This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
5-8 October 2001
he clag obscures our destination. Faint outlines move below us, harder to see now as snow flurries become heavier. At least we are out of the wind. The plod up the couloir has been straightforward if not tiring. Instructing on this year’s AICs hasn't prepared me for snowplugging as I abused my instructor status playing tailend Charlie. In comparison Gabriel seems to be relishing the chance to be out in front. It’s not my place to spoil his enjoyment. Allen and Sue had been infrequently visible below. We weren't exactly streaking ahead of them. The climb out of the headwaters of the Hodder had been slow. Heads bent, cowering to the bitter southerly blowing over from the Clarence River valley, we had all been happy to reach the relative comfort of the couloir. Keith, mumbling something about this all being too much like tramping, had already turned back at the point where the Hodder headwaters flatten out into a large basin an hour above the huts. The original plans of a 4am start had been scotched by the sound of rain on the hut roof earlier that morning. A lifting cloud base had lured us out into a less than promising day. A wind scoop below a rock provides a flat spot just short of the top of the couloir. Time to put on harnesses and have a bite to eat. The hands are starting to feel the cold as the wet snow has got the better of my mittens. Still no sign of Mitre’s top. The snow is getting heavier. Apart from some 30-year-old memories of an old mountain goat I’m not sure what to expect from here. It’s only a short steep stretch to the top of the couloir and I’m now straddling a sharp spur. The route from here is a short sharp drop into oheackofanott toirandt idieusaste snow ramp. Looks straightforward but then where? The ramp is a slow crablike sidle, pigeonholing each step. Gabriel is following. Allen and Sue are watching,
Andrew McLellan
snapping photos from the top of the couloir. The snow I cover isnt exactly deep or stable — dick all chances to use a snowstake, and no way it would hold in any event. The first lead has ended in a deadend. Hard to choose a route when you can’t see the top. I’m guessing the vertical drop on the other side of the gully I’m in is not the right way. Gabriel’s waiting patiently below for feedback. “Nah, no good this way. I’ll try the next one over.” A small rock shelf provides an easy route to the next gully. A small rock step covered in loose snow. Some ugly moves. Hands numb now. Looks like another deadend. “T reckon we’re only 20 metres short. Close enough for me. What do you reckon?” “Yeah, time to head back.” We were soon bumsliding and glissading back down the couloir; 600m in a matter of minutes. Fingers aching as warmth creeps back into them. We caught up with Allen and Sue to start the damp windy trudge back down the valley. For me getting to the top of a mountain is 60% views and 40% challenge. If there is no pay-off on reaching the summit I lose interest. We could have roped up to get up the last 20 metres but a warm dry hut beckoned.
Postscript: The Tongue and Meats (CHCH branch) supported party sharing the huts with us finally made it out of the Hodder on the Tuesday and Thursday of that week. The weather forecast for the weekend didn’t match the rain and snow we got taking us all by surprise. It doesn’t take much for the Hodder to become capable of an alternative exit route, or failing that, - capable of a crash course in dieting and digging deep for chopper rides.
La rrayei in tT SCOTT