REPRODUCED COURTESY OF JOHN EWING and NEW ZEALAND WILDERNESS MAGAZINE
In view of Aspiring by John Ewing
"In my view Sir Edmond Hillary and I are interchangeable"
"Surely you could climb Mt Bevan," said my friend Gordon, pointing up the Matukituki Valley with his walking stick. I looked up and saw a nicely shaped peak standing directly at the head of the valley, coloured a rich brown with a white mantle draped jauntily over it's shoulders. It appealed to me immediately. "You mean that one?" I asked. "Yeah." "It's got snow on it." "Well, you'd have to wear crampons," said Gordon. I stared at this brown peak, my heart racing. I had always been able to visualise myself on a mountaintop - in my vision Sir Edmund Hillary and I are interchangeable - and the thought of making an attempt on this brown beauty was deeply enticing. "Dang, I don't know Gordon. How tall, er, I mean how high is it?" "About 2,000 metres.?" I left the matter there, not wanting to reveal just how much I wanted to make the attempt, yet how inadequate I felt about it at my age.
A year later I strolled into a small office in Wanaka to meet mountaineer Guy Cotter. Guy explained to me what I was undertaking, but I only grasped about a third of what he said. Guy smiled, and said quietly that we would "learn-as-we-go". This was reassuring, but at the same time not. Reassuring that he could take care of himself and his clients even in dire circumstances, but not so reassuring in that it was me he would have hanging onto his coat-tails for the next three-four days. If that isn't dire, nothing is. That night I wondered just how hard it would be. How much physical strength would I need? Would I have to hang by my fingers?
During the drive up the Matukituki Valley I learnt Guy had climbed Mt Rolleston in Arthur's Pass when he was just 13 years old. In his climbing career, he's climbed 8,000-plus-metre peaks, including Mt Everest four times, and other peaks around the world. It was after dealing with me that he conquered Mt Everest, and I often wonder what part I played in his preparation. After shouldering our gear, I spent a moment unlimbering my legs. Legs the age of mine should never be rushed into action. My pack weighed about 20-25kg; Guy's pack weighed twice that. I tried to lift it when he wasn't looking and could barely get it off the ground. I felt guilty until I saw the size of his calf muscles, when any guilt dissipated.
The few miles from Aspiring Hut to the head of the valley have enough steep patches, tangled bush and roots to tax all but Guy Cotter-types. After crossing Pearl Flat we found a likely camp spot. My legs were certainly pleased. The best thing about mountain cooking is the total absence of fastidiousness. If the potatoes are served up with most of the peeling still on, or the onions simply tossed into the pot, no one complains. They are too tired to complain. As I snuggled in my sleeping bag, I wondered about tomorrow. I would be higher than I'd ever been before, would I feel the altitude? Would I be able to walk with crampons? What about the ice axe? Crevasses? I dropped off to sleep with my mind in a whirl.
< Look at the size of those calf muscles!
When we started the next morning I had a simple light daypack, but Guy shouldered a full load again. The sun rose above the peaks, and the view was marvellous. With Mt Bevan directly ahead, and the fresh air coursing through my lungs I felt I would burst if I didn't tell someone how great things were. After catching up with Guy I stammered: "Er, nice day, eh?" "One out of the box, John," he replied. After another hour of scrambling we came to the narrow ledge referred to in the guidebook as a deer trail, which lead to the start of Hector Col. In places a narrow 30-40cm wide, the trail sloped steeply away to rocks below. No hand holds, or hoof holds. Yet you can't hesitate to cross it. I have no idea what the distinction is between Hector Col and the slopes of Mt Bevan, but I'm sure there is one.
< The author trying to lift Guy Cotter's pack!
Mountaineers like to label things; col, abseil, arete, bergschrund and a multitude of other phrases to keep the rest of us confused. We slogged upwards for another hour before reaching the first snowfield. Guy explained the crampons to me while I struggled into them. There's a very subtle knack to donning crampons, you must be sure to fit them correctly. Close enough is not good enough. I took my first few cramponed steps in the snow and quickly developed my own style: take every step as though you had many large and infected boils in your groin. It works a treat. Guy got me into my harness, roped up, showed me how to coil the rope, and then instructed me firmly to never stand on the rope. Guy was less concerned with me falling than having fibres in the rope nicked by a stray crampon tooth. "Someone," he said looking directly at me "might be suspended by that same rope over a crevasse 100 metres deep."
The best crampon technique seems to be to imagine you have infected boils in your groin >
Then came instruction with the ice axe called 'self arrest' - nothing whatsoever to do with law enforcement. If you fall on the mountains - and take my word it does happen - the axe used correctly will act as an anchor to stop you. I practiced it, and it does work, although there is a type of ice called 'bullet-proof ' - again nothing to do with law enforcement - that the ice axe won't work on. We resumed zigzagging upwards. After a while we were on rock again. We skirted around to the Bonar Glacier side - the north side - of Mt Bevan, before we could make further progress. Guy led the way up the first pitch, displaying masterful climbing.
A couple of years later on Aoraki/Mt Cook I watched him climb an impossible - yes impossible - twenty metre face to retrieve a stuck rope. He used no belay, no rock shoes, just big plastic boots, agility, strength and raw courage.
That episode encapsulates the life of a mountaineer; superhuman exploits done on the loneliness of a solitary peak. That's why I could never be a mountaineer; I want people to see me if I do something clever.
As Guy worked his way up the slopes of Mt Bevan, I watched carefully, noting exactly which hand and foot holds he used. When Guy had climbed to the end of the pitch, he anchored securely and called out "On belay!" With this cue I yelled "Climbing" and certainly intended to do so. But to my horror, all the holds had disappeared; suddenly Mt Bevan was completely blank. I remained in a stiff pose of surprise until I heard a shout from above. "Try your right hand on the bit above your right shoulder." Leaning out fifty feet above Guy didn't seemed surprised at my predicament. In fact he probably expected it. I would have expected it, if I had me for a client. "See that knob near your left knee? Put your boot on it." So Guy directed me up, one hand and foot at a time. Soon we were standing together on a tiny ledge.
I had a moment to look at the Bonar Glacier hundreds of metres below, undulations and ripples marking the surface. Some sections looked chopped up, as if a naughty child had taken to them with a new hatchet. Those innocent chop marks, though, were crevasses. Although I'm no expert on them, I know enough to avoid them - have absolutely nothing to do with them ever. Beyond the glacier stretched out towards Mt Aspiring. Its summit pierced startlingly, magnificently upwards. I had difficulty believing I was there. My perch was less secure than any place I had ever been, but right then I wouldn't have changed places with anyone, anywhere. The resultant feeling of insignificance, of course, comes with the territory.
I was crowding close behind Guy when he stepped to one side, paid out some rope, and motioned me ahead, I took another step before realising there was space in every direction. I was on the summit of Mt Bevan. Guy stuck out his hand. "Congratulations, John." I grabbed his hand and pumped it thoroughly. I suppose I murmured something in response, but I don't remember what it was. I was full of a great number of emotions, all of which I wanted to hang on to for as long as possible.
At camp in the Matukituki Valley>
<The magnificence of Mt Aspiring from the slopes of Mt Bevan
John Ewing was born in Texas in 1928, and after a six-year stint with the US Navy, spent eleven years as an animator at the Walt Disney Studio. In 1967 he began an animation career in New Zealand, and started tramping. As well as climbing, he's learnt to fly, cycled around the North Island and now that he's retired conducts drawing classes for the upcoming breed of kiwi animators.
