The Edgar-Sealy Traverse

Bruised and blistered feet. The Tasman Glacier marathon had wrecked havoc on our feet on the return trip from Malte Brun. While we dreamed of zipping down the road to climb Aspiring, Owen and I realised our feet would not handle another mammoth walk in up the Matukituki Valley, French Ridge, and to the base of the SW ridge.

Owen climbing from the gorgeous saddle on the start of the East Ridge. Aoraki/Mt Cook absorbs the backdrop.

Gleaming our eyes over the Mt Cook map and guidebooks, we decided on a challenge with a short walk in, a few summits to bag, and more precipitous ridge to traverse. Just down the road from the Hermitage stood the stately Mount Edgar-Thompson, first climbed via the East Ridge, our intended route, by Mrs Jane Thompson in 1915. Her son Edgar died as a result of an injury sustained while playing football. Sad. 

The guide book mentioned that the connecting ridge to Mt Sealy provides excellent alpine rockclimbing. Perfect. We'd finish with an easy walk along the Annette Plateau and the Sealy Range to our favourite Mueller hut and whip down to the Herm for a beer. The Edgar-Sealy Traverse was set. 

Scrambling up a side stream of the Hoophorn to the saddle

We aimed to make our camp on the ridge between Edgar and Sealy in the evening, allowing us a leisurely afternoon start up the Hoophorn Stream. A refreshing boulder hop along the stream invited us into the valley, and our blistered feet were not complaining. The simple sound of a rushing river was incredibly relaxing. The streambed turned dry as we turned towards the saddle, but so warm was the little water we had, that upon reaching the snowline of the east ridge, an entire bottle of snow was absorbed. Chilled water on an evening climb, and in hearty abundance on the south-facing slopes.

Steeper snow slopes wind between rocky sections

The snowfield steepened as we climbed higher, hacking into the thousand metre climb. But never did the gradient require roping up, this was a relative stroll compared to the higher challenge of Malte Brun several days earlier. It was good to taste a solid grade 2 climb to get a feel for the difficulty scales of other mountains in NZ. A lot of factors are incorporated into the grading system; access, exposure, technical difficulty, protection, gradient. Other factors like weather and snow conditions only add to the apparent difficulty.

But today at about 6PM we stood comfortably on the summit of Mount Edgar-Thompson, happy and satisfied to finally have a true alpine summit under our belts. My experiences on The Footstool and Malte Brun were fantastic, but a mountaineer's ego is never fully satisfied until at the ultimate high point. We down climbed from the summit fifty metres to find a handy square spot of snow - more than sufficient for the night's camp - high altitude camping with all of Mount Cook spread out before us - a delectable alpine experience!

On the summit of Mt Edgar Thompson, 2379 metres

Soaking up the evening over dinner

The sharp teeth of Mount Sealy at the end of the ridge looked intimidating from camp. The ridge rose abruptly to the summit at the very end, and from our far-off perspective it was difficult to see an easy route up as we melted snow for dinner. 

The evening was cooling off, but I was still in shorts and t-shirt. One lesson I learned - don't leave skin exposed in the mountains. I slipped in some soft snow and gashed my shin on a sharp rock. Right to the bone, 3cm wide. We tried to close the wound with our limited first aid supplies, but without stitches it would surely be a lasting scar. A souvenir to take home from Mount Edgar-T.

Panorama from the superb campsite at sunset

SUNSET

SUNRISE

Preparing for a cold night... 

In the interest of minimising weight at all costs for the climb, I left behind my synthetic-down jacket, Owen didn't carry a sleeping bag. Owen's single skin tent weighs just 1kg. I was keen to experiment in the ways of lightweight alpinism and develop a tolerance to the cold. I thoroughly suffered during the night as the temperatures plummeted. I woke at 3AM at the night's coldest, huddled deep inside my thin, 7degC bag, and struggled to find sleep again for the remainder of the night... This was what mountaineering is all about.  It's the sort of suffering I'd better get used to, this was, after all, summer! 

Owen soloing a steep and loose section. Typical of the day

In exchange for the lesser load, I was dealt the card of sleep deprivation, which lingered with me throughout the climb. This made the gnarly ridge traverse all the more tricky. I fought a tough battle to stay awake, my mind numbed to the exposure. I forced myself to not be complacent with every bouldering move. My coordination was lacking at times but we couldn't afford any mistakes. It was exciting and terrifying at the same time.

Abseil or down climb? Expensive slings make the decision

  It  began from the first step away from our frozen campsite. The ridge was assembled of a mixture of splintered argillite rock and sparse sections of solid greywacke. Sprinkled here and there with powdered scree, turned muddy by the rapidly melting snow. We hauled ropes through the climb, but never had a chance to use them, loose rock making any reliable protection hard to come by. The ridgeline was frequently covered in a soft snow arete, keeping our fingers warm as we repeatedly strapped on and off the crampons. 

Owen rests on the snow arete, staying well away from the corniced edge

Plugging back up to the ridge through soft snow

After five hours labouring on the crumbling ridge we finally reached the base of the first steep rock steps leading to the Sealy Range. Owen took one look at the climb, sampled yet more rotten rock, and spat at the guidebook promising excellent rock climbing. It would have been possible to down climb and plug up snow to bypass the climb. Nearing midday, soft wet snow was inevitable, ain't nobody got time for that. The climb was at that point aborted. At once my body received the message, it gave in to the call of fatigue, and I quickly fell asleep on our resting ledge. Owen woke me half an hour later, fearing that my twitching might be dangerous on the slope. I was roasted by the sun, and feeling sick from eating too much snow. I felt dehydrated with an unquenchable thirst. Such are the sufferings of the mountain - I have many lessons to learn.

The Dark Ridge of Rotten Rock

We descended a fortunately bluffless snow couloir into the Hoophorn stream, four thousand feet to drop to the Mount Cook road. It was a slog, and there were many silent tantrums as I slipped in the rock-riddled snow. An adventure of mixed emotions - the ease and joy of reaching Mount Edgar met by deep cold in the night, and a frustrating climb on poor rock, lacking the beautiful fluidity that we'd tasted on Malte Brun. The overall mountain experience was genuine and views second to none. A Sir Ed burger and glass of Speights at Old Mountaineers Cafe healed the wounds, of which there were many. Farewell Mount Cook!      

Descending down the Hoophorn's endless snow gut

Ten Thousand Feet on Malte Brun

High camp above the Tasman Glacier. The single-skin tent strained and flapped in the strong winds as we struggled to find a sleeping position that didn’t involve sharp rocks. I had no idea of the time but knew the predawn alarm wouldn’t be far off. 

First rays

Owen Lee is no stranger to hard rock climbing. There was a time where you’d be lucky to see him without a rope hanging from his harness. But alpine rock is a different game altogether, and from the guidebooks it can appear deceptively easy. The crux of the route may be at least five rock grades lower than I’d be comfortable climbing in the comfort of the Port Hills crags. But throw in a huge dose of exposure, loose rock, sparse protection, an eight kilo pack, chunky boots, more loose rock, and you get the idea. Team Lee-McDowell was ready for a great adventure. 

Owen rehydrates on some pristine glacier water

After the horrendous twelve hour approach up the Tasman Glacier moraines and crevasse fields I struggled to imagine how we’d still wake up at dawn ready to climb our massive objective. A good bag of muesli and the sight of golden peaks from the door of the tent was enough to rouse my energy levels… De La Beche, Minarets, Elie de Beaumont, all stunning. But today we didn’t have time for any of that. I turned my face to the east and traced my eyes up steep glacier to the rocky giant’s west ridge – Malte Brun.

Eyes on the prize

We ascended the crisp Malte Brun glacier in the early morning hours, crunching into a fantastic freeze. The exhausting snow plugging mission I’d endured with Adrian up The Footstool a few days earlier made us fully appreciate such great snow conditions. From the head of the glacier, a beautiful rock rib was described leading up to join the West Ridge. Finally on the route.

Steep soloing at the top of Malte Brun glacier

Feel the exposure

 Once at the base, the jagged angled rock looked quite daunting, so we followed the snow fields as high as possible before committing to the chossy slabs. Even Owen was sketching out on this high icy section, we didn’t consider roping up and pitching it, but the consequences of a slip were huge. I gripped the edge of the ice where it had melted from the rock, and plunged my axe and crampons in solid. The mental game had already begun. Sometimes soloing is safer than roped climbing. Its faster, and allows you to focus on the job at hand. Safety in speed. Slowly, I was beginning to see into the minds of legendary climbers such as Ueli Steck and their huge, solo feats. But for now I was just itching to tie in to safety…

Following the steep snow fields along the beautiful rib

We pitched a loose slab up to join the true west ridge, a taste of what was to come. I scrambled to the crest and laughed – we’d seen nothing on our Tasman approach, but now, it seemed, the mountains had decided that we’d earned their view – absolutely spectacular. It was the first time I’d seen the East face of Aoraki and that famous mile, the Mount Cook Grand-Traverse. All on full display.

Ridge climbing was a new experience for me – quite different to short face climbing, the norm at local crags. Many lay back moves gripping the knife-edge of the ridge while searching for small footholds below. We carried grippy rock shoes just in case our mountaineering boots weren’t up for it, but the Vibram rubber never let us down. It wasn’t difficult climbing, just hugely exposed. Soon I was desensitised to the apparent dangers, and my mind honed in on rational thoughts each step of the way. We simul-climbed most of the way, with thirty metres of rope draped along the jagged ridge between Owen and I. With each move, I whipped the rope onto the opposite side of the ridge, so should I slip the amount of friction on the line would bring to me to a reasonably quick halt. This put my mind at ease, and soon I was enjoying the thrill of the height and exposure.

I began to indulge in thoughts of reaching the summit of this, the sixth highest mountain in New Zealand. Owen, meanwhile, was preparing for La Cheval; he knew it was coming. We’d heard stories, we’d seen photos. Some said it was easy, some said it was hard. Described as ‘unique’, ‘narrow’ and ‘spectacular’, I tried not to imagine and waited to see it with my own eyes. Of course – ‘The Horse’. No footholds, just blank greywacke, converging to a remarkably sharp edge. The only way across was to ride the ridge, straddle the stallion, and let the legs hang loose in the stirrups either side of the abyss! I’m not sure if Owen was even belaying me, judging from the number of photos of my awkward gallop. The first ascentionist Jack Clarke was right when he called this a classic climb. A century later and it’s no less true.

La Cheval

We topped out on what we thought was the summit, but achingly, the true summit was another seventy metres higher. It was 4 o’clock and we still faced an unknown descent. With only a thirty metre rope and camp a vertical kilometer below, we feared, and expected, that it could be a long and gnarly descent. Our desire to reach the very top was hot, but dread of a dark descent, even a potential forced bivvy - that was enough to quell our egos. We knew from the wise words of Kilian, ‘Un sommet se gagne quand nous avons reussi a en redescendre.’ A summit is only won when we have succeeded to descend. We claimed the Low Peak of Malte Brun, 3120 metres. Ten thousand feet in the sky – how can you be disappointed? Life could be worse!

We respected the Tapu nature of Malte Brun by not standing on the true summit

Fyfe's Couloir

Taking in one last magical panorama, we slung a rock and abseiled into the rotten Fyfe’s couloir. The sun had been rampant all day, and the mountain was soon dripping rock. The couloir happened to be a natural funnel – chunks of ice and rock ricocheted past, narrowly missing our helmets. Further down the couloir dropped over a bluff – a frozen waterfall. Just before donating a snow stake to the mountain, Owen spotted a bomber double t-slot already set up. An expensive abseil for another party, and we took full advantage.

Rapping off the frozen waterfall

 

The sun dipped over the Main Divide as we jumped the last of the couloir’s crevasses. Soft snow made an ideal landing pad, but my coordination lacked as I took a tumble and punctured my leg with three sharp crampon points. I was almost too tired to care.

Crevasse Jumping 101

Sixteen hours after setting off that morning, we stumbled off the glacier back to our campsite. But it was dark and took us another half hour to finally find where we’d stashed our packs. Dinner didn’t arrive to our mouths until midnight, but so good was that couscous and beef stew that we felt a second wind and stayed up till the early hours pondering the mountains and all that is good. The long trudge back down the Tasman could wait a few hours. For now we laid back on our ropes, closed our eyes, and took ourselves back to La Cheval. 

The morning after the climb. Waking up to the gorgeous upper Tasman Glacier

Another Day 

Today you climb to find
no perfect arete
nor summit cairn, damn it,
only horizontal wind and rope, no hope. 

Another day, you may return
to ride the ridge, that bridge
between the fears of mountaineers
and the casting out of doubt.

Barry Smith

All photos taken and perfected by Owen Lee 

Climbing The Footstool, Mt Cook

Summer of the Alps - our first big foray into Mount Cook National Park has finally arrived My first experience of the was in December 2008 with mine and the Bell family climbing up to Mueller Hut - a sensational location to spot frequent avalanches off the south face of Sefton. This time we were aiming for Sefton's younger brother hidden behind the shadow of the blocky giant - The Footstool.

Views of the Mueller Glacier lake from near the top of the climb to Sefton Biv

Campsite on the side of Lake Pukaki at dawn

Back again December 2012 with my great Canterbury climbing mate Adrian Melton were more than eager! We'd been climbing all round the Port Hills over the past four weeks in preparation and finally our grand mountain adventure was here. Tom Swan and his flattie mate Liam jumped in for the ride for a hilarious road trip south!

Adrian and I warmed up with some multipitch climbing at Sebastapol Bluffs on the classic Red Arete route. Four pitches and 90 metres up red sandstone slabs made for a fun morning out. We practiced some ropework for glacier travel and crevasse rescue in preparation for the rumored 'steep and heavily glaciated Eugenie slopes' that we'd face Sunday morning.

Third pitch on Sebastapol Bluffs

Sweet view from the top of Red Arete! Nice intro to multipitch climbing

Posing at the lookout on the Hooker Valley track.
Tom, Adrian, Liam and Me

In the afternoon we set off up to the stunning Sefton Biv. A grunty climb up from the Hooker valley floor through scree slopes snowgrass and climbing around rocky buttresses, all the while spotting the cairns for the easiest route. In places we definitely didn't take the easiest route. A party of four were hot on our heels, spurring us on to reach the biv first - only space for four at the hut, and those four were ours!

Powering up the steep climb

Our eyes gleamed as were topped out on the ridge and spotted the wee orange biv tucked in the snow, hardly six foot high. Avalanches & rockfalls cracked and rumbled below us, mountains exploded through the doorway as we sat back eating potato mash through the evening. On my list of top backcountry huts in NZ I recall Syme Hut on Fanthams Pk Taranaki, Barkers Hut high in Arthurs Pass below Mt Murchison, but this - Sefton Biv - surely tops the lot. The search goes on!

Sefton Biv

Oldest historical structure in the Mount Cook National Park, built in 1917 by Peter Graham & co (then chief guide at the Hermitage)

Asleep before sunset, and up at 1.30am to a howling gale. Not ideal. We slept in til 3am and to our surprise and fortune the wind had completely died out. I took a look out the doorway, and the sky was clear, stars shining about the lofty summit of The Footstool, 2754 metres, just north of Mt Sefton. We were off at 4 aiming for the lower col on Footstool's East Ridge to traverse onto the Eugenie Glacier then up to the Main Divide for the grade 2+ route.

Alpine start 0410

Planting the axe shafts deep into soft snow on the way up Tewaewae Glacier in the early hours

Stunning light on first rays

No freeze overnight made for energy-sapping soft snow and crumbling crevasses riddled up the Eugenie Glacier. Our progress was off schedule to summit at 9am. Not wanting to risk the avalanche prone slopes as the day heating up to a blazer, we aborted at 8.30am and bootskied down to the Hermitage. A swim in Lake Pukaki sealed the deal on an excellent alpine adventure in the high mountains. Nice!

Gaping open crevasses on the broken Eugenie

The faux-summit of the day

Golden location

Team shot as we head back for home

Hooker Lake and Mt Cook range rising to Aoraki Low Pk in the left

Boot skiing down the Stocking glacier

Strong Nor-westerlies howling over Mount Cook producing some fascinating cloud formations

Swigging back a cold one at the end