My partner Hamish Fleming choked down a gel to moisten his equally hoarse throat.
“How you feeling mate?” I asked.
“Absolutely fried.”
Matt Scholes and Matthew Clark descended towards us in bright orange down suits. Being Australian, they had more high-altitude experience than us two Kiwis. (Without easy access to the Southern Alps, they had instead travelled to the Andes and Himalaya.) They were acclimatising faster than Hamish and I, and had climbed ahead to the col.
But they were forced to retreat from Makalu La (7450m), blown over by intense wind rushing over the pass. With just enough time to squint into Tibet they decided: this was no place for man.
As we descended into sunset, a golden consolatory glow was cast over Everest and Lhotse to the northwest, reminding us of our fortune to be playing among such giants. It really is a privilege to be in the Himalayan, to witness the golden light cast upon the titans, and to experience the rich Nepalese culture. Our eight-day approach to Makalu took us from the isolated lowland villages, through lush leech-infested jungle and dahl-baht fuelled yak pastures, hosted by strong-willed whole-hearted Sherpa people.
Attempting Makalu in the off-season (post-monsoon) without Sherpa support or oxygen provided us with a clean, empty mountain—not a soul to be seen—and a genuine challenge that we relished. We preferred to fail in good style than to succeed with a slew of support.
But my first mountaineering experience to the truly high alts, with its desperately thin air, left my spirit deflated. More than anything in the mountains, I simply love to move. Light and fast journeys are my favourite style. I had hoped my fitness honed at lower altitudes might translate to the Himalaya, but the debilitating effects of HAPE reduced me to a halt. On the glacier, every kilogram carried was a nightmare. One day it took five hours to travel one kilometre.
Throughout the mountaineering progression, it often feels like each harder and higher ascent is inevitably taking us in one direction: the Himalaya. The ultimate destination for an alpinist. But this first Himalayan encounter had not lived up to my lofty expectations, leaving me disillusioned.
I returned to NZ feeling weak with lungs scarred from the dry air, wondering what to make of this experience, rethinking where my passions lay with mountaineering. Some weeks later, regaining my strength in NZ on a hike in the Canterbury foothills, the pace slowly picked up and something happened. My lungs filled with the oxygen-thick air, and rich and powerful blood surged through my body. My legs began to move. My arms thrust force through carbon poles into the earth. The mountain was moving beneath me. My passion for the mountains was returning, through the simple exercise of moving fast, upwards, unencumbered. Yes!
A few days later, I received an unexpected Instagram message request from a Spaniard, Genís Zapater Bargués: “Hola Alastair! So our plan is to go Mount Cook! Do you have some fresh info?”
Who is this guy? I look him up. It turns out that Genís is an elite ski-mountaineering, trail running and mountain bike racer from Catalonia, as well as IFMGA mountain guide and coach for Uphill Athlete. I share with him what I know about the conditions. Some days pass.
“Looks like my partner is kinda cook [sic]. Will you be motivated to do something in the Alps? A day shot is what motivates me more!”
A day shot! I love it. This hombre has some cojones. I would not usually climb a serious mountain with someone I don’t know, but it turns out he used to live and train with Kilian Jornet in Chamonix, so he must be legit. Even though my lungs have barely recovered from the Himalaya, the weather and conditions in the Alps are perfect. I can not resist. I agree to join him.
Genís told me that what would bring him the most joy would be to climb Aoraki/Mount Cook from the village, as tradition dictates.
I agreed: fully human-powered, village-to-summit is the style that motivates me most.
I proposed to him an even grander plan: to undertake the famous Grand Traverse of Aoraki’s three peaks, from the village and back without stopping. The New Zealand alpine bible considers it the “most spectacular and famous traverse in the Southern Alps”.
The Grand Traverse was first completed by Freda Du Faur, Peter Graham, and Darby Thomson in January 1913. At this time, it was regarded as one of the most impressive achievements in world mountaineering. It was first done by cutting steps across its length and without crampons.
Condensing this route into a single day would take us on a wild ride along the highest peak in the country through a sharp edge, and all this from village to summit and back again, in the purest and most romantic way possible. An ode to all the pleasures that someone who loves the wild kingdom could wish for.
Two days later, I meet Genís for the first time in Timaru and we drive to Aoraki/Mt Cook village. He has a bronze tan, strong stature, and full of that quintessential Spanish zest that exudes passion and energy. We become friends instantly.
The next day, following a precise strategy, we spend the entire day relaxing at the Canterbury Mountaineering Club lodge in the Hooker Valley, taking in the immense glaciated faces of Sefton and Aoraki.
This relaxation soon comes to an end. At 12:30am, alarm bells ring. By 1:30am we are jogging up the Hooker Valley track: trail shoes, a lycra skimo suit, helmet, dyneema harness and a 20L running pack containing two ice axes and crampons, 30 metres of 6mm cord, a spare layer, and enough calories for 24 hours of alpine effort.
We dash from boulder to boulder around Hooker Lake, dodging precariously loose scree walls that loom above. In a caffeinated haze, Genís and I weave through moraines to the Hooker icefall, the dreaded glacial labyrinth. The day lightens just enough to elicit passage through the maze of crevasses. ¡Vámonos!
We have now transitioned from shoes to mountain boots and crampons, and loaded up with 2.5L of water that must last us the entire traverse over Aoraki, to the Tasman valley. But we don’t think too far ahead. We are too busy focussing on our rhythmic cramponic crunch up the western wall leading ever steeper towards the base of the Northwest couloir: our access to the peak.
A rock band just below the West Ridge slows our rapid ascent. This is the crux. The only clear route is a thin ribbon of ice through a narrow weakness in the rock…but after committing to the ice, it shears away in brittle rotten chunks. We climb delicately, all senses activated, aware that the adjacent greywacke is no more trustworthy, and the consequences are now severe.
Surpassing this barrier, we are more on edge now, and the effects of such rapid altitude gain and minimal sleep catch up on us. We are soon treated to sastrugi-lined slopes to Low Peak, the first summit, and at once the grandeur of the Grand Traverse is revealed. One mile of outrageously exposed ice slopes, sculpted by westerly winds.
From a distance, it seems Middle Peak has melted out into a near vertical wall with no obvious route. The curveballs keep coming. But we are too committed to contemplate retreat—the only way down is up and over.
This is mountaineering: with clenched jaw, steady, careful and deliberate movement carries us along the corniced ridge, always wary of the thousand plus metre drop either side. In our minds, the famous Whymper quote echoes, “Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end.”
We reach the high peak of Aoraki, elated, just after 2pm. Always a special moment, the top of New Zealand. ¡Qué vista! But we are only halfway—this is where the grind begins.
We escape the summit rocks onto the Linda Glacier with the help of our skinny 30m rap-line and Beal Escaper. Endless hours of slushy glacier and loose moraine walls take us into darkness. We fight bouts of dehydrated disorientation forging the route home out the slumping Ball Road and eventually, 26 hours later, we reach the familiar Hooker car park, shells of men.
Fifty-five km with 4500m elevation gain of rock, snow and ice have passed beneath our blistered feet and broken bodies to complete this gem. There are only so many mountains worthy of such punishment. But for Aoraki, it’s always worth it.
I’m thankful to Genís for inviting spontaneity and bringing his cabrón energy. Often the best trips are organised on a spur of the moment. For Genís, this adventure was the culmination of his two-month New Zealand journey, forming the perfect farewell to his antipodean experience.
He said: “For me, Aoraki/Mount Cook was a mountain that had been capturing my attention for a long time. At 3,700 meters, it is the highest mountain in all New Zealand and one of the tallest in the Oceania region. Beyond its height, its beauty lies in its difficulty, exposure, commitment, and unique morphology—a pyramid traversed by large glaciers broken between the Tasman Sea, its tall and vertical neighbouring mountains, and the frozen rivers forming the bed of the valleys that separate them.”
Genís, who has also climbed in the Himalaya, was impressed by Aoraki despite its modest height.
“This is a small, big Himalayan-serious face. This is as technical as the south face of Lhotse or Nanga Parbat, but at low altitude. Spending 20 hours in hazardous exposure is mentally exhausting,” he said.
“It was a gratifying activity where physical fitness, technique, and determination were the key ingredients that this activity demanded. It was an intimate, delicate and real experience.”
Far from the Himalaya, I rediscovered my passion for mountaineering right here at home. Free of logistics, cost, equipment, and organisation, sometimes the simplest of adventures are the most satisfying.
