Drawn Upwards

Crossing the divide into the Landsborough (Easter 2019) (Maddy Whittaker)

Our mountains, how they bend and fold. Glaciers flowing from rock to ice to me. This past year I have been mesmerised by the scale, the shapes, the way light plays upon the ice and the patterns the wind whittles in the snow. I used to think it was a strange force that draws us upwards. But now I understand that this force is not so strange at all. 

Some moments seem to burn brighter than others. The first time I saw the Bonar glacier, clambering over the top of the Quarterdeck, the golden moonlight and pink rays of first light washing the snow in a magical glow. The first time I scrambled upon warm granite in the Darrans, impossibly steep rock expanses rising straight up out of the sea. My first New Years in the hills, running through golden tussock, my memories tinged with the overexposure of golden hour. My first trip deep in the bowels of the Landsborough. Water cascading everywhere in a wild joyous dance.

And then the Tasman. Dappled ice tunnels framing Aoraki. There is something so tremendously magnificent about feeling small. It’s almost as if being a witness to the wonder of a mountain morning somehow gives everything leading up to this moment meaning.

It’s 1:30am. Pattering quietly across the floor of Tasman Saddle Hut, out the half snow buried door. The rope to the toilet sways gently. The storm has quieted now, the sky is clear. The shadowy silhouettes of a million ancient peaks cradle more stars than I ever imagined possible. I will not leave this place unchanged. The joy of frolicing in these immense spaces will overflow into the mundane. The views from above will change how I see and move in the land below.

The Southern Alps teach us many things. On their snowy slopes we learn discernment and humility, on their icy faces we learn to stay calm, on their crevassed glaciers and avalanche terrain we learn caution, and metres from their summits, we relinquish control and realise that perhaps the greatest glory is knowing when to turn around. But the greatest lesson of all is that it is not the mountains we climb, but the people we climb with. We explore together and stand amazed at what we see, hours passing without needing to speak. In the spaces between civilisation and a summit, we find our family.

There have been times when it all doesn’t seem this simple. Wandering lost in a whiteout, our footsteps stolen into the mist and claustrophobic dark. Hours of abseiling down a cliff, being battered against the rock by bitter wind and rain. Moments perched precariously on verglassed rock, terrified. I’m sure there are more moments like this, but somehow they seem to have faded, overwhelmed by the euphoria of being vulnerable and of journeying in such a roaring land.

And so in light of all this, it is not so strange that we keep coming back. It is not so strange at all

A collection of moments which inspired this piece:

Canyon Lands, Tasman Glacier (Torea Scott Fyfe)

Barrier Peak (Rowan Cox)

The mighty Landy (Maddy Whittaker)

Glacier haze (Maddy Whittaker)

Mt Avalanche (Torea Scott Fyfe)

A forgotten corner of Aspiring National Park (Torea Scott Fyfe)

The Volta (Rowan Cox)