2022 Outdoor Photo Story Competition Winners
1st Place: A South Westland Week
Author: Tom Waters
A trickle ran down my neck. I shivered and pulled my sodden jacket closer around my face. Sandra and Nick looked equally miserable. Hunched beneath a log the three of us chomped on sodden wraps and stared out into the rain. Nick swallowed the last of his and stuffed the rubbish into a pouch and hauled his pack out of the dank South Westland soil. We locked eyes for a few long moments. Waves of mist floated through the trees. He turned and disappeared into a tangle of twisted trunks.
Thin fingers clutched at my pack and tugged at my jacket. My boots scraped furrows in the soil as I struggled up through the relentless bush. My paddle seemed snagged on every branch. Time crept by with the careless slowdom that can only be found when suffering. Up we climbed, dripping and defenseless. The bush turned to scrub and added variation to our struggle. A thick shroud of fog hung about us. A small white bubble, a hill, lots of scrub and three adventurers.
Through the fog, I glimpsed a horizon. A glimmer of hope flickered deep in the back of my mind. The horizon turned into a plateau and the glimmer glowed stronger. My eyes darted along the plateau searching its every detail. We huddled around the map and jammed grubby fingers at its various plateaus. Then the thick white curtains, until now held so jealously closed, drew back to reveal the grandeur of the scene. Scarred and jagged mountains hung above us on all sides, and most glorious of all, the revelation we had arrived at our campsite. The sun cast vivid colour onto this magic world and Nick threw open his arms, basking in the warmth and the glorious mountains.
I gasped as I sucked deep mouthfuls of the crisp air. The sky was lit in brilliant cobalt blue. The black pool of the valley below stood in stark contrast, as the light had not yet reached it.
We followed the jagged axe edge of a ridge. The mountain dropped away into dramatic valleys on both sides. The laughing cry of kea drifted down to us, and on a day like this it was easy to turn our squinting eyes upwards and laugh back. They swooped and careered around us, taking turns to fly in close, before launching away, cackling.
The rain of the day before was a memory, I looked over my shoulder and saw Nick and Sandras’ teeth glinting like the snow. We scrambled around scrub choked bluffs, wriggled under boulders, and skirted across snowy faces. My paddle had never looked so out of place, held across the body and stabbing into the snow for support. Far below us, the tiny speck of a hut drew closer.
Three lights bobbed along the riverbed, flashing on boulders and tussock. The river rushed nearby, nearly drowning the rustle of our drysuits. I felt the first hot bead of sweat run down my back. Out of the darkness the shine of my headlight glinted back at me from a dark mass ahead. We were close.
I dumped my pack on the gravel. Fog rolled into the shore of the glacial lake. The black had softened to a violent blue, and I stared between squeezes of the filler bag at the grand theatre appearing around me.
The day was still young as we eased the packrafts from the shore into the lake. A tide of emotion washed over me. Who had paddled this lake before? I didn’t know their names, but I knew it was a short list.
The water hissed against the hull of the boats, punctuated by the slapping of paddles in the water in the still morning air.
At the other end of the lake we stood, amazed and silent. The mountains rumbled, as avalanches and icefalls crashed into the valley. It was not a place to linger.
The silence was disturbed by the gushing of air of deflating packrafts. There was a pass to get over today, and the weather threatened once again.
The river lapped at the boulder I stood on. The crossing of the glacier lake felt so long ago. It had been two days since we had last blown up the packrafts. In that time, we had struggled over a mountain pass, down the upper reaches of the river and boulder bashed our way through a gorge. At last, the river looked paddleable. The sieves of the upper section now largely behind us, it was time to get on the water again. Excitement buzzed in the air. It was time. Sandra hung in the current above the first drop, before spinning and pulling an immaculate boof over the lip. We followed with less grace and whiter knuckles.
It was slow going. No quicker than the tedious work of the boulders on the bank. But the whitewater was a change and the feeling of adventure nourished us.
I hauled my boat over the boulders, trudging around a rapid. I dumped my boat beside Sandra and turned to see Nick charge into the current. Angry white foam stormed around his boat. He pulled a few hard strokes and bounced through the crux move. I felt my breath ease out of my lungs. Grinning, he turned to face the final move. The river had other ideas. The current snatched the bow of his boat and hurtled him sideways against the buffer wave. Sandra sunk into a crouch. No sooner had his head reappeared from the waves than the rope snaked through the air. He flung a snatching hand towards it and swung to safety.
The roar of the rapids receded as we exited the final gorge. Deep calm and accomplishment settled over the group. For seven days, every kilometer had been difficult and tiring. Now they floated by with mindless ease, the river drawing us to the end of our trip. Battered, exhausted and satisfied, we let it.
2nd Place: Clouded Vision
Author: Katerina Maluschnig
Learning to breathe. Lessons from a trip to Franz Joseph and Fox Glaciers this spring, where I learned to trust my instincts, my gear, my partners and myself.
I look up the snow slope and my heart catches in my throat.
A mellow, well consolidated slope, a small shrund, some easy ice and mixed climbing to the summit. Physically I am strong enough to solo it all.
Instead I see a steep snow slope, avalanche waiting to be triggered by my footsteps. A gaping shrund, bottomless, slicing the hillside. Rime rattling as the sun slowly melts daggers ready to pierce my helmet and limbs.
I take a step, top rope taught. Kick into the sun crust and feel my foot sink slowly. Another kick, and swing above the snow filled shrund. My hyperventilating clouds my vision, makes me angry, makes me embarrassed and sad that someone has to see me like this, mistrusting of my own actions, scared to fail, terrified to fall. This breath carries visions of the ground opening beneath my feet, the snow bridge collapsing, the ice shards tearing at the rope, my safety gone. An endless plummet to the depth of my nightmares, where I fall and hit the ground but don’t wake up. I’ll lie there, screaming silently, paralysed, stuck and helpless.
And if that happens my partner will pull the PLB. Make an anchor, abseil to my side. A rescue will come. I won’t be alone. I know this. But my breath tells me otherwise, whimpers catch my sanity, tell me I’m useless; the ground will fall from beneath every step.
My swings are solid, my footsteps kicked to hard snow. My weighted boot doesn’t punch through the snowbridge.
So instead of imagining the end of my life, I will imagine the start. When I get stronger, when my footsteps and logic are solid. My kicks and swings of fear and frustration are turned into joy and concentration. The mountains are calling. The physicality is not yet a challenge. I must breathe through, let the stillness of the snowy peaks teach my mind to slow. I will climb them. I am enough, and if one day the mountains dictate to turn around, I will listen. But until then, I will continue up this peak, the challenge of calming my mind and trusting my feet far more difficult than the route I will be taking.
No more fearful tears. Next time I will breathe.
3rd Place: Fiordland Traverse
Author: Tanya Bottomley
On 29 January 2022, I set off to cross the country on a human-powered mission from the west to the east coast of the South Island, using the 45th parallel south as my guide. The expedition lasted 26 days, covered over 600km, with over 300km on foot, 22km of paddling and around 270km of cycling. Here is a snapshot of the Fiordland section…Traversing Fiordland Caswell Sound to Glaisnock Hut
There is something quite surreal about being dropped by helicopter into the middle of nowhere. No track to follow, no one else around. As the rain fell steadily, the cloud rolled in around me, taking my vision down to mere metres in front of me. The thud, thud, thud sound of the helicopter retreated into the distance until I was engulfed in silence and the magnitude of the journey in front of me weighed heavy. Even with the weight of the unknown though, I felt a greater sense of excitement. Let the adventure begin!
Fiordland pulled no punches and from the very beginning presented the most challenging yet most mesmerising terrain. The grandeur of the mountains, which soared what seemed near-vertical into the sky, with the most magical hanging valleys. It was often not until I had travelled some distance that I could turn around and be awed by the hallowed terrain that I had just covered. Very few step foot in this country. It is rugged, brutal and unforgiving, but also the most beautiful, remarkable and rewarding country. Many tears were shed in Fiordland, tears of frustration, pain and fear, but also of joy, relief and wonder.
Each river, ridge and valley had its own distinct character. From the thick and unrelenting bush along the Stillwater River to the enchanted forest of the Wapiti River, with moss-covered boulders the size of houses and lush green bush. Bluffs and massive slips appeared before me at regular intervals, testing my strength and determination, my heart racing as I figured out how to climb up, down or around them. In Fiordland, it felt like I spent as much time hand-over-hand climbing up and down the steep terrain as I did pushing my way through ferns, leatherwood and bush lawyer. The cuts and scrapes on my arms, legs and face became badges of honour.
The intense relief as I ticked off each section was almost visceral, as scrambling up exposed sections of waterfalls or sidling vast, steep slips made me aware that placing one foot wrong could mean disaster. But those are the risks you take to travel in this terrain. For the most part, Fiordland terrain is steep but densely covered in bush, which means it can catch you when you fall (which I did, twice).
There are so many memories from this trip that I will get to cherish, take out and replay like an old favourite record for years to come. I can still feel the cool dampness of climbing up the waterfall to Ethnie Saddle, my feet struggling to gain purchase on rotten trees, the dense bush dark around me, the smell of moss and earth. The most imposing bluff pushing me across the creek and up onto the saddle, the terrain somehow leading me to where I needed to go. The pure exhilaration and tears of joy when I looked at the map and realised I had finally, after eight hours, managed to negotiate approximately 2km down a steep spur coming off Camp Hill, after spending the night on a small ledge having run out of daylight to complete the descent. The heart-sinking realisation that on more than one occasion I had pushed too high in my navigation, taking me off course and the subsequent downclimbing that had me rooted to the spot in fear, not wanting to move forward as the sunlight poured through the trees overhead and a warm breeze made the leaves in the trees dance. Running along the ridgeline high above Caswell Sound singing the praises of the deer that left tracks that made my passage so much easier.
So many memories, so many emotions, but prevailing above all else is gratitude and a deep understanding of the great privilege that I had to move through this country and see and experience this deep wilderness. For anyone thinking of heading off-track into Fiordland, I would wholeheartedly recommend it - I’ll definitely be back for more, it has a brutality and beauty unlike any other that is completely captivating, enchanting and addictive.
