2025 Outdoor Photo Story Shortlisted Entries
Pt 1410
Author: Germaine Srhoy
The last several days have been a horrible rollercoaster of emotions, a maelstrom from which I’ve had little reprieve. In the days after you confirmed during our phone call that I would not be present when you die, it all came to a screaming, roiling head.
When you said it, I went numb. I had other things to focus on, a packed weekend, and besides, the phone call otherwise went well. We laughed and cried, and merely the sound of your voice on the other end of the line soothed my rough edges. But come Monday life went back to normal, and I was alone with that realization. I had begged of you to consider allowing me to be present when you pass. The denial of this left the retched stink of yet more loss permeating my senses, etching itself into me like a tattoo alongside the scars left behind by this ordeal.
Regardless of the reasons for it, what you’ve done is unspeakably cruel. You’ve complained endlessly that you have no control over what’s happening to you, but you aren’t the only one. You have been the architect of removing my agency in this situation regarding us-with one hand you sought to rob me of anything I could have a say in, while the other you’ve held open towards me, begging I grant you favours to help you cope with the tragedy of your situation.
I spent most of Monday writhing in pain, confined to my living room, my face burning from the salty track marks of continuous tears. With nothing left to hold onto, I understood I haven’t grieved any of it.
Not losing you, or our relationship.
Not the future we planned to have together.
I’ve spent months desperately clinging on to anything I could. But when you mentioned refusing to donate your brain to Motor Neurone Disease NZ, something I'd requested of you months ago, it evoked no emotional response. I knew then, it was gone. The last ties-you have severed them.
I needed mountains, as desperately as I need to breathe air. I took Tuesday off work and disappeared to climb Pt 1410, an inconsequential peak in the Taylor Range.
My fitness served me well on ascent, clambering up with barely a break except to fall to my knees during waves of emotional upheaval. On summiting, I thought I’d cried all the tears I would need to cry.
But grief is never really done.
I’d started putting together a Playlist for you on the day you were diagnosed. It is compiled of songs that remind me of you, of us, of the joy synonymous with our relationship. But it also includes songs chosen after your MND diagnosis, songs of longing, devastation and loss. It was playing this as I listened to the voice note you sent me the other day, where you acknowledged how your choices have affected me, how you wished to speak of things we had both lost in the life we wanted together, that broke me. For around two hours I sat near the summit of that hill, sheltering from a howling nor’west gale, screaming, crying, begging the Universe for you not to die. I finally let myself say it.
“I don’t want you to die, Pete.” I said quietly at first, sobs wracking my body.
“I don’t want you to die!” The wind snatched my voice and carried it out across Mt Somers and Winterslow, towards the flat, patchwork expanse of farmland beyond, stretching out to the sea.
“I want the life we were going to have! I want ducks and donkeys, I want a house on a hill and trips to Nepal and tramping, I want you to help me raise my son into a good man! I don’t want you to die!” I know it is futile, begging a benign universe for the impossible, but it is that simple.
I want the life we thought we were going to have.
I don’t want you to die.
I screamed and cried until my voice was hoarse. With every wave of anguish, pain would build in my body, rushing from me with an animalistic keening-these things society begs of me to keep confined.
The strangest thing to understand in all this has been the way the rest of the world marches on as though nothing is wrong, while mine has crumbled to dust, along with our dreams. But to finally allow myself to recognize you are not the only one who has lost so much, to truly feel my grief, not merely its shockwaves, was cathartic in its own right. After the wind carried my howls toward the sea, I turned to face it-the nor’west storm threatening with gusts so strong they nearly blew me off my feet. Once again I let it go-my despair at losing a life I deeply desired, snatched from between my fingers, with a scream so primal I could taste blood. The noise ripped from me-I threw it at the storm and the storm threw it back in my face, leaving a searing pain in my throat, hot tears on my cheeks, and breathlessness in its wake.
Golden mountainsides surrounded me, slashed with slopes of scree, tones of blue flying over them as the clouds that cast those shadows were ushered towards the plains by the furious nor’wester. I screamed until my throat was raw and my head thumping, then sat in silence watching it, the indifference of nature’s beauty at play. Eternal and unchanged, it is completely ignorant of the comings and goings of our mortal lives.
Nature is comforting, in that way.
The day was hard, and I hurt in all ways a human can hurt. But I realize now that despite accepting so much–your impending euthanasia, the death of our shared dreams, your inability to have me by your side during this journey–I have grieved none of it.
With mountains and music, I started that process.
Into the Heart of the Southern Alps: A Mountaineering Journey
Author: Arne Verbist
The roar of the helicopter's blades faded as it lifted us into the wilderness of the Southern Alps. Below us, the valleys were enjoying the early summer warmth, but up here in the mountains, winter is still holding its grip. When the helicopter finally touched down near Barron Saddle Hut, the hum of the engines was the only sound to interrupt the stillness. Then, as it rose and disappeared over the ridges, an eerie silence settled in, leaving us alone in a world of towering peaks and endless snow.
We stood in awe, dwarfed by the mountains around us, their sheer size a reminder of our insignificance in this untamed land. In the distance, the small hut awaited—a simple refuge sitting small in the vastness of the landscape, promising shelter from the elements.
Before we left the valley below, our guide had warned us of an approaching storm. Plans were hastily adjusted: tomorrow would bring one relentless trek to Mueller Hut, condensing what should have been a leisurely route into a single, grueling day.
As I turned back for a final glance at the departing helicopter, its vanishing form underscored a stark truth: there was no turning back now. From here on, it was just us—our skills, our team, and the rugged path ahead.
For us, novices in the world of mountaineering, stepping onto this ice landscape felt like entering uncharted territory. The snow crunching beneath our crampons and the unfamiliar weight of the ice axes in our hands marked the beginning of something both exhilarating and intimidating.
Our guide led us down to the glacier, where the day’s lessons awaited. Every step felt like a small victory as we learned to trust our gear and adapt to the stark, unforgiving environment. The cold wind bit at our cheeks, but excitement burned brighter—we were ready to embrace the challenges of this breathtaking landscape.
The glacier stretched out before us, its icy surface concealing hidden dangers. Beneath the unbroken white, crevasses lay in wait—silent traps that could swallow you in an instant and without a warning.
Our guide, moving with the confidence of someone who had danced with this landscape for years, stopped to demonstrate a lifeline: the rope. Secured together, each knot and carabiner became a tether not only to safety but to one another. As we followed his lead, he pointed out subtle signs of danger—the faint depressions that hinted at snow-covered voids below—and warned of overhead hazards such as ice, loose rocks and avalanche-prone slopes.
Every step a lesson in respect for this frozen world, where even the slightest mistake could change everything.
“What happens if someone falls in?” The question hung in the air. As we reached a safer stretch of the glacier, it was time to face the scenario head-on.
Our guide, ever patient, walked us through the process: planting a snow stake deep into the ice, securing the rope, and anchoring ourselves to prevent being pulled in as well. Then came the delicate task of hauling our hypothetical teammate back to the surface.
The drill was as sobering as it was empowering—a stark reminder of the risks we carried with us, and of the strength we’d need to rely on in a real emergency.
As the sun dipped lower, we trudged back to the hut, minds buzzing with the day’s lessons. Inside, the aroma of food filled the air, mingling with the noises of preparation. Cups of tea warmed our hands as we watched the clouds spill over the ridges.
The hut creaked and groaned under the growing gusts—reminding us of the storm that was rolling in. We turned in early, each of us cocooned in sleeping bags, staring at the candle lit ceiling. Excitement with a flicker of nervousness. Were we ready for tomorrow? Would the weather grant us safe passage? Sleep came slowly, but the adventure of the coming day loomed large in our dreams.
Gillespie in Winter
Author: Michael Beckmann
Our winter hike started with an early drive from Wanaka to Makarora. This part of the world was still wrapped in the quietness of dawn. Our first challenge was crossing the Makarora River. Stein hadn't noticed he was walking barefoot until we reached the other side of the river—his jandals, a proven casualty of the strong, icy current, coupled with the numbness of his feet. It was a rugged start, but the day grew easier as we made our way to Young Hut. We were thrilled to be in the safety of the backcountry bridges. No more numb feet while crossing rivers—or so we thought.
Our story of quietness continued at Young Hut. Looking at the logbook entries to pass the time, we realised that the last entry dated back over a month ago. The quietness was even more apparent this time around. After all, we were on our own inside a 20-bunk hut, surrounded by mountains.
The next morning gave birth to another dawn start. We climbed up Gillespie Pass, with stunning views throughout. At 1,629m, our footsteps were the only sound we could hear in the thick blanket of snow. The snowcapped mountains filled the horizon—Mt Awful, Mt Dreadful, and Mt Dispute. They lingered in our view and were truly a sight to behold.
Reaching Siberia Hut, we were once again greeted with log entries that were weeks old. We lit the fire, made ourselves some hot tea, and looked up the valley we'd just come from. We traded the deep layer of snow for a wide array of stars. How could we ever feel lonely with such a crowd around us?
On our last day, we woke to the morning frost blanketing the valley floor. The crunching of our boots and the chirping of a few birds echoed as we made our way back. By the time we reached the Makarora River, we saw the first signs of civilisation. If only it could be just us and the mountains for a little while longer.
Ohope Dreaming
Author: Penzy Dinsdale
2024 was a harsh year, a year I was misplaced across the country by circumstances beyond my control, uprooted from friends and support, separated from the landscapes I know and love.
2024 was a lonely year and a year of longing to go home. I’m not sure I’d ever been homesick until now and even though I’ve not lived anywhere long in recent times, I know that the south is my home.
But there I was, a mountaineer without any mountains, a climber without any routes, a skier without the touch of snowflakes, learning how to love a beach.
It was only a year I told myself, I’d learn to love the North Island mountains and hone my skills on Ruapehu ice, but then the realities of my larger than life job set in and despite starting well I struggled to connect with new climbing partners in this strange land. It’s hard to move your life once you are past your first job or two and even harder when you and all around you know you are temporary. It’s hard to be worth the effort when you’ll be gone just as the friendships begin to solidify into climbing partnerships.
So, there I was making peace with the year of 2024, mostly alone, on a beach. Slowly I began to realise there was an as yet unseen wilderness area beneath my feet. More than sand, dunes, rocks and waves. I began to explore daily and for the first time truly see the marvellous patterns that appeared in the sand only to wash away in the next tide. One time a whole pile of identical shells, there and then gone again. The mostly gentle but sometimes surprising lap of the waves at my ankles as I walked feeling the sand and ocean between my toes, watching small fish dart away in the sunny shallows and the crabs raise their claws as they hastily buried themselves beneath the sand. The long suspense as I stood very still and waited for the self-same crabs to unbury themselves and scuttle away in another set of waves.
The artful driftwood log where I started and ended my walk, and the innate sadness I felt when visiting holidaymakers cut it down to enjoy burning it before returning to their lives elsewhere and leaving us to look at its sad cut branches for the rest of the year.
There was sadness mixed with fascination for the week that jellyfish washed up in huge numbers and died along the hide tide line, some still twitching in their death throes. They had come from out to sea, where I had heard stories that there were dolphins and Orca. And as the water warmed sharks began to get spotted from the beach.
I began to walk daily on that beach, always looking forward to the alcoves at the end where I could count the crabs and listen to them click – imagining what they must be saying about me each time. I marvelled at the pipi as they fed, then righted themselves and borrowed down into the sand. I found them in vast numbers in beds along the shore. I had only ever known pipi as the shells they left, or occasionally as the impenetrable closed shell of a live one, and here they were in vast numbers and all sizes unperturbed by my presence. I listened to the song the sea sung and when the tide was low I scrambled on the rocks at the end around to the next beach and once even further beyond that.
There were nights of bonfires, startling moons and stunningly for several nights the unearthly blue glow of bioluminescence that I watched for hours as the waves crashed upon the shore. I started to swim daily as well as walk, avoiding the crabs where I put my feet, diving beneath the waves with goggles to examine them closer and at times playing in the waves, or alternatively sometimes the waves would play with me.
Slowly, although I didn’t miss the mountains less, I grew to appreciate the spectacular wilderness just across the road, so used to the wilderness always being a mountainous place and driving distance at best, I had for a long time failed to see the wilderness just outside my door. Now my year is over and I have gone, and I miss my new wilderness and all the many adventures I had there. I finally found another place to call home.
Taking a Princess Bath
Author: Sarah Fisher
Tony told me he knew a mountain that could transform a rebel Sarahsaurus into a princess and all she had to do was take a princess bath…..
After camping in the St James Conservation Area in sub zero temperatures we drove up the road as far as we could. Maling Pass Road is closed over winter so we had a road walk of about 6.5km before we started up towards Mt Princess. We had decided to wear our sneakers and change into boots a bit further up. We stashed our shoes in a bag and I carved out a big arrow in the snow so we could find them on the way down. We continued up and before the next steep climb we had to don crampons (‘dinosaur feet’ as I refer to them). This climb had a pretty steep gradient near the top so due to me being fairly new to snowcraft we traversed across rather than climbing straight up.
The higher we climbed, the more snow there was and I really did start to feel like a princess in a wondrous winter fairyland. It was a stunning bluebird day and absolutely beautiful. I could see mountains in every direction and had views down to Lake Tennyson and Waiau Valley which I had walked up over summer. Surprisingly we had the mountain all to ourselves and not a single dinosaur or princess was seen the whole day.
We climbed past a tarn covered in snow with a frozen layer that glittered different shades of blue in the sunlight. Tony described the colour as azure which seemed very fitting for a tarn belonging to a princess.
We reached spotheight 1906 before stopping for a late lunch with a fantastic view of the Princess Bath. The Princess Bath is a beautiful alpine tarn and at this time of year it was covered by snow but we could clearly see the outline of it. While admiring the Princess Bath and summit of Mt Princess I inadvertently fed the nearby vegetable sheep most of my crackers - more time at princess school needed for me clearly.
Over lunch we had a discussion about the time of the day and the drive we had back to Picton for the ferry so we decided to turn around then for safety rather than pushing on to the summit. The snow had also turned into slush as the day got warmer and while initially it was good cramponing, we were now sinking more than knee deep in snow. I wasn’t disappointed about not making the summit as it had been a fantastic day in the snow with Tony and there will be other times to get up there as I am still just a baby alpine dinosaur, or rather princess. After retrieving the rest of my lunch from the vegetable sheep that had hungrily attempted to gobble it all up, we started heading down but not before Tony nearly lost his walking pole after it got buried in deep snow while he was taking a photo.
On the way down we found a very small vegetable sheep that we fittingly called a vegetable lamb; and had fun playing with our shadows in the snow since the sun was positioned directly behind us.
Our last descent of the day to the tussock line was actually the steepest, which seems counterintuitive because one would expect the harder slopes to be further up the mountain. Tony took the lead on this one and we traversed slowly and carefully across with Tony cutting steps as this slope was pretty icy and had a long run out. As a baby alpine dinosaur I was very nervous but I decided that this princess would be courageous. I told myself courage is like a muscle and we strengthen it by use. It doesn’t mean you don’t get afraid but rather that you don’t let the fear stop you. I slowly inched my way across to a little rock garden where I could finally relax again and where the gradient started to ease off.
It was a quick walk back down to our shoes and back down Maling Pass Road. Cloud started to roll in over Mt Princess as we got back to the car giving us one last dramatic view of the mountain. Tony wasn’t sure if my princess transformation would stick but I guess we will find out in good time and I'll go back for another Princess Bath over summer.
Magic in the Mountains
Author: Maya Korth
This was the girls' trip of a lifetime. The Valley of the Trolls had been on our radar for ages, always popping up in conversations as a dream destination. It wasn’t until the perfect weekend came together—great weather, and everyone’s schedules aligning—that we finally decided to make it happen. The trip started with a Kea encounter driving to the start of the hike. Then three excited friends set off from the car park, eager for whatever the adventure would bring.
The Routeburn Track was like an old friend, familiar and comforting as we made our way through valleys, lakes, and rolling hills. By the time we reached Mackenzie Hut on the first night, we were ready to unwind. The hut was empty but cozy, the perfect refuge after a long day of hiking. We lit a fire, huddled around it, and let the warmth fill the room. The cool mountain air outside was a stark contrast to the heat of the fire as we settled in, chatting and laughing, grateful for the peace of the evening.
The next morning, we woke up to a crystal-clear lake right outside the hut, the sunshine and a cup of coffee welcoming us into the day. We packed light daypacks, loaded with snacks (of course), and headed towards the Valley of the Trolls. The higher we climbed, the more spectacular the views became. It started to feel like we were walking through a dream—snow-capped peaks, vibrant green valleys, and the scent of fresh alpine air.
When we reached the turn-off that led into the Valley of the Trolls, that was when the magic really kicked in. The valley was everything we had hoped for and more. The reflections of the mountains on the crystal-clear water were breathtaking, and the snow-covered peaks seemed to rise out of nowhere. Waterfalls filled the valley with their soothing sounds, trickling softly as they echoed off the nearby slopes. We stood there, absorbing the scene, feeling incredibly small in the face of such grandeur.
As we ventured deeper into the valley, we heard a high-pitched squeak behind us. We turned to find a group of rock wrens—six of them—darting and hopping across the rocks, their playful antics adding a joyful soundtrack to the peaceful surroundings. Watching them was like seeing the valley come to life in a way that felt so special, like we were witnessing a hidden part of nature’s story.
We sat down, pulled out our sunblock and oranges, and took in the valley’s beauty before heading back to the hut. The walk back was quieter, the day’s magic lingering in the cool air.
That evening, as we sat by the fire at the hut, we reflected on the day. The Valley of the Trolls had given us more than just incredible views—it had given us a sense of peace and connection with the land. It felt like a privilege to be there, to have experienced such a wild, untouched place. We ended the night, wrapped in warmth and stillness, knowing the magic of the valley would stay with us long after the trip was over.
Maungahuka Hut - My “why” of tramping
Author: Sarah Fisher
The hut that started it all……..
Years ago when I got my first Tararua Forest Park map for a school tramp it had a beautiful photo of a hut and tarn. After some investigating, I found out that this was Maungahuka Hut. I instantly felt drawn to it and knew I wanted to gain enough skills and courage to be capable of visiting such idyllic places like that and so began my tramping journey after I finally felt brave enough to walk in the door of Wellington Tramping & Mountaineering Club.
The years passed as I continued on my tramping journey but I had still not yet achieved my dream of spending a night at Maungahuka Hut despite having tramped extensively in Tararua Forest Park. Weather, work, and other trips always cropped up so I decided to finally prioritise it as a trip.
Tony and I spent the week watching the weather and we had planned to go on Friday but on Friday I was too exhausted from doing long hours at work so we deferred until Sunday and I kept doing sun-dances hoping we hadn't missed our chance.
We left Holdsworth car park on Sunday afternoon and wandered up to Powell Hut. It was pretty cold and claggy on our arrival there and we decided to push on to Mid Waiohine Hut as Powell Hut was very busy even for a Sunday night. I hadn’t visited Mid-Waiohine hut since 2015 so it was nice to return there again.
The next morning it was all new tracks for me. After going across the swingbridge it was straight up the hill and into the clag. We had a stop just before the bushline to put on more layers for the final grind up to Aokaparangi. After we dropped our packs at the junction and started down the hill to the Biv, my sundances finally paid off as the clag disappeared and the sun came out. After visiting Aokap Biv we sat for a long time just under Aokap enjoying the good weather and views. We could even see Field Hut in the distance.
There were a few sections of the track along to Maungahuka Hut that were a bit slow going due to scrub overgrowing the track or erosion that had left the ridge a bit narrow in places but I never felt uncomfortable. I told Tony we were practicing “being the goat” which is the name of one of my running training sessions for a technical rooty/boulder hopping run. A few minutes later we did see an actual goat on the ridgeline.
We made it to Maungahuka Hut just as the clag started rolling in again. On entering the hut I immediately got my ear talked off by the only person inside the hut, a tramper called Dave. Dave had been at the hut for 2 nights so he was absolutely delighted to finally have some company and was quite a character. He talked about a recent trip he had done in Kaweka Forest Park and we did indeed find him written in the hut books when we visited the Kaweka Range a few weeks later.
The clag cleared again later in the evening so we could see the twinkling lights of Waikanae and the Wairarapa. I kept wandering outside to admire the clear starry night’s sky. The next morning we got up early to see the fantastic sunrise, low lying thick easterly clouds and reflections of the hut in the tarn. It was the start of a bluebird day. That special Tararua magic that is very rare. I spent some time thinking of how this was my “why” of tramping and how I had done so many tramps since seeing that photo of Maungahuka Hut on the map so many years ago; how many special places I had been to and how lucky we are in NZ to have so many fabulous places to explore with such an extensive network of backcountry huts that is unique to this country alone.
After climbing up to Maungahuka we headed down towards Concertina Knob and Neill Forks. At Neill Forks we stopped for lunch, almost melting under the heat of the sun. It was a hot climb out of Neill Forks Hut and Tony found me at the top of the climb having a nap in the middle of the track while waiting for him.
We wandered along Cone Ridge before dropping down to the Totara Flats Swingbridge. I joked to Tony that I was going to take the DoC time of 10 minutes for 150 metres to get to the hut. I started out well but only lasted 30 seconds before I got utterly bored. We arrived at Totara Flats Hut to find it completely empty. It was still pretty warm so we both went for a swim in the river before we set up our sleeping bags on the porch so we could sleep outside looking up at the sky and listen to the sound of the river and bellbirds.
The next morning it was an easy wander back to the Holdsworth car park through some heavy rain but it couldn’t dampen our spirits after what had been a fantastic 4 day trip.
Every backcountry hut in NZ has its own history and purpose as a safe shelter for trampers but it is more than just that. For many trampers our precious backcountry huts are interwoven into our tramping journey with personal significance. I have visited many huts and camped in many places over the years yet my mind always returns to that iconic image of Maungahuka Hut that inspired me so much to start my tramping journey and grow my skills and confidence so I could venture further into our backcountry.
