Heading North

It doesn’t matter where you go.

In October of 2022, Penzy Dinsdale set off on an 85-day traverse of the Southern Alps. The trip would involve walking, climbing, skiing, biking and extensive planning, including coordinating food and gear drops, and a whole lot of dehydrating meals.

Her route would take her through some of Te Waipounamu’s most challenging and stunning country, including the Wilkin and Landsborough Valleys, Pioneer Pass, Aoraki Mount Cook, the Rakaia River and Farewell Spit. Despite all the prep, doubts crept in from the start, so she reached out to friends and family to join her along the way.

STAGE ONE: Divide Shelter to Sylvan Campsite, with Maz Krough.

When I set out, I am an imposter. My fitness is trash, sacrificed first to my job, then to my sanity, and finally to preparation for the trip. I’m subdued. I take no photos, certain that there will not be a satisfactory end from which to look back on this as a beginning.

My only solace is that the weather is crap, so I’ve re-routed from the mountains that currently terrify me to the relative safety of the track. I run into friends in the first hut, glad to meet them, and there I confess that I cannot do this. This is something I have not yet voiced to Maz, my companion for this leg. I don’t tell any of them I was unable to eat my dinner tonight. They don’t understand what’s in my head, they only know I’m more than capable of scaling the mountains I set out to climb. Usually. Except for times like now. 

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This feeling is not helped by an email I received last week. After multiple promises of re-employment, I had the news that I’ll never have my dream job again. It’s hard to keep from dwelling, from playing every day of the previous work season over and over in my head. What did I do wrong? It’ll drive me mad if I let it.

STAGE TWO: Dart Valley car park to Blue Pools car park with Maz Krough, and with Dick Dinsdale [my dad] from Kerin Forks Hut.

We’ve come a fair way on tracks to Dart Hut when the weather finally turns good. Summer has suddenly arrived, hot and heady. I struggled physically on the easy walk, so how can I possibly face the mountains to come? In my mind I have stacked them all on top of each other: a total of 60,000 metres with myriad ways to die. Maz is exasperated as I try to explain how I feel. How can someone be unhappy and anxious in nature? I ponder this too. The mountains where I once came to fix my head are now making me crazy.

I message the outside for help, something we previously could not do. This new invasion of technology in the outdoors comes with a risk of changing the cultural space, but it introduces a new kind of safety too. Here it adds strength. “Whatever happens Penzy, you are important. You are enough. You deserve to look after yourself.” I swim in the river and in its bubbling blue, its coldness and its indifference to my presence I feel a shadow of resolve. At least make it to Haast Pass. I find a mantra. It doesn’t matter where I go, only that I go.

We head for the first real mountains, above Lochnagar, a little too early in the season. Heinous glide cracks await on route, threatening to drop us unpredictably and without notice over the cliffs of Pine Creek. We try the ridge, and Maz executes a series of moves that right now neither my mind nor body can follow. But nor can I retreat. I stand there a while contemplating the irony of needing to be rescued from this situation so soon. I stare back down to the glide cracks and think just maybe I can get to the snows below. Gradually, carefully, crumblingly I climb down, grateful for a diminutive alpine plant that holds firm when both feet fail at once. This near fall doesn’t scare me the way I thought it would, although courage fails near the bottom and I have to wait for Maz to show me the way.

The risks we are taking ease with each step, and by the time we arrive at Lochnagar Hut I’m happy. I know now that maybe I can do this, although this confidence will waiver daily for next three months.

STAGE THREE: Blue Pools Car Park to Landsborough Valley, solo on a bike.

Did you know the elevation of Haast Pass is only 562 metres? It feels like more on a bike.

STAGE FOUR: Landsborough Valley to Glen Lyon Station in the Dobson, solo until Monument Hut, then with Alan Williams.

I never managed to get anyone to commit to the first section of this stage, and it’s a big step to walk solo into the Landsborough Valley. Although it now doesn’t matter where I go, only that I go, I have doubts. I’m starting into a bad forecast, thus anticipating some hut days at Creswicke Flat. I did plan the trip knowing I would likely be alone for some sections, but the Landsborough was one of the few non-negotiable. It was not to be done by myself, particularly given that I had rarely done solo missions before (and all of them easy overnighters to huts). 

But I am alone, so I’ve had to reroute one of the prized sections here to something manageable on my own. Then again, the weather wouldn’t have allowed the A route anyway. As it is, it barely allows the B route. The stream crossing takes me off my feet, the weather turns just after the bushline, and what looked like a dusting of snow from Creswicke Flat Hut is deep powder loaded with potential. I know I’m taking a risk descending into it. But turning around and facing into the now full-force southerly is also a risk as to whether I’d find adequate shelter before the storm finds its way into my blood and flesh. I take the chance to reach the next hut.

STAGE FIVE: Mount Cook Village to Scone Hut, with Sooji Clarkson.

Yesterday, as Sooji and I crested Cinerama Col we set the theme song for the trip: ‘At the River’ by Groove Armada, which ironically sung of sand dunes and salty air as we crossed the glacier. We broke out the skis for a beautiful test run.

Now we have made a mistake, underestimating the time it would take for me, still anxious and fully packed with 30 kilograms of gear, to cross over the east ridge of Mount Dixon. The climb is slow and laborious, and I’m annoyed at myself for a lack of confidence that sees us spending extra time with the rope out. From the top of the ridge, the way down the other side looks dizzying, untrustworthy. The sun is already on it, melting the crumbling snow that was holding this whole mess together. All risks considered, and with a need for speed, we decide to abseil. Part way down, a rock comes whizzing out of the sky, smacking me hard on the arm. “A rock just hit me,” I inform Sooji. “Keep going,” she answers curtly. She’s right. We don’t have time to stop and comment on the falling rocks, we just need to get the fuck out of this nightmare. 

An uncomfortable afternoon pause. We cower, pinned to the edge of the glacier, or as near as we dare. From above, we are still in reach of the larger rocks. Below, although we have stamped out an area for security, I can’t shake the feeling of the lurking depth of the crevasse beneath us.

When the sun finally dips, we move, roped, along the base of the face. It’s now in shade, which we hope will mitigate the risk from above, but we are also now racing to avoid a night out on this tenuous glacier. I don’t think I’ve ever been so desperate to get away from somewhere. A short while later, after sticking my leg in the schrund and struggling with inadequate tools on the blue ice, we arrive atop Pioneer Pass. Exhausted and grateful we didn’t have to detour over Governor Col, I burst into tears. We strap skis to feet in the gathering dusk and I hallucinate bright lights under them with each skin slide. 

We reach Pioneer Hut after bedtime and are greeted by a grumpy: “Who’s still making a racket?” Next morning reveals the grump to be the mountaineer Gavin Lang, who had said he might join me for a section. I guess he technically did that night.

In the Godley, we are valley-bound for five days. We were good friends when moving, but now we both go slightly crazy. I become paranoid that every action, every thought, almost every breath might reveal to Sooji just how useless I really am and that I don’t belong here. I become so withdrawn I am scared to play a game of chess after Sooji painstakingly draws the pieces onto my discarded pistachio shells. After the one and only game she remarks, “I won’t make you do that again.” I am an inadequate friend and a poor chess competitor. 

I finally find a shred of myself and concoct a mini pancake stove out of candles and a tin, and make pancakes mixed out of cold-soaked hut pasta. I also manage to smoke the hut out. Sooji won’t even try the pancakes, which, if I do say so myself, are excellent. We finally get moving again, although going all the way to Scone Hut in one 24-hour push is just a different kind of madness.

STAGE SIX: Scone Hut to the Upper Rakaia River with Sooji Clarkson, Emily Wilson and Adam Currie.

Walking for 24 hours straight is not conducive to further walking. Upon arrival at Scone in the early hours, we declare a rest day. It will be the only sunny rest day of the trip.  Sooji is due to walk out from here, but fortunately the infusion of new blood in the form of Emily and Adam, who have walked in with their skis and the resupply, entices her to stay. The next day, we have a lovely moment of mutual forgiveness, without which I’m not sure our friendship would have recovered. 

We make beautiful memories of the Perth River, wet memories of the Frances, where river crossings are tricky even with the four of us, and glorious memories of laughing down the Lyell. I feel like I have accomplished something, and the feeling is incredible. 

STAGE SEVEN: Upper Rakaia River to Arthur’s Pass, solo.

Having been deposited on the other side of the Ramsey Glacier, I feel very alone as my friends retreat back across the swollen river to head out down the Rakaia. It’s been a wetter, slower, scrubbier morning than planned, and I begin to cry. I’m facing a huge and wild section alone. The thought of the Mungo River and Hokitika Saddle scare me enough that I plot a route on tracks a long way around, but I don’t have the food for the extra distance and I’m starting to get very very hungry. There’s nothing to be done other than make it to the safety of Neave Hut for the night. The hut book tells me no one has been in this valley for seven months; it’s oddly isolating. 

The next day, it’s differently odd to run into four others, two of whom I know, in the middle of us each taking our own route across the ongoing series of slips that mean there is now not really a track. “Mungo mungo.” A sing-song in my head gets me through the worst of my fear. 

Christmas morning. I awake in Carrington Hut, walk down the familiar Waimakariri River with a stranger I met wandering the flats, and eat a cold Radix meal for lunch. I treat myself to an entire bag of Sour Squirms and discover that Sooji snuck a block of Whittaker’s Gingerbread Chocolate into my Arthur’s Pass food drop. It has to be my best Christmas yet.

STAGE EIGHT: Arthur’s Pass to Lewis Pass, with Sooji Clarkson and Christian Ruegg from Arthur’s Pass to the summit of Mt Hunt. Christian rejoined from Nina Hut to Lewis Pass.

Two pairs of replacement waterproof pants have made their way to Arthur’s Pass for me, and I have two friends joining me for the start of this stage. Their plan is to carry a feast for dinner each night. It is wonderful! When we part ways atop Mt Hunt, I’m not hungry, and I manage not to cry. 

The country I now make my way through consists of glorious tussocky ridgelines with occasional rock steps for a challenge. On almost every hilltop I encounter deer or chamois, but the hunters in the valleys say they haven’t shot anything. On New Year’s Eve, I intend to read my book and go to bed early ̶   I can’t envisage a better way to start the year than that. Alas, seven juvenile kea show up at camp just before sunset and proceed to plan a game of “What’s the time Mr Wolf?” with me while I try to read. One persistent bugger stays around until 1am chewing my walking pole, which I’ve sacrificed to save the tent. He chews on the tent anyway. He’s back at it before five in the morning. 

STAGE NINE: Lewis Pass to Tiraumea Valley, solo. Then on bikes via Murchison to the Matiri Valley, with Hazel Nissen, supported by Dougal Hilson.

The Matakitaki Valley is about the most glorious place I’ve ever been. My lunch spot is so magical it doesn’t matter that I’ve ripped my favourite shorts. In the upper valley, I snack on snowberry and snow totara. I wake to misty and damp conditions at D’Urville Pass which make for some ethereal tramping before I arrive on Waiau Pass and the bustling highway that is the Te Araroa, the popular long distance tramping route. Blue Lake Hut is nothing short of a culture shock. There are so many people crammed into a hut not built for its popularity. It’s surrounded by tents, the water tank has long run dry and the only spot for me is the kitchen floor, where I set up after dark and get stood over during the early morning coffee rush. 

Many of the people here are on a journey as long as mine, and I’m constantly offered advice about what I should be doing differently. It’s odd to go from so much space alone to so many people. I can’t count them, let alone learn their names. I’m glad to escape up Moss Pass the next day and enjoy the stillness of filming a timelapse of the clouds as I contemplate what I’ve just experienced. Blue Lake Hut is named for nearby Rotomairewhenua, a spring-fed lake that, with underwater visibility of up to 80 metres, is known as the clearest lake in the world. We can’t go on like this. 

Tiraumea Hut, on the other hand, is empty except for the buzzing of wasps and the feeling of an ominous presence. I’m glad to walk out early the next morning. By now I’m ravenously hungry all the time. The rations that were too much at the start of the trip are no longer enough. I eat my weight in cafe food after biking into Murchison and drastically up my rations, mostly by adding cheese.

STAGE TEN: Matiri Valley to the Boulder Lake Hut car park, solo. Met by Kathryn Bunckenburg and Jimmy Finlayson for a feast and a night at Tent Camp in the Cobb Valley.

By now things have settled. Each day I wake somewhere new and I walk. In the evenings I try to swim, I read my book, write my diary and think about the day ahead. I re-route slightly, mostly because I’m so hungry, to meet up with friends who can bring me more food. I delight in the renovations of Lonely Lake Hut since my last visit and award it “best hut of the traverse” status. It contrasts strongly with Adelaide Tarn Hut, which has so many dead mice on the bunks, I decide to camp. My final stop is Boulder Lake Hut. Here I award “best swimming hole of the trip” not to the lake, but to the stunning waterfall tucked unexpectedly behind another dilapidated hut. 

STAGES ELEVEN AND TWELVE: Boulder Lake Hut Car Park to Farewell Spit. With my dad, Dick Dinsdale, on bikes to Farewell Spit and with my mum, Beverley Holder, for a final walk on Farewell Spit.

I walk out. I mount a borrowed bike, meet up with my dad, and we head for Farewell Spit. It’s raining when we get there, and I don’t feel the same sense of accomplishment I felt in the Rakaia at the end of Stage Six. In a way, though, it’s fitting. This trip was never about getting to the end. There isn’t really an end. There is always another adventure, and besides, to truly complete the traverse I have a small link up to Aoraki Mount Cook from the Dobson left to go (safety and timing forced a retreat there). After all that way, the words that came to me at my lowest point still apply. It doesn’t matter where we go, only that we go.

Words and photos: Penzy Dinsdale