Three Peaks - A Blue Mountains Challenge

I pedaled frantically through the streets of Sydney with no regard to the precious glycogen stores I was burning through. I had stayed at the party for too long, and now had only fifteen minutes to reach the train station six kilometers away. I dashed onto the 10pm train with minutes to spare, regretting the adrenaline overload that would prevent me from getting any valuable sleep before I was to embark on this epic journey. At over 90 kilometres and 5000 vertical metres of climbing, The Three Peaks challenge is a true test of physical and mental stamina, involving a committing element of remoteness and off-track navigation in the mix. Since the 1960s, the challenge has forged legends and broken souls and remained a classic in Blue Mountains lore ever since.

At a stroke past midnight I rode through the flickering lights of Katoomba’s nightlife, ditched my bike at the official start on the Narrowneck Plateau, and set off into the darkness. Solo, onsight.

Heading out from Katoomba at midnight, excited about what is to come...

Jogging along the mind-numbing 10km stretch of gravel road along the Neck, it wasn’t long until the natural urge to sleep began to gnaw away at me. Even the prickly road side seemed a tempting place to lie down. Soon after 2AM, a toilet block at the end of the road came into my headlamp beam. Out of the cold wind, I curled up on the concrete for ten minutes to recharge, before topping up my electrolyte supply with potent energy drink and popped a 100mg caffeine pill, resolving to push on through the night.

I would need to be alert as a dropped off the Narrowneck buttress, descending steep rocky trails, and down-climbing a vertical cliff thanks to the ancient Tarros Ladders – iron rungs and spikes cast into the sandstone. After that brief excitement I was well and truly awake for the long undulating trail traversing the Wild Dog Mountains. Running alone through the bush at night can become lonely, so I cranked up the music to keep my spirits high. But every so often, a loud rustling from within the bush would break through the head-phones and startle me. Kangaroo, wombat, wild dog? In my caffeine-induced sleep-deprived trance, my mind was taking me for a wild ride.

Mt Yellow Dog, nearing the end of a long caffeine-induced night

I checked my watch on Mt Yellow Dog, 5AM. Dead of the night. But the exhilaration of the Yellow Pup Ridge descent to the Cox’s River pumped much needed adrenaline through my veins, and as the river came into view so too did the first glimmering of dawn. Here many choose to rest as their first stop, but I decided instead to down a bag of muesli and start up the long Strongleg Ridge to Cloudmaker, and crash when the time came. Sure enough, as the sun rose on me atop Mt Strongleg, I fried instantly, and collapsed on the trail, sprawled out flat on the bush floor.

I awoke to the sound of Coldplay, and hoped I hadn’t missed too many tracks as I staggered back to my feet, dazed. Fortunately, since this was also the route for the popular Katoomba to Kanagra (K2K) crossing, there was a vague trail along most of the undulating bush ridge towards Cloudmaker, the first of the three peaks. The final stretch of navigation to the summit was testing, and doubts crept into my mind that I had gone too far, there was no clear peak amongst the flatness… when the rocky cairn and its metal log-book holder appeared through the trees I clenched my fists in jubilation. Having travelled through the night to arrive at the first checkpoint in good time felt sweet indeed. 

Cloudmaker, peak number one

Reading through the Cloudmaker log-book there was an entry from another hiker made on today’s date… Was someone else also on the Three Peaks quest? This riled me from my rest, and I quickly set off again in search of the second peak – Paralyser. I followed the compass to end of a long spur which abruptly dropped off in steep cliffs, forcing me to backtrack to find an easier descent. All the while, my jaded mind was constantly scanning the bush ahead for any sign of the mystery person from the log book - surely he couldn’t be far ahead? Eight hundred metres down into Kanangra Creek saw me shoe ski scree slopes, plough through scrub and dodge stinging nettles to reach the tropical creek floor of the valley. Still no sign of the man, but it had provided incentive to push the pace. The sun was now scorching, so I doused my cap in the cool river water and filled up another two litres for the next slog, a nine-hundred metre ridge climb to the top of Paralyser.

Paralyser, the second summit

I tapped into new energy on the ridge, swallowing up the vertical as the valley floor fell from my feet. Ninety minutes later I was on Paralyser, starting to feel the burn of the ascent, but keeping well hydrated despite the heat. Now 12 hours in, I reminded myself that this was only halfway. And the crux was just ahead - the final 1000-metre un-tracked ascent of Guogang.

Guougang appears through the bush

I raced off the flat summit of Paralyser to the north-east, keeping an eye out for a ridge to begin forming that would lead out to the Whalania valley. Once out on the narrow ridge, I scanned the opposite side of the valley to pick out Nooroo Buttress, the acclaimed ridge towards Guougang. A quick scan of the map to match up my view to the map, and I was flying down into the Whalania, and then up towards the third and final peak.

Exhaustion setting in on the third ascent of Guougang

The day grew late as I approached the, again, rounded summit of Guougang. But something didn’t line up. An un-mapped fire-trail appeared, heading west. The summit was to the north, but in that direction the terrain dropped away. Had the magnetics in my phone distorted the compass? What was going on? After a night without sleep and 16 hours on the go, my shattered brain couldn’t handle this. I checked the GPS for the first time, and my blunder was revealed. I had climbed the wrong mountain. I had climbed a spur one parallel to the Nooroo buttress, which had later veered away towards Mount Krungle Bungle. With the compass stowed on the ascent, I hadn’t noticed my bearing change.

It was 4:45pm, I was now racing time to reach Guougang by dark. The situation was recoverable, but I was faced with an extra four-kilometre ridge traverse through complex and unknown terrain, using up precious day light. Cursing my careless error, I gulped down a gel, desperate for an extra surge of energy. Once I had accepted the situation, I plotted out the new route and set off along the vague and undefined ridgetop. The gel was metabolized like fire and I blazed like a mad-man through horrendously thick scrub, I could no longer feel my shins, all that mattered was finding the third cairn of Guougang before night-fall.

The best moment of the journey, emerging through the dense bush to the hard-earned summit pyramid of Mt Guougang

It was just after 6pm when the glorious summit cairn appeared. I was so relieved. But my problems weren’t yet over, unfolding the map revealed a long and complicated 6-km ridge-line descent to the Cox’s. My heart sunk. Almost immediately the navigation proved difficult and the scrub dense. And as darkness descended on me, so did the rain.

In the twilight, my headlamp almost made it more difficult to see, droplets of rain and fog reflecting the beam of light and soggying my map. After several hours of thrashing around in tree fall, bluff zones, slimy creek waterfalls and fields of stinging nettle, becoming totally drenched and exhausted while making little progress, I finally decided to call it a night and find somewhere to bivvy until dawn. Thankfully I stumbled upon a fallen tree whose dry straw-like leaves formed a dry base and a meagre shelter from the elements. My foil space blanket ripped instantly as I curled into an awkward cramped position in my suffer-bivouac, my warmth slowly draining away.

When dawn eventually rolled around, I couldn’t find my compass. I clawed through the straw in vain for my most important tool. But as the light began to reveal the shape of the land, a route through to the Cox’s revealed itself. I knew I only needed to navigate to the river before I was back on the safe return trail to Narrowneck. I set off anxiously without my compass, and thankfully, a couple of hours later emerged at the banks of the flooded Cox’s river. Upstream I found a safe crossing and clambered up to the Yellow Pup ridgeline for the long grind home to Katoomba.

In the day, the Wild Dog mountains passed at a swift jog, the Tarros Ladders were a mere scramble but the long gravel road of the Neck was a mind numbing final hurdle. Back on the bike, I slowly peddled my way back up the hill into Katoomba, for a round trip time of 38 hours. Wow. What a wild ride it was. But even before I’d arrived home on the Blue Mountains train, I couldn’t help myself from plotting out the next attempt. Lighter, faster, less-sleep, and less-lost. A sub-24 hour Three Peaks. It had to be done.

Three Peaks - 90km distance, 5000m vertical

West Ridge of Taulliraju

I’m not sure I ever agreed to climb the West Ridge of Taulliraju. I was still feeling depleted after a long day climbing Taulliraju’s South Peak with Steve and Rose, not to mention the previous month of alpine climbing in La Cordillera Blanca. But from the summit of that subsidiary peak, I could sense Rose eyeing up the descent line, and knew she had unfinished business with Taulliraju.

I was too exhausted to contemplate another monstrous effort at the time, but after a night’s rest and back in the comforts of base-camp I realised I couldn’t resist the offer to join Rose for this golden prize of the Santa Cruz. Five days of the expedition remained. Just enough time for one last attempt.

Without warning, I found myself at the Col the next day roped up with Rose, above the huge expanse of the Pucahirca Neve, staring directly up the un-climbed, serrated spine of Taulliraju’s West Ridge.

The Paron Valley

The early stages of our expedition in Peru’s spectacular Cordillera Blanca had come with mixed success. Aritza Monasterio and I savoured our time on ‘La Torre de Paron’, the most famous big-wall in Peru – La Esfinge. Over two days we scaled the 750-metre granite monolith, pulling through intimidating roofs, enduring a cold bivvy on the ‘Plataforma de Flores’, before jamming and smearing our way through a maze of granite to the 5325-metre summit.

A week later, Lincoln Quilliam and I attempted a new route on the south face of Caraz IV (5640-metres), climbing 6 pitches of snow, ice and some hard mixed, before being turned back by the infamous Peruvian powder a rope-length from the summit. The summit of the beautiful Piramide de Garcilaso also proved elusive for us, poor ice conditions forcing us to retreat from one-third up the south-west face. With a full moon returning order to Peru’s stable weather patterns, perfect conditions on the ice fluting of Alpamayo’s ‘French Direct’ finally provided the Andean summit we craved.

Rose’s main priority was to find quality technical climbing, and although she was still hungry for a summit, she wasn’t prepared to lower her ambition. Altitude sickness had sucked her dry on her and Reg’s attempt on the classic South Ridge of Artesonraju; avalanching spindrift repelled her team on Piramide’s SW face, and an afternoon snow-storm drove her and Steve Skelton all the way down La Esfinge from only three pitches below the summit. Taulliraju would be her redemption.

The first attempt

To attempt Taulliraju’s un-climbed West Ridge was initially the brainchild of Pete Harris, Jaz Morris and Rose Pearson. They had researched the route, confirmed its virginity, applied for grants, trained and prepared, each night dreaming about her lofty cornices and praying for a lean snow-pack. They endured ridicule from legendary Kiwi mountaineers such as Lionel Clay, who had climbed a new line on Taulliraju in the 1980’s, warning that the ridge had not been climbed for good reason. One previous attempt in 2008 turned back after punching through the snow ridge, and being horrified to see blue sky beneath. The Andes typically excels when it comes to technical face climbing, but the ridges are different to those in other ranges. With unique equatorial snow conditions, the ridges are notorious for their dangerous double-cornices and unstable, often vertical snow formations.

On arrival at our basecamp below Taulliraju however, it seemed that dry conditions on the mountain had rendered all of the south-facing ice routes bare and broken, while potentially playing favourably to the West Ridge, exposing more rock and less cornice.

On June 17th, Pete, Jaz and Rose, joined by Reg Measures, set out for the West Ridge with four days food, planning to work together as two pairs to unlock the secrets of the 1-kilometre long crest. A day’s approach via the Ririjirca Col from the west allowed them to set up camp on a spacious snow platform low down on the ridge in preparation for the following day’s assault. But route finding proved difficult almost immediately; the team forced to weave an intricate path along icy ledges and broken granite on the north face, 50-metres below the crest.

At the first prominent rock step, a jumble of steep granite offered a tempting #5 splitter crack, but it was several hours before Rose decrypted a route through the steepness. By this time darkness was approaching, and with nowhere to bivvy, the team was well aware that the situation and slow progress was dire. Three abseils to the Pucahirca Glacier provided a simple retreat, and it was back to the drawing board for the West Ridge.

The second attempt

A week later, our time in the Santa Cruz was drawing to an end. Pete and Jaz had left for Alpamayo and Quittaraju, a mixture of illness and a desire for some peak bagging making another lengthy effort on Taulliraju too much to stomach. Rose and I were tired but happy after our day-climb of Taulliraju’s South peak with Steve Fortune, having climbed a technical new 10-pitch route up the right-hand sky-line. Just enough motivation remained for one last route. Rose’s persuasive powers eventually succumbed me to her grand plan, and soon our lightweight rack, bivvy set-up and four days food were crammed together into our forty-litre packs. Early on the second day from base-camp, we had reached the previous attempt’s high-point atop the rock step, and with high spirits began questing upwards into virgin terrain.

I took over the lead from Rose, who had blasted through the initial route with two simul-climbing blocks and the steep rock pitch, and immediately I was thrust straight into steep, bulging ice leading to an exposed snow mushroom. I naively climbed some vertical snow to top out the gendarme, only to realise that another, larger vertical snow drop-off existed on the other side. Backtracking, we uncovered a subtle rock ledge below the blob, and with a few tenuous, crampon-grating moves up smooth granite, the hurdle was passed.

Forced onto the southern side of the ridge, Rose led a long scary traverse, feet sinking into uncertain powder, before returning to the security of rock below the imposing ‘Nipple’ landmark. A huge trapezoidal tower of clean granite with an ice-scream scoop of snow on top formed a hilarious feature on the ridge, and with a merciless roof cut hard into the northern side, our only hope was a sidle to the south.

Rose led a bold pitch up a splitter crack followed by an ice step and disappeared over the bulge. When I joined her, the sun had just set. Miraculously, Rose had come across a ledge just large enough to fit our single-skin tent. With some chopping back into the ice, we created a liveable platform on the edge of space. Anchored to a few ice-screws, we settled in for a relatively comfortable first night on the ridge, with all the uncertainty of the Nipple and beyond still looming above.

The traverse of the Nipple climaxed the next morning with a desperate mantle move into a wall of steep powder, with only an icy hand-jam to maintain balance.

Further on, Rose bridged up an open book corner, stemming wildly between pages of rock and ice. When the ice began to overhang at the top, Rose managed to thrutch her way inside an ice off-width, leaving her pack behind, tunnelling through and hauling her pack from the belay. The climbing was more technical than we’d imagined, sustained for pitch after pitch. And above, the climbing wasn’t getting any easier.

Back at base-camp, the other teams were resting between climbs, and often switching on to watch Taulliraju TV ­– through the binoculars they had a perfect view of all the action on the ridge, especially today as we tip-toed our way along the crest. But on mid-morning of the third day, a horrifying sight enveloped the big screen. A massive plume of powder snow burst down the south face of the mountain from the west ridge, obscuring all sight of our tiny silhouettes. A huge section of cornice had collapsed, most likely triggered from a climber. Basecamp feared the worse, and waited for the clouds to clear.

I belayed Rose to my stance having traversed onto the northern side of the ridge, oblivious to the mayhem. Rose’s expression gave little away about the close call she’d just encountered. Without hesitation, she took on another vertical pinch of rapidly melting ice, cool and collected as always.

Late on the third day, I wearily plugged up a bulge of snow to join Rose, exhausted by the climbing and the ever-present effects of high-altitude. The equatorial sun was in nose dive mode, leaving us stranded on the exposed lump at 5700-metres, tantalisingly close to the summit ridge. Exhausted, we hacked into the snow, erected the tent and collapsed inside.

Another hard day was over, but we felt confident that we were now in position for the final summit push. The summit ridge was flat, it should be an easy day…

Climbing again at first light, we witnessed another incredible sunrise over the Pucahirca plateau. But our hopes of a direct line to the summit ridge were soon shot, Rose finding herself staring down a sheer drop off from the top of the ice couloir she’d laboured up.

Down-climbing onto the north face un-locked a series of traverse pitches, some tricky mixed climbing and a spectacular ice tunnel to regain our lost height.

We must be close now, we thought. I pulled through more steep rotten ice and stepped out onto the southern side, eager to peer along the ridge. Mist had now engulfed us – all I could see was the next forty metres of snowy ridgeline, snow-flakes large as feathers.

Cautiously, I straddled the powdery ridge, legs hanging either side into a white abyss. Now within fifty-metres of the summit, Rose tried in vain to forge directly up the snow mushroom, with two ice axes dug into the crud she desperately tunnelled into the vertical snow with her helmet, but at last we found the limits of our strength. 

During our struggle, Reg Measures and Steve Fortune caught us from behind, having left one day later on the West Ridge from base camp. We casually greeted them, as you would to any mates you bump into near the summit of a high mountain in the Andes.

Together we decided to abseil down to the north face to bypass the blockade. Stuck abseil ropes threatened to erode our calm, as we burned precious daylight into the late afternoon. Wary of the long complicated descent down the south-east ridge, the climb was now dragging on and we were anxious to reach this elusive summit before dark…

Three pitches later, the final lip of ice surrendered to our tools, and four days after leaving base-camp, we stood on the mighty 5830-metre summit of Taulliraju. The summit was an unreal place. Clouds had just cleared revealing the hazy lakes and valleys way below; we waved to our friends in base watching through the binoculars. Rose arrived moments later in the dying light, and together we celebrated El Cumbre, Reg radioing through the news to the team below. No time to waste, we spent only a few minutes savouring the moment before committing to the ten abseils leading down the south-east ridge, Steve leading the way. Into the night, and into the cold.

We woke to fresh snow engulfing the tents, single walls rattling in the wind. Whiteout. We embraced the suffering, and battled on through spindrift and gusts towards the South Peak. Four more abseils finally released us from the mountains icy grip. Hobbling with blistered feet across the snowed up slabs, over a rise appeared the rest of the team awaiting us with hot drinks, food and hand-shakes. The West Ridge had fallen.

Mt Percy Smith - The West Ridge

Over the past few weeks, I'd enjoyed many of the different aspects of mountains and climbing. Alpine ice on Aoraki, a transalpine traverse of the Gardens, trad climbing on the Banks Peninsula, and sport climbing at Paynes Ford. Drawing later into the summer season, the high alpine peaks become bare of snow and present their final gift: Alpine Rock.

Glorious alpine rock high on a mountain peak, requiring full commitment

Utilising the skills developed from other forays up long Canterbury river valleys, Pete Harris and I fast-tracked our approach up the splendid Hopkins Valley on mountain bikes, with the heaviest items of climbing paraphernalia attached to the frame.

Following faint 4WD tracks across the stony river bed was tricky at first, but once we had crossed the murky, braided Hopkins river to Red Hut, riding up the valley was rapid. Wind in our hair, peaks fast approaching, we whooped with joy, so glad to be crushing miles that would otherwise be tedious on foot.

Setting off from Monument Hut, bikes loaded with iron

Eventually we were forced to de-mount from our expedient transport, the unpleasant bush-bash to the Dodger swing-bridge a no-go for a two-wheeled stallions. Truth be told, it was actually a relief to be on foot as the terrain was becoming progressively less ride-able, our shoulders ached from numerous bike carries. We basked in the summer sunshine crossing the grassy alluvial flats to Dodger Hut for lunch, before entering the narrow confines of the upper valley, boulder hopping alongside the raging glacial waters.

Erceg Hut is sited high on a spur with a handy view into the upper Hopkins, home of infamous peaks such as Black Tower, and the scene of legendary ascents such as Gormenghast on the South Face of Hopkins, completed solo in the winter of '93 by Bill McLeod.

We also gazed up to the next stage in our approach journey - a one thousand metre ascent through a daunting maze of bluffs and steep snowfields. We squinted at the face through the afternoon, trying to pick out the line of least resistance to the Williams - Percy Smith col. But the suffering could wait; we dragged mattresses into the sun and roasted in the afternoon warmth.

Head of the Hopkins Valley - McKerrow, Black Tower, Hopkins

Starting early the next morning, slowly but surely, Pete and I were able to pick away at the ascent, deciphering a route through the puzzle of rock and snow steeped above us. Cross the bergschrund high, traverse beneath the waterfall, strap on crampons here, plug up the snowfield, tip-toe the snow-bridge, scramble the rock steps, and up the last snow slope...

Reaching the crest of the main divide was an exciting moment. From that point on we really gained the impression that we were embarking on a wilderness ascent, far from civilisation, the feeling of isolation was real.

At the col. our first view into Baker Stream

Baker Lake and the Mt Dechen ice cap beyond the Landsborough

Icebergs floated atop the swollen Baker Lake several hundred metres below, draining the daunting 750 metre high south-west face, of which we were only allowed a glance. It was not until we reached the shores of the glacial lake that the total magnitude of the face could be fully appreciated.

We scoured the face for potential lines, trying to imagine what it would feel like to be on the warm rock, ascending one of the many majestic crack lines and clean rock slabs. Moments later, echoes resounded across the valley, our eyes darted to the source. A slurry of rock debris poured down one of the gulleys, emptying from the overhanging fortress onto the rotten snow slopes below. This was the real deal, danger now shrouded the glory we imagined, and we set up camp deliberating over our other options...

South-West Face of Mt Percy Smith at dusk

The West Ridge of Percy Smith had long been a progeny of sorts for Pete ever since he had read Rob Frost's article The Great Unclimbed in The Climber magazine. To complete a skyline traverse of the peak along the 3 kilometre long West Ridge, finishing with a descent of the South Ridge back to camp with a first ascent was indeed an alluring prospect. But the South-West Face... The route stared us in the face, yet still held so much mystery.

We retired to our marginally-sheltered rock bivouac for the night, and perhaps the thought of a repeat experience of Peter Dickson & Bill McLeod's terrible sitting bivvy on their SW face ascent in '93 was enough to put me at ease about the considerably easier West Ridge. Or so it seemed.

At 5AM the following morning we headed off down valley for the base of the West Ridge, a slight caffeine overdose the wind at our backs. Gaining the ridge at dawn revealed the impressive East Face of Mt Hooker, a remote peak of the Landsborough with huge prominence. It was the mountaineering equivalent of being at a celebrity party, putting faces to names we had only dreamt about.

East Face of Mt Hooker at dawn

Cramponing up the lower West Ridge

The first few kilometres of ridge line passed quickly, rapid cramponing over meadows of frozen snow, and quick scrambling over increasingly rickety stacks. Upon reaching the top of a steep descent to a prominent notch, our progress was ground down as we navigated a maze of sharp gendarmes and horrendously loose rock. Perseverance was rewarded, and good route finding to the notch kept the rope in our packs. We now began the final 500 metre ascent to the peak on the true West Ridge.

Mt Williams across the Baker from the West Ridge

Climbing one of the fierce gendarmes that guard the summit headwall

The initial climbing was easy as expected, but topping out on a false summit in deteriorating weather revealed a frightening series of gendarmes and a ghastly summit headwall, now shrouded in swirling mist. We pulled out extra layers to combat the sweat-freezing wind chill. It was quite apparent that this unclimbed ridge would not go down without a fight.

We now recalled Peter Dickson's account of topping out on the SW face: "Upon reaching the summit ridge, Dickson and McLeod discovered it to be knife-edged and heavily guarded with gendarmes. Although the actual summit was only 200 metres away, it would have been another serious day’s climbing..."

The final two hundred metres of the West Ridge

Out came the iron: pitons, cams, wired nuts, carabiners, slings and quick-draws. Our weapons for the battle. We tied into either end of one rope, each coiling fifteen metres around our shoulders, leaving thirty between. We moved together along the ridge simultaneously, quickly placing protection before and after the difficulties, easing the mind to the exposure.

To the right was our Baker Lake camp, 800 metres directly below, and to the left was Percy stream, a similarly vertigo-inducing drop, heading out of sight, off the map, into absolute wilderness. After two necky pitches, perched atop a precipitous gendarme, we suddenly found ourselves at a point of ultimate despair.

Face to face with the summit headwall, our mental energy was dwindling, and the sight of this steep, final obstacle threatened to destroy our last reserves of fortitude. Could we muster the courage to surmount this one hundred metre high wall of rock, thrashed by wind, cloaked in uncertainty? To abseil off this crumbling precipice to the base of the headwall would call for total commitment. Valleys below too distant, and the way back too loose, there would be no chance for retreat. 

The summit headwall

We debated our options long and hard before committing to the summit attempt. As it turned out, the least difficult option was in fact forward. I abseiled off a backed up lost arrow piton to the base, careful to protect the rap lines from falling rocks.

To our surprise, from the base of the headwall, the angle of the face looked far more reasonable, and a line of continuous cracks and features seemed to provide a route up the smooth slabs. I shouted up to Pete that it might just go. He abseiled down to join me at the belay, passed me the rack, and changing into grippy rubber climbing shoes, I set off up the headwall, determined to save ourselves from a messy retreat.

The crux pitch up the summit headwall

The summit head wall of Mt Percy Smith with our line in red



High on the lead, five metres from a ledge, I needed one more piece to commit to the top-out. All that would fit was a knife-blade piton, but lacking the ice axe hammer I resorted to punching it into the rock with a carabiner covering my knuckles. It was all the psychological support I needed to mantle onto the shelf, Pete joining me soon after. The final chimney squeeze gifted us with a hand crack to ease the thrutch, and we ran up easy slabs to an emotional top-out. We had saved ourselves from our perch of ultimate despair, the relief was real.



Stoked to be on the summit. Now the descent...

The West Ridge finds its first ascent

Walking out the glorious Hopkins valley

Happy to be back at the car after an adventurous return journey