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Outside Magazine November 2003

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The Hard Way
Head Trip (cont.)

MAYBE THIS IS A GRUDGE MATCH. Last November I came to New Zealand to climb in the Southern Alps and never even saw the mountains. It rained biblical quantities. I drove around in a dark sluice, grinding through past failures. I have returned for redemption.

From the start, I planned to climb with veteran Kiwi alpinist Guy Cotter, owner of Adventure Consultants, a New ZealandÐbased global mountain-guiding company. He suggested I come back at the end of January, midsummer, when the weather on the South Island might be "a wee bit more predictable." Which I did, phoning him at his home in Wanaka from the Christchurch airport.

"Ah, mate, sorry," he said. "I'm just about to jet off to western Papua to lead a trip on Carstensz Pyramid."

I understood—work before play, even for a guide—but now I was on the other side of the world without a partner.

I drove straight to Aoraki/Mount Cook National Park and got a bunk in the Unwin Hut. The New Zealand hut system is wonderfully extensive, with some form of shelter in almost every major valley—from $50-a-night palatial lodges with fresh sheets and a chef to free cabins with fresh water and padded bunks.

As in the European Alps, huts make the mountain experience a social, cosmopolitan affair—in contrast to the North American search for silence and solitude. On any given evening you're likely to be swapping stories with local trampers and climbers, as well as those from half a dozen other countries. Famously friendly, Kiwi mountaineers—some of the finest in the world—are wry, self-effacing types who inevitably downplay their most harrowing experiences: " 'Twas a wee bit dodgy," they'll say, when the smallest slip meant certain death.

There were trekkers about, but no mountaineers, so the following day, for a warm-up, I decided to climb 6,738-foot Mount Kitchener—disregarding a rainstorm that was obviously blossoming into a gale.

"You don't want to be up there today," warned a dour female park ranger. "At that elevation, wind'll be 130 km/h!"

Clambering up the west ridge, I got knocked flat a dozen times. Sleet stung my body like hornets. I was hypothermic.

Which it was. Clambering bullheadedly up the west ridge, I got knocked flat a dozen times, as if a wet lion were leaping onto my chest. Strafing sleet stung my body like hornets. By the time I climbed off the summit and staggered into a high hut, I was so hypothermic I could hardly undress myself.

It was a humbling contretemps. Compared with other mountains in the Southern Alps, Kitchener is a mere pimple of a peak. After thawing out, wrapped in four wool blankets and sipping a tongue-scorching cup of cocoa, I wrote up the details of my baby epic—route, temperature, wind speed, how much water I drank—on the back of the topo map, as is my habit.

I don't suppose many alpinists would have committed such a picayune ascent to paper, but I found the exercise useful. It is the simplest method I know of to imprint little lessons into the clay of one's mind. Like: Heed the park ranger.

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