One from the Bucket List

ONE FROM THE BUCKET LIST Crossing Ball Pass B all Pass has been on my ‘To Do’ list for a long time. The pass is a popular alpine tramping route in Mt Cook National Park. It crosses the Mt Cook Range between the Hooker Glacier and the Tasman Glacier, close to the southern end of Mt Cook itself, and provides stunning close-up views of Mt Cook’s awesome Caroline Face. I’ve been to Ball Corner at the eastern end of the crossing in the Tasman Valley on a number of occasions, and on a club Christmas trip five or six years ago a few of us went up to the pass from the Hooker Valley side and climbed Turner Peak, a minor peak beside the pass, but we returned the way we had gone up and did not do the complete crossing. So when Marie Henderson invited me on her trip there last December I wasn’t slow to accept.

There were four of us on the trip, Allen and Sue Higgins, Marie Henderson, and me. Stephen Healey and one or two others were originally going to come as well but the trip got postponed for a week due to bad weather and in the end they couldn’t make it. I drove down with Marie and met Allen and Sue at Trish Knox’s place in the Mt Cook village. Long-standing club members will well remember Trish, a former club member who now works down at Mt Cook.

The next day we spent around Mt Cook Village getting organised and looking around the visitors centre.

In the afternoon I went for a walk up to the Red Tarns, which are perched on a shelf partway up one of the spurs of the Sealy Range, up behind the village. From here there are superb views all around the Mt Cook area. An algae in the tarns gives them a distinct reddish tinge.

The Red Tarns are a popular tourist walk, but what most people don’t seem to realise is that there are some more tarns further up the hill on a higher shoulder, where the views are even more spectacular. I went for a wander up to these and spent a while taking photos of the views. This was glorious, stunning country, laid out before me like a scene from a Tolkien fantasy. To the left you could see the awesome east face of Mt Sefton, with ice avalanches peeling off every now and then. Spreading north from Sefton was the main divide of the Southern Alps, encrusted in a coating of snow and ice, like frosting on a giant wedding cake. Fluffy clouds rolled in over the tops of the peaks from the West Coast, like balls of cotton wool. To the right was drier, dustier country, leading out to Lake Pukaki and the McKenzie Basin. On the corner of the Tasman valley, Nun’s Veil peak stood tall and aloof, a small white glacier clinging like a limpet to its summit. And right in front of me was Mt Cook itself, rising over the upper Hooker valley, peeking shyly out from behind a closer rocky spur of the Mt Cook Range.

Back down at Trish’s place we completed our plans. The forecast promised us several days of good weather, so the next day we set off. Trish had originally been thinking of joining us but she was feeling unwell so she decided not to come. We drove to the White Horse campground and the start of the track. The route starts off following the tourist track towards the Hooker Valley. I was surprised to discover a flash new swingbridge had been built across the Hooker River since I was last here five or six years ago and a large warning sign blocked off access to the old track around the cliff-face. We blithely ignored this, clambered over, and continued on our way. A short distance around the cliff-face we came to the old swingbridge. This was boarded off and had some of the floor removed to prevent people using it. By now it will probably have been removed completely. A short scramble around the hillside and across some scree slopes brought us out onto the flat floor of the Hooker Valley.

A few hundred metres up valley it felt as if we had entered a timeless magic wonderland. The tourist hordes had been left behind—they all go across the swingbridge and up to Hooker Shelter, on the opposite side of the river. Few people come where we were, on the eastern side of the valley. We stopped for a rest amongst lush alpine vegetation, reminiscent of the giant megaherbs one sees in photos of the sub-Antarctic islands. Spiky Spaniards and the large, round, glossy green leaves and white petals of Mt Cook lilies were mixed in amongst the tussock grasses and shrubs. A cold wind blew down valley.

The scenery felt Himalayan in scale. Ahead of us Mt Cook dominated the valley, festooned with snow and ice, the jagged, rocky South Ridge rearing upwards in a series of huge, evil serrations like the blade of a giant, upwardpointing crosscut saw towards the bulging glacial ice of the South Summit and the mile-long summit ridge. Ed Hillary was a member of the first party to climb this ridge, back in 1948 with the legendary Mt Cook guide Harry Ayres, and it has now been officially renamed the Hillary Ridge in his honour.

At the lowest point of the ridge we could see a snowy saddle. This was our pass, and below it we could see the long, narrow, snow-filed gully which was to be our ascent route. On the spur at the head of this gully was a large flat area known at the Playing Fields, where people often camp.

We reluctantly hauled ourselves to our feet and continued on our way. The route soon left the flat of the valley floor and began climbing up into the jumbled, scrub-covered moraine along the side of the valley. Below us now we could see the vast, milky expanse of the Hooker Lake, at the head of which was the morainecovered Hooker Glacier, terminating in vertical ice cliffs lapped by the lake waters. Where the lower valley had been green and pleasant, the upper valley looked cold and bleak and uninviting.

Across the far side of the lake, 100 metre high walls led up to the faint remains of moraine terraces. Twenty or thirty years ago you could wander up valley along those terraces to Hooker Hut and on to the foot of Copland Spur, the traditional access route to the Copland Pass. That approach is now completely impassable, the terraces having crumbled away as a result of glacial recession. We could see Hooker Hut perched forlornly on a small remaining terrace, seemingly inaccessible from all directions. People apparently still occasionally visit it but it looked like it would involve a hair-raising ascent up the crumbly moraine wall. (The easiest route to my eye seemed to be up the right-angled corner of the terrace, though it looked somewhat akin to ascending the prow of a ship.) A decade or two from now, as the glacier continues to downwaste and the moraine continues to erode, the hut is doomed to collapse over the moraine wall, though DOC will presumably take it out before that happens.

Beyond the hut, a deep, vertical-sided erosion gully coming down the mountainside now separates the hut from another small surviving terrace at the foot of Copland Spur. Copland Pass used to be a popular crossing over the Main Divide to the Copland valley on the West Coast, but these days it is seldom done. To get to Copland Spur people now have to boulder-hop up beside the lake, or else come up our side of the valley and cross back over the glacier. And access from the glacier up onto the toe of the Spur itself, while still possible, has become more difficult and dangerous. And this is not unique to the Copland—it is happening all over the Southern Alps as glaciers recede and melt away before our eyes, and routes that were once easy become more difficult or completely impassable.

We had originally been thinking of going up the snow gully that afternoon and camping on the Playing Fields, but it was pleasant sitting in the sun looking at the view, so we decided to be lazy and just camp on the large moraine terrace at the bottom of the gully.

Further along the moraine terraces we came to a large, vertical-sided washout gully. We could see the old track continuing on across the far side of it, only twenty or thirty metres away, but it required a large detour up and around the top of the gully to get to the other side. I don’t remember this gully from when we were here on the club trip five or six years ago. I wouldn’t swear it wasn’t there but I think it must have formed since then. At the moment it is still easy enough to get around the top of it, but if it keeps eroding backwards it will soon meet the steep rock face of the valley wall above and become a lot more difficult to get past. Come back in another twenty years and the moraine on this side of the valley will probably have collapsed and eroded so much that it too will be impassable, just like the other side of the valley now is.

Approaching the large tussocky flat at the base of the gully, we stumbled upon a group of tahr. They paused to stare at us before taking off up the steep mountainside. We set up camp on a flat part of the tussock terrace, sheltered slightly by a small hummocky tussock rise. That evening there was a superb sunset, although I was the only one who saw it because the others had all retreated into the tents! The top of Mt Cook was bathed in golden light, while down valley an unusual display of lattice-like clouds glowed red in the fading light.

Next morning we set off up the snow gully towards the Playing Fields. The snow was hard so we put on our crampons. When we reached the top the upper part of the Hooker Glacier was hidden beneath a layer of grey cloud but as we stopped for a rest it began to break up and we began to get glimpses of blue sky and the summit Mt Cook appearing through the cloud.

Immediately above the Playing Fields is the most difficult part of the route. You have to find your way up a steep slope amongst the rock outcrops and bluffs onto the spur above, at a point where you can sidle out and down into the major valley beyond. This valley then leads up to the pass. Try and cross the spur too low or too high and you will find yourself caught up in steep bluffs. Although it is relatively straightforward in good conditions, accidents have occurred here. A few years ago an Alpine Guide and her client were going over the pass and fell and died on this section of the route.

Our ascent route followed up what is known as the ‘Z’, a zigzag route of steep frozen scree. At the top of this we sidled out leftwards along a rock shelf, where a short plug up another steep snow slope brought us onto the crest of the spur. Down behind us we could see the Hooker melt lake, while around to the left the white ice of the upper Hooker Glacier disappeared upwards into the clag. In the distance ahead, across steep, frozen snow slopes, the pass itself was now visible at the head of the valley.

We set off across the frozen snow slopes. It was very steep, with a long slope dropping off to our left. If you slipped you would slide a long way down to the floor of the valley. Ahead of us a steep band of rock ran up the slope. At first we aimed to traverse horizontally across the top of this but it was unpleasant going so we changed plan and decided to drop down under it onto the more gentle slopes of the valley floor. Allen led the way, pigeon-holing down backwards, while I took it slowly and carefully at the back! As we descended we saw another party on the way down from the pass traversing across the steep slopes above us, and they were taking it very slowly and placing crampons with studied care.

After stopping for lunch at the base of the rock rib, we set off towards the pass. It was steep going and hard work, but when we reached the crest of the saddle we were rewarded with stunning views. Stretched out far below us was the Tasman Glacier. The middle section was covered in grey moraine, while further up was the white ice of the upper neve. On all sides rose tall peaks of snow and rock. At the head of the glacier was the rounded Hochstetter Dome. I remember climbing this over twenty years ago now. It’s an easy stroll from Tasman Saddle or Kelman Huts, but the far side is vertical. Around to the left were the Minarets, with Elie de Beaumont beyond. I’ve climbed the Minarets, but Ellie is still on my To Do list. Across the far side of the glacier several rocky peaks rose like giant knuckles on top of the huge clenched fist of the Malte Brun Range. Highest of all was the huge triangular rock face of Malte Brun itself, with the narrow Cheval Ridge in profile. Swinging around to our left, the huge Caroline Face rose up to the summit of Mt Cook, peeking out at us over a nearby rocky knob.

We stopped and had a rest, drinking in the view and clicking off photographs. This must surely be one of the most spectacular views in the country. I was keen to camp up here and catch the sunrise from the pass in the morning but we decided to continue on Caroline Hut, a private hut halfway down the other side owned by one of the guiding companies—a sensible decision since it meant the next day would be shorter, and also it could be icy descending from the pass in the morning.

Down in front of us was our descent route, a broad, rounded, snowy spur dropping down leftwards to the floor of the Tasman. We traversed across a large snow plateau around the head of the Ball Glacier and onto the spur, from where we got spectacular views down to the huge melt-lake in the lower reaches of the Tasman. Thirty or forty years ago this lake didn’t even exist. Now it is several kilometres long and expanding rapidly up valley as the waters of the lake eat away at the terminal face of the glacier. Today the lake has almost reached as far as the mouth of the Murchison Valley, which joins the Tasman from the east, and a few decades from now it wouldn’t surprise me if it reaches as far as De La Beche corner, several more kilometres up valley. Some years ago a group of us came out down the Murchison at the end of a Christmas trip over Whataroa Saddle from the West Coast and traversed diagonally down-valley across the Tasman Glacier to meet the Ball Road at Celmisia Flat. Today you wouldn’t be able to do that—you would find a huge swimming hole in the way! You could still cut perpendicularly across the Tasman from the Murchison to Ball Corner, but a few years from now you probably won’t even be able to that—you will be forced to detour in a large loop up valley around the head of the evergrowing lake.

We descended the spur in a series of steps and bulges until some way down we came to high knob. I would have just continued up over it, but we had been following old footprints and at this point they left the spur and dropped off steeply down to the right, so we followed suit. We pigeon-holed our way down carefully then traversed out to the left across a steep snow-slope. Rounding a corner the slope eased off and we saw Caroline Hut located on a small flat terrace directly ahead of us.

The hut was locked, but at the far end there was an open emergency shelter, a rather spartan room with sheet metal walls and enough room for about 6 people to sleep on the floor. Not that you are supposed to sleep here—it is for emergency use only. We spread out our sleeping bags on the floor—just to air out, you understand, before heading out to set up camp in the snow. Well, that’s our story and we’re sticking to it, despite what any photographic evidence may show!

That evening we watched the last rays of sunlight from the west glowing golden on the peak of Mt Tasman peeking up through the deep rounded notch of Cinerama Col. Next morning we awoke to a golden dawn. Cloud filled the valley below us, but we and all the surrounding peaks rose clear above it. Golden sunlight bathed Mount Tasman. Up valley the tips of Elie de Beaumont and the Minarets rose golden above a sea of cloud. Above us, the huge Caroline Face of Mount Cook was bathed in golden light. But you had to be up early to catch this enchanted scene—soon, all too soon, the peaks lost their golden tinge and turned to a more mundane white.

We packed up and set off down the spur. For a while the valley mist rose and obscured our views but after a while it burnt off. Soon we got down out of the snow and ice and onto rock, and we took our crampons off, only to find one last narrow band of frozen snow still waiting ahead of us. We took it carefully, placing boots with care.

The ridge narrowed and became more razor-backed, with a vertical drop off to the left. As we got lower we got out of bare rocks and into tussock and alpine shrubs. Then it was time to drop off down the flank of the spur towards the glacier below. It is always a wonderful feeling in the mountains when you descend down out of the snow and ice and harsh bare rock, back into a more gentle and pleasant world of grass and flowers. Delicate white Mount Cook lilies and flowering Spaniards began to appear amongst the rocks and tussock. In stark contrast, the harsh rubble of the moraine-covered glacier below us looked like a barren moonscape, studded with ice sinkholes and turquoise kettle lakes.

A large cairn marked the final descent down the steep wall of the spur to the flat moraine terraces below. I remember these terraces being larger, but the edges have been collapsing away as the glacier has been down-wasting. In the nineteenth century the surface of the glacier used to be level with the top of the moraine terrace, or even bulge above it. You stepped straight off the moraine onto the glacial ice. Now, not much more than a century later, it is a hundred metre drop down to the surface of the glacier. The amount of ice loss over the whole expanse of the glacier is colossal.

Five hundred metres down valley was Ball Shelter, placed close up against the hillside, as far away from the collapsing moraine wall as possible. This was a different Ball Shelter from when I was last here; the one I remembered was further out from the hillside and a bit further down valley. I couldn’t remember its exact location—the site may well have disappeared over the collapsing moraine wall completely.

After stopping for lunch at the Shelter, all that was left was a walk out down the Tasman Valley. The route followed the moraine terraces along the western side of the valley, above the glacier and the melt-lake. In the past there used to be a road up here. When I first came this way thirty or more years ago we drove all the way to Ball Corner. Now, with the glacial recession, most of the road has slumped away, disappearing forever over the moraine wall and down onto the glacier below. In places a few short stretches of it remain, perched incongruously halfway down the moraine wall or hidden in the moraine trench. Twenty years ago I walked out this way from a trip up to Tasman Saddle. I don’t think you could drive to Ball Shelter then, but you could still walk most of the way on the road. Now the route is more difficult, being forced higher and closer to the valley wall, scrambling over higher moraine terraces and scree slopes. Come back in another twenty years and the last vestiges of the road will probably be gone completely. And meanwhile the climate change skeptics try to deny the reality of global warming—and thus of course the world is doomed.

Eventually we reached a point where the narrow moraine terraces gave way to wider, flatter slopes. A pretty babbling alpine brook flowed down through lush alpine shrubs and herbs. The lower, intact section of the road still reached this far. Allen had gone ahead, and suddenly he reappeared in the distance in the car. There was only room for two, so he set off to the Village with Sue and all the packs, leaving Marie and me to walk the rest of the way out down the road to the Blue Lakes shelter where we waited for him to return.

And so ended a superb trip through some stunning scenery—a trip that should be on everybody’s bucket list. But you need to do it soon, before the glaciers disappear forever.

Postscript:

The next day we did a day trip up a beautiful, bush-clad side-valley a few kilometres back down the highway from Mt Cook Village. Trish suggested the trip and came with us. We boulder-hopped a short way up the valley then headed up through the bush to the right and eventually emerged out onto a flat tussock terrace. The plan was to continue up a steep tussock spur onto a higher terrace where there was a large tarn, but it looked a long way up and somehow enthusiasm was lacking! We decided to stop for lunch at this point and head back down—I think we were all feeling lethargic after the exertions of the past three days!

In the bush on the hillside we came across large amounts of flowering native mistletoe. I have never seen anything like it before. Mistletoe is very rare— possums love it and have completely eaten it out in most places. For it to exist in such amounts here means this valley must be possum-free. The whole valley was like an island of bush in a vast sea of mountain country. It made for a good day walk and a lovely way to cap off an excellent trip.

the WTMC goes outdoors