First Apline Ascents!

The last stretch of icy snow looms overhead as I start with my ice ax and my ice hammer up the slope towards the summit ridge of Mt Aylmer.  It’s the steepest section of the climb, maybe 50 or more degrees and the ice is quite hard.  I’m front-pointing on my boots and my calves are starting to burn as my foot wiggles around in the packed out rental boots.  Finally with a last blow of the axe, I pull myself up and swing my leg over.  Before I have a chance to catch my breath or protest, Dave snaps my first “summit photo” - sitting on my bum, my legs straddling the summit ridge.  

First Summit - Mt Aylmer, Mt Cook Nat'l Park, New Zealand

Brent and I have finally made it to the upper reaches of the Tasman Glacier in Mt Cook National Park in New Zealand.  Back in February, when we first took our mountaineering course, we didn’t have a wide enough weather window to fly out to the glacier to attempt one of the few peaks that are still accessible in the late season  - Hochstetter Dome and Mount Aylmer.  We managed to find a guide available for mid-March, so we were hopeful that the second time around our luck would turn.  The weather gods kept us on the edge of our seat up until the day before the climb as the weather was clear but still quite windy up until the afternoon of our first day.  And the forecast called for a low pressure system (read - storm) moving in a few days later.  

The night before our trip - night sky in Christchurch at the end of a windy system

Our obsession with the weather forecast is not unusual for mountaineering, especially in New Zealand where strong systems out of Antarctica gather speed over the ocean and slam full-force straight into the wall of the Southern Alps.  That makes for an extremely erratic weather that can change on a dime.  The challenge of predicting a good climbing window is further compounded by the problem of accessing the starting points for most climbs in Mt Cook.  Because of the recent retreat of all major glaciers in the park, the only safe way to access the upper huts, which serve as staging points for climbers, is to fly in on a helicopter.  Until a few decades ago, it was possible to hike to the huts on the glacial ice.  But as the glaciers retreated, they left in their wake steep slopes of scree and loose rock which are difficult and dangerous to climb over.  

There seems to be a heated debate going on in the climbing and guiding community in New Zealand about this issue.  The guides and a lot of the Alpine Club members are making a case that they are not using foot access because it’s dangerous, which makes them captive to the very costly helicopter companies for transport.  The park on the other hand, is struggling to prioritize and fund lower huts and improved foot access when most of their revenue seems to come from the valley trails easily accessible by the mass tourist. They figure that the climbing community seems to be functioning with helicopter access.  

The additional cost of the helicopter introduces another factor to our trip - it really isn’t practical to fly in for anything less than two days on the glacier.  And given the weather forecast, if we don’t manage to fly out on Friday, the first day of our trip, we’re looking a tiny window before a new system moves in on Monday.  

So, with hearts full of anticipation and mild anxiety for our chances of flying in that day, we drive from Christchurch to Tekapo where we’ll do a gear check in the late morning before we decide what’s next.  Dave, our guide is a wiry and strong-looking Brit in his 50’s.  Brent and I are encouraged by his upbeat attitude.  Swinging on a bar in the gear room, he had said with a mischievous smile: “Pilot thinks it’s too windy to fly out tonight but I figure we’ll manage to get out”.  Dave has the air of a “been there, done that” tough British guy.  Plus, he’s an IFMGA guide, so his statement gives us some much needed hope. We know that we’re working with a small weather window, so our best chance of accomplishing the climb is if we get out to the glacier tonight.

Mount Cook at sunrise as seen from the Tasman Glacier

The gear check is thorough - Dave evaluates all of our piled up items thoroughly and mandates that we leave the little piece of soap behind and that we share the little tube of toothpaste.  With all the metal gear we’re carrying up the glacier - carabiners, snow stakes, ice axes, ice hammers, crampons, ice screws and poles - weight restrictions on the chopper are tight.  One thing I’m not looking forward are the rental boots.  Because of the strict baggage restrictions on the flight back to the US (we’re already at capacity) and because of the much higher prices of gear in New Zealand, I’m holding off on buying my own boots until I go back to the US.  The boots at Alpine Recreation are nice but they’ve seen a lot of use and a lot of feet and are packed down to the shape of roughly an elephant foot.  I pick up the best looking pair and hope that with multiple socks and some fiddling, I’ll manage to make them work.

After eating our lunch sandwiches at the picnic table in the backyard of Alpine Recreation’s offices in Tekapo, we load the van and set off to the helicopter airport just outside of Mount Cook.  The atmosphere at the airport is a incongruent mixture of no-nonsense Kiwi professionalism of the staff who keep a perfect poker face and the anxiety radiated by  a group of random tourists hanging out in the lobby hoping to get a chance to fly around the Tasman glacier before their schedules drive them onwards.  After remarking that the wind sock looks pretty active, Dave directs us to fill out all the paperwork and offload our backpacks and the box with the sharp gear right on the tarmac.  A group of eager looking tourists are getting ushered to a waiting helicopter.  Pointing to them, Dave says: “Flight Poodles”.  And proceeds to explain that our pilot is making the scenic flight to the bottom of the Tasman glacier.  That flight will give him an opportunity to scope out the winds further up the glacier and make a first-hand assessment of whether he can fly Dave and us up to the Tasman Saddle hut on top of the glacier.  As the poodles take off, I launch a prayer that their flight is a calm and smooth one.  

Brent and Dave at the Mt Hook heliport

Dave wastes no time in positioning us to be ready to load into the helicopter as soon as he’s back.  My guess is that Dave is betting that even if the poodles had a bit of a rough ride, us being loaded and ready to go right on the tarmac may sway the pilot’s decision to accommodate our flight.  We’re crouching on the packs, in a position for the chopper to land without anything flying away.  In a few long minutes, the chopper is back, unloading the poodles.  I examine the tourists, who seem satisfied and in no way exhibiting signs of distress from the flight and that’s when we get the good news - the pilot will fly us up.  In less than a minute, we and our gear are safely loaded onto the chopper and are off.  

The Tasman Saddle Hut as seen from lower on the Tasman Glacier - the hut is a tiny spec on top of the steep rock

The flight up to the Tasman Saddle Hut transports us to a world of glaciers and mountains in a matter of minutes.  The blackness of the glacier terminus gives way to a rolling river of white and blue ice with beautiful cracks and dramatic peaks rising out from the sides of it, including Mount Cook.  Up ahead we spot a sharp rock cliff, jutting out from the glacier like a tall ship mast in an ocean.  As we circle it, I see a tiny hut perched on the tippy top of that rock outcropping, with sheer drops on both sides.  That’s our hut and our home base for the next few days.  The chopper landing and offloading is done very efficiently - in less than a minute we’re huddled on the ice on top of our packs, protecting our gear from flying away as the rotors spin a vortex of snow all around us.  

Even though the entrance to the hut is just a hundred meters or so from our landing site, Dave is adamant that we must put on our crampons for the short walk.  Not too long ago, an experienced climber fell to his death by walking some bags of groceries from this very same spot to the hut.  There is steep rock and slippery ice perched above multiple crevasses all the way to the hut.  

The Tasman Saddle Hut perched on top of the Tasman Glacier

One foot to the right of the door to Tasman Saddle Hut is this steep crevasse

View from the right of the Tasman Saddle Hut

There’s a group already in the hut and they’ve spread out a bit.  A few hours after our arrival, a jovial and uncharacteristically loud Kiwi man arrives at the head of a group of guys.  As he takes off his shiny Scarpa boots, he yells to us “I apologize for the guys, I should have told them to tidy up before we left”.  And he flashes a confident smile. We quickly learn that this is Dean - the head guide for Adventure Consultants and the Kiwi record holder for the number of Everest ascents - something to the effect of 9 or 10.  And Brent’s newest man crush.  In fact, it seems like the whole hut, with the exception of Dave who carries himself as Dean’s equal, has a man crush on Dean.  Both Dave and Dean seem very comfortable to be in charge and can zone out the rest of group in a millisecond - lying on their bunks and reading their books.  In the morning, they are the first to get up.  They turn the lights on and go about the business of boiling water, making coffee and fixing breakfast with the ease and efficiency of brushing their teeth, all while people yawn, rub their eyes and take their time to get out of their sleeping bags. In the afternoon, they boss around the clients by giving them veggies to chop or other prep work to do.   

"Emergency Exit" at the Tasman Saddle Hut

View from the hut window down onto the Tasman Glacier

A Wildlife fire fighter from California is sleeping under our bunk.  We talk about the fires he’s been battling in California late last year - when Brent and I fled to Oregon to escape the smoke that was stretching for hundreds of miles from the burning hills of wine country.   He has come to New Zealand specifically to take the course with Adventure Consultants because he wants to learn the technical skills of mountaineering.  He’s been up Shasta via Avalanche Gulch and Mount Hood on the easiest route and classifies those as “walkups”.  He’s loving what he’s learning from Dean about proper rope climbing, glacier travel, repelling and belaying.  

Brent and Dave in the Tasman Saddle Hut

The other climbers are Australian guys.  There are three of them and they range from their late 20’s to their late 40’s.  They are quite friendly, affable and constantly cracking jokes.  On our first night at the hut, I see them gathered outside on the rocks between the hut and the toilet looking at the clear night sky and debating whether a reddish looking object is Mars or not.  The road to the simple compostable bathroom is a perilous one.  A few steps in either direction will get you to a cliff, dropping off the height of a 5 story building down to the glacier.  If feels like being on a narrow boat among a sea of ice.  

There’s also an older British couple who flew in with their guide from Queenstown climbing - a tall lanky guy who seems to be in awe of Dean and is constantly asking him for advice.  The couple brought up a bottle of champagne to celebrate 10 years of living in New Zealand.  But when they offered to share it with the rest of us in the hut, they drew mainly blank stares.  My guess is that Dean, very much like Dave, had made his crew pack really economically.  If bringing a second travel-size tube of toothpaste was considered an extravagance, even the thought of hauling a few pounds of glass and bubbly would be embarrassing to bring up with our strict guides.  Faced with an awkward silence, the British decided to keep their bubbly to themselves.  

We climb Aylmer on the first day, while Dean’s group does Hochstetter.  The following day we switch and our group climbs Hochstetter.  The turnaround in the morning between waking up at 6am and starting on the glacier is a bit of a challenge for Brent and I the first day. We take a long time to gear up.  My crampons are not fitting right around my formless boots and we have trouble tying the right number of Alpine butterfly knots in the rope and tying off the Kiwi coils around our bodies before letting Dave clip in the middle.  It’s past 7:30am when we set off to cross the glacier in the direction of our first climb and Dave lets us know that the next day we must get our shit together.  Thankfully, the following day we do.  After a mad but organized morning rush, we make it out of the door in just one hour flat with helmets, ropes, crampons, ice, hammer and other gear in tow.  

Navigating some crevasses while roped up for glacier travel

Passing a snow bridge on the Tasman Glacier on the way to climbing Mt Aylmer

Looking up the bottom of the face of Mt Aylmer, where we would start pitching up the ice and rock

The climbs appear technical, especially Aylmer - four pitches of mixed snow, rock and ice, with the last pitch being a steep grade ice climb. But Brent and I are wandering how much of the actual pitches would be there for experienced climbers.  We get a sense that Dave is pitching out a few sections simply to give us more practice and we are happy with that.  Brent is really enjoying the steeper climbs where we get to use both the ice ax and the ice hammer to get up the slope.  I enjoy the rope work and paying attention to the details as well, but I’m really taken by the views.  As I stand on belay on the second pitch, I’m treated to the most majestic glacial and mountain vista as far as the eye can see.  And we’re the only people around. I have an eagle’s view of the range between the rainforest and the Tasman sea on the West Coast and the rivers of glaciers feeding the Tasman Glacier in Mount Cook.  This is why I climb, I tell myself.  Being in God’s snowy and magestic cathedral where few are allowed to enter.  

Top of first pitch - my scenic belay spot

View from my first belay spot at the top of the first pitch - below is the Murchison Glacier, feeding into the Tasman Glacier

Brent putting in an ice screw on our climb

Top of the third (out of four) pitch - putting in an ice screw for an anchor

My work of securing the top of the third pitch with an anchor made up of two ice screws.

Dave and Brent waving at me from the top of Mt Aylmer, as I front-point the last, icy, pitch to the top

First summit photo! (of a glaciated peak at least)

We have our share of mishaps that cause Dave to run between Brent and I on the slopes, like a hen gathering its chicks a few times.  There’s a dropped ice screw while Brent tries to put in a running belay to get around a precariously icy snow bridge on a deep crevasse.  It’s supposedly the result of racking two ice screws on the same carabiner and trying to pull out the bottom one by mistake.  There’s also a time when I place a nonblocking carabiner on an anchor point, the instance when Brent takes me off belay before I clipped my safety into the anchor and a few more minor dramas.  Thankfully, under Dave’s watchful eye, we manage to correct all mistakes (minus the ice screw, which is irretrievably eaten by a crevasse) and make it down intact and with more confidence in our budding climbing skills.  

We spend an inordinate amount of time placing protection on our pitches - at times, Dave changes his mind and moves some cams and screws around.  Even though it’s cold and takes a long time, it’s great to see an experienced climber evaluate and place rock and ice protection.  To our novice eyes, it seems like there are few options for rock protection in this mixed terrain, at least compared to what we’re used to seeing on pure rock climbs.  But you just have to look closer and use your imagination, and voila, there’s a nook or cranny just big and strong enough for that cam or nut.   On the way down, we find a sling placed around a rock by Dean’s team and since we know who placed it and how long ago it was placed, we end up using it for our rappel.  

Preparing the rappel anchor

On the climb down from Aylmer the first day, Dave’s keen eyes pick up that my left foot is hurting.  The steep slope is best traversed by placing all points of the crampons on the surface and rolling one’s ankle to accommodate the slope of the foot.  However, my huge boots that have been packed in by many feet into formless pulp, make that exercise painful.  As a result, my walk resembles more the lame gait of a duck than the graceful footwork of a mountaineer.  I promise Dave that I will play around with lacing the boots and different sock combinations at night before our second climb.  The following day, the boots feel a lot better after I’ve related them and put on two pairs of socks for more support.  Even then, the following day’s effort will leave my feet throbbing with pain at the end.

Traversing the Tasman Glacier on the way down from the Mt Aylmer climb

On Saturday evening, the night before we climb Hochstetter, we hear on the nightly hut call that the forecast calls for winds to pick up dramatically on Monday and for another system to move into the Southern Alps. Dave decides that we’ll probably pack up after our Sunday climb and try to get out of there before we are stuck in weather.  He’s got a flight back to England in a few days and he’s selling his house, so he doesn’t want to leave his wife alone for longer than expected.  Dean and his group decide they can wait and weather the storm.  

Second day of climbing - on the way to Hochstetter

Climbing the single pitch on the way to Hochstetter - Brent in the lead

The West Coast of New Zealand as viewed from the summit ridge of Hochstetter

Walking on the summit ridge of Hochstetter

The summit of Hochstetter

Brent on the summit of Hochstetter

Crevasses on the way down the Tasman Glacier from our Hochstetter climb

Immediately upon our return to the hut after our second day of climbing, we help Dave pack up the group food and gear, divide it up among our backpacks and rope up to travel down the Tasman Glacier. Dave has talked to the helicopter pilot about a pick up half way down the glacier - the point where he normally takes the “flight poodle” tourists to sightsee.  That makes the flight quite a bit cheaper for us.  Apparently, on the nightly hut roll call, Dean gives the following update from the Tasman Saddle Hut, a few hours after we set off on the ice:  “Dave - a party of three, last seen descending the Tasman Glacier” 

The walkout is beautiful but stressful.  About an hour into the walk, Dave, who has been clipped into the middle of the rope, takes the lead from Brent.  The crevasses are a lot more open than Dave has expected.  In fact, he has never seen them this open.  The glacier, especially the top part, which is steeper, is a true maze, requiring frequent hopping across crevasses.  The heft of my pack, which with the rope, is probably close to 50 pounds, makes the jump landings painful on my legs and feet, which have had to endure over 12 hours of walking on the ill-fitting rental boots.  We take a lot longer to get down since we need to zig zag and cover more ground than expected. At one point, Dave takes off his poles, throws them across and then proceeds to make a running jump across an impressive looking crevasse.  He then turns around and motions for us to follow him. Brent takes the leap and now it’s my turn.  Heart pounding, feet screaming in pain, I make a few running steps and fling myself over to the other side.  My hammer digs into the ice and as I make my landing, the weight of the pack hits me over the head.  Phew!

Navigating the maze of crevasses on the Tasman Glacier during our walk-out from the hut

Walking down on the Tasman Glacier

The hour is late when we see the helicopter fly towards us.  He makes a landing about a kilometer downhill from us.  He lets out a group of Asian tourists on the glacier and I find myself watching them make the bunny ears and pose for selfies. I’m exhausted, in pain and carrying a heavy pack many miles down the glacier and I’m now finding myself observing a surreal playground of selfie-sticks and tourist photos.  I smile at the weird dissonance of that experience and thank Brent for taking the rope off my pack and lightening my load to something bearable in my state.  A few long kilometers later we’re walking on the part of a glacier that resembles a collection of bubbling brooks and underground rivers. The glacier is clearly melting here and now our footwork is more about avoiding stepping into the puddles and rivers of water than falling into crevasses.  

Finally Dave motions for us to take our packs off and he starts placing rocks in a circle, marking a flat landing spot for the chopper.  The pilot’s voice comes through the radio as he zooms overhead: “Wow, Dave, you guys are a lot lower than last time I saw you”.  It’s dusk when he lands and picks us up.  I’m tired but still in awe of the amazing scenery that opens up before us.  Dave and the pilot are chatting away in the front and all of a sudden, we veer steeply to the left, almost into what feels the side of the mountain.  The pilot tells us to look down and I spot two jumping creatures - Tahr - a mountain goat imported by settlers in New Zealand. The goats are staring at the helicopter hovering above them, wandering which way to run to get away from the racket.  I’m happy that we saw them but I’m happier when we peel off and fly away.  It must be quite terrifying to have a large metal bird making loud noises over your head if you’re an animal.  

We land at 8:30pm as the helicopter company is closing down its offices. We have just enough time to pay and call Unwin, the New Zealand Alpine Club hut in Mount Cook and our only option for lodging in the park.  Unfortunately,  Simon, Unwin’s warden tells us that a group of school kids on a kayaking trip have bought out the entire place for the week.  With no other choice, Dave gets behind the wheel of our van and we head back on the two hour drive to Tekapo.  As I rest my feet in the van, the painful throbbing subsides and I have a chance to stare out of the window into the darkness.  There are hardly any other cars on the narrow road and I realize that I can not only see the stars perfectly, but I can also see the entire Milky Way with the Southern Cross perched beautifully on it.  It dawns on me that this is the first time I’ve been able to see the Milky Way through a car window.  I start nodding as I think that I’m so lucky to be in this magical place - truly one of the world’s last wild frontiers.  

Practicing multi-pitched climbing with Dave on Sebastopol Bluffs - the end of our climbing trip

Bathroom wisdom from Alpine Recreation