Skiing has always been my favourite thing so it was inevitable that I would end up in the Alps for winter during my time in Europe. I managed to get a job at a very fancy ski chalet in La Clusaz and my friend Trudie was just down the road in the next village. About halfway through the season she asked me if I’d be interested in doing a ski tour at the end of the season. She was looking at doing the Haute Route with her partner at the time. My first questions were, “what is ‘ski touring’? And what is the ‘Haute Route’?” She explained and of course I was all in.
The ’Haute Route’ or high-level route is a traverse across the mountains and glaciers between Chamonix and Zermatt. High in the mountains you travel from hut to hut with long climbs and stunning descents, only once dropping to valley level. It starts on the flanks of Mt Blanc and ends in the shadow of one of the Alp’s most famous mountains; the Matterhorn. As the crow flies the distance is about 70km but the actual route travelled is closer to 120km with 6000m of ascent.
We had a lot of work to do in just a few months if we were to be ready to tackle this challenge. Firstly, Trudie needed to learn to ski. She was a snowboarder, so we swapped our gear and headed for the learners slope where we attempted to teach each other to ski and snowboard. We didn’t enjoy all the falls onto hard snow or ice so soon left the learners slope behind and went to our favourite off piste runs to learn in the steep but forgiving powder.
I had to learn mountaineering skills. Trudie had been a glacier guide in New Zealand so she patiently taught me about avalanches and crevasses and introduced me to crampons, ice axes and transceivers. She had a spiral staircase in her chalet so we would pretend it was a crevasse and I had to set up ropes and do rescues. She hid the transceivers in the snow outside and timed me to find one and then two. If I was slower than three minutes it was a fail.
We bought the guide book and maps we would need and spread them end to end from Trudie’s kitchen, through the lounge and down the hall. We read and re read the advice for each day then marked on the maps the best route along with an escape route off the mountain for each morning and afternoon. We told my employer of our plans. When she discovered we were doing it ‘kiwi style’ as in no GPS but map and compass and with no guide she thought we were insane and would surely die.
Finally April rolled around, we were as ready as we’d ever be. Now we just had to wait for a good weather window. We went to Chamonix and stayed with our good friend Trif. It wasn’t long before the forecast looked good so up the Aiguille Du Midi we went. This lift takes you from 1000m to 3842m, that’s higher than My Cook in a cable car the size of a container jammed in shoulder to shoulder with as many other people they can squeeze in. It’s so steep that it only has one pilon and I felt slightly sick with vertigo as we sped upwards.
This first day was like trial run as it would end back in Chamonix. There was a false sense of security as we cruised down the Vallee Blanche, weaving in and out of big chunks of ice and peering into crevasses as we whizzed past. It was a perfect blue sunny day with no wind, soft spring snow and amazing views. Although we followed well ridden tracks that reinforced what the maps showed us and a gondola soared overhead taking people from France over to Italy and back this was the back country. There was no ski patrol or avalanche monitoring. We were on our own and fully responsible for our decision making and safety.
That first day buoyed our confidence and enhanced our enthusiasm. I was bursting with excitement the next day when we rode the lift up Grand Monte and skied to the ski area boundary, ducked the fence and surveyed the terrain below. We were to ski down to a wide glacier then skin up the other side of the valley. This was my first try of skins. They are like a velvet strip with glue on the back that you stick to the bottom of your skis. When you push your ski forward it slides but grips as you move the next foot up. The boots are more flexible than normal ski boots and the bindings allow you to release the heel so you can lift your foot as you slide each ski forward. In this fashion we zigzagged our way up as far as we could. Near the top it got much steeper and there were more rocks to negotiate. It became easier to take skis off and put them on our packs and continue with crampons and poles to the top. Once at the top you peel the skins off the skis, stick them to themselves and store them inside your jacket to keep the glue warm and skins pliable. Then clip your bindings over your heels and it’s time for downhill.
We deliberated over what to pack and ended up packing our bags over and over again torn between our ingrained kiwi mentally to always be prepared and have what you need to look after yourself and the advice from the guidebook and ski shop assistants. Each night we would stay in a refuge, like a hut but far more substantial than the New Zealand variety. They were made of stone and manned by a host and a chef. They provided three meals so the idea was you had breakfast, left as the sun came up and followed your guide’s tracks until you arrived at the next refuge in time for lunch and later after a relaxing afternoon had dinner. The refuge also provided bedding. Hence everyone we encountered other than the guides only carried a small day pack.
It just didn’t sit right with us, it felt too irresponsible so we carried a sleeping bag each, down jackets, a change of warm dry clothes, first aid kit, avalanche gear, cooker, rice, lunch food, rope and as little climbing gear as we thought we could get away with. Our packs weren’t too heavy once it was shared out but it was the first time any of us had ever skied with a pack. It felt strange and that combined with the flexible boots and skinny skis took a bit of getting used to.
We were soon glad for our choice as over the next pass was a vertical drop of rock that disappeared into a bergschrund. A big gaping crevass at the bottom of the cliff. Already we needed the rope and all our gear to abseil down. I went first and near the bottom I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want to keep descending into the hole but it was wide and hard to avoid. I decided I had to commit so pushed off the cliff hard and let out lots of rope as I swung outwards. I’d timed it just right and landed on the lip on the right side. I was able to hold the rope for Trudie and Craig so they too landed on the right side.
All that took us a lot of time, as did our map reading, consulting the guide book and just making sure we all felt safe and agreed on our route at each stage of the day. The refuge staff gave us a big telling off when we arrived just on dusk in time for dinner. We thought we’d done well but they had been waiting for us for hours thinking we were lost or hurt. It was the same for the entire journey but we couldn’t go any faster. It was the right decision to bring the gear that we did as if we didn’t make a refuge in time or got stuck in bad weather we could build a snow cave, be warm and fed. We could also get ourselves off the mountain via one of our escape routes if we needed to.
The weather gods smiled on us for days as we sped down powder slopes and made our way over mountain passes all higher than Mount Cook. I struggled with the climbing and Trudie and Craig took most of the weight from me to make it easier. I took it back for the downhill and picked the lines with them following me. We each had different strengths and a weakness so were able to take on different roles to help each other through. On glaciers we roped ourselves together with me going first. I was the most confident skier, so it made sense for me to pick the route through the maze of crevasses. They were experienced glacier guides and could better preform a rescue if need be so it was best if I be the one that falls and they the rescuers. Thankfully that didn’t happen but on the last day it was close. We were picking our way down a glacier in an almost white out as low cloud had rolled in. The tips of my skis passed over a gaping hole so I quickly turned and looked over my shoulder to see the back of my skis pass over thin air, as I turned back the front tips were also supported by nothing as the next crevasse was right there. I hate to think how thin that ice bridge must have been.
When it got too steep for skins we would rope up and continue straight up with crampons on. Again, I was to lead as there was more chance of me falling than them and then there was a possibility they could help me to self-arrest (stop my fall with my ice axe). I remember the steepest one of these climbs had a band of cliffs below us, drooping away to the valley floor hundreds of meters below. At one point I turned to look out at the lines of peaks behind me and felt that wobbly vertigo taking hold. I swayed on my feet and could easily have tumbled, a quick push from behind snapped me out of it and from them on I concentrated on the snow between my ice axes and keeping my steps wide enough so I didn’t snag my pants on my crampons.
The best day started on the edge of a giant plateau with a short climb up behind the refuge. I knew from the map that after this small climb we would be treated to 30km of downhill however I wasn’t prepared for the sight that met my eyes. It started with a basin then dropped out of sight down into the valley, further down the valley narrowed and you could see natural halfpipes and ridges and bowls before the snow disappeared into the trees. The snow was knee deep powder with hardly a track on it. That remains the best day skiing of my life, filled with every type of terrain imaginable. It started way up in the highest peaks and ended by racing along a narrow strip of spring snow that weaved its way through the forest at the bottom of the valley like a boarder cross track.
About halfway through the journey we arrived at the impressive Vignettes Refuge. It was perched on a rocky promontory and required us to traverse a narrow ridge with frightening drops either side. Even more frightening was the long drop to the valley floor below. That night it snowed and was still snowing the morning. We were reluctant to leave in the morning, our kiwi instincts told us it was a hut day even though all the guided groups set their GPSs and followed their guides out into the cloud as if nothing was amiss. The lodge guardians encouraged us to leave too as new guests would arrive and they had work to do. After crossing the perilous traverse and getting back onto the plateau we all felt it was a disaster waiting happen. We could hardly see out hand in front of our face, how were we to navigate in this environment with no landmarks to help us. Returning to the hut was a challenge in itself and I have no doubt that decision kept us alive.
The next day dawned blue and pink with the sunrise reflecting off a carpet of new powder, the peaks dazzled in their new coating of snow, and ice crystals suspended in the air glittered. That day was a feast for the eyes. I felt for the people that had traversed this landscape in the white out, the sights they missed!
On day ten we skirted around the majestic Matterhorn and into the famous mountain town of Zermatt. I felt proud and relieved that we’d made it. Grateful to be alive. But most of all sad it was over. This was a pivotal moment in my life and played a major role in the direction my life would take. This adventure was the beginning of my self-propelled journeys into the wild places of our country. It’s what showed me what was possible, the importance of good planning, decision making, risk management and having confidence in that plan regardless of the critics. I loved the navigation, responsibility, assessing risks and decision making as much as the exhilarating feeling of flying through untouched powder and gazing at the impossibly beautiful mountain scenes. Most of all it was the peace and wonder of just being in nature for that extended period of time.