FORTRESS OF THE SKY
Wild weather. The looming peaks of Mount Cook beckoning. A hairy glider plane recce... Sam Smoothy explores his homeland while waiting to ski New Zealand’s highest peak
PHOTOS MICKEY ROSS
Well, we finally found some of that ice we were terrified of.” “We don’t want to ski this.” “That is lights out right there. ”High on Mount Cook’s East Face we are soloing off route, clinging to steep white ice, further into the New Zealand sky than any of us had been before. Must have gone right in the dark when we meant to go left. Damn.
Growing up in Wanaka, my favourite dinners were when my parents’ old climbing buddies would stop by to swap stories from their adventures in the hills. Wild tales of nights spent on ledges, of surviving storms and completing a grand traverse of Mount Cook – the highest mountain in New Zealand at 3,724m – seemed in stark contrast to my hard-working parents. Their stories inspired me to create my own story in our Alps, but Mount Cook remained elusive.
The first time I saw Mount Cook up close we were on a family ski touring trip up the Tasman Glacier. The dramatic presence of the mountains in the Southern Alps – the range that runs the length of the South Island– instantly changed me and left memories that are still vividly etched into my skull. Cursing far above my 14years while struggling to learn to skin on a 30-year-old Spalding ski touring set-up. Being so sunburnt you could have spread my nose on toast like peanut butter. I returned to school and wondered what other people were doing with their lives.
As a professional skier I spend every Northern Hemisphere winter chasing powder and podiums, leaving the winter in NZ as a time to recover from the hectic travel schedule. However, each year the loathing to leave home began to creep in earlier; as happy as I once was adventuring overseas, my appreciation for home ever increased and I knew I was neglecting the mountains that had formed me. It was time to change all that.
SALT WATER AND STORMS
Pairing up with my long-term adventure partner and fellow New Zealander Fraser McDougall, we put a call to Europe to enlist some help. Two names sprang to mind. Freeride World Tour Champions and fellow Audi ambassadors Xavier de le Rue and Nadine Wallner are both absolute machines in the mountains, and their strength and smarts would be invaluable in our chances of skiing Aoraki (the Maori name for Mount Cook).
We put the idea to them, and they were game. We set the shoot window for late September to mid October, hoping to snare good snow earlier than the- usual alpine season (the traditional season for ascents on Mount Cook is December on through the summer).Unsurprisingly we immediately ran into difficulties. The weather looked largely disturbed for the entirety of our trip.
Fraser and I had definitely considered that the three-week shoot window could quite likely evaporate without any summit attempts. Leaving us to finish the job sometime before Christmas without the rest of the crew. Not ideal. The great thing about wild weather in the mountains meant there was plenty of swell about on the coast, so we headed to a friend’s shack, working our way around the south coast chasing waves and generally showing off the country to our visitors.
Storms in the mountains means there’s a swell on the coast...
When the swell died we pulled out the thick rubber and got stuck in chasing crayfish. Xavier had taken me spear fishing in France and was super excited to squirm into some underwater slots and drag out some tasty bugs. He even conned me into pulling up a few kina(better known as sea urchin) and whipped up a beautiful ceviche. Nadine seemed a little surprised by our rapidly changing plans but threw herself into the water to score some of her first waves.
However, no matter how beautiful the scenery was, or how great the waves, Mount Cook loomed over us like an ever-present ghost that we knew at some point we’d have to confront. The weather was checked numerous times daily as we waited for our shot at the top. The pressure mounted as the weeks passed by in a haze of salt water and endless cloud. It was only three weeks, but then I had been waiting 15 years for this.
GLIDE THIS WAY...
Fraser had often talked with me about his experiences gliding over Aoraki, bringing home photos that blew my mind. We thought gliding could be a spectacular way to do an aerial reconnaissance of the East Face, our chosen line of descent.
So on a blustery day in the Mackenzie country we sat on the Omarama airstrip, stuffed inside three glider cockpits, parachutes strapped to our backs (the parachutes were the escape plan; should the glider lose a wing or fall out of the sky, the ‘plan’ was to rip the cover off, drag ourselves out of the very tight enclosure, jump free and teach ourselves sky diving. Rapidly). Fraser was my pilot.
Strung behind two Piper Pa-25s, the so-called tractor of the skies, we lurched into the air and it was immediately apparent that this wasn’t the smooth soaring process I had thought. Every gust flexed the glider and for the first few hours .I felt incredibly ill at ease. Fraser’s commentary as he battled tough conditions to try to reach the summit did not help. “Oh God, we are dropping like a stone!”
Thankfully I wasn’t as ill as Xavier, who I later found out made fine use of aplastic bag to relocate his breakfast. We finally found enough thermal lift and moved into formation flying, ripping across the sky above the roof of .New Zealand. The various tilted planes of Mount Cook unfolding beneath us as we looped huge swooping turns. In all the dizzying excitement the purpose of this recon wasn’t exactly ideal, as the aerial view did nothing for my confidence. The mountain appeared much more massive and daunting, a giant fortress of the sky that would easily repel our puny efforts. But sweet Jesus it was beautiful. After six hours aloft we touched down on a landing strip lit by parked trucks and once again assessed the weather.
Gliding through the sky above the roof of New Zealand
THE WINDOW COMETH
We had all but run out of time and still the weather wouldn’t co-operate. The crew was due to leave in48 hours and after an uncertain chat with the local guides we decided the morning window on Friday was our only shot.
It wasn’t looking that great but it was all we had. Eight to 12 hours up, possibly an hour down, maybe we would get lucky. Midnight. I sneak outside Plateau Hut (we helicoptered in earlier that day), a lighthouse in the glacial sea, bolted to the rocks against the tearing winds, a tiny piece of humanity dwarfed by immense walls of ice.
I look up to the east wall, immensely more intimidating in its black cloak. At least the full moon is holding a torch for us. Back to bed for a couple more hours’ sle.ep.2am. It’s time. We lean into the wind and skin across the plateau on brutal windboard over to the base of the face. Not much is being said. Picking our way through serac debris we locate our chosen entry and hopeful exit point: an ice couloir nestled against the crumbling ice cliffs. We don’t fancy wearing any of the ice chunks as hats so charge up our own dead man’s land before Cook’s ice artillery can fire a round down at us.
Heads down in the dark, left foot right foot, I think they call it climbing, we are happy to discover the wind is gone, everything is quiet. A headlamp as your own personal sphere of light, with one in front and two behind, the four of us alone in the dark together, each quietly grinding higher. Dawn breaks. The glorious pink light slides down the face to greet us.
We gladly take a break from the stair master 5000 as Xavier films our position with a drone. I look at Fraser and we shake our heads in bemusement. We are finally doing this; we’re half way up Cook on the greatest dawn of my life
Heli time: en route to the Plateau Hu
RETURN OF THE ICE
We arrive at a huge streak of white ice, cascading down from the summit ridge, and realise we should have turned left earlier. A short but exposed traverse seems the best solution, so I edge out onto it to give it a test.
It’s super firm and only rotten at the edges so I lead on, painfully aware of the serac cliffs 800m below me, and the rope’s useful position still inside my pack. Placing my tools methodically I work my way back to our original line. This finally feels like climbing, like howI imagined it from all those stories around the dining table.
Staring back at Fraser, perched on the edge of this icy world, great gaping space all around me, the only attachment to earth the constant thunk of metal on ice. The pitch steepens again as we enter the final ramp to the summit ridge. Xavier is leading and finds a metre-wide strip of snow, with unskiable white ice either side.
Up here it is impossible to ignore the grand exposure beneath our heels. Pulling up beside Xavier we top out onto the summit ridge as the West Coast comes into view for the first time. The burning in my legs vanishes. The summit is just there but that’s not why we are here. The simple yet immense aesthetics of this line is what has brought us here.
The cloud is building fast so it’s time for us to click in and do what we do best. I promise myself I will be back here to take those extra few exposed steps. For the first time I finally feel like this might actually work, that we might get to shred this incredible peak. We send the Frenchman down the first pitch to test out the ramp, which is a technical, gripping affair. Back on packed snow we decide stability is good to go and it’s time to light it up.
t’s time to light it up…
SLUFF RIVERS ANDCOMPLETE EUPHORIA
All that taxing waiting is gone, we are here and now, and the helicopter is in position. Three, two, one, see ya! Xavier and I rally down the face in unison, him leading the first half as I release sluff, a full river of falling snow to join the debris at the bottom.
Confidence bounding out of control we let it run, huge drawn out drifting turns. There is no effort, the consistent snow and planar face leaves my body on autopilot as I hover above it, staring around incredulous as the surreal rages by. The final crux of the exit couloir nearly unseats me, the ice wall grabs at a ski tip but I have just enough strength to pull it back and fly over the bergshrund back to safety.
One by one the crew arrive, all triumphant arms in the air as the reality of what we have done kicks in. Apart from a short rest at the halfway point to reset the cameras for Nadine and Fraser’s upper turns Xavier and I reckon the descent took us all of five minutes max. Unreal. Flying back across the wind-stripped plateau, skis clattering loudly, barely attached legs flopping, we holler our way home. We stagger up the hill to the hut and into the arms of our crew.
Dishevelled group hugs, frantic storytelling and complete euphoria. My respect for this incredible massif and those who scale it has grown. Seeing its every plane from the sky, and creeping my way up and down its walls with some of my best friends will always stay with me. To have my own, small story in this arena of incredible daring means more to me than anything I have skied or won before. But then this is just the beginning. I will be back.
* In collaboration with Fall-Line Skiing. The trip was backed by Audi AG and Audi NZ. To watch the film, 'SkyPiercer', visit jasehancox.com/theskypiercer.