Mountaineering in the Southern Alps
- Anthony
- Mar 8
- 9 min read
The sounds of birdsong drifted up from the bush, 100 metres below. Out to my left, the Razorback Ridge resembled the spine of a prehistoric beast, made of stacked 60-degree slabs of chocolate sandstone.
I had been to the Cathedral Range in Victoria before, but not with a rope and harness. On my last visit, my brothers and I had climbed up the Wells Cave Track to the summit of Sugarloaf Peak—a popular objective for more adventurous day-trippers from Melbourne. The track was exposed and seemed a serious undertaking for non-climbers where a fall could have severe consequences.
Today though, I was at the other end of the range, on the slabs of North Jawbone—this time with a rope and harness. The climbing here was much harder, but also safer with the protection of a rope, clipped into gear placed in the cracks and fissures.
Early in 2018, I had returned home from New Zealand after completing an alpine climbing course—my mind racing with the possibilities of future trips. To keep the momentum, I threw myself into rock climbing by joining the Victorian Climbing Club and signing up for club events.
On this particular trip, we rolled into the Jawbone carpark in the early morning just as someone was stirring from the back of a parked 1990s Holden Rodeo, woken by the procession of cars rolling in. This was my first encounter with Andrew (RIP), and I was partnered up with him.
What continued was a day of climbing in the sun on North Jawbone, a classic trad voyage on quality sandstone. During this climb, I learnt about some of Andrew's trips abroad, and how he tried to get over to New Zealand for some mountaineering at least once per year. Hey, this guy is really getting after it! I thought.
A week later, an email from Andrew arrived in my inbox. He had organised a trip to New Zealand that November to go mountaineering in the Southern Alps, and he was looking for an extra member after someone had dropped out. I had a phone interview with him about my previous mountaineering experience so he could gauge whether I would be a suitable addition to the team. He said he would discuss with the group and get back to me on whether I was "in" or not.
The next day, I got another email. I was in!
The plan was to catch a helicopter into the mountains on the west coast of New Zealand and set up base in a mountain hut for 16 days. I began hunting for flights.
Arriving in New Zealand
Andrew, Will, Andy and I got in our rented Subaru Outback and set off West. We arrived at Fox Glacier in the pouring rain; we knew we would not be flying that day. Andrew had pre-planned a flight with a commercial helicopter operator, and we dropped into the helipad and were greeted by an employee. He seemed surprised to see us, but ran inside to grab some material while we took shelter under a tin roof from the unrelenting rain.
He came back a few minutes later with a brochure for scenic flights up the glacier with options for 15, 30 and 45-minute packages. We all looked at each other, realising we were at the wrong helipad. We explained that we were looking to charter a flight into the mountains and be picked up 2 weeks later. Unfortunately, they could not assist as they lacked the appropriate licence.
Back into the car, and we drove on to the actual operator that Andrew had been talking too. We found them, but unfortunately, our luck did not improve. They would take us up at some point when the weather cleared, but they didn't know exactly when. We would be valley-bound for at least a few days.
We set up at the New Zealand Alpine Club H.E.L. Porter Memorial Hut and settled in for the long wait; the gloomy skies reflected our mood and the mountains would only occasionally poke their heads out of the mist, reminding us of where we would rather be. With no idea how long we would be hut-bound, we grew restless.
We entertained ourselves with a hike in the rain up to the terminus of Franz Josef Glacier, and spent days rigging pulley and rescue systems in the hut. We went over all the emergency scenarios one might encounter in the mountains and poked flaws in each other's systems, identifying situations that would make their approach more difficult. In hindsight, this was a great opportunity to practice and consolidate many of these rescue systems. As the rain persisted, there were no time limits or objectives, other than to test our knowledge of our systems and how to use them.
Eventually, the skies cleared. The wind, however, howled on. A potential opening came—one helicopter operator might be prepared to take us up, but it would be a last-minute decision, and they couldn't guarantee to take us as high as the hut. Still, we were hopeful.
When the call finally came, all hell broke loose. We had to get to the helipad, and we had to get there now or we would miss our window.
We piled into a van and were escorted down the road to the helipad. When we got there, the helicopter was there, engines running, rotors spinning, pilot ready to lift off. But where was Andy?? This was our chance we had been patiently waiting five days for and we sure as hell weren't about to miss it.
Being the runner of the group, I sprinted down the street on the hunt for him. I eventually caught up to him, and yelled "Andy, we need to run or we will miss this chopper!"
We both ran down the road and came charging into the compound, jumping straight into the helicopter. Almost immediately, we were airborne and headed for the mountains. The adrenaline was surging—what a start to the trip.
However, the wind up high was still strong. Our pilot pretended that he would "see how it is" higher up and determine a drop-off location, but I think he knew from the start where he was taking us—a long way from the hut.
We were dropped on the néve of the Fox glacier, separated from Pioneer Hut by kilometres of knee-deep powder snow that had fallen over the previous days. This was the same location tourists were taken during scenic flights. They come in Ugg boots and down jackets, and get 10 minutes to take in the glacial panorama and grab some shots for the 'gram before re-boarding and flying back to civilization. The difference for us was that our pilot kicked us out, flipped us the proverbial bird* and then flew off.
*Not quite, but it sure felt like it
Within seconds, there was an eerie silence. There was nothing but snow, ice and mountains, and we were suddenly very alone.
We tied together on one long rope and set out for Pioneer Hut. The going was slow—many of the crevasse openings had been covered by bridges of powder snow which would not hold our weight. My legs would often break through the surface, and I would sink to my shoulders in the powder. Hauling myself and the 30kg of gear back onto my feet was okay the first time, but after the 20th, 30th or 40th time, it was demoralising.
11 hours after the helicopter dropped us off, the sun was setting and we trudged up the final slopes to Pioneer Hut. Our first day in the mountains was over, and I was defeated before the climbing had even started. In the final metres from the hut, I turned back to see where we had come from; It was a dynamic scene, with the mist rolling in and the hue shifting on the sun's final descent. I took it in for a moment, then snapped the below photo.
The next day, we kept near the hut. Our first days in the mountains had been reserved for practising the skills required for safe mountain travel. We jumped into crevasses to simulate rescue scenarios, built snow anchors, practised self-arrest, and ice-climbed up crevasse walls. It was a fantastic opportunity to consolidate the skills I had learned earlier in the year but had yet to drill into muscle memory.
Mountaineering in the Southern Alps
Our first climb was on a small peak of little significance: Mount Von Bulow at 2600m. The going was mainly a snow plod, with a steepening finale up to the summit.
The next day we attempted the North Face of Mount Mallory. This was a battle against the conditions. We were well up on the face when the early morning light came through. A strong wind was blowing icicles into my face and the biting cold made me feel nauseous whilst belaying. Soon, the sun came up and began to warm us.
With the sun now risen, the cold vanished and heat was the enemy. The snow condition deteriorated quickly. We were on the summit ridge when we decided to turn around, abseiling the snow slopes to minimise the risk of a wet snow avalanche knocking us off balance. The snow conditions at these lower altitudes were not conducive to climbing. We got off the mountain and returned to the hut.
The significant objective on our revised itinerary was Lendenfeld Peak. We began preparations, and just for the experience, planned to bivvy at Marcel Col, just under 3000m and nestled between Mt Haast and our objective. We went up in the afternoon and marked out our bivvy site. We took shifts to dig out a platform for our bivvy bags. We consumed our dehydrated meals and settled in for the night.
I sat upright in my sleeping bag, my back against the bedhead of snow, and gazed at the spectacular scene. The colours of the landscape transformed as the alpenglow intensified with the setting of the sun. My field of view was undisturbed to the Tasman Sea almost three vertical kilometres below; a 2000-kilometre expanse of greys and blues that now separated me from home, and my normal life. I was so happy to be here.
During the night, snow fell on the divide. The forecast had broken its promise of a clear sky. Unfortunately for Will, he had too much confidence in the promising weather report and left his boots outside his bivvy bag. They were completely snow-covered and the thought of pulling them on in the sub-zero morning air seemed grim.
We had breakfast and got moving as the light was appearing. The way from the col began as a mellow snow plod, which gradually steepened, and before long we were pitching rope lengths on sustained 45-degree slopes to the summit. It felt wildly exposed, and I was intensely aware that an incorrectly placed crampon resulting in a slip would be serious.
Eventually, the slope eased up, and we reached the final ridge. We unroped and continued easily to the summit. When we reached the top, we had the most breathtaking 360° views of the Alps, and the mighty Mount Tasman stood before us. This snowy giant looked imposing up close—Andrew was pointing out the line of the North Shoulder route, and lamenting the climbable condition it appeared to be in—an objective long ruled out due to the assumed poor snow condition. To me, this route looked terrifying—I shivered at the thought of climbing those snow and ice aspects, above a void reaching a vertical kilometre down to the Grand Plateau. Not for me; at least not on my first unguided mountaineering trip.
Back at the hut after our successful summit bid, we called for our flight out of the mountains. The weather was forecast to change, and we flew out a few days early rather than risk being hut-bound once again. The helicopter arrived around 10 am the following morning, and we said goodbye to our mountain home and took off into the sky. Next stop: civilisation.
On paper, the ratio of trip length versus summits reached may have seemed disappointing, but that is far from how I felt. My biggest achievement was consolidating skills learnt from a year that was formative in my climbing education.
I saw this trip as a unique opportunity in 2 ways:
To be invited on an established trip to learn from more experienced climbers
Poor weather meant abundant time for skills practice
Trapped in the purgatory of having completed a technical mountaineering course, but not yet experienced or confident enough to lead my own trips, this New Zealand adventure had been exactly what I needed, and I am grateful for the experience.
With one of our last days in New Zealand, we were at Hospital Flat near Wanaka, and I found myself leading up a trad line which had been the scene of one of my terrifying first leads during the climbing course earlier that same year. To my delight, the gear seemed secure, the climbing moves smoother, and I maintained my composure. Slowly, but surely, I was becoming a better climber.
