Mt Cook, or “Aoraki” as the Kiwis call it, is the tallest mountain in New Zealand, located roughly in the center of the South Island, along the “Main Divide” of the Southern Alps. Depending on who you ask, it is also counted among the “Seven Summits”, the highest peaks on each of the Earth’s 7 continents. There is debate over whether Australia counts as a continent by itself (in which case, the 7th peak is a little ski hill requiring no mountaineering skill whatsoever), or whether New Zealand is counted as part of the continent, in which case Cook is the tallest, standing at 12,316 feet. However, the Europeans consider all of “Oceana” as the continent, in which case all the surrounding islands south of Asia are included and a very remote, dangerous peak in Papua New Guinea requiring a government-approved, week-long expedition through the jungle with a tribe of former cannibals wins the title at over 16,000 feet. I’m sticking with Mt. Cook.
For my dad, this mountain has been a minor obsession since four years ago, when he was in New Zealand with my mom, my brother and my sister-in-law. The mountain called to him then, but that trip wasn’t a mountaineering trip, so he has teased himself ever since, collecting all things Mt Cook, in preparation of the eventual opportunity to one day come back, either by chance or by force. He bought a book with route descriptions, a handful of postcards showing the favored climbing aspects, and stashed away a handful of guide brochures. He studied the routes, waiting for me perhaps, or someone that might be interested in a summit attempt. So it was no surprise that when I announced my trip in September, a month before his shoulder surgery, his immediate response was, Great. So I’ll fly out in January.
For me, the prospect of climbing this mountain has been a source of excitement, in the purest sense of the word: a simultaneous mix of worry and exhilaration. And to say that I was worried, I mean to say that I was terrified as the moment got closer, and the mountain became visible, the conditions were exposed and the reality of the climb became more tangible. I was full of anxiety. What did I agree to?? And to say that I was exhilarated is to say that there has been a part of me that desperately wanted to stand on top of that mountain, to travel the glaciers and conquer the peak, come back in one piece, and tell the tale. But for me, the unavoidable question has always been, at what potential cost? And I could never shake that, not even now.
The day we sat waiting for the weather to lift, my dad found an old copy of National Geographic with an article on a well-known mountaineer named Reinhold Messner, the not-so-contested greatest mountaineer in history. To give you an idea of his accomplishments, Messner was the first person to climb all 14 peaks taller than 26,000 feet, the first person to climb Everest without supplemental oxygen, which shattered the commonly accepted medical understanding of the time, and made uncounted first ascents of other remote mountains all over the world. But perhaps his greatest known feat was his solo ascent of Everest, as in he climbed it by himself, without ropes. The ‘70’s were crazy, right? Now he’s a recluse with a castle in the Italian Alps. At the time the article was written, his next ambition was to go live in cave for a month and write his memoirs. The Dolomites have some nice ones… Maybe he’s done it by now.
Anyway, I tell you all this about Messner because I read a couple interesting things he said in that article about the nature of mountaineering that have stuck with me. There is no adventure without the risk of death was one, and the other (I’m paraphrasing here), was that the benefit of going to these remote peaks and risking your life for their summits is that upon return, it gives you a distinct and ruthless appreciation for the beauty and preciousness of life, or something like that. I think he was right.
Luckily, our ascent started with a bit of fun: a helicopter ride. My first one.
Most ascents of Mt Cook are launched from Plateau Hut, a cozy set of bunks with a kitchen and dining area situated at 6,000 feet, hovering over a huge ice fall below with sweeping views of Cook and the surrounding peaks above.
Our original plan was to walk to the hut, the old-fashioned way (I promise), but the helicopter rides seem to be pretty standard practice up there. We announced our “walk-in” plan a few times, only to have it outright scoffed at (including by the Ranger: Hey, Jimmy, these guys from Los Angeles say they’re going to walk in). And then we realized we could split the cost with other climbers, plus it was actually more practical because you can bring as much food as you want in case you have to wait out the weather and you get to save your legs for the climb. Plus, it was WAY cooler.
After two days at the hut acclimating and trying out our gear, going for some short walks and climbs out on the glacier and collecting beta from other climbers coming back from the summit, it was time to go for it. We prepared everything for the morning, and went to bed probably a little bit anxious (at least I was) but mostly feeling ready and poised.
We got up at midnight, had breakfast, and were on the glacier just after 1am. You may be wondering why we started in the middle of the night. There are two reasons. One, it’s a long day. We got back to the hut at 8pm (yeah, that’s 19 hours later). The other reason is that it’s important to catch the snow while it’s frozen. Soft, slushy snow is your enemy on a glacier. Not only does it make for harder work (the crampons and ice tools take better to a freeze), but it hides crevasses underfoot and forms bridges over wide crevasses that need to be crossed to get from Point A to Point B. Soft snow means that you might be happily walking along, and then poof!, you’re falling into a 60-foot deep, V-shaped ice cave with less light than a black hole, and hoping you don’t pull your partner in after you (which is why we travel roped to each other – so the one above has a chance to stop the fall).
The picture above was taken from the helicopter and shows part of the route we took over the most broken-up part of the glacier. If you look closely towards the bottom of the frame, you can see the little footpath that picks its way carefully through the crevasse field.
Snowmelt is considered an “objective danger”. In other words, it’s happening whether you are there or not (as opposed to an subjective danger, which is you). This mountain has a few other objective dangers to consider aside from the weather, like constant rockfall and icefall. I have never seen a more active mountain. This thing was constantly falling apart around us. All day, we would hear and see loose rocks crashing down a cliff, or the overhanging face of a cliff-perched glacier finally giving under it’s own weight and thundering tons of snow and ice blocks down the mountain, often quite near the footpath to the summit. In fact, the most dangerous part of our route was to pass under an icefall named “The Gun Barrel”, and there were a few recent debris fields we had to cross through on our glacier route.
The midnight sky was dimly lit, perhaps by partial moonlight, or a sun that had not gone so far away, but it was still dark, so we had to rely on our headlamps. The first few hours, it’s just your spotlight on the snow and the crunch, crunch… crunch, crunch… of your crampons underfoot. That’s it. Until Sunrise:
By the time the sun came up, we were off the big, broken-up glacier, and into the steeper terrain toward the summit, and the views just got better and better as we went higher and higher.
We summitted at 11am, ten hours after leaving the hut. We hung out for about 5 minutes, and then turned around and started the long walk back. Even though navigating the crevasse field is more dangerous on the return trip (after they’ve been sitting in the sun all day), after making the steep climb to the summit, the crevasses didn’t seem so threatening anymore. Each of us partially punched through a few times on the way down, but quickly recovered our footing and then kind of laughed it off. There were a few snow bridges that had collapsed during the day, requiring us to jump over. Most times, that was no big deal: just hop a little further than you could step, but on a couple, I had to lunge with my axes out in front of me and then scramble to my feet on the other side.
Obviously, we made it safely down and when we arrived back at the hut, we were very warmly greeted by an international crowd of climbers that were full of heart-felt congratulations, smiles, and questions about the journey. Some of the most interesting people I’ve met during my time in NZ are the guys we spent time with on Mt. Cook. There were the 26-yr old twins from Australia, Robbie and Patrick and their friends Mark and Mark from Wales and NZ, who absolutely slayed their climb, making the roundtrip from hut to summit and back in an amazing 12 hours. There was Dean, a NZ-based guide who had just come from climbing Mt. Vincent, the tallest peak in Antarctica not a week before and was headed to Mt. Aconcagua in Argentina (tallest in South America) not a week later. There was the Japanese team, two of the smallest, gnarliest climbers I’ve ever come across. These guys did a longer, more technical route. They left at 1am and returned at 1pm, the next day (that’s 36 hours later)! When I asked them where they slept on the route, the guy laughed and said to me, “No sleep. Just walk,” making a little walking man of his index and middle fingers.
But perhaps the most interesting crew we met were the Polish guys. This was a team of 3 guys older than my dad with a 70-year-old lead climber. Now I know what you’re thinking: Oh, it’s not that hard then. A bunch of old farts did it. No. These guys were hardcore old salt. They’ve been climbing for over 40 years and have experience in the Himalayas, Afghanistan, the Hindu Kush, and throughout the European Alps. In the 70’s, they were part of a government-sponsored Polish expedition for the summit of Dhaulagiri, a Himalayan peak that was at the time still unclimbed. On those expeditions, they would sell their Polish gear in the countries they were visiting after the climb, and bring back Eastern delights to sell at home. This kept the expeditions rolling: they paid for themselves. We may climb with them again before we leave NZ.
The morning after the climb, we arranged for a ride out, and just like that, it was over. We were back on terra firma and the whole experience was fresh and overwhelming, still vibrating strongly through mind and body, and yet completely unreal, as if it had been a dream. We had lunch and a much-deserved beer with the Polish guys and by day’s end were saddled up in comfy hotel room hours away, in another town, another world.
To say that this climb was life-changing would be cliché and overdramatic and premature; my life isn’t any different than it was a week ago, and I'm not expecting it to be, but I do feel like something shifted, or snapped into place. I feel firmer on my feet. When people ask, I tell them, “It was quite an experience,” or, “It was awesome,” which are about the most vague, unimaginative and uninformative things I could say, but, quite honestly, I don’t know how else to describe it. And it’s not one feeling or one moment that I can point to, it is the entire experience, a blender full of events and emotions, and I am still in awe of the beauty and power of the mountain and the satisfaction of personal trial and accomplishment.
These strong, bewildering feelings took a few days to wear off, and we are on to other things now. We spent a day sorting out how to sell Betsy (I wish I could just take her home), and doing some light-hearted rock-climbing near Queenstown.
Next is back to Milford Sound. I didn’t get enough last time and pops has never seen it, so we’re planning to go spend some time there kayaking, hiking, fishing, and rock climbing (apparently, it’s pretty good). And maybe go find another peak. We’ll see…
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