditions, weather, fear—

they all provide excellent excuses for failure.

The next 45 metres of the route would be make or

break. Almost anyone can aid their way up the cor-

ner—that’s been done plenty of times. I knew I could

climb most of it and pull through at the crux, but was

Jonathan Griffith bailing

off Sans Norm on the Dru,

during an attempt with the

author, prior to Daniel’s

successful ascent of the

North Couloir Direct.


I motivated enough to risk the fall? The trick would

be to run it out just enough to save energy for the

hard sections, using just enough protection to inspire

the confidence to commit to the climbing above.

I eased into the climbing. Corners are my favourite

and the style on this pitch suited me. Moderately

overhanging, it was a straightforward endurance test.

Surprisingly, there were sections of loose rock and

hollow choss.

Suddenly my feet blew off the wall. My crampons

had broken the small edges I had been standing on.

I hung off my tools, fighting to regain the wall. Deep

breaths, I thought. I shook out the pump in my fore-

arms, milking every stance for all the rest I could get.

Thirty metres into the pitch I realised I was approach-

ing the final crux moves. The overhang steepened. I

could see the final vertical ice top-out. This is it, I

thought. I plugged in my final gear and committed

to the moves. I had nothing left in my tank. My arms

were completely maxed out. I was pulling into moves

and sequences I had no hope of reversing. I knew

that if I hesitated, my arms would fail and I would

fall. Desperate to reach my goal, I pushed through.

I felt my strength departing. I climbed upwards,

desperately, until finally whack, whack, my axes were

secure in thin alpine ice. Careful now, shake it out,

I told myself. Whack, whack: I moved slowly higher

onto the steep ice wall.

Then I was over the crux overhang. Adrenaline

pulsed through my body. I screamed out to Fredrik,

‘Fuck yeah! Fuck yeah!’ I was very excited. Fredrik

would now lead us to the top and I could sit back and

relax, our partnership working to get us both up the

mountain. My work was done.

Fredrik followed up the pitch with the pack with-

out resting or falling—a perfect clean team ascent.

We were both buzzing with the thrill of nailing the

crux on such a classic line. We had not yet reached

the summit, but we congratulated each other, safe in

the knowledge that the final 300 metres of climbing

would be just a formality. Sure enough, we raced up

the rest of the route. On the final 50 metres I realised

just how tired I was; I could not have continued

simul-climbing safely in my current state. It was over

though, the climb was finished. A dream fulfilled.

As we rappelled through the night I could not stop

smiling. It would not be long now before I would be

skiing back to Chamonix to enjoy a nice hot latte.

Fredrik Aspo seconding the third pitch (60m, M7+) of the

North Couloir Direct, about 500 metres up the route.


Geoffroy Lamarche

and Marty Hunter on

Syaokang. Kangchenjunga

and Jannu are in the

background.

While 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 experi-

ence: the 2012 New Zealand Yangma Expedition.

We wanted a remote area, a virgin peak, some-

thing 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 dif-

fer 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 offi-

cer. This greatly reduces the cost to expeditions. Our

team members were John Nankervis (Nank), John

Cocks, Nick Shearer, Paul Maxim, Martin Hunter

and Geoffroy Lamarche.

Nank researched the list, paying particular atten-

tion to eastern Nepal (Yanak Himal), looking for

unclimbed peaks of less than 6500m that didn’t

look too steep. Our objective needed to be achiev-

able, 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–

THE 2012 NEW ZEALAND YANGMA EXPEDITIONwords and photos by NICK SHEARER


t o p Looking towards

Tibet from the summit of

Syaokang.

a b o v e Base Camp at Syao

(4400m).

Nepalese expedition in 1985, although the lower

east and central peaks were climbed in 1982 by a

Japanese–Nepalese group. A small Australian expe-

dition 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 suc-

cessfully 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 sup-

plies 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 nar-

row winding mountain road. Many of our staff were

chosen because they were originally from the area,

and this helped in organising the 37 porters for the

trek in to Base Camp.

After four day’s trekking, we had a rest day in

the border town of Olangchung Gola to help with

acclimatisation. The Tibetan influence in this village

is very strong as yak trains make their way over the

border several times each summer on trading mis-

sions. 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 cantile-

vered 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 vil-

lage 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 reconnais-

sance in the valley to the east, looking for a suitable

site for our base camp. We settled on a sheltered flat

yak pasture just up from the summer settlement of

Syao (4400m).

Mountaineering in Nepal has its advantages. One

is that the staff have an ability to make base camps a


t o p 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 hot-

water bottles for our sleeping bags. My one, a wobbly

red one, was named Nigella and became the source of

some amusement and envy.

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 termi-

nal 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 but-

tresses and icefalls. We spent our first day above the

camp finding a way through.

Up until now we had had almost perfect weather,

but our second evening at the top camp was most

unpleasant. Although wind and blizzard battered the

three tents during the night, we woke early to a fine

day and only a few centimetres of new snow. Getting

away at 7.00am, we followed our route up the boul-

der 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 sum-

mit. Marty was feeling weak and unwell, with stom-

ach issues, but doggedly kept following the trail. Near

the summit ridge, the slope steepened and became

very exposed. We pitched the last rope-length, and

had turns standing on the tiny summit. It was

4.00pm and the altimeter read 6045m. There was a

northern summit that was noticeably lower than our

one, and a southern summit that might have been

a touch higher. It was a long way away from our

summit, and separated by a deep gap in the ridge.

We had climbed the central summit of Syaokang!

There were great views of Jannu and Kanchenjunga

to the east, but to the west clouds blocked the view

towards Everest. To the north, between clouds, we

had glimpses of Chaw Peak and Tibet.

A couple of days later, in Base Camp, we planned

the next foray up to Yangma Pass for an attempt on

Chaw. Nank was still feeling unwell, and he decided

to stay behind to recuperate. With help from our

Sherpa staff, we eventually established a food dump

and second camp on the Phuchang Glacier.

From here we could study the route up Chaw Peak

with binoculars. What looked to be an easy ridge on

the map and on Google Earth now appeared to be a

series of broad snow ledges separated by ice-cliffs.


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.

The ice-cliffs could generally be turned by climbing

out on the southern face. The second tier of cliffs had

suffered a serac collapse, and the resulting rubble had

triggered a series of slab avalanches further down. I

could count at least seven crown walls, and I was not

comfortable with the snow stability.

We ferried some loads and established a high camp

at 5700m, just below the icefall leading to Yangma

Pass. From here a route through the crevasses ended

in a steep wall. Geoffroy showed off the skills he

had learnt as a guide and led this spectacular pitch

of ice of dubious quality, opening the route to the

pass (5900m).

At this stage, sadly, the decision was made to

turn back. The snow and avalanche conditions were

suspect, time and food were in short supply, and

we were down to one stove because the others had

clogged in the cold conditions.

Meanwhile, at Base Camp, Nank had been having

a long-distance consultation with Dr Richard Price

on the sat phone. The phone was a pre-pay and

eventually ran out of credit. We had just enough

left to send a text to Dawa with a plea to top it up. A

garbled reply followed, and after a day’s confusion

it was up and running again. Being able to com-

municate 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 dan-

gerous 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 Bremer-

Kamp, who helped organise the project. Back in

Kathmandu, we learned that few other expeditions

to eastern Nepal had had the success we had expe-

rienced, due to the cold and poor snow conditions.

We were lucky, but—to paraphrase Sam Goldwyn—

the better we plan, the luckier we get.

Nank received excellent care and made a good

recovery. Before flying homewards, we had a few days

in Kathmandu to shop, get haircuts, and have lei-

surely lunches in the café at the Pilgrims Bookstore.

Sadly, the bookstore later burned down (in May

2013). We are very thankful for the logistical sup-

port from Dawa’s efficient, friendly team at Dream

Himalaya Adventures. Our gratitude also goes to the

NZAC Expedition Fund and Promax (Paul’s build-

ing company) for financial support. And, finally, we

thank the Yangma Supporters Group and our fami-

lies and friends, who contributed to our successful

and amicable expedition.


a b o v e White Wave from

the 5-7 Arête. Rob Frost

[The desire to conquer mountains] doubtless owes its force partly to the attraction of the unknown and partly

to the natural beauty and sublime grandeur of mountainous districts; but I like to think that it goes deeper;

that the wish to explore springs from a delight in the purely aesthetic nature of the quest.

–Eric Shipton, in Nanda Devi

This is an account of the first expedi-

tion to attempt Anidesha Chuli (White

Wave), a 6900m peak in the wild, alluring

Kangchenjunga region of Nepal. It’s a mountain that

is, in my eyes, as beautiful as they come. When I saw

it, I knew I’d dream about it for the rest of my life

regardless of whether or not we would successfully

climb it. Unfortunately, we weren’t successful, but

this expedition taught us much. Each of us grew and

developed as mountaineers, and the secret of how

to climb White Wave has effectively been unlocked.

I can thank the members of the 1975 New Zealand

expedition to the north face of Jannu for indirectly

inspiring this expedition. That team had a view of

White Wave from almost all locations on their route,

and the mountain is described as ‘awesome’ and

THE 2013 NEW ZEALAND WHITE WAVE EXPEDITION by ROB FROST


Climbing up the 5-7 Aréte.

Wedge Peak is behind.

Rob Frost

‘beautiful’ in the resulting book about that attempt,

Wall of Shadows by Graeme Dingle. Ding’s book also

contains some stunning photos of White Wave, and

from the moment I saw them, I knew this expedition

had to happen.

I visited Nepal and the Kangchenjunga region for

the first time with my partner Claire in September

2011, not long after I learned of White Wave’s exis-

tence. We hired a guide and three local porters for

what was supposed to be a 31-day journey. We were

to visit the south and north sides of Kangchenjunga,

the Tibetan border, and the base of White Wave

itself. Instead we got a much shorter trek with rain,

leeches, and finally a magnitude 6.9 earthquake when

we were at 4100m, one day below White Wave.

We retreated through fresh rockfall zones and

were highly disappointed not to have seen much

of what we’d been looking forward to. However, I

stumbled across a crucial book during a night in the

village of Ghunsa. The book was about the second

ascent of Kambachen (7802m) by a Yugoslavian

expedition in 1974, from the nearby Ramtang Valley.

Whilst acclimatising, they climbed Ramtang Chang

(Wedge Peak, 6802m) and obtained a terrific view

of White Wave from the north. Their eventual route

on Kambachen ascended via a 6350m col between

White Wave and Kambachen. This, it appeared, was

the closest anyone had been to the summit of White

Wave, and the east ridge from the col to the sum-

mit looked feasible. This had to be the way to climb

the mountain.

Fast-forward to 2013. I’d managed to recruit Ben

Dare, Andrei van Dusschoten and Scott Blackford

Scheele. The four of us had secured generous fund-

ing from NZAC, the Mt Everest Foundation and

Sport New Zealand. Ben and Andrei had climbed in

the Nepali Himalaya before, but it was to be the first

mountaineering outside of New Zealand for me and

Scott.

The approach trek to White Wave is quite long—

about ten days allowing for acclimatisation—so with

the aim of summiting in early to mid-May, we

departed Christchurch in early April 2013. We spent

three days in Kathmandu, then 30 uncomfortable

hours on a bus to Taplejung, where the trek begins. We

passed through the balmy altitude of 1000m on day

one, and by the end of day five had reached Ghunsa

(3400m) where temperatures were decidedly chilly.

Ghunsa is the highest permanently inhabited village

in the valley, and has a micro-hydro scheme, satellite

phone and TV, plus plenty of delicious potatoes.

Our ideal base camp location was three days above

Ghunsa, at about 5000m in the Ramtang Valley. The

Jannu and Ramtang valleys lie parallel to each other

and flow into the main Kangchenjunga Valley one

and two days up-valley from Ghunsa respectively.

Our agent had assumed that travel in the Ramtang

would be similar to the pleasant grassy terraces of

the Jannu Valley, so at Ghunsa we exchanged por-

ters for yaks. It turned out that the only way up the

Ramtang Valley is over several kilometres of moraine.

The yaks couldn’t travel over this, forcing us to set

up ‘Intermediate Base Camp’ at 4600m until local

porters became available again, one week later! In the

meantime, the four of us began carrying loads up the

Ramtang Valley.

We had a pretty good idea from the 1974 Polish

and Yugoslav expeditions to Kambachen that the eas-


t o p Intermediate Base

Camp. Rob Frost

a b o v e Ben and Scott

(just up and left of centre-

frame) climbing above

Canp 2. Rob Frost

iest route to the Ramtang névé followed moraine and

scree slopes on the true right of the Ramtang icefall.

The route towards the 6350m col—the base of White

Wave’s east ridge—then passes for two kilometres

underneath huge icecliffs hanging from the slopes

of Kambachen. As soon as we saw those icecliffs, we

vowed to find a route up the true left of the icefall to

avoid having to pass underneath them!

Below the icefall, we also obtained our first views

of White Wave. It really was the most beautiful peak

in the area, and it appeared that the north ridge may

also offer a route to the summit, which would be con-

venient if we could get up the true left of the icefall.

By the end of April, we were resting in a new base

camp (4800m) in the Ramtang Valley, with a gear

cache at 5100m and Camp 1 established at 5500m

on the true left of the icefall. Andrei and Scott had

discovered a route from Camp 1 to the true-left edge

of the névé via a prominent snow arête at 5700m,

which we dubbed the 5-7 Arête. From there Andrei

obtained the first unobscured photos of the entire

upper mountain.

Andrei’s photos weren’t very encouraging. Access

to the base of the north ridge involved either climb-

ing 300-metres of steep rock or spending an extend-

ed time beneath icecliffs on the north-east face, so we

focused our ambitions back to the east ridge. The 5-7

Arête was a long way from the 6350m col, and the

route between them appeared—with a quick glance

only—to be quite broken with crevasses. We decided

to attempt a route closer to us—up the left side of the

north-east face, following a series of interconnecting

snow shelves to join the east ridge at about 6500m.

The snow shelves appeared to be separated by some

steeper sections of ice, but these looked short and at

most 60 degrees.

We established Camp 2 at 6000m on the Ramtang

névé, right below our intended route to the east ridge.

The four of us spent two nights there, to acclimatise

and to give a recent snowfall time to consolidate. We

had enough food for Scott and Ben to make a summit

attempt, plus a little extra for my planned attempt

with Andrei a few days later. On reflection, that rest

day at Camp 2 is when things really seemed like they

could work out, more than any other time on the

trip. We were enjoying spending time together as a

team and going through the motions of simply being

at 6000m on a Himalayan expedition. Our situation

would be quite different 24 hours later.

On 4 May, Andrei and I climbed for two hours

above Camp 2 on a bitterly cold morning, kicking

steps for Ben and Scott and depositing a cache of gear

for them near the base of the steeper climbing above.

We passed them on their way up just before dawn.

We all wished each other well for the next few days,

then they began their climb towards the east ridge,

whilst we descended towards Base Camp.

At 2.00pm we caught up on the radios. Ben and

Scott thought they were about one to two pitches

below the crest of the east ridge, and had found the

climbing to be steeper than expected. The 40-50

degree snow shelves had been exhausting and the

60-70 degree ice steps were bullet-hard. Moderate

snow was falling and visibility was limited to about

100-metres. Also, the snow shelves were not stable,

with audible whoomping on several occasions, but

they accepted this due to having good anchors in the

ice sections. Ben was not feeling well, with a persis-

tent dry cough that had affected him for the previous

two weeks. It sounded likely that they would have


Scott leading the last pitch,

just before the avalanche.

Ben Dare

Camp 3 set up during the late afternoon, and would

have a full day’s rest before attempting to summit.

* * *

The subsequent happenings went something like this:

4 May3.00pm: Scott begins leading a pitch on 70 degree ice

at about 6450m. Ben is belaying from an anchor of

two half-driven snow stakes.

3.15pm: Andrei and I arrive at Base Camp (4800m)

for two days of rest and enjoy a fresh coffee and Nak-

cheese omelette, courtesy of our cook Ang Nima.

3.30pm: After climbing 20-metres of steep ice, Scott

wallows up a 50 degree shelf of soft snow, out of view

from Ben. Small spindrift avalanches wash over Ben

every few minutes. A larger avalanche makes Ben

brace himself firmly on the anchor, with the ropes

locked off. When the snow clears, the ropes are head-

ing down, not up, from his belay device. Looking

down, Ben can see Scott hanging upside-down, not

moving, about 40-metres below the anchor. Ben

immediately makes preparations to descend to Scott,

fearing the worst. After three to four minutes, Scott

begins to move, and tries to right himself. When Ben

reaches him, he sees that Scott’s helmet is almost in

three pieces and one crampon is missing. Scott is

delirious and confused. Apart from his head injury,

Scott is relatively unscathed. Ben begins lowering

Scott down the mountain.

8.00pm: Andrei and I chow down on some goat curry

and soon retire for an early night.

11.00pm: Ben and Scott settle in for the night at a

camp Ben has set up below an icecliff at about 6350m.

Ben ties Scott in to stop him wandering off during

the night.

5 May7.30am: Ben continues to lower Scott, reaching ter-

rain easy enough for walking around midday after

five or six ropelengths.

12.45pm: Andrei departs Base Camp for the 2.00pm

radio sched at 5100m (there was no radio coverage

with the upper mountain from Base Camp). He takes

the satellite phone with him in case a weather forecast

text message arrives en-route.

1.30pm: Ben struggles to make decent progress

downhill through soft snow with Scott and two

packs, especially when Scott decides he wants to

climb the mountain again and it takes Ben several

minutes to rein him in!

2.00pm: Andrei and Ben both attempt to initiate

radio contact for the next hour. Andrei can hear Ben,

but Ben cannot hear Andrei due to a faulty radio

(which was in Scott’s lid pocket when he fell).

2.30pm: Ben and Scott finally reach Camp 2, 23 hours

after Scott’s fall. As radio communications have still

been unsuccessful, Ben activates the PLB at 2:40pm.

3.15pm: Andrei, still attempting to contact Ben from

5100m, receives a text message from New Zealand on

the sat phone: Please call me as soon as you can. Mum

and Dad have got news that the emergency beacon has

gone off. Obviously everyone is very worried. Talk soon,

Jo. Andrei calls Jo (my sister) to advise that he does

not know any details of the situation higher on the

mountain, but has heard Ben on the radio ‘calling

from Camp 2.’ He then makes fast progress back to

Base Camp to advise me of the situation.

5.45pm: Andrei and I depart Base Camp to climb to

Camp 2 in order to ascertain the situation. We do

not know if Ben and Scott are together or even who


Scott after the first day of

lowering. Ben Dare

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

8.00pm: Ben tries to get to sleep (Scott has no problem

with this task), wondering how he’ll get Scott down

to Base Camp if nobody contacts him tomorrow.

10.30pm: Leaving Camp 1, Andrei and I check in

with my parents in New Zealand and are informed

that still only one ‘burst’ has been received from the

PLB. Perhaps it was only an accidental activation?

We will not be impressed if that is the case!

6 May1.00am: Andrei and I have gained the upper Ramtang

névé and are finding our way from marker pole to

marker pole in decreasing visibility. By the time the

last pole, still one kilometre from Camp 2, is reached,

we are too cold to even stop for a snack (our warmest

clothes are already at Camp 2). The old tracks have

been filled in with wind-blown snow but a faint trace

of the route remains.

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

Andrei and I have arrived at Camp 2 and quickly

learn what has happened. I’m able to provide acci-

dent and location details via the satellite phone to my

parents, who begin coordinating an evacuation for

Scott. Neither our agent nor his company office can

be reached, but the New Zealand Honorary Consul

in Kathmandu comes to the rescue and contacts a

helicopter company for us.

* * *

Scott and Ben were collected from Camp 2 at about

9.30am on 6 May, in a helicopter piloted by Simone

Moro. The journey to Vayodha hospital in Kathmandu

took around three hours. There, Scott was subjected to

a CAT scan and other tests. These tests indicated mod-

erate swelling/bruising to his brain. His behaviour

was described as demonstrating ‘altered sensorium

and delirium’. The tests and behavioural observa-

tions indicated Scott had suffered severe concussion,

and possibly high-altitude cerebral edema (HACE),

although the latter seems interesting due our con-

servative acclimatisation and Scott’s good condition

prior to the accident. He was closely monitored for six

days, and his condition improved sufficiently for him

to be discharged on 14 May. Ben and Scott returned to

New Zealand on 17 May, and by the end of June Scott

had completely recovered and resumed working as a

guide at Fox Glacier.

Back at Camp 2 on 6 May, Andrei and I were

exhausted. We hardly moved that afternoon, and

spent the following day carting the remaining

equipment from Camp 2 back down to Base Camp.

After a couple of days rest there, and hearing

that Scott was doing well in hospital, we became

enthused about another attempt via the 6350m

col—a longer but less technical route. However,

we’d used up all the credit on the sat phone, so

nobody knew of our intentions.

* * *

9 May, 1:40pm: Andrei and I are packed for our

attempt, but I’ve been feeling uneasy all day, appre-

hensive, on edge. Blustery weather doesn’t help, it

flaps our tents and dries my eyes out. I’m mainly

agitated because we’ve tried about a dozen mes-

sages from the InReach to try to get credit added

to the sat phone and to send people updates. We

haven’t received any responses, so it’s not working.

We’ve been sent messages from Mum, Dad, Jo and

others asking if we want to talk: So gutted about the

situation you’re in, etc. Nobody knows we’re about

to have another crack, not even Claire. I can’t bear


t o p Phole and

Sobithongje.

m i d d l e Wedge Peak

and Ramtang.

b o t t o m The Jannu

Valley. Rob Frost (all)

to embark from here without her knowing. I didn’t

want to leave Base Camp until the phone was topped

up, but Andrei persuaded me we should go to Camp

1 for now. Dawa’s on a mission to Ghunsa to request

a top-up. Hopefully it comes through tonight or we’ll

stay put at Camp 1.

* * *

We hiked up to Camp 1 in anticipation of being able

to contact people that night. We spent two nights

there, but in the end, the sat phone top-up never

arrived. Without anyone aware of our intentions,

and with no way of contacting anyone if we had an

accident of our own, we aborted our attempt. We

climbed for a couple of hours to a superb viewpoint

at the base of the 5-7 Arête, and set up a bamboo pole

with a New Zealand flag, Nepali flag, and prayer flags.

My dissatisfaction at having been turned back by

such a stupid mistake is hard to articulate. All of us

had put in so much effort to get to where we were,

and Andrei and I wasted it. We didn’t even get one

day of climbing on the entire trip. Of course there

were many, many positives that came out of the expe-

dition (not the least of which involved the snow stake

anchor holding and saving the lives of both Scott and

Ben), but we can’t get around the fact that Andrei

and I weren’t able to give it a proper shot. That will

always be disappointing, but also a very good lesson

for future trips.

We got a chance to visit the Jannu Valley dur-

ing our trek out. It’s a visually stunning place, and

far more comfortable than the Ramtang Valley,

but White Wave looks pretty difficult from the

Jannu side!

A more detailed discussion on the outcomes and

lessons learned on the expedition is contained in

our expedition report, available from the NZAC

National Office or from climber.co.nz. In summary,

we found the pre-monsoon conditions suitable for

our attempt, and we recommend the Ramtang Valley

as the best side of the mountain to launch an attempt

from. The best route would take the true left of the

icefall onto the 5-7 Arête, cross the névé to the 6350m

col, then finally take the east ridge to the summit.

Another team of New Zealand mountaineers, after

hearing our stories and seeing our photos, consider

Anidesha Chuli to be a worthwhile objective, and

have planned an attempt via the Ramtang Valley

for April/May 2014. We look forward to following

their progress.

There are more than 20 other unclimbed peaks

in the Kangchenjunga region on the Nepalese gov-

ernment’s list of unclimbed peaks. The unclimbed

multi-summit massif of Phole-Sobithongje (6670m),

immediately adjacent to Jannu, most impressed our

team. The reasonably steep Ramtang Glacier aspect

of Ramtang (6700m) also appears to be unclimbed.The team would like to offer their sincere thanks to the following organisations and individuals for their financial, logistical, and moral support: the New Zealand Alpine Club, the Mount Everest Foundation, Sport New Zealand, Fox Glacier Guiding, iClimb, Norman Hardie, Graham and Glenis Frost, Joanna Mason, Tony Clarke, Dick Price, Lisa Choegyal, and most of all our partners, Claire, Caroline, June, and Jude.


Gasherbrum II, taken

from Gasherbrum I. K2 is

behind.

Chris Jensen Burke

I knew in the planning phases that this expedi-

tion 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 moun-

tain in the world, at 8068m. Gasherbrum II (G2)

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 sub-

sidary to major peaks). So by the time this article

goes to print, goodness knows where G1 and G2 will

stand in the list of the world’s highest mountains.

The Gasherbrums are located in the Gilgit-

Baltistan 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

MY EXPEDITION TO GASHERBRUMS I AND II IN PAKISTANby CHRIS JENSEN BURKE


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

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 moun-

tains, up the Baltoro and Concordia glaciers. The

Baltoro Glacier itself is around 62 kilometres long.

Apparently we trekked over 150 kilometres each way

over sand, gravel, rocks and terminal moraine. As we

got higher, the rocks got larger. The upper moraine

required a lot of rock hopping and we had to watch

our feet to avoid nasty ankle injuries. When you want

to look at the scenery on this trek it is best to stop to

take photos. Try to do both at your peril!

Once I was looking at the scenery, I found I didn’t

want to miss anything so I took a lot of photos and

kept my feet still. As I walked up the Baltoro Glacier

I had the Trango Tower group on my left and

Masherbrum on my right, with many other peaks

and glaciers in view. As we reached the end of the

Baltoro Glacier, Broad Peak and K2 came into view.

To see these two mountains for the first time, and

without any cloud cover, was really special.

Probably even more spectacular was that when

we approached our G1 and G2 base camp, G1 came

into view with a lenticular ‘bridal cap’ over the upper

reaches of the mountain. It weaved and wiggled with

the strong winds. It was mesmerising.

We made up time during the trek that we had lost

due to a delayed start to our expedition. This meant

long trekking days but it was worthwhile as we got a

lot of time to acclimatise higher up on the mountains.

We, like many other climbers, attempted G2 first.

There were more climbers on G2 at the time so that

meant more ‘manpower’ for ropes to be fixed to

the mountain. However, with soft conditions pretty

much all the way to the summit, nothing ever really

felt ‘fixed’.

For both G1 and G2, the same base camp and Camp

1 is used. From Base Camp to Camp 1, it was necessary

for us to navigate a soft and spongy icefall with huge

crevasses. Sherpas on various expeditions described

the upper icefall as ‘like walking on mushrooms’.

It comprised soft canopies with stems underneath,

and little certainty about where those stems actually

were. Nobody underestimated the icefall. Camp 1 sat

around one hour beyond the top of the icefall. Banana

Ridge on G2, between Camp 1 and Camp 2, was curly

to negotiate in soft conditions. When climbing on an

overhanging cornice I crossed my fingers and toes

that the conditions were not so soft that I might fall

through. Fortunately our assessment of conditions

was on the money every time. The ridge is nice and

steep, at around 50 degrees in sections, with a great

top-out just before stepping down about 20 metres

to Camp 2.

On my G2 summit day, I attempted to climb with-

out the use of supplementary oxygen. If I had not

recently come off Lhotse and been planning to try for

a G1 summit, I might have held out and not started

on supplementary oxygen, which I did after about

four hours, but I was cold and couldn’t get warm. I

was starting to drop behind the climbing pack, and

could feel any chance of reaching the summits of G2


Chris on the summit of

Gasherbrum I.

Lakpa Sherpa

and G1 slipping away. Ideally, I should have had an

extra week on the mountains in order to acclimatise

more for climbing without supplementary oxygen.

But our time had been reduced due to our initial

delays, so I made the call to go onto supplementary

oxygen. Lakpa moved onto supplementary oxygen

not long after me. We soon caught up with the

climbing pack again and continued to the summit in

good health on 21 July.

As we approached the summit and saw the condi-

tion of the four climbers who were climbing without

supplementary oxygen, I knew we had made the right

decision. Not long after, Lakpa and I came to the aid

of one of the climbers as he attempted to descend in

a state of complete exhaustion. Lakpa was also keen

that we both retain as many brain cells as possible so

that we could climb safely for as long as possible. I

agreed. Mountaineers climbing at high altitude have

enough oxygen deprivation as it is without depleting

it further voluntarily. The experience, and my own

physiology have made me think that any further

climb of an 8000m peak by me without supplemen-

tary oxygen is unlikely.

After our G2 summit, Lakpa and I continued

down to Camp 1. It was a huge day, with all other

Western climbers, bar one electing to stop at Camp

3 and Camp 2. We wanted to get down lower for the

additional oxygen benefits. We were feeling strong

and felt we could descend safely.

Initially, we thought we would try to go up to the

summit of G1 from Camp 1, rather than descending

back to Base Camp. But our weather window did not

permit this approach. Instead, we descended back

through the icefall to Base Camp to avoid incoming

bad weather.

After a few days at Base Camp resting and eating

(and even having a shower with a bucket and a cup)

we headed back up through the much-melted icefall.

In a matter of days we found ourselves in a com-

pletely altered environment.

I was not entirely convinced I could reach the

summit of G1 so soon after our G2 summit. I felt

exhausted. The mountain was not fixed and I was

somewhat shaken by the deaths of three lovely

Spanish climbers near the summit of G1 only a few

days before. Their bodies had not, at that stage, been

located on the mountain. By the time we were at

Camp 3 on G1, the weather was not behaving even

close to our forecasts, so we elected to delay our

summit push by a day. This meant a small amount

of food rationing. Some climbers who had left their

tents on our first night at Camp 3 lost them in high

winds. Without the weight of people inside they were

like kites flying in the wind. Pretty soon, Lakpa, two

other Sherpas and I were sharing a two to three per-

son tent with six people. We all got very little sleep.

Although Lakpa and I had come to the mountains

prepared to climb alpine style if required, there were

others who wanted to share our rope. Given that by

this stage four people had died climbing alpine style

on the mountain, I was less keen to share a rope with

climbers I had not climbed with before.

The next night, as we readied ourselves to leave our

tent for the summit, Lakpa got on the radio to message

our movements down to Base Camp. When he fin-

ished the call, he informed me that Marty Schmidt had

not radioed in from Camp 3 on K2 for 24 hours. My

heart sank. It was another blow; it left me wondering

if I had the mental and physical strength to go to the

G1 summit. I tried to place the information in a locked

section of my mind for the time being. I held out hope.

As we left our tent in the early hours of the morn-

ing, Lakpa and I moved at a slow and steady pace.

After eight or so hours, we reached the summit of

G1. It was 29 July. We had a picture perfect clear day.

The two of us could not fit on the summit for a photo

at the same time—time and energy did not permit.

Individual summit photos would have to suffice.

I can’t believe how fortunate we were to have such

good weather on our summit days for both G2 and

G1. Pakistan is known for its changeable weather yet

it surprised everybody on our trip.

After a few days back at Base Camp packing up


Gasherbrum I, from

Gasherbrum II.

Chris Jensen Burke

and waiting for porters and mules, we trekked out to

Askole. We did the trek in three days, which meant

we had 12-hour days on the glacier. However, as we

were descending, we were aware that we might get

to sleep in a bed, could fill our stomachs with more

food and maybe even have a shower at some point,

so we just kept on moving.

The expedition adventure was not over once we

got to Askole. Heavy rains had caused landslides

and destroyed sections of road so we had to change

vehicles four times and ferry our gear across the

landslides ourselves or with the assistance of porters.

After a day in a jeep from Askole to Skardu, it finally

felt like the expedition had come to an end.

We were treated so wonderfully by the people we

met, and they looked after us so well. So, with sadness,

I mention the terrible tragedy that occurred at Nanga

Parbat Base Camp on or about 23 June, in which

ten climbers and one expedition crew member were

killed, in terrible circumstances, by people claiming

to be from a faction of the Taliban. We had had to

make the very tough decision as to whether we would

continue to the mountains or not. We also had to wait

to see if our climbing permits would still issue. Ours

did, and the decision to continue became ours. After

much consideration, we decided to continue. Many

continued, many did not. For me, it was a case of not

wanting such despicable evil to prevail. But, we were

well aware that many innocent people who went to

Pakistan in peace and to experience the wonder of

the mountains would not be returning home to their

loved ones. Those who lost their lives, their families

and friends remain in our thoughts.

My experience in Pakistan was so very powerful.

At the time of writing, I am still processing the expe-

dition. I guess that is part of the joy of mountaineer-

ing—the journey continues even when one comes

off a mountain.


The team’s high camp,

in front of the huge and

complex Dawn Wall

(1000–1500m high).

The wall stretches three

kilometres from the

Djanghorn (5274m), which

is in the cloud on the left,

north to Pik After You

(5318m), on the right,

the highest peak in the

Djangart region.

Hugh Thomas

We piled out of the huge military helicop-

ter and it flew off, leaving us in the blaz-

ing sun next to 500kg of food and kit.

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

wrong valley!’

It was not the smoothest start to an expedition, but

after checking the GPS and our 1980s Soviet maps,

it turned out we were in the right mountain range,

and only four hours’ walk from where our planned

camp was. In fact the location turned out to be just

as good if not better than where we were originally

intending to camp.

I was one of a team of six who’d flown in to the

Djangart Mountains, in the central Kokshal Too,

Kyrgyzstan. We’d planned to spend 24 days in the

mountains and were hoping to make several first

ascents in the glacial valleys above our camp. The

highest peak in the area is 5318m, and had been

climbed by an American team about three weeks

before we arrived. This was a disappointment until

we realised it allowed us to look around and focus on

aesthetic lines from the start of the trip, rather than

being fixated on a single peak.

Splitting into two teams of three, we started

exploring the glaciers above our base camp. Base

camp was at 3200m. To start with acclimatisation

above this height felt slow. On our initial forays we

were struggling to sleep, suffering from headaches

and generally lacking energy. We knew it would only

take a few days to get over this but with the amount

of awesome looking potential around us we wanted

to make the most of every day.

After a day of forced rest due to bad weather we

still weren’t fully acclimatised but thought we’d

be fine up to about 5000m as long as the climbing

wasn’t too difficult. With this in mind Max, Timmy

FIRST ASCENTS IN KYRGYZSTANby REG MEASURES


and I set our sights on peak 5051m. There is an aes-

thetic line up the north-west face that tops out high

on the west ridge. Going light from a high camp at

around 4000m we started soloing up the 700 metres

of 45–70° névé to the ridge. We were managing to

move reasonably quickly but with the altitude it felt

punishing. The ridge never seemed to get any closer

and we were taking fewer and fewer steps between

pauses to slump over our axes. Once on the ridge

the angle eased off a bit and—taking care to avoid

the cornices—we made our way to the top, stoked to

have our first route in the bag and to have made the

first ascent of a 5000m peak.

We still had a couple of day’s worth of food at our

high camp so we moved further up the glacier. From

there we recced the approach to an awesome look-

ing gully on another unclimbed peak. This peak was

slightly higher, at 5162m, but we were starting to feel

acclimatised now. The ice was continuous, although

it looked a bit thin in the middle and it was hard to

tell how steep it was.

An early start the next morning got us to the base

of the route for first light. Getting over the bergschr-

und was awkward but after that the first couple of

pitches weren’t too hard. Over the next pitches it

got a bit steeper and protection became harder to

find. The ice had formed over a layer of snow and

didn’t really take screws but the rock was quite fri-

able and covered by verglass. I led some steepish

ice and then Max went through a bit of mixed to

get around a thin unprotectable section. Above the

mixed ground we were relieved to see the angle ease

off. Overall the climbing was awesome and by the

time we reached the ridge we had done about 500

metres vertical over nine pitches and some simul-

climbing. On the summit it was decision time, none

of us really wanted to have to rappel the route but

no other descent was obvious from the summit. We

thought that carrying on along the ridge would allow

an easy descent. Unfortunately we couldn’t see the

full descent clearly from the summit or anywhere on

the route or approach and we knew that there was a

serac band barring it at one point. Given the likely

difficulty in finding suitable anchors for rappelling

and the appeal of making a traverse of the mountain,

we decided to carry on along the heavily corniced


a b o v e Max Folkett

topping out onto easier

ground at the top of Open

Misère, Pik Vinton-Boot

(5162m). Reg Measures

r i g h t The Kyrgyzstan

Army MI8 helicopter

departs, leaving the team

in not quite the planned

location. Reg Measures

ridge, figuring that we would probably be able to

force a way. After traversing about 700 metres of

ridge, we reached snow slopes which we descended to

a hanging glacier. From there we managed to traverse

across and around the serac barrier and back to the

base of the route.

With two routes in the bag we were feeling good

and were finally happy with our acclimatisation. On

the other side of the valley from where we had been

climbing there was an amazing-looking face (the

‘Dawn Wall’), capped by a superb ridge. We decided

that for our next route we should try the ridge traverse

from the glacier on its far side. This included a very

steep section up the south ridge of Pt 5274m, the high-

est unclimbed peak in the area. From there it looked

like a long (2.5 kilometres)—but hopefully not too

technical—traverse to the col before Pt 5318m. This

col was the only easy escape option off the ridge before

the unclimbed south ridge of that peak.

After descending to base camp we picked up a

weather forecast on the sat-phone: two more days of

good weather, then it was going to turn bad for the

next week or so. Scrapping our plans for a rest day we

re-packed and walked in to set up a high camp ready

for the traverse. At 4.30am the next day the first glim-

mers of dawn started to appear. We were feeling a bit

weary but the route looked great and we could just

make out that the snow gully up to the start of the

ridge wasn’t going to be too technical.

A loud boom echoed around the glacier and we

tensed up, straining our eyes to see what had caused

it. There was a brief pause and I assumed it must have

been some rockfall on the other (east facing) side

of the mountain. Then suddenly we spotted sparks

as the first rocks hit the bottom of the face in front

of us and spun across the glacier. The rockfall was

on our side of the mountain, directly above us. We

immediately ran to the right, trying to get out of the

line of fire. Then the rope caught. We were roped up

for glacier travel and the rope between me and Max

was hooked round a rock embedded in the glacier,

pinning us in place. Timmy was pretty much clear

but Max was still quite exposed and I was somewhere

in the middle. With rocks flying past it was too late

to unhook the rope and all we could do was dodge.

A football-sized rock hit Max and I saw him get

knocked to the ground. Unable to dodge, he curled

into a ball. I watched as some other bigger rocks just

missed him. Then it was all over. I’d managed to

dodge everything but I was worried about Max. I was


Timmy Elson and Max

Folkett descending the west

ridge of Peak Macmillan

(5051m). Reg Measures

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

Regrouping in a safe spot, we assessed the dam-

age. The rock had hit Max’s hip. It wasn’t broken

but it was bruising and hurting pretty badly. The

rock had smashed an ice screw off his harness and

bent its hanger in the process. Another smaller rock

had also cut up his hand. Other damage included

our brand-new rope which had been cut 90 per cent

of the way through. Retreating back to Base Camp,

we left a load of food and gear at the site of our

high camp to lighten Max’s load and to prepare for

another attempt.

The weather was really variable for the next ten

days or so and, while we managed to explore some

of the other glaciers, the visibility and snow condi-

tions weren’t good enough to climb anything safely.

On the plus side this allowed Max time to recover,

but we were very aware that we were running out of

time on the trip. Eventually, with two days left before

the helicopter was due to pick us up, we got a good

weather forecast. We made a call on the sat phone to

try and get the pick-up moved back a day, to allow

more climbing, and went back up to our gear stash.

Starting from our high camp at 1.00am we climbed

back up to where we had been hit by rockfall the last

time. I was in front and went flat-out, kicking steps as

fast as I possibly could to get through the rockfall dan-

ger and onto the ridge. We’d figured it would take up

to about eight hours to climb the steep granite ridge up

to the summit of Pt 5274m. Above the col we found

the climbing steep and loose. Max led the crux in rock

shoes, with a mixture of free and aid he climbed an

overhanging corner at about grade 20. After seven very

time-consuming awkward pitches and several sections

of tricky simul-climbing we reached soft snow slopes

leading to the summit. We summited at 5.30pm after

twelve and a half hours on the ridge and started the

traverse. By the time dark fell we were over the next

major peak but had to back-track a section to avoid

some rock steps. Stopping to melt water and eat we

contemplated bivvying to avoid having to routefind

in the dark but it was very cold so we pushed on. We

reached the col before the last peak at 1.30am and took

the escape option back down to our high camp. At out

tent we checked the sat-phone only to find we still had

no confirmation that the helicopter pick-up date had

been moved so it was potentially arriving at 8.00am!

With this in mind we reluctantly collapsed the tent

and walked the four hours back to basecamp, ending

a 31-hour day. The helicopter didn’t arrive until the

following day.

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

First ascents completed: Frima Face (AD+ 45–70° 900m/MC3+) on Pik Macmillan (5051m). Open Misère (500m, MC5) on Pik Vinton-Boot (5162m). The South Ridge of the Djanghorn (5274m). Traverse of Pt 5207m.

Second ascents completed: Pik Buddyness (5172m). Pik Betelgeuse (ED VI/MC6) (5100m).


a b o v e Graham second-

ing on the ridgeline above

the East Buttress.

Scott Bennett

South-west of Denali, deep in the Alaska Range,

rises a valley of giant granite walls. They are

known as the Revelation Mountains and have

a reputation for beautiful, difficult climbing and ter-

rible weather. In June of 2013 Scott Bennett and I

visited these mountains in search of new rock routes

on beautiful peaks.

We arrived in Talkeetna just as a legendary high

pressure spell was coming to a sharp close. The

clouds closed in and we spent five days waiting in

town until we were able to fly into the range. Luckily

for us, many successful teams were flying out after

sending the West Buttress of Denali and we had a

constant stream of friends both old and new arriving

in town. It also gave us plenty of time to dial in our

logistics.

Due to it being the later part of the season we

were not able to land a fixed wing aeroplane on the

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

by GRAHAM ZIMMERMAN


l e f t Flying out of the

Revelations.

Scott Bennett

b e l o w View of the Angel

from the helicopter.

Graham Zimmerman

Revelations Glacier, forcing us to hire the Talkeetna

Air Taxi's R44 helicopter to insert us into the range.

Unfortunately the payload of the R44 is far lower

than their aeroplanes so instead of the usual heavy

load of food and kit we had to pare down to the

absolute bare minimum. Our gear was the lightest we

could imagine affording, our food was only what was

most dense in calories.

Getting to the Revelations involves bumping over

the crest of the Alaska Range. When we approached,

it was clear on the east side of the mountains, but as

we neared our intended pass, storm clouds loomed

and it began to rain. While our pilot Will was quiet

and focussed, we sat with our eyes wide as rain started

to pelt the front of the cockpit. The tiny machine

rocked as the wind picked up over the pass. Ominous

dark faces and sprawling dry glacier surrounded us.

Long minutes later we were safely over the pass and

we dropped into the Revelations proper, huge walls

sprung up around us and we revelled at the hidden

gems that were now surrounding us. The glacier

below was bare ice with huge boulders cast about.

We landed on the flattest spot we could find and

unloaded our kit.

When Will flew away we were left with the silence

of the walls surrounding us and the clouds blowing

about the tops. It would be easy to say that Scott and

I are old hands at being in big mountains, but just

like the joy found in the first listening of a wonderful

new song, we were enchanted and extremely psyched

about being in the Revelations.

Within a few days we were comfortable with the

daily cycle of rain and clouds in the afternoon and

with confidence that we were not under threat from

a large weather system we launched on the East

Buttress of the Angel. It is a big route and a gem of

the range.

To begin with, the climbing was easy and we

moved quickly up granite slabs and corners. As we

gained elevation the wall got steadily steeper and we

quickly found ourselves climbing vertical corners and

faces, which were generally split by gorgeous cracks.

Where there were no cracks, we found holds and

unlocked thought provoking sequences. The climb-

ing was fun and we moved well up the terrain. As the

afternoon wore on we reached the top of the wall and

found ourselves on the ridgeline.

As soon as we started to consider looking for a

place to bivvy, an excellent spot appeared and we

were quickly able to clear a great little perch over-

looking a precipice. As the afternoon clouds started

to build we set up our tent and crawled in for some

food and a sleep.

The night passed with rain but we slept with confi-

dence in the forecast.

Morning dawned in fog, we repacked and headed

upwards. As we started, it cleared, revealing a beauti-

ful day of blue skies, low winds and amazing views.

The crest of the ridge offered beautiful, easy mixed

climbing. A tower near its end daunted us all morning

but turned out to have a beautiful, low-angled wide

crack splitting its side, which offered enjoyable climb-

ing high on the mountain. A final short ice step led

to the summit snowfield and an easy walk to the top.

The Angel (2822m)

East Buttress Scott Bennett, Graham Zimmerman. 1100m, 5.10. 13/14 July 2013.


Graham climbing gor-

geous granite on the East

Buttress of the Angel.

Scott Bennett

We looked out upon miles of beautiful mountains

with untold amounts of unclimbed lines. The wind

was mild and the sun was warm. Thus far it had been

a nearly perfect climb.

Our plan had been to descend the south ridge, but

one glance down its barren steep crest made us look

the other way. To the north we knew of one hanging

serac surrounded by steep walls. We pinned off in

that direction.

Eight hours later we were on the ground with

significantly less gear, soaked clothing and nearly

a dozen core shots. While we had managed to stay

out from under the hanger, we had managed to have

quite an adventure getting down. What we had seen

as a clean face from the ground had turned out to

be a big horror show of crappy ice, loose rock and

running water.

There was one last icefall to reach the central gla-

cier and Base Camp, and although we really wanted

this to be trivial, it was not. We endured multiple

punches into crevasses and raps off seracs. When we

finally reached our tent at 2.00am, we were exhausted

and soaked.

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


t o p Scott and Graham on

the summit.

a b o v e Scott at the pair’s

bivvy on the East Buttress.

Graham Zimmerman

as we slept.

We had planned to climb more in the range. We

were surrounded by beautiful, enticing objectives,

but the weather gods had other plans and we expe-

rienced some of the stormy conditions for which the

Revelations are known. For a week we sat in the tent,

it was a blur of podcasts, naps and nibbling on our

ever dwindling rations.

When the weather finally cleared for a few hours,

enough to get out, we jumped at the chance. Our

flights back to the lower 48 were imminent and the

forecast promised more heavy storms for the next ten

days. The helicopter came in and we got out.

Looking back on our trip it was certainly a success,

but the amount of objectives in the range have left me

with a sense of wanting more. This season I plan to

return to the range and see if I can gather a few more

experiences from the Revelations. I couldn't be more

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

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

In the spring of 2011 Mark Allen and I saw the Mastodon for

the first time.

Sitting atop Voyager Peak, in the north-west fork of the

Lacuna Glacier, after completing the first ascent of the peak, we

took in the mountains around us. Many of the peaks and faces were

familiar, but to the south, a striking steep face confronted us. We

had never seen or heard of it; we were enchanted. We took a photo

and started rappelling.

Two years later Paul Roderick from Talkeetna Air Taxis dropped

us off on a new landing strip in the Rampart Mountains, between

the lower Kahiltna and Lacuna glaciers. We had found that the

peak was named Laurens and that it had seen one solo ascent by

a European alpinist, back in the 1980s, via its snowy south face.

Over the two years since seeing the face we had nicknamed it the

Mastodon—with its striking buttresses and serac tongues we saw it

as resembling the prehistoric beast.

After two days of skiing up-glacier we pulled around a corner and

found ourselves confronted with the 1400-metre face. It was steep

and complex. We were terrified and determined. The weather was

beautiful and, after one rest day, we set off on the steepest central line.

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

An initial mixed pitch took us onto a long couloir. We unroped

and rode this upward to where the buttress-proper began. Steep

mixed ground carried us through to sunrise. As the sun hit the face

we found ourselves making wild aid and mixed moves through an

overhanging corner. Stunning granite mixed climbing carried us

through another steep pitch at which point we were comforted by

what was obviously going to be two or three pitches of hard aid.

This, in combination with hanging mushrooms baking in the sun

above, prompted us to bail. We had time and good weather—we

were not worried.

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

This time we took a line of white 100 metres to the right. Dreams

of water-ice fell apart as we fought frothy, unbounded, thin ice.

Twelve metres above our smallest cam, I called it. It was not worth

the fall potential. Under different conditions it would have been

WI4+, but that day it was too dangerous. We once again bailed

under clear skies.

On the ground, mixed emotions filled our hearts. We were

achieving our goals of being safe alpinists, making rational deci-

sions, but we were failing. We decided to check into another area

and let the Mastodon rest for a few days.

This misadventure led quite quickly to four days stuck in a tiny

tent, high on a remote glacier in a classic heavy Alaskan snowstorm.

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

When we finally emerged, the Mastodon loomed over us all the way

back to camp, taunting us with its beautiful lines.

As the face shed its fresh snow the pressure skyrocketed and we

repacked our bags. Another line to the right had presented itself,

steep clean and clear of objective hazard. We launched.

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

Above, the face kicked back into a series of beautiful alpine ice

pitches. As the sun rose Mark led a rising mixed traverse to the top

of a spur. A few pitches further and the heat of the day was upon us

so we dug into a snow mushroom and settled in for the day.

A few hours later, rested and refuelled we started off again. Steep

ice in the dusk led to even steeper seracs in the dark. As the sun

started to peek over the horizon we moved onto the upper snow

slopes of the mountain. We fought up deep snow all morning,

heading for the summit ridge.

On the ridge we hit a flat spot and stopped. The cornices ahead

were huge and menacing and we needed a break. Sleep came easily

despite a rising wind coming from the south.

The next morning it was obviously time to move, clouds were

pouring over other parts of the range. We fought our way around

and through cornices, finally making it to the last barriers before

the summit. But alas, in the dark we could not see the way. Vertical

and overhanging mushrooms protruded at strange angles every-

where. This, compounded with high winds bringing us close to

hypothermia, prompted a quick stop to wait for the sun to show

us the way. It was one of the coldest nights either of us have expe-

rienced. After three hours of no sleep and desperate shivering, we

emerged to find the weather still holding and we plowed up the

now clear route to the summit.

As we stood on top, we looked out over a range of possibilities.

Picking out new objectives and ideas for next season. The rising sun

and building clouds made for a beautiful and ominous scene. The

clouds washed over us and we started rappelling back to camp, back

to the landing strip and back to the lowlands of our homes.We’d like to extend a huge thanks to pur sponsors: Outdoor Research, Julbo, Boreal and Petzl.

Graham Zimmerman leading a steep mixed pitch on the north-east but-

tress of Mt Laurens. Mark Allen

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

by GRAHAM ZIMMERMAN



a b o v e The Alaska

Range. John Price


t o p The author leading

a pitch low on Shaken Not

Stirred. Brendan Maggs

b o t t o m Beautiful

climbing on Shaken Not

Stirred. Brendan Maggs

‘Alaska’: it's such a powerful word. It has

this intimidating mystique about it. Then

you couple the words, ‘Alaska’ and ‘climb-

ing,’ and my stomach churns. All I can think about

is reading about Mark Twight’s epics in Extreme

Alpinism. This being our first trip to Alaska, Brendan

and I were keen on some moderate classics. The

infamous Moose’s Tooth offers fantastic climbing

opportunities, with a short approach and moderate

levels of commitment.

I moved to Canada in January 2012 with the inten-

tion of becoming a strong ice and mixed climber. It

is one of the best places in the world to hone such

skills and with the legendary community in the Bow

Valley, you are never short of strong, psyched part-

ners. I've been based in Banff the entire time, work-

ing as little as possible and often managing to climb

three to four days a week. My time spent climbing

here has been absolutely invaluable to where my

climbing is today. I have been lucky enough to climb

SHAKEN, NOT STIRRED IN ALASKAAn ascent of the classic Shaken Not Stirred on the Moose’s Tooth, Ruth Gorge, Alaska

by JOHN PRICE


with some incredibly talented people, which has enabled me to achieve things

I had not dreamed of doing in such a short time. When Brendan shot me an

email asking if I was keen on a expedition to the Ruth Gorge, I was excited at the

prospect of putting my hard work and new-found skills to the test. We did some

research in the Alaska Climbing SuperTopo guidebook and decided on Shaken

Not Stirred (V, AI5).

On 3 May Brendan and I jumped out of the shuttle that had taken us from

Anchorage to Talkeetna. We headed for the Talkteena Air Taxi office, dodging

giant puddles on the way, a result of a heavy snow season and a spring that was

reluctant to arrive. When we opened the doors, we encountered Steve House and

Vince Anderson chatting away. Yes, we were definitely in Alaska.

The flight in left us feeling intimidated yet overwhelmed with excitement. The

scale of the Alaska Range was awe-inspiring. Peering out the plane window, I felt

humbled by what lay beneath me. Before long I started to recognise mountains

I had been studying online—the Ruth Gorge opened up to me and the land-

scape felt strangely familiar. On landing, we jumped out of the plane and started

unloading our kit, making a chain with everyone passing bags down the line and

into separate piles on the glacier. We landed on the Root Canal glacier, directly

underneath the south face of the Moose’s Tooth. Looking up, I scanned the south

face of the Tooth; I could see our two lines. My excitement was growing—as was

the intimidation.

It was light enough outside to read a book until midnight, so sleeping was a

challenge. Although the temperature outside was well below freezing, I was warm

enough, just anxious and excited—it was the night before one of the most exciting

and challenging alpine climbs of my life! I think I managed two hours of broken

sleep that night, at best. The alarm went off at 3.30am, giving us an hour to crawl

out of our ‘warm’ tent, eat breakfast and gear up for a 4.30am departure. It was

cold, I mean, really cold! I have had many early morning winter starts while ice

climbing in Canada, so I'm no stranger to cold mornings, but this was hard.

I had to take off my gloves to do finer tasks like lighting the stove and lacing up

my boots. As soon as I took off my gloves my hands would sting violently, scream-

ing for me to put them back on.

We arrived at the base at 5.00am and adjusted the rope, switching from gla-

cier travel mode to pitched climbing. We decided to block lead, a technique we

thought wise because it would help keep us both warmer. My toes would go from

a state of numbness to a state of intense pain as the screaming barfies took hold.

The first pitch involved a small, mellow but awkward move to a low-angled but

thin sheet of snice. The only protection before this move was a single piton; the

protection it offered was laughable, but I placed it anyway. I decided to bash a

snow stake into the firm snow before the step because if I blew this move I would

slide 50 metres down into the bergschrund—not ideal! I took out my snowstake

and bashed, once, twice: Ping! The hammer broke off my axe and flew down

the slope—a great start to the day! I moved a little higher, cleared some snow

and found a bomber cam placement, which gave me the confidence to make the

awkward move.

Brendan and I slowly warmed up as the day went on, but not much. We simul-

climbed all the steep snow pitches and pitched most of the ice. The ice was incredibly

fun and varied, from shoulder-width narrow ice ribbons to short, but steep and in

some places overhanging ice bulges. We were able to move fast while simul-climbing,

placing ice screws, rock pro and clipping old fixed rap anchors as we went. We had

every flavour of ice: dinner plates, sticky styrofoam and unconsolidated snice.


a b o v e Brendan Maggs climbing into the sun on anoth-

er beautiful pitch on Shaken Not Stirred. John Price

b e l o w The author leads off on the first pitch of Shaken

Not Stirred. Brendan Maggs

Both Brendan and I were convinced we had climbed the crux, but when I

turned a corner on one of the snow pitches and looked up, I realised we had

not. Compared to some of the frozen waterfalls I had climbed in Canada, it was

nothing, but there were a few things at play here. I was running on little more

than two hours sleep and my head was pounding from exerting myself with a bad

concussion. Added to that, I was wearing a pack, I was dehydrated (we had been

on the move for around 12 hours), and this was the first real exercise I had done

in six weeks, due to some injuries I sustained before the trip. While I was excited

at the prospect of more steep ice, I was also totally demoralised and struggling to

balance my mixed emotions.

Wanting it to be over and longing for easier-angled snow slopes above, I

launched into the ice and worked my way up to the top of the flow. There was a

small hole in the ice curtain and this feature provided nice stemming. With just

one metre of steep ice to go, I swung my right tool, adjusted my feet and pulled

my body up, and ‘Argh!’ My bicep tendon spasmed and my hand let go of my ice

tool. I gripped hard with my left tool, tensed my core and managed not to swing

off balance. What had happened? Telling myself it was nothing, I grabbed my tool

and tried to weight my right arm again. Same thing: the tendon felt like a steel

cable that was about to snap. Seriously? One metre of this final ice bulge left and I

couldn’t even finish it? I tried a few more times, adjusting my position but noth-

ing was working. I could not weight my right arm. I tried aiding on ice screws, but

the quality of the ice was inconsistent and seemed like it would take a long time,

especially when I only had one working arm. I placed an ice screw, clipped in and

started to kick a hole through the six-inch-thick ice curtain. After 20 minutes I

managed to create a hole big enough to crawl into. Now I was squashed in under

the giant frozen chockstone, a creepy yet strangely beautiful position. Clearly, the

chockstone was not going anywhere, but all I could think about was the rock mov-

ing and me getting squashed in a tomb of ice and granite. I placed two screws and

brought Brendan up to finish the final metre of the crux. It was far from stylish

but avoided a bad fall. For a few short moments I was upset at what happened and

my ego was damaged, but I quickly reminded myself of where I was and pushed

away any negative thoughts. I remember Brendan saying, ‘You made a good deci-

sion. Remember, it’s when you stop making decisions that shit goes bad.’ Those

words will echo with me for a while.

After the crux we had about six pitches of steep snow to simul-climb, a ten-

metre traverse and then a few more rope lengths of steep snow to Englishman's

Col, which was to be our high point. It was cold, and the higher we climbed, the

more we were exposed to the strong winds. The hairs inside my nose had frozen.

They felt like coarse wire. We topped out after 13 hours of continuous climbing,

a pretty mellow day in the world of alpine climbing. On reaching the ridge there

was about 15 metres of visibility and the wind was gusting around 50 km/h. With

the wind chill, I estimated the temperature to be at least -20°C. I was wearing five

layers, two of which were a lightweight synthetic puffy and a big down jacket,

and I was still shivering violently. I had decided to climb with just 1.5 litres of

water and had not drunk enough before leaving Base Camp or on the approach.

Dehydration was a big factor in how cold I was. Brendan and I looked at one

another, and we instantly knew what the other wanted to do. We turned our backs

on the west summit and started our descent. It took us three hours and 18 or more

rappels to reach the glacier.

When we reached the glacier we found that conditions had improved and the

bad weather seemed to be localised around the summit of the Moose’s Tooth. I


was a little disappointed we had not pushed for the

west summit, but with such poor conditions up high

and thinking back to how cold I had been, I was at

peace with our decision pretty quickly. We kicked

off the crampons, strapped on the snowshoes and

headed back to camp.

On the way back to camp Brendan mentioned

his toes were quite painful. When we reached our

tent and took off our boots, Brendan discovered

that both his big toes were red and swollen and

his toenails had turned black. Front pointing for a

thousand metres for 13 hours in -20ºC is not the

best for the feet. A Denali park ranger and a doc-

tor were climbing together on the Root Canal, and

Brendan spoke to them about his toes. He had badly

frostnipped toes—the first stage of frostbite. The

doctor said: ‘As a doctor I should tell you to fly back

to Australia, sit on the warm beach and drink beer,

but as a climber I know you're not going to do that.

Take care of them, keep them warm and be careful

with the rest of your climbs. Don't push it.’ We had

been wearing single boots, despite double boots

being more common. Singles are usually fine for the

lower elevation climbs within the Ruth Gorge but it

was unseasonally cold this year. With Brendan's toes

feeling worse for wear, we decided to rest a few days

before attempting our next objective, Ham and Eggs.

We enjoyed the down-time and made the most of

the social atmosphere. Our kitchen became a social

hub for surrounding camps. Consuming whisky

and salami, we all shared our stories. Guides, liter-

ary agents, artists, engineers, sponsored athletes and

modern climbing legends were amongst the motley

crew that we passed time with. Having success on

our Alaska objectives offered me an insight into my

potential as a climber and further strengthened the

love I have for spending time in high mountains and

remote places with good friends.

The view from the camp

kitchen in the Ruth Gorge.

Denali is in the back-

ground. John Price


a b o v e Looking towards

Mt Eaton from high on the

North Ridge of Mt Augusta

(1993). The foresummit

Paul and Derek camped

on is just visible above

the cloud to the left (just

behind the foreground

ridge). The massif behind

is Mt Cook (4194m).

On 7 May this year Paul Swanstrom flew

us in his ski-plane to the lower Seward

Glacier (at 1129m) for what was my eighth

visit to the Saint Elias Mountains in south-east

Alaska, USA. After we landed, I did not feel the

usual sense of calm; I felt uneasy and conflicted. The

sky was still milky following our stormy week in

Haines, with higher summits shrouded. Our objec-

tive, Mt Augusta (4289m), looked hazy in a way

that made it look high, distant and exposed. There

was a tight weather window if we were to summit

before a forecast low-pressure system. And from

the plane, I had seen that the south-west ridge of

Mt Eaton, our most direct means of access, looked

awkwardly rocky.

This was not the first time I had tried the East

Ridge of Mt Augusta. It had been the original plan

for my first trip to the range in 1993. That year, we

tried approaching it via a spur from the north, but

were turned back by a sustained corniced ridge. We

summited instead by the previously climbed North

Ridge. In the 20 years that followed, no-one seemed

to see any opportunity in the published photo of

the unclimbed East Ridge beyond our high point. In

A PERFECT STORM IN THE YUKONClimb and rescue on Mt Eaton on the Alaska–Yukon border

by PAUL KNOTT


Approaching the East

Ridge of Mt Eaton. Behind

is the main icefield of the

Seward Glacier. On the left

skyline are mounts Queen

Mary and King George. On

the right is Mt Vancouver.

the meantime, I came up with the idea of accessing

this ridge via the minor but unclimbed summit of

Mt Eaton, which became the plan for this trip. My

climbing partner this time was London-based Derek

Buckle, whom I had known for some years but not

previously climbed with.

I recalled that the East Ridge of Mt Eaton looked

snowy and straightforward and, given the circum-

stances, a good plan B. To make the most of the

weather window, we stashed the base camp supplies

and walked for several hours towards the ridge. We

continued the next morning and started ascending a

shallow snowy spur just short of the main col lead-

ing to the north side. After a short rise, we stashed

the snowshoes and continued up steeper slopes. By

then Derek was struggling, and we had to make an

unscheduled camp on an awkward ledge instead of

continuing to the main ridge.

It was now very clear that we would not reach Mt

Augusta. The pragmatic alternative was to lighten

the packs and make a lighter ascent as far as Mt

Eaton which, although no stunning summit, was a

named and unclimbed point. We stashed the surplus

food and fuel and continued the next morning to an

exposed camp on a foresummit (at 2652m). The ter-

rain ahead for our summit day was three kilometres

of mostly straightforward-looking ridge traverse.

The following morning, 10 May, dawned clear

with a chilly breeze. We left the tent and continued

over undulating corniced ridge, huge mushroom-

domes and several false summits. Icy slopes up a final

dome took us to the summit of Mt Eaton, five-plus

hours from the camp. The GPS read 3336m, which

corresponds well with the 3320m final contour on

the Canadian Survey map. Ahead, the ground to Mt

Augusta looked straightforward, much like what we

had covered, with probably one more day of ridge

traverse before the main ascent to the summit. We

also had clear views of the major peaks of the sur-

rounding range including Mt Saint Elias itself, Mt

Logan, and Mt Vancouver.

But as we started our descent, cloud descended

with us. Doggedly we reversed the climb in flatten-

ing light, finding our footsteps increasingly covered.

It took us almost as long to descend as it had to

climb. As we approached the camp, I could see that

Derek was dead beat. He was struggling to stay on

his feet, having given all for the ascent. Although I

didn’t like camping so high in the rising wind, the

best solution in the circumstances seemed to be to

build a sheltering snow wall. I consoled myself with

the days-old forecast—backed up by the apparently

steady barometer—that there should be one more

day before the storm really hit.

During the night, wind-blown snow half-buried

the tent. Despite limited visibility, Derek and I

packed to descend. We felt our way almost blindly

down from the foresummit, desperately looking for

cues in the whiteout. The terrain was crevassed and

corniced, and we could see too little to navigate or

stay safe. We climbed back up to the top and set up

the tent. The clearing we had been hoping for never

materialised. We learned through the sat phone that

the storm system would be with us for around four

days. We had one day’s spare food and fuel.

That day and the next, the pattern was familiar: at

times swirling snow, and at other times partly clear,

with the cloud mostly below us. Unfortunately, it

was never clear enough for us to move. Meanwhile,

the pressure was inexorably falling. On day three the

snow became heavier and the wind stronger, push-

ing uncomfortably against the tent. In the middle

of that night, I realised that the snow was closing

over the door of the tent. Tempting though it was

to stay in the warmth of my bag, I unzipped the top


a b o v e Paul and Derek on arrival at the lower Seward Glacier, courtesy of Paul

Swanstrom and his Bush Hawk. Mt Augusta is the fairly pointed summit behind Derek.

The summit of Mt Eaton is a little right of the tail of the plane.

b e l o w Looking down the East Ridge of Mt Eaton on summit day. The foresummit Paul

and Derek camped on is at the left-hand end. On the horizon towards the right is Mt

Vancouver.

of the door and poked my head out. I was hit with

drowning facefulls of blizzard. I saw with horror

the extent to which we were already buried. I had

to retreat to get my breath back before facing the

blizzard again and clearing the door. This bought

us a few hours, but was ultimately futile, even with

the shovel. The only solution was to dig everything

out and re-pitch the tent on top of the snowpack.

At one point, hoping to avoid being buried in the

tent again, we tried transferring to a snow cave. But

the speed we were getting buried in the snow cave

was even more alarming, so we returned to the tent.

Next morning, all signs of the cave were gone. Our

tent was a lightweight single-skin assault tent, but

with sturdy three-layer fabric and internal poles it

was one of the strongest of its type, and it was cru-

cial to our survival.

The Saint Elias Range is notorious for this kind

of storm. A team had faced the same trouble just

prior to my 1993 trip—marooned by deep snow

high on Mt Saint Elias, that team had called for sup-

plies to be air-dropped in. But the storms I myself

had experienced had let up after just a few days. In

intense, blowing snow, using a stove is a problem.

It was tempting to try lighting the stove inside our

sealed tent, but in such a tiny enclosure using a stove

is a recipe for carbon monoxide suffocation, as some

recent cases have shown. Our fuel supply was insuf-

ficient anyway, so we mostly relied on melting water

in our sleeping bags.

On 15 May, Derek and I packed and attempted

to descend, hoping to make the most of the forecast

clearing. Even packing was a struggle—everything

was frozen up, including the tent, which was caked

with ice several times its own weight. As Derek and I

set off, the signs we had seen earlier of the promised

clearing receded and we found ourselves in a white-

out like the one four days before. But this time we

had to push our way down the steep slope in thigh-

deep wind-blown powder. Again we reached a point

where each step could take us into a crevasse or over

a cornice. The exertion was also draining us dispro-

portionately, and we both felt alarmingly weakened

and susceptible to cold. The avalanche risk also felt

elevated well beyond sensible limits. Things felt out

of control. The prudent option, we concluded, was

to raise an emergency with Kluane National Park. If

the clearance came, our position on the ridge top was

the right place for a helicopter landing, with a nearby

snow dome a potential helipad.

We struggled back up, re-pitched the tent and


The tent after the first

stormy night. Things got

more serious in the eight

more nights to come.

made the phone call. An impressive effort was

launched on our behalf, but to no avail: the hoped-

for break in the weather never came. The following

afternoon I listened intently as Craig McKinnon in

the Kluane National Park office outlined the grim

forecast for another storm cycle. Derek and I men-

tally prepared ourselves for a hungrier and more

wearying round of blizzards and burials. The next

weather window was estimated to be another five

days away, which would severely challenge our ability

to stay energised, hydrated and warm.

In the resurgent storm, the snow continued

to bank up, burying us in our tent. During the

whole period, we had six metres of snow, eas-

ily. The foresummit we camped on changed shape

completely, becoming sharp and corniced. This

heavy deposition pattern is presumably the reason

for all the mushroom-domes on the ridge. Inside

the tent, surprisingly, I didn’t feel uncomfortable,

despite temperatures as low as -11°C. But I think

things were more of a struggle for Derek. His older,

non-proofed sleeping bag was turning into a wet

rag, and Derek lost feeling in his feet. Digging and

re-pitching the tent now fell almost entirely to

me. These periods outside were a strain—I had no

energy or strength.

After our eighth stormy night, the morning of 19

May dawned clear and calm, although with cloud still

present over the bigger peaks. After confirming the

rescue was on, we packed what we could—leaving

the tent—and I stamped out a helipad on the nearby

dome. At around 6.45am we heard the thrum of the

chopper. We watched as it flew some passes before

putting the skids onto the dome next to us. Scott

Stewart from Kluane National Park ushered us on

board and suddenly our fortunes were transformed.

I recognised a Kiwi accent—the pilot Dion Parker

had recently moved to the area. But the adventure

was not quite over. The conversation at the front

moved away from us and back to the task at hand:

rapidly building cloud was closing off the options

to get around the high peaks. That, together with

limited fuel, was creating an edgy situation. In all,

it was an hour’s flight across the range to Haines

Junction. Derek and I convened at the village bakery,

somewhat dazed by our abrupt shift to civilisation.

At the next table were some climbers, waiting to

fly in. Having heard rumours of our predicament,

they greeted us with ‘Are you the “back from the

dead” climbers?’

Over the next few days, Derek and I resolved the

logistics of being reunited with our gear and return-

ing to Haines. Paul and Amy Swanstrom helped us

hugely by flying in and digging out the base camp

stash from under a metre of snow, and even tak-

ing us down to Juneau. When Paul asked me if the

epic would put me off climbing here, without any

hesitation I said no. An epic like this gets a lot of

attention, but for me the natural response is to set

aside the vagaries of the vexed trip and prepare for

better ones to come.


a b o v e Climbing over

the Poodle, en-route to Mt

Queen Mary.

f a c i n g p a g e , t o p t o b o t t o m :

Kite train on the upper

Hubbard Glacier.

Camp in the upper

Kaskawulsh Basin.

Ascent towards high-camp

on Mt Queen Mary.

Upper Kaskawulsh Basin. I was fortunate to grow up in the mountains. In the

summer we climbed, in the winter we skied. My

younger brother and I were barely in our teens

when we figured out how to combine the two: we

mounted our bindings onto aluminium plates, and

attached these to our skis with a standard brass door

hinge. At the top of the mountain, we fished a couple

of wing nuts from our back pockets and screwed the

heel of the plate to the ski. Our first skins were heir-

looms, genuine seal skin, attached with canvas straps.

Although crude in the extreme, our hinges worked.

They opened the door to an entirely new world.

Powder skiing was still a novel and extreme concept

in those days, and our improvised setup allowed us

to take it to a new level: now we were able to answer

the call of the distant peaks on the horizon, and we

could explore all that untouched powder-country

we encountered on the way. A door had opened to

a pure, pristine dream landscape where mana falls

from heaven—a mysterious fluffy powder that trans-

forms the world into a fantasy of rimed-up peaks,

sculpted ridgelines, sparkling basins, feather-filled

valleys and pock-marked powder gullies. Little did

we know that these first forays beyond road-ends

and lift-lines were the beginning of an adventure

that would take us around the globe. An adventure

that would last a lifetime, continuing despite ageing

joints, weakening bones and aching backs.

True, over the years some things have faded.

Although the Southern Alps are still by and large

the same, the ‘mystery’ that Gmoser refers to—that

magic and fragile spell that envelops them—has

been weakened if not broken. With the arrival of

aircraft access and that other oxymoron, ‘adventure

tourism,’ many of New Zealand’s most iconic alpine

environments have been reduced to just another stop

on the mass-market tourism merry-go-round. Or,

in the case of heli-skiing, to just another playground

accessed as easily and casually as the back bowls of a

ski resort. To find winter wilderness, to re-capture

that spell of adventure and the pristine, we now have

to work harder and go further afield.

Of all the wild places that ski touring has taken

me, none except the Antarctic has inspired a sense of

awe and grandeur like the Saint Elias. A vestige of the

ice age, the Saint Elias range is a 40,000km2 frozen

SLEDDING IN THE SAINT ELIAS words by MARC SCAIFE photographs by MARC SCAIFE and CHRISTINE BYRCH

In the end, to ski is to travel fast and free over untouched, snow-covered country. To be bound to one slope,

even to one mountain by a lift may be convenient, but it robs us of the greatest pleasure skiing can give: that

is to travel through wide, wintry country, to follow the lure of the peaks which tempt on the horizon and to

be alone for a few days or even a few hours in clean, mysterious surroundings.

– Johann Wolfgang ‘Hans’ Gmoser


mountain landscape on the Alaska–Yukon border. It

is crowned by giant glaciated peaks that soar thou-

sands of metres above a sea of interlinked glaciers

and icecaps that extend in all directions as far as the

eye can see. In 2011, a group of six of us spent three

weeks here, climbing and skiing the highest peak, Mt

Logan (5996m). In all our time on the mountain, we

did not see another person. For most of that time we

were the only people in a mountain range the size of

the entire Southern Alps. Magnificent as this experi-

ence was, by the end of our trip we could not help

but feel that we had barely scratched at the surface of

this vast frozen alpine world. So in 2013 we returned.

Our team of four comprised two Kiwis—Christine

Byrch and Marc Scaife—and Aussie strongmen Nic

Bendeli and David Smith, a legendary solo arctic

explorer. Rather than spend another three weeks on

a single mountain, we approached our objective, Mt

Steele (5000m), on skis as part of a 200-kilometre

sledding circuit. This allowed us to explore more

country, ski off some smaller peaks and acclimatise

to the cold and altitude en route to our objective.

Unfortunately, when we finally reached Mt Steele,

a severe storm pinned us at 3600m for five days,

depleting our summit-bid rations. A massive accu-

mulation of fresh snow put the steep summit slopes

out of condition, and we decided to abandon our

climb. We did, however, go on to complete our

circuit, and succeeded in climbing Mt Queen Mary

(3930m) in glorious weather. More importantly, we

had finally gained a feel for the area. Hauling 50kg

sleds through deep snow is no doddle; we discovered,

however, that it is a perfect way to get a true feeling

for the immense scale of the landscape. We hauled

sleds for day after day, feeling like tiny ants, alone in

that large-scale wilderness. We would haul until we

thought we could haul no more, and then haul some

more. We would set up camp where we dropped, and

drink and eat and sleep, all the while surrounded by

this overpoweringly immense landscape. In the end,

our immersion in this landscape was so complete

that it felt like we had become a part of it. Only by

gradually progressing through it—sledding, skiing,

kiting—and by weathering its storms and learning its

moods, were we finally able to comprehend the scale

and the majesty of the Saint Elias range.

No more can be said of the Saint Elias Mountains.

Words and pictures cannot do this range justice: it

needs to be experienced.We gratefully acknowledge the assistance of: Macpac, Mountain Equipment and Ozone snow kites.

Silk-smooth corn on the

Taku Glacier. The Taku

Towers are on the left.


Few towns can be more strategically placed for

accessing mountain wilderness than Juneau

and Atlin in north-west North America. The

Mendenhall glacier terminates in a spectacular ice-

fall right on the outskirts of the seaside town of

Juneau, capital of Alaska. On the other side of

the Coast Mountain Range, in British Columbia,

Canada, lies Atlin, a small settlement on the shores

of an alpine lake where the Llewellyn Glacier ends its

50km run from the USA–Canada border. Between

these two towns lies the Juneau Icefield, an area of

approximately 140 kilometres by 70 kilometres of

interlinked glaciers, spectacular granite spires and

glaciated peaks.

The Juneau Icefield is ideally suited to ski tour-

ing and snow kiting. It is easy to access (by Alaskan

standards) and receives copious amounts of snow

(ten metres annually), yet the elevation is low and the

temperature is benign. Compared to the neighbour-

ing Saint Elias Mountains, where giant 5000m expe-

dition-style peaks soar up in complex and almost

continuous icefalls, the terrain on the Juneau Icefield

is skier-friendly, with a large number of medium-

sized peaks within striking distance of each other.

For snow-kiters, the winds are steady and the icecap

is broad, smooth and virtually crevasse-free. Several

successful kite-assisted crossings have been made in

recent years.

Parties making the crossing generally take about

a week, with another few days to get on and off the

icefield at either end. The best time for a ski traverse

is in April and May, when there are spells of fine

weather, while there is still ski or snow-mobile access

across the frozen lake at the Atlin end.

Christine Byrch and I started our traverse at the

end of May, when the ice on Atlin Lake is no longer

safe for travel. We thus began at the Juneau side,

in the hope that by the time we reached Atlin, the

lake would be ice-free and we could arrange a boat

pick-up.

We arrived in Juneau in the rain, with the locals

apologising for what they told us was the wettest and

coldest spring in years. The locals greeted a weather

forecast predicting a prolonged spell of fine weather

HARNESSING THE NORTH WINDA snow kite traverse of the Coast Mountains, Alaska

words by MARC SCAIFE photographs by MARC SCAIFE and CHRISTINE BYRCH


t o p Sheltering from

the north wind. Looking

up the Matthes Glacier

towards Canada.

b o t t o m On the crest

of the Juneau Icecap,

approaching the USA–

Canada border.

with scepticism, and advised us to make the most of

it by catching a ten-minute chopper ride to the edge

of the icecap, rather than waste precious fine weather

ferrying loads up through the forest.

I generally try to avoid flying in to the mountains,

especially when you are dropped into new country

and you have no first-hand knowledge of the ter-

rain ahead, nor of the escape route from whence you

came. Being dropped onto an unknown glacier in

remote backcountry certainly brings on a shock of

vulnerability: the slim margins for self-reliance in a

party of two, the limited shelter offered by the icecap

topography, the notoriously stormy Alaskan weather

and our complete dependence on our equipment

for protection against it, the distance of the journey

ahead and the unknown terrain and conditions we

would face along the way… I prefer to walk in to new

country, slowly easing into the new environment,

assessing the terrain as you go, and learning the path

of retreat in case I need to know it later.

Fortunately, it became apparent soon after we

landed that the terrain is benign, and the weather,

though looking stormy ahead, appeared to be hold-

ing. We regained our confidence in our ability to

read the conditions, to judge the topography and

make the right route-finding decisions. While it is

good to have a strategy for a long traverse into the

unknown, ultimately, all you can do is take it step by

step, day by day, and revise your programme accord-

ingly. To think too far ahead can be overwhelming

and debilitating.

Not to be daunted by the distance ahead, on our

first day Christine and I decided to make the most of

the beautiful powder snow that had blanketed every-

thing and skin up Nugget Peak. We revelled in the

freedom of abandoning our heavy sleds and indulged

in our first powder run. Soon enough we would be

settling into a routine of sled-hauling, setting up

camp, building snow walls, and the tedious melting

of snow for hot drinks and hearty mountain dinners.

As we progressed north-east into the Alaskan

Interior, the terrain became wider and grander. Apart

from the occasional small icefall, the travel on the

icecap was easy by New Zealand standards: gentle,

smooth and crevasse-free. In these conditions pulling

a sled is a pleasure, an almost hypnotic activity: the

body settles into a rhythm and the mind wanders,

you’re free to become absorbed in the scenery going

by or drift off into abstract thought. We travel paral-

lel to the Taku Range for hours, passing its southern

side, under the beautiful ice-capped Emperor and

Princess peaks, and the savage granite Taku Towers.

Compared to the rigours of climbing and winter


t o p Snowcamp on the

Taku Glacier.

b o t t o m Skinning under

the Taku Towers.

camping in the Saint Elias and Alaska ranges, we

delighted in the mild conditions that allowed us to

take rest-stops for snacks during the day, and to dry

out our sleeping bags and clothing in the long eve-

nings. Most nights we cooked outside the tent, and

sometimes we lounged around enjoying après-ski in

the endless twilight. Despite a stubborn headwind,

we made good progress on our sledding traverse

northwards; we averaged about 20 kilometres per day

and soon we were close to the USA–Canada border.

We camped up near the ominously-named Blizzard,

Typhoon and Hurricane peaks in dead calm condi-

tions, but the following morning, as we climbed ever

so gradually up the giant dome of the icecap into

Canada, the north wind picked up again. The scale

of the terrain up there is big, with continuous icecaps

in all directions, as far as the eye can see. Beautiful

snow-capped peaks poke up out of the icecap at

intervals. We were tempted to go and ski off some

of them but, conscious of our isolated position and

the need to move forward while the conditions were

good, we carried on toward Atlin.

Gradually, as we lost altitude, the terrain closed in

and we moved from open icecap to a wide glaciated

valley. All too soon our world of white on white was

transformed into one of glacier and rock mountain-

sides of the drier Interior. Before long we could even

see green forest on the distant horizon.

When we were about a day’s travel from the gla-

cier terminus at Atlin Lake, we learned on our sat

phone that the lake was still partly frozen over, with

no signs that it would become navigable in the next

few days. We considered the options: bush-whacking

for a week along 60 kilometres of lake was not one of

them. We could ring to arrange a chopper pick-up,

but that would have been expensive. We still had

plenty of food and fuel, and the weather was still

fine. Considering everything, we realised we were

not ready to swap the beautiful snow landscape for

the dry BC interior and the comfortable trappings of

civilisation. The answer was simple: turn around, do

a 180! Afterall, the north wind was blowing, and we

were carrying a secret weapon: an Ozone snowkite!

On this trip into unknown terrain, I had been

prepared to pack the kite in the bottom of my sled,

knowing that it might never be used. At just 2.5

kilograms, it was worth the gamble. I have to admit,

though, that I had been a little disappointed at only

being able to use it once so far. So when we decided

to turn around—changing what had been a frustrat-

ing headwind into a tailwind—with the opportunity

to kite the 100 kilometres of icecap back to Juneau

(via a variation to our approach route), I seized it


Kiting down towards the

Mendenhall Towers, en-

route to Juneau.

gladly: Alaska’s famous kite traverse was on!

In just two days we kited all the way back to the edge

of the Juneau icecap. The kiting was a blast of freedom

after days of sled-hauling. We looped the kite down-

wind in the big cobalt-blue sky and skimmed effort-

lessly up the giant snow dome towards the smooth

icecap horizon. The following day we traversed to

the north side of the Taku Range, whipping through

shimmering corn-snow basins as we made our way

towards the granite towers. These are kiting memories

that will remain with us for a lifetime.

At the Taku Towers we surprised some Juneau

climbers who had choppered in for a few days of

climbing and skiing. Tempting as it was to stop and

join them for a few days—and share their beer—we

chose instead to carry on with our traverse while the

weather held. From the edge of the icefield we aimed

to drop down an icefall to the Mendenhall Glacier,

which we would eventually follow all the way down

to Juneau. The route ahead was still unknown, with

some of the most crevassed terrain of the entire tra-

verse still ahead of us, so it made sense to carry on.

As is often the case, our concerns about the icefall

proved unwarranted. Though it was steep, Christine

and I dropped down through it safely that evening.

The following day, still in good weather, we headed

down the Mendenhall Glacier. Its upper reaches were

a wide, smooth snow highway, flanked by soaring

granite towers. It was heavily crevassed lower down,

but with a little backtracking we figured out the

puzzle of its icefalls and its tricky exit to the trailhead

at 400m elevation. The exit off the glacier through

a broken section of white ice turned out to be a

challenging but fitting finale to our traverse. After

ferrying a load through the white ice to the trailhead,

we camped one last night on the glacier with the

Mendenhall Towers above, and a distant view of the

sea below. As we climbed down off the glacier the fol-

lowing morning, we joked about doing another 180.

We joked about the legend of two skiers who—like

Sisyphus, condemned forever to haul a huge boulder

up a mountain—were unable or unwilling to end

their traverse, travelling endlessly to and fro across

the Juneau Icefield. With a slight tinge of regret, we

realised it was finally time to step out of our world of

snow and ice onto terra firma, so we hauled ourselves

and all our gear down the forest track, hitched a ride

to a campsite by the sea, and went for a swim.


The traditional Aymara people of Bolivia give their mountains descriptive

names: Illimani means ‘water bearer,’ Huayna Potojsi is ‘thunderous

youth’ and Mururata is ‘the beheaded peak’. So our expectations were

fairly high as we set off to Bolivia to climb Gigante Grande—‘the great giant’—

which lies in a mountain range called the Quimza Cruz (‘the three crosses’).

HistoryAt the turn of the twentieth century, local hitherto-out-of-luck businessman

Simón Patiño stumbled upon the richest tin deposits in the world. He had paid a

pittance for a barren piece of land in the Bolivian Altiplano (‘highland plateau,’

at 4600m), in exchange for a commercial debt. Patiño discovered rich veins of

tin on the land after he accidentally detonated a stick of dynamite there. He set

up a mine, La Salvadora (‘the Savior’), and tin literally haemorrhaged out of the

earth. This led to the Tin Era. By 1910 Bolivia was the second-largest producer

of this metal in the world. With the increased market demands that followed

industrialisation in the USA and Europe and the two World Wars, the price of tin

skyrocketed. During the Tin Era, Bolivians Simón Patiño, Carlos Aramayo and

BOLIVIA 2013by ERIK MONASTERIO

We have maintained a silence

closely resembling stupidity.

–From the Revolutionary Proclamation

of the Junta Tuitiva, La Paz, 16 July, 1809

a b o v e Gigante Grande. Erik Monasterio

b e l o w The author on Pico Italia. Gregg Beisly


Mauricio Hochschild—the Tin Barons—became three of the richest men on the

planet. They registered their mining companies abroad, paid off successive gov-

ernments for special privileges and lived a life of outrageous extravagance, while

50,000 miners worked for them for a pittance, with many dying in their early 30s

from chronic lung disease and malnutrition. Patiño owned the largest tin mine in

the world, Siglo XX (‘twentieth century’), which consumed more electricity than

the rest of the country.

By December 1942 the Siglo XX miners went on strike, demanding fairer

wages and improved living conditions. The Bolivian Army was sent in, at Patiño’s

request, and 400 miners were slaughtered and buried in the mine. A similar mas-

sacre occurred in 1967 when the dictator René Barrientos sent the Bolivian Army

in a second time, after learning that the miners had promised to donate two days’

wages to the Che Guevara revolution.

The 1952 Bolivian revolution, which led to voting rights for the indigenous

people and the agrarian reform (land redistribution), also saw the nationalisation

of the tin mines as the progressive Bolivian government aimed to take control

of the country’s resources. The indemnity demanded by the tin barons ensured

that they continued to live in fabulous wealth. Wall Street, unhappy that a third

world country had ‘set a bad example’ by nationalising and industrialising its

prime resources, dumped large stocks of tin deposits on the world market. This

led to a collapse in the price of tin and the tin industry in Bolivia, perpetuating

the misery of the Bolivian miners and their families. Meanwhile, from his home

in the Waldorf Hotel in New York, Patiño ordered the building of a copy of an

eighteenth-century French castle in the Bolivian jungle, where Patiño planned

to see out his final days. Patiño died before this was completed, however, and

his body was transported back to Bolivia in a coffin built of precious wood and

adorned with ivory and silver handles. Because Patiño had donated a large sum

of money to President Herzog, it is unsurprising that he was declared a national

hero and that his death was declared a national day of mourning, with flags at half

mast. The murdered miners have remained largely unknown in their unmarked

graves. However, the amnesia and indifference of history is by no means confined

to the tin miners. The historian Eduardo Galeano estimates that eight million

indigenous people perished working the silver mines of Potosí during three cen-

turies of Spanish colonialism.1

The climbs

The Quimza Cruz mountain range was very difficult to reach until recently, when

high mineral prices and mining activity—driven by China’s insatiable appetite

for growth—ensured much improved road access. Barely four hours from La Paz,

Gregg Beisly (NZ), Chris Clarke (USA) and I reached the Laram Khota Lake and

mining camp, at the foot of Gigante Grande. From here a mining road zigzags

right up to the start of the imposing 650-metre west face, at 5100m.

Since our climb I have done some research on the mountain: USA climbers

Dakin Cook and Kevin Starr climbed the west face in 1993. They failed to com-

plete the face in a day and were forced to bivouac near the summit, finishing the

route the following day, in a storm. The direct descent looked so difficult that

instead they crossed the mountain range and emerged at a nearby mine the next

day. Dakin’s friend Stan Sheppard, believing the pair was trapped on the moun-

tain in the storm, drove from La Paz to organise a rescue; he died after his car

veered off the road in the snow.

In June 2001 well-known USA climber Andy Selters and his Canadian climbing

a b o v e Gregg Beisly on Gigante Grande. Erik Monasterio

b e l o w Traditional Bolivian costume (the Moreno),

which reflects how the locals saw the Spaniard

colonialists around the mines. Erik Monasterio


a b o v e The author near

the summit of Gigante

Grande. Gregg Beisly

partner Bruce Hendricks opted to climb a new route

to the left of Cook’s line. Failing to finish the route by

mid-afternoon, they sheltered behind overhanging

rocks to avoid rockfall, eventually continuing after

sunset and reaching the ridge by midnight. Due to

the complex nature of the terrain and the loose rock

Selters and Hendricks opted not to climb on to the

summit. They had an epic descent along the north-

west ridge, weaving around cliffs and loose rock,

and finally made it back down the following morn-

ing. Selters and Hendricks named their route Via

Loco (‘the crazy way’); they considered it the most

technical route in Bolivia at the time. The only two

other known attempts on the mountain, by Bolivian

mountain guides this year, were unsuccessful.

At 7.00am on 1 August, Gregg Beisly, Chris Clarke

and I walked past the road-head towards the west

face. A local miner implored us not to venture onto

the face, warning that rockfall was common by mid-

afternoon—her husband had fallen to his death min-

ing on a nearby peak. We felt confident that we would

be off the face by early afternoon and traversed across

straightforward moraine that led directly onto our

route. We climbed into the right couloir and roped up

as the mixed terrain became steeper and more techni-

cal. The climbing was engaging on many levels; there

were short vertical segments of thin ice, interspersed

with mixed terrain and long sections of moderately

steep ice or névé. By mid-afternoon we had climbed

eight pitches but were only two-thirds of the way up

when the sun hit the face, sending down intermittent

showers of rocks. We sheltered and belayed from

behind overhanging rocks, but we all took minor hits;

there was no question of retreat and the safest option


lay ahead, with the rockfall becoming less frequent and

less severe as we closed in on the summit.

By 4.00pm, after 12 pitches, we stood on top. Our

relief at escaping the face was short-lived, however.

The descent route along the steep north-west ridge

looked ominous and was threatened by loose rock

that spilt directly back into the west face. Worried

about the onset of altitude sickness, Chris took

off. Gregg and I descended more slowly, our pace

determined by my own lack of acclimatisation and

exhaustion. (I climbed the mountain just five days

after leaving sea level). Nightfall caught us, still high

up on the labyrinthine cliffs, making navigation a

real challenge. Gregg was more alert and he has an

unusually fine-tuned sense of direction. He patiently

encouraged me along and found a way through

the cliffs and onto the final moraine wall. That last

moraine wall got steeper as it spilt onto the glacier,

and we eventually had to abseil to get to the glacier.

After another three hours of walking we rejoined

Chris, at midnight. Chris had had a significant inci-

dent on his descent: despite pushing on ahead, he

was caught in the moraine walls after dark too. Chris

slipped and flipped over several times on the steepest

section, eventually coming to a stop near the bottom

of the wall. He was lucky to have survived without

serious injury. We have christened to route Via del

Minero (‘the miner’s way’).

At 4.00am on 10 August, Gregg and I set off to

climb another new route on Pico Italia, where we

made the first ascent of the east face last year (see

The Climber, issue 81). We were keen to find an eas-

ier line directly to the summit (5740m) and started

climbing about 800 metres north of our starting

point from last year, after wading through waist-deep

snow for two hours to reach it. The route proved

to be harder and longer than our previous one;

although the hardest pitch was only about grade 18,

the line was generally steeper and more complicated,

and we didn’t fix the start of the route. The climbing

was superb and absorbing with very good protec-

tion, but challenged by difficulties with route-finding

and navigation around a series of false summits and

overhanging sections, which were unmanageable

with heavy alpine packs. We completed the route in

12 sustained pitches and 17 hours. Thankfully, we

were able to find a straightforward descent route. We

christened the route Arthritis because I suffered a sig-

nificant flare-up of this condition during the ascent.

The routes on Gigante Grande and Pico Italia

were sustained and serious, of Mount Cook alpine

grade 5+.

On 5 August we made the first completed traverse

of the three Milluni peaks in the Huayna Potosí

area (5400m) in seven hours, and on 15 August we

climbed the Parinacota volcano (6340m) on the

Bolivian–Chilean border.References1. Galeano, Eduardo. Open Veins of Latin America: Five Centuries of the Pillage of a Continent. NYU Press, 1997.

Pico Italiano, east face

Arthritis Gregg Beisly, Erik Monasterio, 12p, MC5+. 10 August 2013.

Gigante Grande, west face

Via del Minero Gregg Beisly, Chris Clarke, Erik Monasterio, 12p, MC5+. 1 August 2013.


He’d never heard a howl like that before.

He was certain of one thing: the world

was ending. A second later he saw his legs

propelling him in a sprint towards the closest rocks.

Detached thoughts. Funny. He’d never expected to

run on snow closer to plumb than flat. At the mid-

height traverse into this route a throat-tightening

fear had set in. He’d never before hyperventilated

just contemplating a slope. He’d have been disgusted

were it not for the horizon line below his boots, the

unrelenting hard snow sweeping up endlessly steeper

and harder, or the tottering black headwall grinning

mirthlessly down on its realm, sizing up the intruder.

He’d sensed the softness of his pale flesh, the fragile

will of his blood to keep flowing. He’d sensed the

hardness, the lifelessness of this place. He’d taken a

long breath, stepped forward and up. And now the

sky was falling. The howl grew demonically, driv-

ing out all else, filling all space. It just kept swelling.

Running. Running. Finally, the first concussions of

impacting rocks.

* * *

Mt Temple stands alone from the impressive sprawl

of peaks around Lake Louise in the Canadian

Rockies. Many nearby mountains vie for attention;

Lady Victoria with her sweeping snowy veil, Lefroy

with his bawdy precipice. Mount Temple, however,

has a mysterious magnetism. This is proven by Parks

Canada’s accident register, which Temple apparently

leads. The South West Ridge scramble route draws

all comers like lemmings—teenagers in jandles, ski

area staff on midnight acid … yet the towering north

ON HALLOWED GROUNDSnowboarding on the north face of Mount Temple, Canadian Rockies

words and photographs by RUARI MACFARLANE


The north face of Mt

Temple.

face, dominating Lake Louise Village, sits aloof and

unsullied. Mountaineers will always find something

real in this gargantuan 1300-metre+ face of snow

leads, blocky quartzite and stern seracs. Far, far above

floats a distant blue summit ice cap. That ice cap has

resonated within me since I first saw it, hovering

between this realm and that. Those tangled snow

leads were always destined to draw me like a magnet.

Or a lemming.

I’d barely stepped into the shadow of Temple for

the first time when it issued a stern warning, one

that would stay with me. On a cold April morn-

ing in 2012, shortly after entering Temple’s uber-

classic ski line, the striking Aemmer Couloir (600

vertical metres, on the far eastern fringe of this one

and a half-mile-wide face), we were almost rinsed

back out by a billowing, loose snow avalanche.

Despite the aspect, the sun had managed to tickle

a hidden, hanging snow-slope, which had sluffed

into the couloir. This was no mountain to be trifled

with. We beat a quick retreat and headed for the

centre of the face, far from any menacing rays. I

was fairly new to the area, so I’d put ear to ground

and heard whisper of the Cobra and Dolphin cou-

loirs. We were not left wondering. The Dolphin

was immediately self-evident! However, what truly

struck me was the plethora of tangled couloirs

recessed into quartzite slots, some criss-crossing,

some topping out under the distant, oppressive

headwalls on steep, hanging faces. Why did one not

hear of all this unbounded potential, merely three

hours from the car? The seracs peering over the


t o p The top of the line skier’s left of the Dolphin. The lake in the corner shows where flat is.

b o t t o m Aemmer’s Couloir and the top section of the Dolphin.

headwall provided a clue, but they mainly threat-

ened the Dolphin.

Here eternal shade was a certainty and frigid air

seeped down. My American friend opted to regain

some composure by relaxing in the sun, away out

on the forest fringes. I headed up one of the more

inviting lines away from the seracs. The deep non-

cohesive powder was stable but slow, and the couloir

just kept going. Three hours in, I was approaching

my agreed turn-around time and was yet to even

reach the line’s crux. A narrow couloir beckoned on

the right, a tributary of the main line, and I accepted.

Here I had the least amount of objective hazard and

the most stunning riding, especially in 40-centime-

tres of blower! We were soon headed to the car, then

far from Canada, far too soon.

The Canadian Rockies have a lot to offer but I must

admit that my mind dwelled unhealthily, unjustifi-

ably, on my last view of Temple. It sat high and

lonely, stark above the pines on that crisp evening.

There was really no question of return. I spent the

next frigid Canadian winter patrolling at Lake Louise.

Temple stood across the valley, untouchable, a dwell-

ing of cavernous shade, emanating cold, inspiring

fear. We watched the snow cover wax and wane,

watched downdrafts, spindrift and ice avalanches

pulverise the forest below, watched the clouds ebb

and flow. Many months later life began to stir again,

as did we. Exactly a year from our Aemmer escape I

did get to ride it, this time with Aussie and Québécois

workmates. It rode even better than it looked; length

and consistency made it feel surprisingly steep for the

angle. My idea to ride it switch only lasted three turns

before I opted for euphoria over terror. Rum, as the

weather closed in at the bottom, was delicious, as was

our route back to Lake Louise via Little Temple, a

perfect pyramidal outlier stacked with powder, or at

least, deep soft facets.

Every skier who aims for Aemmer must pass

before the rest of the north face lines en-route. Once

again, they had called me. A ridiculous-looking line

next to the Dolphin looked possible with the addi-

tion of another year’s experience. I’d also noticed

the Sphinx, the breathtaking web of snow once

skied by Trevor Peterson. Wouldn’t it be good to

ride everything up there? whispered a voice. Perhaps

even in one spring? Madness, I thought, and for the

next month I did exactly what I should have been

doing: cragging, camping and swimming. There was

only the odd ski-mountaineering day-trip to keep

things spicy, and these were always powder lines in


t o p One of the hidden tributary couloirs tucked into the strata.

b o t t o m The Sphinx slithering up the north face in late-season.

fresh locations. Somewhere, though, the small voice

nagged quietly and persistently. On 1 May, I went

back for a day that concreted the notion into a goal

that would destroy my idyllic spring, and created a

template for my next few trips. They went some-

thing like this:

I join Italian and Canadian friends for the beauti-

ful Paradise Valley approach. Their company is a

welcome distraction from the resident big brown

bears. We part ways at Lake Annette: they head mer-

rily to Aemmer Couloir, while I approach the face

with misgivings. I stash lunch and transition under

the stoutest available buttress, then swing on up

into a couloir, trying to move fast through exposed

sections. I feel the air gather below my heels on the

final hanging snow-slopes, glance nervously at the

headwall and its frozen guardians. I cut a platform,

strap in and take a final breath. Lake Annette is far

below me now. Business time.

The powder is typically settled, to catch each turn,

although one time it’s more akin to Chamonix, with

icy hop turns and heavy breathing. The ice axe comes

into regular play. At the bottom I feel elated and

drained, but after lunch it’s up the couloir next door

for a repeat act. As the sun slips behind the hills I

stumble home, too exhausted for bear paranoia.

Some poignant memories have stayed with me.

There were swathes of egg-sized ice chunks almost

all the way out to Lake Annette, 700 metres from the

wall. Climbing alongside the Dolphin, which is the

only heavily threatened line, it was helpful to picture

the next free-falling serac also detonating on a ledge

and disintegrating into space. The Dolphin is the

standard start of the uber-classic Greenwood-Locke

Route, but much safer is the couloir that joins it from

the right at two-thirds height.

The next line right of the Dolphin was exceptional,

widening to a terrifically exposed final snow-slope at

its head, the steepest snow on the north face. Multiple

chokes, powder, sluff and a mandatory exit air com-

pleted the package, along with an interesting journey

up another tributary couloir. Committing to climb

(and subsequently reverse) a very awkward rock step,

it was disheartening to discover only 40 more metres

of snow beyond!

On the next trip, low cloud warmed the face in the

afternoon, and I spent a good while holed up on a

quartzite ledge while sluffs plunged down the run-

nel nearby.

That very night we bivvied within sight of the face.

We were afforded a beautiful late evening clearance


Dropping in on Little

Temple. Balm for the

stresses of the north face.

and a privileged view. I reflected. My questionable

project was weighing heavily on my mind. No one

moment had been incredibly stressful. But the sheer

volume of time scurrying under the oppressiveness

of this hulking black and green rock was a burden. It

hadn’t been strictly intentional, but other than in the

Aemmer, I’d been solo, so was happy that the cheer-

ful Italian Ben would be joining me in the morning.

After we’d done the Sphinx, I would never, ever have

to come back.

We woke to the hush of thickly falling snow. It was

a wet walk out.

Relaxing back in Canmore was superb, as was

forgetting all about the face. Resolution? Nah.

The next night whilst heading out the door to see

friends off from Banff, I glanced at the forecast and

groaned. Tomorrow would be the day that every-

thing could fall into place. Nothing could be less

appealing, but as we drove home late that evening,

I knew it: if I didn’t go now, I never would. A few

hours later I drove to Louise under the northern

lights. By now it was only truly dark for a few hours

and Temple glowed ethereal in the pre-dawn, more

beautiful than ever. I enjoyed the old game of try-

ing to pick conditions from miles away, thinking

over recent weather and limited information. Early

birds sang as I skirted dirt patches and isothermal

rot. I am not an early bird. Lake Annette had been

shedding her winter mantel and glinted in the sun-

rise. The Sphinx looked okay, it had cycled during

the last snowfall and left just enough behind for

me, perhaps?

The rockfall audible, and visible, whilst ascending

the sinuous access couloirs intoned that this whole

Sphinx face was a different beast. The headwall has

been climbed but even super-guide Barry Blanchard

now steers clear of it after ‘bashing his head against

the Sphinx’ during too many attempts. Committing

to the line proper had me really tense. Eventually

I was just 50 metres from the top. The snow was

very steep. It got icier with each step, and also grew

thinner on the blue glacial ice that had lain bare

until a month ago. Delicately now—then suddenly,

horrendously, the ‘howl’. If I needed to be told any

louder than the snow could talk to me, the plum-

meting rocks did the trick; spinning and smashing

past, down the guts of the route. This was as far as

I was going. Hacking a feasible perch was a tenu-

ous affair in 20 centimetres of crust and facets on

ice. I don’t remember if I used a screw but I know

I felt precarious. Eventually, I grated out to the

trenches the rocks had run down the top pitch, and

surrendered to the fall line (for two milliseconds

at a time). The snow grew more enjoyable where

sluffs had left chalky ribs, and the angle graciously

eased for the traverse left, sluff pouring off bluffs

below. The snowboarding just kept coming, end-

less anxious turns. Rock band, snow, rocks, snow

… eventually, after a climbing traverse to avoid the

exit cliff, I was out. An hour’s sprint up my access

couloir’s bootpack, dodging now frequent but pre-

dictable rockfall for a wild, carefree descent, ticked

my last box. I could go home.

Late the next morning I woke to a bright room.

Finally I felt the glow of satisfaction, but more pow-

erful was the wash of relief. It had become clearly

impractical to ride every piece of snow on the face,

too many had slyly revealed themselves. But I’d

enjoyed (sometimes) the seven obvious ski lines, two

appealing tributary couloirs, and Little Temple. The

needless, self-imposed pressure was off, but I also

stood upon and rode off the summit via the south-

west face a few weeks later like any good lemming.

It was a beautiful and fulfilling morning. Was I free

of my enslavement to one mountain? Well, there’s

simply more there. Maybe, just perhaps, I may not

have found my revelation quite yet.

CLIMBER IN A STORM

The mountain casts a shadow like a net,

its reach as vast as an ocean.

It hauls in the sombre glaciers,

subtle pathways, lapping ridges,

valleys of complacency.

He climbs the mountain into a sky

as clear as a pearl, as blue as the tide,

but if he were to look he’d see the shadow

snare the storm that broils

beyond the horizon.

It lashes the line, reels in its catch

of stratocumulus and polar blast.

Drags it over the pied du mont

and cuts it loose amidst the towers

of crusted rock and verglace.

Hurl your malice, keen your fury,

strafe his body, ransack his sight,

kidnap his warmth, steal his bearing,

arc the rope until it thrums electric

in his frozen hands.

and he knows nothing but to find

safe harbour

and to anchor.

–PAT DEAVOLL

photograph by Troy Mattingley

James Wright nearing the

summit of Dilemma Peak,

with Unicorn behind,

Banks Range, Aoraki Mt

Cook National Park.

Don French

129

The Vertical World Alex Parton

Di Hooper

Brian Wilkins

Paul Caffyn

Mitre Peak’s shadow over Milford Sound. Mark Watson

130 T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D

When I was elected chairman

of the Auckland section of

the New Zealand Alpine Club

in 1969, I inherited the responsibility of

building a new replacement hut on Mt

Ruapehu. Though many years have passed

since then, I thought it may be of interest

to record some of the background to the

hut’s construction. The original hut, which

had been built in 1948, was very small (ten

bunks), and was approaching its use-by

date. Furthermore, because it was located

alongside the main access track that ran

from the road-head to Crater Lake, strang-

ers frequently went beyond the front emer-

gency shelter and into the hut, which was

usually left unlocked during weekends. To

avoid this happening in the future, the new

hut was to be located on a knoll well away

from the main access track, and the old hut

was to be transferred to the Park Board for

storage purposes and a more substantial

emergency shelter.

Club member Lindsay Wood, an archi-

tect, designed the new hut to accommodate

23 people comfortably and 33 ‘intimately,’

on ten double bunks spread over three

levels, plus three lower-level wall seats.

(Twenty years later, Lindsay would also

design Centennial Hut.) Engineers John

Smith, Brian Duncan, and John Gregory

also assisted with various aspects of the

design, including the hut’s novel inverted

truss, while my job was to obtain the vari-

ous approvals from the club’s Headquarters

Committee, the Tongariro National Park

Board and Taumaranui County Council,

organise the raising of funds, and co-ordi-

nate the construction.

While Club Headquarters in

Christchurch was considering the project,

the ground levels were surveyed, a series of

snow stakes monitored to provide data on

winter snow depths, and discussions were

held with the Tongariro National Park

Board about possible hut locations.

The hut was finally constructed in the

summer of 1970–1971, at a total cost

close to $7000 (with $3000 coming from

Club Headquarters, approximately $3000

from the Auckland Section and Auckland

University Tramping Club, and the bal-

ance of $1000 from the Wellington section

and miscellaneous other donations). We

were lucky to obtain the club’s contribu-

tion because its books were in the red

at the time, following the extensions to

Unwin Hut.

Most of the timber for the hut was sup-

plied at a substantially discounted rate by

Mick Dillon, an old childhood friend of

Allan Berry who owned a sawmill. Mick

also allowed us to use his Otahuhu yard

to pre-paint the weatherboards before

they were transported, by rail and truck,

to Ruapehu.

The first major challenge on the moun-

tain was transporting the building materi-

als from the road-head to the building

site. Fortunately Ken Smith, member of

the Auckland Section, was in the RNZAF

at the time, and he helped negotiate an

arrangement whereby a small group of

Auckland Section members would provide

a week of survival training to a group of

Air Force personnel who were heading

down to Antarctica, in exchange for an

Iroquois helicopter lifting 11 tonnes of

THE BUILDING OF RUAPEHU HUT: A HISTORYwords and photos by ALEX PARTON

Ruapehu hut nearing completion.

T H E V E R T I C A L W O R L D 131

building materials up to the hut site from

the road-head. The idea was for the train-

ing group to be airlifted up to the plateau

(south of Te Heu Heu), where they would

practise erecting some Antarctic tents bor-

rowed from the Antarctic Division of the

Department of Scientific and Industrial

Research, before moving on to other parts

of the programme. The Iroquois would

return later in the week and spend most of

the day airlifting the hut materials before

finally collecting the training group and

heading back to Hobsonville.

But things didn’t work out as planned.

After we had erected the tents and dug

snow caves in the southern slopes of the

ridge on Te Heu Heu, it snowed for a

week. I headed back to Auckland before

the bad weather arrived but Jim Tobin

and Phil Baker told me later that condi-

tions were pretty miserable and that the

Air Force guys got their money’s worth

of survival training! Later in the week the

group bundled all their gear (apart from

the Antarctic tents) into a banana boat

and were guided down the mountain by

Jim and Phil during a brief lull in the

storm. The Antarctic tents that were left

behind had collapsed and were buried

under a heap of new snow, with only the

tops of their poles showing. This meant

that the Air Force had to make a return

trip to salvage them. On this occasion the

sole objectives of the trip were to retrieve

the buried tents and lift our building

blocks, steel, cement, and roofing mate-

rials up to the hut site. The Air Force

chose a day of perfect weather for the job

and it is understood that the pilot flew a

record nine hours almost non-stop during

the exercise.

This left the piles, floor joists, floor-

boards, framing, weatherboards, joinery,

lining timber, pre-assembled cabinets and

diesel stove to be transported to the site.

The Alpine Sports Club lent us its flying fox

and we strung this between the lower end of

the Waterfall Poma lift and a landing area

near the hut site on Delta Ridge. A large

work party of about 60 people carried the

materials from the road-head to the foot of

the first chairlift, across Hut Flat (between

the top of the first chairlift and the foot of

the second lift) with help from a Ruapehu

Alpine Lifts tractor and trailer, and finally

from the top of the second chairlift to

the foot of the flying fox. This group also

loaded and unloaded the materials on and

off the chairlift carrier platforms.

Then the slow job of transporting the

materials up the final rise by flying fox

began. The flying fox could only carry a

maximum load of around 80 kilograms and

the operators, led by Tony Lilleby, worked

long hours over many weekends, in all sorts

of weather, to transport the materials up

to the hut site. Because we had no on-site

t o p The framework and structural ‘underskin’ of the hut nearly finished.

a b o v e The top of the flying fox. The Pinnacles are in the background.


power, the small 2.5 horsepower Briggs and

Stratton motor that powered the flying fox

was later used to run the concrete mixer

and then a bench saw. Back then, petrol

generators were building aids of the future.

Although some thought was given to

providing the hut with power from the

outset, the likely cost of running cables

to the site—estimated at around $5000 at

that time—was prohibitive. Furthermore,

doing so would have run the risk of having

the hut classified as a ski lodge rather than

a ‘remote hut,’ which would mean higher

building standards and costs. So, at first,

the heating and cooking in the hut was

powered by a diesel AGA stove that my

wife Diane and I donated. Unfortunately

the AGA was difficult for many people to

operate, so it was replaced in later years:

first by a coal-burning Shacklock stove and

then by a wood-burning stove for heating

and an LPG stove for cooking.

One of the first things we did on the

site was dig a hole for the below-floor-

level watertank, but we struck solid rock

in several places. The following weekend

John Smith and Tony Bowden took down

some gelignite and the troublesome rock

was soon removed. They didn’t have a

permit for the blasting but felt sure that

no one would be any the wiser because the

site was a long way from the road-head

and well away from other huts. However,

they had forgotten that an early eruption

warning device was buried on Delta

Corner, only 100 metres or so away. When

the workers called into Park Headquarters

on their way home, they noticed several

huge spikes on the seismograph which

coincided precisely with the timing of the

gelignite detonations!

The job of building the hut went rela-

tively smoothly, with a team of quali-

fied carpenters, plumbers, engineers and

experienced amateurs in the club giving

many days of their time to assist and

supervise at critical stages. These people

included carpenters Phil Baker, Keith

Montgomerie, and Pete Hanson; plumber

Wally McDonald; and semi-experienced

amateurs, which included, amongst others,

t h i s p a g e NZAC Auckland Section’s training camp for RNZAF on the plateau, Mt Ruapehu.


Jim Tobin, Pete Clement, John Smith and

myself. The weekend work parties averaged

around eight to ten people, depending on

the needs of the programme.

Part-way through the construction

project, Mt Ruapehu erupted and depos-

ited a layer of ash on the internal ceil-

ing timber that had been stacked out-

side. Unfortunately we couldn’t get the

ash marks off, so we used this timber in

places where the stains were less noticeable.

Fortunately, the down-pipes from the gut-

tering hadn’t been connected at that stage,

otherwise we would have had a major job

on our hands emptying the ash contami-

nants from the plastic-lined tank.

I used to advertise the work parties as

‘work hard, play hard weekends,’ with

the Saturday night parties being predomi-

nantly alcohol-free so we would be able to

work the next day. This approach seemed

to work well and the participants had a

lot of fun. I remember the weekend that

Brian Duncan met his future wife Claire

Butler for the first time. It had snowed

quite heavily all day on the Saturday

until just before midnight, when the skies

cleared, the moon came out and the wind

dropped. At that point Brian decided he

was going for a ski on an ancient pair of

clapped out ‘boards’ that had been lying

around the old hut since time began.

Claire decided she would join him and,

not to be outdone, she jumped on the

back of the skis. The tandem skiing was

not particularly pretty to watch—Brain

and Claire careened down the slope like

a couple of maniacs, falling into the soft

fresh snow every few metres, while the rest

of us cheered them on. Even at that early

stage it appeared they had a promising

future together.

To help organise the weekend work par-

ties, I sent out a questionnaire in which I

asked people to let me know their availabil-

ity, their work skills, and whether they had

transport available. Ian Parton, my father,

who was a urologist, returned his question-

naire saying that his particular skill was a

‘specialist plumber’. He also noted that his

reason for volunteering was that he was

The original NZAC hut. Built in 1948, the hut was demolished by the Tongariro National Park Board following completion of the new Ruapehu Hut.


‘unable to work in the garden due to the

lack of a wheelbarrow.’ (He had taken his

wheelbarrow down to Ruapehu the previ-

ous weekend to help transport the concrete

mixer from the top of the second chairlift

to the hut site!)

Another response for the work parties

came from Louise Hillary, on behalf of her

son Peter, who was about 14-years-old at

the time. On the way up to the hut site,

at around midnight on a Friday evening,

I remember hearing someone hard on my

heels, pushing the pace. I was as fit as a

buck rabbit at that stage so I increased my

pace a bit to maintain the lead—but the

person behind me did too. I remember

glancing behind to see who it was and sure

enough it was Peter. ‘To hell with this,’ I

thought, ‘I’m not going to have a young

whippersnapper pass me.’ So I increased

my pace a bit more, and so did he. The

two of us were very nearly running by the

time we reached the hut site, where we col-

lapsed with laughter on arrival and called it

a dead heat.

One of the final jobs in the hut was to fix

Dan Bryant’s ice axe and its accompanying

plaque to the south-eastern wall. I don’t

recall who donated the ice axe but I know

that the Auckland section was very fortu-

nate to have been gifted such an historically

relevant item. Dan Bryant was a member

of the 1935 British Everest Expedition that

was led by Eric Shipton. Bryant made such

a good impression on Shipton, in terms

of his climbing ability, temperament and

companionship, that Shipton would later

accept two Kiwi climbers, sight unseen,

onto his 1951 Mt Everest reconnaissance

expedition through Nepal. The two climb-

ers that joined him were from a team of

four New Zealand climbers already in the

Himalaya; they were Earle Riddiford and

Ed Hillary—and the rest is history. If it

hadn’t been for Dan Bryant, it is most

unlikely that Ed would have been included

in the eventually successful 1953 Everest

Expedition or had such an amazing life.

The new hut was officially opened by the

club’s president Colin Gray on 20 August

1971. Dave Massam had taken over as

chairman of the Auckland section by this

time, so he looked after the formalities of

the event. Ed Hillary was present, as was

the hut’s architect, Lindsay Wood, who

had travelled up from Christchurch for

the opening. Diane, who was 38 weeks

pregnant, was also there. Diane was as

much involved as I was and, having put

up with me being down at Mt Ruapehu

for 26 weekends in one 12-month period,

and having fielded hundreds of phone calls

throughout the project, there was no way

she was going to miss out on the hut open-

ing. Unbeknown to Diane and me, Max

Pearl and my father (both doctors) had

both packed sterilised forceps and string, in

case there was a mountain delivery!

Heartfelt thanks to all the people who

helped with this project: the Ruapehu Hut

stands on your generosity.

t o p The hut’s first winter, 1972.

a b o v e The interior of the hut, several year’s after opening.


Ada Catherine Julius (1882–1949)

was a talented horsewoman and

a lover of the outdoors. As the

daughter of Bishop Julius, Ada was as com-

fortable in a ball gown, attending a function

at Peel Forest station, as she was in climb-

ing puttees. During her visits to the Aoraki

Mt Cook area, Ada would live in her canvas

pup tent, which she would pitch when she

visited the original Ball Hut. Ada’s achieve-

ments in one season of high-climbing in

the Mt Cook area took place during the

summer of 1910, the same summer that

talented Australian climber Freda du Faur

became the first woman to stand on the top

of Aoraki Mt Cook. Ada missed claiming

the same summit by a matter of weeks.

Was Ada Julius the ‘other woman’ that

the Mt Cook Hermitage guide Jack Clarke

had been secretly schooling up to be the

first woman to climb Aoraki Mt Cook?

In the New Zealand climbing scene of

that period, there was strong interest in

getting New Zealanders to the summit

of Aoraki Mt Cook first. Finally, in 1894,

Cook's summit was indeed claimed by New

Zealanders Jack Clarke, George Graham

and Tom Fyfe. There was pride and relief

within the country’s climbing fraternity

that the peak had not been ‘bagged’ by any

of the European climbers who were making

no secret of their ‘first ascent’ designs on

the peak. A decade later, there was a similar

race on, this time to get a New Zealand

woman to the top of Mt Cook, in the face

of the obvious and emerging competi-

tion from overseas climbers such as Annie

Lindon and Freda du Faur.

At the time, around 1909 and 1910,

ADA JULIUS (1882–1949)by DI HOOPER


Freda du Faur had Cook’s summit firmly in

her sights. She had first visited the Mt Cook

area in 1906, after sailing from Sydney

to go to the New Zealand International

Exhibition of Arts and Industries Exhibition

in Christchurch. Fixated on the ‘gleaming

white snows,’ Freda returned to the area

two summers later and engaged chief guide

and ‘star’ of the Hermitage1 Peter Graham

(no relation to George Graham) to take her

onto some of the closer mountain ridges to

test her skills. Peter saw Freda’s potential

as a climber on this first visit. It is likely

that Peter also realised how advantageous

it might be to be the guide of the first

woman to climb Mt Cook. Peter Graham

was no bragger, however; he was a patient,

quiet, unassuming man of considerable

stature. As a strong, highly personable and

skilled guide and companion, Peter was

a popular choice for anyone wanting to

hire a Hermitage climbing guide. Peter

was Freda's favourite guide. She called him

‘Graham,’ to keep the relationship as for-

mal as possible, at least to onlookers.

During Freda's third season of climb-

ing in the Cook area, she and Peter would

attempt Mt Cook in the last week of her

second season there. The weather turned

against them. It was too late in the summer,

the ice was heavily crevassed on the Hooker

side, and the western buttress, the preferred

route, was cut off. Disappointed, Freda

returned to her family home in Ku-Ring-

Gai Chase, in northern Sydney, but she

was sure that if it was too late in the season

for her, it was also too late in the season

for any other woman to climb Cook. She

would spend the winter months climbing

and clambering around the sandstone cliffs

of the Chase, and return to the Hermitage

early in the next season, as soon as was

practicable, so she and Peter Graham could

try again.

Jack Clarke was a previous chief Mt Cook

guide, and he had been a member of the

party that had made the first male ascent

of Mt Cook. But, it appears, Freda did not

much like Jack. Before her attempt on Mt

Cook, Jack had argued that Freda and Peter

climbing as a twosome was not safe and

that it broke all the rules of mountaineer-

ing. Others in the Hermitage had gotten

involved, pleading with Freda to protect

‘her honour’ by taking along a second

guide. As a result of these intense—and

to Freda, overly burdensome—concerns,

Freda was never entirely comfortable with

Jack Clarke.

Equally, Jack may not have enjoyed

Freda’s forthrightness. But there were

many other parties of climbers at Mt Cook

during the climbing season. One of these

groups included the irrepressible James R

Dennistoun, a local station-holder’s son,

who was more commonly known as Jim

or, simply, JRD. Jim visited the area fre-

quently before and after expeditions to

explore the Rangitata catchment of the

Southern Alps—many parts of this area

were unmapped and unknown.

Like Peter Graham, Jim Dennistoun had

no pre-conceived ideas about what women

should or should not do or achieve. Jim’s

sister Barbara Dennistoun accompanied

him on most of his expeditions to Mt

Cook. Mary Murray-Aynsley, a friend who

had completed a number of forays into the

ice and snow of the area, also joined the

young climbing group. However, it was

Ada Julius—a frequent visitor to JRD’s

family home, the Peel Forest high-country

sheep station—who quickly leapt to the

forefront of this group of friends through

her courage, skill and quiet daring in

the mountains.

Initially, during her frequent visits to

Peel Forest, Ada enjoyed the tennis, croquet

and polo parties. But Ada quickly became a

boundary-pusher and explorer with JRD.

Together they climbed Little and Big Mt

Peels, behind the farm, on two separate

expeditions, and they frequently ventured

out over the lesser hills on horseback. Ada’s

mountain forays from Peel Forest occurred

during the same summer that Freda du

Faur was making her first attempt on Mt

Cook, late in the 1909 season. Not long

after Freda had returned home to Sydney

after this first, unsuccessful season, she

received a letter from Peter Graham. Peter

wrote that a ‘well known New Zealand

mountain guide’ (Jack Clarke?) had a New

Zealand woman in his sights to be the first

The McCoy (Shanks) Glacier, below the icefall. Barbara Dennistoun, Ada and Lawrence Earle.

Republished with permission from The Peaks and Passes of JRD, Dennistoun/Mannering.


woman up Mt Cook. Peter reported that

this guide had said that ‘he would get the

lady in question to the top if he had to carry

her there.’2

Comments about ‘carrying’ a woman up

a mountain were typical of this era, which

routinely minimised the achievements of

its female climbers. Some people assumed

that this other woman was young Nettie

MacDonald, whose parents managed the

Hermitage; Jack Clarke was known to have

been interested in her. But Jack had also

spent time exploring the headwaters of the

Rangitata with Ada and JRD, so the ‘lady

in question’ could just as well have been

Ada Julius. Jack knew Ada through Jim

Dennistoun, who had chosen Jack as his

own mountain guide because of Jack’s skill

on ice and in snow. Jack knew how capable

Ada Julius was; he had seen firsthand Ada’s

strength, her determination and her skills

on ice.

The exploration of the Rangitata head-

waters took place shortly after Freda du

Faur’s first attempt on Mt Cook, and it was

a significant expedition. JRD was the impe-

tus for the expedition, and he included

both Ada and Jack in the party. By that

stage JRD had been wanting to resolve

the continuing and outstanding mysteries

that still existed regarding the topography

of these headwaters for some time. As

yet no one knew about ‘the Gardens,’ the

vast ice plateau at the head of the Frances

that link the Rangitata catchment and the

Perth branch of the Whataroa River. An

Auckland party had explored as far as Colin

Campbell Glacier but had not climbed to

the ice fields, which were yet to be visited

by European explorers. It was believed that

there were high cols between the Rakaia

and the Rangitata rivers, but this had not

yet been fully investigated. JRD hoped to

explore the country around McClure Peak

and Mt D’Archiac (in the Havelock branch

of the Rangitata, on the other side of the

catchment) and, if possible, climb both of

these significant mountains.

Ada was not the only woman to be

included; Jim’s sister Barbara also joined

the party. Other members of the party were

Jack Turton and Lawrence Earle, a strong

and talented climber who had recently

completed a number of fine climbs in the

Cook area. Johnnie Evans, a hired hand

from another farm, would look after the

horses and return down the river for addi-

tional stores and mail as needed. The final

party of seven began packing their way up

the vast Rangitata River from Peel Forest

on their horses, on 21 February, head-

ing into the unknown distance where the

furthest mountains fell into troughs that

swallowed the rivers, and yet also towered

above them with the glitter of distant snow-

fields, glaciers and higher ice-falls.

It would take them three days of rid-

ing to reach the Clyde headwaters of the

Rangitata, where they made camp near

the McCoy confluence and established a

base for further exploration into the glaci-

ated headwaters. The party’s first night was

spent at a rundown thatched house called

Stronechrubie, on the furthest boundar-

ies of Mesopotamia Station. Much of the

gear for the six-week period of explora-

tion would be packed up the river for

many of the kilometres on an old wool

wagon. JRD wrote in his journal ‘arrived

at Stronechrubie at 10.30—found the Jacks

and gear safely here—it is a base we can

always fall back on—we seem to have a

deuced lot of gear...’3

Each member of the party had their

own horse. Ada rode ‘Mont Blanc,’ a solid,

grey horse that had formerly been one

of a carriage pair. Ada was an accom-

plished and experienced rider; when she

visited Peel Forest, she would ride from the

Orari Railway Station and Geraldine. The

name of her horse was fitting for a young

woman who would soon be scaling some

of the highest peaks in the Mt Cook region,

her achievements following closely behind

those of Freda du Faur.

Ada was at least as keen as JRD to

solve the riddles of the upper reaches of

the Rangitata. Adventurous and uncon-

ventional, Ada loved the hilly environs of

Peel Forest station, with its grander peaks

behind, and its opportunities for explora-

tion. One night, while at a ball at Peel

Forest, Ada disappeared. When she reap-

peared, at daylight the next day, her ball

Ball Hut. Jim Murphy, James Dennistoun, Ada Julius and Jack Clarke. Barbara Dennistoun.

Republished with permission from The Peaks and Passes of JRD, Dennistoun/Mannering.


gown was in tatters; she had scaled Mt Peel

in the interim. Now Ada and the rest of the

party were headed into the biggest moun-

tains on the Divide and into the furthest

reaches of the Rangitata. Stronechrubie was

only their first stop. A derelict musterers

house called Macraes gave them a cursory

shelter on their second night. JRD wrote,

‘Earle and I had a tent pitched, Barbara

and Ada another. The men slept in the hut.

Glorious night. Very comfy and snug.’4

The river valley became rougher and

there were many deep, swift crossings of

the Clyde as the party progressed up this

branch of the Rangitata. JRD quickly noted

Ada’s skill and courage during the many

risky river crossings, which the group made

on their horses. Finally they came to a

confluence of two rivers, now known as

the Frances River and McCoy Creek. The

Frances was not named when the group

camped there, and they just called it ‘the

south-west branch’. They described it as

a narrow valley that could soon be a trap

in bad weather. As for the camp, JRD and

his friends were delighted to set up their

tents and kitchen tarpaulin here, where

there was a small but reasonable amount

of feed for the horses and a small lake or

tarn higher up, in the scrub behind their

campsite, in which they could bathe. The

McCoy Hut now stands on this historically

significant terrace.

Soon after the group arrived, there was

a ferocious storm and a two-day flood.

This confirmed JRD’s observations that

the Frances River was a volatile river that

regularly and drastically altered its own

course. The noise and roar of the water, and

the knocking of giant boulders in the riv-

erbed shocked JRD. Their camp remained

intact because it was on an embankment,

but the cooking tent had to be moved, and

the scrub bedding became waterlogged.

When the weather cleared a few days after

the storm, Ada joined JRD, Earle and

Barbara on an exploration of the McCoy

(Shanks) Glacier, which the party followed

for some way.

The following summer, the Hermitage

was the place to be. Freda du Faur was in

residence, reportedly ready to try for Mt

Cook again as soon as possible with Peter

and his brother Alec Graham. At Peel

Forest, JRD packed six weeks’ supplies for

his own party, which would include Jack

Clarke (employed as a guide again), JRD’s

brother George, who would arrive later,

and Ada and Barbara.

If Jack Clarke had designs for Ada, a New

Zealand woman, to be the first woman to

climb Mt Cook, the party was too late. On

the same morning that Jack and JRD were

climbing towards Mt Sealy, negotiating

the Metelille Glacier—the first morning

of six weeks of planned climbing in the

region—Freda and the Graham brothers

were already closing in on the summit

of Cook. As Clarke and JRD began their

descent from Sealy, Freda and the Grahams

were descending from the summit of Cook,

where they had spent two hours enjoy-

ing their achievement and taking in the

spectacular views in all directions. Ada

had not yet arrived at the Hermitage but

was due in a matter of days. She arrived

by car two days after Freda returned to the

Hermitage after her by now well-heralded

Aoraki Mt Cook ‘conquest’. So she missed

all the interest and fuss that had ensued

at the Hermitage in the meantime. Clarke

may have been disappointed; his disap-

pointment would have been all the more

bitter had he realised then just what Ada

was capable of. This would be very clearly

demonstrated during Ada’s next few weeks

of climbing in the area.

While Freda du Faur continued to look

to other peaks in the Cook area, Ada Julius

put up some warm-up climbs closer to the

Hermitage. She and JRD climbed onto the

Mueller Range, in cold, drizzly weather,

and then climbed Sebastopol, also in the

rain. A trip up to Hooker Hut, with JRD

(from where JRD and Jack Clarke were to

attempt Mt Cook a few days later), was

thwarted by bad weather. They turned

to the high peaks on the east side of the

Tasman Glacier instead.

Within the week, Ada had climbed

the Nun’s Veil, Elie de Beaumont, and

Malte Brun. She followed this with an

ascent of Aylmer, which had not been

climbed before, and then swiftly dealt to the

Minarets and De la Bèche.

Both Jack and JRD were impressed with

Ada. After Malte and the Nun’s Veil, JRD

wrote in his journal, ‘she has done one

of the best snow peaks and quite the big-

gest rock peak and never made a falter or

a slip or mistake. She doesn’t even send

Ada Julius at Ball Hut. Republished with permission from The Peaks and Passes of JRD, Dennistoun/Mannering.


stones down, and can keep at it all day and

be fresh in the morning.’ On their return

from Malte Brun, safe and ecstatic at the

hut, Jack said ‘we all have a nerve, Miss J

for coming, you for suggesting it, and I for

allowing it!’5 At the time, Elie de Beaumont

had had just one previous ascent.

The social milieu at the Hermitage was

becoming divided by the rivalry between

the two parties. This became more obvi-

ous when an unforeseen accommodation

double-up occurred at the Malte Brun

Hut several days later. JRD’s party con-

sisted of Jack Clarke (guide), Ada, George

Dennistoun and Barbara (whose achieve-

ments, in accompanying Ada and JRD on

some of the climbs were also impressive).

The other party was the Du Faur and

Peter Graham group, which included Alec

Graham, Hugh Chambers and variously

Miss Mary Murray-Aynsley and George

Bannister. The Graham–Du Faur party

had left for Malte Brun Hut to travel over

Graham’s Saddle to spend Christmas in

Franz Josef on the understanding that if

the weather was bad they would go down

to Ball Hut. When JRD’s party left some

time later for Malte Brun Hut, from where

they would put up their climb on Aylmer,

they expected it to be unoccupied. They

were surprised, to say the least, to dis-

cover it was occupied by the Graham–Du

Faur party, who had been waylaid by bad

weather! JRD wrote ‘we were pleased, you

can imagine! And they were beastly about

it. Jack Clarke had quite a bad time – things

were somewhat strained between Jack and

Peter for a bit.’6

The weather continued to close in, with

thunder, hail showers, wind and sleet. The

corrugated iron walls of the hut didn’t keep

out the bitter cold and the time was spent

mostly wrapped up in blankets and in

bunks. Later in the evening, however, after

both groups had cooked a meal, the atmo-

sphere became highly jovial. An evening

of great camaraderie unfolded, no doubt

facilitated by the storm, still raging outside.

A sense of co-operation, survival, fun and

friendship banished all more competitive

concerns. The weather remained the same

on Christmas Day, with the addition of

30 centimetres of snow around the hut,

but by the afternoon the two groups could

venture outside. They took a group photo

and enjoyed some rock climbing at the

back of the hut. It wasn’t until Boxing Day

afternoon that the Graham–Du Faur party

could finally head for Graham Saddle.

Ada’s weeks were coming to an end and

she was due back home for a wedding. It

was time for Jack Clarke, JRD and Ada to

attempt Mt Cook. JRD was hungry for it for

himself, and for Ada to achieve it too. Both

he and Clarke had quickly recognised that

all of them, including Ada, were fit, capable

and ready for this prestigious climb.

It was again the bad weather that gave

the endeavour a slow start. Nights at Ball

Hut waiting for the weather to clear were

finally aborted and a return was made to

the Hermitage. Finally a settled, cold night

and rising barometer saw guides Jack and

Jim Murphy, together with Ada and JRD,

retrace the long walk to Ball Hut. They were

hoping for good conditions higher up, with

the settled weather. The next day the four

climbed to Haast Bivouac. This was initially

a ledge in the rock ridge, but had been vari-

ously enlarged by other parties. Despite Jim

Murphy working on it further, it was only

ever big enough for the small Whymper

tent and a space for two others to sleep

closely together. The party left their gear

and climbed further up to Glacier Dome to

punch steps in the soft snow that would aid

them later, when the snow froze overnight.

They left the bivouac in the very early

hours, and made such good progress in the

dark that they had to wait in the seracs of

the Linda Glacier, becoming disoriented

by the lack of light in the jumble of ice.

At daybreak, Jim Murphy ventured out in

front and later found that traversing the

steep headwall of the Linda was a feasible

route. However, Jack Clarke knew the route

from Greens Saddle and preferring this,

turned away from the arête, and lead the

group ever upwards to this high col, 400m

below the summit of Cook. But their hopes

for the summit were dashed when, just

below the col, they heard a terrible wind

on the Hooker side. Ice and stones were

being whipped over the col by this wind.

Finding a small icy ledge for shelter, the

group reluctantly conceded defeat to the

wind. Their eyrie was a fantastic vantage

point, with views stretching from the Two

Thumbs in the north to Mt Aspiring in the

south. The four had achieved a first ascent

of the Linda to Greens Saddle. For Ada, in

her first climbing season and still a novice,

this was a superb achievement.

Ada achieved so much in such a short

time in the Cook region—was this due to

an unusual level of fearlessness? JRD notes

that Ada was very calm, very level-headed

and somewhat self-effacing. She was highly

regarded by others at the Hermitage, being

pleasant and cheerful in any social setting.

She considered herself to be ‘the lesser

climber’ when comparing herself to Freda

du Faur, but on Cook Ada had put up

faster times in her climbing, and achieved a

greater number of more significant climbs

than Freda managed in her first and second

seasons at the Hermitage (short though

they were).

Freda du Faur and Peter Graham had

the luck of the weather. In contrast, Ada’s

and JRD’s timing left them with Greens

Saddle as a consolation prize, but they were

well satisfied in the knowledge that, had

they had a fairer forecast, they could well

have reached the summit. If Ada Julius

was indeed the New Zealand woman Jack

Clarke wished to put on top of Cook, it was

only her later arrival at the Hermitage for

the season’s climbing that robbed her of

this achievement. References1. S Irwin, Between Heaven and Earth, White Crane Press, 2000, p80.2. S Irwin, Between Heaven and Earth, White Crane Press, 2000, p125.3. James Robert Dennistoun’s notes, from The Peaks and Passes of JRD, JRD Publications, 1999, Geraldine, NZ, p100.4. James Robert Dennistoun’s notes, The Peaks and Passes of JRD, JRD Publications, 1999, Geral-dine, NZ, p102.5. James Robert Dennistoun’s notes, The Peaks and Passes of JRD, JRD Publications, 1999 Geral-dine, NZ, p169.6. James Robert Dennistoun’s notes, The Peaks and Passes of JRD, JRD Publications, 1999 Geral-dine, NZ, p171.


This article is an edited extract from Brian Wilkins’ book Among Secret Beauties, A Memoir of Mountaineering in New Zealand and the Himalayas. (Otago University Press, 2013).

On 2 January 1955, Otago climbers

Ian Bagley, Lindsay Bruce, Reg

Scott and I made the first ascent

of the North East Ridge of Mt Aspiring.

Equipped only for a one-day climb, we

were hit by a severe storm shortly after

reaching the top of the ridge. We survived

by scraping out a tiny cave in the snow

on the top edge of the Coxcomb Ridge.

Two days later, in better weather, higher

on the Coxcomb, and close to passing

over the summit for a return down the

North West Ridge, we were joined by four

other climbers: Dick Tornquist, JD Rockell,

Ivan Pickens and Jack Rattenbury. This

second party had climbed the North East

Ridge that day, 4 January, thus making the

second ascent.

This story begins with our party on

the Therma Glacier. We had walked up

the Matukituki Valley, camped on French

Ridge, and reached the Bonar Glacier via

the Quarterdeck. Digging a snow cave near

Shipowner Ridge, and then another high

on the Therma, we advanced during poor

weather and were well placed.

Our route would take us to the summit

of Aspiring from the top of the North East

Ridge, along the upper part of the Coxcomb

Ridge, if we succeeded. We planned to

return down the North West Ridge and cir-

cle back to our present snow cave at nearly

2438m, about 610m below the summit,

and about two-and-a-half kilometres from

it. A rock tower ahead, across the glacier,

directed us to begin above it.

To begin with, the strata lay almost

horizontally, but was broken and unstable.

The ridge was narrow and soon we were

below another rock tower. The gully on

the right didn’t look good, and on the

left near-vertical smooth slabs pointed to

the Volta Glacier, far below. We took the

middle line and squeezed up through a

crack in the tower to come out on top of an

untidy jumbled block structure. A number

of small overhangs kept us interested. In

many places the ridge required us to move

out a little on to the faces on either side. We

were never constricted to one set of moves,

even within the constraints of a ridge that

was narrow and exposed all the way.

If any of it was unpleasant, it was the par-

ticularly rotten face above the Volta, where

MOUNT ASPIRING NORTH EAST RIDGE

The first ascent and its aftermath

By BRIAN WILKINS

Aerial photograph of Mt Aspiring from the east, with the North East Ridge in profile. Colin Monteath/Hedgehog House


we found ourselves holding together a mass

of loose boulders. We joined our two ropes

together and climbed as a four. This was a

technique for crevassed country. The extra

safety, on an unknown ridge, allowed us

to keep moving steadily without any prob-

lems. We were in good belay stances most

of the time. Near the top of the rock section

we negotiated another tower by hanging

onto a line of quartz outcrops and getting a

little friction with our boots on the smooth

Therma face. When the leather sling attach-

ing Bruce’s ice axe to his arm broke, the

axe slithered four and a half metres before

unexpectedly coming to rest on the rock

face. Had it gone, we would have had to

retreat, unable to tackle the snow above us.

Then came the exhilarating but exhausting

cheval ridge—it was not horizontal, like

the horse-riding shuffles near the summit

of Malte Brun, but steep. Finally, across

an awkward stretch of loose little boulders,

we were at the foot of a snow slope, about

200 metres from the summit ridge. There

was almost a foot of soft snow, which got

thinner higher up, with ice underneath. We

had put on crampons at the top of the rock,

but snow in that condition, accumulating

unpredictably among the crampon points,

forced us to cut steps as well. By the middle

of the afternoon of 2 January 1955 we were

at the top of the North East Ridge.

2 JanuaryWe were not much lower than the summit

of Aspiring, but almost half a kilometre

from it horizontally. We knew this summit

ridge, the upper part of the Coxcomb, was

not easy. Although there were at least ten

attempts on the Coxcomb before it was

climbed, its entire length had been climbed

only twice before. Behind us, the sky out

to the west was far from reassuring. Down

on the West Coast what might have been

to the farmers merely a signal to bring out

their oilskins, began to take on aspects of

the apocalypse up here at this T-junction

of roads to easy oblivion. If it got worse,

we considered it was probably safer to con-

tinue along the previously trodden upper

Coxcomb rather than face the uncertainties

of a first descent of the tricky climb that

we had just completed. Mountains can spit

you off; but this mountain, not today. We

weren’t going anywhere; we were burrow-

ing into it like parasites; it might digest

us though.

When the blast hit I was still picking

my way up, finding the holds in the rock

chimney, well short of the top of the

30-metre-high tower, the largest on the

Coxcomb. We were now on two separate

ropes. I came back down and we all stayed

there, on the spine of the Coxcomb. We

were carrying just a little food and water

in our day packs. Not having planned for

a night out, our insulation, sleeping bags

and shovel were all back in our snow cave.

Our ice axes would have to do instead

of a shovel. For the next three hours we

scraped and chipped into the snow and ice,

beginning a few metres down the northern

slope so that we didn’t break right through

the sharp ridge and find ourselves look-

ing down to the Bonar on the other side.

One at a time, we crouched in the narrow

tunnel and worked to enlarge a shallow

chamber until it was just big enough for us

all to crawl into. Those of us still waiting

outside, high on the ridge, concentrated

on not being blown off. When the chamber

was big enough to fit all of us, we huddled

inside in a tight circle, sitting on our packs

and hunching forward to keep our backs

off the ice, with our feet resting on the

coiled ropes. The damp nor’wester and the

warmth of our bodies in the confined space

brought water dripping down from the

roof of the cave. Dampness and cold make

for a miserable pair.

3 JanuaryThe blast had become bitterly cold, driving

into the entrance tunnel, sucking away our

heat. Fortunately—and when four lives are

at stake ‘fortunately’ is too tame a word to

describe this bit of luck—we were carrying

a sheet of plastic in which I had wrapped

my crampons. Using our crampons and ice

axes and four pitons, we pinned the plastic

to the ice inside the entrance. Keeping this

flimsy door in place occupied one person

for much of the time. We sang a few songs,

stretched our limbs occasionally in the

confined space, massaged our feet, rationed

what little food and drink we had, dozed a

little, and waited. We didn’t talk much.

How long would it last? A day? A week?

Two weeks? Silent prayers. The storm last-

ed all day. We learned later that it was

described as ‘memorable’ over parts of

Otago. Lightning flashed through the ice

crystals in the thin roof above us, and

the thunder put on quite a show, making

it memorable for us too, near the top of

Aspiring. The climax was three electric

shocks we all felt pass through our bodies.

Shocked into action, one might say, we

scrambled to remove all the metal objects

from inside the entrance and push them

outside the short tunnel. The plastic came

down for several hours while we chose

to shiver in the increasingly intense cold

rather than be electrocuted. Our tiny rab-

bit hole under all that wildness across the

Southern Alps—imagine the scale of it.

4 JanuaryOur third day. A clear morning and a cool

wind. We had holed out in snow caves

before, but this was a new level of austerity.

Performance outside would be the crucial

test. There had been little new snow. We

might have made a quick start at 6.00am

but rime coated the handholds on the rock

tower. This icing was another discourage-

ment against going back down the way

we had come. Two hours later most of the

rime was still there but the sun was warm-

ing the rock. After 41 hours of utter misery,

we didn’t know what state we would be

in to tackle the rest of it. Without much

sleep, food, or water, we knew the danger

of our condition.

At 8.00am, our third day on the climb,

we were back on the tower. The chimney

gave us a short break from exposure before

it opened on to a rock slab. The slab sloped

away on the south face of the mountain,

and was coated with hard ice. We didn’t try

the north face; with the huge icicles hang-

ing from it, it looked even worse. The only

way forward was across this face of solid

ice. We cut steps—and good ones too—

and drove three pitons into cracks in the

rock as anchor points.


For eight days we had been on our own.

But now, when we looked down from near

the top of the tower, we saw four climbers

below us on the snow section of the North

East Ridge. We guessed they were part of the

large group at the NZAC Auckland Section

camp at Aspiring Hut, as some of them had

mentioned an attempt on the ridge. No one

had ever gained serious height on the North

East Ridge; now it had two parties within

three days. They would find our hole at the

top of the ridge, at the point where it joined

the Coxcomb, and would be disappointed.

Months later we read their descriptions of

finding ‘a hole in the snow,’ ‘a shallow cave

scraped out’.1 Knowing about the storm,

they had evidence that suggested we had

survived two nights up there under tough

conditions.

The party that made the first ascent

of the Coxcomb Ridge, two years earlier,

found this upper part, the main tower and

beyond, the hardest. We climbed over some

of the smaller, more jagged towers, but

others demanded that steps be cut around

their shady, icy, south faces. Near the end

of the rocks we had to abandon the cau-

tionary approach and take to the air. A slab

on the top of the rock ridge sloped away

to where we could look down on a narrow

snow ridge, three metres below, and across

a gap. It was just possible to walk down the

slab without slipping, to reduce the drop

a little. With Bagley belaying me from the

slab I sprang off, but I went a little too far.

I missed the top of the snow ridge and was

sliding off the mountain in the direction

of the Therma. But Bagley proved what a

reliable climber he was. It was a nice repay-

ment for the time I held him four years ear-

lier, when he slipped during our west–east

traverse of Mt Earnslaw (also a new climb).

Ahead of us now, only about 100 metres

away, was the summit. Quiet relief. No

more nasty shocks. Or so we thought.

When the four climbers reached the top

of the rocks behind us, Bagley and I were

about halfway between the rocks and the

summit, some distance ahead of Bruce and

Scott. The four newcomers remained on

the rocks. We learned later that they had

paused to eat a snack and put on crampons.

An ice bulge on the ridge ahead of Bagley

and me meant more step-cutting. Whoever

they were, the newcomers had been using

our steps for hours, the hard-won products

of hours of hacking into the ice across one

passage after another. All things consid-

ered, including what had happened to us

over the last few days, it was an easy deci-

sion to make. It was time for them to cut a

few steps of their own.

Our two parties were about to make

contact: eight of us, in four pairs, strung

out along the ridge, the Auckland four at

the rear. Rockell and Tornquist, the first

pair of the Auckland group, got to Bagley

and me after we had waited for about half

an hour for them to come past us. It was

the strangest of meetings, an encounter like

no other in my experience, and unique not

only because it took place almost at the top

of Mt Aspiring. Looking back, I can see the

signs. It was a meeting at close quarters—as

the Aucklanders moved carefully around us

on the not-dangerously-narrow ice ridge,

we might have been ballroom dancing part-

ners in elegant finger-tip contact. But it was

not a meeting of minds.

I recall saying something like, ‘You’ll be

able to move quicker than us.’ It wasn’t

the place for an extended discussion, but

I think we expected more from them than

we got. Maybe an enquiry or two: Did you

have supplies or bivouac gear with you

for your stay in that hole you made? Do

you think you will get back to your base

tonight? Would you like us to stay close

in front of you while our other two stay

at the rear? Nevertheless, I expected that

we would have a good exchange on the

easier ground of the North West Ridge, just

across the summit. My friends and I were

certainly weak, and hungry too. Our total

food for the three days to that time, shared

among the four of us, under tough condi-

tions, was six medium bars of chocolate,

one packet of barley sugars, four handfuls

of mixed nuts and raisins, and a few acid

drops. We were carrying one flask of water

to share, and we had been sucking melting

snow. I now know they were carrying food.

In a cold southerly wind, with clouds

pushing down on us and allowing only

glimpses downwards into the dark gaps

in the cloud, we were seeing less and less

of the other mountains. Not pleasant, but

for a fit party nothing unusual or par-

ticularly threatening. Nor was the wind

strong enough to unbalance us on the sum-

mit ridge. Perhaps we should have asked

them for food. Had we known what was

about to happen, we might have asked the

Aucklanders to stay just ahead of us. They

had taken a long time on their day climb, in

spite of enjoying the benefits we provided

for them, the luxury of ice cleared from

rock in many places, and our freshly cut

steps. I know now that they had earlier dis-

cussed abandoning the climb. Bagley and I

were enjoying having steps made for us for

the first time that day. We moved at a better

pace over the final stretch to reach the sum-

mit at 6.45pm, 15 minutes after Tornquist

and Rockell. There, the two Aucklanders

took off at speed and were gone.

Of the conditions at the summit, which

were windy, but by no means frightening to

me, Tornquist wrote, ‘It was quite impos-

sible to linger there for we were greeted by

a fierce and bitter wind howling over the

peak.’ He went on to say:

‘Rockell and I pushed on over the ice-

encrusted snow down to the easier slopes

of the North West Ridge to wait for the

others. Almost an hour later, four specks

were seen to pass over the summit and

begin to descend. Behind them appeared

Rattenbury and Pickens, who had been

unable to pass the Otago party when we

did. To keep warm, Rockell and I contin-

ued on down but were soon enveloped in

clouds sweeping in from the west. Lower

down a momentary parting of the mist

luckily revealed a route down on to the

Bonar Glacier.’

If Tornquist is claiming that they reached

the top almost an hour before Bagley and

me, he is incorrect. Earlier, for an hour or

so, when we saw the Auckland party com-

ing up behind us, we had begun to believe

that we would all get safely down off the

mountain together. Now I was more puz-


zled by their actions than frightened or dis-

appointed. Tornquist, writing about their

climb, said he ‘recut and enlarged’ our steps

on the big tower, and he points out that he

couldn’t use our pitons because his party

had no carabiners to make the connections.

I have been told by one of the party that

they made extensive use of our work.

The second pair of Aucklanders, Pickens

and Rattenbury, had been talking to Bruce

and Scott, inviting them to their snow cave

for the night. Pickens and Rattenbury had

noted that we were not in good shape, but

they were unable to offer us food because

Tornquist and Rockell had gone off with all

of it. When we all resumed the climb from

our different positions near the top of the

Coxcomb, Pickens and Rattenbury’s rope

blew onto some icicles below the ridge and

snagged. By the time they got away, Pickens

and Rattenbury were some distance behind

Bruce and Scott, who had moved on. They

were last to arrive at the summit, get-

ting there at 7.00pm. I believe that, being

relatively fresh, they could then have passed

our back pair, and I am grateful to them for

respecting our state by staying behind us.

Below the summit snow, the North West

Ridge and its crest offer a nice passage in

daylight. But among the darkening clouds

our choices were shrinking. On a good day

we would have had three ways back to our

home cave. None of our party had climbed

Aspiring before, our torches were flat and

we had no hope of making any of those

routes in darkness.

At 9.00pm, with snow beginning to fall,

we were trapped again. The wind was cold

but no worse than near the summit, and

the snow whirled about us without much

venom. Pickens and Rattenbury carried on

down the ridge, attempting to follow tracks

left by Tornquist and Rockell on patches

of snow, but lost their tracks in the rock

and called it a day at about the same time

as we did. Just below us, they built a little

windbreak from slabs of schist. Tornquist

and Rockell were at that time making their

way down the ridge, back through the mist

and snow for another hour and a half after

we had all stopped, to reach their base snow

cave at 10.30pm. Bagley and I sat with our

backs against a low rock wall, while Bruce

and Scott found what they described as a

coffin-like structure a short distance away.

Snow filtered down on our misery. We

dozed a little; it was something we were

Aerial photograph of Mt Aspiring from the north, with the North East Ridge prominent on the left. Geoff Spearpoint/Hedgehog House


becoming good at, feeling discomfort less

and less, getting closer to the time when we

would go quietly, painlessly.

5 JanuaryThe sun rose, but we couldn’t see it. It was

our fourth day trapped high on this moun-

tain. The light coating of snow fell from our

clothes as we slowly rose to our feet. None

of us knew enough about a route directly

down to the Therma Glacier. We were

looking for the way down to the Bonar,

but it was 2.30pm before we could see far

enough through the thick mist.

We learned later that Pickens and

Rattenbury were also unable to find a way

down to the Bonar, but they followed right

down the North West Ridge and reached

their snow cave at 1.30pm. Tornquist and

Rockell had been out looking for them

and saw them shortly before they reached

the cave.

The Ramp is a fairly steeply sloping snow

shelf, it is probably the most common route

down off the mountain. In the clearing

weather it looked inviting. It doesn’t look

fearsome, but we knew people had died

there, slipping and going over rock bluffs

that are not obvious from above. However

much I had deteriorated, my red lights were

flashing: We’ve come this far. Don’t ruin it

now. We roped up, with me in the lead,

and I cut steps down to the Bonar Glacier.

It took five hours.

While we were working our way down

this slope, we looked out and saw four

figures on the Bonar, heading homeward

towards French Ridge. Tornquist wrote:

‘On our way across the Bonar we were

somewhat taken aback to see the Otago

party only then getting off the North West

Ridge. Knowing that they must inevitably

find the steps which led either to our cave or

to the occupied one on the Bonar, and that

we could not give them any real assistance,

we plodded wearily on across the glacier.’

We knew nothing of an ‘occupied cave,’

nor did we come across any other climbers

in the area. But we did feel that we were

being left behind for the second time. We

were getting desperate. At 7.30pm, at the

bottom of the Ramp, the wind dropped

and the clouds lifted, but our home snow

cave was still hours away, to the north. We

couldn’t get across the crevassed Therma

Glacier before dark and settled for an old

abandoned cave that we came across below

the North West Ridge. Luxury was defined

as pools of melt water disappearing from

the rocks under our wallowing faces. Stone

slabs on the floor became beds.

Looking down the Coxcomb Ridge of Mt Aspiring.

6 JanuaryWe crawled out before dawn and moved

across the Shipowner Ridge to an ice cave,

which must have been vacated by the

Aucklanders the previous day. We contin-

ued another three kilometres to a second

cave, then climbed up the Therma Glacier, to

arrive back at our home cave at 9.00am, four

days and one and a half hours after leaving it

for our planned one-day climb.

A day of bedrest would have been in

order, but Bagley was due back at work in

two days and I agreed to accompany him

out, after a two-hour nap. At least we had

a full stomach for the zombie-like 11-kilo-

metre trudge across the Therma and the

Bonar, groping our way around the cre-

vasses of the Quarterdeck in the moonlight.

When we fell into the French Ridge Hut,

at 11.30pm, we found Jerry Aspinall there.

Aspinall was the runholder of Mt Aspiring

Station, and he was about to make his first

and only ascent of Aspiring the following

day, with Jack Ede leading.

For the next few weeks our painful frost-

bitten feet would remind Bagley and me

where we had been.

Four days after we left them, Bruce

and Scott set off but they didn’t make

it. In great pain they had to pitch their

tent on the Quarterdeck for the night.

They reached French Ridge Hut with

difficulty. From there, Scott carried on but

Bruce could go no further. The adventure

ended with Bruce being carried down the

valley on one of Jerry Aspinall’s horses:

just one of the many kind acts Jerry did

for climbers.

Three weeks in Dunedin Hospital

brought Bruce and Scott to full recovery.

One climb, a few days, friends helping

each other to survive, all of us near our

limits. Going back to that tale set among

high pinnacles and low burrows has been

an adventure in itself. I think of all the oth-

ers who will be drawn to that incomparable

mountain: Aspiring.References1. R Tornquist, ‘The North East Ridge of Mount Aspiring,’ NZAJ, 1955.


After graduating from the University

of Queensland in 1969, with majors

in botany and geology, and minors

in rock climbing, caving and folk music, I

was exceedingly fortunate to gain my first

job on the West Coast of the South Island.

While based at Barrytown for the following

year, my weekends were spent caving at

Bullock Creek and climbing and skiing at

Arthur’s Pass.

Rock climbing took a back seat in 1970,

with all the superb new cave exploration

that was on offer at the Fox River and

Bullock Creek, but I would often stop and

peer up from the coastal highway at the

huge, seven-metre overhang at Punakaiki,

which seemed to almost tower over the

road. What intrigued me was an incipient

crack that split the overhang. Commencing

at knife-blade-size, the crack widens slowly

until the lip, where a body-sized flaring

crack opens, requiring a four-inch bong or

tube chock to allow passage.

THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE PUNAKAIKI OVERHANG

by PAUL CAFFYN

a b o v e The author aiding on pegs during the first ascent of the overhang, 6 February 1971. Bill Atkinson


The first ascentEven though I had some aid climbing experience, and had completed plenty of big multi-

pitch ascents in the Glassshouses, Warumbungles and Tasmania, it took three attempts to

complete an ascent of the overhang. The first attempt faded out on a narrow ledge at the

start of the crack. I placed five bolts from etriers on the upper, blank section of the wall,

and another by the ledge where I could abseil off. The prospect of aiding so far out along

the crack was too much to contemplate.

A second attempt was more successful. Using knifeblades, leepers and angles, I was able

to peg out to where the crack broadened to almost body-width. But hanging off a four-inch

bong, and standing in the top rungs of the tape etriers, I couldn’t find any jams or holds to

pull up any higher with.

For the third attempt, on 6 February 1971, I made the now familiar aid moves out to

the four-inch bong placement, where the crack flares. Sitting in my etriers, I used the star

drill (tap, turn, tap, turn) to drill a hole inside the flared bit and hammered in a bolt. Then,

moving up and standing in the top rungs, I was able to place an angle-piton from which I

was able to squeeze vertically up to daylight. Negotiating a jungle of kiekie and supplejack

back to the highway was almost as difficult as the climbing.

During the first ascent, Bill Atkinson took several superb black and white photos, one of

which is now on permanent display at the Punakaiki Tavern, over the road from the overhang.

t h i s p a g e : The author on the first ascent of the overhang. Bill Atkinson (left and top right), Paul Caffyn collection (bottom right)


The second ascentOn 5 October 1974, Robbie McBirney led a successful ascent of the crack to the lip. But

standing in etriers at the bolt at the base of the flared section, he found his shoulders and

chest would not fit. Perhaps he’d spent too much time mastering Supergroove at the Mt

Eden Quarry. Not one to back off easily, Robbie grabbed hold of some stout kiekie vines

dangling over the lip and pulled himself over. It was a most impressive Tarzan-like move

when viewed from ground level. Greg Pickford and I followed. Both Greg and I were of

slim build, and were able to squeeze through the flared bit without having to resort to

kiekie-aiding.

t o p Robbie McBirney ready to aid out along the crack for the second ascent, 1974. Paul Caffyn

b o t t o m Robbie McBirney again, nearing the flaring, end-section of crack. Paul Caffyn


Waimakariri Falls

Hut, Arthur’s Pass

National Park.

Mark Watson

149

Area ReportsNew Zealand Mountains Kester Brown

South Island Rock Troy Mattingley

North Island Rock Kristen Foley and Kester Brown

The crater lake and summit plateau of Mt Ruapehu from Tahurangi. Mark Watson

150 A R E A R E P O R T S

FiordlandThe big news for the summer of 2012/13 is

that a second route was added to the steep,

imposing wall at the head of Sinbad Gully.

Weather Spell (9p, 250m, 30) was estab-

lished over two trips and 27 days by Chris

Igel, Claudia Kranabitter, Karl Schimanski

and Alex Schweikart.

For a week in February, a group of five

climbers took advantage of dry and stable

conditions to base themselves at a camp

near the terminal lake of the Te Puoho

Glacier and climb six new routes on the sur-

rounding granite features. John McCallum,

Tom Riley and Dave Vass climbed the

Walk-Off Spur (I, 16) above Boulder Basin.

John then teamed up with James Spiers

and Richard Thomson to climb the left

edge of The Rothorn (I, 19), a pinnacle

that marks the end of Tuhawaiki’s north-

west buttress.

James, Richard and Dave then climbed

the left arête of The Mighty Dur (II, 19), a

feature alleged to be New Zealand’s answer

to the Dru.

John and Tom climbed The Armenian Direct, a line on the front of The Petit Dur.

The team then headed to an area higher

on the glacier, above Crampon Pass and

below the East Ridge of Revelation. The

Cirque of the Climbables was the scene

of the first ascent of The Hooter (I, 13)

by John, Tom and Dave. A more difficult

direct start was added by James and Richard

at grade 22.

James, Richard and Dave finished the

new-routing spree off with the Russian Gas Pedal (II, 21) start to Ro-Sham-Bo, on the

west face of Taiaroa.

In early March, Ben Dare and Daniel Joll

made the first complete ascent of the south

face of Marian Peak. Their route, Maid Marian (800m, 21, A2), includes six pitches

on the lower cirque wall before taking a

line somewhere near the Herron-Hyslop-

Whiston to the summit. Ben and Daniel

climbed the route in a 28-hour round-trip

from Homer Hut.

In the Moir region, Murray Ball, Nick

Cradock and Dave Shotwell added yet

another quality multi-pitch rock route

NEW ZEALAND MOUNTAINSThis report covers developments in the New Zealand mountains from November 2012 to November 2013

by KESTER BROWN

A R E A R E P O R T S 151A R E A R E P O R T S 151

to the west face of Moir’s Mate. Finders Keepers (10p, 270m, 22) is between the

Bowen-Allan Corner and Lucky Strike.

In November 2013 Stanley Mulvaney

and friends climbed the South Ridge of

Mills Peak.

The big news for the winter was Guy

McKinnon’s first ascent of the west face

of Mt Tutoko. On 11 July, Guy soloed the

central weakness on the 1900-metre high

face in ‘utterly superb’ condition, earning

himself the Black Diamond 2013 Alpinist

of the Year award for his effort.

The annual Southland Section Darrans

Winter Meet produced four new routes

in the upper-Hollyford area. In the upper

McPherson Cirque, Ben Dare, Danny

Murphy and Stephen Skelton climbed The Elusive Leprechaun, and Paul Clarke and

Huw James climbed Schoolboy Error.On the Tunnel Bluffs, Frazer Attrill, Jaz

Morris, Rose Pearson, Anna Seybold and

Alastair Walker added Double Vision, and

Jaz and Rose added The Grovelly Chimney of Joy.

Earlier in the winter, Ruari Macfarlane

and Jaz Morris climbed Home Turf (II,

4), right of Midnight Cowboy on the

McPherson Cirque Left-Hand Buttresses.

Southern LakesMilo Gilmour and Llewellyn Murdoch

established WICKED (9p, 21), on the east

face of Mt Awful, in the Young Valley. Milo

was so impressed by the face, he returned

with Nick Flyvbjerg and Richard Tribe to

add Summer of Yes (5p, 22), to the right

of WICKED.

The Remarkables was again a centre of

attention for alpine rock development in

the region. Please see the South Island rock

report for info.

Winter in the Remarkables was as busy as

ever. In late-June, Ben Dare soloed two new

winter routes on the Wall of Evening Light:

Charmer (3p, M3, WI2+) and Afterglow

(3p, M4+, WI4).

Ben teamed up with Stephen Skelton and

Danny Murphy in July to climb another

new winter route—Gatecrasher (M4, WI3)

is to the right of Enema at Border Crag.

The second annual Remarkables Ice and

Mixed Festival took place in mid-August.

Many new routes came out of the festival

as teams tackled projects that had come

into condition. Seven new routes were

climbed on the west face of the Telecom

Tower. Steve Fortune, Peter Harris and

Ari Kingan climbed Sgian Dubh (90m,

M4). Daniel Joll and Allan Uren climbed

Half Century Celebration (60m, M6), to

the left of Friday’s Fool. Martine Frekhaug,

Gon Nido and Snorre Sulheim climbed

Yeah, Yeah, Nah, Yeah (60–70m, M5).

Ari and Peter climbed Ari-an Supremacy

(50m, M4), to the right of Force It. Frazer

Attrill and Jono Clarke added a direct

finish to that route, which they named

a b o v e John McCallum climbing above Rainbow Lake, Darran Mountains. Richard Thomson

f a c i n g p a g e Daniel Joll climbing along the west ridge of Mt Pibrac after topping out on The

Shaft. Mt Sefton and the Footstool behind. Steven Fortune


Ari-an Retreat (60m, M4). Owen Davis

and Danny Murphy climbed The Aussie

Potato Farmer (40m, M5), to the left

of Saturday Morning Special. Ben Dare,

Federico Callegari and Danny Murphy

added Tri Nations (150m, M5), just to the

right of Recessionary Downgrade.

Over on the east side of the range, Frazer

Attrill, Jaz Morris and Danny Murphy com-

pleted On General’s Orders (70m, M3+) at

Lake Alta.

Adverse conditions for the Osprey Packs

Double to Single Cone Traverse Race left

organisers wondering if any of the teams

would be able to finish, but Danny Murphy

and Mike Buchanan prevailed with a good

time of 4 hours and 15 minutes.

The south face of Single Cone sprang

into perfect spring conditions in October

for a couple of days. A group of locals took

advantage and added three new routes: Ben

Dare, Daniel Joll and Jaz Morris climbed

The Piking Potato Princess (170m, M6,

WI3), a direct start to $100 Whore. Steve

Fortune, Pete Harris and Ari Kingan

climbed 4VLOLZ (400m, M4), right of

Stairway to Methven, and Stephen Skelton

and Vaughan Snowdon climbed $60 Sex

(350m, M5), left of Alejandro el Bicho le

Gusta Sexu Duro.

Alex Belton and Jaz Morris climbed a

new line on the south face of Glengyle Peak

in the west Matukituki Valley. The climb

is graded MC4- and tops out on the west

ridge. The pair didn’t go to the summit.

Aoraki Mt Cook area

Guy McKinnon made the first ascent of

Triple Direct (2150m, MC5), on the east

face of Mt Sefton in February. As the name

suggests, Guy’s line tackles the face in a

direct manner, and includes the previously

unclimbed right-hand buttress on the mid-

dle tier of the face (incorrectly marked in

the Aoraki Mount Cook guidebook as For

Whom the Bell Tolls).

In December 2012, Stuart Hollaway and

Dale Thistlethwaite climbed The Dream

of the Dutch Sailors (MC4+), on the Abel

Janszoon Face of Mt Tasman. Stuart then

teamed up with Richard Bassett-Smith and

climbed Endeavour (460m, 18, MC6-), on

the Bowie Buttress of Aoraki.

Also in December 2012, James Bultitude

and Mike Mageropoulos added Blitzing

Everywhere (MC4) to the north side

of Mt Halcombe, between the Fox and

Franz névés.

Early in the 2012/13 summer, Guy

McKinnon climbed a line linking the prom-

inent rock spurs on the north-west face of

Mt Blackburn (MC3-). Jane Morris also

climbed the peak, this time via the 900

metre central rib on the south face (MC3-).

In September, Steven Fortune and Daniel

Joll climbed The Shaft (560m, WI4, MC5)

on the west face of Mt Pibrac, in the Mt

Cook Range.

Also on Mt Pibrac, on 3 November Jaz

Morris climbed JM Goes Tramping (350m,

WI2, MC4) on the south face. On the same

day, Jaz climbed Névé Névé Land (250m,

WI2, MC4) on Mt Turner’s south face.

Other areasRoss Cullen and Nick Shearer went up the

Ahuriri Valley in February and found a new

route on Peak 2303m. Their climb is called

Jersey Bull and is on the south face.

On 1 September, Ben Dare and Steven

Fortune made the first ascent of the south

face of the Dasler Pinnacles via the large

corner system on the left-hand side of the

face. Resistentialism is 400-metres long and

graded MC5.

Phil Davies and Paul Hersey added

another route to Glen Lyon, in the Hopkins

Valley, which they named The Blind Assassin (5p, 15).

Steven Fortune and Julia Valigore found

a new rock route on a buttress on the

left-hand side of the south face of Kehu Peak in Nelson Lakes National Park in

November 2013.

Winter at Mt Ruapehu saw Mike

Buchanan climb Coyote the Crazy Clown (M7), a new mixed route in the

Mangaturuturu Cirque. Also in the cirque,

Jono Clarke added Mrs Brown (M7) and

Zapata (M9).

The Cathedral Rocks, on the summit

area of Mt Ruapehu, formed up for a brief

time in spring, allowing Graham Johnson

and Anesh Narsai to climb Like Your Mum (60m, M5), about 30 metres left of

Goblin’s Thrash.

Ski-mountaineeringA good record of ski-mountaineering devel-

opments in New Zealand has been sore-

ly lacking in our mountain history thus

far. This is our first attempt to put down

as many significant ski-mountaineering

descents as we can from the past year. Given

the lack of recorded information, it’s unsur-

prising that the more digging we did, the

more we uncovered. Some very impressive,

and largely unheralded, ski and snowboard

descents have occurred in New Zealand

over the past few years. But in the interests

of brevity, we’ve put a date range on this

report, so have covered from November

2012 to November 2013. A comprehensive

history of New Zealand ski-mountaineer-

ing would be a great project for someone

(please get in touch if you’re interested!). If

we’ve missed your new or notable descent,

apologies, and please send us details so we

can include it in next year’s report.

Note: ‘descent’ here refers to skiing, snow-

boarding or similar.

Steven Fortune following a pitch during the

first ascent of the south face of the Dasler

Pinnacles. Ben Dare

A R E A R E P O R T S 153

The ski mountaineering scene has had

an active year. Several new and notable

descents have occurred in the Aoraki area. In

November 2012, Steve Eastwood (skier) and

Shane Orchard (snowboarder) descended

the east ridge to south-east face on Mt Dixon. This was the first recorded descent

since Hugh Grierson’s telemark descent in

1998. The pair then teamed up with David

Hood (snowboarder) for a descent of the east

face of Malaspina the following day. This

was the first descent of the peak.

In December 2012 Duncan Rait speed-

flew (foot-launched) from the summit

area of Aoraki, landing near Plateau Hut.

Five days later Mal Haskins speedrode

(ski-launched) a 10-metre speedwing

from 3701m, just under the schrund near

the summit. Mal landed at the foot of

Zurbriggen Ridge after a proximity flight

of 2m18s. In January 2013, Ben Letham

and George Millet speedflew 14-metre

wings from the false summit.

On 13 November 2013 Ben and George

speedflew from the summit of Mt Tasman.On 30 August, Steve Eastwood and Tai

Naka skied the Balfour side of Silberhorn. This was the first descent of the peak.

During the spring of 2013 Aoraki was

in excellent condition. In late October the

east face was skied by Nick Begg, Andreas

Fransson, Magnus Kastengren and Tyrone

Low. A few days later Ruari Macfarlane

boarded the same line, this was the second

snowboard descent of the peak. Andreas

and Magnus also skied the Bowie Couloir

on Aoraki.

There has also been plenty of activity

in other areas. In November 2013 Shane

Orchard and Tess Carney climbed and

boarded the east face of D’Archiac via the

Motorway Couloir route.

Ruari Macfarlane and Shane Orchard

climbed a new line on the south-west face

of Mt Fraser from the Huxley River North

Branch and boarded the face as well. Shane

also boarded Mt Strauchon a few days later.

On a separate trip Shane returned to the

Huxley South Branch to climb and board

the south-east face of Soloist Peak and the

west face of Temple Peak.

Further south, Mark Sedon has been on

a mission to ski the 18 highest mountains

in the Queenstown Lakes District. As part

of that project, with Kane Henderson and

Elliot James, Mark skied the Centaur Peaks, and then adding Steve Moffatt to the team,

all four skied Headlong Peak. Both descents

were made in November 2012. Mark also

skied Mt Maori in November with Dean

Staples and Elliot James.

On 30 October 2012 (two days outside this

report’s date range, but we decided to sneak

this one in) Erik Bradshaw climbed and skied

the North West Ridge of Mt Aspiring in 14

hours return from Raspberry Flat!

Erik also completed a solo ski traverse in

Arthur’s Pass, from the Otira Valley to Bealey

Spur over three days in September 2013,

he skied almost the entire way. During the

same patch of great weather the Splitfest Split

Boarding Festival enjoyed great conditions for

the third year running at Temple Basin.

Elsewhere in the Canterbury mountains

Tess Carney and Shane Orchard ventured

to Mt Williams on the Rolleston Range

and made a snowboard descent of the south

face. Tess and Shane also visited the Avoca

Valley to climb and board the east face of Mt Greenlaw and west faces of Mt Gizeh and

Peak 2104. On a separate trip they boarded

the east face of Mt Damfool from the Anti-

Crow. Sam Grummit (skier), Shane Orchard

and Nick Sutcliffe (snowboarders) descended

the south couloir of Falling Mountain, and

Nick and Shane also boarded Mt Bowers. In September 2013 Nick Clark and Shane

Orchard made snowboard descents of the

south and east faces of Mts Wilson and

Scott, and the south face of Peak 1937m

from Sudden Valley in the Polar Range.

In October 2013 the same pair completed

a traverse of the Seaward Kaikoura Range

from Te Ao Whekere to Manakau, boarding

the south or east faces of the major peaks

as they went. In November 2013 Shane

and Nick visited the Marks Flat area and

boarded Mts Hooker, Jack, and Gow. and

Shane also boarded Mt McCullaugh.In November 2013, Ruari Macfarlane and

Shane Orchard made a snowboard descent

of Mt Pembroke via the Lippe Couloir and

East Ridge after sea kayaking across from

Milford. Ruari also made a descent of the

south face of Triangle in October.

Steve Eastwood nearing the summit of Silberhorn, shortly before making the possible first ski

descent of the peak. Mt Tasman is behind. Tai Naka


Welcome to the 2013 rock report

for Te Waipounamu. I will not

attempt to unearth every climb

that has been completed over the past

year. Instead I wish to enlighten you about

the gems that were carved out either by

mythology or by hammer and drill in each

province, this will hopefully inspire you to

go and seek these treasures out. Up-to-date

route information is available on climbnz.

org.nz, thanks all all those people out there

doing their part. If I have not mentioned

your three-star new route, can you please

share it on Facebook for all to see.

SouthlandThere is plenty of potential for some sic bloc

action on the south coast if you find your-

self in Invercargill for any length of time.

Borland ValleyWith sporty roadside crags and multi-pitch

adventures two hours from the road, this

obscure little place is still waiting for the

attention it truly deserves. One project

was finally ticked; Schizoid (26), by Troy

Mattingley, is a three-dimensional crack

climb, and if your are in the area this one is

worth hunting out.

Cleddau CragsThe usual carry-on was happening in the

valley. Derek Thatcher weaved his way

up Little Babylon via some new holds to

climb Tigerblood (33)! Owen Davies added

Ulysses (24), near the waterfall.

Babylonia—the crag formerly known

as Slip Crag—received some attention

from Thomas Adamson, David Hood and

Troy Mattingley. They found Divinorum

(23), ProHomie (23), Your Anus (21) and

Tinitus (25).

At the Chasm some retro-fitting by Paul

Rogers on his climbs is helping to keep

this place a destination for climbers from

all over.

WanakaIt’s hard to know what really goes on in

and around the schist country, but I have

heard there have been some new crags being

chiselled out of the strata. DOC recent-

ly purchased a bunch of land which has

opened up the area to the west of Hospital

Flat. The Far Horizons crag is one such

place. No more details are available but an

updated guidebook is in the pipeline, so

watch this space!

QueenstownWith the recent release of the Queenstown

Rock, Ice and Mountains guidebook, a whole

heap of activity was prompted, which has

ensured peoples’ projects have now been

etched into history. A lot of effort was

focused on alpine rock up on the cones.

Mike Dunn and Martin Hawes climbed

The Michael Baker Memorial Route (10)

on the east face of Double Cone. Martin,

this time with Derek Chinn, also added One More Route Before She Gets Home (14) and

My Kingdom for a Horse (13), on the same

face. John Burrow, Guillaume Charton and

Estelle Poiron ascended the 100-metre Alta

SOUTH ISLAND ROCKThis report covers rock climbing developments in the South Island from November 2012 to November 2013

by TROY MATTINGLEY


Vista (17). Guillaume then teamed up with

Trent Potts and headed over to the Wall of

Evening Light to climb B12 (19) and a curv-

ing crack, which they named Once a Steep (23). Steve Carr and Simon Kennedy had

already been and gone, leaving Dying Light (19) in their wake.

Daniel Joll and Reg Measures scuttled up Scenic Flight (24), Flight Attendant (16) and Jet Lag (17), to the right of the Lake Alta Slabs. Thomas Van Den Berg and Michal Karnik climbed the old Ian Binne project nearby to give us Terminator (27).

The South Wye is proving to keep offer-ing quaility climbing for those keen enough to walk past the lower cliffs at Wye Creek. Karl Schimanski added Right Ventricle (24). He was then joined by Keith Brown and Claudia Kranabitter to carve out Coronary Corner (18) and Left Ventricle (27). To see whether they made it into the guidebook be sure to purchase your copy.

DunedinMapoutahi was the place to be in Dunedin this last season thanks to the rejuvenation of a number of climbs and some new climbs as well that were added to this sea cliff thanks to the ongoing enthusasium for the area from Steve Carr and Calum Hudson. New routes include: Golden Shower (17), Hell Hath No Fury, and Winona's Big Brown Beaver (19).

Bullock CreekLove it or hate it, Bullock Creek fills a gap

on the West Coast either for a destina-

tion or when the waves are way too big

a Charleston. It offers adventurous sport

climbing in a lush location.

James Lochhead and Troy Mattingley

dusted a few things off at the Hanging

Gargens, producing Seemingly Psychedelic (24), Knee Deep (20) and revitalising Robin

Hood’s Dogs in Space (18), a route that was

orginally climbed in the 80s.

Lindsay Main is continuing to show his

affection for the area by opening up a new

wall to the left of the Arboretum, called The

Arena. Three climbs have been established

on this epic looking wall.

Francis Main has also been bitten by the

bug, adding Unfinished Business (25) to the

right side of the Arboretum.

CharlestonI have sworn an oath not to mention the

location just yet, but I am allowed to say

that further south down the coastline from

Charleston lie a number of excellent crags.

They are worth the journey if you are hun-

gry for adventure. Among other things Zac

Orme and Thomas Adamson stumbled

upon the mysterious Selkie (22), a three-

star, naturally protected arching roof crack

best done in two pitches IYF (if you find-it).

At Prow Cove Tony Burnell added Over the Schrund (21).

13 MileOwen Davies has been busy bouldering at

this spot just north of Greymouth. Between

surfs, he has climbed Big Wednesday (V6)

a b o v e Zac Orme climbing at Bullock Creek. Troy Mattingley

f a c i n g p a g e Troy Mattingley on a sic south coast bloc, Southland. Troy Mattingley


a b o v e Martin

Hawes on the

first ascent of My

Kingdom for a

Horse (13), east face

of Double Cone,

Remarkables.

Derek Chinn

r i g h t Troy

Mattingley on

Schizoid (26),

Borland Valley,

Southland.

Kester Brown

f a c i n g p a g e

Jane Morris climb-

ing The Orange Men

(21), Orange Wall,

Sebastopol Bluffs, Mt

Cook. Kester Brown

and Tidal Rave (V7). There are also some

good low-grade circuits and high-balls here

that are worth the ten-minute trot from

the road.

Port Hills

Remediation continues up on the Post

Earthquake Hills (sic) with a number of

cliffs opening up thanks to NZAC mem-

bers. The crags are also being filled in with

routes. Transmitter Crag has 12 new routes

thanks to Tony Burnell, Owen Davies, and

James Lochhead. Clayton Garbes and his

gang have done some excellent work at

Transmitter, cleaning up some climbs and

establishing a great area for budding lead

climbers to do their thing. Holla! Tony

Burnell added five new climbs at Lyttelton

Rock, three at Britten Crag and two at the

Jane Fonda Workout Wall.

Now I'm not sure if this is classed as

rock or mountain but there has been some

dry-tooling action happening at a chossy

cave across from Albert Terrace Crag. Steve

Fortune hooked his way up St Peter’s Cross

(M8) which spurred Jamie Vinton-Boot to

add a direct start at M10.

Banks Peninsula

The peninsula has been a valuable asset to

Cantabrians over the last few years, letting

them escape the flattened city and climb on

some solid ground(!?). Let’s hope it con-

tinues to get traffic to help fight back the

endless battle with overgrowth. Leading the

charge this season with new-route develop-

ment was the ever present Lindsay Main. At

Otepatotu he climbed a fist crack with Allan

Hill called The Beast (22). Hugh Logan

ascended The Spine (18), Troy Mattingley

climbed Kava, Mr Lava? (23) and Marty

Schmidt left us Sequoia’s Arête (22).

At Devils Gap Lindsay was at it again with

Satan’s Little Helper (19), Shelter from the

Storm (18) and the 40-metre Book Ends (18).

Over the hill is the Pareki Valley Crag,

which has some multi-pitch adventures for

those that way inclined, Lindsay enlisted the

help of Felix Collins to add the three- pitch

Crown of Thorns (21).

Two climbs have been added to the

cave sector of the Altar at Church Bay.


James Gunn sent Kneel to the Pope (31),

an old Troy Mattingley project. And Derek

Thatcher added The Supreme Pontiff (30).

Mt CookLots of effort and some serious stainless

steel has gone into rebolting opening up

some quality new lines over the past wee

while at the Sebastopol Bluffs. The Seige of

Sebastopol (17) is by Murray Judge, as is an

extension to Nicked (18). Jane Morris danced

her way up Olympic Feet (23). And there are

many more fine new climbs on offer.

Castle HillI find it hard to keep up with activity going

on out there every year—things keep get-

ting bigger, broader and bolder! Check out

castlehillbasin.net.nz for info.

The Fyfe River Gorge

This is the place that is on the tip of every-

one’s tongues at the moment and for good

reason. This is a tight river gorge that is

dripping with steep marbley cliffs and is a

sport climber’s haven.

James Morris has done a stirling job

by producing a detailed guide for the

area and liasing with NZAC in creating

a partnership with DOC to help manage

this resource to ensure it remains open

as a recreational area. Nelsonites Jochen

Lenfert, Al Mark and Michael Cartwright

have been a driving force coming up with

some fantastic lines on the Intergalactic

Wall as well as creating some multi-pitch

goodness only 30 minutes from the car at

the Knot Factory.

Log on to alpineclub.org.nz to download

a copy of James’ guide.

Takaka

When the river was too full to go into the

Fyfe, Al Mark was busy cleaning up some

old climbs and establishing Build a Bridge

(24) near Mea Culpa. Michael Cartwright

has also been busy developing a nice lit-

tle crag down by the water somewhere

in Nelson.


It was a year of two halves in the North

Island in 2013—the old guys bolting

routes and the young guys crushing

them. It seems the changing of the guard

has occurred with Wiz Fineron’s first ascent

of the North Island’s most difficult route,

Immortal Technique (32).

A climber’s day always starts with the crux:

getting out of bed. –Bob Keegan

One of the key drivers of development in

2013 has been the ‘old’ guys wanting to

immortalise themselves in the forthcoming

Rock Deluxe North guidebook.

Whanganui Bay

One method of getting loved ones to look

more fondly on your climbing is to tell them

that since you’ve started climbing you hardly

do drugs anymore. –Steve Conn

If you haven’t been to Whanganui Bay

in recent times, now’s the time to go. A

massive amount of work—by Wellington

climbers John Palmer, Tom Hoyle and

Kristen Foley—has gone into developing

new routes, re-bolting and retro bolting

old routes (always with the first ascention-

ist’s permission of course). The sector that

has received most of the new routes is

Mangakara (the Gorge). This sector is spec-

tacular and is accessed by abseiling in. Some

of the more notable first ascents include

John’s Re-Ignition (23), Propaganda (26)

and The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret (29),

and Tom Hoyle’s classic additions The Man

on the Clapham Ominibus (25), and The

Re-Up (21).

The Plateau has also received a spruce

up with the re-bolting of Sex and Violence

(27), There Goes the Neighbourhood (18),

The Last Words of Hassan Sabbah (23),

Graemeless (25) and Radio Gutsaland (24).

A few additions have been added, including

Revolver (23) by Kristen, and Nameless (26)

and Rough Trade (23) by John.

White Falls

There were no holds, so I had to use skill.

–Wiz Fineron

White Falls received a lot of attention this

year. The young guns Adam Steens, Wiz

Fineron, Jamie Baron, Josiah Jacobsen-

Grocott and Craig Houston converged

NORTH ISLAND ROCKThis report covers rock climbing developments in the

North Island from November 2012 to November 2013

by KRISTEN FOLEY and KESTER BROWN


en-mass. The most notable send was

Wiz Fineron’s first ascent of Immortal

Technique (32).

John Palmer kindly gave James Field-

Mitchell the first shot at a Crag Vultures

variant, which resulted in James sending

Them Crooked Vultures (29).

Not at all at White Falls, but on the other

side of the same mountain at the Wall of

Sound, John Palmer completed How Soon

is Now (24).

Kawakawa BaySport climbing is neither. –Dan Head

Dan Head and friends have established

approximately 40 new pitches at Kawakawa

Bay this year. The new routes are mostly

in the grade 12–23 range. A standout is

the five pitch Land of the Long White Sun

(20), which is a trad route that was estab-

lished ground-up. The Little Big Wall was

explored and the 50-metre Welcome to

Kawakawa (20) was opened on the right-

hand side.

A free downloadable update to the

Kawakawa Bay guidebook is available from

alpineclub.org.nz.

KinlochHow do you distinguish between being

off-route and putting up a first ascent?

–Dan Pringle

Vincent Zintzen, Shane Harrison, Marcus

Manning and others from the NZAC

Wellington Section added four routes to the

left-hand end of the main cliff at Kinloch:

Les Femmes et les Grimpeurs d’Abord (19),

Wait Until Tomorrow (17), The Elephant

Goes Toot (17) and Billy Bob (18).

Bayleys RoadI climb as hard as anyone on earth, I just do

it on easier routes. –Bryce Martin

Bryce Martin has added ten new, generously

bolted, grade 14–17 routes at the Bayleys

Road area, thanks in part to generous dona-

tions from AUT and AURAC. The best of

these is Flower Girl (14), which is 15-metres

long with seven bolts.

WaipapaThe best training was to go to the pub, drink

five quarts of champagne, and talk about

climbing. –Regan McCaffery.

James Field-Mitchell has been busy at

Waipapa, with first ascents of Hard Trad

Specialist (28), Rainman (29) The Nothing

(30) and Fire in the Sky (30). The latter is

reportedly very good.

Bryce Martin added a new trad route,

Thirsty Boots (14) and a new sport route,

Breaking Point (22).

Froggatt EdgeIf you want to climb it badly enough, you will.

So … why bother? –Jono Clarke

Jana Wold put up a new trad route in

November, The Good, the Bad and the Calcite (24) is climbed via strenuous

a b o v e Cliff Ellery climbing pitch three of Quiet Earth (19), Castle Rock , Coromandel. Jess Dobson

f a c i n g p a g e John Palmer climbing the freshly cleaned and re-bolted Sex and Violence (27),

Whanganui Bay. James Morris


and sustained laybacking and protected

with offsets.

Buck RockClimbing may be hard, but it’s easier than

growing up. –Esther Packard-Hill

Another good multi-pitch venue, Buck Rock

has seen some development in the last cou-

ple of years. Cliff Ellery and Brian Mercer

have added to their collection of existing

routes with The Power of Persuasion (23),

Bucking Fumblies (20) and Windswept (22). Rich Morgan also paid a visit and left

the locals with Under Pressure (25). Cliff

also teamed up with Bryce and Wendy

Martin, and Jamie to establish Age Concern, a grade 16 with a grade 18 extension.

Castle RockBecause it’s there. –Cliff Ellery

Cliff Ellery and Jess Dobson have con-

tinued development at Castle Rock in

the Coromandel. Some great multi-pitch

climbing exists here. Standout recent routes

are the 125-metre, three star grade 22 route

Quiet Earth, and the 120-metre, four-pitch

The Naughty Climb.

AGS RockwallIf you don’t let go, you can’t fall off. –James

Field-Mitchell

James Field-Mitchell has climbed a continu-

ation of the boulder problem U C Lightning

I See Crack. U C Boulder I C Climb (29) goes

to the top of the crag on natural pro.

WellingtonWhat an odd sport we inhabit, where bits of

obscure rock in remote locations are recogni-

sable. –John Palmer

The Wellington locals have continued to

prove their ability in fashioning climbing

routes on rock no-one had previously con-

sidered fit for purpose. At Pukerua Bay, John

Palmer added three new route in Nobby’s

Cave (aka The Cave of Unspeakable Choss):

Defrag (27), Suspending Disbelief (28) and

Nobby’s Rave (24). At Ship Rock John

added Trainspotter (24).

Further new routes have been completed

at Pakeho, Sheridan Hills, Mangorewa,

Mangawhitikau, Mangaokewa and

Schnackenburg. And new boulder problems

have been added all over the place, including

at Abbey Cave in Northland and Turakirae

Head in Wellington.

Finally, we have one more quote to leave

you with:

We do not live to eat and make money, we

eat and make money to be able to enjoy life.

–Kristen Foley

Please note: the famous climbing quotes in this report

have been totally incorrectly attributed to deserving

North Island climbers.

John Palmer attempting the Pillory project in Nobby’s Cave, aka The Cave of Unspeakable Choss, Pukerua Bay, Wellington. Tom Hoyle


Obituaries

Mt Franklin from the Sabine River East Branch, Nelson

Lakes National Park. Jordan Morrison

Wallace George Lowe 1924–2013

Una Scott Holloway 1919–2013

William Morrie Taylor 1925–2013

Gerard (Gerry) Hall-Jones 1929–2013

Martin (Marty) Walter Schmidt 1960–2013

Jamie Vinton-Boot 1983–2013

161

162 O B I T U A R I E S

In the annals of human endeavour, there can have been few encounters more cheerfully down-to-earth than the moment that the New Zealander George Lowe, who has died aged 89, greeted his friend Edmund Hillary returning from the summit of Everest. ‘Well, George,’ Hillary said. ‘We knocked the bastard off.’ ‘Thought you must have,’ Lowe replied and then offered Hillary, who disliked tea, a cup of soup from a flask. It was 29 May 1953.

The day before, Lowe had led an advance guard, cutting steps relentlessly with his ice axe above the South Col, preparing the route for Hillary and Tenzing Norgay. At 8340m, Lowe's team picked up a cache of gear left behind by John Hunt and the Sherpa Da Namgyal. Lowe phlegmatically added another oxygen bottle, weighing 20 pounds, to his load and kept swinging his axe, thereby helping Hillary and Tenzing establish their top camp at just under 29,000ft—the springboard for success.

Hardly surprising, then, that Hunt, the lead-er of the expedition, was fulsome in his praise of Lowe's contribution. Hunt had been reluctant to bring Lowe along at first, but Hillary insisted, and his role proved crucial. Not only did Lowe support the summit pair, he fought hard to push the route up the Lhotse Face towards the hostile South Col as others dropped out with health problems.

George Lowe's support proved crucial in enabling Hillary and Tenzing to establish camp, ready for the assault. That Hunt should, partly for diplomacy's sake, have chosen to match Hillary with Tenzing rather than his old climbing partner never rankled with Lowe. ‘I'm absolutely delighted I didn't have the life that Ed's had,’ he said later. ‘Ed was the right one. I would have been a bugger.’ Cussed and straight-talking possibly, but Lowe was also an immensely likable man, good-humoured and the best of company—and a tireless worker for the benefit of others. Jan Morris, the Times reporter and last survivor of the group on Everest, called him ‘a gentleman in the old sense—very kind, very forceful, thoughtful and also a true adventurer, an unusual combination’.

Lowe, the seventh of eight children, was born in Hastings to Archibald and Christina, who had emigrated from Scotland. His father was a fruit grower and, like Hillary's family, kept bees. As a child Lowe broke his arm. It was badly set, later had to be re-broken and was severely weakened. This could have hampered

his prowess as an ice climber, but Lowe was a determined and curious man, whose practi-cal common sense found ways around most problems.

As a schoolboy in Hastings, Lowe developed an interest in photography, and would play truant to visit the studio of the aviator Piet van Asch. Asch was taking landscape pictures for the New Zealand military to produce maps, and took Lowe up in his Monospar ST-25. Lowe's photographic ability stood him in good stead on Everest, where he took outstanding images high on the mountain. His skill would later earn him an invitation from Vivian ‘Bunny’ Fuchs to be official photographer on the trans-Antarctic expedition of 1957–58, which made the first overland crossing via the South Pole.

After teacher training college in Wellington, Lowe was in sole charge of a rural primary school, for children aged between four and 14. In the summers he trained as a mountain guide, and it was in the Southern Alps of the South Island that he first met Hillary. On the Tasman Glacier one day, he broached the subject with Hillary of going to the Himalayas. Grand plans of reaching Everest proved overambitious, but their expedition managed instead a perfect-ly respectable first ascent of Mukut Parbat (7242m), in India's Garhwal region. At the end of the expedition, the team were surprised, on reaching their hotel in Ranikhet, to be handed a letter from the English mountain explorer Eric Shipton asking for two of them to join his Everest reconnaissance that was about to leave Kathmandu, on the basis that they had sufficient funds and could manage a visa. Lowe, having spent all his savings, could only fume on the roadside as he watched Hillary leave on a bus without him.

Their friendship easily survived such vicis-situdes, and Lowe was Hillary's best man at his first wedding, joining the happy couple on their honeymoon. ‘He and Hillary climbed together through life, really,’ was how Morris put it. The following year, in 1952, Shipton took them both to the world's sixth-highest peak, Cho Oyu, to test equipment and train for their attempt on Everest.

After Everest and before Antarctica, there was an expedition to Makalu in Nepal, where Hillary fell ill, and then in 1959 Lowe was appointed geography teacher at Repton school in Derbyshire. During his four years there he joined a medical research expedition in the Everest region, hunted the yeti, and joined

several of Hunt's expeditions for the National Association of Youth Clubs and the Duke of Edinburgh's award, to Greenland and Ethiopia.

In 1963, he took on his most challenging and rewarding post, at the Grange school in Santiago, Chile. Two years later he was appoint-ed rector. He had married Hunt's daughter Susan in 1962, and their three sons, Gavin, Bruce and Matthew, were born in Chile. But when Salvador Allende was driven from power and murdered in 1973, Lowe and his family reluctantly returned home. Lowe took up the offer of a job with Her Majesty's Inspectors of Schools, where he remained for the rest of his career.

His first marriage was dissolved. With his sec-ond wife, Mary, and living back in Derbyshire, Lowe launched the UK branch of Hillary's Himalayan Trust, tirelessly raising money for schools, hospitals and environmental projects for the Sherpa homeland of Khumbu.

–Ed Douglas(Re-published with permission by

The Guardian)

Wallace George Lowe 1924–2013

Ala

n K

now

les

O B I T U A R I E S 163

Goodbye, George

NZAC Life Member Ed Cotter writes about George Lowe—the man he climbed with back in the late 1940s, but to whom he grew much closer a long time after their shared times in the mountains.

I grew up with the mountains, through the influence of my father. I was gaining a lot of experience in the Southern Alps when I was still a teenager, in the late 1940s, when two older climbers from the North Island started coming south to test their skills. They were Ed Hillary and George Lowe.

My first climb with George was a memora-ble Godley–Whataroa crossing in December and January 1947–1948, led by Stan Conway. (Another member of the party was John Sampson, who passed away this November, aged 93.) Wet through, frozen and half-starved, we made it out to the Whataroa Hotel on 15 January, after waiting two nights for the river to be safe enough to cross. That morning George told us we had a prune each to eat on the way out—we should have the prune flesh for breakfast, suck the kernel for lunch, then break open the kernel and eat the seed for afternoon tea. When we finally got to Whataroa we absolutely overdid the sweets: George and I both rushed out of the shop to throw up. I said to George: ‘What a way to end your birthday!’ and he replied, ‘How did you know it was my birthday?’ and I said ‘No, it’s mine!’ and he said ‘It’s mine too!’

In December 1949, (George of course was a schoolteacher in Hastings, and could only come south in the holidays) my classmate at CBHS, Brian Brake, was organising a National Film Unit film of a climbing expedition to Mt Aspiring. George and I were part of the team which made the ascent via the South West Ridge rising from the Bonar Glacier.

In 1950, I got to know George much better when we joined Ed Hillary, Bill Beaven and Earle Riddiford in climbing Elie de Beaumont via the Maximilian Ridge, part of our train-ing for the First New Zealand Himalayan Expedition organised by Riddiford for the 1951 season.

That was probably the trip when Ed and George first bonded as a climbing pair, always keen to take the lead.

During our time in the Garhwal Himalaya, George and Ed consolidated as a team. They were not as successful as they would have wished. They were twice defeated by Mukut

Parbat, the target summit climbed by Riddiford, Sherpa Pasang Dawa Lama and me. But as a result of the team’s overall success, NZAC approached Eric Shipton asking him to include two New Zealanders in his reconnoitre of Everest, and the rest is history. Initially, George was not on that expedition, a source of huge disappointment to him, but he sur-vived all that to play a key role in the ultimate ascent in 1953, and to win acclaim not only as a mountaineer but as a professional film-maker and author.

For decades we were in intermittent con-tact, often when he and his wife Mary came to New Zealand to spend some time at their house in Diamond Harbour. In 2004, when I was invited to crew on a boat in the Adriatic hired by Mike and Jean Nelson, George and Mary offered to take me from the UK to Split in their campervan. (The Nelsons were New Zealanders based in Santiago, Chile, where George had been headmaster of the Grange school.) So, in 2005, the Lowes picked me up at Heathrow, drove through the Channel Tunnel, toured about and got me to Split with three days to spare. We camped on the outskirts of Dubrovnik, and then we all met up with the Nelsons. In 2006, I spent three weeks camping in France with George and Mary, and in 2007 they took me to Scotland, starting from the home of Mike Westmacott (Everest 1953) in the Lake District. Then in 2008 they showed me Southern Ireland. In 2009 I visited them again and tagged along with Mary to Estonia, in 2010 Mary gener-ously took me by Eurostar to the Cevennes to visit Mike and Linda Gill (NZHT). In 2011 we shared another flying trip to Hungary.

Mary believes my visits to see George were very important to him, especially when he was in the nursing home in his final years. She

says that apart from her, I was the last person George recognised. I will always remember the way his hand closed over mine on my last visit, and be grateful I was able to be there with him—someone who had shared the days when we were young and full of glori-ous ambition, as well as our great love for the mountains of New Zealand.

–Ed Cotter

t o p Ed Cotter and George and Mary Lowe

eyeing up the Eiger, 2005.

a b o v e George and Ed in the French Ridge

bivouac on the Mt Aspiring trip, 1949.


Bill Taylor was the embodiment of the stern, principled, old-fashioned authoritarian. He was a man of his word, the type of person who expected people to behave in a proper manner and to adhere to and achieve his own high standards in every way. This description might appear to cast him in an unfavourable light, as being a martinet and not much fun as a companion. But that would be an unfair judgement, as he undoubtedly possessed a wry and self-deprecating sense of humour, and was in fact good company and a strong, reliable companion; valuable traits in a mountaineer.

Bill was born in Wellington. The family moved to Timaru, where he attended Timaru Boys’ High. Later, he attended Canterbury University, studying chemistry. He followed his father's career in the production of coal gas and worked in that industry in Timaru, Waimate, and later managed the operation for 24 years in lnvercargill.

His interest in the mountains was sparked when living in Timaru, and augmented when he married Margaret, a school teacher, with whom he had two children, John and Ann. Margaret was an avid mountaineer and the family interest in the outdoors was continued. Tragically, Margaret died in a motorcycle

accident in 1972. Bill later married Janet, also a teacher, who also was an outdoors enthusiast.

By modern standards Bill‘s climbing career was not prolific, but was probably normal for that era, and his interest continued over 70 years. Climbs recorded in the NZAJ were: Sealy, High Thumb, Hutton, Blackburn, Haidinger, Aiguilles Rouge, Hamilton, Malte Brun, Cook (High and Low Peaks), Aspiring, Apirana (solo), Elie de Beaumont, Earnslaw, Madeline, Talbot, Aurum, Walter Peak and Tapuae-o-Uenuku.

The club benefitted from Bill's enthusiasm on section activities, on committees and at work parties at Unwin, and in particular his powerful section chairmanship during part of the construction of Homer Hut in the 1960s. A phone call from Bill left one in no doubt that one would be failing in one‘s duty by failing to attend one of the (many) work parties!

Bill was an accomplished handy-man and saw to the maintenance of St Aiden‘s Church in Invercargill and, upon retirement, St Peter‘s Church in Queenstown. It is said that those churches and his own homes never required the services of plumbers, electricians, painters or other trades-people, as Bill took care of all maintenance work. He and Margaret con-

structed their own house at Kelvin Heights.Bill transformed a steep, difficult section

from a wilderness into a delightful garden of flowering trees and, in particular, rhododen-dron.

As well as the activities listed above, there were many mountain-based family tramp-ing and ski trips, and Bill’s other interests were squash, (he was a life member of the Invercargill Squash Club), swimming (daily in Lake Hayes) and yachting. The last 15 years or so were frustrating for Bill as his health failed. He didn't handle imperfection well.

Our sympathies are extended to Bill's family and friends. He was a beacon in a world where old fashioned virtues appear to be of diminish-ing relevance.

–Ralph Miller

William Morrie Taylor 1925–2013

Una Scott Holloway (née Stevenson), wife of Jack Holloway, (renowned early Otago moun-taineer and explorer of the Olivine Country), passed away this year at the age of 94.

Growing up in Dunedin, Una often spent her Sundays roaming the Rock and Pillar Range with her family, hurriedly changing out of her oh-so-risqué shorts before tak-ing tea with strict grandparents. Later she met her husband-to-be on botanizing trips around the Dunedin hills with Jack’s father, Rev J E Holloway, who was then the Head of Department of Botany at Otago University. Una would tag along with her elder sisters Greta Stevenson (who was later to become an expert on ferns and lichens) and Nancy Stevenson (who was to become a stalwart of the Tararua Tramping Club).

Thus began Una’s long-time twin loves of ‘getting out into the hills’ and of botanizing. Hers was not the climbing career of daring face ascents or international expeditions, but

in-between raising seven children at Rangiora in North Canterbury, and with Jack totally immersed in forestry research, she managed to join club trips to reach the tops, and regu-larly take us children and friends on tramps, instilling in us the time honoured wisdoms of survival in the mountains.

Along with the practical lessons of cloth-ing ourselves appropriately, of fire-lighting, scroggin rationing and hut cleaning, we were patiently tutored in the Latin required for plant identification and regularly tested for our ability to recall genus and species. What a rich learning she offered!

Una was still going on club trips well into her 70s, and even into her 90s. She would relish the opportunity to be taken as high as possible by either 4WD or helicopter, relish-ing nights in smoky old historic huts and reminiscing.

Her prize mature native garden, just out of Takaka, where she lived her final years, was

track-marked with old orange discs made of painted tin-lids (as they were), and there she would spend her final days, gazing up through Totara to her beloved Piki Karuna Range in Abel Tasman National Park.

–Mary HollowaySeptember 2013

Una Scott Holloway 1919–2013

Guidebook. In the end Gerry held the copyright of the guidebook and, while entitled to the book’s royalties, he never claimed them and they accrued in the club’s publication fund until it was exhausted in the early 1990s to help fund the Centenial Hut construction. Gerry pub-lished two further editions, with the last edition reprinted in 1986. As late as 1993 Gerry was still receiving letters addressed to the long deceased George Moir with route descriptions for his guidebook, which always left Gerry bemused.

Gerry’s passion for Fiordland was expressed also in fishing and writing. He wrote Fiordland, South Island in 1967, edited Handbook to the Fiordland National Park in 1965 and 1973, and wrote and self-published Mountaineering from the Milford Road in 2008, a compedium of climbs in the Darrans. He was keen to urge others on and always included a photo of Castle Mount in Moir’s Guide in the vain hope of spurring someone younger and fitter to climb the south face. He wrote a number of articles for the NZAJ, including a definitive survey of the routes on Mt Christina, on which he had made the first traverse in 1955 with Bill Gordon and Ralph Miller.

Gerry’s contribution to the Southland Section has been described as a very supportive second on the rope as he ably assisted Lindsay

Stewart and Lloyd Warburton as vice-chair-man through much of the 1950s, especially in the construction of the Moraine Creek Hut. His presence at section meetings was always enjoyed and on occasions he could be persuad-ed to give authorative illustrated talks that held the interest of everyone in the audience. Gerry was made a life member of NZAC in 2003.

Our condolences go to Gerry’s widow Joan, his sons Peter, David and Stephen and their families, and his brother John.

–Robin McNeill


Larger than life and never one to miss a wry witicism, Gerry and his genial smile are missed by his friends and family. A grandson of the explorer Surveyor John Turnbull Thomson, it is not surprising that Gerry had an adventur-ous streak. As a student at Canterbury College (now University of Canterbury) studying law in the late 1940s he discovered mountaineering and he left an indelible impression on other, earthbound students by traversing the old uni-versity buildings and—although never reliably confirmed—as an active member of the Idol Climbers Club, members of which scaled public monuments and statues.

After returning from Europe in 1952, where he had made some notable ascents includ-ing the Hörnli Ridge of the Matterhorn, and Mont Blanc, Gerry practised law in the family firm of Hall-Jones and Sons in his hometown, Invercargill, and focused on climbing in the Darran Mountains. It says a lot about his sense of fun that after one first ascent of a Darrans virgin with his friend Murray Imlay he somehow managed to persuade the NZ Geographic Board to gazette it as Mihj Peak after their initials.

Inspired by the view from the Homer Hut toilet, Gerry advanced New Zealand mountain climbing from ridge climbs to face climbs with the first ascent of the Barrier Face of Barrier Peak in 1956. For the occasion he eschewed mountain boots for ‘gym shoes’ and carried pitons. This climb broke an important psycho-logical barrier for New Zeland climbers and helped usher in the age of technical climbing.

Gerry always considered his finest climb to be the first ascent of the South East Ridge of Mt Tutoko in 1956. It is indeed a classic route, as anyone who has climbed it will testify. Gerry was sufficiently proud of this climb that a photograph he took of it from Leader Creek graced the cover of his 1986 edition of Moir’s Guide Southern Section, notwithstanding a seri-ous blemish.

As a mountain climber rather than a tramper, to some it seemed unlikely that Gerry edited Moir’s Guide, a guidebook for trampers rather than mountaineers. As it turned out, the wil-derness of Fiordland, which Gerry got to know well through his long-time membership of the Fiordland National Park Board, was the least of his problems when he prepared his first edition. Dealing carefully and sometimes forth-rightly with Dr George Moir and the NZAC Publiciations Committee of the time, his 1959 guidebook came close to becoming Hall-Jones’

Gerard (Gerry) Hall-Jones 1929–2013

Mounts Moffat and Livingstone, Cassino and Alamein Peaks and the Grey Glacier from Godley

Hut, Aoraki Mt Cook National Park. Watercolour painting by Pat Prendergast. Pat kindly donated

this painting to NZAC, proceeds of the sale will go to the Club Development Fund.


The thing about Marty was that he was 100 per cent passionate about guiding. He often said it was his calling. Each client he engaged with became like a personal quest for him; an oppor-tunity to be able to share his passion for the spiritual nature of the mountains and to help his client grow in their own way, and in their own time. If they had their heart set on a summit, then that was great, and if at all humanly pos-sible, he would get them there. He pretty much always did. But if their personal best meant they made it half-way up the mountain, then that was absolutely fine by Marty too, as long as his cli-ent had attained that personal growth they were seeking. As far as Marty was concerned, either way, it was a job well done, for the client had achieved their goal.

Charlie says that Marty was never afraid to ‘get his hands dirty,’ meaning that it didn’t matter if it was raining or there were clear skies ahead when he set out, Marty would be in, boots and all, and with bucket-loads of enthusiasm.

Nor did it matter if he was guiding over Ball Pass or scaling Everest; it was all the same to Marty, because he was heading into the hills, to a place he loved, and from which he would return, enriched and replenished, and so would his clients.

Marty never hesitated to help others in need. That was a common thread that was always present in his relatively short, but spectacular, life.

In his younger days Marty’s skills and exper-tise included being a member of the elite PJs (Pararescue Jumpers) attached to the US Air Force Special Operations Command. The PJs are tasked with recovery and medical treatment of personnel in humanitarian and combat environ-ments. Marty was a rescue specialist of land, sea and mountains, so helping people out in desper-ate circumstances had been part of who he was for a long time.

In 2010, Marty attempted a new route on Makalu, but later, on the same expedition, after safely getting his ill client back down the moun-tain, he was involved in a multiple-rescue of three Ukranian climbers, one of whom was above 8200m. He individually guided each one safely back down to his camp, before completing his climb, solo.

In 2013, on his last expedition, he had sum-mited Broad Peak and then diverted back on his way to K2 Base Camp to assist in the rescue of a group of Iranians caught in an avalanche high up on the mountain. Helping people, without thought to his own energy levels, or how that

may impact on his next challenge, (which in this case happened to be K2), regardless of how important it was to him, was a very natural instinct to him.

Marty was a triathlete, marathon runner, and had studied zen practises for about 30-odd years. He was a good friend to talk to, because he wasn’t afraid to acknowledge the spiritual nature of the mountains, and people, and how that related to life.

Marty was most at home with small numbers of clients, preferably one. He liked to develop a relationship with each client, he wanted to really get to know them, and to help them grow through the challenging experience of climbing in ways that were beyond their imagination. He wanted to extend them, for them to test themselves, and for them to draw on their inner strength, yet not in a way that would shatter them either. It had to be positively life-changing for the client.

Marty’s climbing was holistic. He preferred no medication at high altitude, no oxygen, and no Sherpas above base camp, although he was flexible, as required. He was very in tune with each client fortunate enough to have him as their guide.

Just a few of Marty’s great achievements between 1983 and 2013 include summit-ing Denali 29 times, Cho Oyu six times and Aconcagua 34 times via five different routes, including the South Face. He also summit-ed Makalu, Kangchenjunga (via the south-west face), Gasherbrum I and II, Mt Foraker, Cotopaxi, Kilimanjaro, Mt Kenya, Elbrus, Mt Blanc, the Matterhorn and the Eiger.

Marty attempted a new route on the north-east face of Mt Everest in 1994 and climbed to 8100m with clients but turned back due to major rock-fall danger. One week later he went back up via the North Ridge. On that trip he gave away his summit bid to assist in a rescue high on the mountain.

In 2004 Marty made a guided ascent of Cho Oyu without supplementary oxygen, and then, two days later, achieved a 13-hour solo ascent, carrying skis. He skied down from the summit, which is fairly impressive, as skiing wasn’t his forté.

In 2008 he attempted the South East Ridge of Everest with no Sherpas, and without supple-mentary oxygen. In 2009 Marty was back on Cho Oyu and made a guided ascent of the mountain, again without oxygen.

In 2010 Marty made a solo climb of Makalu

without supplementary oxygen. He was the first Kiwi to achieve this.

Marty summited Mt Everest twice. He attempted K2 three times. The third attempt was his last climb.

In New Zealand he summited Aoraki Mt Cook 26 times, Mt Aspiring 16 times, and Mt Tasman seven times.

There is no doubt that Marty has a long list of outstanding achievements as a mountaineer and mountain guide, but what is probably not so well-known is that, in addition to those he physically rescued, just how many other people he helped along the way.

Many of us are lucky to remember him as a good friend. Marty lit up a room when he entered. He was effervescent, charming, lovable, enthusiastic, and our irrepressible Marty.

In 2013 Marty and his beloved son Denali made an attempt on K2. Their goal was to be the first father and son team to reach the sum-mit. Marty called both Charlie and I from K2 Base Camp, just a few days before he went up to Camp 3. There he was on the phone, large as life, full of enthusiasm for the mountain, the climb, his son’s achievements, New Zealand, Aoraki, us, and well, in typical Marty fashion, everything, really.

We sent him love from our mountain here in New Zealand. We could hear him smil-ing. He loved that connection with Aoraki and Aotearoa—his New Zealand.

He seemed indestructible.But after reaching Camp 3, an avalanche hit

their camp, and, tragically, neither Marty or his son were heard from again.

We miss you walking through our door Marty. We miss you immensely.

Yet, somehow, that avalanche on K2 has not dimmed your life or you, for your presence remains with us always, and for that we are hugely grateful.

–Arohanui, Mary and Charlie HobbsAoraki Mount Cook

Martin (Marty) Walter Schmidt 1960–2013

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I’ve been wanting to write something memo-rable about Jamie, but my thoughts and emotions towards him are still far from stable enough to commit to words. It’s only today that I’m baking my first loaf of bread since he died.

In the meantime, I’d like to record here the gist of what I said at Jamie’s service:

I was lucky enough to share time with Jamie, and to be influenced by his energy, attitude and friendship. Jamie had a profound impact on my life, not just with climbing but in many different aspects. And I’d only known him for four years. It amazes me how strong a connection I developed with him, and how much love I felt for him, in that short time. I’ve never met another person who had the same focus towards getting as much out of every minute of life as Jamie had.

I first met Jamie at a talk I was giving at a NZAC section meeting in Christchurch. I have a strong recollection of his Superman arms and his intense questions. Afterwards he came up to me—shy, slightly awkward with that big smile—and introduced himself. I recognised his name, and knew he climbed about 500 grades higher than I did. So I was surprised when he asked to go climbing in the moun-tains with me.

The start of our climbing together involved a lot of surfing. Jamie was not quite as talented on a surfboard as he was climbing, and the irony that someone who did impossible feats on overhanging rock or ice could also flounder like a guppy in the shorebreak at Southshore was not lost on me.

Eventually we got our groove on in the mountains. This young punk who breezed up hills without sweating and who would reply to enquiries about whether we were on a track with, ‘I am the track!’ partnered with an old has-been who was always pointing out scenic locations to stop and rest. We got some pretty cool climbs done, nothing hard like what Jamie climbed with Jono Clarke or Daniel Joll or Steve Fortune, but more aesthetic lines in forgotten corners of our mountains, the kind of stuff that I get passionate about. And Jamie seemed to share that passion for exploration.

Tent-time gives you plenty of time to reflect and talk on various ideas, things like the direc-tion of New Zealand alpinism, and how risk is perceived in wider society. For Jamie and me,

this talk eventually developed into the idea for the Backyard and Beyond project, which we later developed with Troy Mattingley and Shelley Hersey—the idea being to seek and share adventures in our own backyard. We were surprised at how well received the con-cept was, along with the documentary that we produced, and I think it was then that Jamie realised he could make a positive and lasting influence on other climbers.

There were times that we cursed the film-making aspect during our month-long journey across the Southern Alps. But now, I am so thankful that we have a strong visual reminder of such a great trip together.

My last alpine trip with Jamie was last win-ter in the North Temple Valley. It was very cold, and I managed to spill my entire water bottle over Jamie’s sleeping bag. In typical Jamie fashion, he laughed it off. I recall Jamie being so excited about his upcoming father-hood. He had that glint in his eyes that I had seen so many times before, the same glint he would get climbing or surfing or making kick-ass pizza and bread for his family and friends.

Recently I lost another friend Marty Schmidt to the mountains. Jamie and I caught up for lunch just the other week when I was in Christchurch, and we talked about how Marty’s death made us feel. Shelley and I had been planning a trip to Nepal to climb, but wondered whether our hearts were still in it. I remember Jamie saying that we ‘just had to go,’ that we ‘would regret it if we didn’t’. ‘Just be careful, Paul,’ he added, ‘you’re good at that.’

Jamie always liked to challenge me and my ideas or way of thinking. I can see him prod-ding me now to come up with something posi-tive. ‘Come on Paul, what’s your intuition on this. Give us some insight.’

I don’t really have any insight, but maybe an observation: when we lose someone close like this, we realise what it was about them that we treasured so much. Yet in society we don’t tend to do it so much, or express it, when they’re alive. I never told Jamie how much I appreciated his company and friendship, how much I cared for his views and attitude to life. I mean, we had some pretty snuggly bivvies together, but that’s not quite the same. But maybe it is. As Jamie so often illustrated to me, actions are always stronger than words.

Thanks Jamie. I’ll miss you mate. It’s been a hell of a climb.

–Paul Hersey

Jamie Vinton-Boot 1983–2013

With regret the New Zealand Alpine Club also acknowledges the passing of the following members:Geoffrey Dunckley (1923–2013)Ronald Lester Mundell (1923–2013)Baden Francis Blyth (1924–2013)Karen Heiskel (1945–2012)Peter Manning (1960–2013)Duncan Robert Rait (1976–2013)Hiroki Ogawa (1982–2013)Nicole Sutton (1984–2013)Denali Schmidt (1988–2013)Unfortunately no obituaries were sourced in time for these members.

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r e a r c o v e r Aoraki Mt Cook and the Hooker Valley from the Sealy

Range. Mark Watson

i n s i d e r e a r c o v e r Mt Ruapehu, from Ringatoto Peak.

Peter Laurenson

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On 21 January 2013 a rock avalanche measuring several million cubic metres swept from the

ridgeline between mounts Dixon and Haast, down onto and across the Grand Plateau, stopping just

a couple of hundred metres from Plateau Hut, where a dozen or so climbers were in residence.

Mark Watson was at a high bivvy on the Bowie Ridge on the afternoon the avalanche occurred.

The next morning he took this shot of Jamie Vinton-Boot and Matt Quirke nearing the summit of

Aoraki, with the massive ‘devil tongue’ of debris visible below.

Mark Watson

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new zealand alpine journal 2013

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