Posing by the track to the Mueller Hut with growling Mt Sefton in the background
Thursday came with the rain. Until now the rain has been miserable but generally warm, but in the mountains it's cold, and when things get wet they don't dry. Driving to Mt Cook village was pleasant enough, but when I arrived the clouds had really gathered, spilling over the mountains and dribbling constant rain on the village. I'd been planning to pop up a couple of mountains and stay in some of the available DOC huts, but the weather pissed on that idea, so I did one quick walk up to the Red Tarns (a tarn being a mountain lake), and then hit the public shelter.
Public shelters are great in the wet, because everyone who isn't living in an expensive hotel hangs out there for shelter. For some reason the shelter was full of Australians, most of whom were staying at the campsite and had taken refuge from their leaky tents in the cold but dry shelter. There were three mad bastards from Melbourne who were planning an assault on the Copland Pass, one of the toughest walks in the area; Ben and Mira, a lovely couple from Perth who were cycling round New Zealand; Grenville, the mountaineer from another planet who obviously wanted to die before he got old; and a Swede who'd decided to join the Copland Pass team, despite his obvious lack of gear and training. It was all good entertainment as the rain drove down – by all accounts the weather in New Zealand is particularly miserable this year, with spring arriving very late (if at all). If I hear the word 'unseasonable' once more, I'll break down.
The snowy peak of Mt Sefton looms over the campsite in Mt Cook village
Never mind; I spent a couple of days just hanging round in the shelters, sticking it out and sleeping in an increasingly condensed car, and to be honest it was fun with the camaraderie bred of being stuck together with others while the elements do their worst. The snow poured down on the mountains while the rain poured down on us, and the NZ$1.60 pies we got from the pub tasted like heaven after all those camping rice dishes.
Then there were the keas. Keas are New Zealand mountain parrots, a highly intelligent and endangered species. It's easy to understand why they're so endangered, because they're the ornithological equivalent of juvenile delinquents; leave any food around, and the keas will steal it; leave the seats on your bicycle overnight, and the keas will have torn them to shreds by the morning; stay in the public shelter overnight, and the keas will wake you up in the middle of the night by dropping stones on the tin roof and letting them clatter down the corrugations. There are even stories of keas locking trampers in their huts, having watched how humans push the bolts shut. One wonders if the kea is endangered because no matter how much you like birds, you end up wanting to kill the little buggers every time they fly in for a squawk. It's great fun, as long as it's not your kit that's being ravaged.
The Hooker Glacier
Looking down into the Hooker Glacier from the Mueller Hut, with Mt Cook in cloud at the top left
The morning of Saturday 21st started in exactly the same way as the previous two days with despondent skies and constant rain, but by lunchtime there were signs that the sky might clear, so Ben, Mira and I decided to hedge our bets and go off on a short walk up the Hooker Glacier, the one that leads to the foot of Mt Cook. How to describe the views? When the clouds cleared, there was this beast of a mountain, reaching up to an almost-perfect pyramid peak, snow-capped and icing-sugar white. The tranquillity, only broken by the huge glacial river that you cross on two swing bridges, has to be experienced; these mountains have been here a lot longer than any of us, and they're quite content just to sit there, minding their own business, like old men on a park bench staring at the world passing by.
It's worth introducing the mountains, even though it's hard to really understand these peaks without actually seeing them firsthand. Mt Cook is the biggest, of course. It sits at the northern end of the Hooker Glacier, with three main peaks; the one you can see from Mt Cook village is a lovely pyramid shape, but the highest peak is just behind it, which you can only see by viewing the mountain from a different angle. On the western side of the glacier (that's the left as you look at Mt Cook) is Mt Sefton, with the Footstool just to the right of it; Mt Sefton is very snowy and icy, and there are regular booms as the snow avalanches off the slopes. This is, of course, happening all the time throughout these mountains, but Mt Cook is much further away than Sefton, so you only really get to hear Sefton's grumbling. Further to the left of Sefton are the Sealy Ranges, with peaks Mt Ollivier, Mt Kitchener, and a host of others, and the Mt Cook campsite is at the base of the Sealy Ranges. Finally, to the east of the glacier (the right) is Mt Wakefield, the first peak in a range that stretches all along the glacier's east side, right up to Mt Cook, and further east still is the Tasman Glacier.
Looking up the Hooker Glacier, with Mt Cook in cloud in the background
Back to the Hooker Glacier, though. Glaciers are huge 'rivers' of ice that slowly move downhill, carving out valleys and leaving behind rock debris known as the moraine. The Hooker Glacier is a beast indeed, and walking up to it involves following the valley that it has carved over the years – mainly in the Ice Age when it stretched a hell of a lot further than it now does – until you reach the terminal lake, formed by the melt-waters of the glacier. Cold isn't the word; terminal lakes aren't exactly swimming pools, which is made rather obvious as the icebergs float past. Ben and I scooted up along the moraine shores of the lake, almost to the strangely blue glacial wall, but it was pretty hairy scrambling along slopes that could collapse at any moment, so after some exploration we headed back to camp to watch the sun set over the mountains.
The sunset was another to add to the ever-growing list of memorable day-ends. The orange glow of an iridescent snow peak with clouds swirling round the ranges, moving at breakneck speeds in the savage crosswinds at that altitude, is as unique as any sight you'll see. Mt Cook is 3754m (12,315 ft) high, some 2992m (9815 ft) above the town; that's big in anyone's book. The view from the hills around the campsite was just perfect, and we spent the night celebrating the break in the weather with the group who were planning to head off on the Copland route in the morning, while Ben and I made our own little plan.
The Mueller Hut
Ben leaning into the wind outside the beautifully placed Mueller Hut
Sunday arrived to clear skies and savage winds. The heavy snowfalls on the mountains were most noticeable on Sefton and the Sealys, but Ben and I were determined; we were going to climb the 1006m (3300 ft) from the campsite to the Mueller Hut, right on top of the Sealy ridge. We packed our backpacks – well, I did, as Ben wanted to travel light, and only took a daypack of clothes and a bit of food – and we set off on the track to the Sealy Tarns, a pleasant set of lakes about halfway up the mountainside and well below the snowline.
Meanwhile we had a serious climb to tackle. The snow had long since obliterated all signs of a track, and we had to make up our route, not so easy as the hut is just over the top of the range and is therefore invisible until you're almost on top of it. The route we chose was straight up to where we believed the hut was, skirting a precarious-looking snow slide and avoiding most of the drifts. The wind was strong, the snow freezing, and I was glad of the ski pants and gloves I'd borrowed as I climbed a near-vertical snowy moraine on all fours, a full pack on my back. In retrospect we must have been slightly mad; one false step or one slip, both of which were very possible on the very loose stones and rocks we were clambering up, and it was a fall down a few hundred feet into goodness only knows what. To be honest we were both more than a little spooked by the whole thing, but the sight of the dunny roof after hours of sweaty climbing made it all worthwhile, and it wasn't long before we'd made it to the hut.
One of the wonderful things about tramping in New Zealand – or, indeed, mountaineering, which is more what the trip to the Mueller Hut turned out to be, the way we'd gone – is the large number of huts dotted around the National Parks. Australia doesn't have such a proliferation of huts, which enable you to do long walks without worrying about where to stay, and it's one of the reasons New Zealand is such a walker's paradise. The Mueller Hut, one of the more popular huts in the Mt Cook area, is a cosy little building, sleeping 12 people and containing a kitchen and fuel and water supplies.
Mueller Glacier from the peak of Mt Ollivier
It also has what has been described as the best alpine view in the world, looking over the whole Hooker Glacier on one side, with stunning views of Mt Cook and Mt Sefton, and the Mueller Glacier on the other. It's pretty impossible to get across the sheer power of being up in a serious mountain range; it's a little like trying to explain to a teetotaller what it feels like to be drunk. In some ways the sight was just as moving as that of Uluru, because these mountains aren't just lumps of rock and ice, they're awesome enough to be almost religiously powerful. It's small wonder that the Maoris regard Mt Cook – which they call Aoraki, or 'Cloud Piercer' – as a sacred place; I spent a lot of the early evening up at Mueller sitting in the freezing wind and just soaking up the whole environment (after having made a snowman, of course).
The whole Mueller experience was pure excellence. The other people in the hut – eight in all, including myself and Ben, Nick and Caroline from Kent, Peter and Steve from New Zealand, Paul from Australia and Martin from Denmark – were great company, and we played cards after dark as the wind howled and shook the hut, making it sound like the inside of a combustion engine. The wind has to be felt to be believed, constantly gusting and at times blowing so hard you simply can't walk into it, and have to dig your feet into the snow to avoid being blown over; it also never let up, all night. Still, the bunks were cosy enough, if you ignored the frosting breath and shaking walls, and soon enough we all woke up, on top of the world, on the morning of Monday 23rd.
Imagine waking up to such a view; this isn't a pleasant little alpine village ski resort-type view, it's savage, elemental stuff, and it's pretty invigorating. Wanting to extend our stay as long as possible, Ben and I climbed up nearby Mt Ollivier, the peak of which is at 6288 ft, battling against evil winds from hell and sleet being blown in our faces. Luckily the snow had melted quite a lot since our ascent the day before so we made the summit without incident, and the astounding views of the Mueller Glacier were well worth the frozen hands and feet. Unfortunately, by the time we got back to the hut and had made a cup of tea, it was time to get back down to the campsite.
Being blown about on top of Mt Ollivier, with Mt Cook behind me on the right
Climbing a mountain is one thing, but getting down is quite another. The whole point of climbing safely is not to fall down, but when you're trying to walk down a slope that's steeper than 45° and it's covered in a good foot of snow (and often more) it's challenging keeping your balance. After skirting the ridge to avoid the rocks we'd originally followed up, we started to make our descent down a huge snow channel... and that's when we really discovered how to have fun on a mountain. It all began with Ben slipping over and sliding down the slope on his butt, only managing to stop at the bottom by digging in his heels. I tried the same thing, but seeing as I was carrying a big pack with all our possessions in it, I just sank into the snow and didn't manage a slide. Instead I just ran straight down the mountainside, taking huge moon steps through the snow, trying to stay ahead of the mini-avalanche that Ben's slide had started. Before you could say 'sheeeit!' we were halfway down to the snow line, covering the same distance that had taken us a good hour to climb in about 30 seconds.
Still, the best buzz came when I found a huge snow slide that was still hard enough for me to go down with a pack on, and I slid down on my behind, discovering that you could steer by clenching the relevant buttock; flying by the seat of your pants, I suppose you could call it. It's one thing sledging down a snowy hill, but throwing yourself down a mountain with a heavy pack for added momentum gets my vote every time. It certainly cut our descent time down, and we were down in the campsite after about two-and-a-half hours of sliding and tramping, compared to a day's walk to get up.
Hotels and Christmas
My bring-your-own snowman posing in the snow of the Southern Alps
Not surprisingly we spent the afternoon cleaning up (my first shower in five days, which made it practically orgasmic) and generally relaxing. We then popped into The Hermitage, the very posh hotel in Mt Cook (over NZ$200 a night) and soaked up the atmosphere, the firelight and the piano playing1 while our washing dried, and then it was back to the camp for some well-earned rest. It was also pleasant to reflect that the weather had turned sour again, and we'd made it through the whole experience in the nick of time; damn, my car felt nice and warm that night.
Christmas Eve came on a high-pressure front, bringing with it the best weather I've yet seen in New Zealand. By lunchtime there wasn't a cloud in the sky, making Mt Cook shine like a huge beacon, and the three of us popped into town, stocked up on genuine Christmas fayre (as the retail trade likes to call it) and packed our packs. No way were we going to spend the Festive Season in the campground, where the wardens had earned the nicknames of Mr and Mrs Himmler (with their friendly neighbours Mr and Mrs Goebbels); nope, we were going bush for Santa's visit. The place: Ball Shelter, some 16km from Mount Cook village, up the huge Tasman Glacier. Ball Shelter sleeps about six, has very few amenities, and has stunning views of The Minarets, a pretty little multiple-peak mountain that's heavily covered in snow; it's not a bad spot for Crimbo, if you ask me.
DOC, the beloved Department of Conservation, weren't quite so festive spirited, though. The staff at the Mt Cook office were completely off-hand and told us the walk up the Tasman Glacier to Ball Shelter was boring and that the views weren't any good, which was an interesting approach. In the event they were quite, quite wrong.
1 An interesting observation. The piano man, suited up and playing the sort of seamless popular-tune piano medleys that you always here in hotels – guaranteed to offend no one and to bring a smile to the lips of any ancient and loaded widows in the room, in other words – had just one book from which he played his pretty little ditties. The name of the book? 101 Great Songs for Buskers...
