In some ways this rescue wasn’t very interesting. It barely made the news at all. It was reported very briefly in the DomPost, not even giving an approximate location, but reporting the GPS failure. A press release from the Life Flight Trust (duplicated here) adds a few more details, but wasn’t picked up and analysed by any popular media outlets that I can find. Also being a press release from the helicopter operator, its main focus is that they rescued people with their helicopter rather than explaining why those people needed rescuing.

The mention of “deep snow” in the Alpha Hut area means they were probably coming over from Aston (on the Tararua Southern Crossing route) or around Quoin Ridge in the water catchment zone. From reports it’s unclear exactly why there was a problem, if the two of them intended to be out overnight, or even if they’d actually requested a rescue or if it was just lack of information that resulted in the decision to send a helicopter. If a message had not gone out, maybe they would have simply reached Alpha Hut, or just had a night out walking around in circles in calm but cold weather. Such things happen, but usually go unreported.

From informal chats I think what happened is that in attempting a Tararua Southern Crossing, they took a wrong turn at Alpha Peak earlier in the day, apparently not having a proper map or anything, and went down Quoin Ridge instead of towards Alpha Hut. Then the Sun went down. From the result it sounds as if they were probably not carrying their own shelter, and relying on reaching Alpha Hut that night for their safety (see The Hut Fallacy).

I found this story interesting because of how the GPS was mentioned. I’ve also met at least three people now who heard the news and independently expressed similar feelings. The implication from the reports is that the failure of the GPS was a key factor in causing the rescue. I’m not sure this can ever be the case, though, because a GPS isn’t the kind of tool that it should ever be necessary to rely on if other preparations have been made.

It’s sad how the media machine can simplify a story like this, through no intent of anyone specific but by how it operates, republishing information and then simplifying it to fit in small spaces. Irrespective of what actually happened in this case, the worst thing is how the presentation could just reinforce impressions that anyone might already have that a GPS makes things safe, and that it’s perfectly acceptable to assume one can send a text message from a cell-phone and expect a helicopter rescue to be called out when a GPS fails. It’s the same kind of media simplification that suggested a cell-phone would have saved a couple of unfortunate people about a year ago (see this specific example from Newstalk ZB) when really there were a plethora of reasons that added together. In that case it essentially came down to bad preparation and some dreadful decisions. The cellphone factor was almost a completely irrelevant red herring, but for a while was pushed to the front of many media reports, probably because it simplified things in terms with which more readers were familiar, reinforcing whatever false beliefs readers may have already had.

Sometimes I think the reported messages are irrationally harsh on those being rescued, to the extent that people can get called idiots or stupid even if they were mostly well prepared and did 99% of things right but just made a silly mistake that resulted in a high profile rescue. Maybe rescuers have been quoted out of context or in the heat of the moment, or are just trying to take advantage of any media attention to get another safety message published through the media lens (although to be fair there are a lot of people rescued who’ve done some pretty idiotic stuff). This time it’s the opposite. Nobody’s out there denouncing the two rescued people as morons (which I think is good), but there’s also a very skewed presentation of what the actual problem was. If anything it could only lead to a worse understanding of what happened, and how to avoid it happening to others in future. If that’s all that’s going to be printed in an outlet like the DomPost, it probably would have been better for everyone that it didn’t get printed at all.

Getting out of Crow Hut right now is one of the more awkward climbs from a valley I’ve personally had. We more or less slid down the hill-side yesterday morning, persistent rain apparently making the topsoil absolutely sodden. A year ago I bought the cheapest Scarpas I could find, part of an experiment with getting cheap boots, but the soles are the best I’ve had on any boots to date and I’ve learned to trust them. Yesterday they often failed. Placing them flat on the soil (usually safe) was enough to trigger random acts of slipping and sliding, or sometimes not. So, now on the way up, and faced with one of yesterday’s 80 centimetre skid-marks on a 40 degree slope and no clear way around the edges, I have some uncertainty about exactly where to put my foot.

Still, in my case with hands poised in front ready to spread myself flat on the ground and slow the slide next time something slips out of place, we eventually get through the worst of it.

There’s snow up here now, which must be from last night.

Dates: 25th – 27th June, 2010
Location: Ruahine Forest Park, Kawhatau Base Road-end.
People: Amanda, Alistair, Richard and me.
Huts visited: Crow Hut (1 night), McKinnon Hut (0 nights)
Planned route: Up and around the Mokai Patea Ridge, down to Crow Hut for Saturday night. Then up and along the Hikurangi Range over Mangaweka, and out past Purity Hut.
Actual route: Straight to Crow Hut for Saturday night, up along and down to McKinnon Hut, back to the Kawhatau River via the main track, then bashing up to a farm.
[Photos]
[Download GPX] [Show map] [Display in new window]

Yesterday was a short day. Camping at Kawhatau Base overnight, we’d hoped to get up over Mokai Patea — an alpine ridge which you know you’re on because it’s a kilometre wide (as Alistair put it) — drop down to Crow Hut and stay a night, then up to the tops and along the Hikurangi Range. Another trampey club group sharing our transport, with a shorter plan in mind (walking into McKinnon Hut and back), was set to drive the van further south later today to collect us. We abandoned our whole plan before it began, looking at the weather and everything. Just rain and rain and rain, not entirely claggy tops but enough to limit visibility to about 5o metres or so. We decided to ditch the idea of the Hikurangis, go straight to Crow Hut, and maybe get up early and around the Mokai Patea Range on the next day, ending up back where we began.

The cable-way was fun. It’s the first time I’ve been in one of them. I don’t think I’d ever want to have to winch myself over, but in a group of 4 we were able to arrange things to (usually) have people winching from both ends. It’s good that it’s there, too, because it makes this a wet weather trip for which we don’t need to worry about the Kawhatau River probably being flooded for the next few days. From there it was a very steep climb of 900 metres to the bush-line, with bits of flax to grasp in the steepest parts and token efforts at steps which seem half-buried, but maybe help to keep the slippery track together. We had a brief cruise over the tops in calm but claggy raining weather — the route is poled. Then we skidded into the bush-line down the slope where every foot placement is an entry in a lottery, as I described earlier.

Alistair and Amanda.

Richard and Amanda at Crow Hut.

And yeah, a big sleep-in. We sat down at lunch time, having just arrived at Crow Hut, needing to decide if we were going to cross the bridge outside the hut and continue to Wakelings Hut on the far side of the Mokai Patea Range. Doing so would mean a marginally shorter climb this morning if the weather cooperated enough for us to go that way, but it’d suck if we had to back-track. There didn’t seem much point, especially with a dodgy forecast and with the knowledge that we were already comfortably sitting in a nice, tidy hut. Amanda started tinkering with the wood burner, and we commenced a lazy afternoon. The mud-toned Kawhatau River that we’d crossed earlier via the cable-way continued its rampage below as the rain came and went. We all slept well yesterday afternoon, and last night.

The Kawhatau River outside Crow.

The bridge outside the hut is interesting. It’s a typical New Zealand swing bridge, but without the mesh down the sides. This seems to be an area that gets less people — we’re the first people who’ve written in the book for a month. The tracks to the hut on either side are bordered by side creeks, which apparently can come up. One person wrote in the book that they’d been trapped behind the creek coming down from the Mokai Patea Range, and had to camp out on the far side.

We awoke at 6.30 this morning, in anticipation that we might just be able to walk out around the Mokai Patea. Alas it was not to be so. Glancing outside, things didn’t seem to different from yesterday. Perhaps worse. We went back to sleep, and for brief moments in between we discussed what we thought the others would be most likely to do based on what we thought they thought we might be doing. Eventually, we got away about 2 hours later, on the assumption that they’d hedge their bets and try to get back around mid-afternoon. We figured we’ll head up the top, and try to meet up with the others as they come from McKinnon. If we see footprints we’ll know, and otherwise we’ll turn the other way to catch them there. And thus we’re now climbing back up out of this slippery hole.

Alistair reaching the snow.

It’s snowy though, as I mentioned. This is the first time in a while I’ve been able to get into nice snow on the tops. It feels almost criminal to tread in the frosty covering to create a muddy foot-print. We stop at the bush-line to put on extra layers. It’s becoming colder with elevation, and I’d rather be fully covered before we start getting buffeted by the wind that’s likely above the bush-line. Further up I’m appreciating it. There’s a light but icy breeze coming from the south, although the temperature’s probably not freezing yet because we’re still getting rain.

We’re at the junction just east of spot-height 1471 at around 10am, and it’s good to have the day’s only significant climb out of the way. The tussock’s covered in ice, the poles of the poled route up here are wind-swept with ice, the ground’s covered in snow, and there are no footprints. They must be sleeping in, which isn’t a surprise since for all they know we might not be out until 4.30pm if we were to get all the way around the loop. There’s no point heading down just yet because we don’t have a key to the van, so we set off towards McKinnon Hut, expecting to see them coming towards us soon.

Drizzle drizzle. It’s still foggy but we can see far enough to pick out one or two poles ahead in the route, so nobody’s too bent on navigating. The route climbs up to a large tarn, or maybe a lake, which is frozen over and might have looked very photogenic if there were some more sunshine. It’s not to be. Then we climb further up a gentle gradient towards spot-height 1625. We’re becoming concerned now, because we certainly should have seen them unless they were backing themselves to get out really fast. Still no footprints, until we arrive at the iced-over signpost 20 minutes above McKinnon Hut. There have clearly been a group of people here this morning. They stood around and regrouped, and then went… towards the Hikurangi Range and Mangaweka!

Eh?

Alistair dropping to McKinnon.

Maybe they’ve just headed out to bag Hikurangi Peak, or something like that, and will be back any moment. Amanda suggests that a couple of us should drop down to the hut to check things out, for which Alistair and I volunteer. Amanda and Richard stay up the top, in case the others return. And it’s down again, into the slush. Every few steps I slip and slide sending a big splash of snowy mud ahead of me. My raincoat’s about to have a date with the washing machine, and so are my mittens. They’re sopping and they’re muddy, but they’re keeping off the wind-chill despite my numb fingers underneath. Glancing behind it looks as if Alistair’s having similar issues. We’re getting snowed on now, it’s getting colder. We get to McKinnon in about 15 minutes, a wonderful little hut on the edge of the bush-line, now surrounded by snow.

McKinnon Hut.

It’s empty.

Checking the book. Yes, they’ve been here. Yes, the person who wrote it forgot to write their own name. Yes they were here last night. Yes they’ve left for the morning. Yes, the cable-way pulley is broken. Yes, the cable-way pulley is broken. Yes, the cable-way pulley is broken. Yes, the cable-way pulley is broken. Yes, the cable-way pull… Um, Alistair?

Yeah? Says Alistair. He’s busy putting on another thermal layer.

The cable-way pulley is broken.

What? Oww crap, we’ve got a long day ahead of us now. Alistair says something like this at about the same time that I’m thinking it. Maybe he’s using more colourful language. It’s one of those times when things spin around in my head for moment.

What the hell are we going to do now? They’ve written in the book, and I quote verbatim as best as I can read it: “Pully on cableway broken, take alternate route. Gryzoned End? Try nav to pt 1625, pt 1471, then northern spur to farmland. May if Wx bad take main track, poss try to cross river sth of pt 854.” Er, slight problem. I quickly find a map and try to figure out what they’re doing. It makes no sense. 1625 is the signpost where Amanda and Richard are presently waiting, 1471 is the junction leading down to Crow Hut, and the northern spur would take them direct to Crow Hut by the way we came up. This is not what their footprints indicated, and we certainly didn’t see them on our way here. Enough of this, we’ll figure it out later. Meanwhile we have to get back up to Amanda and Richard and figure out what to do next. The cable-way pulley is broken. Maybe we can get there and discover they’re wrong, but in the back of my mind it seems very doubtful the river’s going down any time soon, within the next few days, given the saturation in the soil. Maybe we’ll be camping out.

With some speedy thinking between the two of us there’s no way we want to try and navigate off the tops in the Ruahines without advance knowledge of where we’re going or a lot of time and good weather on our hands, of which today is not. The range is surrounded by a giant ring of leatherwood, which can slow you to a 100 metre and hour crawl, or worse, if you get stuck in an un-cut section. I note in the book that we’ve passed through, and state for the record that we’re going back to the cable-way, and if necessary we’ll camp out and wait for the river to drop. On the off chance that the others get out some other way, we’ll at least be able to wave to them since the cable-way is practically next to the road. This is probably what we’ll do. Maybe we’ll discover a crossing point.

So what else can we do? Alistair and I struggle up another slippery slope towards where Amanda and Richard wait for us. Maybe we can drop back to Crow for another night and hope the weather’s good enough to get out over Mokai Patea tomorrow. That wouldn’t be ideal because it’ll need a lot of food for the extra energy, and we’re only really stocked with the intent of a short weekend trip. Amanda’s at the top — she and Richard have been walking back and forth to try and keep warm for the last 40 minutes, and experimented with following their tracks to try and get a better idea of where they went.

THE CABLE-WAY’S BROKEN!

What?? She can’t hear me, so I give up and just keep walking towards her.

We take a guess that the others might have been trying to go out over the Hikurangi Range, despite what was written in the book, which would put them at the wrong road (Putaru, below Purity Hut) if they got out, but at least they’d be out if they got there. Or perhaps they meant to write 1468 instead of 1471, which is a spot-height on a neighbouring ridge, and would actually put them on a farm. We’re confused. For us it’s getting near mid-day, and being the middle of winter we only have about 5 hours of light left. What to do. Well, we start by back-tracking. We’ll probably do exactly what we wrote in the book. I pull out a phone to see if there’s reception, but there isn’t. We’ll need to try and get a message out if we can, to tell our contact what’s going on. We’ll try again at the point above Crow Hut.

I took this to figure out what was wrong
with my balaclava, but it didn’t help.
Not a bad portrait, though.

This day is quickly becoming more depressing, and the weather’s changing to match. It’s not a gale, but there’s an icy blast coming from the south-west. The southerly’s coming in. My balaclava’s full up, but it’s not sitting quite right and every so often I suck it into my mouth accidentally and suddenly can’t get any air until I tear it off with my hand. We can still see, and we can mostly follow our earlier tracks, but we’re trudging through the mud. It’s about 12.20pm when we reach the junction above Crow Hut, and fluttering in the wind is a plastic back tied to the sign. It’s a note.

The day is becoming even more confusing. Have they passed by here? That doesn’t seem possible, because we still only see our own footprints and they couldn’t have gotten over here from where they’d gone without some mammoth and ridiculous navigation effort down to a creek and up again. In the end we decide that the note must have always been here, but somehow this morning we looked through it in our enthusiasm to catch up with the others. The note confirms things. They’re aiming to navigate down the spur that heads north-west above the true left of Rocky Creek. This would drop them into a farm which they must be hoping to walk through to get to a road bridge off Smith’s Road much further down.

Amanda, defiantly removing a glove to be able to use her phone, manages to get a text message out to Jackie back in Wellington, or Sydney where she was once before, or wherever in the world she might be. It doesn’t really matter as long as she’s contactable. In the message, we tell Jackie the cable-way’s broken and we might be camping to wait for the river to go down. We continue back-tracking. I’d dropped my pack for a minute as we stood around, but picked it up again quickly because the wind-chill was coming right through the back of my soaking raincoat. That’s Gore-Tex for you. I like being on the tops and I like being in the snow, but right now I’m just looking forward to getting back into the tress. The snow’s horizontal and it’s biting the side of my face. Shelter will be nice.

Further along the ridge Amanda’s phone beeps. We’ve heard back from Jackie to say she’s received the message, and if she doesn’t hear otherwise she’ll assume we’re camping, and let various people know we’ll be late out. Some time after 1pm we finally reach trees, and can drop lower and out of the wind. Amanda has a go at contacting Dirk, in the other group, and eventually gets through with a text message. Dirk sends back a message saying something like “others are at 1200 metres and it sounds a bit hard”.

Amanda and Richard on
the way down.

Another confusing message, not so much hearing that they were having problems at 1200 metres… about where there could be a leatherwood and dracophyllum jungle… but the fact that he said the “others” were at 1200 metres. With some further exchanges and the application of logic, we deduce that Dirk isn’t with them at all, but is actually roaming up and down the road because he never got across the cable-way. We continue further down, and receive news that he’s talked to the farmers below the spur the other group are coming down, and also called the Police and spoken to a Search & Rescue coordinator, presumably not because of any immediate danger, but because it sounded as if there might be a chance the other group could end up stuck somewhere awkward. Fair enough. Search and Rescue should be brought in early so that they can make decisions on whether anything needs to be done or precautions taken. We later hear from Dirk that he was asked the standard 500 questions about the group’s experience and capabilities and gear so they’d be able to tick all the template boxes for their risk assessment, hopefully determining that there’s no imminent risk. It’s amazing there’s cellphone reception up here at all! You can never rely on cellphones.

By now I’m resigned to camping out and missing work tomorrow, quite possibly Tuesday. I wonder if we’ll get a chance to try and build a camp-fire in the rain. That’d be interesting, but only if it actually works. If it didn’t work it’d be depressing. As we continue downwards, we get views of the muddy brown squiggles of the flooded Kawhatau River to our right and begin trying to pick out places where it might be crossable. It doesn’t look any better. On the other hand, we get a view of the farm-land to our left, on the far side of Rocky Creek. Alistair’s behind me, and he’s inspired. If we could get off the main track, and somehow to the base of Rocky Creek (another muddy brown gutter that’s flowing into the main river), then maybe we could cross the creek and figure out a way up to the farm-land, much of which overhangs a bluff above the main river. It sounds like a possible option, and we still have a few hours of daylight left.

Busted! (Look closely at
where the cable goes.)

Finally reaching the bottom of the spur at half-two, after a controlled slippery slide through the flax, we can see the extent of the damage on the cable-way. It’s still there, which is a relief. It didn’t collapse with anyone in it, and if that’d happened you’d assume the others would have set off an emergency beacon rather than continue on their weekend tramp. On the other hand, it certainly wasn’t anything we could fix, either. The drive cable, which fits over the large pulley wheel, has sliced right into the groove of the wheel so that it now hung around the spokes. They’ve left a plastic bag on the end with a note warning people not to use it, in case it wasn’t obvious, and wrapped a bunch of chains around the end to fully cripple it. The cart that hangs underneath is at the far end, and we later find out that although in its crippled state and with Dirk on the other side, they’d had to write a note and force it over to Dirk so he knew what was going on. The distance is too far to shout clearly over the flooded river below.

Well that sucks. My unlikely back-of-the-mind fantasy that they’d been grossly incompetent when they assessed the damage, and had only thought the cable-way was broken, was not to be. We’re still stuck.

Amanda, Alistair and Richard.

Plan B is to drop down to the river, and survey it for any possible crossing points. This doesn’t seem likely either, but we have to look. A hundred metres down-river, there’s an island in the middle that we think we could get to, but there’s little point because the far side of the island just has a much more forceful flow, plus a steep bank that we’d have to be clambering out of, and a possibly un-climbable bluff to climb up to get back to the road afterwards. Plan C is more inviting, though less instant. We follow the main river around looking for Rocky Creek, eventually having to clamber up an old land-slip to get over a hump, push through lots of stubborn scrub and drop into the creek. The creek is running muddy, but turns out to be completely crossable. We cross in pairs, now finding ourselves at the base of a short 100 metre climb to a flattening plateau, which would be the farm-land. This could take some time.

And it does take time, because the spur’s very overgrown. Amanda’s leading up the front, basically forging a path through all kinds of yucky stuff. There also the occasional sprinkling of Onga-Onga (aka Stinging Nettle) hidden amongst it all. We stop for a few minutes some way up grabbing a bite to eat, Amanda remembering we haven’t had any proper lunch and by now it’s mid-afternoon. As time goes on and we force our way higher, the bush gives way to some more exposed bluff-like clay faces, which we’re lucky enough to be able to find a way to clamber up after Richard figures it out. Finally we spot some possum carcasses, which look suspiciously as if they’ve been thrown overboard. Sure enough, there’s just one more some-what awkward clamber up an over-hanging tree root, and we’re on the outside of a fence made of number 8 wire!

Not a proud moment, but one I’m resigned
to accept in the circumstances.

This is such a great feeling. Hopefully the scatterings of what we’ve heard of Dirk talking to the farmers gives us some kind of informal permission to walk over their land. I don’t care if it gets dark now, I could walk over farm-land for ages, because being here means that getting out is under our control once again. Amanda checks her phone and actually has reception, so she sends a message to Dirk to let him know we’re coming through here. We have no idea if he’s received it, though. And we walk. And looking to the road on the far side of the gorge, we see the van sail back towards the Kawhatau Base road-end. Dirk can’t have received our message, and he must be going back to check if we’ve shown up at the end of the cable-way. And we keep walking.

An hour, about five kilometres, a flock of cows, several sheep, a curious horse, a pig, and a herd of excitable farm dogs later, we arrive at the farm-house and knock on the door. The sun’s low and we’re just reaching the hours of darkness, and these guys have had mis-placed trampers coming out of their ears all day. Well, Dirk and 6 other people at least. They’re very well tempered and accepting about it. The others were doing better than we thought they were, having made it down about half an hour earlier. Dirk had even managed to convince the guy to drive to the back of the farm and give them a lift. It was very nice of them. The guy’s wife pokes him and says he should give us a ride too, and very soon Richard and Amanda are crunched in the front of the ute. Four packs, Alistair, and I sit on the back with the dog, and we’re screaming down the road back to the camp-site. You can tell when you’re being driven around the back-roads by a local. The guy leans out the window as we’re passing through one of the gates, shouting to someone that they found the lost trampers.

Awesome. We hadn’t realised we’d walked this far in the last hour. The van’s at the end of the road, and they’re very happy to see us. (It means they can go home!) A couple of them have wandered down to the cable-way trying to see if we’re there, and they’ve been concerned that we’ve not yet arrived, but they come back within a couple of minutes. Now it’s just a mess getting out of all this saturated gear — we’re all still in the full storm gear that we’ve not removed since the snow on the tops.

As time goes on we find that Dirk stayed the night in Mangaweka with some students at the outdoor education centre, and it was very nice of them to put him up. Apparently they’re strategy board game and role-playing enthusiasts, and overnight they taught Dirk to play Dungeons & Dragons, or something like that. Very cool. Looking at what we did in the weekend, we didn’t seem to go that far — about 25 kilometres in all, but with an awful lot of steep climbing and descending. Apart from the farm-land, I figure we were on an average of about a 1/4 gradient for nearly the entire weekend. On the map it was like a giant three point turn with a wonky end. It was great weekend for decision making.

It was very nice for Dirk to stick around and keep track of everything, and make sure we could get out over a farm with some kind of notification. A few other people might be rather turned off if they’d organised a weekend tramp for seven people, then lost them all after the first twenty minutes. He was still helping out though, just from the other end.

It’s late, and we stop at Bulls to discover that the re-opened fish & chip shop there is actually really good. The sky’s fairly clear outside during the drive home. Which reminds me — I completely forgot to stick my head outside Crow Hut at 11pm last night and look for the partial lunar eclipse. I guess the southerly’s passed through, and tomorrow could be a nice day on the tops. Perhaps even a good day to walk along the Mokai Patea range. Next time, though. These things happen. The van’s noisy. One way or another everyone had a rewarding time, and everyone has their story to tell tonight. This was mine.

Rain and rain and rain.

The author has written eight essays about New Zealand outdoor accidents between 1966 and 2005. Most essays are centred around a single accident, but occasionally around multiple accidents that are related. They are typically decorated with further information about circumstances and additional experiences of the people involved. All essays have been researched thoroughly through coroners’ reports, newspaper and journal articles, books and biographies, and frequently through personal interviews with the people involved. The focus of the book is on mountaineering and climbing, which typically involves higher risk than regular tramping, but one which people choose to accept. An underlying theme put forward by the author is that the risk can be managed (perhaps better than it sometimes is), and that climbing is not as risky as it’s often made out to be from outside the mountaineering community. From the book’s conclusion:

…whereas climbers are prepared to rationalise or accept the risk, non-climbers mostly are not. Society, as a whole, has become more and more risk-averse. Of course, 100 per cent safety and security is impossible. And to eliminate physical risk is to deny the ability to learn from personal experience.

Climbers accept that risk is an element of their chosen activity, but that doesn’t mean they should simply ignore the mistakes or ill-fortunes of others. Gaining experience in the mountains comes from years of skill-gathering and decision-making, as well as learning from the actions of other climbers.

There is a delicate balance here and climbers sometimes need to be reminded of that. By exploring a range of accidents in detail, including how they affected those left behind, it is hoped that climbers will continue to recognise that the choices they make above the snowline can be wide-reaching and permanent.

Each of the essays contains maps and photos, and is roughly ten to twenty pages. The brevity makes it easy to read complete segments of the book in single sittings.

The author has gone beyond the simplistic reporting of facts, which I think helps this book to stand out. The texts cover insights into how rescue teams operate, thoughts about what’s led to the high rate of alpine guide deaths, and also examines what happens to people after accidents and how they cope, going as far to get psychological comment about people’s actions where it seems appropriate. Despite each essay being a discrete entity, they’ve been well structured to support an eventual conclusion.

Overall this book is about how people cope with accidents in the outdoors. Despite the mountaineering bias, the essays are relevant far beyond mountaineering. Many are at least indirectly related to unforeseen weather or mistaken judgement, and a few are simply very bad luck such as a slip or a fall at a bad time, typically putting people in positions where they had to cope with cascading consequences.

Several described accidents were high profile when they occurred, but others were barely reported at all. I appreciated learning far more about several accidents that occurred during my lifetime than what had registered through the media at the time. One of these was an accident in 1990 where 6 young army cadets died of hypothermia in a blizzard at the top of Ruapehu. Some details of things that go on also surprised me. It was news to me, for example, that as recently as 1988, although an alpine guide’s client died during a training course (and he was later cleared of responsibility), he was not immediately stood down and offered counselling. Instead he felt obliged to complete the course for another client and was ordered by his employer to return straight back to work to teach another course, almost immediately leading to another potentially lethal accident.

The author treats all his subjects with great respect, and is always careful to emphasise a redeeming context. Rather than being critical and blaming of mistakes, he’s investigated what could have led to things having happened as they did. Where necessary he’s expanded his research to others who might have relevant things to say. On several occasions, he’s taken extra care to make it clear that most (perhaps all) of these accidents occurred due to bad luck or temporary letting down of the guard rather than habitual lack of safety concern. Subjects candidly comment on what they might wish they’d done differently if they had a second chance, while at the same time noting circumstances that might have led to accidents occurring.

The depth of the Paul Hersey’s research, combined with his experience, knowledge of and contacts in the community, and overall respect for New Zealand’s mountaineers, makes this a special book and worth a read. The essays are woven with the author’s own experiences of close encounters that might have so easily turned out differently. He uses this to emphasise that although safe climbing is something that can generally be achieved, there’s a constant and necessary process of learning and building of experience, always with an acceptable risk that can be managed but a risk nonetheless. On several occasions, he argues that safety in mountaineering is something that people need to develop through experience over time, noting that it’s impossible to gain such experience without some acceptable risk naturally present with the outdoors. In support of this, he points out that even the 1000-odd back-country huts scattered throughout New Zealand, which are often touted to be the pinnacle of safety for those who reach them, are not themselves immune from the occasional destruction by bad weather or avalanches.

All eight essays bordered by an introduction and conclusion, are well researched and well written, as follows:

• Mount Rolleston, 1966: Four young climbers attempting the Otira Face of Mt Rolleston are reported overdue. In worsening weather during the following days, search teams discover at least two people trapped half way up the Otira Face, but can’t reach them. Plans are made to abseil from the top of the face to attempt a rescue, but they are prevented by bad weather. One of the search teams’ camps is buried in an avalanche, killing one rescuer, and after this the rescue attempt is largely abandoned. This is the first rescue attempt in which a helicopter played a part. The pilot noted that he could have been more useful had he been stationed closer.
• Three Johns Hut, 1977: Four members of the Wanganui Tramping Club, having split off as a side trip from a much larger club gathering, reach Three Johns Hut at Barron Saddle above the Mueller Glacier, and report in via radio at 7pm. A severe storm hits that night, and having failed to hear from the party for the next two nights, two rangers are sent to investigate. The rangers discover that the guy wires that anchored the hut had been either torn from the ground, or sheared apart at ground level, and the hut had been lifted and blown into the Dobson Valley, killing those inside.
• Aoraki Mt Cook, 1978, 1982 (two events centred around Phil Doole’s experience on the mountain): An avalanche kills one and injures another on the Linda Glacier route to the peak of Aoraki Mt Cook. They are discovered by another group of four (including Phil Doole), two of whom attempt to reach Plateau Hut to raise the alarm, but are nearly stopped by falling into a crevasse on the way. The injured climber eventually dies before a rescue helicopter can arrive. Four years later, Phil Doole becomes trapped with Mark Inglis in bad weather at the top of Aoraki Mt Cook where they shelter in a small crevasse for 12 nights before the weather improved enough to allow for a rescue. The rescue effort itself it fraught with risk, with an army helicopter flipping and crashing in the high altitude. Due to extensive frostbite, both men had their legs amputated below the knee.
• Matukituki Valley, 1988: A climbing guide takes two clients on an alpine training course, but some way into the course loses one client during a river crossing, who’d not made it clear he was petrified of water. In the aftermath, the guide feels obligated to complete the course for the other client, and is then ordered by his employer to keep working for more booked clients immediately afterwards. He receives no stand-down period or counselling, nearly has a fatal accident with his next clients, quits the job soon after and spends the next twenty years coming to terms with what happened.
• Mt Ruapehu, 1990: The New Zealand army runs an alpine instruction course with eleven cadets and two instructors. A further instructor, who would have been the most experienced, is called away for other duties at late notice. Having dug four separate snow caves on the side of Paretetaitonga — the second highest peak near the summit of Ruapehu, they attempt to wait out the storm, eventually all moving to a single cave when several cadets show signs of hypothermia. Eventually becoming concerned about the integrity of the cave, the group agrees to try to reach Dome Shelter. Within 150 metres of the shelter, they become lost and disoriented and are forced to dig a trench for shelter. Two eventually make their way to Bruce Road for help, but in the intervening hours six cadets die from hypothermia. After the events, a Japanese climber who’d dug a snow-cave a short distance from the cadets emerges having also survived the storm.
• Mt Hicks, 1997: One of two climbers is hit by a rock, suffering a broken hip, when trying to climb the northern face of Mt Hicks. They eventually manage to abseil down, in deteriorating weather, and shelter in a crevasse for four nights before they can attract the attention of passing helicopter.
• Mt Tasman, 2003: Three mountain guides and one client, of a total of six, are killed during a slab avalanche. A coroner’s report later decided that the guides were not at fault and that risk was an inherent part of climbing, although a few changes might be made in future. The author then interviews climbers who express concern about the coroner’s findings, and the pressures placed on mountain guides.
• Aoraki Mt Cook, 2005: An interview with Guy McKinnon, covering several of his experiences but also including when he slipped and fell as a solo climber on the Beare Step near the top of Aoraki Mt Cook, luckily stopping between two sharp rocks before falling off, but damaging his ankle in the process and spending the night on an uncomfortably small ledge before a rescue helicopter could arrive. The essay examines McKinnon’s depressed attitude after the accident, and follows how it changes to a more positive outlook as time goes on.

fallacy [fal-uh-see]. 1. a deceptive, misleading, or false notion, belief, etc.: That the world is flat was at one time a popular fallacy.. 2. a misleading or unsound argument. 3. deceptive, misleading, or false nature; erroneousness. 4. Logic. any of various types of erroneous reasoning that render arguments logically unsound.

The Hut Fallacy. 1. a deceptive, misleading, or false notion or belief prevalent in New Zealand outdoor circles that the objective of reaching back-country huts can reliably replace additional measures of safety. 2. a presumption that plans work, judgement is always perfect and/or that accidents only happen to other people.

I hope nobody minds me defining this term, at the very least for my own purposes. Despite this kind of thing happening often, I don’t know of a quick and easy term to describe it. I think The Hut Fallacy is something that pops up often in New Zealand’s back-country.

Huts have existed in the New Zealand back-country for as long as people have had reason to use them, but the first dedicated tramping huts were only built aroun the 1920s, and from the beginning they were built with safety in mind. One of the early and well documented efforts was in the Tararuas, where a group of advocates including people such as Willie Field and Frank Penn, convinced New Zealand’s fledgling Tourist Department to sponsor the development of what eventually became the Tararua Southern Crossing route. Track cutting was only part of the work, as it was eventually decided that huts were necessary for the safety of tourists on the route*.

This was all happening at about the same time as the very young Tararua Tramping Club organised its first official club attempt to cross the range, in January 1922. Thanks to the lack of a century of experience now available, the group was woefully under-prepared by today’s standards. They had limited clothing and shelter, coordination and planning was loose, and many safety technologies available today hadn’t yet been invented, including waterproof clothing. A tragic consequence was that one member of the party, Harold Freeman, died of hypothermia in the exposed vicinity of Alpha Peak. For many of those involved, in a context where people were still discovering how to visit the outdoors with very little experience or peers from whom to learn, the disaster would have been the first realisation that tramping in New Zealand mountains had potential to be far more dangerous than a simple walk through the park.

One of several direct outcomes was for the Tararua Tramping Club to build a new emergency shelter in the vicinity of Hector, which came to be known as the Hector Dogbox. In June 1922, however, before it was even completed, another tramper – Esmond James Kime** – was caught in a southerly storm. Despite surviving 5 nights in wet clothes in the snow, he was discovered and taken to Alpha Hut in reasonable and responsive condition, only to abruptly die within an hour of arriving, probably due to the brandy he was given in an effort to help. The Hector Dogbox blew away before the end of the 1920s, and was soon replaced by Kime Memorial Hut, which then became a popular tourist destination for skiers until access to Ruapehu improved.***

New Zealand’s back-country now has roughly 1,000 huts (the exact number depends on who you ask) of a variety of origins from dedicated tramping huts, hunting huts and what began as private batches. With few exceptions, they’re typically open entry for use by anyone on the condition of paying for inexpensive hut tickets or an annual pass. A few huts, notably those on tourist-marketed Great Walks, are far more expensive and require booking in advance for regular use. All huts, however, exist at least in part for safety purposes. With a few exceptions, doors are unlocked for open entry, and an underlying rule is that they can be used by anyone at any time in case of emergency, booking or no booking.

There are regions that have very few huts, but in general huts are common enough to be a major part of the New Zealand outdoor experience. The scattered nature of huts means that to reach a hut requires traversing a lot of terrain, and reaching a hut can be a fulfilling experience that involves far more than simply getting there. A person who’s visited a large number of huts in an area is likely to have an exceptional knowledge of the terrain, which is one reason why it’s common to meet people who like to tick huts off a list, or describe trips and features in terms of where the huts are. Having arrived, huts often have a lot of character that’s been built and maintained by the variety of interesting people who have visited, stayed in and maintained those huts over the decades. This is especially the case with some remote huts that see few people.

Sometimes tramping in New Zealand is all about reaching the hut, and I guess propagation of this term as if it’s a definitive goal of tramping bothers me. It’s great, of course, to make the most of and enjoy huts, but I think what concerns me is an underlying impression sometimes present that huts are always present and frequent in tramping as cellphone coverage is on State Highway One. When a presentation about beginning tramping effectively tells people that reaching the hut is always the end goal of people going tramping (as did a powerpoint presentation I attended a couple of years ago), as if there’s no other reason to go tramping in New Zealand’s back-country and as if the hut is always reached, I think things can get mis-represented.

Tramping safely, irrespective of the terrain (everything from great walk to off-track bush-bashing), is (or should be) about making good decisions at decision points so as to be able to reach points of safety, and being as confident as possible of not becoming stuck between points of safety… even if that means refusing to leave the one you’re at. Huts are one point of safety in the outdoors, and maybe this is where some of the confusion comes from. I start to get uneasy if I’m going out tramping with someone and discover they have a different attitude to me about huts, because typically this means they’re somehow of the frame of mind that huts are what makes tramping safe. In other words, “why take a tent fly when we’ve got the hut?” This is where the whole Hut Fallacy thing, as I described earlier, starts to become apparent.

Well, there are plenty of reasons why it’s important to take portable shelter despite an intention to use huts. For starters a hut could be full of people already, it might be damaged or otherwise uninhabitable, or it might not even exist as a map shows it. Huts are moved and removed from time to time, and occasionally maps are just wrong from the beginning. The second potential problem is that of actually reaching the hut. It might be on the far side of a flooded river, the party might take a wrong turn or make a navigation error before arriving, or an unexpected injury might make it impossible to reach.

The wonderful thing about portable shelter is that it’s like carrying a point of safety with you everywhere. Tents, fly’s and bivy bags can’t be used everywhere, but they can be used a lot, and it’s often surprising just how possible it is to effectively set up this kind of shelter in some places when a party becomes desperate. It’s a little extra weight, but I have real difficulty understanding how people get into a frame of mind where they see relying on huts alone as being a safe way to visit the outdoors.

It’s a situation that goes beyond individuals, and I presume much of people’s attitude is shaped by those from whom they learn and associate. From time to time I meet groups and families in huts who haven’t given a second thought to their lack of shelter. We once met a large group from a tramping club, walking up an increasingly high river in the rain to an 8 bunk hut, and between 8 people they had a tent that would fit 3. The more experienced of these two people, both of whom died in the Tararuas last winter, was described as experienced by friends and family, yet the coroner’s inquest seems to imply that they didn’t properly check the forecast, made awful decisions, ignored advice, went into white-out conditions without appropriate navigation skills, didn’t carry portable shelter, and were ultimately driven on by the anticipation of reaching Kime Hut! It’s now emerging from the inquest that for this person it may even have been an habitual attitude. In another recent inquest, it’s emerged that the victim of a river crossing made a bad decision about continuing in bad weather, and then put herself in a position which made crossing the river imperative.

I honestly don’t want to be too critical. I’ve rarely met people in the outdoors who aren’t wonderful people and have interesting insights into all sorts of things, and very few people are outdoors with an intention of taking unreasonable risks. I also hope people think the same of me despite whatever weird Mike’isms come along with me. (Honestly, pretty much everyone who visits the back-country is strange in their own interesting way.) I guess I just have severe difficulty appreciating how people manage to take safety measures in the outdoors so casually. Maybe I just think this way because of the people whom I’ve learned from, but I can’t help but believe that it’s an irresponsible way of doing things, if not for one’s own safety then for the safety of others to whom one is responsible, or of everyone who might inevitably become involved in search and rescue efforts.

Footnotes

* In the 1920s context, the term “tourists” would probably refer mostly to those within New Zealand, even the Wellington and nearby regions, wanting to safely visit the mountains, rather than today’s common use which is typically about attracting visitors to New Zealand from overseas.

** The history books I’ve found only seem to refer to him as E. J. Kime, but through the magic of online government resources it’s now easy to search historic death certificates at Births, Deaths & Marriages Online, which reveal 24 year old Esmond James Kime died in 1922. Interestingly the National Library’s digitisation of historic newspapers also reveal a couple of references in 1915, including some examination results (E. J. Kime passed science examinations for both Magnetism and Electricty, and Applied Mechanics for materials and structures), and also an Esmond Kime — a young postal officer — who was admitted to hospital following a bicycle accident. Historic online resources are awesome.

*** Information in the last few paragraphs was compiled from Chris McLean’s book Tararua: the story of a mountain range.

• 16th February 2010
• 17th February 2010
• 18th February 2010
• Update 10th March: 10th March 2010 — coroner’s findings released

It’s interesting reading, especially the latter articles, and seems to developing into some good examples of things they might have done better, but more importantly the presence of a culture that wasn’t a safe one to mix with the outdoors, yet also one which is very prevalent (in my opinion at least).

If you followed his blog, you’d think that Craig never leaves his bike behind these days. He occasionally gets out in tramping boots though, which is great because he’s probably one of the most skilled people at off-track navigating who I know. Last week Craig mentioned that after riding his bike around Ruapehu in one of those cycling events, he intended to take advantage of a truly awesome weekend weather forecast and wander up to the crater lake of Mt Ruapehu for a look. I’ve not been up that way before, and it piqued my interest enough to convince me to gatecrash. The basic plan was to go up the easy way, which is to drive to the top of The Bruce (that road up to Whakapapa Skifield), and head up from there. As a side note, we visited in the middle of summer. In winter you’d likely need alpine gear and it’s nowhere near as straightforward. It’s an un-marked route in which people can and do get lost and have accidents, and I guess in alpine environments even small problems can have serious consequences.

Date: 7th February, 2010
Location: Tongariro National Park, from the top of Bruce Road.
People: Craig and me.
Huts visited: Dome Shelter, aka Dome Equipment Shed (0 nights).
Route: Walk up from the end of Bruce Road to the top of the Waterfall Express chair-lift, then continue up Knoll Ridge to Dome Shelter at the Crater Lake. Down via Restful Ridge.
Related bits: Craig also wrote about this walk.
[Photos]
[Download GPX] [Show map] [Display in new window]

Early morning Ruapehu from
near Ohakune.

Various weekend scheduling issues meant I couldn’t leave on Saturday, and the arrangement meant dragging myself out of bed to leave Wellington at 3am, so as to reach Ohakune at about 7am and wake Craig at DOC’s Mangawhero camp-site. I really wanted to stand outside his tent and blow a whistle really loud, but he was already packing up when I arrived, and nearby campers might not have appreciated it the same way I expect Craig would have with his understanding sense of humour. At least there was still a nice climb ahead during the day. A chap visiting the camp-side from Auckland, whom Craig had befriended, seemed to think we’d knock it off before lunch time. With a 1000 metre climb, I certainly wasn’t confident we’d be up and down within that time.

It’s roughly an hour’s drive from Ohakune to the Whakapapa Skifield, and after miscellaneous preparation (things like breakfast) we arrived at about 9.15am or so. There appeared to be some things happening in the parking area as we drove up, including some police and a helicopter buzzing around. We didn’t find out until later that it was all to do with a search and rescue operation for a Greek man who’d become lost the day before, and spent the night wandering on the mountain. It fortunately eventuated happily as they found him about half an hour after we left, which would have been a combination of good search coordination, and an element of luck from the overnight weather.

Anyway, the two of us elected to not use the chairlift from the top of The Bruce (we were out for a walk and didn’t want to pay for it). At our pace this meant an extra hour of walking to climb the 400 metres. It was quite easy to pick a route, in which we mostly stayed roughly under the main t-bars and waved to the rich spenders cruising overhead, occasionally informing them of the great things they were missing by choosing not to walk. The whole area around here is reasonably built up, with a combination of ski-field structures and mountain lodges that generally belong to various tramping, alpine and skiing clubs with occasional exceptions. It’s unusual for a National Park, but doesn’t bother me here as much as it seems to in some other places.

The Waterfall Express from below.

Craig and I took photos of each other after an hour, where a new cafe is being built, thus documenting evidence that we’d been able to reach the top of the chair-lift and had made it at least as far as most other people that day. From there on, we took another look at the map in an effort to figure out where we should actually be going. There are two particular routes which we’d read about, neither of them marked but both often walked. One is the Knoll Ridge T-bar, which is the ski-tow route slightly to the right when heading up and out of the chairlift. The other is Restful Ridge, further away to the east. Neither of these is marked by name on the LINZ Topo50 map, so we applied some intuition as to which ribs our written description was referring to, and followed the route up Knoll Ridge.

Shortly above Knoll Ridge.

Knoll Ridge is easy enough to follow for the length of the tow-line. On our right, to the west, a creek flows down the valley beside Knoll Ridge, eventually becoming Whakapapanui Stream. Much of the way to the top of the mountain, Pinnacle Spur dominates the view to the east, with its ominous jagged edges, and we saw at least three distant people silhouetted against the sky up in that direction, although I suspect they didn’t walk along the spur so much as climbed to the upper end of it where it’s flattened out. At the point where the ski-tow ends, Knoll Ridge drops into a slight valley, where having dropped off the end we began to encounter our first mild patches of icy snow. For much of the time we hopped along the moraine alongside, which I often personally prefer because I find it easier to walk on, but the snow itself wasn’t too awkward.

Someone sidles around towards the
saddle into the summit plateau.

Climbing starts getting more steep after Knoll Ridge, and the route curves slightly west of south underneath Glacier Knob, towards a saddle that eventually enters the Summit Plateau of Ruapehu on the western side of Glacier Knob, although at the time we didn’t have this information too specifically. During the summer season when we visited, it’s a climb up scree and moraine, and remaining patches of snow also added to the walk. The snow wasn’t too bad and although it took a few minutes to get back into the swing of kicking steps into the snow, which I’ve not had to do for a while, it was generally an easy walk.

We stopped for a break at about the 2450 metre contour, at the time not being certain of the actual route. A chap ahead of us who didn’t seem terribly confident had decided to sidle around over some more ice towards the gap next to Glacier Knob, but on the limited information that we had, and with neither of us having been here before, the two of us weren’t certain at the time that it was an optimal route. Following some lazing around at about 11.30am, the two of us decided to follow some gut intuition, which suggested getting to the top to walk along a ridge sooner rather than later was likely to make more sense than sidling around for a long time. The outcome of this decision was a very direct line busting straight up the scree.

The summit plateau.

With a start and stop scrambling effort, I reached the top at about 12.30pm, delighted to see the ice-covered plateau below me on the other side, with the top of Dome Shelter showing in the distance. As I waited another 15 minutes for Craig, I had a chat with a visiting British couple, whom we later found were named Jane and Graham, and who’d somehow found a route that dropped them on the eastern end of Te Heuheu Ridge, possibly up the Te Heuuheu Valley somehow. On seeing me arrive straight up the scree they commented that I must have come the “right” way, which I take to mean that their on route hadn’t been much less labour intensive.

Craig circumnavigates the
summit plateau.

Despite being a calm day, some thick-ish cloud was drifting in from the north, behind us as we’d climbed. When Craig arrived in front of the foggy back-drop, we followed a few minutes behind Jane and Graham, and met them once again at Dome Shelter — the small hut on the edge of the Ruapehu Crater Lake. Strictly speaking, I think it’s now called “Dome Equipment Shed”, probably as part of efforts to discourage people from sheltering there, as the shelter itself (which contains volcano monitoring equipment) is supposed to be for emergency use only. Although it’s known for people to stay at Dome Shelter overnight, the rule against doing so is for good reason. Despite its popularity, Ruapehu is still an active volcano. Its last major eruption, which sent minor lahars flowing down several valleys on the mountain, was in 1995. Even outside major eruptions, however, the region around the crater lake is dangerous. Dome Shelter has a history of being destroyed and damaged by volcanic activity, most recently in September 2007 when the volcano burped, boulders landed on the shelter and a tramper who’d been sleeping there eventually lost his leg. He was a very lucky guy.

Dome Shelter contains volcano monitoring
equipment, and is for emergency use only.

With the cloud not playing nicely, it was a while before we had a reasonable view of the crater lake, and even longer before we could see the high point of Tahurangi (2797) behind it, which we didn’t plan to visit on this occasion. As we ate lunch, the clouds parted and features gradually began to come and go. The crater lake itself is currently bright blue, with acidic water. On seeing it, it’s hard to imagine that it’s been used for swimming in the past. The acidity of the lake varies over time.

Craig and myself in front of
a bright blue crater lake.

All four of us sat around for some time, discussing topics such as boot retailers in Taranaki. Graham was having problems with the soles of his 10 year old boots beginning to fall apart, apparently after an encounter with the scree. Graham and Jane eventually left, and 15 minutes later, about 2.15pm, Craig and I picked up and left too. I think we may have been the last people at the crater lake on that day.

Leaving the plateau.

The Summit Plateau is a fascinating sight in the looming cloud with its dirty ice and volcanic-shaded rocks, and I took it in as we walked back along the ridge above to the eastern side of Glacier Knob. It was tempting to wander down for a walk around, but it looked as if it could potentially be tricky to get back up without a lot of time. At the small dip below the knob, we joined the walked track that we probably should have followed to come up. (It was nowhere near as exciting as our own route, however.) Rather than sidle around to the top of Knoll Ridge where we’d left off on the way up, we instead followed the walked track slightly west-wards, into a snow basin that allowed some fun skidding down the snow, and eventually onto what we later confirmed was Restful Ridge.

There are some wonderful orange and brown colours in the volcanic moraine of this region, and I think I could quite easily just sit and enjoy on another occasion. During this time we caught up with Jane and Graham, however, who were not completely confident walking through the snow and moraine. The boot problem wasn’t helping, and combined with some exhaustion, they were beginning to realise there was some risk of missing the 4pm closing time of the chair-lift. Consequently we walked down with them, since although the current conditions were fairly calm, both Craig and I were of the opinion that in such conditions it’s a very bad thing to leave people behind.

Pinnacle Spur in the distance.

This was a good thing in the end, because after some intermittent separation around rocks and small ridges of moraine that obscured vision, Craig and I noticed that they had probably headed a bit too far down the ridge without veering off towards the top of the main chair-lift, not having realised that the one they needed to aim for wasn’t in view, and that they were actually dropping into somewhere quite different, so we dropped down through some rocks and caught them. Jane in particular wasn’t feeling the best, to the extent that getting back up the ridge to a good turn-off point wasn’t much of an option, and also that movement was by now probably about a third the rate that it would normally be. Over the next hour or so, I eventually hopped ahead and found a quick-ish route through the moraine, dropping down in front of the NZ Alpine Club hut and then running to the top of the Waterfall Express (chair lift), fortunately managing to catch the chair-lift guy a couple of minutes after closing time, and managing to convince them to keep it running for a little longer, while Craig stayed with them and made sure they didn’t get into trouble.

The chair-lift operating people at Whakapapa Skifield in the summer were very helpful with their consideration, and they stayed behind long enough so that when Craig, Jane and Graham eventually walked up some time after 4.30pm, there was still a chair-lift able to get them down the rest of the way. Craig and myself had intended to walk the rest of the way down, as we’d come up, but Jane convinced us that we should go down with them so they could make us some tea in their camper-van, which was perfectly wonderful. It turns out that the chair-lift at Whakapapa Skifield is free if you’re going down instead of up, which is excellent news for future reference because I enjoy chair-lifts. I just happen to dislike paying for public transport if I can walk as an alternative. It was 5.30pm by the time Craig and I actually left the top of Bruce Road, and with some dinner and a brief snooze along the way I arrived home just slightly before midnight, thereby reinforcing my belief that this had been a daywalk.

It was certainly an interesting daywalk, partly from the volcanic landscapes but also with the events that unfolded towards the latter part of the day. It guess it emphasised just how easy it can be to become confused on the side of what’s a very accessible mountain near the tourist trail, especially given how many people who are encouraged to visit are often expecting something more graded and artificially safe. Despite the immediate area being relatively built up with T-bars designed for the ski season, the area is still massive and a person in slowly moving through it in the distance can be missed quite easily. Undulations in the terrain make it easy to completely lose sight of landmarks, potentially wander off on the wrong bearing, then end up in places that aren’t necessarily easy to get out of. Then all it’d really take is for darkness or clouds to drift in reducing visibility, and one could end up completely disoriented.

The remains of Graham’s boots. They did actually start with soles, which came off through an encounter with scree and then he was walking on socks.

In summary, a group was tramping to Siberia Hut (in Mount Aspiring National Park). They arrived about 11.30pm, one girl lagged behind and showed up 30 minutes later. During this gap, the warden at the hut notified Search and Rescue when the rest of the party indicated she was missing.

The Wanaka SAR Coordinator, however, seems to have come out with some very scathing comments in the media about how the group acted. He’s stated on the record that night walking is “not a good idea”, and that the absolute basics of tramping safety were ignored by the whole party. He also strongly criticised the group for showing up late, claiming that:

“most people using huts usually end up having pretty early nights, and don’t need to be woken up by groups of people banging and crashing around and settling in after midnight. It’s just ignoring tramping etiquette.”

I can’t comment on the specific case of this group’s etiquette due to the lack of information, but I take exception to both of these claims.

It sounds as if a few mistakes were possibly made, notably that the group allowed one of their party to lag behind in the first place. Something could, have happened but she turned up of her own accord in the end. It probably was the case that “basics of tramping safety” were ignored in that it’s often a risk to let people lag behind, but scathing media criticism of the party seems completely out of proportion when reminders about how they could have managed things better might have been more appropriate.

Tramping at night is not dangerous as a rule. If this isn’t the case, then perhaps we should start campaigning against all the tramping shops who sell very grunty head-torches that are primarily designed for night walking. I won’t campaign against it — I own one. I’ve often been in groups who walk at night, sometimes to a hut or sometimes to a good camp-site. We don’t do it as a rule, and at times it makes more sense to camp at the end of a road and get started early in the morning. At other times it’s great to be able to knock off the first few hours of walking, and perhaps wake up somewhere much nicer in the morning. Obviously the situation is different and lack of daylight changes what can be accomplished safely, but it’s common for tracks and routes — especially those near road-ends — to be completely walkable in the dark for people suitably prepared and motivated.

As for the etiquette of showing up to a hut late at night, it’s really in the eye of the beholder. Huts exist for use by everyone, not just for people who like early nights. Just as I often walk late at night, I’m often part of a group that will arrive at a hut at 11pm or later. Similarly, I’ve sometimes been in huts when others have arrived late at night. It is rude to simply take over the place and make lots of noise when people are trying to sleep. Huts are for everyone, after all, but I disagree that simply showing up to make use of the hut at a time of day that others might not have anticipated is bad etiquette. It’s just a case of making minimal fuss and respecting that others are trying to sleep. Several times I and others have bedded down on the floor upon arriving so as to avoid disturbing people in bunks too much.

It might simply be that this particular SAR coordinator had a bad day, or was woken too late at night and was in a bad mood and that reflected in his comments. Perhaps he’s been quoted out of context, or the full story is missing from the media’s version, which happens from time to time. Perhaps he just thought it his responsibility to make as much noise as he could to discourage others from doing something he thought was inappropriate, despite it being at the disproportionate expense of those at the centre of events, which also unfortunately happens from time to time. Whatever the reason, I think the message that was presented through the media is mis-leading and wrong. Tramping at night isn’t for everyone. It requires additional considerations to be made, but there’s nothing inherently un-safe about it when handled appropriately. Furthermore, huts are provided for everyone, not just for people who like to go to bed early. It’s important to be considerate to other hut users, but consideration extends both ways.

If my own opinion isn’t enough on this topic, there have already been several comments in the IN THE NEWS thread in the forums over at NZ Tramper, starting near the end of page 6 of that thread.

The gist of the situation is that on 3rd December 2009 the Shotover River was flooded, but the kayakers (reportedly experienced) went anyway despite having been warned against it, and despite the local tourist rafting and jet boat operators refusing to operate. The kayakers had a mis-hap, losing one of the kayaks and with one of them breaking a finger. The empty kayak was spotted down-river, and on the reasonable assumption that someone could be in serious trouble, authorities of the Queenstown Lakes District Council sent a helicopter to investigate. The two kayakers were discovered on opposite banks of the river, and reportedly “very pleased to see the helicopter”. The harbourmaster of the council later sent a bill to recover the $4,000 cost, and now plans to go to small claims court to get it back.

Most of the media (the Herald and Stuff are representative) report the story from a perspective that the kayakers were warned, shouldn’t have gone, and wasted everyone’s time. The kayakers themselves (un-named as best as I can tell) claim that they weren’t in serious trouble, never requested a rescue, and don’t see why they should have to pay for it. With a quick search I’ve noticed that several people have blogged thoughts about this story in various places (some with following discussions), notably Michelle over at Love in a Tent, David at Paddling Instructor, and also Kerry L at Kayak & Kayaking.

I can’t comment with authority about whether these kayakers were being irresponsible. Rescuers claim it was irresponsible, but the kayakers were supposedly experienced and capable of making their own decisions based on knowledge about their abilities. From the description (and I’m not going on first-hand information) it sounds as if the kayakers perhaps could have gotten themselves out of the situation and were perhaps busy figuring this out, but accepted a helicopter ride because it showed up. Supposedly the two were “very happy” to have the helicopter available, but it seems probable that they weren’t informed at the time that the rescue was going to cost them anything. Within New Zealand, it would be a reasonable assumption in a compromising situation that any rescue helicopter on offer is free, particularly if it’s obviously been sent to search for you without having been requested, and even if you’re not in absolute dire trouble. On the other side (as has been pointed out by the harbourmaster), they can’t ignore the sign of an empty kayak floating down a flooded river.

The question of fault isn’t the most important here, though. I’m uncomfortable with how they were sent a bill at all, and are now being threatened with court action. Typically within New Zealand, search and rescue operations are not charged back to those being rescued. After the event, things are assessed and costs are either underwritten by ACC or by the New Zealand Police. If the national search and rescue coordination services are notified (by emergency beacons or otherwise), the service is legally obligated to follow up the notice and respond as appropriate, and cannot legally ask for payment. These legal obligations will not prevent the Police and/or SAR from issuing noisy press releases shouting “stupid idiot trampers” or (in this case) “stupid idiot kayakers”, and in excessive cases such as people being very obviously stupid or wasting police time, the police can choose to prosecute a person in court for wasting time and resources. But a person can’t be charged up-front, and this ensures a situation where people aren’t considering silly and irrelevant details about affordability of requesting a rescue when their life is in danger. It also supports a situation where people are comfortable donating vast voluntary resources (time, money and experience and leave from their regular work) without feeling so much as if they’re being ripped off by a system where the victim pays someone but not them.

There’s an ongoing debate in New Zealand about whether people should pay for rescues, whether there should be a requirement for tourists and/or back-country users to sign up to some kind of insurance scheme, and perhaps it has merit. New Zealand isn’t the only place with this debate, either. For example, the Spanish province of Catalonia decided to start charging particularly reckless people late last year, citing hourly rates of helicopters and people required during the search and rescue. There’s also a Facebook page campaigning for free SAR operations throughout the USA. What bothers me in the apparent New Zealand situation is the inconsistency of there being a general policy of rescues being at no charge, but still having some invoices issued depending entirely on the circumstances of the rescuers — not the rescued. Even if this bill can’t be enforced, sending it through the courts creates uncertainty that could create doubt in people’s minds about requesting a rescue when they really need it.

It’s understandable that the Queenstown Lakes District Council felt obligated to launch a helicopter, did so independently for expedience, and their budget will be limited, which is why the harbourmaster wants to recover the costs somehow. The possibility that rescuers could show up to help a person in trouble, and that person might not know whether the search will cost or not, is concerning, because unless all rescues are free of charge, it compromises the reason for other searches being free of charge. The more often this happens, the more often people will think twice about accepting an offer of rescue when they genuinely need it. I like to think that if and when I’m rescued after a back-country mistake, I’d make an effort to donate at least the cost of my rescue as long as it’s within my means. In this case it was $4,000, and such a cost could be manageable for people good at managing their money (which a significant number of people in New Zealand are awful at, by the way). If it happened to be a $40,000 invoice, which wouldn’t necessarily include the time, resources and expense put in by any number of volunteers, it would be completely unaffordable for most. The consequences of telling local authorities that they can’t send invoices, however, might make them less likely to respond to potential emergency situations when it makes sense for them to do so.

As long as search and rescue is generally designed to be at no cost for rescued parties, perhaps it would be useful for systems to be adjusted so that local authorities conducting rescues could more easily tie into the national framework. In this case, for instance, the Queenstown Lakes District Council would not attempt to charge the rescuers, but would instead apply back to the Police or ACC to have the bill paid out of pre-existing budgets that can absorb it more easily, on the grounds that they made a decision to investigate the likely possibility of a person in imminent danger. Otherwise I think we may as well go the full distance and make it clear that people need to pay, or take out insurance, or whatever.

The first in the news was a Wellington man who slipped whilst descending from the summit of Mt Tapuae-o-Ueneku, slid about 400 metres, and managed to walk away with little more than a few bruises. This strikes me as extraordinarily fortunate. The second is the case of Victorian government minister Tim Holding, who spent two nights disoriented in freezing conditions near the top of Mt Feathertop in the Victorian alps, after he slipped off the track and slid several hundred metres. He was lucky to be found, and now he’s recovering.

One valuable quote from Tim Holding’s insights into his experience was in the above-linked article.

“I slid very, very fast and if you’ve ever slid in the ice before, you’ll know you start slowly and you slide faster and faster and you gather huge momentum.”

Self arresting is the technique of stopping when you’re sliding down an icy slope, and stopping is the all-important thing in a situation such as the one above. If you can’t stop sliding on your own terms, you’ll be stopping on the mountain’s terms which will just as likely be off the end of a high bluff or slammed into an uninviting rock-face as not. If you’re into mountaineering, you’re most likely familiar with all this stuff already. If you’re more into tramping (as I am) then it’s a very handy and sometimes essential thing to know, especially if you spend a lot of time above the bush-line.

Self-arresting is usually done with an ice-axe, and involves ramming the pick part of the ice-axe into the snow and ice, lying face down on top of it, and then to jam as much weight directly onto the adze (the flat edge part) of the ice-axe as you possibly can until it stops you…. and then hope it actually does stop you. (Don’t take this short paragraph as instruction. I’m not a qualified instructor, nor very good at all this stuff anyway. Besides, you really need to practice!) There’s a handy video that describes the technique from the British Mountaineering Council on Youtube, but you should really consult an organisation such as the NZ Mountain Safety Council or equivalent for proper training.

There’s also a technique for self-arresting without an ice axe, if you’re unfortunate enough to be without. The technique confused me when it was first explained, as I found it counter-intuitive. Summarised, the technique is to try and orient face down, arch your back and place hands and feet on the surface, then put as much weight on them as possible to try and dig in. It’s important to try and minimise surface area by keeping your stomach off the ground, since doing so will then increase the force on the pressure points that are touching, to help them dig in. (Think of your hands and feet being like an ice axe that’s digging in — it’ll hurt but there’s a better chance it might stop you!)

I found the hands-only technique counter-intuitive at first, because I usually think of more surface area as meaning more friction and a better chance of stopping. Extra surface area doesn’t work with ice, however, thanks to various physical properties of ice. You’ll just end up turning your body into a sled, getting faster and faster.

As an important side note, the most recommended way to save yourself is to avoid slipping down the ice in the first place. If you do slip, try to be holding an ice-axe before you fall, because the hands-only method is a whole lot harder to do effectively, if it’s even possible which it isn’t in some cases. Even with an ice-axe, it’s not always possible to stop, especially once you’re going really fast. Slipping is unexpected, and this quote (from the climber on Mt Tapuae-o-Uenuku) isn’t an uncommon story to hear from people who’ve survived a slide:

“I do remember the descent, I was airborne on occasion and going at speed. I was conscious all the way down, but, because of the solid ice and speed I was going, I couldn’t use my ice axe to self-arrest.”

Still, better to actually know and be familiar with the optimal techniques for stopping before they’re needed. Otherwise there’s very little chance. Practice with self-arrest techniques is absolutely necessary before they’re needed, because when it happens there won’t be time to mentally go through the process. Next time I have an opportunity in a safe environment, I might make an effort to figure out the hands-only technique.

Shortly after the search concluded, one of those involved posted an amateur 4 minute video that shows an interesting snapshot of a SAR operation in progress. If you’ve not already seen it, it’s worth a quick look, and if you click through to the YouTube page you can read a better description about what’s going on.

One outcome of the Coroner’s report seems to be that DoC review its branding of “Great Walks”, noting that the term “Walk” might create confusion for some tourists whose first language isn’t English and who might incorrectly interpret the term to mean that there’s no potential danger. On the face of it and without all the information at hand, I’m not convinced it would have helped in this situation, but perhaps there’s something to the idea.

This equality is one of the wonderful things about the outdoors in New Zealand. it manifests itself in the informal experiences of meeting people out of context and away from their normal day-jobs. If Craig and I or anyone else had been tramping up that way this weekend (as we’d planned) and happened to meet people, it no doubt would have made no difference who they were or what they’d achieved. You get to meet and chatter with all sorts of people in New Zealand’s back-country, and meet them on equal terms. One way or another everyone’s out there to enjoy themselves.

I won’t dwell on the specifics of what happened right now. The published information is so sparse and it wouldn’t be fair to people involved. No doubt more information will emerge from those in the know in the coming weeks. Whatever happened, it’s a testament to the impressively coordinated and largely voluntary Land Search and Rescue organisation, and to the SAR Coordination team of the New Zealand Police and all other organisations involved, that the trampers were found so quickly once it finally became possible to mount a search.

It’s strange having been to these places, even felt as if I was in some kind of trouble near there at times (especially this time), yet never for a moment having thought I wouldn’t get out safely. I’m fortunate enough to have never been in such a catastrophic situation to date, and I hope I never am.

Perhaps it helps to ease the mind if you’re as prepared as you can be, to the extent that if you make a mistake (preparation or otherwise) your further preparation will be more likely to compensate. Having experienced, competent and level-headed friends nearby also helps tremendously when things get difficult. When this kind of awful thing happens, however, it’s a saddening reminder that on occasion things can go tragically wrong, even for experienced people and in places that are well frequented and which might sometimes give the impression of being much more safe than what they really are. Probably all we can do now is try to learn from it.

He might have sold his story to a trashy women’s magazine (or to a trashy Sunday newspaper), but instead he’s written it up in detail for all to read and learn from, over at the New Zealand Tramper website. What he’s created is a first-hand account from someone well qualified in the New Zealand back-country, which is actually very educational about what can go wrong, how to deal with it, how mistakes can occur, and what it’s like to have to cope with the media after something like this. It’s published in five parts:

• Part One
• Part Two
• Part Three
• Part Four
• Part Five

It’s definitely worth a read. There’s also been an ongoing discussion about the event in the NZ Tramper forums.

Over the weekend, I’ve been catching up with the plight of the three people who were caught at Barker Hut down in Arthur’s Pass National Park. Reportedly they were stuck behind flooded rivers and down to their last energy bar between them. They attempted to arrange a helicopter out via mountain radio, and even offered to pay for it, but were denied this after the Department of Conservation and Police decided their situation wasn’t an emergency. (Helicopters are banned in Arthur’s Pass National Park except for emergencies.)

The Press, Christchurch’s daily newspaper, sensationalised their plight when they were still stuck in the hut being denied a rescue. Once they’d returned on Thursday, reportedly having been forced to make a shockingly dangerous river crossing, The Press spent quite a lot of effort continuing to slam DOC and claiming their are flaws in the system. It makes for some quite shocking reading if you believe how The Press reported things, but I did find it enlightening to read a researched chronology of events and conditions that was put together by Graeme Kates, who lives in Arthur’s Pass and maintains a locally-focused mountaineering website. [Update 3-July-2008: Here's an example of another story by The Press from earlier, again authored by Dan Silkstone, followed by this one a couple of days later which looks as if it's trying to save face after generating more backlash against the paper than they might have expected.]

Graeme’s post about the subject is titled “The Wimpy Media Trio“, and claims the party made some quite silly decisions leading up to their arrival at the hut. They also ignored weather forecasts, didn’t carry their own shelter (ie. a tent), didn’t properly research the route or have adequate maps, ate a large meal the night before they ran out of food, despite knowing they might have trouble leaving immediately, spent a lot more time talking to the media (over the radio) rather than SAR personnel, and continued to ask for a helicopter without actually checking if the level of the river was going down. The entire article makes interesting reading compared with the sensationalist media view of things.