A gripping account of two high alpine winter ascents in New Zealand’s Southern Alps — Elie de Beaumont and Mount Tasman — made during a perfect mid-winter weather window. A family expedition filled with glacier travel, summit challenges, breathtaking scenery, and reflection on the contrast between everyday life and the magic of the high mountains.

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The seemingly endless fine weather pattern that planted itself over the country in mid-July didn’t take long to spark the inevitable in the mountaineering minds of my family. Now, we decided, in the first week of school holidays and last week of university holidays, would be the perfect time to knock off one or two of those long dreamt-of summits, that, until now, we’d been too busy or too unlucky with the weather and conditions to climb.

Mid-week, we decided Elie de Beaumont looked nice. A brilliant outlook on the weather forecast set our idea to a jelly-like consistency, and after a phone call and some turbo-packing in the morning we headed Elie-wards.

7 am the next morning saw our party of three tromping out from the ice box of Tasman Saddle Hut, sniffing the still, dark air and donning skis and packs. We skittered cautiously downhill in the pre-dawn gloom. The sun was still in the process of faintly warming the eastern horizon, while at the same time the moon, round and full like a luminous golf ball, melted into the notch in one of Aoraki’s shoulders. Spellbinding stuff, but we had to get on with it. We slicked our skins on and proceeded upwards.

I watched as morning sunlight crept across the patch of flat glacier just crossed by us, our train track neatly seaming it together. Dad strode ahead, weaving slowly and methodically through the Anna Glacier, which, to me, was a confusing maze of crevasses. He was followed by Elke about 20 m behind and finally me, ever the last one to get organised. 

Our ascent stayed blanketed by shade for the rest of the morning until we reached the shoulder, having carried our skis up the last steep bit in excellent conditions. A quick assessment on reaching a rime-encrusted crack on the ridge made us realise it would be impossible, or at least fairly stupid, to try and ski over it – which garbaged our plan to ski from the very summit. Nevertheless it gave us a chance to use our ice toolery, which until now had just been carted passively up the mountain on our packs. Our skis were parked by the crack and we took turns hacking our way over the rather hollow-sounding icy patch. A few mutterings and the occasional squawk were emitted from my sister below me, frequently sprinkled with debris as I smashed my way upwards. 

 

The top was the most perfect picnic spot New Zealand has to offer – flat, wide, high and sunny and the compulsory spectacular view in all directions. The ‘long stop’ of 20 minutes for lunch concluded with a new challenge. After conversing with the Mount Cook Ski Desk we realised with a gulp we only had 2 ¾  hours to make it to Darwin Corner in time to catch a ski plane home. Luckily all three of us have legs fluent in the language of skiing – in snow ranging from hard to breakable crust and almost-powder. Balancing carefully on the fine line between speed and control, we zoomed erratically past the assortment of deep holes, slots and our omnipresent up-track which had the tendency to trap skis and straight-line them downwards.

As the terrain flattened out we tried some ‘real’ turns, tasted the snow once or twice then barrelled towards Darwin Corner, making it with 45 minutes to spare!

The next major undertaking was an ascent of Mount Tasman by Dad and myself, no less than four days later. The same high pressure system glowed on us from above, blessing us with perfect conditions, a cloudless horizon and a breathless morning. Having the whole hut – and judging by the radio sched, the whole park – to ourselves, we made our way out the door of Pioneer Hut at a ‘leisurely’ 2 am and towards the summit with our names on it.

On Marcel Col we began glancing anxiously eastward and by the time we reached the summit of Lendenfeld at only 6 am, the sun was still reluctant to show itself. At Engineer Col we were starting to seriously miss having some light – we’d need it now. Heaving a sigh of relief, after an eternity we got our sun and continued in a bath of golden light. Conditions could not have been more pristine – hard snow all the way with only one pitch of glassy ‘real’ ice, to make sure we were awake. I couldn’t believe our progress. By 9.30 we emerged on top of the North Shoulder and after a refuelling stop we made a start on the North Ridge, a literally razor-sharp knife edge, sealing east to west with sheer inclines leading to deep death not on one, but on both sides. All my concentration was focussed on putting one foot in front of the other and keeping a lid on my churning stomach of fear. Just follow Dad, one foot in front of the other. 

A frozen crest curled to the west, like a wave on one of those beaches down there. On top of the crest was a view so spectacular that only a hard-won summit can provide. Standing and looking across to Aoraki, south to Aspiring, north to Elie and the Minarets I grinned, and wondered what my school-mates were up to. Stressing about assignments, doing homework or, most probably, still sleeping. It was after all, only 10.30 in the morning. And here we sit, having an early lunch on top of our third 3000m peak within a week, immune to all those things. It makes you wonder, which is the real world? The one populated by problems like Biology assignments, revision for Maths tests, frozen pipes and an overflowing e-mail inbox? Or this one: a glittering realm of perfect peaks, yawning valleys, jagged ridges and lofty peaks where nothing but the essential matters? I know which I’d prefer it to be. High mountains inspire me. They’re above worry level.