NZ MOUNTAINEERING
I
t’s a curious thing that draws folk into the mountains; a
quandary that’s engaged Alpinists and philosophers
alike. If we look to the classics of mountaineering
literature, we find tales of European climbers, brought
up in the Alps; it’s natural they pursue a life in the mountains.
More recent stories give glimpses into the minds of those who
dedicate their lives to remarkable feats on the world’s highest
peaks; earlier siege-style expeditions with a patriotic
undertone, before the alpine-style evolution gave rise to a
generation of climbers able to climb for more personal reasons.
If, like me, you’ve spent years immersed in such wondrous
pages of brave adventures, you’ll understand that common
elements of good climbing yarns are hardship and suffering.
The epics that unfold in the face of the unknown and the
perseverance that prevails – the human side to these stories is
what we find most captivating.
The thing is, these extreme examples of grit and
determination can be hard to relate to. I’d wager that there are
more people who’ve read Into Thin Air or Touching the Void
than have ever ventured to strap on a pair of crampons, grab an
ice axe and head for the hills.
It’s one of those things we see with awe, wonder how we
might measure up, but eventually console ourselves by deciding
“that’s what those people do, I’m not one of those people.” We
go on with low-risk lives, the years pass by and that little spark
of personal curiosity fades. But you and I, we're not like that.BREAKING THE HABIT
I spent the better part of my 20s in the cloud of my comfort
zone; not of those people. With zero alpine experience by age
31, I was probably past the cut-off for any kind of noteworthy
mountaineering career, and I didn't have any particular desire
to suffer, yet a desire to try a mountain or two had crept up on
over the last few years.
Then one Tuesday, motivated by a spell of office
existentialism, I booked myself in for a ten-day mountaineering
course in New Zealand with Adventure Consultants. In that
moment, I'd decided I wanted to go up a mountain to see if it
revealed the essence of its own appeal. At worst, I’d get a few
Instagram pics out of it.
Booking the trip was the latest in a slowly shifting mindset
that I’d cultivated over the past two or three years. The
abridged story I like to tell culminates in a sunset top-out after
seconding Mount Arapiles’ five-pitch classic The Bard on New
Years Day, 2018. Before long I was redirecting beer money
toward trad gear and opting for quiet Friday nights in
anticipation of a trip to the crag the following morning. I began
to understand the satisfaction of confronting fear and with
each sketchy hand-jam, every less than perfect nut placement,
the horizon of personal potential seemed to broaden. The world
I’d occupied for years, consisting of my one-bedroom inner-city
apartment, the office and the crowd of regulars at the pub,
suddenly seemed claustrophobic.60 / Outdoor