A photo dump from summer guiding so far, classic ridges, 4000ers, Matterhorns and rock climbing.
Summer Alpine Guiding
Tag: montagne
New Zealand 2024 Part III – Riding the Dragon’s Back
***The Jones Route***
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***
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.
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.
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?.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
New Zealand 2024 Part I, Darwin and Silberhorn
Our trip to New Zealand was adventurous, challenging, occasionally frustrating, but utterly awesome with all those magic emotional ingredients that, at first glance, don’t go together but, in the end, produce a wonderful outcome. After 6 weeks, Beau Fredlund and I had accumulated so much fantastic imagery that limited column inches in a magazine wouldn’t do it justice, and my blog offered me the freedom to express my thoughts and feelings and showcase the media we captured. This is part I of a series that I hope you will enjoy. Read time is 15-20 minutes.
The plane landed in Christchurch just after midnight. I was sleep-deprived after a 40-hour journey from Europe, much of which was spent next to an unhappy baby. As I picked up my ski bag from the carousel, a local police officer struck up a conversation and informed me that a guide had just died in an avalanche accident in the Arrowsmiths, along with other recent incidents. Disoriented from 11 hours of jet lag, I found it hard to process this information. With a few hours to wait for Beau to arrive, I desperately needed to lie down and rest but sleep proved elusive, and by 5 a.m., I gave up trying and went outside to stretch my legs. A quick check of the weather revealed a 4-day window starting the next day, which was good news. I knew we would be flying into the Mt. Cook Range in the morning, but before that could happen, I needed to pick up the rental car, collect Beau, shop for gas and ten days’ worth of supplies, and then drive 5 hours to Mt. Cook Village. The combination of jet lag and sleep deprivation was wreaking havoc on my ability to think clearly. The rental company had me jumping through hoops trying to get the start and expiry dates on my driving license translated numerically. Despite paying 70 dollars, the translated document still showed 5/10/30 as 5/10/30. I couldn’t help but smile, knowing that the French have similar revenue-generating laws.
Beau greeted me with a hug at the airport as it had been a few years since we had seen each other over a beer in Chamonix. Miraculously all his gear had made it and we hit the road in an unfamiliar hire car, fighting jet-lag, driving on the opposite side of the road. After what felt like an eternity, we reached Twizel, fortunately with only a couple of minor traffic violations along the way. We set about gathering provisions and gas and bumped into Cam Mulvey, who guards the Wyn Irwyn hut. The last part of the drive the road felt familiar and I could relax a bit, following the edge of Lake Pukaki through heavy rain to Mt. Cook Village. I had been on the go for 60 hours with little sleep, and after sharing a couple of social beers, collapsed into a deep sleep. However, jet lag pulled me out of slumber at 3 a.m. As I got up to use the restroom, I was captivated by the stars twinkling in the clear night sky, knowing we would be heading out in the morning. After a brief period of tossing and turning, I fell back into a deep sleep, only to be woken by Beau at 8 a.m. It was time to go.
**Darwin North Face**
As we flew over the majestic Tasman Glacier, our eyes widened in disbelief at the sight of unprecedented avalanche activity unfolding on the shadier slopes around the 2000-meter mark. The landscape was ravished by slides, with even moderate-angled slopes scarred hundreds of meters wide. It was a startling, foreboding spectacle that left us contemplating the intricate layers and hidden dangers lurking in the snowpack.
On our first day, we opted to explore the serene beauty of the low-angled Bonnie Glacier, nestled beneath the towering peaks of Hamilton and Malte Brun. We skinned between sunshine and shadow, enjoying the cool of the morning and then the hot powder on the descent, relishing every moment spent outdoors as our circadian rhythm began to adjust to the significant 11-hour time difference.
Our reconnaissance mission was fruitful; from the head of the Bonnie, we gazed at the awe-inspiring Aoraki / Mt Cook, which stood resolutely free from any signs of avalanche activity. This observation provided reassurance that the avalanche risks were primarily confined to the lower elevations, and revealed that the sun-drenched North Faces lacked the same precarious weak layer.
Fuelled by our newfound insights, we set our sights on Darwin’s North Face—an elegant, 800-meter steep couloir that gracefully opened into a vast snowfield, leading up to the summit ridge. The allure of this remarkable line was irresistible, serving as the perfect warm-up for us to rediscover our skiing abilities after an entire summer spent guiding alpine adventures in the Northern Hemisphere.
**Silberhorn East Face**
While Aoraki / Mt Cook may tower slightly higher, the intrepid Kiwi alpinist Bill Denz always deemed Mount Tasman the quintessential mountaineer’s mountain. Like a colossal Himalayan yeti, Tasman ascends an impressive 1,300 meters above Plateau Hut, its summit shrouded in a dense blanket of snow and ice that periodically breaks away, cascading down its formidable faces. The mountain stands before you, fiercely imposing, as if engaged in a powerful Maori ha-ka, challenging climbers with its intimidating presence. Its shoulders and arms —Silberhorn and Syme— taunt climbers to attempt the rime-coated ridges that lead to the lofty summit. Each route offers its own unique beauty and character.
Silberhorn’s winding South East Ridge is a captivating path, marked by a rock band that has grown over the years, a testament to the retreat of ice in our lifetime. For those seeking a sublime ski, it is the elusive East Face that calls out seductively, enticing skiers with its steep, pristine snowfields, interconnected by narrow couloirs that plunge directly from the summit. To unveil the hidden elegance of Silberhorn, one must ascend of either Dixon or Syme to secure a striking viewpoint.
In contrast, Syme presents a different challenge, where skiers must navigate a narrow couloir through the lowest rock band before making a rightward traverse onto the first spine. This spine forms the edge of the stunning 50-degree diamond face, a true gem set into the mountain, inviting skiers to its thrilling embrace. Here, one can easily envision the exhilarating experience of skiing, with sluff trailing eagerly behind. This captivating face, positioned diagonally across the fall line and subtly tilted to the left, feels crafted specifically for skiers carving turns to the right, as gravity gracefully pulls the sluff off toward the left.As you ascend above the diamond face, a narrow, winding ridge transforms, gradually broadening as the angle relaxes, leading to a serene small plateau. However, this landscape gives way to the forbidding sight of the unskiable, rime-crusted North Ridge, reminding all who gaze upon it of the mountain’s formidable power and beauty.
Five years ago, I arrived at Plateau Hut to encounter a winter wonderland, titty deep new snow, with a surface layer of cold sparkling powder that would ski like silk. The magnificent peak of Tasman loomed in front of me, the elegant snow ridges adorned with fondant icing whipped into miraculous features by the wind and adorned with powder spines. At that time, information about skiing Syme was scarce, it lay in mystery waiting to be unraveled. The first descent was made in the 1990s by the formidable French duo Pierre Andre Rhem and Jerome Ruby, whose adventurous spirits carved their names into history. The first known repeat of this formidable mountain happened in 2022, during the isolation of the COVID years, led by the talented Kiwi adventurers Sam Smoothy and Will Rowntree.
Every time I thought about Tasman and the Syme my heart rate quickened and my pains got sweaty, the idea of riding Syme captivated my thoughts. As I gazed upon Syme, it ignited my imagination, and I found myself lost in thoughts of how to ride each intricate section of its terrain. However, we recognised that the immense snowfall from the preceding storm would require a day to settle before we could mount an attempt and with more than a tinge of sadness, we redirected our plans toward a new line down the Caroline Face from Cook’s East Ridge.
The next day we had only just left the hut before drama unfolded: a serac on Silberhorn gave way, unleashing an explosive avalanche that charged across the plateau, crossing the track we had followed. It was a stark reminder of the mountain’s power — if we ever needed convincing to steer clear of the larger faces, this was it. For the remainder of the trip, the wind howled around the hut relentlessly, eroding inclination to attempt the daunting challenge of Syme, its allure slowly fading under the weight of nature’s fury.
Fast forward to the present, and I found myself once again at Plateau Hut, this time accompanied by Yellowstone guide and New Zealand ski veteran, Beau Fredlund. The atmosphere was brimming with excitement as we were joined by the my good mate Will Rowntree and his trusted partner Sam Smoothy, along with another team comprised of Christina Lustenberger, Guillaume Perell, and Mathurin Vauthier. The air was buzzing with anticipation; we were eager to seize the fleeting weather window that lay before us and set out for Dixon. We made quick work of the climb, our hearts pumping with adrenaline as looming clouds threatened to blanket Marcel Col. Just before reaching the summit, an eerie shroud of mist descended upon us, transforming the world into a monochrome landscape where visibility shrank to mere retracing our ascent route by carefully following our boot pack, intimately aware of the precarious nature of our surroundings. This was my fifth attempt at summitting Dixon, each time failing due to summit slopes consumed in cloud.
Once we returned to the welcoming warmth of the hut, I took to the kitchen, whipping up a couple of hearty bacon and egg sandwiches to restore the energy I had expended racing up Dixon. With the scent of food enveloping me, I quickly fell into a deep, replenishing sleep. As the evening unfolded, the glow of the setting sun filtered through the windows, and we gathered to discuss our plans for the next day. Our visions diverged; Beau had his sights set on Syme, while I leaned towards Silberhorn, drawn by its easier accessibility and the ominous forecast predicting a similar cloud build-up. Eventually, after Will shared his stunning photographs from Silberhorn, Beau was convinced it presented a worthy objective. From my cozy bunk, my gaze shifted from the Cook’s East Face to Silberhorn and I memorised some key features and took a compass bearing of our approach route before setting the alarm for 2 am and dozing off.
After a short night, we found ourselves stepping out of the hut and into the inky blackness of the night. The humid air crystallized into delicate diamond dust, sparkling like stars as it caught and dispersed the lights of our headlamps, creating an otherworldly atmosphere. Familiar landmarks transformed into ghostly shadows, and not even the outline of the mountain was visible against the night sky. Surrounded by darkness, I pulled out my compass, navigating by dead reckoning relative to a star’s position. As we entered a crevasse field we began to meander, forced to rely on GPS for guidance. This slower enforced pace allowed the piercing katabatic wind, which felt like icy fingers, to creep through my layers. Soon, I donned all my clothing and cranked my electric socks, desperately fending off the cold.
Above a ramp led to a rightward traverse we had seen from the hut. Suddenly, an unsettling pang of anxiety hit me; the slope felt more exposed than the gentle ramp we had anticipated with crevasses lurking below and some soft slab formation. I reassured myself that the limited range of my headlamp was skewing my perception, and I continued onward, knowing the next plateau lay just beyond my sight. After passing this treacherous stretch, a wave of relief washed over me, and I called back to Beau to follow my path while quickly reorienting myself on the map. Just then, the light from my headlamp flickered, signalling a low battery, victim of the unforgiving cold. With dawn still an hour and a half away, Beau graciously took over trail-breaking, allowing me to tuck in behind him, managing to conserve the remaining battery life. Soon, we reached the beginning of the “Mad Mile,” a daunting stretch of glacier that forms the approach to Syme Ridge. It’s dubbed “Mad” due to the colossal, threatening seracs on Tasman that compel most climbers to adopt an adrenaline-induced jog to pass underneath.
We continued hugging the left side of the bay, using the terrain above for protection and avoid drifting into the treacherous right side in the inky darkness. As we skinned across a large crevasse, the slope steepened markedly, posing challenges for our climbing skins. In the soft, pre-dawn gloom, we could barely discern two snow slopes above, each potentially our line. Neither of us had anticipated such difficulty in determining the start of the route. A wrong decision at this juncture could cost us precious calories and, more critically, valuable time—an increasingly urgent concern with clouds threatening to roll in by mid-morning. A swift glance at my phone revealed the dawn was nearly upon us, prompting us to transition to crampons and our magic carpet snow plates while we waited for enough light to reveal the correct path.
Now it was my turn to break trail, and in the grey half-light, I made good progress through the boot-deep powder. The horizon was ablaze with vibrant shades of red, a fleeting transition that bled into a soft blue sky that deepened with altitude, hinting at the marvel yet to come. As we approached the imposing serac, the sun finally broke free from the horizon, casting a warm, pink glow across the mountainside in a breathtaking display of alpenglow. We found ourselves momentarily frozen in awe, captivated by this extraordinary scene. In that moment, we pulled out our cameras, determined not to let its beauty slip away into memory. Those first rays of sunlight were a comforting embrace, offering a relief to our frosted extremities that had been suffered the biting cold in silence until now.
I arrived at the ridge just below the summit and gazed into the Linda cirque. Aoraki loomed above me, its peak rising majestically to pierce the sky, bathed in a warm, golden light that transformed the snow into regal cloak. The last metres consisted of wind-polished blue ice, in stark contrast with the soft, powdery snow we had climbed so far. After a thoughtful discussion, we decided to seize the moment and ski while the light and snow conditions were optimal, rather than risk getting caught in the clouds again climbing to the summit with a deteriorating forecast. We were here to shred subliminal lines, indulge ourselves in good snow and ride making big turns. Reaching any peaks would simply be an added bonus.
We meticulously stomped out ledges, transitioning to our skis with care. Each movement was deliberate as we double-checked our gear: ensuring the ski bases, bindings and toe sockets were free of ice, and confirming that the boot ski-walk mechanisms were properly engaged. With ice axes in hand, we felt the anticipation heighten, the light rime on the surface, posing a question about how our skis would react during the first turns. Looking down the slope, it remained enveloped in the soft glow of dawn. The initial gully opened up into a stunning expanse of snow, leading to a constriction framed on the right by striking cobalt blue glacier ice, gleaming like a jewel. This corridor led to a vast, open face, that inviting opening it up and surfing effortlessly over the cold silk.
The combination of excitement and nerves heightened my awareness as I shuffled my weight from ski to ski, building my proprioception, eager to get started. With a nod from Beau confirming he was ready, I slid over to the spur on the right, knowing that my edges would need to bite through the slightly rime-covered surface. When the snow is perfect, it’s easy to ski; however, with inconsistencies like rime, crust, or underlying ice, there’s a lot of tension until you make that first turn and come through it feeling confident about your margins. It’s similar to a triathlon when a participant transitions from the bike to a run, often coming out wobbly, transitions can be challenging, especially when you’re working near your limits. On top of that, ski mountaineering brings added factors like sleep deprivation, high altitude, and significant deficits in calories, water, and electrolytes.
With a pop of my quadriceps, I launch into the air, turning across the fall line. My skis touched down, and the edges bit into the snow progressively, causing me to forget about the slight rime on the surface. What was I worrying about? Filled with confidence, I skied the top third of the line in one go, occasionally probing below me to check the depth of snow over the ice, until I reached the upper snowfield where I could wait for Beau to clear away his sluff. The next section is stunning, the blue glacial ice contrasting against the pristine white snow. We took some time to capture images here before skiing through the choke, where the face opened out to the right beneath the median rock band. Now we could freeride, skiing diagonally to the right as gravity pulled the sluff down the fall line. My skis reached that magical velocity where they pivot effortlessly, surfing effortlessly on the snow surface. Just above the bergschrund, I caught a glimpse of the sluff train thundering down to my right and paused momentarily to let it pass. During this stop, I noticed the ‘Mad Mile’ seracs in the cold light of day, and taking fright, skied continuously to the safety of the Grand Plateau. When Beau joined me, I asked, “Was it worth it?” He, a man of few but measured words, simply replied, “Absolutely.”
I am a Brit, and we have a short heritage in big mountain skiing with the likes of Paul MacLeod, Ewan Moffat and Jim Lee pathing the way in the early 2000s, Paul skied the Goufy Diagonal on the Bionassay with Tardivel, which is still unrepeated. This is in stark contrast to traditional climbing and mountaineering, where we have been at the forefront of developments since the start, and budding alpinists embarking on a career of exploration and new routing have a plethora of funding opportunities at their fingertips.
For this trip I took the unusual, and for some controversial, step of using Gofundme. It would not have been possible without the kind and generous help from so many of you in the ski community who believed in my vision of exploring the grand faces of the greater ranges while employing a fast and fluid freeride style on good snow that epitomises the progression the sport has seen filter down from Alaska to Chamonix and beyond, replacing the pioneering hop turns of our forefathers.
I would like to personally thank: Tim Hafner, Dusty and Karla Spence, Alex Rose-Innes, Enrico Foglietto, Peter Kennan, Nicola Eliot, John Heiss, Abby Ellington, Bird, Kelvin Joy,, Alan Scowcroft, Stewart Cluely, , Kevin Green, Scott Goedkoop, Ian Wilson-Young, Mette Stannow, Sami Modenius, David Hewett, Joerg Hoelzing, Judith Bensaude, Natalie Cooper, Steven Miler, Jeff McCleary, Kennan Sakarcan, Bine Zalohar, Albert Rolfs, Theodore Rolfs, Philip Ebert, Luca Bracco, Sergey Berdnikov, Antonin Morel, Teague Holmes, Ville Strandman, Lucie Costechareyre, James McSkimming, Gaspard Ravanel, Mathurin Vauthier. Some of you elected to remain anonymous which I will respect here.
I’d also like to thank all the others who helped us along the way with gestures of kindness: Will Rowntree, Rosie Rowntree2NB, Sam Smoothy, Christiania Lusti, Guillaume Perrel, Evan and Mandy Cameron, Cam Mulvey, Canterbury Mountaineering Club, New Zealand Alpine Club, Mel and Dave at AGL, Small Planet Sports in Queenstown, Axle, Soojie, Deborah Ivalo.
Read parts II and III – links below.
Skiing the north east face of Point Yeld
Mallory Freeride
Ross Hewitt Guiding 