WETA HECK ARE WE?
Nick had forgotten his harness. Just like that, the alpine summit we’d come chasing suddenly seemed impossible to reach. It was a crushing blow; getting that far had already involved what alpinists technically term ‘a fair whack of effort’. There had been long hours of planning. A flight to Queenstown. A drive to Dunedin. Another drive—through pouring rain, mind you—of four hours to the trailhead. A lengthy and sodden half-day walk in, one punctuated by rain and that ended in darkness and involved more river crossings than could ever be enjoyable. And—on soggy ground—a bivouac, during which it had, guess what, continued to rain. When the new day dawned, however, it was clear and bright; our spirits finally lifted. But then Nick looked for his harness, and our optimism evaporated.
Our little mountaineering adventure was doomed.
IT WAS MY ANNUAL VISIT TO NZ. I had, what were for me, ambitious plans; classics like the West Ridge of Malte Brun and the Northeast Ridge of Mount Aspiring. But that was until I arrived at Nick’s place in Dunedin, where for days our eyes were glued to screens filled with route descriptions and complex weather maps and avalanche bulletins. And as we did so, we witnessed Aoraki/Mount Cook’s avie forecast rise from ‘Moderate’ to ‘High’. Plans
