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.
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**
Rainbow over the braided river bed of Tasman
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.
Moonrise over d”Archiac
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.
Beau in the Couloir on Darwin North FaceWe skied the right couloir
**Silberhorn East Face**
Silberhorn, Tasman, Syme
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 author after skiing Sweet Caroline, 2019
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.
Avalanche on Silberhorn
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.
En route to Dixon by Beau FredlundThe author on Dixon by Beau Fredlund
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.
Silberhorn’s Sick East Face
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.
Beau at dawn on Simberhorn
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.
Sunrise hits BeauThe author reveling in the alpenglow Special moments Beau bathed in gold
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.
The Skypiercer – Aoraki / Mt Cook
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.
The author starting down Silberhorn (Beau)
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.”
The author – captured by BeauA quick selfie to capture the stoke while I wait for BeauBeau approaching the second chokeAesthetic near the ice
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.
With it starting to feel autumnal here in North Wales and seeing all the ski porn flooding in from the southern hemisphere, I’ve started to dream about skiing again and am looking forward to some sensual turns in the powder. Here is a short photo essay about trip Tom Grant and myself did last October to New Zealand’s Southern Alps. We skied 18 days out of a 25 day trip, losing 2 days to lost bags and 1 to a blown camper van engine. The highlights were skiing on the east face of Mt Cook and first descents on Elie de Beaumont’s west face and Darwin’s south face.
A big thanks to Evan and Mandy Cameron, Mel Cash & Stefan Austin, Shane Orchard, Cam Mulvey and Beau Fredlund for your hospitality, beta and good times.
This was my first trip to New Zealand and very much an exploratory foray into the wilds sampling green lakes, beach balls, burning sun, weetabix rock, moraines, long approaches, white sandy beaches, quantum boulder fields, more moraine, awesome people and amazing mountains.
Ross Hewitt Guiding 