Skinning on Thin Ice: To and From Tasman Glacier

"We walked along the hard crest of the snowdrift/the shiver is not from the cold." How many times did I repeat these lines from Ahkmatova as I slid one foot in front of the other? 

Our five day Summit to Sea excursion became a tour of the Tasman Glacier. When we met in Aspiring Guides' Wanaka office on Thursday morning, we learned that a storm was brewing in the west and a trek toward the Tasman Sea would not be possible. Though we might be able to Heli in, it would be unlikely if we would ever leave the hut. We had two other options: trek close to Mt Cook village in the nearby Silla Range or trek along the Tasman Glacier. We opted for the latter. 

Besides our guide, Stefan, two other men would be a part of our trek. David lived in Auckland and had a holiday home in Wanaka. He was a retired contractor who had completed several long tramps in NZ and abroad and had recently been ski touring in Europe. The other member of our group was Tony, who lives outside of Sydney but was originally from the Czech Republic. He has done a lot of trekking and ski touring and was actually quite familiar with the glacier. 

I keep starting and stopping this blog post. I thought I just needed some time to process the experience, but days later, I'm still struggling to describe what happened out there. It was physically grueling. On Saturday, after trekking over ten miles, I could barely feel my right foot, though I had a shooting pain along my right ankle. I was so exhausted, I felt wobbly. I needed to concentrate on each step or I was liable to trip myself. 

And in all of that silence, along those blank canvas of glacial plains, my mind was a carnival. I thought about composting. I thought about when I practiced gymnastics as a girl. I returned to my first time snowboarding ever. I reminded myself that my zodiac sign is part goat. I recited every line of poetry I knew and lamented that I hadn't memorized more. I thought about the coming of the ice age and how the last of the dinosaurs must have moved in the snow. (I realize my time table could be off and that there may have been no dinosaurs when the snows came, but thinking of a brontosaurus on the glacier was oddly reassuring.) I thought of my parents, the house in Piney Hollow, all of my dead grandmothers. I thought of my sister, who had just completed a 24 hour run. I hummed Om. I called on the Medicine Buddha. I repeated two word phrases to help me keep pace. I focused on my breath. I tried not to count or focus on how many ridges we needed to cross. I kept my eyes on the ski tracks set by my compatriots and not the postage stamp sized hut in the distance. I took off my hat, my gloves, I'd sip water, I'd sing Om name shivah. I'd pause and take in the immense landscape. I'll tell myself to keep going. I'd tell myself that I could do it. I'd want to stop and sometimes I did. Terribly out of breath, sweating, aching. I'd start up again, try another breathing pattern, and let my mind whir. 

I want to say it was the most physically grueling activity I've ever sustained. There's no coming out of this pose, or if you come out, you still have to go back into it. We trekked for hours at time, sometimes the incline would be over 30degrees. On Sunday, we trekked for three hours straight just to get back to the hut at the end of the day. 

Amy Stephanik often reminds her level 2 yoga classes that suffering is optional. On a trip like this, the mental suffering is optional. I was thankful to have the ability to witness all that came up during the physically challenging parts of our trip. On Friday, when the storm was moving into the Tasman, we were just about to leave the Kelman Hut, where we had lunch. We had used the rope to climb down into the hut, which was super tough for AJ with his fear of heights. I was not phased by the height, but I discovered how afraid I am when I lose my footing. As we traversed an icy ledge only a few inches wide, my bottom foot kept slipping below me. Our guide was right there in case I fell, but it was so hard to take the next step when I already felt unsteady. Well, that's true in my daily life. I want both feet firmly rooted before I take the next step. Of course that isn't always possible, in my daily life and especially on the glacier. Just trust your gear. That's what Stefan said. And he was right. I wasn't going to fall, and if I did, he was right there to make sure I didn't fall too far. 

I got better at taking those climbing risks. My ski touring technique improved and I slipped less and less. And as long as I was being careful and observant, there was no use worrying about all of the what-ifs when I could and should be using that energy more positively. 

I was only foolish twice. Once I stopped on the side of a mountain too close to some ice cliffs so that AJ could get ahead to shoot some video. Thankfully nothing happened. Had the ice released I would have been blasted to smithereens and wouldn't be writing this post. The other mountain faux pax happened Saturday afternoon. We had hiked to the top of a mountain for lunch. As I was switching my board from skis back to a board, I kept getting the hinges caught and as I forcefully banged them apart (necessary when the hardware and your hands are frozen) one piece of the board slipped out of my hand and toward the ridge line. Stefan had clearly marked one side as a crevasse area and advised we stay in this small square of terrain.  As half of my board zipped toward the ridge, I jumped up and stumbled before diving head first arms extended catching my board. All of those years of playing third base and laying out for line drives had paid off.  I had bolted past AJ who was looking terrified (rightfully so) and our guide, who was pleased I did not lose my board or need to be rescued from a crevasse or the bottom of the ridge, which went on for miles. I had been careful of assembling my split board before this incident, but now I was even more observant. 

I've only told you about the challenges of this expedition. Perhaps because you spend 90% of the time climbing and 10% of the time skiing/riding. The riding was phenomenal. I had the most amazing runs of my life on this trip. I rode through pristine, untouched powder that sprayed up with each turn. I was following AJ down the first run on Saturday morning when this incredible feeling of lightness and grace swept over me. I felt the smile on my face widening and I just let the board run, ripping right past AJ. Birds move with this ease. For a few moments gravity has been altered and I am barely touching earth. My eyes blur. I tear up from the wind and the jolt of adrenaline. 

Our second run on Saturday, after an epic climb and my board mishap, was probably the best run of my life. It was 2/3rds longer than the first run and was perfect snow. I was squealing with delight as I rode down the bowl, and my permagrin grew as I looked back at our perfect lines and watched AJ shred the mountain as if it were a gigantic wave. 

I felt confident riding, only took one or two minor tumbles when we rode over flat terrain with frozen tufts of crust and one of these was because I rode over my pole when I was trying to give myself a boost. I rode through ice cliffs, along tiny ridges, and down some of the steepest terrain I've ever encountered. And I managed to ride out of the glacier with my full pack without needing a boost or push from any of the skiers. AJ was even following my line. 

Some people might wonder why I'd want to do something like this for my honeymoon. I mean thermals and wool socks are not very sexy lingerie and not showering for six days is few people's idea of paradise. 

This entire trip has been incredible. Everyday has had its own adventure, some more dramatic than others. The glacier trek put me and AJ in entirely new terrain, physically, emotionally, mentally. We are both new to ski touring and had to experience the beginner's mind. We had to permit ourselves to take risks and to face fears. I listened to AJ's voice crack as he hesitated, confronting his fear of heights. I watched him focus as he traversed the steep cut out on the last part of the trek back to the hut. I saw him entirely spent at the top of the mountain, sunscreen and sweat burning his eyes. I heard the urgency in his voice when he asked me if I was okay with some of the sketchy traverses we were about to embark upon. Pushing ourselves in this type of environment brings new perspective to everything else. 

The fact that AJ welcomes this type of challenge is infinitely attractive to me. Here is someone who is willing to confront his fears, to experience discomfort, to endure, to trust, and to open up to something new. 

Our hut crew was fantastic. Another couple from VT and their guide were also there and we had some good laughs. I even taught a yoga class in the hut on Friday. Everyone was busting on AJ because he said that Saturday was better than sex...the amazing powder runs and the 10+ miles trekking. I'm not saying that glacial treks should be substituted for sex (or vice versa), but this experience taps into something as primal as sex. It was a moving meditation. We trekked through the glacier with a reverence and respect for the power and danger the earth wields. What happens if we extend this philosophy to our lovers and friends? That's another post/essay. 

We're back in Raglan again. A day and a half before we fly back to the States where a hurricane has ransacked our coast, where a family I may never meet buries a teenage boy my college students taught last fall. A mentor's husband has also died. 

I remember telling myself "be here now" at some point during a long climb. It's not just split boarding/ski touring where the majority of the time is an uphill climb. 

I am so fortunate to have found a partner who understands this and who loves me unconditionally. I am also grateful for the circle of family and friends who have made my time away easier. Those involved in Operation Get Elsie to High Ground, you rock! And Pam, you always make my job easier and more fun. 

Mom and Dad, you'd love it here...in a warmer season, you could tour wineries, where sheep graze in the vineyards, hike the pristine countryside, and fish in one mirror lake after another. 

Over and out, for now.