Mount Barth and Heim Link Up

20th October-22 October

Views from Treble Cone

After the memorable Brewster trip I sneaked in a few more days of touring before Nate arrived. I’ll skip those stories though since they were simply touring in and around Treble Cone ski field (and let’s be real, I’d never catch up on my blog if I told every story and you’d be bored with the blog if you aren’t already However, a story worth telling you is my last attempt at touring in 2014. I joined the trip last minute and decided in the last second to bring my skis, much to my chagrin later on.

In mid October Nate, who was just starting to put weight on his foot, committed to work for an Otago Ph.D. student collecting soil samples from trees for five days. They were to leave the day after they made the agreement. I decided that I should take advantage of the opportunity to join on a mountaineering trip I had been invited to. When I called to say I was keen and they confirmed they had space, I had about 3 hours before they would pick me up.

It was a mission that held doubts for its success. A storm was supposed to be hitting the Southern Alps with a meter of fresh snow on the divide. We hoped to climb Mount Barth just after the weather cleared. Danilo had misgivings about our trip, concerned for us to even to hike into the terrain trap of a valley at the base of Mount Barth. Frazer, the young man organizing the trip, had hopes that we would be far enough East of the divide that we wouldn’t have much snow in our area. We figured it couldn’t hurt to walk in and have a look. At the very least we would have a good walk.

With all the talk about fresh snow in the mountains my mind turned once again to skiing. Ah, why not have one more tour for the season? I gave Jaz a call because he had been there before. “Yip, there’s some great touring off Mount Barth…The whole time I was there I was wishing I had skis.” That was enough for me; the skis and boots were packed. At the very worst, if avalanche danger is too high, I’ll have had a good weight-training trip to get fit for alpine climbing.

Soon I was packed in a small station wagon with 5 people, five packs, and my skis (which stuck out from the back next to my head. We were off toward the Ahuri Huri valley, just south of Aoraki National Park. After a long drive, that included adding a few scrapes to the bottom of the car on the dirt road, we arrived at a DOC hut a short ways before the road’s end. There we met 5 other people. Half of the group was planning to walk up Mount Heim, which sat on Mount Barth’s shoulder. Chatter was brief that evening. Before 11:30 PM all the college students in and around the hut were sound a sleep.

It was just about 5km to the end of the road, but we were well passed the “4-wheel drive only” sign in a low-riding two-wheel drive car. The ride was slow with folks unloading from the car at stream crossings, directing the driver and clearing rocks out of the way. We made it to the roads end with out oil and gas spewing out of the bottom of the car. Looking out from the car park, my eyes strayed past the open dry grass valley to the mountains that erupted straight up nearly a couple thousand meters. The tree line was only a third of the way up the steep slopes. Dense trees then gave way suddenly to golden tussock and then eventually a white blanket of snow.

Hiking toward Canyon Creek

The ten of us loaded our packs on our backs (mine with skis towering above my head) and started the walk along the barren valley floor. After an hour or two we entered some dense trees that quickly brought us up and over Canyon Creek. As we traveled high over the river, we could only catch glimpses of the canyon below through the trees. My progress was slowed with ducking and weaving as I attempted to not snag my skis on branches. Luckily the trees didn’t last long and soon we were walking out in the open on scree-slopes, a cobbled river, and tussock.

After a lunch with an optional swim break, we started up tight switchbacks that brought us up and around a wall of waterfalls. At the top we hopped across a field of boulders. We kept glimpsing up at the mountains around us. Even after gaining more than 500 meters vertical since the track’s start, the snow line remained far above us and the rock protruding from the snow hinted to us that fortunately/unfortunately our meter deep dump was really a centimeter dusting. Spring corn skiing it is then.

Late afternoon we came upon our luxurious rock bivy. A comfy nook for two with a nicely stacked rock wall on one side and on the other a short rock wall guarding an overhang we hoped to fit eight under. While the water boiled for the usual cup of tea most of us gathered dry grass to cover the damp ground under the overhang and put a tarp up that came out from the overhang. When camp was set I went into my normal backpacking routine of “bomb proofing” my stuff. I carefully repacked my gear into my small bag and attached my skis and boots to the outside. The rest I neatly packed away to avoid anything getting wet.

View of Mount Barth from the rock bivy

After dinner we walked further down the valley to scope out tomorrow’s route. Debris from old avalanches remained and even some patches of ice amongst the gullies in the cliff. Kind of wish I had the opportunity to be here in winter. Frazer and I discussed concerns (mine mostly being wet slides at this point since powder was lacking) and plans to avoid them. I was still skeptical of us summiting, thinking the snow would soften too quickly. Soon we all returned to camp to enjoy some more tea. By the time we went to bed, much of camp still looked like an explosion had gone off with food and gear scattered. A sure sign of newbie trampers. I’m sure they’ll learn soon enough with New Zealand being an unforgiving teacher.

At sunrise heading up Mount Barth. Can you see the foolish
that brought their skis?

All too soon 5 A.M. arrived. It was still dark out. Five of us dressed and ate by headlamp and started hiking our way up, trying to guess by the little our headlamps illuminated how to navigate around the cliffs. The other five (who were planning to climb Mount Heim) were slowly waking as we left camp. It wasn’t too long before we hit our first patch of snow. Hard packed and frozen. The others put on their crampons while I finally put on my ski boots and kicked steps. The skis remained on my back, the skins useless in this snowpack (note to self: ski crampons are worth the investment). We were finally on continuous snow when the sun poked above the mountains and hit our backs, illuminating the snow with a soft pink glow that was broken by our shadows. My shadow clearly stood out from the others, the profile of my skis a reminder of my foolish decision.

Frazer on a ridge of Mount Barth. Feeling Small...

We hiked nearly to the ridge to avoid the glacier and some of the steeper slopes. I stashed my hiking boots atop the ridge in a sheltered spot and then followed the others. The snow on our slope of concern was still far more frozen than I had expected so we cut across, no longer fearing the possibility of wet slides for the next couple of hours. In less time than I had expected, we were heading up the left most couloir on mount Barth, avoiding the shrundts at the bottom of the other routes. The couloir remained in the shade, and to my dismay and the others’ delight we were front pointing up hard-packed snow. I had hoped if it never saw sun, the snow might be like old powder, but this wasn’t the case and the skis remained on my back.

Views from my turn around point on Mount Barth

It wasn’t long before we topped out the ridge to find a wall of rock blocking our way. Frazer went to scope an alternative route. I was less concerned about the summit and more about making some good turns that were hard earned. So I began to prep myself for the descent and snagged some pictures in the process. Without rope and gear, the others were not comfortable to move any further. So we got a group photo and they took a moment to watch my descent before following behind. The scratching of my skis on snow at the top wasn’t promising. When I dropped down I promptly wished I had tuned my edges after my last trip. My skis and legs chattered down the chute. I had to rest halfway, my legs almost numb from the vibrations caused by chunky frozen snow. Even when I crossed out of shadow into sun, the snow still didn’t have time to soften and in the next dip down to the glacier, my skis continued to scratch and chatter. At the bottom I dared to put on my skins and tour back up to the ridge to retrieve my boots. At least I didn’t carry my skins for nothing. It was still hard going. I waited shortly before the summit of Mount Heim for the others to catch up while I watched the other group make their way up rolling hills of snow. I contemplated how long before the snow would be corn and how much longer it would be before it was rotten and grabby.

The crew a top Mount Heim

15-20 minutes later Frazer and the others caught up and we all made our way to the summit of Mount Heim or to the lower group to hike the final bit with the others. A top the flat summit we all took a moment to gather up, enjoy the views and snap a photo to capture the moment. I was antsy to get going, keen to convince myself that I didn’t carry the extra 8 kg of equipment for nothing. So once the others were prepping themselves to head down I bee-lined down the hill carving in perfect corn. The 1 km or two sped past in about 20 seconds as I enjoyed the thrill of spring skiing. The snow only began to grab at the bottom of the run. At the end of the snowline I changed out of the ski boots and waited about an hour for the others to come post-holing over the rolls (showing my efforts to be almost worth it).

My last turns of the year.

We arrived back at camp as a party of 10 after three in the afternoon. After lunch, tea, and a rest, we packed up and hiked the 4-5 hours back to the road’s end.

We arrived at the cars around 9, quickly packed and drove out, hoping to find somewhere open for dinner. I believe a Z gas station with its warm cheap pies was our savior that evening. We rolled into Dunedin about 1 in the morning.

Networking, Nature's Light Show, And Mt Brewster

Sept 13^th-Sept 18^th

With Nate arriving in a couple weeks with a broken foot I knew I needed to find work and if unsuccessful, cram in what adventures I could before he arrived. So I put in my five days of solid job searching for Dunedin. At the end of the week, with no success insight, I decided it was time to head to Wanaka. Of course, it was a responsible step toward getting a job. Wanaka was where I wanted to live for the summer time. So obviously being in NZ, I had to visit prospective employers and find backup job options (and sneak in some ski tours while I am at it).

So that’s just what I did. On my first full day in Wanaka I met with Dave Shotwell, an American turned Kiwi who owns Wanaka Rock Climbing. Over a cup of coffee in the morning we discussed our goals, my skills base, and my flexibility (may have hinted as well I’d be psyched if someone would sponsor a two year work visa for me). I then had the opportunity to demonstrate some of my skills by going crag climbing with him in the afternoon. Excellent networking. Fortunately/unfortunately I also learned from Dave that while he would like to hire me based on watching me and hearing about my experience, new NZ laws require me to have a rock climbing guide certification. Despite my degree, I don’t have that special piece of paper.

Coincidentally, that was the day solar flares were predicted to hit earth and create one of the strongest auroras recorded.  Danilo was on a big mission to find clear skis to photograph the phenomenon. While I was climbing with Dave, Danilo was hightailing it from Fiordland to Wanaka. He was going to hike up Sentinel peak, north of Lake Hawea that night. Seeing this as an opportunity for a photography lesson and seeing an aurora, I skipped out on having post climbing beers with Dave and joined Danilo on his adventure.

Danilo instructing me the morning after we tried to chase the aurora

 

There is not much to record about the hike itself. The trail was well developed, switch-backed, and not very exciting. It was well past dark when we found a spot on the ridge that we were looking for: a clear view of Lake Hawea (with Hawea township glowing at the far end) with some flattish ground for the tent and flat ground for Danilo’s tripod and camera. The flares had hit earth that morning (just in time for New England to enjoy it) but Danilo had hope that some more flares may still come that night. I stayed up for a couple of hours asking heaps of questions about taking night photos and cameras in general, When there wasn’t a glimmer of an aurora to be seen by 11, fatigue overtook me and I went to bed long before Danilo. I awoke the next morning to learn I didn’t miss out on seeing the aurora.

For the next few days snowstorms were hitting the Southern Alps. My excitement for skiing rekindled. I made plans with a skier I’d met previously (we’ll call him Mike) and a friend of his (we’ll call her June) for a ski trip during a brief weather window coming up midweek.  

Come Tuesday, the three of us piled into Mike’s van with all our gear and we drove up by Haast Pass to the start of the track for Mount Brewester. There was not a spec of snow around the parking lot. In fact, we knew we were unlikely to encounter any snow until we hiked up about 700 meters of vertical. This did not deter us. With skis and ski boots on our packs, we waded barefoot through the frigid Haast river and started trudging up a rooted and mud track in dense green forest. Maybe trudging is not the right word, for I did actually enjoy the hike. The forest was lovely with hidden purple mushrooms to be seen amongst the abundant moss and the 3 hours of hiking straight up was only making my legs stronger for skiing.

Just before we hit tree line, snow coated the trail. On the ridge we were post holing in fresh powder. My emotions were a bit split at this point. Part of me was excited for the skiing we had to look forward to tomorrow, and part of me was annoyed that I was foolish enough to hike up the track in regular pants and approach shoes, which were now sopping wet and filled with snow. I had to keep moving quickly to keep my feet and legs warm, so I broke trail through most of the snow. The mountains at our back were mostly visible amongst the clouds, but Mount Brewster remained shrouded in cloud.

We arrived at Brewster Hut just as the final shreds of light dimmed behind the jagged peaks to the West. We quickly settled into the hut, putting on dry clothes, examining the map, and discussing plans for the approach and descent. After dinner, we had ample time to practice setting up a crevasse rescue system before crashing early.

Top Heavy from the Hut on the first night

The next morning we awoke to find Mount Brewster was still lost in the clouds. Surely the weather window did not pass in the night? We slowly put on our ski gear, hoping that we hadn’t missed our opportunity. Our excitement rekindled a bit with being able to leave the hut with skins and skis on our feet, as touring should be. The snow was lovely and soft, but even at this elevation we had to step daintily to avoid the rock and tussock beneath.  

The terrain we had to negotiate was challenging at times. We were not on a gentle slope by any means but switch backing among tiers in the tussock and having to cross steep chutes. The June and I were hesitant to cross some of the shoots. With heaps of fresh snow we did fear avalanches and had been hoping to stick to mellower terrain. Mike, having just completed his NZ Avi 2 course was hesitantly confident in our route selection. He hesitantly explained how “he thinks” the wind direction, speed and amount of precipitation should have only left small pockets of wind slab we should easily be able ski cut. Probably our greatest delay in our progress was the discussions on our route, our observations, concerns about the return journey (possible alternative routes should it keep snowing or warm up), and the fatigue catching up with June. As it turns out, Mike was spot on with the snow conditions, but I’m afraid he was not so good with motivating one who is laden with fatigue.

From my experience, when entering avalanche terrain everyone should be educated on what conditions are likely to be (and constantly observing for any changes), what the level of risk is, and recognizing and adapting to the limits of the least fit or skilled member. It is true that sometimes one just needs a break, a change in pace, and/or some positive reinforcements for them to push through some sluggishness. However to not actually acknowledge when someone expresses concerns for how strong they are feeling or not make suggestions for easier back up plans because you are so fixated on a particular line/peak, does not do much to boost moral. June and myself became increasingly frustrated with Mike’s motivational tactics. Despite not being drawn down by weariness like June, I found myself rather frustrated with the mind games, when really we were supposed to be friends going out to have fun skiing. As we made out way up the gullies and across the slopes, I thought much about my ski touring experiences in Utah; I recognized and appreciated characteristics that marked the good touring partners I had there. Snow craft knowledge is not the only important aspect for a good touring partner.

Our Lunch Spot

We stopped for lunch on a slope above the glacier. Deciding to give the weather more time to clear for it was still windy and Brewster had remained hidden on our whole ascent. June and I chatted a little our predicament and all of us watched the sun attempt to break through the clouds over Brewester. The peak next door was clear of the clouds and taunted us with a pristine, mellower, and more distant slope that offered perfect turns. The mood amongst the three of us was tense. Once we finished eating, Mike started talking about where we should head next, but June had made up her mind already. She was physically and emotionally drained. And while I wasn’t as tired, I wasn’t having much fun. We both insisted on turning back.

As we had eaten lunch, I had noticed a steady, drastic rise in temperature, which I knew to be a red flag for avalanches. Mike noticed as well and voiced concern for our descent at this time of day. I thought that the green house effect (capturing of UV and heat when sun breaks through and cloud then traps it) wasn’t happening as quickly over on the slopes we had come up and suggested that if we moved quick enough we could beat the snow melting. Mike expressed doubts, but June and I were done, lacking any trust at this point.

And so we turned around. Once again, Mike was spot on with his prediction. The chutes were starting to have pinpoint releases at a drastic rate and some wet slides were already occurring. We traveled cautiously, quickly, and nervously across them-aiming for the closest ridges and boot packing on ground when we could to get off the snow.

Left Top Heavy, Right: Mount Brewster

We arrived back at the hut in one piece but for a few new scrapes on the bottom of our skis. It was mid afternoon. While Claire went to sleep, Mike and I tried to entertain ourselves by reading magazines and posters in the hut. Sometimes we went out to admire Brewster for the weather had cleared shortly after we had returned to the hut. When it came time to make dinner, the mood finally started to feel light again among the three of us. We enjoyed conversation and stories around the table before we all fell asleep.

The next morning we hiked down to the car. I was lost in thought most of our drive back to Wanaka. The trip was not the most fun and didn’t end up rewarding us with great turns (though if we had gone a bit further, they would have been amazing), but at least I did get up into a beautiful area and learned some important lessons. My thoughts were only interrupted when we came across a typical New Zealand roadblock: a herd of sheep.