Typical New Zealand climb: long, wet approach up bush-choked, steep-sided valleys, half-a-dozen waist deep river crossing to arrive at a deserted hut and not a dry piece of clothing to be seen. A couple of days hut-bound, trying to boost dampened morale, as it rains at 6000 feet. And then if you’re lucky and the Keas (at first amazing, latterly bloody annoying, mountain parrots) haven’t nicked your gear you might even climb; long days on hard snow and shitty rock, superbly clear views and nobody else to be seen.
Attractive? Some areas – Fiordland, South Island, average ten metres of rain a year: "And the weather will be fine, clear and hot over the whole country, except for Fiordland...". The main distinction between a Kiwi climber and a Kiwi tramper (walker), being – so I was told – that it is quite in order far the former to stay unmoved in bed if it rains, where as the latter is obliged to venture out. In the popular areas – Mt. Cook, Mt. Aspiring – huts are excellent and cheap; in most areas bivvies are standard, and uncomfortable when (not if) it rains.
Mt. Aspiring was typical, and for me the first and most memorable taste of New Zealand mountaineering: We eventually abandoned the car after thirty kilometres of Matukituki valley when faced with a river of muddy turbulent water washing the track completely away. Leaving the car, we swam in torrential rain the 12km. up to the Aspiring hut – in good weather a pleasant wander up a series of grassy flats – now even small sidestreams were groin deep, and to say the least, uncomfortable. A couple of nights at Aspiring hut with visibility occassionally more than ten yards was enough to dampen the highest spirits. But with a vague rumour of good weather, we ground our way up through thick damp bush to the French Ridge hut. Perched high amongst the tussocks, the hut lies in the path of every north-west storm. Another thirty six hours of brews and boredom before finally the weather began to clear.
The wind dropped and the cloud disappeared as evening approached. High above us the last 8000ft, of Aspiring visible rearing up above Mt. French. Inaccessible, and to a large extent invisible from valley level, Aspiring stands separate from the main Southern Alps at fractionally under 10,000ft. New Zealand’s answer to the Matterhorn, an almost perfect pyramid of steep ice and rock.
With access to the easier N.W. ridge made difficult by a viscious ’schrund, we went far the S.W. ridge – "one of the classic ice climbs of the Southern Alps". It was to be our first N.Z. climb.
Gear sorted, alarms set and excited sleep; 3 a.m. came all too quickly as Cameron’s watch pulled us into reality. The weather was perfect, clear and still, and we were soon tumbling torchless up the Quarterdeck; mind and body strangely dis-associated. The Quarterdeck is a spectacular rising plateau of snow giving access to the Bonar Glacier, edged to the right by huge cornices overhanging Gloomy Gorge.
Crampons on as dawn lit up the peaks on the far side of the Matukituki valley in that glorious pink of so many alpine photographs. Crossed the ’schrund onto the Bonar to one of the most stunning views in N.Z.: the Bonar sweeping gracefully round and down to our left; to the right Mt. Avalanche now silhouetted against the dawn sun; to the north-east the south face of Aspiring, fiercely beautiful in the early morning light. Edging it to the left was our route – a superb, pure line steepening into a couloir before gaining the short summit ridge.
We ran across the Bonar, long shadows dancing at our sides; eight o’clock and we were on the ridge. One appalling rock pitch – "A real bloody Rolling Stones concert this, mate", Cameron’s verdict. Then steepening neve in brilliant condition; a gentle breeze and all around us ridge after ridge of isolated peaks.
Eventually, the couloir – steep, 60 degrees or so, and ice now brittle end soft in the afternoon sun. Mitts off for a photograph, only to see one disappear three and a half thousand feet down the west face. Various expletives failed to recall it. Four pitches and we emerged from the couloir; two hundred metres long the ridge and we were on the top. Elevated and elated – we sat in silence, away to the north Cook dominated the horizon, below us the huge Bonar, Volta and Therma glaciers dipping into shadow.
6.30pm now, and five hours minimum from here to French Ridge; two hours plus in the dark and me with no torch. Anyway, not much we could do – off down the north-west ridge.
Quick progress a down the top 2000ft., the snow soft and balling in the evening sun. And so to the top of the ramp leading off the ridge onto the glacier; steep, rock hard ice that wouldn’t take a stake, over-layed by two inches of slush – great fun. Progress slowed as we tip-toed down to the now infamous ’schrund; a steep abseil off two abandoned snow stakes into the darkness below, and we were once more on the Bonar.
10.00pm now, nineteen hours climbing and still three dark hours to the Colin Todd hut away to the N.W., further back to French Ridge. Five days hut slobbing hadn’t done fitness much good and with no tracks to follow to Colin Todd, we decided to bivvy.
A natural snow tunnel in the side of a crevasse, with a little renovation, made for a barely passable night. Cramped, cold, hungry and thirsty; a night without sleeping bags – even at this modest height (c. 6500ft.) and in perfect conditions – wasn’t much fun. Dawn came slowly; in the shadow of the S.W. ridge the cold lingered. Stiff limbs warmed with activity and we were soon moving off, retracing our footsteps of 24hrs. before. Eleven o’clock and we were back at French Ridge, faces burnt and raw, feet still numb – long day even by N.Z. standards.