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We departed from Plateau Hut with the world around us cloaked in darkness as we began our ascent arriving at the schrund in an hour. The previous year this had been an intimidating sight, a massive cavern plunging into the abyss, far beyond the reach of my powerful headlamp. It forced me to hack away at the overhung upper lip to create a precarious ledge on which to mantle onto my knee. My heart raced with anticipation and fear of plummeting into the depths below while relying on a slender static rope for safety.
This time, Will pulled out the rope and handed me the sharp end, a gesture that made my stomach tighten. Putting away my apprehensions, I tied on and approached the schrund. Above, the cavern still loomed, expansive and intimidating. Down below, I spotted a snow bridge that stretched invitingly across the gap. With a surge of relief, I skinned straight over it easily, grateful for the respite and the energy it saved. After transitioning to snow plates, I set off breaking trail, navigating a few more crevasses before ditching the rope.
The night air was cold and still, marking our second windless day in five weeks. As we climbed, our clothes gradually became damp from the exertion, stealing away some of our warmth. We made good progress, but while navigating the penultimate ridge, I felt the urge to go for a poo. For a brief moment, I considered deploying the reabsorption technique until our return to the hut, but I quickly realised how badly that would backfire on me once the excitement of skiing kicked in.
After five minutes with my pants around my ankles and my bare bottom exposed to the chilly predawn air, I was extremely cold. Putting on my heavy down jacket, I set off with a purpose to catch up with the others and generate some heat. Despite this, I remained uncomfortably cold, and the numbness in my left foot preoccupied my mind for the remainder of the climb. As we ventured into the exit gully, the dawn unveiled a stunning sunrise, casting a vibrant red hue across the eastern horizon. The warm golden rays of sunlight slowly enveloped us, casting off the austere oppressive darkness and providing much-needed relief from the cold that had gripped our fingers. With the pain finally beginning to abate, I felt my focus sharpen on the imminent tasks ahead.
At the base of the gully a streak of glistening black ice snaked its way upwards, igniting a flicker of apprehension about how we would negotiate it during the descent. Will and I stopped to search for a reliable abseil anchor while Sam continued putting in the book pack. After an eternity scraping snow off the rocks and excavating stubborn ice in the cracks, we created something that survived a bounce test, and pre-rigged the ropes for the descent.
With that problem resolved and our lightened packs, we eagerly caught Sam, who to our surprise was valiantly breaking trail through chest deep snow 5 m from the top. As we tunnelled through this final obstacle, I braced for the daunting feeling of exposure that often accompanies high-altitude climbs, especially with Aoraki’s west face dropping away into the abyss. Instead, we were greeted by an unexpectedly serene, flat expanse that led us to a gentle knoll on the ridge.
The exhilaration of completing this thousand-meter climb—so rarely undertaken—filled us with a deep sense of joy. Physically, the job was almost done, but technically and mentally, it was only just beginning. The air was still, allowing us to fully appreciate the breathtaking panorama that unfolded around us. To the west, the beauty of the Hooker Valley and La Pérouse, while the Weheka Valley offered its own rugged jungle allure leading to the cobalt blue Tasman Sea.
Far below on the Eastern side, the Tasman Glacier extended gracefully towards the distant watershed, and there, a mere 1700 meters below, the Plateau Hut appeared like a tiny speck against the vastness of the landscape. Each view reminded us of the beauty of nature and the energy of reaching the heights built within us.
Beyond Aoraki’s sibling, the colossal Te Horokōau / Mt Tasman loomed majestically, with Syme Ridge on the horizon. I recalled standing atop of Syme a year ago and feeling the same level of intimidation as now, and then going onto making some of the most outrageous turns of my life. Performance anxiety was transforming into a growing excitement and confidence that we could accomplish this in style. This shift was partly due to the relief of exchanging the insecurity of climbing ultra-steep powder in crampons to the security of skis. It was also influenced by being with friends I’d trust with my life. However, the most significant factor was my overall feeling that everything in the universe was aligning in our favour, with all the signs urging us on. It was already an incredibly special day, standing on the summit ridge, reaching this point felt like a privilege granted by the elements.
At 7:45 AM, we set off on our ski descent of a lifetime, gracefully gliding down from the knoll into the top of our line. Even in the deep powder, the upper turns felt exhilaratingly steep, with gravity tugging at us toward the void below. The gully’s diagonal incline allowed us to ski simultaneously until after the rappel. Now, the breathtaking beauty of the line unfolded before us—a magnificent, hanging curtain of snow draped above the overlaps in the face. We skied the first spine, which terminated as it plunged over a chaotic expanse of broken ground. A traverse to the left led us to the second spine, an amazing section that was both steep and deep. Sam stood below, strategically positioned on the edge of the abyss, gripping his well-placed poles securely as my sluff raced past him, sending plumes of powder into the air. When it was Will’s turn, I planted my poles upside down, burying them up to the baskets, and held them bracing myself as I looked downward to avoid getting smashed in the face.
Now the route plunged steeply rightwards before spiralling back to the left across the ultra-exposed triple spine. This section was a long, intense crux, where the hardest moves awaited us near the end of the ramp, demanding every ounce of focus and strength. Tensions increased here with the thought of skiing over a short section of hard ice before the penultimate spine. My mind raced with unsettling thoughts, envisioning a friend struggling to maintain their edge or picturing myself getting pumped, desperately clutching axes and teetering on the brink of a fall. I reminded myself to be present, make calculated, slow moves, and test each hold before committing to it. You’ve done this a hundred times before.
Will led, crossing the daunting zone with surprising ease, demonstrating that our earlier anxieties were unfounded. With the major exposure now behind us, the lower 400-meter spine stretched out elegantly below, and the tension dissolved allowing us to ski with newfound freedom. Sam took the lead down the spine, his movements fluid and agile as he skill-fully flipped from one side to the other, riding with grace. All too soon we were lover the shrund and regrouping on the glacial bench beneath the towering face of the mountain. Euphoria swept over us, and we wrapped our arms around each other in a jubilant hug. The day felt like a dream—everything was just right: the brilliant blue sky, the ideal snow conditions, and the perfect camaraderie among our team. We all knew we had just experienced something remarkable together.
The route had unfolded before us like a masterpiece, a blend of everything I could possibly envision and so much more. It was ultra-steep and sustained, woven with technical challenges and exposed spines that elevated our senses into hyper awareness. The snow was nothing short of perfect—its texture instilled a reassuring sense of security, without excessive slough. This allowed us to glide through several crux sections on skis, relying on our skills and the impeccable conditions. As I immersed myself in the experience, I felt a surge of emotional energy flowing through me, a mix of exhilaration and awe. It was a dream I had almost deemed to be unattainable in my lifetime, yet here I was, living it out in vivid techicolour. My mind was trying to catch up with the reality of this extraordinary moment, trying to absorb every sensation and sight that felt so surreal and beautiful.
All too quickly, a deep exhaustion set in making the short ascent to the hut feel like an endless struggle. The film crew met us, expecting jubilation but clearly struggling to understand our exhaustion-induced, slightly subdued demeanour. We were too tired to stand and talk, thirsty but not ready for a beer. The appeal of plentiful water and the comfort of a bench to sit on drew us inside. At the door, I ran into Evan, one of my oldest friends who emigrated to New Zealand 25 years ago. He greeted me with a big hug. I felt proud of him for making the trip to Plateau, he had come up to ski the East face and was celebrating with a goon bag of cheap wine.
With our immediate thirst satiated by a couple of litres of water, it was time for a team beer. We took the bench outside and sat together sharing the moment, admiring the east face on this perfect, windless day.
Ross Hewitt Guiding 