2023 Outdoor Photo Story Competition Winners
1st Place: The Trampers
Author: Tom Waters
The mountain gleamed in the fresh light. Far below it three tents squatted among the wet tussock, still hunkered in the gloom. The valley was still, apart from the river and the shimmering sidewalls of the tents, as aching bodies wriggled into damp clothes. The occasional reluctant sigh drifted across the foggy flat. A man emerged, and stretched his arms up in the chill air. He paused mid stretch and gazed upwards for a long time. He seemed to ponder the enormity of nature, or the fact that the mountain had loomed over this river flat for his entire life, yet he had never known it. Or perhaps he simply wondered if his tent would dry.
Whatever he pondered, it was broken by the harsh rip of a tent fly unzipping. Spurred into action by the emergence of a rival, he attempted to coax his companion out of the warm depths of her sleeping bag.
The flicker of activity on the flat increased as a woman emerged from each of the tents. Both men glanced at each other from behind lowered and bushy brows.
The flurry intensified as the rattle of tent pegs stirred the still air. The outer layer of the tents were pulled back, revealing their bright underbellies. Glances turned now to the third, motionless tent. The glances became more frequent as the two tents fell flat, and then began to be rolled.
The first man stood, and stared at the silent third tent. He sighed, and began to stride over to it. There was a sudden explosion of movement from the tent. A woman's head with wild hair poked through the fly. The whites of her eyes flashed as she saw the man approaching and she stumbled upright, pulling on one boot while the other leg remained twisted in her sleeping bag. Her hands became a blur a she threw gear into her pack. Another woman appeared on the other side of the tent, and began her own frantic packing. The other trampers watched this desperate struggle with a mixture of smiles and frowns.
Sunlight glinted through the beech canopy and cast the forest floor in dazzling patterns . The six trampers picked through the jumble of fallen logs, beech and ponga and beds of waist high ferns. Occasionally the bush opened, and they turned their heads and gazed upwards at the glinting peaks that seemed to graze the heavens.
The notes of a bellbird floated down to the dappled forest floor, and soaked into the soft folds of the moss clinging to the rocks of a tumbling mountain stream. Six pairs of boots sloshed through the tumbling torrent, and the last couple stopped mid stream. They smiled at each other as they drank cupped handfuls of sweet mountain water.
The trampers worked their way up the valley, climbing up over bluffs, then descending to the river to clamber over mossy boulders. The river fell in a series of steep drops. Chutes of water fed between jagged boulders before settling in deep azure blue pools. Pairs of whio fed amongst the rocks, darting through the turbulent current to feed on larvae. Content and unalarmed they preened themselves, running their bills through their glossy black feathers. The trampers watched from the bank. One woman held her hands to her cheeks, framing a joyful smile. One of the men imitated the torpedo motion of the duck, while the remainder chattered with excitement until the whio fed away downriver.
The whio now a memory of the day before, sweating bodies and straining legs hauled the packs upwards, to the distant horizon line. The mountains that had gleamed so high above, now hunkered in the punishing sun. The trampers scrambled up through lily fields and boulder gardens, and gradually gained the pass.
Tired legs were forgotten, as the scene unfolded around them. Smooth granite knobs erupted from the golden green slopes , and tumbled rock lay scattered through the hump and hollow landscape. There were long sighs of appreciation, excited chatter and the frequent darting of pointing fingers.
The trampers wove through this maze of jumbled rock. They sidled along the tussock benches, and scrabbled up the flanks of the exposed giants. In the distance an alpine lake hung in the nestled embrace of a hanging valley. Staunch mountain flanks rose from its far side, while closer rounded ridges cradled it and prevented it from spilling down to the roaring water of the river far below.
Tents were thrown up near the shore, and the hooting horde rushed into the deep folds of the blue water. Peals of laughter bounced across the lake, and a pūtangitangi pair glided away with grudging kicks of their webbed feet.
The trampers once again strove up a steep face. The sun had burnt their legs for days, but now its glare withdrew behind a veil of cloud. The first fat drops fell as they emerged from the bush, aiming for yet another notch in the hills. Jackets were pulled from packs where they had been scrunched, forgotten for five days. The line of packs bobbed through the tussock, past a tarn. The jagged peaks in the distance, were hazy as sheets of rain slid across the wide sky. The trampers embraced the cooling rain as they descended into the valley.
The cool night breeze had pushed away the rain and once more the hills glimmered in the heat. They stood on the apex of the last pass, with the wilderness on one side and the comforts of civilisation on the other. Each knew that every step would bring them closer to a shower, but further from the feeling of being part of nature. They lingered, unwilling to take the committing steps, but then remembering they were running low on salami, took them anyway. A kea swung by in a theatrical loop and called a mournful farewell . They all made a silent promise to return.
2nd Place: The Ambling Mountaineer
Author: Dominic de Salis
As a returning New Zealander who has spent most of their life abroad, it was nearly a 10-year hiatus since I had last stepped foot on the South Island. A good friend of mine, Sam, had only recently moved to Christchurch, and it seemed as good an excuse as any to return to the mountainous motherland. With our old Land Cruisers sitting in garages in Australia and money seemingly indefinitely tight, we loaded our borrowed gear into a small hired Suzuki Swift (‘the Zuk’) and started our week trip around the west coast without a solid plan in hand.
After pushing the Zuk to the furthest extent of its limited off-road capability and wondering if our insurance covered off-road recovery, we set up camp in Arthurs Pass and gauged most of the trip would need to be completed on foot to overcome our Zuks limitations.
A day later, we parked the Zuk and began our journey on foot along the rocky Styx River bank to climb up Mt Brown and camp on it’s peak. I had warned Sam that the last hike I had completed was when I was nearly 10 years younger and that my most audacious contemporary exercise was typically from my car to the Crescent Head Bakery. He kindly lied about the hike’s distance to dissuade me from refusing to climb it. I, bolstered with false confidence, confided in him that I had placed mountaineering in my resume after I completed a token mountain climb on a school excursion, and thus should be able to handle it in my half-decade old vans, white shirt and falling apart non-hike-friendly backpack.
As the climb continued to get steeper and my need for “a quick break” steadily increased, I became increasingly suspicious of Sam’s continuous claim that we only had “about one more kilometer to go”. As my shoes began to disintegrate around my feet on the steepest grade of the track and catching my breath in the crisp mountain air progressed into something much less elegant, Sam calculated that we were just past halfway and admitted that we were much further than “just one kilometer away” but that it would be now significantly harder to turn around.
He also then admitted that we had, in fact, lost the track and would need to double back, sacrificing the precious ground I had made in between my extended breaks. As the nature of my insults towards Sam changed from banterous in nature to slightly more direct, we managed to make out the voices of another hiking group through the thick fern foliage. Tracing their echoes to the left, we managed to scramble our way back to the marked path and remake our lost ground. This was fortuitous timing as they were the only other people on the track that day, and it meant that I did not have to endure being ‘gapped’ by other hikers who would witness me doubled over against a tree as they powered up the incline.
I was nearly climbing on my hands and knees when we finally reached the top. Still, I managed to muster enough energy to ditch my makeshift hiking stick, put my shirt back on and grimace through my burning legs so I could save face and walk over the ridge in my ill equipment and past the group who had unknowingly overtaken as if it had been a leisurely stroll up a hill, and look smugly at all their appropriate hiking gear as if it was an extravagant and unnecessary luxury.
As we reached the summit, I finally had the energy to turn around and appreciate the spectacular alpine view. The reward was breathtaking. Clear panoramic views across from the southern alps, spanning across Lake Kaniere and to the Tasman Sea. We set up camp next to the bright orange hut that stood in striking contrast to the mountains towering around us and contextualised how small we were in the vast and wild landscape of our surroundings.
We rejuvenated with a stirfry and beer as the sun lowered behind the far-flung alps, throwing golden rays across a jagged horizon. The wondrous beauty of the peak view slowly eroded the aching in my underprepared body. I began to mentally purchase hiking gear and return flights to the South Island to settle the already burning desire to once again poorly amble my way up a mountain to properly appreciate Aotearoa's untouched beauty.
3rd Place: Ball Pass and Back
Author: Vicky Raybould
Decades after my first alpine trip I still overflow with wonder at the Caroline face as I stride strongly up Ball ridge. My first solo crossing. Glancing intuitively at first rumble to see hanging glaciers and moraines deliver spectacular showers of rock and ice, sending up plumes of debris. I finish most alpine trips here emotionally energised, physically drained and spiritually rich. The teenage kea heckle as I traverse crumbling ledges above shocking run outs. Watching every hand and foot hold I allow myself occasionally to gape awestruck, soaking in the massive white pillows and cornices.
I ended the day just below the pass. Overloaded with awe, knees and ankles buzzing, looking out on Ka Tiritiri-o-te-Moana. It wasn't until the light first shifted to a flat cold I felt what a remote place 2000m is. This position was surrounded by long impassable kilometers of mountain. Unforgiving all around. I see nothing of comfort that I haven't brought; and feel every cold hard foot of rock between me and the grassy valley.
Alpine nights start and finish early. With little to do I stretch out in my biv’ and begin a wide eyed vigil. I’m used to the sound physically inhabiting the vast spaces of the mountains. In deep blue then immaculate ink the Milky Way leered like a glittering Cheshire cat peering down with it’s piercing, penetrating gaze. Astoundingly close and impossibly vast. Expansive and unaware of my tiny exposed form looking up. Full of secrets it traces a dizzying spin of the earth as it swings overhead. Aoraki’s solid bulk, a cool white ever presence in the corner of my eye. I feel small. I feel .. actually .. alone. Not lonely but profoundly on my own. There are people I love who love me. They are very far away. I slip into an unsettled introspection that becomes sleep.
Woken by the sound of chains. Pirates coming up from the belly of the earth to take me down. It’s a dream of course. Like that old childhood one of miners striking to get out of their rocky tomb inside the mountain. The fear of the dream stays as I struggle awake. As I shed sleep, I do not shed the fear. The axes are real! Getting louder. Coming. Rattling footsteps. Almost on me. Rigid. Afraid to look until it’s time. I rip out of the bag with a gasp of air and final massive thrill of adrenaline “oh” “there's someone there” “what” “there's a biv’ site” “someone’s sleeping there!”.
Heart thumping I lie back. Headlights flicker and they re-find the track. One by one they pass so close I’m waiting to be pierced by them. Only now, they sound like crampons on rock. The sleepy trudge of a team with ice axes getting an early start.
Not that alone after all, I next wake to glorious day.
Over the pass I descend an amphitheater of low peaks until hitting a red band of rock I need to skirt. Underfoot becomes looser until I'm moving like a crab and it's breaking steeply away. I know it would be treacherous to take the wrong route down. I look onwards. Back. Retreat gingerly. It’s hard to go up and I don’t think it’s the way but climb. Searching. Thar heard against vaulting pillars of schist that must be Mt Rosa.
An ominous cloud bank breaches the west ridge moving fast. A heavy two day rain system was due with low temperature, high wind. A gust with a definite chill sends this home and I catalogue my gear. I have what I need to survive. I’d be exposed here. Hungry. There’s nowhere to hide on this aspect and I recognise I’m lost. I stop, take out my hip flask. Sit.
Moving in a whiteout here would be deadly. Three wet days, dangerous and uncomfortable. I have a small window to act. There’s no having to admit these things. They just are. The weather and landscape are utterly indifferent to me. No-one to blame me and no need to judge. It’s completely freeing. Up to me what I do, and how I feel. I’m intensely aware again that no softness resides up here. I see the raw, impassive bones of the earth. I go back towards the pass to find the route.
Soon enough I see a thin line and several cairns a good way below. I lament the effort and time climbing up. Back on the route feels good until I recognise the red rock. The path goes there but it wasn't the way. Have the mountains changed? It’s very possible. I walk away to the previous cairn on the route. From there spot the one way through. Moving quickly up to look before allowing hope. I find profoundly more than the sight I long for. Laid before me was a view of the entire route home. Lit with a golden light, the track itself visible far below; but what was most remarkable was the rainbow which arched perfectly around the safe route home.
Inwardly alight with tingles, I wasn't going to be lost high up for days! I’m pleased I’d barely made a mistake to this point, had sensed quickly when things were wrong. I’d seen a beautiful sign. The moment was so loaded with meaning it seemed strange this moment could or should be just for me. What was missing was someone to share this with. Staggering beauty, lungfuls of fresh air, fear and joy were all a little empty when they stopped at me. If a girl sees a rainbow in the mountains when no-one’s there, was there a rainbow?
Relying and being answerable only to yourself is very liberating. I came away with huge mana from being tested physically, emotionally, intellectually and working through. I also knew though, pleasing only myself wasn't how I wanted to move forward.
There will always be far more to be gained from the raw beauty of the hills than the Deadly comfort of our homes.
