See you in the middle of the world

Opening shot: Beau Fredlund on Silberhorn by Ross Hewitt

Scottish guide Ross Hewitt, an insatiable high-altitude wanderer, takes us on a new adventure in New Zealand’s Southern Alps. He spent a few weeks there last autumn with several fellow climbers. This first part is devoted to the beginning of the adventure around Mount Rarakiora and Mount Aoraki, in the company of Beau Fredlund, the man of the yellow stone. A rendezvous in the middle of the world for these two Black Crows skiers, nestled a continent apart and reunited in the southwestern Pacific to share some blissful skiing adventures.

The plane landed in Christchurch just after midnight. I was sleep-deprived after a 40-hour journey from Europe, much of which was spent next to an unhappy baby. As I picked up my ski bag from the carousel, a local police officer struck up a conversation and informed me that a guide had just died in an avalanche accident in the Arrowsmiths, along with other recent incidents. Disoriented from 11 hours of jet lag, I found it hard to process this information. 

With a few hours to wait for Beau to arrive, I desperately needed to lie down and rest but sleep proved elusive, and by 5 a.m., I gave up trying and went outside to stretch my legs. A quick check of the weather revealed a 4-day window starting the next day, which was good news. I knew we would be flying into the Mt. Cook Range in the morning, but before that could happen, I needed to pick up the rental car, collect Beau, shop for gas and ten days’ worth of supplies, and then drive 5 hours to Mt. Cook Village. The combination of jet lag and sleep deprivation was wreaking havoc on my ability to think clearly. The rental company had me jumping through hoops trying to get the start and expiry dates on my driving license translated numerically. Despite paying 70 dollars, the translated document still showed 5/10/30 as 5/10/30. I couldn’t help but smile, knowing that the French have similar revenue-generating laws. 

Beau greeted me with a hug at the airport as it had been a few years since we had seen each other over a beer in Chamonix. Miraculously all his gear had made it and we hit the road in an unfamiliar hire car, fighting jet-lag, driving on the opposite side of the road. After what felt like an eternity, we reached Twizel, fortunately with only a couple of minor traffic violations along the way. 

The last part of the drive the road felt familiar and I could relax a bit, following the edge of Lake Pukaki through heavy rain to Mt. Cook Village. I had been on the go for 60 hours with little sleep, and after sharing a couple of social beers, collapsed into a deep sleep. However, jet lag pulled me out of slumber at 3 a.m. As I got up to use the restroom, I was captivated by the stars twinkling in the clear night sky, knowing we would be heading out in the morning. After a brief period of tossing and turning, I fell back into a deep sleep, only to be woken by Beau at 8 a.m. It was time to go. 

As we flew over the majestic Tasman Glacier, our eyes widened in disbelief at the sight of unprecedented avalanche activity unfolding on the shadier slopes around the 2000-meter mark. The landscape was ravished by slides,  with even moderate-angled slopes scarred hundreds of meters wide. It was a startling, foreboding spectacle that left us contemplating the intricate layers and hidden dangers lurking in the snowpack. 

On our first day, we opted to explore the serene beauty of the low angled Bonnie Glacier, nestled beneath the towering peaks of Hamilton and Malte Brun. We skinned between sunshine and shadow, enjoying the cool of the morning then the hot powder on the descent, relishing every moment spent outdoors as we began to adjust our circadian rhythms to accommodate the significant 11-hour time difference. 

Our reconnaissance mission was fruitful; from the head of the Bonnie, we gazed at the awe-inspiring Aoraki, which stood resolutely free from any signs of avalanche activity. This observation provided reassurance that the avalanche risks were primarily confined to the lower elevations, and revealing that the sun-drenched North Faces lacked the same precarious weak layer. 

Fuelled by our newfound insights, we set our sights on Darwin’s North Face—an elegant, 800-meter steep couloir that gracefully opened into a vast snowfield, leading up to the summit ridge. The allure of this remarkable line was irresistible, serving as the perfect warm-up for us to rediscover our skiing abilities after an entire summer spent guiding alpine adventures in the Northern Hemisphere. 

Silberhorn East Face 

While Aoraki may tower slightly higher, the intrepid Kiwi alpinist Bill Denz always deemed Mount Tasman the quintessential mountaineer’s mountain. Like a colossal Himalayan yeti, Tasman ascends an impressive 1,300 meters above Plateau Hut, its summit shrouded in a dense blanket of snow and ice that periodically breaks away, cascading down its formidable faces. The mountain stands before you, fiercely imposing, as if engaged in a powerful Maori ha-ka, challenging climbers with its intimidating presence. Its shoulders and arms —Silberhorn and Syme— taunt climbers to attempt the rime-coated ridges that lead to the lofty summit. Each route offers its own unique beauty and character. 

Silberhorn’s winding South East Ridge is a captivating path, marked by a rock band that has grown over the years, a testament to the retreat of ice in our lifetime. For those seeking a sublime ski, it is the elusive East Face that calls out seductively, enticing skiers with its steep, pristine snowfields, interconnected by narrow couloirs that plunge directly from the summit. To unveil the hidden elegance of Silberhorn, one must ascend of either Dixon or Syme to secure a striking viewpoint. 

In contrast, Syme presents a different challenge, where skiers must navigate a narrow couloir through the lowest rock band before making a rightward traverse onto the first spine. This spine forms the edge of the stunning 50-degree diamond face, a true gem set into the mountain, inviting skiers to its thrilling embrace. Here, one can easily envision the exhilarating experience of skiing, with sluff trailing eagerly behind. This captivating face, positioned diagonally across the fall line and subtly tilted to the left, feels crafted specifically for skiers carving turns to the right, as gravity gracefully pulls the sluff off toward the left. 

As you ascend above the diamond face, a narrow, winding ridge transforms, gradually broadening as the angle relaxes, leading to a serene small plateau. However, this landscape gives way to the forbidding sight of the unskiable, rime-crusted North Ridge, reminding all who gaze upon it of the mountain’s formidable power and beauty. 

Five years ago, I arrived at  Plateau Hut to encounter a winter wonderland, titty deep new snow, with a surface layer of cold sparkling powder that would ski like silk. The magnificent peak of Tasman loomed in front of me, the elegant snow ridges adorned with fondant icing whipped into miraculous features by the wind and adorned with powder spines. At that time, information about skiing Syme was scarce, it lay in mystery waiting to be unraveled. 

The first descent was made in the 1990s by the formidable French duo Pierre Andre Rhem and Jerome Ruby, whose adventurous spirits carved their names into history. The first known repeat of this formidable mountain happened in 2022, during the isolation of the COVID years, led by the talented Kiwi adventurers Sam Smoothy and Will Rowntree. Every time I thought about Tasman and the Syme my heart rate quickened and my pains got sweaty, the idea of riding Syme captivated my thoughts. 

As I gazed upon Syme, it ignited my imagination, and I found myself lost in thoughts of how to ride each intricate section of its terrain. However, we recognized that the immense snowfall from the preceding storm would require a day to settle before we could mount and attempt and with a more that a tinge of sadness, we redirected our plans toward the stunning spine of Cook’s East Ridge instead. 

The next day we had only just left the hut before drama unfolded: a serac on Silberhorn gave way, unleashing an explosive avalanche that charged across the plateau, crossing the track we had followed. It was a stark reminder of the mountain’s power — if we ever needed convincing to steer clear of the larger faces, this was it. For the remainder of the trip, the wind howled around the hut relentlessly, eroding inclination to attempt the daunting challenge of Syme, its allure slowly fading under the weight of nature’s fury. 

Fast forward to the present, and I found myself once again at Plateau Hut, this time accompanied by Yellowstone guide and New Zealand ski veteran, Beau Fredlund. The atmosphere was brimming with excitement as we were joined by the my good mate  Will Rowntree and his trusted partner Sam Smoothy, along with another team comprised of Christina Lustenberger, Guillaume Perell, and Mathurin Vauthier. The air was buzzing with anticipation; we were eager to seize the fleeting weather window that lay before us and set out for Dixon. 

We made quick work of the climb, our hearts pumping with adrenaline as looming clouds threatened to blanket Marcel Col. Just before reaching the summit, an eerie shroud of mist descended upon us, transforming the world into a monochrome landscape where visibility shrank to mere retracing our ascent route by carefully following our boot pack, intimately aware of the precarious nature of our surroundings. This was my fifth attempt at summitting Dixon, each time failing due to summit slopes consumed in cloud. 

Once we returned to the welcoming warmth of the hut, I took to the kitchen, whipping up a couple of hearty bacon and egg sandwiches to restore the energy I had expended racing up Dixon. With the scent of food enveloping me, I quickly fell into a deep, replenishing sleep. As the evening unfolded, the glow of the setting sun filtered through the windows, and we gathered to discuss our plans for the next day. Our visions diverged; Beau had his sights set on Syme, while I leaned towards Silberhorn, drawn by its easier accessibility and the ominous forecast predicting a similar cloud build-up. Eventually, after Will shared his stunning photographs from Silberhorn, Beau was convinced it presented a worthy objective.  From my cozy bunk, my gaze shifted from the Cook’s East Face to Silberhorn and I memorised some key features and took a compass bearing of our approach route before setting the alarm for 2 am and dozing off. 

After a short night, we found ourselves stepping out of the hut and into the inky blackness of the night. The humid air crystallized into delicate diamond dust, sparkling like stars as it caught and dispersed the lights of our headlamps, creating an otherworldly atmosphere. Familiar landmarks transformed into ghostly shadows, and not even the outline of the mountain was visible against the night sky. Surrounded by darkness, I pulled out my compass, navigating by dead reckoning relative to a star’s position. As we entered a crevasse field we began to meander, forced to rely on GPS for guidance. This slower enforced pace allowed the piercing katabatic wind, which felt like icy fingers, to creep through my layers. Soon, I donned all my clothing and cranked my electric socks, desperately fending off the cold. 

Above a ramp led to a rightward traverse we had seen from the hut. Suddenly, an unsettling pang of anxiety hit me; the slope felt more exposed than the gentle ramp we had anticipated with crevasses lurking below and some soft slab formation. I reassured myself that the limited range of my headlamp was skewing my perception, and I continued onward, knowing the next plateau lay just beyond my sight. 

After passing this treacherous stretch, a wave of relief washed over me, and I called back to Beau to follow my path while quickly reorienting myself on the map. Just then, the light from my headlamp flickered, signaling a low battery, victim of the unforgiving cold. With dawn still an hour and a half away, Beau graciously took over trail-breaking, allowing me to tuck in behind him, managing to conserve the remaining battery life. Soon, we reached the beginning of the “Mad Mile,” a daunting stretch of glacier that forms the approach to Syme Ridge. It’s dubbed “Mad” due to the colossal, threatening seracs on Tasman that compel most climbers to adopt an adrenaline-induced jog to pass underneath. 

We continued hugging the left side of the bay, using the terrain above for protection and avoid drifting into the treacherous right side in the inky darkness. As we skinned across a large crevasse, the slope steepened markedly, posing challenges for our climbing skins. In the soft, pre-dawn gloom, we could barely discern two snow slopes above, each potentially our line. Neither of us had anticipated such difficulty in determining the start of the route. A wrong decision at this juncture could cost us precious calories and, more critically, valuable time—an increasingly urgent concern with clouds threatening to roll in by mid-morning. A swift glance at my phone revealed the dawn was nearly upon us, prompting us to transition to crampons and our magic carpet snow plates while we waited for enough light to reveal the correct path. 

Now it was my turn to break trail, and in the grey half-light, I made good progress through the boot-deep powder. The horizon was ablaze with vibrant shades of red, a fleeting transition that bled into a soft blue sky that deepened with altitude, hinting at the marvel yet to come. As we approached the imposing serac, the sun finally broke free from the horizon, casting a warm, pink glow across the mountainside in a breathtaking display of alpenglow. We found ourselves momentarily frozen in awe, captivated by this extraordinary scene. In that moment, we pulled out our cameras, determined not to let its beauty slip away into memory. Those first rays of sunlight were a comforting embrace, offering a relief to our frosted extremities that had been suffered the biting cold in silence until now. 

I arrived at the ridge just below the summit and gazed into the Linda cirque. Aoraki loomed above me, its peak rising majestically  to pierce the sky, bathed in a warm, golden light that transformed the snow into regal cloak. The last metres consisted of wind-polished blue ice, in stark contrast with the soft, powdery snow we had climbed so far. After a thoughtful discussion, we decided to seize the moment and ski while the light and snow conditions were optimal, rather than risk getting caught in the clouds again climbing to the summit with a deteriorating forecast. We were here to shred subliminal lines, indulge ourselves in good snow and ride making big turns. Reaching any peaks would simply be an added bonus. 

We meticulously stomped out ledges, transitioning to our skis with care. Each movement was deliberate as we double-checked our gear: ensuring the ski bases, bindings and toe sockets were free of ice, and confirming that the boot ski-walk mechanisms were properly engaged. With ice axes in hand, we felt the anticipation heighten, the light rime on the surface, posing a question about how our skis would react during the first turns. Looking down the slope, it remained enveloped in the soft glow of dawn. The initial gully opened up into a stunning expanse of  snow, leading to a constriction framed on the right by striking cobalt blue glacier ice, gleaming like a jewel. This corridor led to a vast, open face, that inviting opening it up and surfing effortlessly over the cold silk. 

The combination of excitement and nerves heightened my awareness as I shuffled my weight from ski to ski, building my proprioception, eager to get started. With a nod from Beau confirming he was ready, I slid over to the spur on the right, knowing that my edges would need to bite through the slightly rime-covered surface. When the snow is perfect, it’s easy to ski; however, with inconsistencies like rime, crust, or underlying ice, there’s a lot of tension until you make that first turn and come through it feeling confident about your margins. It’s similar to a triathlon when a participant transitions from the bike to a run, often coming out wobbly, transitions can be challenging, especially when you’re working near your limits. On top of that, ski mountaineering brings added factors like sleep deprivation, high altitude, and significant deficits in calories, water, and electrolytes. 

With a pop of my quadriceps, I launch into the air, turning across the fall line. My skis touched down, and the edges bit into the snow progressively, causing me to forget about the slight rime on the surface. What was I worrying about? Filled with confidence, I skied the top third of the line in one go, occasionally probing below me to check the depth of snow over the ice, until I reached the upper snowfield where I could wait for Beau to clear away his sluff. The next section is stunning, the blue glacial ice contrasting against the pristine white snow. We took some time to capture images here before skiing through the choke, where the face opened out to the right beneath the median rock band. 

Now we could freeride, skiing diagonally to the right as gravity pulled the sluff down the fall line. My skis reached that magical velocity where they pivot effortlessly,  surfing effortlessly on the snow surface. Just above the bergschrund, I caught a glimpse of the sluff train thundering down to my right and paused momentarily to let it pass. During this stop, I noticed the ‘Mad Mile’ seracs in the cold light of day, and taking fright, skied continuously to the safety of the Grand Plateau. When Beau joined me, I asked, “Was it worth it?” He, a man of few but measured words, simply replied, “Absolutely.” 

Photos and text by Ross Hewitt unless otherwise stated.

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