Mt Hutton South Face - the First Ascent

Four years ago in 2014, I spied the 500-metre tall South Face of Mt Hutton on the topo map, and discovered it was unclimbed. I recruited two adventure racing friends, we mountain biked up the Cass Valley out of Tekapo and made an attempt on the face, but we were defeated after only two time-consuming pitches up the chossy, ice-streaked face. The route was beyond my experience at the time, more than we expected or could handle. Fortunately it was only two abseils back to the ground, because I had forgotten to bring a V-threader. I managed to equalise some shallow V-threads using my ice axe as a tool. To climb technical routes like this in the future I realised I needed good mentors and a pool of more experienced climbing partners. The following year I joined the New Zealand Alpine Team and found just that.


Since then several other parties have made attempts, mostly friends of mine, but each time they failed, repelled by sugar-snow covered greywacke lacking the crucial ice, and each time I breathed a sigh of relief. Moving to Australia made this alpine project even more inaccessible, and the face was never in condition when I returned briefly to the South Island each year. Every year the South Face of Mt Hutton haunted me.

The South Face of Mt Hutton

Finally this August, I returned for a second attempt, just after the Remarkables Ice & Mixed Festival. This time I was joined by fellow NZAT members Caleb Jennings and Rose Pearson who were frothing at the prospect of a new route in their backyard, the Canterbury Alps. This time 4WD access to Memorial hut instead of mountain bikes made the 5 hour snow-plodding approach up the Faraday Glacier a much more casual affair. However, comparing photos of the face to the previous Spring-time attempt showed the face was in much leaner condition, which would make the first two pitches accessing the main face more difficult. Success was far from guaranteed.

Comparison between Sep 2014 and Aug 2018 conditions

Alastair and Rose fuelling up before the climb with Wild Alaskan Salmon and Mediterranean Chicken

Plugging up to the face in the ellipse of the full moon's shadow, I set out to repeat the sketchy traverse diagonally upwards on snowy rock ledges towards the main ice gulley. Tenuous slabby moves, rotten ice and psychological protection made it a heady start to the route.


Off the belay is an exposed down-climb on small rock edges, with techy dry-tooling moves to pull around into the ice gulley, then followed by a rope length of thin ice. These desperate moves had left a deep impression when I had clawed my way through four years ago. It was rewarding to return to this spot four years later with a much deeper bag of experience in ice, mixed, rock, aid and alpine gained through the last three years of being in the NZ Alpine Team, to be able to negotiate the same moves, this time with even less ice, with much more control. It was good to see all the time spent dry tooling and scratching up the West Face of the Remarkables does pay off in the bigger mountains.

The first pitch. Rotten snow, poor rock, imaginary protection. A Mt Hutton classic.

Rose took on the next two technical pitches; slow difficult leads, we watched loose rock and ice cascade down the gulley as the rope inched upwards. But in the process she had surpassed our previous high-point and we were through the hardest climbing. We were ecstatic. Every turn of the corner revealed an exciting new view of the climbing that lay above, and from this point upwards it only got better and better. Rose was then treated to an incredible 40-metre pitch of pure, fat, plastic water ice - unheard of in New Zealand!

Setting out on another sugary traverse, Rose's speciality

Caleb seconding the crux pitch that had evaded me four years earlier

Rose climbing squeaky, plastic water ice. A classic pitch

Caleb, our packhorse from Darfield, carried the team onwards to the summit ridge, two moderate pitches and a long simul-climbing block to the top as the gradient relented. As always, the summit was still far beyond the top of the face, involving one 50m abseil and much deep snow plugging. By this point the Canterbury Alps were bathed in moon-light, a spectacular sight. Headlamps were unnecessary.

Stoked to be on the top of Mt Hutton with a full moon shining down on us

Reaching the summit revealed the mighty view west to the Aoraki/Mt Cook range, and unlike my previous climb with Caleb on Punta Herron, this time there wasn't a breath of wind. While climbing overseas provides amazing experiences, for three Kiwi mountaineers, nothing really beats the joy of climbing a new route in your own backyard, the New Zealand Southern Alps.

Sunset panorama from the summit ridge line

Approaching the base of Mt Hutton South Face, with the line of ascent marked

Canada Ice - A Winter in the Rockies

It was 1998, I was stranded in Los Angeles airport, on a long haul flight back to New Zealand. Killing time, I stared at a world map. I still remember thinking, "I want to live in Canada in the winter."



Pilsner Pillar. One of the classic ice climbs in the Canadian Rockies

Almost twenty years later, that strange wish came true. Previously, I have always dreamt up my own trips and adventures in the homeland. Since becoming part of the New Zealand Alpine Team, the team commitment has included several overseas trips to world meccas of ice, rock and altitude to boost our mountain skills. Pencilled in over three years, these trips have made life planning easy.

Ben Dare on Louise Falls

Beginning with three weeks of ice climbing in the Canadian Rockies, I awoke my dormant dream of a Canadian winter and decided to stay on for four months after our compatriots had returned to NZ. Though risky, with no secure income guaranteed, the gamble would prove to pay off...

Myself on Bourgeau Left

Over three intense weeks, our group of ten climbers indulged in more frozen waterfalls than the average kiwi enjoys in a decade. While NZ has prolific mountaineering terrain, and we become skilled on rough approaches, exposed snow slopes and loose rock bands, we are rarely treated to columns of pure vertical water-ice.

Gemma Wilson on Weeping Wall

Adding to the challenge in Canada are debilitating temperatures, especially in the coldest month of January, with temperatures as low as -30 celcius. The screaming pain of thawing frozen hands was our inevitable companion on our first brutally cold climb of Louise Falls, and almost every other outing. Double boots designed for Himalayan altitudes were necessary to prevent frostnip on the coldest days of the season.

As the flick of our ice axe improved, our tick lists of the classic ice climbs grew, increasing in length and difficulty. A few weeks after the Alpine Team returned to New Zealand, I joined two new friends for a trip back up to the Icefields Parkway in the northern Rockies. Artem, from Russia, and Alexis, a Canmore local.

We started our ice fiesta with Murchison Falls, the perfect warm-up with four pitches of soft plastic ice up to WI4+. Conditions on this huge ice fall can vary wildly between the start and end of the 5-month Canadian ice season but we quickly realised how easy the climbing was in the relative warmth of late February compared to the cold, brittle ice in January. Alexis led her first pitch of WI4 from a cave belay at half height, having mentally recovered from the guilt of forgetting half of the quickdraws an hour earlier.

Myself, Artem and Alexis on Murchison Falls

All the hostels were fully booked that night so were forced to bivouac in the snow on the side of the road below our next objective: Curtain Call.

The majestic Curtain Call

Despite camping at the gate, we were still beaten to the base by a three man Spanish team. Improvising, I stretched a 70m pitch up the left-hand side of the massive pillar into a cave behind the central pillar. Instead of curving around onto the outside face, I climbed up to the curtain, towards the mystical blue light, and smashed my way through the shield and peered through to the outside world.

Breaking through the backside of the curtain halfway up Curtain Call

Just then, an ice axe appeared: the Spanish team was climbing up from the other side. I laughed and waited for them to pass before breaking out onto the steep chandeliers, stemming up a gulley to the top.

Myself on the right side of Curtain Call

In January we had made several trips to the famous Weeping Wall, an impressive sheet of ice a football field wide and 200 metres tall, only five minutes from the road. We had climbed it left, right and central, but due to conditions and weather, we never managed to venture onto the upper tier, to climb the notorious Weeping Pillar. A further 180 metres of "the most difficult plastic ice you'll ever climb". The biggest challenge is hitting it before the sun turns it into rotten slush, as many climbers had warned.

We fired up Weeping Wall left-side topping out on sunrise, now treating it as "approach ice", continuing up tracks to the Weeping Pillar, an intimidating jumble of chandeliers, snow mushrooms and hanging ice daggers. The three pitches were long, requiring crafty excavation for still dubious ice screw placements. We topped out just as conditions were deteriorating in the heat, and we V-threaded the melting waterfall as quickly as possible.

Artem, Alexis and I after the descent of the monstrosity that is the Weeping Pillar

If there was one climb we had our eyes set on more than any other, it was Polar Circus. One of the longest ice routes, although it starts off rambling, the top five pitches are a masterpiece of the Rockies, set deep in a powerful cleft. The avalanche hazard on this climb is notable, and we weighed up the risk carefully before committing to it.

Setting off excitedly at 3:30AM, we simul-climbed the first four easy pitches in darkness, and linked rope-stretchers up the first half of the upper tier at dawn, switching off headlamps in time for the business end finale- incredible, steep, featured ice. We wasted no time on the descent, literally running between abseil anchors, pulling the ropes as we galloped. The adrenaline was still pumping when we arrived back at the cars a fraction less than 7 hours after starting.

3AM, Artem and I ready for Polar Circus

Artem firing an ice axe salute to the upper tiers of Polar Circus on descent

After that success, the momentum was hot. Artem and I opened our eyes and started to dream, buoyed by the giddyness of tasting those mythical ice formations. Our next move followed quickly. A return to the windswept Ghost Valley, home to the Real Big Drip. We both knew this 200m monster of hard mixed and ice climbing was beyond us, with an opening pitch of friable M8 going on M9 rock into bullet hard ice blobs, steepening into outrageous WI7 overhangs.

Artem sights the Real Big Drip from a lookout on the approach

Artme climbing the bullet hard ice of the Real Big Drip first pitch

Even the approach was a challenge, and the icy wind had no mercy as we neared the intimidating formation. It was like nothing I had seen before, drip ice adhered to the rock in wild shapes and structures, disappearing out of sight above. The first pitch alone took two hours to lead, and two hours to second. Huge chunks of limestone peeled off as we climbed, I feared the whipper as I negotiated cryptic moves on small edges between spaced bolts.

Peaking

Flash pump throbbed beneath my many layers of clothing. Shoelace thin ropes made seconding harder than leading, as every popped tool resulted in negative progress for Artem. We had tasted the next level, and decided to retreat. Humbled by the experience, and full of respect for the Real Big Drip, we vowed to return one day.

Retreat from Real Big Drip. The wildest & most inspiring ice formation I have ever seen

          

Soon after, the winter chill was replaced with unwelcome spring-time heat. Melting ice and ubiquitous avalanches drove us south to the Utah desert, in search of sun, splitter sandstone, and desert towers.

Fine Jade, The Rectory, Utah

On my return several weeks later, I was pleasantly surprised to find the icicles still hanging on. A sleep deprived welcome-back climb of Twisted in Field had me realise the spring conditions made for much easier climbing. The stage was set to take on some of the harder classics.

Twisted with Noburu Kiruchi. He later helped me land a job as a salad chef at the Grizzly Paw Brewery

Exploring new styles of dry tooling in a hidden cave above Canmore

Climbing a slender ice pillar accessed by bolted M7 choss-tooling, all while being pounded by spindrift

I soon found that the Stanley Headwall was in, and seeing action. Gemma Wilson and I attempted French Reality, but a snow storm blew in early and we made a hasty retreat.

Gemma skiing away from French Reality (right hand upper ice streak) as a storm rolls in

I returned a few days later with Michelle Kadatz, a super-keen ice & mixed aficionado from Calgary. We scratched back up to Gemma's highpoint, and proceeded to climb a hundred metres of the steepest, most sustained ice we had touched of the season. We couldn't feel too proud though, pushing into the mildness of April, it was practically a summer ascent. The same climb would be an order of magnitude more difficult in true winter conditions, a true WI6+.

Michelle Kadatz topping out French Reality

The season was closing, but Jason Dayman and I were frothing for a fierce finale. Michelle Kadatz had mentioned the mixed climb Man Yoga, put up a few years earlier by Jon Walsh & Jonny Simms on the Stanley Headwall. Something of a test piece it seemed. Steep M7 on trad, into a tenuous, thin M7 slab (not quite as heady with the retro-bolting), into a long pitch that culminates in an M8 roof pull. I made it through the roof on the onsight attempt, battling horrendous rope drag having run-out of long quick draws...

Jason Dayman approaches Man Yoga

Jason on the first pitch of M7 trad

Jason seconding the tenuous M7 dry tooling slab

Pumped out of mind, my picks wrenching rock loose from the wall, I felt I could peel off with the choss at any minute, but somehow hung on. "SLACK!!!" I yelled, tugging desperately at the tight ropes to clip the final quickdraw of the crux... I pulled so hard on those ropes, that I managed to pull myself off the wall, my grip finally failing, and I flew off into space. "Snap!" That was the sound of my umbilical leashes snapping. As I hung in mid air, dangling five metres below the roof, I looked up to see my ice axe wedged in a crack, the leash flapping around in the gentle breeze. I pulled back up and finished the pitch.

Jason coming through the M8 roof

Jason, a strong rock climber, followed up in bare hands. We bailed on the final ice pitch, which looked rotten. We needed the extra daylight to excavate Jason's skis, which had been buried by an enormous avalanche that had ripped overhead earlier in the day. Jason found his skis. We decided that was enough adventure for one winter in the Canadian Rockies.

Excavating our skis the day after the avalanche buried them

A week later I drove west to Vancouver Island, for six weeks of commercial prawn fishing around the beautiful inlets of west coast British Columbia. I was content to leave behind the winter of the Canadian Rockies, ready to start a new adventure...

Yosemite - a Month of Climbing on El Capitan

Yosemite Valley saw a true Kiwi invasion this spring season, swarming to the most famous big walls in the world. Our attention in this expedition was unequivocally focused on the greatest of them all, El Capitan. Over the course of the month, our group would go on to climb the Motherstone by six different routes.

El Capitan

Yosemite was the second of the NZ Alpine Team’s official training trips, the first being Canadian Rockies. These two destinations are the most convenient for kiwi climbers looking to gain mileage & experience ice climbing and big wall climbing as a foundation for larger alpine objectives.

I teamed up with William Skea for the expedition, a talented Australian climber looking to join the next NZAT intake. We decided to spend a week warming up in Utah, home of incredible desert sandstone spires, the perfect place to hone our crack climbing skills before hitting the Valley.

INDIAN CREEK, MOAB, ZION

We let ourselves enjoy one delicious handcrack at Indian Creek, then condemned ourselves to only focus on our weaknesses: offwidths. We thrashed our skin and sanity on as many heinous wide cracks as we could find, mixed in with our other nemesis, thin hands & ringlocks. All the while, we knew that if we broke a sweat on these limb-swallowing grovel fests then they would surely cry on the Monster Offwidth - one of the infamous cruxes of our main Yosemite objective, Freerider.

Moab also became the perfect pre-Yosemite training ground: aiding The Tombstone, a 120 metre formation famous for Dean Potter mega whippers, night-time hammering pitons & beaks up a thin seam, setting up the portaledge mid-route, and even dropping into a deep hole in Canyonlands to rescue a Romanian couple’s crashed drone.

Will on Shunes Buttress, Zion

A 24-hour stopover in Zion yielded two of the park’s classic free routes, Smashmouth (5.11-, 120m) and Shunes Buttress (5.11+, 300m). We were psyched and ready for Yosemite. Warmed up and rested, we would go straight to the Mother Stone, we plotted a one-day ascent of El Capitan via Lurking Fear, 19 pitches of up to C2+ aid climbing and 5.9 free climbing.

LURKING FEAR

As first light broke over our first morning in the Valley, we were already dwarfed by El Cap's Southwest face. To speed up the ascent we short fixed and used a Silent Partner (a rope soloing device) so the leader could continue climbing on self-belay while the seconder jumared below cleaning the previous pitch. It felt incredibly clean & efficient. No more belay clusters, the leader would already be 5 to 15 metres up the next pitch by the time the cleaner arrived to belay them upwards. It was thrilling to top out on El Cap in a glowing sunset, descending East Ledges by headlamp. First days in the Valley don’t come much better.


Will on Lurking Fear

WEST FACE OF EL CAPITAN

Foolishly, I failed to rest the following days, giving into the temptation of some deceptively tough offwidths and finger cracks around the Valley. So when Rose suggested we climb the West Face of El Capitan, a 16 pitch 5.11c free route, I was blood blistered and battered, but I could not bear to disappoint Rose, especially since it was her final day. At first light we found ourselves staring up the steep slabs of the West Face, with crux 5.11c pitches off the deck. Rose navigated with a steady precision the heady, thin, delicate and slippery.

Rose on the West Face

When I took over the lead at halfway, the challenges changed - route finding, run-outs and rain - afternoon storms finally released and forced out the pocket aiders to get up the last 5.10d steep crack. We topped out endless wet 5.3 grooves and slabs after sunset, and descended a very slippery and dark East Ledges to complete the 19 hour day. But whenever climbing with Rose, its hard not to finish every hard day with a laugh and smile.

The following day, Will spontaneously repeated the West Face with a new French partner in a scant 14 hours taking advantage of perfect weather.

But each of these climbs were merely preparation for our main ambition, free climbing (as much as possible) on a ground-up 5-day ascent of Freerider on the southwest face of El Cap.

FREERIDER

This had been our goal for months; we shaped our training around the specific cruxes of the route - desperate slab, endurance offwidthing, crimpy bouldering, and steep finger and hand cracks. Will’s friend Audrey also joined us from San Francisco, and we formed a team of three. We realised big wall climbing as a three would be more complicated, with extra ropes and heavier haul bags, but it would definitely be more sociable and fun, and require more teamwork. Audrey was super psyched, Freerider would be her first multi-day big wall.

As much as we felt we should pursue the purest ethics, using the 200m of fixed ropes to Heart Ledges was too convenient to pass up. A few days in advance, Will and I hauled our 100kg of food, water, portaledge and sleeping gear to Heart Ledges (pitch 10), making our first day of slab climbing up FreeBlast far more efficient.

Will, our wide climbing specialist, squirmed up the notorious Hollow Flake offwidth, 5.9 squeeze climbing with a #6 cam left maxed out, twenty metres below. Its fearful reputation is well deserved, but in terms of sheer physical brutality it was no comparison to the 50 metre vertical pitch above; the Monster Offwidth. But Will’s preparation served him well as he patiently heel-toe cammed and arm-barred his way up the surprisingly featured crack, bumping #6 cams the entire way for a proud onsight.


Will on the Monster Offwidth

Soon after, afternoon rainstorms drenched the rock, forcing us to set up our portaledge at an awkward hanging belay, and the three of us all crammed into the bowing ledge to wait out a wet night, frustrated by our slow progress. Fortunately, the granite dried quickly, and we progressed to the Alcove bivvy by the end of the third day, 18 pitches up. There we caught up with Daniel Joll and his Wanaka-based partner Jon Sedon who were also attempting Freerider.

The Huber boulder pitch was next, a desperate V8 bouldering sequence with dynamic throws between small crimps. Will solved the moves after a few attempts, suffering from cold fingers, but he couldn’t link through the traverse, and pulled through to keep the team moving upwards. Although we had dreamed of projecting the hard pitches, in the moment we felt the enormity of the route and the need to keep moving overweighed the desire to work out the cruxes. We would have to come back and target each hard section specifically.

After navigating the seeping Sewer pitch, I took back the lead for some spicy loose flakes, and the famous Enduro Corner.


Jon Sedon on the Sewer pitch

Back at the Block bivvy that night we savoured our position high on El Cap, our bodies and hands were feeling the toll from the days of effort. We charged to the top the following day, climbing spectacular hand cracks, finger cracks, offwidths, all sustained 5.11, all with nauseating exposure.

Finishing Freerider felt an order of magnitude more satisfying than any of our past ascents of El Cap. It was the hardest rock climb each of us had completed, and finally we grasped how much effort would be required to free-climb the entire route. Free climbing big walls in their fullness is no mean feat!


Alastair, Audrey and Will at the Freerider topout. Photo: W. Skea

NOSE IN A DAY

After inching up Freerider with our hordes of gear for five days, we felt a renewed need for speed. After a few days of rest, Dan Joll and I teamed up to start our work on the Nose. A practice day on the first 15 pitches allowed us to re-learn those tricky pendulums and stash 5 litres of electrolyte for the one-day push. Being overtaken by Tommy Caldwell and Alex Honnold simul-climbing was an eye opener into what real speed on the Nose looks like.

At 5.20AM a couple of days later, we started the stopwatch, and Dan started racing up the first 5.11d pitch. He pulled on almost every cam, because in this game, anything goes. “ROPE FIXED!” came the call, and I jumared like a man possessed. It was a huge rush. “34 MINUTES!” I yelled as Dan charged to the third anchor. With the gear beta memorised, Dan managed to stretch the rack to pitch 7 before I swung over to replenish him with gear.


Dan on the third pitch of the Nose

The Stove Legs passed in a mad blur as I accidentally swallowed all of our caffeine tablets at once, I’ve never felt so wired. We were lucky to pass several parties in one hit at the Texas Flake as three parties were starting their second day. “So sorry, coming through, can I clip in there? Thanks, we’ll be out of your way shortly…” were the awkward exchanges as we tried to balance politeness with urgency. The other teams understood, and even helped flake our ropes in the inevitable tangles, I struggled to keep up with Dan’s flaming pace.

Dan finished his block at the base of the Great Roof, pitch 19, just over 4 hours in. Dan beamed – we were 20 minutes ahead of his previous best. From this point on, the wall steepened and the grades shot into 5.11 and 5.12 for the most part. I stepped into my pocket ladders and started aid climbing as fast as I could.

The red and gold link cams were endlessly useful, with their many moving parts providing a much larger camming range. I leap-frogged the two pieces on the long sections of one and two inch cracks, only occasionally leaving pieces for protection. With solid placements all the way, I didn’t have to worry about the large loop of slack rope hanging below to the anchor.

Above the Changing Corners we passed a party that we had chatted with two days earlier on the Stove Legs, they graciously let us through as we pushed towards the summit bolt ladder.

Looking down the spine of the Nose from the end of the bolt ladder

Just before pulling over the final overhang, I paused for a moment to wipe the sweat from my eyes, trying to take in the sweeping expanse of granite below. My brain was still surging with adrenaline, the view was hard to absorb. Dan tagged the tree several minutes later before the clock rolled past 9 hours, we laughed and collapsed at the tree. We had hardly eaten anything all day.

That soon changed when we met a Canadian climber named Doug at the Zodiac top-out. He had finished two days early, resulting in a serious problem – he had two days of extra food that needed to be eaten.

MAGIC MUSHROOM

We had one last item on the agenda, a hard aid climb. We chose Magic Mushroom, a 30-pitch A3 aid route. Unfortunately, our last route was plagued by bad vibes. We pre-hauled our gear to the top of Mammoth Terraces, 10 pitches up, using the Heart Ledges fixed lines. The following day, nightfall caught us, off-route, two pitches below our gear, with only one head torch between us. It was well after midnight by the time we finally found asleep on our ledge.

We woke late to disturbing sounds below. Worrying yells and thuds that sounded like falling haul bags. We soon learned what had happened. Two expert climbers had fallen mysteriously while speed climbing the moderate terrain below Mammoth Terraces. We felt sick to the stomach, heads spinning.
We continued on indecisively, questioning our motivations, but felt we had no choice but to continue. We only managed five pitches that day, running into trouble on a convoluted series of traversing pitches, baking in merciless afternoon sun.


Will at our highpoint on Magic Mushroom

That evening, Will fumbled with the portaledge spreader bar, and we watched it fall in slow motion to the ground… Finally we agreed this climb was not meant to be. We were totally exhausted in body and mind and though we were 15 pitches up, the hard climbing was only just getting started. We abseiled down the next morning; our decision felt right. We had learned a huge amount in our month in the Valley, and needed some time to process the bewildering events of our last climb.

We left the valley with heavy hearts thinking about the two climbers who had fallen while speed climbing on the Salathe. Soon after we learned that the record on the Nose was broken again that morning. This, combined with our own speed climbing experience on the Nose, gave us a lot to think about on our sunny drive back to San Francisco.

Jon at the Alcove Bivvy. Photo: D. Joll

Four routes climbed on El Cap. From left to right: West Face, Lurking Fear, Freerider, Nose.
Magic Mushroom starts just left of the Freerider start, and continues straight up.

Patagonia - Tierra del Viento

After our first exhausting failed effort on Punta Herron, our motivation for a second attempt was drained, none of us thought we would be returning anytime soon. This was our main objective, but the thought of repeating the twelve-pitch approach traverse beneath Standhardt only to find Punta Herron unclimbable again was a risk our sore bodies dreaded, now four weeks into the trip. But spotting the bone-dry north ridge of Punta Herron from Mermoz rejuvenated our psych, and after five days of Chalten extravagance we were rearing for a second attempt.

Caleb performing a lower out above Standhardt Col, the pristine Circque of the Altars beyond

This time we re-vamped our strategy, going as light as possible for a 3-day blast from town, stripping away every extraneous carabiner and spare sock or glove. After an early start from town, we pinched ourselves at Laguna Torre. Bluebird, zero wind, Cerro Torre pink in the sunrise. A full day of rime-melting was ahead, we felt giddy. Could Patagonia be so kind?

Every vibe on this trip felt better than our first try two weeks early. Midnight avalanches were replaced with sunny cramponing. Desperate slabby mixed climbing above Col Standhardt that took two hours was now a dry rock climb, a twenty-minute romp.  Alastair set up the tent on a pleasant flat spot a hundred metres past the Col, while Dan & Caleb fixed the ropes above camp for a speedy start the next morning.

Awake at 2AM, wind flapping the tent walls sharpened our nerves. But the wind would die off after dawn. Caleb led the simul climbing across Standhardt, where we abseiled into an ice gulley one pitch below the base of Punta Herron. It was now light enough to see the broad rock ridge, the "Arete of the Children" (as the Italian route name translates) almost bare of rime - yes.

Alastair took the rack and approached the V-notch of the Col de Suenos, the "Col of Dreams". Standing on the Col, suddenly exposed to the full force of wind ripping across the Patagonian ice-cap, this quickly became a Col of Nightmares. Fingers were numb in minutes, making it difficult to fiddle in micro-cams to protect cruxy moves off the ledge, crampons skating on blank granite, picks sunk in thin seams. Dry tooling was the only option in such cold conditions, rock shoes and crack-gloves became a dead-weight pipe dream in the bottom of our packs. That first pitch required so much of Alastair's mental stamina; the only thing he could hear above the incessant roar of the wind were a dozen internal voices screaming, "this is madness". This was the full-on Patagonian experience that we had craved. Could we stomach the reality?

Caleb and Alastair dry tooling on the North Ridge of Punta Herron

Dan was a pillar of positivity despite the dire conditions, and after three taxing pitches he took over the sharp end, gunning for the base of the ice mushroom. Caleb and Alastair huddled for hours at the belays, tense bodies groaning as the wind showed no sign of relenting, at the time it felt insane to continue... "Watch me!" yelled Dan as he was forced to crimp glove-less with injured wrists, fear of a ledge fall was all that stuck him to the thin face moves. "Only one pitch to the summit!" Our spirits lifted, perhaps the summit of Punta Herron was in reach after all?

Caleb took over the reigns for the ice-cap, charging towards the mushroom, the final question mark between us and the summit. Turning the corner he found plastic blue ice leading up a natural tunnel formation, and with only a handful of ice screws was forced to run-out the last thirty metres, sinking his tools deep while being showered with falling rime. Kneeling on the summit without being blown off our feet, we felt a sliver of the mountain's mercy. Mercy that was non-existent as we inched downwards on the windy abseil descent, only twenty metres at a time, grateful for every succesful rope pull, rope ends blown horizontal in the dark.

Relief welled up on re-reaching the sheltered Col de Suenos, and the following thousand metres of abseiling did pass almost as a dream. Alastair was guilty of nodding off several times at the anchors while Dan pounded pitons below, un-satisfied with anything but the perfect metallic crescendo. With only one stint of aid-climbing to retrieve a stuck knot, we reached the glacier soon after dawn, but with a storm brewing, sleep would have to wait. We walked through the streets of El Chalten late that afternoon, wet from rain, sunburnt from sun, eyes stinging and bloodshot from thirty-six hours on the go, too numb to feel any sense of achievement. But the first round of Quilmes Stout was all that was needed to change that.

Four weeks earlier...
After forty hours of transit, the Fitzroy skyline finally appeared in view through the minivan windscreen at the head of Lago Viedma. We felt strangely at home – in our minds we were cruising alongside Lake Pukaki en route to Mt Cook, the cloud piercer smouldering in another northwest storm. On closer inspection, we realised this massif was a Southern Alps on steroids, and even the approaches alone would be equivalent to an ascent of Aoraki.

But we had arrived at the end of a gorgeous multi-day clearance, the famous winds were picking up and we were condemned to several days of world-class bouldering and trail running to shake off the jet-lag while hearing of the town’s latest serving of splitter cracks.

Our team was made up of Daniel Joll, Patagonian veteran, this was his eight visit, Caleb Jennings, the packhorse from Darfield, and Alastair McDowell, one of the alpine team mentees.
Soon enough a high-pressure bubble appeared on the horizon, so in advance we swagged in a week’s supplies up the Torre Valley to our basecamp in Niponino. While others waited in town for the perfect weather, we proceeded to spend the next full day tent-bound, ready to pounce as soon as the barometer spiked. Kiwi mountaineering style.

El Mocho
Confused why our satellite phone could not send nor receive messages, Dan’s heart sunk when he realised it was still loaded with a Nepali sim-card. We lacked confidence to go big on our outdated forecast, but were also content with a less committing warmup – a rock climb on El Mocho at the base of Cerro Torre’s south-east ridge was the ticket.

Alastair on the crux pitch of Voie des Benetiers, El Mocho

‘Voie des Benetiers’ was a line of ten pitches of great crack climbing – the grade of 7b+ (27) didn’t put us off as this was only a short boulder problem that we aided through, the rest of the climb was the perfect level of moderate and fun, with immaculate granite.

Medialuna
Back at Niponino, the consensus on weather was windy, so the following morning we hiked up to Medialuna, the distinctive half-moon shaped rock feature opposite El Mocho.

Caleb finishing the grunty 5.9 offwidth start to Rubio y Azul, Medialuna

The first several pitches were protected from the wind, not only while wedged deep in off-width cracks. We knew that higher up, slabs on the ridge were completely exposed to wind, but the wind abated just enough to lure us onto them, before rudely slamming us with gusts stronger than any of has had experienced on rock. In hindsight, we should have continued onwards into the sheltered top section and wait for lighter wind, but we decided to abseil off.

Inevitably, the winds all but ripped the ropes from our hands, twisted them and our efforts to pull the ropes were futile. Cutting those the new rope drew a tear from my eye. A couple of other climbers had appeared and offered to share their ropes for the remaining descent. We walked out to El Chalten with light packs, but heavy hearts - a sad end for our two brand new half ropes.

Torre Egger
After a moderate binge session in El Chalten, a promising 4-day weather window appeared on Meteoblue… we started to get excited and dream big. This was our chance to attempt the main objective, Torre Egger via the north face of Punta Herron.

Another dash up the Torre glacial approach with light packs this time, thanks to all our heavy gear stashed at Niponino. We breathed relief upon reaching our stash, un-touched by the notorious fox, known to tear through even the thickest duffel bags in search of food.

At the end of a day stuck in the tent, we set out for Standhardt Col at 7pm loaded for the mission, but to our disappointment the snow did not cease to fall as forecast. Around midnight we found ourselves high on the glacier below Standhardt, postholing through deep snow, concerned about avalanche risk.

Under the incessant snowfall, there was no possibility of climbing Exocet that night as we had planned; instead we pitched camp, digging in on a relatively sheltered position. Still, avalanches shook past our tent during the night, fear coming in the way of any sleep that night. We were forced to wait an entire day before snow conditions consolidated allowing us to continue onwards early the following morning.

Magnificent weather prevailed, but poor conditions plagued us on the approach to Punta Herron, with thick rime covering tool placements on what is normally mellow rock slabs. Later, melting rime bombed us from the walls of Standhart, and forced us to aid our way up wet, low-angle slabs.

Alastair on one of the tedious traverses invovled in abseiling Toboggan on the east face of Torre Egger

On catching our first view of Punta Herron in the late afternoon, we realised the 300m rock ridge was virtually un-climbable, a veritable waterfall about to be set in a shield of verglas as the temps plummeted. Twenty abseils later, we stumbled onto the glacier for a pre-dawn snooze at Noruegos bivvy, glad to be on the horizontal again after a long night’s retreat.

Rafael
One day of fine weather remained before the close-out, we recovered as much as possible before setting off for Rafael on the Fitz massif. Three hours of scrambling up the opposite side of the valley gave us a pristine view of the Torre Massif at dawn, before enjoying fifteen pitches of moderate mixed scratching, simul-climbing and some wide cracks to top out on a spiky summit pinnacle.

Caleb abseiling from Rafael with the top half of Saint Exupery behind

Despite our fatigue from the failed attempt on Egger, we were glad to have sucked the weather window dry, as well as ourselves. Back in town, after a nerve-wracking windy walk-out, we took our calorie replacement therapy seriously. But not for long, another weather window was only two days away…

Mission to Mermoz
With our stash retrieved from Niponino, we were psyched for a mission on the opposite side of the range, to a peak on the Fitz Massif. The winds would abate only for an afternoon, our solution was a lightweight, sleepless push on the 600m west face of Aguja Mermoz, Fitz Roy’s nextdoor neighbour.

The eight-hour approach passed beneath the stars and we were simul-climbing up the Argentina route before even dawn had caught us. The temperatures were arctic, the granite choss, pasted in streaks of ice. Climbing in boots and thick gloves was all but compulsory to ward off numb digits. More than once we questioned what we were doing, but somehow we clung onto enough resolve to continue upwards towards the sunny summit ridge…

Once there our hardships dissolved and eight pitches of cruisy granite cracks under a hot sun along the ridge crest was our reward. The final simul block to the summit revealed excellent views of the North Pillar of Fitzroy and dozens of other climbers swarming on the peak of Guillamet behind us.

A happy and warm team on the summit of Aguja Mermoz, North Pillar of Fitzroy towers in the background

Darkness caught us for the second time on the descent, as we raced across the icy slab traverse and down the glacier to the forest river trail. Our lack of sleepl made for a dizzying final few hours alongside the river, warding off strange dreams, slapping our faces to stick with reality. When returning to benign terrain, it can be hard to keep the brain alert after so many hours of focussed concentration.

Near the roadend, we lay down for a comfortable bivvy on the plush forest floor, around 3AM. This was rudely interrupted an hour later when we awoke soaking wet, rain pouring down on our open bivvy. We threw together our wet packs and continued trudging along, into the dawn, dreaming about the prospect of El Chalten's warm comforts...