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.  

The Footstool, Aoraki National Park

5^th September-8^th September

The weekend after my return to Dunedin was coming up. The Southern Alps were to continue experiencing amazing weather and Danilo (Italian turned Kiwi who is well versed in the wild of the South Island) was scheming up ideas for his weekend. Some of his trips were partner dependant. I was keen to join but was also committed Friday night to a potluck. Upon hearing my interest and dilemma, Danilo suggested we do a two-day trip: the couloir on The Footstool. The what? Danilo handed me the guidebook. It’s a lovely 2764-meter mountain in Aoraki National Park that can actually be done in two days (unlike other peaks in the area which take 3 or more, without helicopter support of course). It stands upon the northern shoulder of the dark and intimidating Mt Sefton (3151 meters).  From carpark to Footstool’s summit it’s about 1900 meters with a mellow trail, a cobbled riverbed, slopes with tussock, snow and loose rock, and crevassed glaciers in between. Upon glancing at the guidebook and a picture of Footstool, I was in.

Sefton to the left and Footstool to the right.

 We returned from Debbi and Tim Lewis’s place Friday night at a reasonable hour for our big weekend ahead. We awoke early (not quite alpine early, maybe 4:30 AM), loaded the car, picked up two others (a young Swedish woman, Hana and Jonas, Penzy’s Swiss partner) and drove to Aoraki National Park. It was during a fuel stop on this trip that I received the call from Nate, informing me that he had X-rays done on his heel and his foot was broken. I was distracted that day from our mission, until I decided I needed to get a job ASAP, Danilo said we could stay longer at his place, and I managed to get a hold of a friend who gave me contact details for a possible job. Content with having a basic plan for the next couple months, I turned the phone off for the weekend.

We stopped in at the Mount Cook DOC center to see if we could gather information about recent conditions on Footstool. The woman at the counter handed us a huge binder with notes from climbers and rangers on the conditions of various mountains in the area from this past year. Turns out no one had climbed Footstool this year. A note mentioned that a large schrund had opened up at the bottom of the couloir, that may make the couloir inaccessible for part of the year. This news didn’t deter Danilo, who noted we will have a look for ourselves, and if need be we will go the easier route.

The coulior is just within the shadow
left and below the peak

We arrived the road’s end in Hooker Valley a little before lunchtime. It was sunny, clear and calm. Just down the valley on the Western side I could see our goal, which was not merely a bump on Sefton’s ridge. Above the steep glaciers towered a 70-90 degree triangular face with a sharp ridge traveling off to the south; all still covered in snow. I could just see our couloir route hidden at the edge of mountain’s shadow. My eyes however kept being drawn to Sefton, with its dark sheer faces beneath broken glaciers. A drastic, stunning peak to say the least. Might need to return and tick it off later.

We set out on a mellow graveled trail. In less than an hour we veered off the track near a moraine wall and began to navigate our way through bush and a cobbled riverbed. Soon we were following cairns up a ridge. We had lunch maybe halfway up the ridge from Sefton Bivy. There was a lack of flat spots, so we made do with carefully placing our packs and ourselves amongst the tussock on small shelves of dirt.

 *    *   *

I would like to take moment here in my normal ADD fashion to tell you that I’m writing most of this blog from the comfort of Homer Hut with a woodstove burning hot behind me (drying my hand-washed laundry). Once again, alone on a rainy day, but this time in the middle of Fiordland National Park and far from any bars or people (probably 30km). Outside is like a monsoon and the dry riverbeds you drive through to get to the hut have filled with water-ankle deep or more. In fact, there are now two rivers where there were none this morning. I am being flooded onto very small island of moss, trees, and gravel upon on which the minimally solar powered alpine club hut stands. Waterfalls are raging down everywhere on the 1500+ foot granite cliffs that surround my temporary home.

*   *   *

On our journey up the ridge we paused to listen to the cracking and rumbling coming from Sefton. Occasionally we had glimpses of giant chunks of ice tumbling down past the cliffs, with a trail of snow just behind. What a temperamental sounding mountain. Eventually we put our crampons on and started up a short steep ramp of snow to the right of a crumbly rock step we would have otherwise had to climb. We saw a couple of skiers navigating down the glacier on Footstool. If I hadn’t heard the sound of their skis scraping icy snow, I would have been envious.

Sefton Bivy and one of the glaciers behind it.

Just as the sun began to fade (somewhere around 5ish), we arrived at Sefton Bivy; the roof stuck out about half a meter above the snow. As we approached we could see the water container and entrance had been kindly dug out by previous visitors. Before the light was gone we examined our route and discussed our plan of attack for navigating the glacier and then the schrund for tomorrow morning (which would all have to be done by headlamp). We then started cooking dinner and organizing gear. Water bottles were filled with hot water and we were cuddling with them in our sleeping bags by 7:30. I’m fairly certain I managed to fall a sleep before 8 pm.

Looking back halfway up the
the first pitch.

Daybreak and looking up at the couliour
and the crevasse below it.

My watched beeped too soon. Before 2 AM we were working our way out of the sleeping bags and boiling water for warm breakfasts and tea. In less than an hour we stepped our way up the icy snow, only hearing the crunch of the crampons. We had only the light of our headlamps and we tried to navigate our route based on how the ground dropped or rose around us; always trying to stick to the ridge to avoid navigating the crevasses in the dark. Soon however, we started to see the giant cracks in the ice that formed dark cavities. Our progress slowed as we tried to find our way in the dark. Eventually dawn began to break and we could see the coulior in front of us, along with the schrund. I was happy to finally have some light stronger than my headlamp; navigating a glacier in the dark was eerie, even when I was at the back of the line. As we approached the base of the couloir we were almost turned back by a exceptionally long crevasse. After some searching and cautious testing Jonas found a small, angled, tiered bridged for us to cross over one at a time.

Finally with the mountains glowing purple and pink in the morning light, we were at the base of the couloir. I tied in with Danilo and began leading, while Jonas and Hana went as a team and Jonas took their leads. All the way up the couloir we intermittently post holed, kicked steps and front pointed. On a couple of pitches Danilo snagged the lead. In the mean time I thought about how nice sections of this couloir were for making turns.  I would have to carry the skis up 1000 feet on my back before I could even put them on my feet.

A Top the Footstool looking West/Northwest

The cream of the coilour was the final pitch; solid, sustained alpine ice. Jonas had done the route finding before us, and was so kind as to dig through the small cornice that had formed at the top and to cut large steps in the meter of vertical. I was very thankful when I planted my two ice axes over the top and lifted my head above to find a narrow ridge with a steep drop on the other side. I carefully pulled myself on top, trying not to slide off the ridge in either direction. It was a techy ridge walk to the dip before the final climb to the summit. There Jonas and Hana waited for us. I was anxious to go for it was well past noon and the sun was beating down relentlessly on the Northern aspects- which was what we were to cross on our way down. I waited as Danilo went to the summit, taking a moment for myself to admire the feeling of being on top of the world and taking pictures in an attempt to capture the moment.

Once Danilo returned we were off , heading down and around the corner to find a steep snow face below rippled rime ice. A quick glimpse around showed no easier route. With a step into the punchy snow, we new it was not something we could protect or linger on. With every person for himself or herself because time was of the essence, we traversed the slope as quickly as we could.

Danilo crossing the Northern
rotten slope

Clouds rolled in making the descent challenging to find, but luckily we found footprints that led us in the right direction. With clouds moving in and out, we worked to follow the steps (and not lose each other), occasionally losing the faint prints and spreading to re-find them. Eventually they formed in a continuous path and in the intermittent white out conditions this helped us to navigate quickly across the lower glacier.

We arrived back at Sefton Bivy sometime after 4 PM.  We had a long break where we ate, drank tea and packed up the gear we had left there. Then once again we set out, determined to at least make it to the parking lot. It was a long hike by headlamp, a silent onward trudge, and the mellow track we had started on seemed to go on forever. Finally around 11:30 PM we neared the parking lot. I was fixated on bed and picked up the pace a little. WHAM!! Right on my ass. My one fall the whole trip was caused by the one small patch of ice on the mellow track, which I failed to see with my tunnel vision.

We were all sound asleep shortly after midnight on the cement floor of a shelter at the roads end. Around 5:15 AM, with nothing to eat, we all packed into my car once again and Danilo took the first driving shift to get us back to Dunedin.

I guess it was really 2+ day mission.