This weekend was a rollercoaster of rhythmic emotions that clashed and clamored to be heard over the roar of wind and snow. Calls of ice riled up my spine in chills of joy and spite. How can the two combine? Why, in the balanced dance of longevity and adventure? In the waltz of mortality and vigorous love to be alive? In the ballet of twisted pain perched perfectly on the point of desire attained? This is where I lived this weekend, the rumble and thunder still ebbs at the edge of my mind, haunting for a crisper time.SK and I had the final weekend of our Mountaineer course with the Tararua Tramp Club (TTC). This didn’t just happen out of nowhere: I have been, outside of my blog, endeavoring to overcome my fear of heights through the painstaking process of rock climbing (it’s working) all with the desired result to become a Mountaineer. The Mountaineers I met a few years ago who summited Ama Dablam had finally come to the fore of my mind. The whispering hints of “maybe you want to be surrounded by snow covered mountains” no longer would be sidled. They demanded: “You must become a mountaineer. Sort it out: Now.” And suddenly I knew I could not leave New Zealand without first seeing the view from Aoraki/Mount Cook’s stocky top.
So I must learn to walk. In crampons. With an ice ax. With rope tied to my harness and carabiners at the ready in my clumsy gloves, I must learn to tie a figure of eight knot in my sleep; goodness knows mountaineers seem to have little of it once on an adventure.
But let’s take a step back, and stop speaking with such grandeur. The course’s training ground was Mount Ruapehu: an active volcano smack dab in the middle of New Zealand’s North Island, and the island’s only ski slope. It was odd, I admit, the first time I saw people cruising down on snowboards avoiding not trees, but sharp lava rock frozen in fearsome shapes like barbed knives waiting for a skier to catch an edge. And do note: I said Active. Meaning, there are loudspeakers throughout the slope which are rigged to some sensors on the summit crater to blare out if there is some volcanic action. Hopefully skiers know enough to climb onto a ridge to avoid the flood of lahar (like lava, but a more nerd specific term). Kiwis must be crazy. Regardless, we were not there to ski in the ravines for future lahar flows, but to climb up the ridges of Ruapheu’s moundyness!
The first day of pitched climbing (walking up a long hill with a rope and leap-frogging your climbing partner) I looked ahead at the angle of the snow and did not understand how I would cope. It was steep and there were lava rocks below waiting to impale me. But rock climbing has taught me to breathe through hindering fear, to look at my equipment (in this instance, crampons and an ice ax) and say: I am secure. All steps after were my empowerment made manifest! We continued our leap frogging up and up, shouting “ROCK” occasionally to our fellow intrepids as we miscalculated the security of a boulder on which to set up a safety rope. Luckily, all of the accidental catapults were similarly poorly aimed and no one was injured. We ended our rope relay at the entrance of a cave where our very civilized descendant of a British settler (also known as Paul the TTC President) pulled out his thermos and we had a cup of tea to pair with our view.
That was last weekend. This weekend the culmination of our learning was to end in the glorious crescendo of sleeping in a self-dug snow cave. Our group set out in blue skies and made our cramp-on way to a saddle in the ridge: our cavesite.
At this point I want to digress and talk about “place” and “being”. My entire [short] career of being on a rock wall, gym, or whatever means of going vertical while tied to a rope has been forced and merely the fruition of my own unshaken determination (although now I do kinda enjoy it). In juxtapose, walking on snow with crampons (perhaps it is my Vermont upbringing) was immediately natural. The scraping of my ice ax on the hard snow sounds as sonorous to me as the voice of a mum to her newborn. I lived that joy of precise place and be-dom as I coursed up the slope, tirelessly inventing switchbacks along ridges smoothed over by kilos and kilos of snow. Reaching towards the top of the ridge, I began to see the view edge itself so coyly beyond the immediate obstruction, and finally crested to see for miles and miles to snow covered Ngauruhoe (known in film as Mount Doom) and to the West beyond to symmetrical Taranaki (known in film as Mt Fuji). The spine of the pinnacles reared fantastically towards me, daring me to attempt to pass. In a year I hope to, but for now, I turn away in search of a slope to start digging.
After a few snow tests (which comprised digging out a pillar of snow and seeing whether there are weak layers via whacking it on top with a shovel: very scientific) we found a slope that was non-avalanchey. While there are various “styles” to constructing a snow cave, the basic architecture of ours was a 2m(6ft) tunnel dug into a slope which opened to a kitchen bench area to the right (6ft high) and a sleeping platform to our left. Now (I’m going to see if I can explain this, but there is a picture below), the level of warmth in the snow cave depends on how high above the ceiling of the entrance tunnel the platform for the sleeping area is. To put it practically: our tunnel was 2ft highish and the height of the raised platform we slept on was 2.5ft highish. This way heat stays in and carbon dioxide flows out. This worked so well, in fact, that while it was -4F (-20C) outside it was quite warm inside. The whole construction took four of us five hours to dig. Although, if you were building this in an emergency, you wouldn’t bother with the platform, the kitchen, etc: the object would be to get out of exposure!
By nightfall, the harsh world of nature had decided to show us just how terrible exposure was and began spitting bits of ice down the slope amidst vaulting wind. Our cave, so still on the inside, was a sanctuary unto itself. I only dared followed the stars’ siren call once (I don’t see them often enough in Wellington) and held my pain aside for a moment to let my heart burst at the ombre orange-blue-black glow of winter’s dusk. The milky way made an early show, stretching from the summit of Ruapehu across to top Tongariro before melding into infinity. The LED light hanging in our kitchen saturated the covering snow with blue warmth: a star of our own glowing as if in galactic mimicry. Unfortunately, the lens of an iPhone 6 is still not as good as a real camera. So instead my words must make that image immortal.
I slept well and I was warm. In fact, I was so comfortable on the layers of snow, tarp, backpack, sleeping mat, I kept waking up in dreamy incredulity at how “fine” I was. Morning brought through our entrance a soft, glow – the kind modern living spaces spend hundreds attempting to replicate – accompanied by the full, beautiful acoustic silence of weighted air. A yoga-like calm descended on my mind as I stared at the ceiling and saw every ice crystal as a sparkle in an all encompassing chandelier. My mindful meditation abruptly startled by Paul the President who burst through our tunnel with a contradicting comment: “It is absolute sh*t outside.” I slipped out of my sleeping bag, dropped off the sleeping platform to crouch in the kitchen and looked outside: it was white. And the floor of our tunnel had been raised by fresh snow at least six inches.
I had thought the elements had shown their might last night, but I knew nothing (Jon Snow). After packing up, we began the grueling process of returning to the club hut. Slow steps through soft snow, with 60k wind pitching itself at every non-overlapped opening in my layers of attire. I bent my head down and wished for better circulation to my hands. As we crested the ridge, visibility went down to 10 meters and vignetted further by the ice forming on my goggles. I turned to look for SK and could see a black formless shape following my own. I looked ahead and lost our leader, until I realized I was nearly on top of him in my ice-blindness. The wind began to steal my breath and I could feel panic rising as I felt my body temperature drop. I drove my ice axe into the ground and fell to my knees, tears of voiceless pain screaming from my fingers. At this moment, I was convinced of the probability that I had frostbite and that my fingers would have to be amputated. Luckily, I was still on a course. And one of the Goddess instructors bequeathed unto me her spare pair of gloves. I may or may not have imprinted on her in the process of this exchange.
Ten minutes later, we were off the ridge and left behind its piercing wind and lack of visibility. That brutal exposure that I spent a total of 15 minutes in would have been cruel enough to vanquish a trapped climber in two hours. But there are too many opportunities to be dour in this field of work, and the post endorphin rush ran rampant and I had all ten fingers! Despite the momentary scare at my coldness, SK admitted to me: “There is something about walking through something like that and knowing you can survive that I love.”
And I agree. I love seeing a challenge and overcoming my mental self-doubts to reach success. What is beautiful about mountaineering, is that one must climb on the mountain’s terms. For all the combat language tossed about by climbers: Mountains cannot be conquered. There is neither “taming” nor “defeating” because the mountain is both eternal and unfixed. It is at the conspiracy of the mountain that I might reach its summit. And I look forward to this parlance of equals: mountain and woman, for it is in the coupling of the two each acquires meaning.
Common? No. It is with a vague sort of embarrassed wish to keep my outside-of-work-life a secret that I slyly respond to a work colleagues’ inquest to my weekend’s use: “Oh, just went up to Ruapehu. It was good to get some fresh air.”
Rock climbing at Titahi Bay – a short drive outside of Wellington. Titahi Bay is known for having crumbly rock that falls off in big chunks when you least want it to. This is the place that made me love rock climbing. Rock gyms are a necessary evil end to a means – but climbing outdoors (the smell of the rock, the feel of the sun, and the sound of waves crashing and sea birds calling) is pure heaven.
On our weekends to Ruapehu we would often leave after work on Friday and arrive at the volcano around midnight and only then commence the 30 min trek up to the TTC hut. Such is the burden of the Weekend Warrior!
The entire first weekend was set up to practice walking on these bad boys. It’s easy to do it when it’s flat. It’s hard to wrap your head around it when only the two front teeth are in are you are “secure.” But eventually physics over instinctual reason wins out.
We also learned about avalanches and had an entire day dedicated to Avalanche 101. During this course we learned how to identify avalanche prone conditions, hazards, and rescue. Those who survive avalanches say it is like being tossed in a dryer with a bunch of bricks. Snow, as soft as it may be in Christmas carols, can be a very harsh, concrete-like substance.
SK and I with The Pinnacles behind our shoulders. In a few months time we would camp on the ridge at the farthest right point of this photo. There would also be heaps more snow! Traversing the pinnacles is a classic alpine walk which I hope to have the skills to do next winter.
Heading down to broken leg gully. The metal thing is a snow stake which is used as an anchor for roped climbing. Depending on the snow quality, you can either drive it down to the hilt like a stake and attached your rope to the top (aka Top Clip) or, if the snow is too soft, you dig a slot an arms length into the slope and place the stake horizontally into it with the rope attached to the middle (aka T-stake).
A gorgeous ice waterfall mimics the grandeur of organ pipes – however the whisper rushing of water behind is far more enjoyable to listen to!
Sunset from the TTC lodge on Ruapehu.
SK eats a bowl of self-saucing pudding (like a lazy man’s hot lava cake but made in an entire pan and way less tasty for some reason – but it’s a Kiwi favorite) while one of our course mates attempts to “rescue” him from hypothetical rope chaos!
Paul the TTC President and I sipping on our cups of tea in a rocky cave.
Me belaying (using a device to make sure if the climber falls they do not fall far and/or die) Paul the President as he goes up the mini ice climb out of the cave.
Paul the TTC President climbing – guess who went next? … Although there is no photographic evidence. Which is fine because I certainly was anything but graceful!
At the other side of the ice cave. The sweet, sweet feeling of accomplishment!
The morning before we set out to dig our snow caves. At the center of that sunny triangle is the slope where our cavesite was to be.
Walking alongside the Pinnacles en route to ze cavesite.
Studs. Behind us stretches the spine of the Pinnacles: an adventure for another day!
Digging the entrance to our snow cave. Yes, this first bit was a tad claustrophobic and coffin-like. But setting the foundations is always a grueling task
The sleeping platform of our snowcave. I believe it was pretty much finished at this point. What I love about this photo is how you can see the striations of snow levels across the walls. The diagonal degree roughly reflects the angle of the slope we dug into.
Ngauruhoe (Mount Doom) looking quite demure as sundown.
SK cocooned up for the night.
We lit tealights in our cave – which did melt themselves down in to perfect wee sconces.
After some melting, you can see how the little candle also affected the weaker layers of snow creating a beautiful sunburst effect!
Sunset from our cavesite and overlooking a few other caves down the slope.
Somehow my crappy iPhone was able to capture the ice howling down in the wind. Straight ahead is David, another great leader of our group. And behind him is the gorgeous end of our sunset.
Morning in the snowcave! Four of us slept quite comfortably in our snow mansion. We were later voted best cave. Our smooth roof (to avoid condensation drips) was the star of the show!
Cooking breakfast in our snowcave kitchen. The kitchen bench is about the same height as our sleeping platform shown in the previous photo. We had vents in the roof to avoid poisoning ourselves with our gas stove. And behind me is….
… THIS. A whiteout. There is David again in the same spot as he was in the night shot. Notice any difference? Like how the slope is entirely not visible? These could be very serious conditions in less prepared situations!
The entrance to our cave homelet. This is post snowpocalypse – it was a bit wider the evening before! It was crazy to think how calm it was in our kitchen with this white chaos just hiding beyond our entrance!
Mountain chique just below the summit of Girdlestone (one of the peaks of Ruapehu) which you may be hearing more about soon…
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