Lendenfeld - Sea to Summit

Dawn, February 2022. Sooji Clarkson and I cramponed up the final icy steps to the summit of Lendenfeld Peak, a drone humming in the background, mountain guides hidden over the rise, videographers directing orders via chest-pocket radios. We were filming a TV commercial for Macpac; opening scenes on top of Lendenfeld and thirty seconds later we would be striding across the Fox highway, through the bush and onto Gillespies Beach for a celebratory bonfire. A wide drone shot pulled back over the ocean, revealing the Southern Alps proud above the West Coast beach.

Of course, with the time limits of a commercial TV commercial we didn’t have time to complete this full journey for real. But the idea sat with me for several years. Having completed single day ascents of other 3000m peaks from the carparks – Tititea/Aspiring, Aoraki/Mt Cook, Sefton – I continued to dream of other interesting peaks to climb from near sea-level. Of course – Mt Tasman.

Sunset, November 2025. Dressed in my skimo onesie, I dabbed my fingers into the sea-froth at Gillespies Beach, then jogged off the beach to my bike, pre-loaded with skis & boots. As I pedalled through the gravel roads towards Fox, a steady drizzle set in, setting the scene for a long rather depressing night as I fought my way up the Fox river. Following GPX, an ugly moraine wall reared up in my path; I almost retreated. My first time on the notorious Fox glacier approach, and alone, I was quite intimidated. Come dawn, I was freezing wet and glacier fog remained. I skinned drearily up glacier through pea-soup clag, fighting sleep monsters, diverting course to Pioneer Hut for refuge. Fortunately, I arrived at the hut as the twenty occupants woke, and they served me up hearty leftover rations. I decided to call it quits – it wasn’t a day for climbing Mt Tasman, nor was I in adequate condition. The Tasman Sea to Summit attempt would have to wait for another year.

It turns out I wasn’t the first to dream up such a scheme. Back in 2000, Jonathan Kennett and Johnny Mulheron rode their bikes from Gillespies beach and climbed Tasman via the Fox Glacier over several days employing “rush tactics, of course”, finishing by rafting out the Waiho river to the sea. This was the only record of a ‘Tasman Sea to Summit’ I could find, though there have been some other impressive journeys from the road. Aat Vervoorn famously climbed Tasman via Fox Range, solo, December 1999. Gavin Lang & Ruari Macfarlane completed a similar ascent over the Torres-Tasman via Fox Range in the middle of winter 2020. 

Over the following year, this unfinished business called me back. As a high-pressure cell rolled in at a fortuitous time, I called my friend Jason Hopper from the SAR team and he called his mate Patrick Garceau – an adventure racing stalwart. Patrick was post-holing across Crown Range at the time of his call-up, he promptly turned around to go pack for this better sounding trip. We assembled at HEL Porter Lodge, Fox Glacier.

The sun set, and a confusing 8:30pm alarm rang. My lovely wife drove us to the beach. Hand in ocean, foot to bike. Off.

No drizzle this year; only the crisp atmosphere of perfectly still atmosphere, an orange glow behind us as we zoomed in peloton towards Fox Township. A strange adventure, we felt, as we rode past Fox pubs on our bikes with skis rudely protruding, too briefly for anyone to register our intentions.

Why sea to summit? The idea of a sea to summit really inspires me. I’ve always liked climbing a mountain from its natural starting point, but on the east coast that usually involves a long riverbed approach, with the ocean hundreds of kilometres away. The West Coast is much more practical in that regard. Originally my idea for Tasman was a boring ‘start at the trailhead’ approach. But it was Grant Piper who put the idea of a Gillespie beach start in my head. It wouldn’t surprise you then that it was Grant Piper credited as photographer of Kennett & Mulheron on Gillespie back in 2000.

Arguably the most famous ‘Sea to Summit’ must be Tim Macartney-Snape’s 1990 expedition. Starting his 1200km walk from the Bay of Bengal in India, three months later, Tim reached the summit of Mt Everest. And hence the outdoor brand, Sea to Summit, was born.

There’s something special in knowing you’ve climbed the entire mountain under your own power, not just the top half, but every metre of those ‘metres above sea level’, and in the process pass through every type of ecological zone along the way. Ocean, forest, river, glacier, summit. And all the way back again.

Back to our adventure, we were still stuck on stage 3: River. The Fox River was swift with spring snowmelt and would become one of many tramping challenges we’d face over the following midnight hours to Chancellor. Any veteran climber would likely be shocked at how far one can walk up the Fox in running shoes: within a mile as the crow flies of Chancellor. But that mile would take us more than four hours. LINZ had not kept pace with the rampant glacial recession. What appeared a simple walk on the map now comprises a steep, crumbling moraine wall – seemingly taller than the previous year - followed by tramping as hard as tramping gets.

I later found out that the moraine wall we were forced to climb did not exist two years earlier. In fact, rewind just nine years to 2017, and the ice would have been 200 metres above our heads.

When we finally knocked the walls down at Chancellor at 5AM, Patrick called it quits. He had been pushing himself too hard in past week and didn’t want to hold us back. Patrick is very strong but was wise enough to know when to call a day. I don’t blame him – it had been a difficult and demoralising night. Pure hard work, and until then there had been little reward.

But that was about to change. Arriving on the Fox Glacier at dawn, fuelled up on coffee drink, finally the clunky ski & boot off pack, we had the whole day ahead of us. Jason and I began the long, glorious ski-tour towards the Fox neves.

On all-nighters, you can feel surprisingly good and alert when the pressure is on and the terrain is tough, no matter the hour. But you never know when the caffeine-crash is coming. At 9 am, skinning along the smooth neve with increasing solar heat, the crash found us. We laid down, straight onto snow, a blissful fifteen minutes to recover some pounce.

Fellow ski-tourers were out and about enjoying the gleeful windless mountains; we chased them up the Albert Glacier icefall, zig-zagging our way through steeper glacial crevasse country enroute to Marcel Col. 

Nearing 3000m, the altitude could be felt, and though the final two hundred metre climb to Lendenfeld Peak was technically easy, go too fast and you’d be sent into a head-spin. It’s not somewhere you want to lose your balance! That’s what happens when you rush your acclimatisation process. In our final steps, the wide vista of Southern Alps filled our panoramic view.

Jason and I had done some big search and rescue jobs together through Canterbury Alpine Rescue over the years. We’d helped winch a pair of stranded climbers off Otira Face, and a fallen fast-packer in the Kahurangi. But this was our first recreational trip. I was impressed with the 50-year old Australian’s endurance and stamina, mountain skills, but also his attitude – always a smile on the face. And what a smile we had on our faces when we finally topped out on Lendenfeld, after fifteen plus hours on the go. Phew!

We were glad that we’d earlier downsized our objective from Tasman to Lendenfeld to make the mission more achievable. Though I’ve climbed Tasman’s North Shoulder before, contemplating such after an all-nighter is a different proposition. We were content with Lendenfeld, content to turn around and head back to the beach.

And so, our thirty second TV commercial began for real. A flurry of scenes: downclimb (quick), ski (zoom), foot trek (slip), scary downclimb (rock!), cross white ice (where did glacier go), swift river (rush), pack on bike (go), can of coke (burp), Fox town (flash), gravel road (sweat), final descent (phew). Unclip.

As we turn off headlamps to pose for the final photo, the ocean rushes in from behind, drenching our mountain bike shoes with its salty waters.

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Epilogue. We were very sad to later find out about the avalanche on Mt Dixon that had taken Troy Forsyth earlier that Sunday morning. We had briefly looked down over Mt Dixon unknowingly. I had only met Troy a handful of times, but I remembered his friendly face poking through goggles and helmets while keeping the skiers safe at Remarkables ski field. Gone too soon.

Aoraki Day Shot

I was stricken by the infamous “Khumbu Cough”. At 7200m on Makalu, late in the day at the top of our fixed ropes, I doubled over in another convulsing fit, coughing so hard I felt I was about to vomit. I was developing symptoms of high-altitude pulmonary edema.

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.

 

The Arthur’s Pass Round

It’s 5:30am, the street is dark and train rumbles through Arthur’s Pass village as I turn off towards the Mount Aicken track. Half hour later I emerge from the bushline in a cold sweat, the atmosphere is so clear & crisp. Across the valley, Mount Rolleston catches red glow from the coming dawn. Soon I’m on Mount Aicken, the first of today’s 9 summits. This is the Arthur’s Pass Round.

It had been a 3 year project of mine to complete this skyline traverse of Arthur’s Pass in summer, ticking off all the peaks either side of the road. Over the years I have loved the super accessible mountain running on offer here. There is so much scope for single peak VK efforts (Avalanche, Bealey, Aicken), to multi-peak traverses (Cassidy-Blimit, Phipps-Temple) or all day epics, such as today’s mega 40km 4600m+ round.

From Aicken I head north towards Blimit. There are some legitimate sections of rock scrambling along here especially nearing Blimit, it’s not for the faint hearted I will be honest. Today is definitely blurring the lines between running and mountaineering though no climbing gear is needed, it’s exposed and climbing skill is required. The reward is the beauty of traversing this delicate ridgeline, continuing onwards over Mt Temple and Mt Phipps.

I take a direct line down Phipps west ridge to avoid the dusty Temple Basin ski field, this ends with some steep bush bashing which pops out at Otira carpark. Kate M meets me with snacks & recovery drink to fuel up for the second half, the bigger half.

Up Philistine and into the traverse towards Rolleston. This is where the most spectacular scrambling is found, up a proud buttress to the high peak, on perfect greywacke. Even some good hand jams!

The Crow glacier below is dry and crevassed but fortunately you can avoid it by sidling Middle Peak staying on rock the whole way to Low Peak. Unfortunately, the only way to carry on to Avalanche Peak is down the ultra-chossy Rome Ridge. While a splendid winter climb in the snow, in summer it is an absolute quarry, big caution here. I teeter my way down, trying to avoid sending dustclouds of loose rock into the Otira valley.

I make it to the Rome Ridge Gap with relief and soon I’m drinking from a stream flowing off the back of Avalanche peak, weary from a long hot day on the tops. All I have left to keep me going over Lyell peak is one more caffeine gel, it works its magic. In the distance I spot a figure: it’s Kate M patiently waiting on Bealey. I reach her semi-delirious for the final descent back into the village.

The Arthur’s Pass Round is an excellent alpine running challenge for anyone who enjoys a bit of exposure mixed in with their running, and some of the best mountain running in the South Island at that.

If you’re new to AP, start small and slowly build up adding new peaks to your traverses, before long you will be putting together some incredible mountain running outings.

Packrafting the Tasman and Jollie Rivers

Rivers have always scared me. My worst nightmare is being trapped upside down underwater - whitewater kayaking fulfills that terror perfectly. Yet paddling down rivers in all its forms has still fascinated me. Packrafting has taken off in popularity in the last decade owing to the proliferation of rafts used in GodZone and other adventure races. 

I met up with fellow GodZone team-mates Rhys John and Emily Wilson for a weekend packrafting trip in Mt Cook. We devised a route that would cover every discipline: 5km paddle down the Tasman River, 25km trek up Gorilla stream and over a saddle into the Jollie, camping by a derelict hut, and a 20km paddle out the Jollie to the Tasman Delta by Lake Pukaki. To finish the loop, a 30km bike ride returning to the Tasman Lakes carpark.

Rafts inflated, we steered towards the outflow of the Tasman Lake, straight into the first major grade III rapids. Emily flipped out in her raft, and floated down river towards us. We helped her to the bank. Despite being in just a tshirt she seemed in high-spirits.

In the next powerful rapid, Rhys and I ended up sideways and flipped out into an eddy. Rhys managed to swim after the raft and I was left standing in the midst of the torrents, standing in a small calm patch of river. Eventually I had no choice but to jump back in and swim through the gurgling river, choking on inhaled water. I crawled onto the rocks, gasping for breath.

Approaching the rapids

Rhys swims after the raft

Phew, what an intro! I was glad to be back on foot, warming up on a long hot grind up the Gorilla stream. Hazy air mirrored off the river gravels in the searing heat.

Emerging from bush in the lower Gorilla

Gorilla Stream

At the head of Gorilla, we veered towards a saddle into the upper Jollie. The crossing involved a few hundred metres of easy angled snow either side. Ideal terrain for aluminium crampons on running shoes, especially for the glissade below the impressive east face of Nun's Veil.

Ice bergs in the lake below the saddle

Team shot at the saddle

Lyttle's Hut is a derelict hut in the upper Jollie valley, quite thrashed and forlorn. We camped outside and enjoyed the warm summer evening in the quiet valley.

Camping at Lyttle's hut

Despite low water, we were able to jump back in the rafts just below the derelict hut and begin the paddle out. Just as we prepared to enter the water, Rhys made a disastrous discovery. His paddle blade had a huge crack across it. Oh no. How did that happen? It must have been in the Tasman, or bashing up the bush in the Gorilla.

He applied a mass of duct tape to tension the blade back, but it was still very weak for a long paddle home. Rhys was the stronger paddler, but without a good paddle he could not steer. I presumed the rear position and started to learn the art of navigating the packraft down the bony and continuously technical Jollie River.

The river gradually gained flow, and twisted through many short bouldery sections which was fun & challenging. After three or four hours we merged with the lower Tasman heading towards Pukaki. Wind was picking up so we opted to walk across the lower braids towards Glentanner, carrying the raft and putting in to cross the glacial braids.

The final 30km road bike into a blustery nor-wester finished us off for an excellent weekend of adventure racing in the Mount Cook region.

Jollie River ambience

The Craigieburn Round

The North Island has so many well established big trail running challenges that aren’t official races; the sort of objective that most inspired me from the beginning. The Hillary Trail in Auckland’s Waitakere’s, Round Taranaki and Round Ruapehu, the Kaimanawa-Kaweka traverse, and most attested of all: the Tararua Main Range SK.

The North Island is blessed with volcanoes to circumnavigate and subalpine ridges to traverse, whereas the South Island, a far more mountainous landscape, ironically seems lacking in this style of do-it-yourself mountain challenge. That may in part be due to the harsh alpine terrain that does not lend itself well to long ridgeline "runs", so most long back-country trail runs in the South Island come in the form of long valley stretches linked by short alpine passes.

And then there is the Craigieburn and Torlesse Ranges, in the heart of Canterbury high country, adjacent to the Waimakariri River, slicing its path from Arthur's Pass to the ocean. These craggy scree tops are easily accessible from the state highway, with several ski-field roads giving high access. They are a popular venue for skiing and mountain running, the perfect scene for an ultra challenge.

Typical terrain on the Craigieburn Round

Over in the UK, each British nation has developed what is known as a “Round”. A Round is a classic long-distance mountain challenge taking in all of the summits of a local area in an aesthetic loop. The Bob Graham Round, established in 1932, is the most famous, covering 100km/8200m+ around England's Lake District. The Paddy Buckley Round in Wales, and the Charlie Ramsay Round in Scotland are equally grunty. The typical goal is to complete these Rounds in under 24 hours.

The Craigieburn Round is the brainchild of the legendary New Zealand ultra-runner Martin Lukes, originally from the UK. The route is one of New Zealand’s first real ‘Rounds’ and involves a loop of the entire Castle Hill Basin, by traversing the Torlesse and Craigieburn Ranges, including 19 summits, with a start and finish at the Cass Railway station. This equates to 104km and an elevation gain of over 8,000m over the route.

 

Martin Lukes completed the first ascent of the route in January 2021. A midsummer effort, he suffered greatly from dehydration despite carrying heavy loads of water. At one point in his midnight disorientation, he stood back up from a rest on the Craigieburn range, and headed off for 1 kilometre in the wrong direction. He staggered back into Cass Station mid-morning after 33 hours on the go, a heroic push.

Evidence of Marty Lukes first successful Craigieburn Round, 15th January 2021

 
After a big late summer of bagging peaks around the Southern Lakes, I was fit on the vert, and felt obliged to put my energy towards further establishing the new Craigieburn Round. I determined that May would be a good season for it - less daylight, but also less heat and so less water needing to be carried.

I drove over Porters Pass in the afternoon, opting to drop a bag of food & water at the pass as my only re-supply. I slept in my car that night in a nice campground just next to Cass Station and set the alarm for 4 am. At 5 am I was signing into the little visitor’s book in the Cass Railway station, a mandatory requirement for the Round, before beginning the long crunch down the Craigieburn Road gravels in pre-dawn fog.

First view of the lower Torlesse Range above Avoca Homestead

 

25km of road brings you to Broken River, a valuable water refill, just before the Avoca Homestead. Here you follow 4WD track for a little way up before a direct ascent to Bald Hill, the first peak of the Torlesse Range. I climbed through faint inversion, and experienced that glorious moment of punching through the clouds, rewarded with a sight of the entire Round of peaks that lay in store.

Above the inversion, feeling positive about the journey ahead

Beginning to gallop along the ridge, enjoying the super views

 
Undulating ridges bring you closer and closer to Castle Hill Peak’s famous ‘gap’, which is accessed via a scree slope on the east side. Once at the gap proper I met two other hikers, they opted to take the regular route skirting on the west side, but the fun rocky chimneys in the Gap itself were too much to pass up. Castle Hill Peak, 8 hours in.

An hour later I gratefully guzzled my supplies at Porter’s Pass, including a Radix mixed berry breakfast and a fat avocado sandwich for the road.

Setting off from Porter's Pass, replenished

Crossing the highway directly, the route traverses Trig M and drops into Lake Lyndon. The lake is undrinkable, but good water is found en-route up to Mt Lyndon just off the trail below the saddle. This is the last water for the next 45km! Herein lies the benefit of an Autumn round – shorter day light hours mean less sun & heat on the exposed tops, and skiffs of snow to top up water supplies. I carried 1.75 L of water from here which was to last me until the Cass river.

Darkness fell soon after Mt Lyndon and I readied myself for a long, long night on the tops. Unfortunately for me, I was neither accompanied by a full moon nor a clear sky, and my mind succumbed to equal pits of darkness in those early hours of the night. I was struggling to stay awake already. Why?

Red Hill, endless, Coleridge Pass, desolate, Blue Hill, loose. But I was now on the top of the Craigieburn Ranges and had reason to celebrate. A quick check in with the BSR (Big Sunday Runs Canterbury) club at Porter’s Skifield kept me motivated, knowing that others were supporting me as they nodded off to sleep, and I trucked forwards along the interminable range.

Mt Enys in the dead of night

 
Mt Enys was struck at midnight in gale force winds. The wind was pleasantly warm, yet the constant buffeting was numbing. The remainder of the peaks passed by in a pitch-black blur. At one point I was so unable to even stagger over the rocks due to my sleepiness that I gave in to a quick sleep. Somewhere around Mt Izard, I flung out my 120 gram SOL bivvy bag straight onto the scree slope. I donned my extra thin layer and crawled inside, holding the foil tight against the flapping wind, for there was no shelter from wind on this barren ridge. Fifteen minutes later I felt new energy to tackle what remained of the journey.

The twists and turns of the rocky ridges continuously confused, with scree fanning off in every direction after each small peak. I kept my compass pointing northwards and eventually sly glimmers of dawn illuminated the final stretch of range beyond Mt Hamilton, and the last of the club skifields.

I felt somewhat emotional on the last peak, Baldy Hill. In the full light of morning I could see the strengthening gales approaching from the northwest, creating an eery atmosphere, but all I felt was numbness.

Emerging from a long, lonely night on the range

 

There is something special about questing through a long night alone, searching for the internal motivation to continue, questioning why and how, the temptation to descend and bail from the route always available.

But on Baldy I had truly broken the back of Craigieburn Round, all that was left was a hellish scree descent into the Cass and a short stream bash out to the main road. I met a couple of mountain bikers there, just about to start a ride up the Cass. When they saw my ragged state, nearing 29 hours on the move, they offered me sweet bakery treats, only to realise they had left them in the car. “It’s okay”, I said. “I still have a bit of energy gel.”

Walking away from the finish at Cass Station, feeling quite tired

 
The Craigieburn Round is Canterbury’s answer to the famous mountain challenges of Britain, taking a page out of their rich fell running culture that breeds inspiring personal challenges for so many through the generations. A great prize here still remains: the 24-hour barrier. Who will be the first?

For more information on the Craigieburn Round, visit the BSR Canterbury website.