The approach to the Nun's Veil - by water, dry river bed, boulders and stones

I hate getting up early. Hate the cold. I dread the weight of my pack on a long approach, anticipating the fatigue and knotted muscles. I am afraid of heights. And falling in the mountains is one of the most terrifying situations I can imagine – and hope to only ever imagine.

And yet, after leaving the mountains I become solemn. I reflect on every stage of the adventure, all of it a pleasure. Sorting out the tangle of rope, axes, gaiters, gloves and harnesses. Whipping round the supermarket for climbing food, calculating the number of meals required. Commencing the road trip, selecting the theme music and packing the pipe. We are leaving it all behind, for now – no work, no suburban routine, no political scandals or useless celebrity gossip. Soon time will be measured in terms of how much daylight is left, how much vertical ground remains to be covered, how long until we can rest again.

Getting ready for the climb from the Gorilla Stream bivy site

Wyn Irwin’s couches, carpet, pillows and hot shower make it more of a cottage than a hut. I smile now, to think I fretted the hut would be full of climbers quick to look down their noses at the beginner. Cameron, Tim, Lars. With you I laughed and laughed, shared and listened and smoked. Spent hours looking at photos of mountains. I am thinking of her, Tim. Grow, baby, grow! There were other faces, other voices, other lives in that hut, but these three became family. Is it strange to feel love for people you have only known a few days? Is it wrong to feel better understood by your mountain friends than by your own blood?

The air is still, the earth dusty, cracked in places. We paint our skin with sun block, drink constantly from Gorilla Stream. Lars is on all fours, gulping like an animal. Is it merely a quaint habit he likes to indulge? He forgot his water bottle, doesn’t mind as he remembered ‘the most important things’. Glenn and I give him a bottle and share mine.

Francesca sorts the rope after a choss climb

This seems to be the never-ending valley, a rock desert. The Nun’s Veil makes us wait, keeps herself from view until late afternoon. We offer Lars Marmite on crackers and wonder about those ice cliffs, which route to take?

Climbing the ice field. Due to the March- like conditions sixteen ice screw placements were used on this section during the day.

The night too is still, and as ever, I am torn between the heaviness of my lids and the astral span above me.

We begin to climb in the shade, but the sun soon slips down the rock faces. I want the rope early on, the ice is bounce-your-tools-off-hard. Ice cliffs lean back above and below us, black and blue and yawning crevasses. I can’t get this freakin’ snow stake out. Lars’ head pops over the rocks above me. No judgement, no irritation. He described himself as a beginner, yet he is faster and more confident than I. He offers advice, then tells me to leave the stake behind. I don’t like being the slowest, but it’s clear I am the only one bothered.

Pitching takes time, we simul climb for a while, scramble up wet choss. Plodding the softer snow, I tread the line between reminding myself to concentrate as I glance at crescent shaped slots just below, and telling myself I couldn’t possibly fall here.

Looking down the Nun's Veil Glacier

Lars goes on alone, front pointing rapidly up 100m of hard ice. Glenn leads out and I lower my head to avoid falling ice as he builds an anchor. I doze off for a minute. Glenn yells at me to come up. I shake myself, breathe deeply ... so tired. My sleep debt has built up over three nights, if only I could have started this trip fresher. Change of plan. Glenn raps down. I am dozing again. There is a shorter route to the plateau through the slots. We pick our way upwards.

I have no good excuse for not reaching the summit of the Nun’s Veil. I was tired, yes. At the time I was happy knowing Lars would probably make it, happy to sit on the plateau, the summit only 200m above. Now I wonder why I didn’t try harder.

Glenn figures there’s a better view if we go a little higher. The slots are huge now. I learn on the spot how to rope up for glacier travel. I jump crevasses for the first time. No reason to cross a bridge if you don’t have to, advises Glenn. The sensation as I run and leap is the same as when jumping into water from up high. I land and stumble onto one knee. Thinking I’ve fallen in, Glenn quickly moves backwards, pulling me like a stubborn pony. It feels good to laugh.

The final exposed ridge to the summit

Ah, the views. What can I say? You may know the panorama, but if not I am sure you could see it in your dreams. It is truly perfect climbing weather. The Caroline Face dominates all, yet it is seeing for the first time the peak height of the moraine walls far below in the Tasman Valley that astounds me the most. How does a glacier disappear like that?

We see five climbers on the summit, detect the tones of female voices and make out Lars’ red helmet. The way to the summit is not far, but I can see there is a brief ‘holy fuck, don’t fall’ section. Lars will later tell me he climbed this alone. I wasn’t really scared, he will say, just a little uncomfortable. And then he’ll grin like a joyful child.

I get pissed off on the descent. I don’t like rapping down the choss, the mini waterfalls soak the rope and my hands start to numb. By the second rap the rope is covered in grit, it’s like rapping down sand paper.

Lars takes a self- portrait on the summit, with the Caroline Face of Aoraki - Mt Cook in the background

Inching back down the hard ice, my ankles scream inside my tramping boots. I couldn’t afford climbing boots yet. I curse loudly. I need a belay and again, I am the slowest. Immediately uncomfortable with my ridiculous behaviour, I apologise back on easier ground. My loss of calm and accompanying feeling of stupidity is only emphasised by the quiet shrugs of Glenn and Lars.

The glissade I had looked forward to all day doesn’t happen, whether it’s the snow, my claw like front points, I don’t know. The stars are out, it has been a long day. Back at the bivvy Glenn and I have little appetite. Lars tucks into noodles. In a huddle we chat and drink hot chocolate. It is 2am when we close our eyes.

Descent down the ice field, wary of the loose snow on hard ice

The walk out is swift, there is a brief scratchy bush bash. I keep saying I hope there’s time for a swim. The final stretch along the parched Tasman River beds is hellish. I suddenly empathise with desert travellers. I think about the book Mutant Message Downunder, in which the American author, who trekked across the outback with an Aboriginal tribe, found water by being water. I try to visualise every form of water my dehydrated imagination can muster, try to feel the rush of liquid down my throat. No such luck.

By the time I reach Tasman Lake, where the others are waiting, I am sure I see a saddled horse, standing idle as I pass by. I down a litre of glacier water in moments. It is almost 5pm and feels at least 30 degrees.

‘Enjoy your swim!’ Sings Kylie, the boat driver, as she trots off. We strip to our underwear, any shyness obliterated by the sharing of beauty, challenge and sweat. I plunge into the freezing lake and scramble out, then stand in the sun and laugh. It’s like being born again.

We are driving back to the village, hitting the electric window buttons now and then to avoid the dust baths from passing vehicles. I see the hare running from the right and before I can shout ‘Look out!’, it leaps up and slams into my side of the windscreen. Glenn quickly pulls over and reverses. We see the hare fitting in the long grass, flinging itself into the air while horizontal. It lands on the road at our feet.

I fear its back is broken. I don’t want this life to end slowly, in agony. We should… kill it. But we can’t. We stand in a triangle formation, heads bowed, watching the wide eyed, grunting creature fight, fight, fight, limbs flailing.

‘God, you’re strong,’ I say aloud, and tell this seemingly little life it’s ok, don’t be scared. Please just die quickly.

It becomes still. Pupils dilate. Death is coming.

Or is it? The hare suddenly looks up, stands up. With only a slight limp, he whirls and bounds away, disappearing into the grass, home to his family I hope.

The journey is complete.