Death by fire; death by snow?

Never mind death by dodgy cooking appliances; I've got a whole new story to tell you. Mum, you won't like it.

We stayed in snow the other night (which, by the way, is not as good at freezing ice packs as you might think). Mount Cook is the highest mountain in New Zealand, and the corresponding village is also at high altitude. Despite this, it actually felt a lot warmer during the day and I didn't end up shivering all night (compared to the night before when I had, I kid you not, six layers of clothing on). We decided to climb the Sealy Tarns route up the mountain to some small glacial lakes and good views of Mount Cook; supposedly for 'beginners'. All well and good. After walking past a WARNING AVALANCHE AREA: ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK I looked a little confused, at shrubbery and mud...and continued.

The steps were steep; well, pretty steep, but not ridiculously steep (ahem as in not Table Mountain, you old devil). But the steps were quite slippery. I was finding it pretty hard going and certainly would not consider the route 'for a beginner' (and certainly not a route for trainers which were unfortunately my footwear of choice). We climbed for about and hour and a half, up to the snowline. Nice views. Click click click goes the camera. But where are the lakes?

No lakes. The few, old footprints there are in the ground head up. The lakes must be higher up. So on we climb, up into the snow. Soft, annoying, maiden snow. We are clinging onto spiky bushes and tough grasses for leverage as we heave ourselves over the rocks. Then there are no more rocks. Just snow. We continue, still scouring the horizon for these lakes, looking back to see if we'd missed them. Great views. No lakes.

We are half-wading through snow (cue grateful me for waterproof socks, trousers and gloves), clambering on all fours. The sun is getting hotter. We climb higher. 'Maybe we should turn back' I think. But John is going faster than me; he basically at the peak of the mountain. He shakes his head; still no lakes.

So; we turn back. I am sitting in the snow waiting for John to come back down from the peak, admiring the view. Takes him a lot longer than expected; he climbed it in about 15 minutes. I look around and see him, digging his feet into the snow, one at a time, then sliding down the snow on his bum. With no gloves on or waterproof trousers. Slow going. 'It's slippery!' he shouts. And he's right. Looking at the view, I've been ignoring the snow at my feet. The sun has melted it into a semi-slush top layer. And it looks A LOT steeper on the way down compared to climbing up.

It was the best sledging slope you ever saw; except for menacingly sharp rocks and the empty nothingness of a cliff edge at the bottom.

Aw. Crap. Avalanche warnings flash in my head like police sirens. John has reached my height now, so we start slushing down the mountain together, digging the feet in and short slides. We're in trainers; we're hideously unequipped; it's slow and the sun is getting higher and we have to be patient and try not to slip. It's hard. No crampons, no poles.

I am as careful as I possibly can be; unfortunately, my foothold of snow comes loose at the critical moment and I lose control. 'Shit shit shit shit SHIT!' I am sliding down the mountain, faster and faster, completely out of control and seriously panicked. The cliff edge gashes at me, a hideous, cruel grin; the rocks, rushing towards me, drops of saliva. Luckily, instinct kicks in and I dig my arm into the snow as deep as I can, slowing my progress sufficiently to grab hold of some bushes.

'Well, that's one way to get down a mountain.' I mutter to myself. I'm alive! The problem is now I am marooned on a small tuft of bush surrounded by unstable, virgin, avalanche-prone snow. My path down to the bush islet is littered with hollow gaps where the snow was barely thick enough to support my fall, and caved in under my weight after I flew past. Sometimes there is bush underneath; sometimes rocks. Russian roulette sledging. Nice.

'Are you alright?!' John shouts, shuffling his way down as quickly and carefully as he can. 'Yeah, I'm good!' I pant, a little breathlessly. 'Kinda screwed now though...' I try kicking my way across to the original snow track, but it's no good; the snow crumbles under my feet and I'm sending mini avalanches down the mountain. On top of that, the bush I'm clinging to is fighting with me tooth and nail to make me let go, catching my clothing in all the wrong places to hinder my progress, whilst also being suprisingly slippery to grip. Savage little life-saving bitch. After a few minutes of attempted side tracking back to the original path, I give up. It's no use.

You're gonna have to sledge again, Louise.

I'll try not to shout swearwords this time. It's not very dignified.

John gets to the stable area, to scout a decent sledging path for me (i.e. avoiding rocks and edges, please). After about 10 minutes of repositioning (i.e. as far away from rocks and edges as possible, please) we're ready to go.

I look at the view. Was it worth it?

I smile.




I'm still here, and still in one piece, so I'm guessing you can imagine the rest of the story.

Never found those bloody lakes. Sorry Mum! :) xx