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.
The Jones Route climbs the leftside of the seracs then takes the mid-height ramp left into the upper central couloir.
My alarm woke me from a deep slumber just after midnight, and I quietly eased out of bed, poking my head out the door. All was quiet, with no wind, but as I sat down to force some porridge into my stomach, that familiar howl of the Plateau hut announced the early arrival of the nor’wester. I still held some hope that Cook might provide enough shelter for us to succeed and if you don’t go you won’t know. As we headed out the door Mathurin bade us fairwell and dropped the bomb with a youthfall meaningwell chuckle – ‘it’s 1 year since Tof tragically lost his life in Chile, don’t die today’. Guillaume and myself briefly locked eyes before going out the door, both of us clearly feeling the superstitious omen that had been placed in the front of our minds about the loss of our dear friend. Trying to put that behind us, we skied out the into the dark but as we crossed the Linda and felt gusts ramming against us, I could sense the wind eroding my hopes.
We skinned up onto the bench, maintaining distance from the seracs on the east face, and quickly identified the start of our route. For the moment, we were sheltered, and I led us into the shrund. As I stepped onto a fragile jammed block of snow, I was shocked to see it span a massive hole plunging into the depths of the glacier. I quickly shouted for Gee to keep the rope snug between us. To navigate the overhanging lip, I had to cut a ledge for my knee and chop away the snow above so that my ski tips wouldn’t catch as I delicately levitated upward. We quickly moved onto the spine, where the snow was decent, but any shelter we felt was merely a momentary pause in the weather. Soon, violent downdrafts had us gripping our tools and hugging the slope until the worst had past.
By the time we reached the top of the spine, the wind had worsened. We climbed up the steep ramp, which rose 600 meters up the face, only to find that the surface had been baked by the heat of the day before. With a deteriorating forecast and poor conditions, it was an easy decision to bail and leave it for a reset. We all had plenty of time of left in New Zealand for another attempt. Later back at the hut Gee and myself admitted how Mathurin’s comment about Tof had eroded our resolve. As I write this month’s later, readily able to admit how scary the gusting wind was, trying to tear us off the mountain while we over gripped our axes, I can see maybe Tof was telling us that it wasn’t the day to push.
We rolled back into the hut to welcoming arms of our friends who had watched worrying as we had battled it out in the maelstrom. Soon after our heli arrived to transport us to hot showers, golden nectar, warm beds and the chance to process what for me, had been an insanely intense experience with the skiing on Silberhorn and Syme living up to my wildest imaginations of progressive big mountain freeriding.
On the other hand, there was a bitter pill to swallow as the twists of fate would prevented me skiing these plum lines on Aoraki Cook – an injury had forced me out of the first descent of the Caroline in 2017, in 2019 I didn’t have a partner, in 2024 the ice seracs on Caroline no longer look inviting breaking up the line, and now Jones would slip through my fingers.
***(The Dragon’s Back***
Elie de Beaumont’s Spencer Face and The Dragon’s Back Central Spine
Eight years previously, I embarked on a first descent of Elie de Beaumont down its majestic right flank. As I glided effortlessly over the snow, I felt an irresistible pull to the central spur looming above me. It struck me as a magnificent sleeping dragon, its features strikingly defined in the rugged landscape. The contours of its snout and the gentle curvature of its eyes were eerily clear against the backdrop of the mountain. As I continued my descent, the dragon revealed more of its form to me. The head and back emerged from the swirling snow, and soon, the haunches and wings unfolded like a grand tapestry along the slopes. This breathtaking sight ignited my imagination, urging me to contemplate the exhilarating possibility of skiing along the spine of this mythical creature’s back, tracing its contours with each turn on my skis.
Tom Grant on the 1st Descent of Ellie’s Right Flank in a Onsight Approach from Tasman Saddle Hut
As the years slipped away, time felt as though it was accelerating, a fleeting reminder of my own ageing process. In 2017 and 2018, I was deeply immersed in the rigorous training and demanding examinations required to become a guide. Our trip to New Zealand in 2019 was marred by unrelenting poor weather, and then the onset of 2020 arrived, marking the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, which effectively sidelined me. Shortly after, we embarked on the journey of starting a family. Amidst these life changes, I often stumbled upon a cherished photograph from our 2016 descent, featured in a published article. It ignited a spark of inspiration within me for further research on the elusive central spur. Yet, much to my dismay, I discovered that most images of this formidable face were taken from a distance of 10 to 15 kilometres. This made deciphering the enigmatic nature of two indistinct crux features particularly challenging, as they lay obscured in areas of poor resolution, too pixelated to draw any clear conclusions. The west side of Elie is a wonderfully remote and rugged landscape, adding complexity to any reconnaissance efforts. Its wild beauty may be alluring, but navigating this challenging terrain is far from easy, making every exploration a true adventure.
As we returned to the present day, we embarked on a breathtaking eight-hour drive from Mt. Cook Village, navigating the winding roads of Haast Pass. The journey took us along the rugged, largely uninhabited West Coast, leading us to the charming township of Fox Glacier. The landscape evolved dramatically, beginning with sprawling golden grasslands and picturesque braided river valleys, interspersed with vast, shimmering lakes. Gradually, these vistas transitioned into dense, impenetrable jungle, where the air was thick with the scent of lush vegetation. We encountered isolated, sandy beaches that met the deep blue waters of the Tasman Sea, a striking contrast to the vibrant greenery around us. Exotic birds flitted through the trees, and the sight of tumbling glaciers added a touch of majesty to the scene. It felt almost surreal, as if we were in a land where Vietnam’s tropical beauty harmoniously intersected with the grandeur of the Himalayas, inviting us to enjoy ice cream by the sea while gazing up at a giant green pigeon perched high in a palm tree.
Bruce Bay and the Tasman SeaTrees growing in the direction away from the west wind
After a rough night at NZAC’s Porter Lodge in Fox, where the loud snoring of fellow occupants disrupted our sleep, we awoke to a breathtakingly cold and crisp morning along the coast. A thin layer of ice coated the windshield of our car, glinting in the early light. My aspirations of skiing down steep slopes 3,000 meters above were dampened, much like the biting temperatures that surrounded us. It would take a significant amount of warmth to melt the hard, crusty layer left from the previous week’s freeze-thaw cycle. The weather forecast promised the next two days would be cold yet clear with strong winds, while the third day was expected to be calm and pleasantly warm, perfect for our primary goal. West-facing slopes always pose a challenge, as they absorb the afternoon sun and require that same warmth to transform into enjoyable skiing conditions. With an understanding of the nuances of the terrain, we were eager to see how the conditions would evolve over the coming days.
After a quick and hearty breakfast of steaming oats and rich espresso, we set off for the airport, excitement bubbling within us. As the heli climbed it offering a breathtaking view over the stunning icefalls of Fox Glacier, shimmering in the morning light. Our eyes were glued to the window as the majestic Mt. Tasman came into view, its towering mass capturing our attention as we craned our necks to admire its splendor. Upon reaching the hut, we quickly claimed our bunks, stashing our gear in preparation for the adventures ahead. The bright sunshine and crisp mountain air invigorated us as we set out toward the Minarets, eager to seize the beautiful weather and reacquaint ourselves with skiing after a week away from the slopes. However, I have to admit, on that first day, I struggled. A string of restless nights spent in noisy and crowded mountaineering huts had left me feeling drained and dehydrated. During the climb, I paused and drank of half a litre of water, nearly gulping it down, and gradually started to feel more alive. Yet, fate had other plans for us. The snow gods conspired against our ambitions, as easterly winds sculpted tricky wind slabs on the headwall, ultimately forcing us to abandon our ascent. Disappointment washed over me to fail on such a moderate route. On the second day, I set my sights on skiing a small, steep spine, hoping it would help sharpen my focus for the challenges awaiting me. But the cold air had hardened the snow into an unforgiving surface, and once again, I found myself turning around before summiting. It was disheartening to squander two days of promising weather that could have allowed us to tackle much bigger objectives east of the divide. Even more frustrating was the realization that the challenging snow conditions were draining my confidence, leaving me uneasy about the task of conquering the Dragon’s Back on Elie the next day. As Day 3 dawned, it brought with it the promise of warmer temperatures, brilliant sunshine, and gentle breezes. With no alternative plans, we resolved to give it a shot.Our successful streak on Darwin, Dixon, Silberhorn, and Syme had reached its end with failures on Cook (Jone’s Route) and the Minarets, the question was what would fate have in store of us now?.
Views Across the Franz Joseph Catchment
I meticulously packed six energy bars and two litres of water, preparing for a full 24-hour day of adventure. I desperately needed vital sleep in our cramped hut, which was filled with the restless sounds of snuffling and grunting like wild boars, making quality sleep and elusive commodity. After a leisurely start we set out from the hut at 7 a.m., the air crisp, the frosted world around us sparkling in the first rays of sun. We glided over the smooth icy surface of the 4 km glacial plateau until we reached the breakover point of the Styx Glacier. The next section from the Styx onto the Times Glaciers would be a crux in itself where precious time and energy could easily be lost, which could cost us our shot at the Dragon’s Back.
We skied the spines down to the choke and then downclimbed refrozen snow until we could ski across the Styx glacier
A steady descent of 350 meters lead into the chilly shade on grippy frozen snow, we found ourselves approaching an area overlooked by the towering an active Styx seracs, their ice formations glistening like colossal sculptures. My chest tightened with the thought of being underneath them and we veered leftwards to distance ourselves as much as possible. As we approached the glacier, the final stretch narrowed, and the slope steepened dramatically to a challenging 50 degrees. The snow beneath our skis became bullet hard, forcing us to transition carefully and downclimb, each movement requiring focus and precision. Suddenly, the sun breached the horizon, flooding the landscape with golden light and quickly raising the temperature by what felt like 30 degrees. In that moment, it wasn’t possible to stop and delayer; the heat enveloped us, the sweat poured off us, depleting our water precious reserves for the day. It was hard not to feel devastated by this loss but there was nothing we could do about it except get on with it. With determination, we pushed on until we finally reached the shade on the glacier, where we could finally peel off our heavy layers and revel in the brisk, refreshing air.
Tip-toeing past the head of the sleeping dragon on our way to Walter-Elie col
After strapping back on our skis, we briskly traversed beneath the towering seracs of the Styx Glacier, the looming ice formations casting an unsettling shadow over us. As we manoeuvred through the scattered boulders left by a recent buttress collapse, a wave of relief washed over me when we finally emerged from the overhead threat, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. On the lower Times Glacier, we quickly stashed some water and snacks, ensuring we had supplies for our return journey, before embarking on the daunting 1,400-meter ascent to Elie de Beaumont. Beginning our ascent to the Elie-Walter Col, we past under the the rugged headwall of Mt. Walter which slowly started shedding its storm coating of rime in the strong sun. Chunks of water ice began to break free, accelerating towards us like homing missiles. We remained vigilant, scanning the rocky outcrops above for any signs of danger. After successfully dodged several larger pieces, but suddenly, a rounded chunk veered towards me in a menacing arc. It struck my toe piece with a jarring impact, knocking my ski loose. In a split second, I dove to the side, my instincts kicking in to retrieve the runaway ski and avoid losing it entirely.
Ross Hewitt near the top of the line, Photo Beau Fredlund
We arrived at the windless Elie-Walter Col after six hours of effort. While we ate a snack, we took the time dry our feet in the warm sunlight in an attempt to stop the skin going soft and peeling off. Finally, it was time to climb the ridge of Elie, where we were rewarded with a view of the Dragon’s Back, beautifully illuminated by the afternoon light and covered in a fresh layer of snow. Below the summit, the terrain was riddled with treacherous rime, and we carefully downclimbed to the skiable snow. At times, our boots plunged deep through the icy crust into soft snow beneath, almost causing us to lose balance and topple off the mountain backwards. It was more than a relief to reach a consolidated snowpack.
Now, we found ourselves atop the Dragon’s Back, hoping to make amends. I gazed across a sea of clouds flooding the valley below us from the west. This sight gnawed at my mind, as it would seriously hinder our return passage through the complex terrain of the Styx glacier. I recalled standing at the same spot eight years ago, preparing to ski while clouds piled up against the bottom of Elie’s west face. Back then, after skiing along the right flank, we turned around and climbed back over the divide, escaping the cloud and returning to Tasman Saddle. This time, however, we would return to Centennial Hut. These were problems for later, so I pushed them aside, letting the music on my phone bring me back to the moment. I sought the calm and relaxed mental state necessary for optimal performance, all while managing the tension from our precarious position above the void and the usual pre-match nerves vying for my attention.
A glance at my watch revealed it was 4:45 PM. I had been waiting for 20 minutes after making some initial turns. My first turn had been good, with my skis punching through the crust to the unconsolidated winter snow beneath. On the second turn, my edges glanced off the crust, struggling to grip the icy surface. I shouted to Beau, “We need to wait until 5 PM for this to soften more,” and stomped out another platform to make myself more comfortable.
I looked down at the glacier and watched as the evening shadows reached upward toward us. Soon, the snow would refreeze, becoming crusty and difficult to ski. My mind raced, trying to estimate how long we had before the shadows crept up the face, which would complicate our descent. My impatience grew as the realisation set in that perfect snow to the bottom was unattainable. I felt the snow’s surface with my fingers; the icy crust was beginning to soften. It was game time.
Ross Hewitt skiing the easy headwall on hard snow. The Times Glacier, Styx Glacier, West Coast Neves and Tasman Sea Lie Beyond. Photo Beau Fredlund
We skied quickly down the upper 45-degree shoulder onto the spine and onto the beginning of the difficulties. Beau joined me and skied through, revelling with the situation, surrounded by the tumbling blue seracs on our right and the gravitational pull of the void below. I knew he had been dreaming about this route for years; in fact, his laptop screensaver was a photo of Elie’s west face.
Beau Fredlund Approaching the Spinewith the snow thank fully softening before it got steep and technical
The crest of the spine had hard snow that forced us onto the steeper right side. Fortunately, this had softened nicely in the sun. With heady exposure on all sides, we both felt tense and apprehensive about what lay below—how steep it would get and the uncertainty of the rock sections. Would we find any rock anchors, or would we have to improvise or even downclimb?
I took the lead, probing the snow ahead to test its edgability, making chop turns to avoid gaining speed and give my edges a chance to grip. I focused deeply, fully in the moment, losing all sense of time as we made magical, heady turns down the neck of the dragon.
Ross Hewitt contemplating the spine. Photo Beau Fredlund
The first crux was a rocky fault running diagonally across the face, with 2-3 meters of ice 30 centimetres wide linking to the lower 55-degree snowfield. Any thoughts of straight-lining were quickly replaced by the need to find an anchor. Beau tested a spike but soon realised it was the Jenga block, holding everything above. I created a bollard in the arête and backed it up by counterbalancing on the other side. This allowed Beau to downclimb securely, testing the quality of the ice for me to follow. I was relieved to find solid placements in the chewy well bonded ice.
Once back on skis, the next turns were perhaps the steepest of the route, especially given the off-camber nature of the spine. The snow was getting warm, making us nervous about triggering a wet pocket over the unconsolidated winter snow, but everything went smoothly, including navigating a second small rock choke. It was a wild, exposed place to ride.
Maximum exposure in the central section with offcamber turns
A ramp on the right provided a straightforward exit to the glaciated bay and with the sun going down, we skied non-stop down the Times Glacier into thick fog. I snowploughed in front, keeping alert for crevasses while Beau followed behind using the GPS to locate our stashed food and water. We were 13 hours in at this point and still had 4 hours of uphill to go. I drank half of my water, exercising restraint to avoid gulping it all down. Despite my thirst, I couldn’t eat my sandwich and made do with the cheese and sausage filling while contemplating the tricky task of navigating the return journey in the fog under the Styx seracs.
Suddenly, the cloud parted along our route. “Now’s our chance, let’s go,” I said. Beau packed up frantically, and we skied over the snow and rock avalanche debris, skinning at a furious pace past the threat of the Styx seracs, sweating precious fluids we couldn’t afford to lose. Just as night fell, we returned to the safe ground of our approach, able to relax as the objective danger faded. Ahead remained a few hours of tough uphill wading up a combination of deep mush and occasionally teetering on the eggshell crust before cruelly punching through just as you committed it. Energy-sapping and soul-destroying. We inched forward, taking turns, hoping to gain some rhythm, looking forward to it being over. These next hours would be without food or water and we were sweating a lot as we battled to make progress with the poor snow.
Alpenglow on Elie de Beaumont
Glancing over my shoulder, Elie was bathed in afterglow like a crimson tide of dragon’s blood. We paused in awe, very happy for the mental distraction from our latest battle. Mother Nature continued to put on a show as the full moon rose behind Elie, illuminating the landscape and removing the difficult task of navigating home from our weary minds. The Milky Way appeared particularly vibrant directly overhead in the Southern Ocean skies free from light pollution that we are familiar with in the Northern Hemisphere. For the first time, I saw Starlink, emitting pulses of green light as it orbited planet Earth. We ground on reaching the hut at midnight to join the other occupants already snuffled in the safe warmth of their sleeping bags.
Exhausting climbing out back to Centennial up crust covered isothermal snow. Photo Beau Fredlund
This is part II in my mini-series on New Zealand which features our bid to ski Mt Tasman’s Syme Ridge amid some furious New Zealand weather that had us pinned down in Plateau Hut for 36 hours. If you missed Part I – Darwin and Silberhorn, you can read it here.
Back at the hut, we followed the time honoured post ski ritual of eating and sleeping, attempting to replenish the essentials we were lacking, in preparation for our next objective. For the next 36 hours, the wind shook the hut and howled like a banshee, frequently waking us from our slumber. We used pee buckets inside the hut to avoid the risk of opening the steel barred door and potentially not being able to close it against the sheer force of the wind. A significant amount of snow was forecast, but it was difficult to predict how much would accumulate and how much would be blown away in the storm. Our waking hours were spent cooking, eating, and joking with one another while trying to stay warm, as the cold seeped into our feet and up our legs, often convincing us to retreat into the warmth of our sleeping bags once more.
One of my main goals for the trip was to ski the Jones Route on the East Face of Cook. With the cold weather maintaining a winter snowpack, the series of steep, exposed ramps promised good skiing, similar to the Mallory route on the North Face of the Midi, albeit with a 1,500-meter ascent to start the day and the use of lighter ski mountaineering equipment. I anticipated that the new snow would settle nicely under the sun tomorrow, making it a great opportunity for the day after that. After an injury forced me to withdraw from the team that made the first descent of the Caroline, I felt that tackling this more challenging route would help make up for that disappointment. However, my intuition suggested I wasn’t the only one aiming for this line, so not wanting competitive spirit to cloud our judgment and lead to a preemptive strike, I discussed the plan with Christina, and we agreed to team up for it the day after tomorrow. With the business side concluded, I went off for a siesta.
After my refreshing nap, I strolled into the kitchen, where an unsettling, morbid atmosphere hung heavy over the group like a thick mist. Still groggy, I struggled to grasp the source of the tension when I saw Beau abruptly leave the room, his expression clearly torn with distress. Christina, her voice low and serious, filled me in on the devastating news: Beau’s dear friend, Mike Gardiner, had suffered a fatal fall on Jannu East. Feeling a pang in my chest, I made my way into the hall, where I found Beau seated alone, his gaze fixed on the floor, lost in profound thought. I joined him in silence for a moment, grappling with my inability to find the right words to convey my condolences. We were both well-acquainted with the exhilarating highs of mountain life, but we were also painfully aware of its darker, haunting side—grappling with the agony of such loss. I eventually left Beau to retreat into his thoughts, knowing he could draw strength from the room full of friends ready to support him during this painful time.
As evening fell, Beau made the heart-wrenching decision to spend the next couple of days glacier skiing, his thoughts consumed by the tragedy that had befallen his friend. Meanwhile, Christina and Gee expressed their eagerness to ski a new line on the Vancouver Peak whose approach up the Linda engulfed in darkness with overhead threat, and the small hanging face itself, didn’t call to me. Instead, I chose instead to head for Syme, where the ridges provided a comforting sense of security following the fierce storm that had recently passed. The thought of going without Beau felt gut-wrenching; he had often shared his excitement about this line but we both understood that in the unpredictable world of mountaineering where weather, snow conditions, physical and mental preparation, rarely come together, and when they do, the Universe calls to you – Go!
Just as I was resigning myself to going solo, Christina suddenly turned to me and announced that they would join me. The realization that this spot would offer the most aesthetically pleasing backdrop for filming near the hut was likely the catalyst for her change of heart. Energized by the prospect of the trip, I dove into my packing, meticulously arranging my clothes and gear in the kitchen, careful to keep the noise to a minimum so I wouldn’t disturb Beau when I rose at 1 a.m.
Once again, we stepped out of the hut into a darkness so profound it felt as if we were venturing into the depths of space. I began breaking trail, my eyes fixed on a shimmering star above Lendenfeld, guiding us through the abyss. We soon reached the crevasse field, where Gee took over navigating us skillfully over the icy Bergshrund before we transitioned to crampons. The frigid wind relentlessly clawed at our hands and feet, urging us to move swiftly up the apron to generate warmth. As we climbed higher, the howling wind intensified, stripping away any remaining heat. Exiting the protective confines of the couloir, we were confronted by the full force of the icy blast. I paused for a moment, fumbling to put on my heavy down jacket and mitts, feeling their comforting insulation against the biting cold.
Lusti nursing cold digits
Ascending further was a grueling effort; the powder was so deep it reached up to my thighs. Forward progress required me to pack the snow in front of me with my knee before being able to step up. Finally, we reached the top of the Diamond. Just as Gee dropped his pants to take a toilet break, and without warning, a monumental rumble shattered the stillness—a massive avalanche of snow cascading down from the darkness above us. My heart raced, and I imagined Gee’s surprise as he hurriedly rectified his situation. Just as quickly, we reassured ourselves that we were safe on the shelter of the ridge, despite the tumultuous chaos above.
Gee Pierrel welcoming the sunrise
As we pushed upward, our progress was steady but slow, each step a reminder of the struggle ahead. The southerly wind whipped fiercely across the ridge, its biting chill forming delicate rime ice around our eyes and under our noses. My left foot, trapped in its icy coffin, protested with a numbing ache, forcing me to pause frequently to unbuckle my boot and wiggle my toes within the confines of the shell. Just as I did, the sun began to peek over the horizon, casting a warm, golden light upon the snow-covered peaks. We turned toward the light in reverence, basking in the gentle rays that melted away the night’s chill, as the mountain transformed into a canvas painted in soft pink hues at dawn’s early embrace.
Christina at dawn
Now the sun peered over the horizon and we turned to greet it in worship, welcoming its warming rays, as once again the mountain was painted pink in the avant glow of dawn. After bring confined to the space limited by our head torches’ illumination, the stunning landscape unfurled before us, revealing the vast expanse below. The wind blasted snow across the ridge, the Grand Plateau far below, and beyond mountainous islands floating in a sea of clouds, whilst the horizon was ablaze as the sun climbed ever higher. We continued up, filled with the otherworldly feelings of being on a Himalayan Giant.
Soaking up the sun with Lendenfeld behindIts not often I climb in goggles!
We reached the area of glacial ice we had seen from the hut, gleaming like glass against the rugged mountainscape beneath us. This ice revealed an remarkable cave feature, forming a natural tunnel straight through the ridge. As we climbed upward to the right, I began to clear away the soft slab of ice that lay over the ice in order to place my axe securely. Thankfully, It wasn’t long before we found ourselves back on firmer, more reliable snow.
Approaching the top of Syme Ridge
Approaching the summit of Syme, we decided to move to the north side of the ridge, which shielded us from the biting wind blasting across the crest. Just as I approached the plateau where Syme and the North Ridges converge, the unthinkable happened; my boot punched through the seemingly solid surface and I started to fall down, my body sinking into a hidden crevasse that swallowed me up to my waist. In my initial struggle to regain my footing, I only made the situation worse, but after some more calculated movements, I managed to pull myself free. I quickly shouted down to Gee, warning him to proceed with caution.
Aoraki / Mt Cook bathed in goldMaelstrom
Once on the plateau, we paused for a moment, taking in the breathtaking panoramic views that stretched before us: the majestic pristine glaciers sparkling under the sun, with the distant Tasman Sea shimmering like a sheet of blue glass. It was an awe-inspiring sight that made the suffering of our ascent all the more rewarding.
Savouring the shelter on the north ridge and the views to the Tasman SeaCold but excitedUpper Syme, the notch is where the ice cave is locatedAoraki / Mt Cook, Grand Plateau and Tasman valleyHere we go
A thrilling pulse of excitement coursed down my spine, igniting every nerve in my body. After years of anticipation, I was finally on the verge of fulfilling a long-held dream: riding Syme. With each sweeping turn, we glided down the initial slopes of wind-pressed powder in between patches of glistening ice. Gee, deftly zagged around the ice cave pitch, to get to the top of the diamond face. He then chose a conservative line, launching down the right spine in a series of hop turns while leaving the diamond for Christina and me to carve some freeride lines.
From my position, the steep face below was a mystery, hidden from view. I picked up my poles and slid leftwards onto the face, feeling gravity of the void below slingshot me across the fall line across the fifty-degree powder, the immediate rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins and in that instant, I slipped into that coveted flow state, losing myself in moment. —a feeling like no other, surfing on immaculate silk, time slowing, ultimate awareness, one turn linking to another. Finally catching sight of the guys on the ridge, their excitement within mirrored by their wide smiles andI scrubbed off speed with my skis chattered beneath me, eager not to scare the living daylights out of them coming in hot. The remaining stretches of our descent were less consequential, yet filled with an exuberance that electrified the air around us. We raced through the choke and down the glacier, where Beau and Mathurin awaited us, their camera lenses capturing the beauty of the moment.
As we shared hugs, an incredible sense of contentment washed over me, happy to have skied a dream line in a modern, progressive style. After grabbing some food, I fell into a deep sleep, allowing my body to recover from the day’s excursions and exposure to the cold. That night, we would set out on a more ambitious outing – to attempt the unskied Jone’s Route on Aoraki /Mt Cook’s East Face before a windstorm arrived.
Ross Hewitt Guiding 