Postcards from the Edge

POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE Climbing Tititea (Mt Aspiring)

by KATIE GLENIE A s a kid I covered my walls with images of the New Zealand backcountry. I’d dream of exploring remote South Island locations, far from the drudgery of school-work and household chores.

One of my favourite images was a Craig Potton photo of Tititea’s glistening peak (Mt Aspiring). It’s an iconic photo. The mountain soars 3,033 metres above sea level, bathed in the setting sun and towering over the surrounding peaks. I never imagined that one day I would be attempting to climb it.

Training My first taste for mountaineering started with WTMCs snowcraft course. Soon I was attacking such lofty peaks as Ruapehu and Angelus. Standing on a mountaintop is a pretty magical experience—I was hooked.

However climbing Tititea was going to require a few more skills than those needed for Ruapehu. It was time to get training!

I picked up some basic skills in snow anchors, pitching, knots, and pulley systems from a Mountain Safety Council course. I also perfected my alpine starts and summit fever—attempting three summits in two months. We were thwarted each time due to unsafe snow and weather conditions. This summiting thing was proving harder than I thought.

Heading down from Bevan Col to the Bonar Glacier then accross to Colin Todd Hut on Shipowner Ridge (skyline on left)

Light as a bird Surely it was time for my luck to turn. A week off work and flights to Queenstown were booked for November for the attempt on Tititea. Our fate rested in the hands of the unpredictable Southern Alps weather gods.

We arrived in Queenstown on a grey gloomy day, and made our way to Wanaka. We spent the rest-day biding time, looking for blue bits in the sky (Beaumonting) and sorting out last-minute gear and food.

Waking to watery sunlight the following day we raced to book our helicopter ride up the valley. The pilot had just completed an early-morning rescue of a frostbitten climber. A fortuitous start to our expedition!

We met the pilot at Raspberry Creek—the entrance to Mt Aspiring National Park. This was my first helicopter ride, so the boys kindly gave me the front seat. What an experience. The great Matukituki River and the nearby walking track turned to thin ribbons as we climbed out of the valley and towards the mountains. The Alps sparkled against a clear sky.

Reality bites A knot of excitement and trepidation tightened in my stomach upon landing. Within minutes the chopper was a small dot on the horizon and silence settled over the snowy landscape. No turning back.

We roped up and made our way across the Bonar Glacier to Colin Todd Hut. This tiny hut sits high on Shipowner Ridge, overlooking the glacier to the south and the magnificent sweep of the Waipara and Olivine Range to the west. To the east rises Tititea. So close surely you could reach out and touch the summit.

The hut is full to bursting with climbers eager to make the most of the increasingly favourable weather window. Independent climbers are almost out-numbered by guided groups. There is a battle for bed space as no one is keen to camp out overnight.

The next day dawns clear and crisp. We decide to venture up the nearby low peak of Rolling Pin to test the snow. Yet another summit evades me—as we near the top it’s too soft to climb safely and we retreat.

That night there is much talk of snow conditions on the mountain. One group has tested out the ‘Ramp’, our preferred route up as it does not require mixed climbing (a mixture of rock and ice). The group turned back half way due to severe avalanche risk.

We debated our plan for the following morning. The ramp was out—no one wanted to risk a speedy descent in the belly of an avalanche. The Kangaroo Route along the north-west ridge was the next option. It was a more technical route, involving mixed climbing and an abseil. This wasn’t what we’d trained for. But we’d come this far—we had to at lest vvgive it a good try.

Alpine Start The departure time roster was agreed between the seven climbing groups, and we all settled into our sleeping bags, trying to catch a few hours kip before the big day ahead.

We were the first pair up and out, roping up for the sidle along the edge of the Bonar. A trail of headlamps bobbed behind us as we began our ascent to the ridgeline.

Then we hit a snag. Access to the ridge was via a sheer rock-face, curving around the northern side with a vertical drop below. The obstacle looked insurmountable.

After some debate we turned back. In the dawn light we despondently returned down the 400 metre climb we had just completed. Several groups puffed past us on their way to the ridgeline, each giving a brief understanding nod to our descent.

Soon it became clear that none of these groups were turning back—maybe we had over-estimated the difficulty of the rock face. We sat in the snow, contemplating our decision. A guided pair passed by, on their way back to the hut due to injury. We quizzed the guide on the route. He explained that its bark was worse than its bite, and a short scramble would soon find you on safe ground.

So back we went, up 400 meters to the ridgeline, and on to the sheer rock face. After much strong language and false starts, I made it over the obstacle and on to the soft snow. It was actually happening—we were climbing Tititea!

The track along the ridgeline weaved for several hours between rock and snow, freezing winds and baking sun, difficult scrambles and easy travel. We reached a saddle and took a quick breather before starting a long slow zigzag up the next section.

The air was getting thinner, as were my breaths as we puffed upwards.

I looked up and saw the skyline ahead. I stopped, rubbed my eyes, looked again. A few steps away was a rounded cornice against a vivid blue sky. Stretched out below on every side were the Southern Alps. There was nothing above, nothing beyond, no more climbs, no more rock scrambles. Just blue sky.

We were on the summit!

Switching on The vast majority of climbing accidents occur on descent. The goal has been reached, the adrenalin has finished pumping, and tiredness kicks in. As we began our journey back down we reminded each other of this sobering fact, and made sure our brains were properly switched on.

Conditions had changed significantly due to the warmth of the day. The snow was very soft, making for unstable travel. Mid-way down the ridge we reached an Colin Todd Hut with Tititea behind abseil point. A group of Otago Uni students were there, catching their breath after an earlier close shave.

They waved us through, and Mike led the descent. This was the first time I had tied into a system and abseiled without assistance. So it was a relief that the Uni group was on-hand to double-check my set-up.

On the summit of Tititea. Volta neve below. Aoraki on the distant skyline (centre).

The crux of the matter I had been leading the return journey, and felt that we were making good progress through the increasingly soft snow. However things soon ground to a halt when I realised I was now at the crux of the day—the climb down the sheer rock face. It seemed like a lifetime ago that we scrambled up the same piece of rock that morning.

Downclimbing is generally much more difficult than ascending. That’s what I kept telling myself as I attempted countless different routes over the slab. Each involved a large amount of swearing and not very much progress. Finally, without quite knowing how, I made it over the slab and scrambled down to the soft snow below the ridgeline.

Mike took much less time negotiating the rock slab, and soon he emerged. He called down to me and was beaming from ear to ear—we’d made it!

We cruised down the 400 metre climb that had taken so long earlier on, and made our way back to the hut. Five groups summited that day, and each had a story to tell. However the stories were pretty short—13 hours on the mountain meant we were ready for dinner and bed.

Postcards from the edge The next day we took our time getting ready, and were the last to leave the hut. We wanted to savour a few quiet moments in this magical place before heading back to reality. It was another big day—13 hours along the Bonar Glacier, over the Quarterdeck to French Ridge Hut, and out to the roadend at Raspberry Flat. Despite my exhaustion I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. I had done it. We had done it!

Down in the Matukituki Valley I turned back for one last look at Tititea. It looked just like a postcard….