Kathmandu - Nepal

Kathmandu is a crazy city. If you can see past the streetside rubbish, diesel fuel, and the begging it is vibrant and fun - but that is a big ask! The streets are crawling in motorbikes, 3 wheel tuk tuks, rickshaws, 4WD buses, and little Suzuki taxis which all use the one lane, and their horn more often than not. Whether its to say hello; " beep beep", or as a warning; "beeeeeep", or in impatience; "hoooornk" it is annoying, and the old diesel keeps you hacking away along with everyone else.

The garbos come early in the morning but don’t seem to pick up anything, so the dogs, yaks and cows wonder through searching for bits of this and bits of that in the piles and piles of shit.

Begging is rampant; and so are the selling scams. You ask for 4 bananas, but as soon as you open your wallet, then the vendors want to sell you 7 plus 2 mandarins, one flute, one necklace, one pashmina and one trek. And after Nic gave one beggar his old shoes he sat next to them all night, didn’t put them on, and begged us for money the next day.

The electricity turns on when it wants, just like the hot water, so a shower is a luxury along with light. I’ve had a love/hate relationship with this place. When we were trekking, and far from civilisation I could have killed for a shower - any shower, a fresh banana from a streetside seller, and a rickshaw to save my legs. But after a day here the endless horns and sitar whining, rubbish and dirt is sickening. Cough cough… enough of the Du.

Mount Aspiring - New Zealand

Summiting Mt Aspiring could have been a dream for years, but instead the seed of the dream was planted only a week before the climb. When Nic mentioned; that I should have skills enough to climb Mt Aspiring if I wanted, I held on to the idea, and began to dream. He had been up before so I felt confident that together we might make it. “Aspiring” has beautiful note; something inspiring, something perspiring, something I could aspire to... to climb just because it was it is there.

After arriving in Lake Wanaka, the mountain remained hidden for a few days, only to be read about in guide books and to be talked about. But when it peeped its head out from behind the clouds, I couldn’t keep my eyes off it, and I fell in love. Like many loves though, Aspiring remained untouchable, and every day became a weather watching affair. Our ritual was a leisurely breakfast of coffee and muesli on the lake followed by a drive to DoCs to get the latest report by Metview, our weather gospel. There began the endless talks of low pressure, high pressure, winds from the north, south, east and west and endless leaning over and interpreting of maps with colourful graphs. But every day there became a reason not to start the trip… heavy winds... low pressure... rain.. And after morning preparations had been made, they would be aborted. At first I was content to dream; to soak up the idea and prepare mentally, particularly for that early 4 am start I had been warned about. More than fitness, more than anything; that early start seemed to be the most difficult obstical. 4 am was a dreaming hour and not one to be disturbed with a rude awakening and forced breakfast.
But even early mornings can be overcome (unlike the weather) and as each day passed my dissappointment grew, our flight back to Sydney became closer, and the possibility of making my dream a reality and attempting Mount Aspiring was disappearing. Finally though, giving us just enough time to make an attempt, a high which had been heading towards the south island, was predicted to clear the mountain and give us some good summit weather. Suddenly afraid, but very excited, I jumped back in the car, and we took the bumpy road to Rasberry flats - the beginning of the trail.
We set off with big packs at 2 in the afternoon. 15kgs had never felt heavier, and I was totally unprepared for being a humpback. Furthermore, at the start, we had to walk through farms, dodge cow patties and endure big cow's eyes glaring at us with the knowledge we are meat eaters. eeek!! But the walk soon became magical whn we walked into the forests with giant mossy trees and lush dense scrub, and I began singing the Lord of the Rings soundtrack. Our first campsite was at Pearl Flat; which felt like a small Elvish paradise, but was soon swarming with sandflies. They knew no bounds, eating at skin and through clothes with ease, and totally ignoring our tropical strength spray.
The next day began a far longer walk, but also more varied. Over the roots of trees, swing bridges and moraine, we moved before beginning our dance along the ledges to reach Bevan Cole. On the glacier there were so many crevasses that a couple walking ahead of us would take 3 steps, for every fall. So Nic and I tied in together on the rope and hoped for the best - even though our falls seemed to be just as frequent. Reaching Colin Tudd hut was a relief. We made company with a couple from Prague who, although experienced, didn’t have their crampons in NZ yet, so had waltzed across the glacier earlier that morning without any- crazy stuff unless you really know what you are doing.
Anyway, we all sat with eager ears that evening listening to the forecast for the following day which was “fine but with 100 knot winds". But with typical skepticism which brewed after any given forecast, we decided to wake the next morning at 4am, only to be whipped and rattled around outside. I even lost my balance from the wind and fell on the way to the toilet, and then had to go with the door wide open (it refused to shut) slamming repeatedly as I tried to relieve myself. It wasn’t a day to be walking on exposed ridges at 3000 metres. So, we went back to sleep and lazed around, digging somewhat into the leftover food and soups that other parties had left behind.
Later that day we had more visiters… Simon - a guide and his client- Geoff; and we soon learnt about Geoff's dream. Geoff had tried to summit Aspiring in the 70s but bad weather had stopped him. Then, he tried in the 80s but fitness had stopped him. Then he tried again with his son in the 90s and the weather again was a killer. But his dream was still alive as he told us he had been training even harder this time, and this time the guiding company had even hung out for a break in the weather for him. I felt almost guilty telling him of our hastily hashed together plan - my dream which had merely been sown together a week prior, and the fact that Nic, as cool as ever was waltzing up a second time.

The following morning Nic and I set off soon after Simon and Geoff… the forecast the night before had been perfect and only predicted some 20 knot winds arriving late in the day. The climbing I didn't find so hard, but it was consistent, long and exposed. Nic was in essence guiding me, and lead the whole way. When I saw the summit ridge, I burst into tears. It was so out there, so beautiful, so extreme. To ensure I was safe though, he encouraged me to “bite” my crampons in… so I went into a “bite” mantra; all the while knowing that any one step that didn’t bite could be the one step that caused me to slide, and it wasn’t a small drop below but rather a 3000 metre one.

Being on the summit was fun, but short and sweet. I knew I wouldn’t be a gun for summit fever, as the journey itself was more exhilerating than the few moments on top. But still, my dream had become reality; I had summitted my first mountain, and shortly after, after 4 previous attempts, and a life long dream Geoff summitted Aspiring too.

Mountaineering 101 - New Zealand

Everyone looks in amazement as Nic and I launch ourselves over the danger barrier; “Beware of rock fall! Beware of Avalanches! Falls recorded every day in the previous 5 days! Do not proceed!” and keep on walking. He laughs and says that because of the likes of me (being a lawyer in a previous life) DoCs – Department of Conservation - have to warn people of any old falling leaf now. I smile, but am not convinced. Etched in my mind is the image of the two Australian men who died at the terminal of the glacier last month, but to our tourist audience we look the part with our goretex outfits, chunky mountaineering boots, ice axes and crampons duly attached to our packs. Little do they know (all my gear was bought just yesterday in Christchurch) this is my first mountaineering experience, mountaineering 101.

Ice is a different world. Rock is familiar and warm, I can touch it with my bare hands and my feet stick, it feels safe and I feel at home. Ice is cold, frozen, slippery and wet. And as if the ice itself wasn’t tough enough, our luggage was deemed so lethal , in our fear driven, terrorist alarmed world that we had to have it all wrapped up and slapped with dozens of “restricted” warnings, before the pilot was warned and alerted to the fact it was on board! And then, as if carrying the gear wasn’t difficult enough, having to wear it was even worse. My crampons had sharp steel talons which stuck out on all sides and scared me just to look at. I really didn’t want one of those talons in my foot, in my leg, or anywhere near my body. And the ice axes looked straight out of a horror movie. I was clumsy at the best of times, but with these lethal things... there came serious responsibility.

After a much longer approach than expected – whilst the terminal was right there, that was not the safest way to get on the glacier – we strapped on the crampons, gripped our ice axes and were off. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. The ice was straight from out of a freezer, but then, stripped away it was glass.... whooohoooo. Ok, very slippery, must be careful not to fall. So the instruction began. Mountaineering 101 – lecture one in crampon walking – ok so far, apart from watching my swish new pants almost ripped to shreds in the first minute ... lesson two in self arrest and crevasse rescue. Ok, so now I know Nic has high aspirations for me, as he throws himself onto the ice axe demonstrating self arrest. This looks more like learning self mutilation than self arrest. How can it be possible to put all your weight on an axe safely?! I begin to wonder if really I am just a lounge chair mountaineer... but slowly, surely I get the hang of it, and, by the end of the day am hammering away, climbing up walls, and having a ball.

Wet bouldering days at castle hill - New Zealand

We arrive late on a wet evening at Castle Hill, and testing out our new head lamps which thankfully work a treat, set up the tent in the dark. Sleeping gear in, we lay exhausted with tired eyes but sleep doesn’t come easily. The water in the stream, tranquil at first gets louder and more threatening as the rain intensifies. How high can it rise in one night I wonder? I drift in and out of sleep. We are lilo-ing downstream on our stomachs, in our sleeping bags, on our mats. We drift through the forest under big canopies, dropping our hands in to say hello to the fish. We make friends with the pretty keas who are content to sit on our backs for the free ride. Up ahead the stream goes through a cave, and there, guarding the entrance is Gollum.... the riddles begin.

What is the grade 16 highball route beginning with D? How many bouldering routes are at Castle Hill, and what is a kea’s favourite food after the rubber on your climbing shoes?

I wake the next morning with great relief that the tent hasn’t moved, and that we're dry. But the rain lingers on during the day, leaving the Castle Hill boulders greasy and wet. So began the rainy day climbers' ritual. Out came the hacky sack ( or happy sack as I insist on saying to keep our spirits high) and out came the frisbie... out came the coffee pot, and out came the nibblies. And when we were bored then began the hut traverse, the mantle fireplace boulder problem, the sloper beam hang, the one arm jug roof hang, chin ups on the eves... but best of all the banter.
“Did you know that a sheep can recognise up to 25 other sheep? They have done tests, and found that sheep will recognise the rest of their flock and follow them above any other sheep”, said one reliable source. But what happens if they have had a hair cut I wonder? I certainly wouldn’t recognise my friends naked and hairless... and probably wouldn’t want to... and definitely not 25 of them. I begin to wonder if a sheep’s intellect has surpassed that of the human race. Perhaps the sheep is sacred, and holy, and supreme. Perhaps New Zealand is the land of the holy sheep, like India’s holy cow. Perhaps my kiwi friends have sheep rituals they are hidding from me.

I stop pondering over sheep and wonder back to the tent, my haven from the rain, but there, right at the entrance is a hole. A nibbled, dirty, ripped hole. A hole that lets the rain in. Someone was chewing away at it during the night and I doubt it was Nic! I seeth with rage, and wonder. That was some viscious animal. Then I remember, it is not the sheep that is holy in New Zealand, but the kea.