Dasler Pinnacles

With Marmot Man (Greg) and cameo appearances from Camp Mum (Sophie), Ian & Dave (The Tough Timaru Two), Jim (in need of a nickname) and various others.

The morning didn't look altogether fine. Well, in actual fact it looked like it was going to pour rain. Nevertheless, the north ridge of Dasler Pinnacles (the left-most skyline ridge in the photograph) seemed like a good option. Leaving aside the axes and crampons for the day, Marmot Man and I set off from camp with Jim and Camp Mum as well as a couple of others for the brilliant flouro-spray-can-pink cairns which marked a likely spot to ford the Hopkins River.

Without too much fuss the icy flow was crossed leaving us sodden to the waist. Every climb in NZ begins with a soaking - as I've discussed before. We scooted along the grassy river flats beneath the Pinnacles and veered into the beech forest to start a steep climb through the trees. The cloud overhead made the woods dim and dark. They are always mossy and soft underfoot making them perfect for hobbits to traverse without hurting their furry toes and perfect for climbers in heavy boots with heavy packs to trudge along without jarring their knees.

A scramble up a rock with the assistance of an old fixed rope, more climbing through the trees, a hop across a stream cascading down a gully and we arrive at Dasler Bivy, a gorgeous little hut nestled just below the treeline.

Onwards and upwards we meandered in an ad hoc fashion across the soaking tussock grass as the rain came to the party. Most turned back for the cosy shelter of the bivy. Not Ian and Dave (the Tough Timaru Two) who headed for a platform overlooking a cascade and a ravine: the perfect spot to pitch a tent for the night. Marmot Man and I stumbled on up the steepening grass trying to avoid being impaled on the swords of the Wild Spaniards (that's a plant, not an army of buccaneers).

The nasty grass ended and a short scramble up a scree slope and around a patch of snow saw us at the base of the main face. Here we sat out of the howling wind for a snack - yep, more pita bread and sachet-packaged fish. The rain had eased a little but as we approached the ridge line the wind increased further, reason enough to stay rugged up.

The summit of the Pinnacles kept vanishing into and re-appearing from deep in the clouds. Unlike Paige from Charmed at least it reappeared in the same place each time. We'd not come all this way to turn back at the first sign of cloud. The solid rock was much anticipated... it sure beat the Slip 'n Slide tussock.

From the bottom of the rock face the mountain appeared even more massive than it did when foreshortened and towering over the Hopkins Valley. For the most part, the knife-edge ridge was also broader than it appeared from 1000m below. This was fortunate as with the frequent gusts of wind and the wet rock, we didn't mind that there was sufficient space to tuck in behind the slabs out of the weather.

Up and up the never-ending ridge we climbed. For the most part, this mountain is very solid rock by New Zealand standards. I don't remember there being many mobile handholds at any rate. Glimpses of the valley below and the broad face sweeping upwards and downwards into the clouds leant the climb a magnificant sense of drama. This was heightened everytime we were forced to lift our heads out over the ridge into the draft. A duck back behind the slabs and all became eerily quiet once more.

Out of the swirling mist appeared five be-helmetted, be-gortexed and slightly crest-fallen climbers trending downwards in facial expression and in direction of travel. They'd unfortunately been turned back by a 15m vertical face just near the summit. This was something nobody and no guidebook had mentioned to us. Oh well. Onwards and upwards climbed Marmot Man and Macpac Man for the greater glory of our respective brand-names.

Within the half hour (or was it fifteen minutes? I really can't remember.) we were gazing up at a pitch that travelled through a chimney of vertical, wet rock. It wasn't 15m, maybe it was 8m. It certainly had no bottom... or at least if it did then a ground-fall was a 400m plummet down the face to the scree slope hidden in the clouds way below. Did this faze Marmot Man or Macpac Man?

Of course not. Traverse left (about 1.5m), then climb a short (5m at the most) wet but grippy and solid face and voila! (hey presto for those who don't speak French) Easy peasy.

The climb continues along the ridge. The climbers continue along the climb. The snow settles on the climbers as they ascend ever higher. The snow melts very quickly. It is far too warm for the minitaure particles to shroud anything.

The summit. Here we are. Marmot Man plays with the self-timer in search of that perfect summit photograph. Macpac Man strains his eyes for a view. Marmot Man can see Macpac Man (not a pretty sight). Macpac Man can see Marmot Man (not a pretty sight). The cloud obscures the view (Was it a pretty sight? We'll never know.)

Well, time to go down again. This mountain climbing thing is so simple anybody could do it: Begin. Get wet. Go up. Go down. Get wet. Write a web page about it.

After some energy drink and left over lunch Macpac Man and Marmot Man descended to the homely tent of the Tough Timaru Two. This was bathed in gorgeous sunshine. Here we were also greeted by Sophie and a cup of hot tea (the bags for which were dug from the depths of Marmot Man's summit pack - how the hell did they get in there?) After an episode of pleasant conversation and lounging in the sun we began the slog home.

A false start later - as we entered the trees along the wrong path - and we were back at the bivy. From here a soft descent to the river, another false start - as we tried to ford the river above our waist - (Aside: Oh, did I mention the silly argument about whether pack waist buckles should be closed or left undone whilst crossing rivers? This was solved by allowing a certain person (whose name has not been mentioned on these web pages) to do as she pleased whilst the rest of us did as we pleased.) One almost-lost Teva (Marmot Man), two cramping calves (Camp Mum) and several pairs of icy legs (all of us) later we were once again on the civilized side of the river. The comforts of a hot stove and a cosy sleeping bag were nearly at hand.